A Scandalous Deal

by Joanna Shupe

  “Mother’s insistence to marry.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I fear I won’t be able to put her off much longer.”

  “I thought every young woman wanted to marry.” He thought of Eva and her three deceased fiancés. She’d insisted her father hadn’t been eager to marry her off . . . so had she pushed for the betrothals? His curiosity over the details of those arrangements was bordering on unhealthy.

  Becca made a noise in her throat. “No, I do not want to marry.”

  The way she said it gave Phillip pause. “Because it’s me, or anyone?”

  “Anyone. You’re a handsome, nice enough man, even if a bit intense, but I . . .” She pressed her lips together and cast a furtive glance around them.

  “No one can hear us,” he assured her. “And I always sensed you were as uninterested in a match between us as I am.”

  “You sensed correctly. I don’t want to marry any man.”

  “Why?”

  “I . . . I can’t tell you.”

  He empathized with her need for secrecy. In their world—a place where anyone who attempted independence was outcast—there were few people in which to confide. God knew it was even worse for women. “You can tell me. I swear, I’ll keep your confidence.”

  She shook her head and refilled her glass—with sherry this time. “It would be quite the scandal if I did.”

  “Worse than Mrs. Bishop?” Mrs. Bishop had divorced her philandering husband not even two years ago. Society had banished the poor woman, not even acknowledging her any longer.

  “Worse.”

  “Are you in love with a footman? A groom?” Not unheard of, though quite beyond the pale.

  “God, no. I almost wish it was so simple.”

  “A maid, then?” He’d said it as a half jest, but her eyes rounded in panicked surprise before she schooled her features—and he knew. “Do not worry, I won’t tell a soul.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He ignored her. “You know, the Parisians are quite liberal in their thinking on this matter. Have you considered—?”

  “No, I cannot leave New York.”

  “Then I’m sorry, Becca.”

  She met his gaze, her green depths studying him carefully. “Do you mean that?”

  “Without doubt. I would never begrudge you happiness.” God knew his body parts had a mind of their own. Eva, naked and sweaty in his bed, was all he could think about these days. “But you have to know your mother will not relent. If you’re unwilling to leave for Europe, you’ll either need to marry or tell her.”

  “Out of the question. You know what she’ll do if she learns the truth. They’ll put me in one of those places.”

  Phillip had heard of them. Asylums with radical treatments, where unnecessary surgeries were performed under the guise of “medicine.” Most women never returned from such places. “So marry a man with a similar secret to keep.”

  Her brows lowered and she stared at the wall. “I hadn’t ever considered that. Where does one find—oh, never mind. Why am I asking you?”

  “I’m not entirely sheltered, I’ll have you know. While I’ve never visited them myself, I’ve heard that places for men of common interests are plentiful in the Bowery.” He passed them often on his trips to McGirk’s.

  “I . . . I don’t know how that helps me at the moment but thank you, Phillip. I cannot tell you what your understanding means to me.”

  He poured himself a sherry and toasted her with the crystal. “I’m just damned grateful you do not want to marry me.”

  She patted his arm. “If I wanted a man, you would be a fine choice.”

  “Fine?” He sniffed in mock indignation. “You should be so lucky—”

  “There you two are,” his mother exclaimed as she glided up to the sideboard. “Dinner service has started. Phillip, you’ll escort Miss Hall?”

  He finished his drink and placed the glass on the sideboard. “I’d be delighted.”

  “Oh, excellent.” His mother beamed as if Phillip had just proposed. “I do love the sight of you two together.”

  After his mother departed in a swirl of expensive silk, Becca chuckled under her breath. “If they only knew.”

  “They’d still try to get their way. It’s what all New York society mothers do.”

  “I’ve said it before but I’m a tiny bit afraid of your mother. I know she means well but I can’t imagine what it must have been like growing up in her household.”

  He waited as the other guests began rising and filing out into the corridor. No sense in rushing. “My sisters had the worst of it. I think I mostly exasperate her.”

  “With your reputation I can understand why.” She put her glass down. “So why don’t you want to marry?”

  Because I’ve been burned before. “Not much luck in finding the right woman, I suppose.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s because of what happened all those years ago?”

  It sounded ridiculous to admit it, that his former fiancée’s trickery had put him off marriage for good. But that tended to happen when a woman convinced you she was increasing with your child and you learned another man was responsible. “I just don’t see the point. I’m perfectly happy the way things are.”

  “Hmm. I can quite understand that, I suppose. Your mistress is that actress, Flora Anderson?”

  “Was, yes. We are no longer seeing one another, however.”

  “Any salacious details you’d care to share?”

  His jaw fell open. If someone had told him where tonight’s conversation would lead, he wouldn’t have believed it. “Absolutely not. I never kiss and tell, Becca.”

  She sighed. “Damn. You’re no fun.”

  “Why does every woman in my life keep telling me that?”

  Now it was Becca’s turn to look surprised. “Oh, really? So there is a woman in your life. Who is she?”

  He shook his head and took her elbow. “Forget I said anything.”

  They started walking toward the dining room. “I’ll forget nothing. Come, you’ve discovered my deepest, darkest secret. It’s only fair I learn one of yours.”

  “This is New York society, Becca. Not a bit of it is fair.”

  Eva wiped the dirt from her hands. The dying summer sun glowed orange in the sky, and she was more than ready to depart. In fact, if she left now she might be able to join Nora and her aunt for a sherry before dinner.

  For the past hour, she and Alfred Carew, the construction superintendent, had reviewed the excavation area for the west portion of the hotel. It was easy to see why Phillip had hired Carew; the engineer was incredibly bright and meticulous in his work. Also, he didn’t talk down to her as if she were a child. He explained things patiently when asked, treated her as an equal.

  Construction was moving quickly. As expected, water had begun seeping into the giant hole in the earth. Tomorrow, compressed air would be used to create caissons that would allow them to dig deeper, down to the bedrock. “This is moving much more rapidly than I anticipated,” she told Carew.

  Carew folded his arms and tipped his chin in the crew’s direction. “Milliken’s an effective contractor. He respects the men and the men respect him. Also, Mr. Mansfield is paying well. Money is a sufficient motivator.”

  With a timeline as ambitious as theirs, it was a good thing Phillip hadn’t decided to be cheap. “What is that going up over there?” She pointed at a wooden structure near the back fence. “The tiny shack?”

  “Didn’t Mansfield tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I thought he would’ve mentioned it,” Carew said. “That’s for you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. He wanted you to have a place to go if it became too hot or too dangerous. A small office, he called it. You can keep your plans there, if you like. It’ll be fairly crude, I’m afraid, but should do the job.”

  Her jaw fell. A small office? Too hot or too dangerous? She didn’t know whether to hug him or
hit him . . . It was thoughtful, in a condescending way. Did he believe she’d wilt like a precious bloom in the summer sun? Though she had to admit, having a place to sit once in a while would not be unwelcome.

  Albeit reluctantly, she was touched. Though her presence had upset him, he was accommodating her, in his own high-handed manner. Ensuring she felt comfortable, even if she didn’t wish to be treated any differently than any other architect.

  The “office” would stand out among the crew, however, as another reason she shouldn’t be allowed here. No wonder the men resented her, when extra effort had been required on her behalf.

  She told Carew, “I insist that you use it as well. Please, keep your papers and instruments there. I don’t need all that space to myself.”

  “That’s a kind offer, but Mr. Mansfield was very specific. He said—”

  “I don’t care what Mr. Mansfield said.” She gentled her tone. “I would feel awkward if that were only for me. And I wouldn’t want the crew thinking I need special treatment.”

  “Ah. I think I understand. Then thank you, I shall make good use of it.”

  “Miss?” One of the workers stood there, staring down at his scuffed boots instead of meeting Eva’s eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a lady in a carriage askin’ to speak with you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, miss. Right there outside the gate.” He pointed toward the fence.

  She thanked him, said farewell to Carew, and started for the exit. The excavation would roll on, the steam shovels hauling dirt at all hours with the workers rotating in shifts. Everything was moving swiftly—a relief, as Eva would be personally penalized if construction fell behind schedule.

  An expensive-looking black carriage waited at the curb, one that had seen quite a lot of use over the years. Though it certainly was not in disrepair, this carriage belonged to a family with old money, not one trying to parade their newly gained wealth around.

  What lady had requested Eva’s presence? She didn’t know anyone other than Nora and her aunt here—and Nora would’ve just waltzed into the construction site instead of having Eva summoned.

  A liveried footman opened the door and assisted a tall brown-haired woman down the steps. She was elegant and refined, with a hard edge that spoke of status and confidence. A woman used to getting her way. Eva stopped on the walk and waited, curious.

  When the mysterious matron looked up, a familiar dark brown stare pierced Eva to the spot. She sucked in a sharp breath. Was this . . . Phillip’s mother?

  The woman wore a stunning violet afternoon dress. A Worth creation, if Eva had to guess. Quite flattering in its simplicity and inventiveness, the dress was a mix of satin and bengaline, with mother-of-pearl buttons along the front of the bodice. Her own dusty beige shirtwaist and matching skirt felt downright dowdy in comparison.

  “Miss Ashford?” the woman asked.

  “I am Miss Ashford. And you are?”

  The woman struck out her gloved hand, which Eva promptly shook. The woman’s grip was strong. “I am Mrs. Walter Mansfield. You are working for my son.”

  So it was his mother. Rumor held that most everyone in New York was afraid of her and Eva could well understand why. Still, Eva was not one to be cowed, no matter whom she had to face down. She routinely argued with engineers, contractors, tradesmen, and laborers. She could handle anything. “Indeed, I am. How may I help you?”

  Mrs. Mansfield gazed thoughtfully at Eva. “My son speaks highly of your abilities, but I am curious about your qualifications to oversee this project.”

  Her . . . qualifications? Eva’s mouth dropped open. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I do have my reasons for asking.”

  “And I do have my reasons for not answering.” Then she added, “Madam.”

  Mrs. Mansfield’s lips twitched ever so slightly. In fact, if Eva had blinked she would’ve missed it. “Fair enough. You work for E. M. Hyde?”

  “Lord Cassell—and yes, I do.”

  “His lordship, I hear, is not in good health.”

  Where was this tedious conversation going? Eva dug deep for patience and returned easily, “A minor influenza. No doubt he shall be back on his feet shortly.”

  “Is he able to work on something new while indisposed, do you suppose?”

  Eva thought of her father’s slack face, his vacant eyes. The last time she’d seen him, just before she’d sailed for America, he hadn’t remembered her name, had believed she was his long-dead wife. The lucid moments came fewer and fewer these days, and every exchange with him felt precious, as if it might be their last. The next time he might not remember her at all—which nearly broke her heart. She was not ready to lose him yet, this man who was still her courageous, brilliant father.

  Regardless, she continued the lie. “Yes, of course. I am in frequent communication with his lordship.”

  “Excellent. I have a small project on which I would like his input. Money is no obstacle. I’m quite willing to pay whatever he requires for the consultation.”

  Eva considered those words. A consultation . . . where money was no obstacle? She hated to turn that down—on behalf of her father, of course. “I would be happy to meet with you and then seek his counsel on your behalf. When?”

  “Would Monday be acceptable?” She produced a calling card and held it out with two gloved fingers. “I shall expect you at two o’clock.”

  A quick glance at the card revealed Mrs. Mansfield’s address. Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Ninth Street, right in the middle of Millionaire’s Row. Those were the biggest and most expensive houses in the city. “Very good. I’ll bring my notepad and pencil.”

  The agreement had no effect on Mrs. Mansfield and Eva suspected no one ever said no to this woman. It hadn’t ever crossed Mrs. Mansfield’s mind that Eva would refuse. Exactly like her son.

  Mrs. Mansfield folded her hands. “I would appreciate one small favor, however.”

  “Yes?”

  Her expression hardened, the iron will unmistakable. “I wish to keep this meeting between the two of us. There is no reason for my son to know.”

  Eva pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Oh, this was too delicious by half. What on earth did his mother wish to keep from him? She quickly nodded, ready to take part in this conspiracy against Phillip. The man deserved revenge after haunting her dreams with his dashed handsome face and ridiculously broad shoulders. “Of course. I shan’t mention a thing.”

  “Excellent. I’ll expect you Monday afternoon, then.”

  “Until Monday. Good afternoon.”

  Mrs. Mansfield departed in a swirl of purple, leaving Eva standing on the pavement, wondering just what Phillip’s mother was up to . . . and why she didn’t want her son to find out.

  Phillip listened with only half an ear as Carew and Milliken debated the ramifications of yesterday’s terrible thunderstorm. He should be asking pertinent questions about the ground and the timeline but he was distracted. Eva was here, walking around and taking notes, her keen eyes studying and measuring while her dark blue skirts swung back and forth.

  This woman fascinated him, with her quicksilver intelligence and stubborn feistiness, all wrapped in a delectable package capable of bringing a man to his knees. She was unlike any female he’d ever met.

  He’d tried to forget. Honestly, he’d tried. Told himself a hundred times not to get involved with her again. Remain close, but not too close. Stay professional.

  God help him, but logic wasn’t working. He still craved her. An undeniable hunger for her had buried under his skin to keep him constantly on edge. He could clearly recall the energy between them the night of the storm, how she’d trembled from his touch. The sounds when she’d climaxed . . .

  Heat flooded his groin, awareness prickling over his skin. He’d brought himself off to those memories more than once during these past few days. Now he watched as she knelt and pressed the ground with her bare fingers. This was not a woman afraid of
getting her hands dirty . . . and why did he find that so damn appealing?

  “Mr. Mansfield, are you listening?”

  His head swiveled to find Carew and Milliken both frowning at him. What had they been talking about? He raised his hands and took a stab at a response. “Let’s not be hasty. We shouldn’t rush into anything just yet.”

  Carew’s dark brows lowered until they nearly met. “I asked if you wanted to speak with Mr. Weller. He’s standing behind you.”

  What was the city’s superintendent of buildings doing here? Phillip turned and extended his hand to the large man looming behind them. “Weller. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  Richard Weller wore a yellow-and-brown checked suit, a brown vest stretched across his prodigious middle. His gold watch fob sparkled in the morning sun. “Mr. Mansfield. I wonder if we might have a word about your plans.”

  Suspicion swept along Phillip’s spine. “I thought we’d covered that ground. Multiple times, if I’m not mistaken.” Weller had gone over Hyde’s plans with a fine-tooth comb, asking layers of questions that had required detailed answers from the London architect. Carew had weighed in, verifying that the hotel would be structurally sound, as had other engineers in the city.

  “I’ve had a change of heart. I’m stopping construction until—”

  Phillip’s body went rigid. “What? You cannot do that. We’ve already started.” He swept his hand out toward the giant hole in the ground.

  Weller didn’t back down in the face of Phillip’s fury. “I absolutely may if your building appears to be a danger to the city. I’m afraid that—”

  “Is there a problem?”

  His chest heaving in outrage, Phillip looked down at Eva, who had just positioned herself between him and Weller. “He’s shutting us down,” he said through clenched teeth. Fuck. Just saying it aloud made him more furious. This goddamn town. Nothing could ever be easy, not even for a Mansfield. He’d soon be a laughingstock if this project failed.