by Joanna Shupe
“No, I haven’t. I’ve protested the exact proper amount considering the situation.”
“Wait,” Julius said. “Are you saying you’ve developed some level of affection for Mansfield?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eva said.
“Yes, that’s right,” Nora said at the same time.
Eva narrowed her eyes on Nora, the woman who was supposed to be her friend. “Stop it. You’re the one who hopes I develop affection for him. You want me to stay in New York.”
“Of course, because I’m the most selfish woman on the planet.” Nora rolled her eyes. “That is not the reason. I have eyes and I also know you better than anyone else. You have developed affection for him, Lady Eva. Past tense.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Is that so?” Nora quirked a brow then leaned in and lowered her voice. “Then why did you arrive home so disheveled on Thursday evening?”
Eva gasped, her skin blazing. She reached for her champagne, desperate to cool off her suddenly dry throat.
“Nora, darling,” Julius said gently. “You’re embarrassing her, and this is not really the place for such a private conversation.”
“You’re right. I’m being crass and I apologize, Eva. I’ll drop it.” She plucked an olive off one of the gold-rimmed plates. “For now.”
Eva nearly groaned. “You’re worse than a matronly chaperone.”
“Only because you think I’m not paying attention to what’s going on . . . but I am.”
“For what it’s worth,” Julius said as he speared a pickle. “Mansfield’s a good choice. I’ve always liked him. He isn’t afraid of hard work, unlike most of these gents. He could just live off his trust and bet on the ponies, but he’s more interested in trying to build up cities. Dashed respectable, if you ask me.”
“See?” Nora gestured toward her husband. “And Julius doesn’t like anyone.”
“That’s not true.” Julius snatched his wife’s outstretched hand and brought it to his lips. “I like you.”
Nora’s face flushed and Eva was pleased to see her friend so loved and adored. Would she ever have that with a man? The lump in her throat expanded into a boulder inside her chest. All she wanted to do was leave, to forget about perfect Phillip and his perfect dinner companion. Undoubtedly they would marry, live in his perfect Italian home, and have perfect babies.
Perfect, perfect, perfect. The exact opposite of a woman like her, who never quite fit in anywhere.
She dropped her napkin on the table and started to rise. “I think I’ll go home.”
Nora’s head swiveled, expression full of concern. “Wait, Eva. Don’t leave. Is this because of . . . ?” Her eyes flicked to the ceiling.
“No, no. Just feeling unwell all of a sudden. You two enjoy your—”
Nora clasped Eva’s hand to stop her. “Have I ever told you how well acquainted I am with Sherry’s second floor?”
“What, to spy on them?” The very idea caused her to feel pathetic. She wouldn’t do it. “There’s no reason to go up there. I have no claim on him and, more importantly, I’m soon departing for London. I cannot leave my father for good. He still needs me.”
“Eva—”
She pulled her hand free of her friend’s grasp. “Thank you for dinner, Julius. I shall see you at home, Nora. Good night.”
Chapter Eleven
“I’m quite relieved you are here,” Becca whispered near Phillip’s ear. Waiters hovered around the dining table, making adjustments, while the four guests settled into their chairs. To rescue his friend from matchmaking efforts, he had agreed to accompany Becca and her parents to dinner tonight. At least the private dining suite on Sherry’s second floor would shield them from the prying eyes in the main dining room downstairs.
“Of course,” he murmured. “Besides, you’ve promised to return the favor at the opera on Friday.”
He and Becca had come to an understanding of sorts the other night during his mother’s dinner. Neither of them had any interest in marriage yet their families were insistent. Therefore, they decided to play along for a short while, accompanying each other to required social events to keep their parents from matchmaking. If they stuck together—and remained well within the bounds of propriety—then this would buy them time. Rumors might circulate but would come to naught. They had no intention whatsoever of marrying.
Phillip thought it a genius plan.
“Yes, I have,” Becca said as the champagne was poured. “And I hate the opera.”
“I promise to smuggle as much scotch as you can handle,” he murmured and she laughed.
“It is so lovely to see you two getting along,” Mrs. Hall said, beaming across the table at Phillip and her daughter. “Mr. Hall and I are quite pleased.”
“Yes, indeed.” Mr. Hall picked up his glass. “Let’s toast to a promising future.”
The rest of them lifted their glasses. “To the future,” Phillip said with a small smirk in Becca’s direction.
A food order was placed and the group relaxed with drinks, chatting easily about events and people they shared in common. Phillip listened with half an ear. He’d never cared for polite society or following who was in or out of favor this particular week. That was his mother’s world, not his. His focus remained on ensuring the Mansfield name was remembered for far more than hosting the annual Debutante Ball.
“How is your hotel project coming along?” Becca’s father asked him.
“Very well, actually. We’re continuing with the excavation for another few weeks. Then they’ll pour the foundation.”
“Do you really think you can fill all those expensive rooms?” Mrs. Hall sipped from her crystal glass. “Are there enough people who can afford it?”
“Yes, I think so. Large events will help subsidize the costs, as will the revenue from the restaurants. But it’s my hope to create a new standard of luxury travel in America.”
“I think it’s very clever,” Becca said. “I cannot wait—”
“Excuse me.” A waiter approached the table with a small slip of paper offered to Phillip. “Mr. Mansfield, a message.”
“Me?” Who on earth knew he was even here? He took the paper and quickly read the note. Baffled, he glanced up at his party. “If you will excuse me for a moment, Mr. Hatcher is dining downstairs and wishes to have a word.”
“Hatcher, you say?” Mr. Hall leaned closer. “See if you can ask him about where he predicts oil prices going, will you?”
“I’ll do my best. Forgive me,” he told the women. “Please, begin eating without me.” He stood and strode out of the room. When he was halfway down the corridor a sound stopped him in his tracks.
“Mansfield,” a female voice hissed.
A woman’s face peeked out from one of the side rooms. Curious, he went over. “Yes?”
She motioned him inside the room. “Hurry, in here.”
“Do we . . . I’m sorry, have we met?” When he crossed the threshold, she shut the door behind him. He found himself in one of the larger event rooms. A man he recognized was leaning against the wall. Not surprising, as women weren’t allowed to wander about alone on the second floor. “Hello, Hatcher.”
“Mansfield, hello. Have you met my fiancée?” He indicated the woman who’d called Phillip in here. “This is Lady Honora Parker.”
He’d heard of her, of course. Daughter of a powerful earl, she and Hatcher became betrothed after the two had nearly been burned alive in a theater fire. He gave a quick bow. “My lady, a pleasure. I am Phillip Mansfield.”
The brown-haired beauty struck out her hand. “Also a pleasure, Mr. Mansfield. And please, just Nora.”
“Call me Phillip, then. This is a rather odd place for a meeting.” He glanced between them. “Is there something I may help you with?”
“I apologize for the subterfuge,” Nora said. “That’s my doing. I wanted to have a private conversation with you, one best not conducted in the main dining room.”
“Oh?”
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“Yes.” She studied him carefully, her eyes searching for something in his expression, almost as if she were trying to see under his skin. Her flat gaze held no teasing light or welcoming warmth. Had he offended her somehow? “You might have guessed from my speech that I am English.”
“It had crossed my mind,” Phillip drawled.
“Not a shocking revelation, I realize. The reason I mention the fact is because our society is not like yours. Girls there are not afforded as many freedoms as your American girls. It’s . . . harder for women to blossom in our country.”
Where in the hell was she going with this? Too polite to interrupt, he merely nodded and waited for her to continue.
“I am a bit outspoken”—her fiancé snorted, which earned him a stern glare—“and a bit of a bluestocking, so making friends was never easy for me. I had only a few friends my own age that meant anything to me.”
A sinking feeling began to expand in Phillip’s chest, the weight of dawning realization.
“Lady Eva is one of those friends.”
She let that statement hang there and he had no idea what to say. “I see,” he settled on.
“Good. She is like a sister to me and she’s not had an easy time of it. I’m quite protective of her, which is why I thought it past time you and I met.”
“Because you’re worried about her?”
“Yes, specifically when it comes to you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand. I’ve agreed to let her serve in her father’s absence. I’ve even threatened the crew to stay away from her.”
“Yet you haven’t applied the same rules to yourself.”
“Nora,” Hatcher said, but his fiancée held up a hand.
“Let me finish. I do not know what game you are playing with her, but I’ll not allow her to be hurt.”
Phillip slipped his hands in his trouser pockets and shrugged. “With all due respect, I am not playing any game. I have no wish to hurt her.”
“While that may be true, your actions speak volumes.” She gestured toward the private dining room he shared with Becca and her parents. “If you have intentions elsewhere do not amuse yourself with Eva at the same time.”
“Dear God,” Hatcher muttered under his breath. “That’s it. Come along, Nora. You’ve said enough.”
Nora held Phillip’s stare and he saw a depth of knowledge there. Clearly she’d learned about what had happened aboard the ship and at Madison Square Garden. This must be the friend with whom Eva was living while in New York.
He could feel his skin heating in embarrassment, the shame of his ungentlemanly behavior settling between his shoulder blades. He had bedded Eva, taken liberties reserved for a husband. Consensual liberties, but liberties all the same. And yet he wasn’t sure he could stop, even realizing how wrong it had been.
He wanted her still.
And he couldn’t very well explain why he was escorting Becca, the private reason the two of them were nothing more than friends.
Hatcher clasped his wife’s arm and began tugging her out of the room. “Apologies, Mansfield. Let’s forget this ever happened.”
Nora narrowed her gaze at Phillip as if to say, I won’t be forgetting. He tried to give her a reassuring nod but his heart wasn’t in it.
He had no intention of staying away from Eva, not unless she ordered him to do so herself.
On Monday, Eva raised her parasol higher to block the afternoon sun. The removal of dirt seemed never ending, cart after cart carrying away piles of brown earth from the site. Milliken and his crew ignored her, but she hardly cared. She’d spent most of her childhood alone, no siblings or mother to interact with, only servants. And her father when he’d been at home.
She’d purposely come later today, as Phillip tended to visit in the morning. She hadn’t been entirely eager to see him, not just yet. The vision of him smiling at the pretty blonde girl the other night hadn’t exactly vanished yet, even though she told herself she had no reason to be upset. He was her employer and her lover, not her betrothed. There was no future for the two of them beyond their two-night-a-week arrangement.
And today was Monday.
Did she still want to see him?
Yes. She closed her eyes, almost embarrassed by the admission. Despite seeing him with another woman, she did wish to continue their arrangement. She had enjoyed the other night, at least the part before the awkward conversation afterward. Perhaps it was the same for every pair of casual lovers, but the entire experience had been wondrous. Electric. The memories had kept her up late at night, her body tingling at the notion of doing it all again.
Enough. She had a job to do here. Such was the reason for her visit to New York, the project she and her father needed to survive. And she was leaving for Newport tomorrow. Thoughts of Phillip could wait.
Unable to stand still, she headed toward the farthest end of the construction site. She liked to see the excavation from all angles once every few days, just to ensure the measurements were correct. There had already been one distance mistake, a simple miscalculation Milliken should have caught, and Eva wasn’t keen on sitting idly by while another happened. She was well versed in how to use the survey equipment, and had Carew’s permission to appropriate it as needed.
The wooden shed for her “office” had been finished last week, per Phillip’s instructions. She’d insisted Carew and Milliken use the tiny windowless space as well, however, so there were now copies of the building plans, Milliken’s records, and the survey equipment contained within.
She pulled the iron latch and entered, sunlight streaming through the slats to prevent her from tripping in the tight quarters. The scope and tripod were leaning against the far side.
With the door closed, the cacophony from the steam shovels receded slightly, though it was still quite noisy inside. She gathered the cumbersome pieces of the scope, trying to lift them all in her arms, when she heard a metal scraping sound at the door. She turned and waited for Milliken or one of his assistants to enter.
The door remained shut.
“Is someone there? Hello?” Unlikely they heard her over the din, so she put down the scope and went to investigate. She pushed on the handle—and it didn’t budge. What in heaven’s name . . . ?
She shoved harder this time but the door would not open. It was jammed from the outside somehow. Had it locked when she entered? The scraping sound . . . Had someone locked her in?
Using the heel of her hand, she beat on the thick slats. “Help! The door is locked. Is anyone able to hear me?” She kept up the noise for another few minutes, hoping someone might walk by and discover her. Unfortunately, the steam shovels moaned and hissed all around the tiny shack, so until they quit running it would be impossible for anyone to hear her.
Worry sank deep into her bones. This was very bad indeed. The interior was hot. Sweat was already pooling under her collar and between her shoulders. Worse, what if the steam shovels never stopped? What if no one came to the shack, if she had to stay here in the dark? A shiver went through her, a bolt of true fear.
She had to get out, no matter what it took.
There must be something inside to aid her escape. A weapon, a tool . . . anything to break down the door or pick the lock. Think, she told herself, squinting into the gloom. You know how things are built, which means you know how to take them apart.
Unfortunately there were only papers on Milliken’s desk. She opened the drawers to find more papers, nothing hard or sharp. Not even a letter opener. Dash it.
The air in the shack was oppressive, a steamy cocktail that drenched her in humidity. Sweat rolled down her temples and over her face, every breath like a damp blanket. She had to escape or risk passing out from the heat. The wooden tripod caught her eye, specifically the spindly legs. If she could break one off she might be able to use it as a lever to pry some of the wooden slats apart and squeeze through to freedom. She wasn’t sure it would work but she had to try something.
Gra
bbing the tripod, she unscrewed the heavy scope and set it on the desk. The piece was expensive and well constructed, its wooden legs affixed to the base with sturdy brass. Pulling it apart would not be easy. She’d need to kick the wood in hopes of snapping it below the metal.
She wiped her forehead with her petticoat, sopping up as much of the sweat as she could. Then she put the tripod on the ground, lifted one leg, and stepped on the thin wood. She winced. Her foot had slipped and she ended up stomping on the brass instead. Ignoring the sharp ache radiating up her leg, she tried once more. Another kick, higher this time, and she splintered the wood, freeing one of the tripod legs.
Carrying it with her to the wall, she placed the thickest end between two slats, where they had been nailed into the frame. She pushed up with all her might, trying to dislodge the iron nails. The wood groaned but held. You didn’t think it would be easy, now did you?
For twenty minutes she struggled and strained, finally rewarded when one end of the nailed slats popped free. She kicked at it, pushing it as far from the building as she could. Then she went to work on the slat directly below, shoving and rocking the wooden stick, until that piece also came loose. With more kicks, she was able to create a fairly large opening.
There was no time to revel in the victory. Her clothing soaked from sweat, she began working to free another piece of the exterior. With one more she’d likely be able to slip outside.
Fatigue settled in, a combination of exertion and the heat, and her arms ached. It seemed like eight hours had gone by, though it was probably closer to one. You’re so close, Eva. Don’t give up.
Through sheer force of will she dislodged the third slat and kicked it out of the way. It splintered and she quickly wriggled out of the hole she’d created, never more grateful to see dirt. As she pushed through, her foot caught on a slat and she lost her balance. Crashing to the ground, she rested there with her eyes closed, exhausted, breathing as if she’d just swam the length of the island.
“Eva!”
Her lids cracked open at the sound of the familiar male voice. Running toward her was Phillip, horror etched on his handsome face, followed by Milliken and Carew.
