by Joanna Shupe
“Almost every weekend, I’d say. Mr. Porter received his pay on Friday afternoon and went straight to the gin shops. Came home in the early morning. That’s when the noise started.”
“Other than what you heard through the wall, you never saw anything?” Otto asked.
“No, but I can tell you this: she loves her kids. She would do anything in the world to keep them safe.”
A subdued mood hung over the group as they exited the tenement. They had interviewed several more families but no one had heard or seen anything useful. Mamie had also checked in on the Porter children—who missed their mother but were otherwise well cared for—then she, Frank and Otto trudged down the steep staircase to the ground floor.
The early evening breeze carried the scent of sausage and fish, with a hint of horse droppings. Mamie hardly noticed, however, too upset over the interview with Mrs. Barrett. Learning of Bridget Porter’s day-to-day life had broken Mamie’s heart.
Almost every weekend. Mr. Porter received his pay on Friday afternoon and went straight to the gin shops.
What anxiety and fear Mrs. Porter must have lived with on a daily basis, a dread of the horrors to come. Horrors no one had helped her with, not the police or her neighbors. So she’d taken matters into her own hands.
Mamie vowed to do whatever possible to see the woman acquitted. Turn over every stone, follow every lead. She’d find a way to pay Frank’s retainer, Otto’s fee. Hire a hundred more investigators . . . whatever it took.
She stared up at Frank. “We should talk to the area gin shops, to confirm—”
“Slow down. Otto’ll handle that,” he said and turned to the investigator. “You know what to do. Just keep me informed.”
“Of course.” Otto tipped his derby at Mamie. “Nice to meet you, Miss Greene.”
“And you, Mr. Rosen. Thank you for all you are doing on this case.”
“No need to thank me. The coppers may turn a blind eye to this sort of thing, but the judges don’t. I’ll get enough evidence for her defense. And you’ve got the very best attorney in the city ready to argue her case. Don’t worry about a thing, Miss Greene.”
He strode away after that, leaving Mamie and Frank on the walk. The crowds had thinned now that dusk and suppertime loomed, and she became aware of just how alone they were. Until this moment, she hadn’t given Frank much thought, not since he’d accosted her in the vestibule. But she was unable to look away and her skin grew tight as they stared at one another. It was as if every cell had woken up and started to vibrate. Lord, he was devastatingly handsome, his face crafted in sheer perfection.
There was more, however. He oozed competence and charm, a man who could handle himself in any situation. It was . . . seductive. Her heart agreed, a demanding pulse she felt in every part of her body.
He slipped his hands in his pockets and peered at her from under the brim of his hat. “I suppose yelling at you for trudging down here on your own is a waste of breath.”
Why was her mouth so dashed dry? She swallowed. “We covered that already.”
“I figured as much. So, what now, Miss Detective?”
“What do you mean?”
“I feel as though I need to keep tabs on you before you visit any more dangerous neighborhoods.”
She frowned. Just when she’d started to soften toward him he had to annoy her. “If you must know, I’m planning to return home. There’s a party tonight and I must ready myself for it. Are you headed to the office?”
“Yes, but not until after I drop you at said home.”
A carriage ride with Frank . . . all the way uptown? She nearly gulped. “That’s unnecessary. I’ll locate a hack.”
“Nonsense. What sort of employer would I be if I allowed that?”
“A reasonable one?”
He took her elbow and began leading her toward Canal Street. “Mamie, it’s nearly dark and you’re an unescorted woman in the Sixth Ward. That’s begging for trouble.”
“The only trouble I ever seem to find is you, Frank.”
“Please, Mamie? I won’t be able to enjoy my evening if I’m worrying over whether you made it home safely or not.”
Well. That certainly doused any ire over his high-handedness. She hardly knew what to say, other than to inquire about his evening and what he hoped to enjoy later. A woman?
Lord, that notion lodged behind her ribs like a fist-sized rock.
She remained silent, bothered by her irrational jealousy. Hearing of Chauncey’s longtime mistress hadn’t given her a second thought, but the hint of Frank’s possible liaison sat in her stomach like spoiled herring.
What was happening to her?
She was the responsible one, the daughter who maintained the status quo. The oldest, who would carry on the family legacy in the absence of a son. She wasn’t adventurous like Florence or ambitious like Justine. Her father had said she would marry Chauncey and bring the two families together, and Mamie had agreed as long as her sisters could choose their own husbands.
For years, that had been enough. Until this very month, in fact. Before the other night at the Bronze House, she’d never once considered reneging on the agreement with her father.
Then Frank Tripp landed in her life and upended it.
Now, she was scheming a way out of impending marriage and fantasizing about Frank. Inappropriate fantasies that had turned a fire into an inferno. A proper lady might not discuss what happened in her bedroom, alone under the covers at night . . . but what should have satisfied these urges had only fueled a raging desire for more.
She had a suspicion that Frank was the “more.”
They arrived at his brougham and he assisted her inside. She settled near the far wall, trying to put as much space between them as possible.
It didn’t work. He ended up pressed tight to her side. She sucked in a breath.
Only ninety blocks to go.
She’d never survive it.
Heat spread along her side where they touched and each one of his movements echoed in her limbs. She couldn’t avoid feeling him, her nerves so very attuned to his long frame. Even the rise and fall of his chest affected her, the tips of her breasts hardening into points beneath her clothing.
She exhaled. You’ve ignored this pull between you for weeks. One more night won’t kill you.
“You’ve gone quiet,” he said. “Should I be worried?”
Yes. I think I’m losing my mind.
After clearing her throat, she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about the unusual clauses in the marriage agreement?”
“Ah.” He stared out the brougham window, his fist clenching the knob atop his cane. “I wondered when that might come up.”
“Well?”
“Mamie,” he said with a sigh, “I cannot discuss my work for your father. You know that.”
“Not even when that work pertains to me?”
“Especially when it pertains to you.”
“Why?”
He didn’t reply, merely shook his head.
“Frank, answer me. Why did you not warn me of what was to come?”
“That wasn’t for me to do. Your father—or Chauncey—should look out for your interests.”
“That’s rich. You’ve been chasing me about New York City for months looking out for my interests. I cannot turn around in this town without running into you, looking out for my interests. Suddenly, you’re finished?”
He shifted toward her and there was a flash of something in his gaze, something dark and heady. An emotion he normally kept tightly leashed. Goose bumps broke out along her flesh.
“I am attempting to do the right thing,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Can you not see that?”
Do the right thing? What did he mean? “I thought we were friends.”
Instead of answering, he pressed his lips together and looked away.
Disappointment crashed through her, an avalanche of sharp pebbles in her chest. Every time she thought she might understand him, s
omething happened to change her mind. He was the most maddening man. “Fine. I’m tired of never knowing where I stand with you. One day you smother me. The next, ignore me. Keep your agreements and your attentions, then. I don’t need them.”
“You should marry Chauncey.”
She blinked at his words. “Why? So you may collect your fee on the agreement?”
“No, I collect my fee whether you sign the agreement or not. You should marry Chauncey because that is precisely with whom you belong.”
He still wouldn’t meet her eyes. Was he trying to convince her . . . or himself?
I am attempting to do the right thing.
The heaviness in her chest lifted. Was Frank attracted to her? Her sisters had been telling her as much for days, but she hadn’t believed it. She’d never known him to tell an outright truth.
Perhaps the truth was in what he didn’t say. Perhaps there was a chance she wasn’t alone in whatever was happening between them. Perhaps she could have the future she wanted after all, one for herself. Not a loveless marriage and status quo.
There was only one way to find out.
Her heart pounded against her ribs, blood rushing in her ears. She blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I do not wish to marry Chauncey.”
Frank blinked. Had he heard her correctly? His head swiveled until he met her gaze. “What?”
“Chauncey. I do not want to marry him.”
“But . . . Because of the agreement?”
“No. I never wished to marry him but our fathers arranged it long ago. The agreement merely brought certain matters to light.”
“Such as?”
There was a long pause. Would she be honest with him? In that moment, he fervently hoped so. He wanted to know her better.
You sound like a schoolboy. He grimaced and remembered his purpose. This was about Duncan, one of his biggest clients. Mamie might reveal something, some obstacle to the marriage, which Frank could smooth over on behalf of his client. That was all.
“Such as Chauncey’s mistress and how he doesn’t plan on giving her up after marriage.”
“What?” The word was a sharp report throughout the tiny enclosure, but he hadn’t been able to hold it in. “He actually told you that?”
She nodded. “And I’m glad he did so. I’d much prefer to learn it now than after the wedding.”
That fucking bastard. All Chauncey had to do was marry Mamie—this gregarious, vivacious and stunning woman—and he wanted someone else? Was he a complete idiot?
Frank knew the answer to that question.
He shook his head and swallowed his blistering monologue on what he thought of her fiancé. “Such arrangements are not uncommon in upper class marriages.”
“True, but that doesn’t mean I wish it for my marriage.”
That made sense. Probably few wives did. A hundred words burned his tongue, begging to be spoken. How she deserved better. How archaic these unhappy society marriages were. How he’d give his right arm to kiss her at this moment.
However, he kept his lips firmly closed and his thoughts to himself. This was not a woman he should charm into bed. This was a dangerous woman, the daughter of a powerful client, a woman who could bring down everything he’d worked to achieve since leaving that shack on Worth Street.
He couldn’t marry Mamie. The idea was laughable. And if he couldn’t marry her, then he couldn’t touch her. Or kiss her. Or lick her . . .
Christ.
His cock twitched at the mental image of his face between her legs. He shifted, trying to put more space between himself and Mamie, but there was no room to be had. Why hadn’t he brought the larger carriage today?
“Anyway,” she said, still pressed tight to his side. “I informed my father of Chauncey’s plans and he told me not to worry.”
Duncan knew? What the hell? “But that would violate the infidelity clause.”
“Exactly. However, my father believes Chauncey will come around. And if he doesn’t, then he said I stand to receive a large payout.”
Frank rubbed his tongue along the backside of his teeth. None of this seemed right. Duncan should end the engagement, then take Chauncey into the nearest abandoned alley and beat the unholy shit out of him. Instead, her father was using her like a . . . commodity. Trading her future happiness for, what? Why was Duncan so eager for this marriage to take place?
I wish to know your intentions toward my daughter.
Duncan had started the agreement process that day, after learning of Frank and Mamie’s dinner outing. Was her father so concerned Frank was making a play for Mamie that he’d trade his daughter’s happiness for it?
My daughter is not for you.
Of course. Get the girl married before the downtown scum ruined her. He clenched his jaw, his back teeth grinding together. Just because he earned his living off men like Duncan Greene didn’t prevent Frank from feeling resentful every now and again.
But there was his past, circumstances that must remain buried. He couldn’t have his upbringing revealed to the entire city.
“He’s right,” he forced out. “It’s an obscene amount of money, far more than Chauncey could ever pay himself.” Not that such logic would stop Chauncey from doing as he pleased. Logic and Chauncey weren’t exactly playing on the same team. “No doubt he’ll come around.”
“You sound like my father,” she muttered, and Frank strove to suppress a wince.
“Because we’re both right.”
“But what if you are wrong? I’ve lived my life doing what was expected of me—”
A bark of laughter escaped his mouth. “Hardly.”
She put up a palm, her lips twisting into a self-deprecating smile. “Only in the last year or so. Before, I was ready to abide by my promise—” She snapped her jaw shut, biting off the words.
He couldn’t help but ask, “What promise?”
“To marry Chauncey,” she answered vaguely, but he suspected there was more. Then she heaved a sigh. “Have you ever felt like you wanted more than was expected of you?”
He stared out the carriage window. Fancier houses and cleaner streets greeted them on the north side of Thirty-Fourth Street. A tightness he hadn’t realized existed loosened in his chest at the sight.
Yes, he knew what it was like to want more out of your future. He pictured his twelve-year-old self, tallying the books at the saloon surrounded by gin, piss and blood. Only death and corruption had awaited him outside on the Lower East Side streets. Escape had been his salvation.
A glib answer leapt to mind but this was Mamie. He couldn’t lie to her . . . not about this. “Yes, I have.”
“And did you regret taking your own path instead?”
“Not for one moment. But our situations are hardly the same.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“No.” He angled toward her. God, the sight of her this close up nearly stole his breath. Every rotted part of his soul yearned to gather her up and show her how much fun the unexpected could be. Instead, he forced himself to stick to the topic at hand, which was why she should marry Chauncey.
“Because you are Marion Greene, daughter of Duncan Greene and upper Fifth Avenue princess. Your father is one of the most powerful men in New York City and your family can be traced back to the days of Dutch rule. You and Chauncey make sense. In fact, it’s the only thing in your life that does make sense.”
“Are you trying to convince me of all that . . . or yourself?”
The question caught him off guard, his body rocking slightly at the impact. “You, of course.” Liar.
“If you honestly believe Chauncey and I make sense together then you don’t really know me.” Her brows lowered. “Or, are you so beholden to my father that you cannot give an honest answer?”
Either way, he lost. The man inside him wished to claim her for himself, but doing so would cost him everything he’d built. “Mamie . . .”
She threw up her hands. “I see. God forbid we upset the gr
eat Duncan Greene.”
“No, that’s not it,” he lied automatically.
“No?” Her gaze narrowed and her mouth hitched. “Prove it.”
He snorted. This was ridiculous. He was Frank Tripp, king of Manhattan courtrooms. The lawyer who wrapped juries and judges around his little finger. And now this one woman was challenging him? “And how do you suggest I do that?”
She leaned in closer, orange and spice wrapping around him, a sweet and fiery mix that shot sparks through his groin. He fisted his hands in an effort to restrain himself as the tip of her tongue emerged to swipe across her lips, moistening them. That plump flesh parted and she whispered, “Retrieve your dollar.”
Chapter Nine
Mamie shouldn’t enjoy surprising him . . . but she relished his reaction. His jaw fell open, his gaze falling to her bosom where she’d tucked the bill earlier. He sucked in a sharp breath and she suppressed a smile. You cannot lie now, Frank Tripp.
“You can’t be serious.” His voice cracked.
She’d never been more serious in her life. Her suspicions about Frank’s attraction to her were confirmed, an attraction he was determined to fight. If he wasn’t afraid of her father then why not pursue her? After all, he knew what type of marriage she and Chauncey would embark upon. Why should only Chauncey have a lover, a woman he refused to give up after the wedding?
Why was Chauncey the only one allowed to find happiness with another?
Frank was one of the city’s most sought-after gentlemen. The newspapers were full of his escapades and liaisons, women surrounding him wherever he went. The two of them were clearly attracted to one another, so where was the harm? At least then she wouldn’t remain resentful toward Chauncey.
Frank was safe, the perfect choice. Logical, even. He was a rogue, not a man a woman set her cap for. Therefore, there was no chance they’d develop deeper feelings toward each other. It would remain a light and breezy affair before she married. Purely a physical arrangement.
If only she could convince him to say yes.
“Absolutely serious. In fact, I fail to see the harm.”
“The harm?” His lids went wide. “Of me sticking my hand down your dress?”
