by Renee Ryan
“You are friends with Luke?”
“We attended Harvard together.” His friend owned a fledgling automobile company. Rumor had it his main partner was looking to sell his interest. Discussing the opportunity was one of the reasons Fitz had chosen to come to New York personally.
“Oh, how wonderful.” Sophie leaned forward. “Was he as witty and charming back then as he is now?”
Again, Fitz wondered at the young woman’s reaction. Then he remembered hearing a rumor connecting Sophie to his friend and the man’s sister. But he wasn’t one to listen to gossip and couldn’t dredge up the specifics.
“Were you very great friends with Luke at school?”
“We rowed together on the eight-man crew team.”
“How interesting. Were you any good?”
Fitz smiled. “We won our share of races.”
As Sophie pumped him for information, Esmeralda grew quiet and distant. It was the opera singer’s uncharacteristic silence that sparked Fitz’s memory.
Luke’s father was a legendary patron of the opera. He also had a passion for opera singers, mezzo-sopranos in particular.
The puzzle pieces fell into place, and Fitz knew where he’d seen eyes similar to Sophie’s. Luke Griffin bore the same unusual shade, as did his sister, Penelope. And Warren Griffin.
Was Sophie the product of a forbidden liaison between Luke’s father and Esmeralda?
How did one broach such a subject?
One did not broach such a subject. Fitz might not be very adept at negotiating social gatherings, but he knew not to question a young lady’s parentage.
Esmeralda said his name, her tone full of impatience.
Fitz turned his head in her direction and found her eyes narrowed in obvious displeasure. He raised a brow.
With little grace, and zero tact, she turned the conversation in a new direction. “Was Mr. Everett able to sway you to invest in the Summer Garden? Do not keep us in suspense. What is your decision?”
Fitz couldn’t fault the woman’s straightforward approach. “Mr. Everett has made a strong case.”
It wasn’t a fabrication. The theater owner had presented a picture of a lucrative endeavor, backing up his claim with receipts from the previous three years.
“Has he convinced you, then?” This from Sophie, asked with all politeness.
Fitz turned a smile her way. “Not quite.”
“Then let me add my arguments to his,” Esmeralda offered.
The conversation segued into a lengthy discussion as to why the singer considered the Summer Garden Theater a worthy investment. She mentioned everything from supporting the arts to enjoying the best seats in the house.
She finished her one-sided speech with, “I have performed in theaters across the world, and there is no rival to the Summer Garden.”
A bold statement. “I will take that under advisement.”
“That is all I ask.” Clearly satisfied she’d made her case, Esmeralda launched into another litany. This one cataloguing the many reasons she was considered the most celebrated diva of her day. “The critics claim my phrasing is nothing short of awe inspiring.”
Fitz rifled through what he’d read in the papers about Esmeralda and came up with what he hoped was an appropriate response. “Yours is a magnificent instrument, unrivaled in all the world.”
He must have chosen his praise well, because the diva inclined her head as if accepting the compliment as her rightful due. “Most singers my age are on the decline. But my talent keeps increasing.”
This time, Fitz didn’t need to recall a newspaper clipping to know what to say. “You are remarkable, indeed.”
“Hard work is the key element in my success. Flawless performances are about careful preparation.”
Now that she had center stage, so to speak, Esmeralda carried on. And on and on and on.
Two exhausting hours later, after an excellent meal and a promise to dine with the ladies sometime soon, Fitz stood in the entryway, waiting for the butler to deliver his overcoat and top hat.
He turned in a slow circle, taking in the sweeping staircase, high ceilings, and massive mirrors that caught and reflected light from the chandelier. The colors were too bold for his taste, bordering on the garish.
Where did the servants disappear to when not working?
Fitz was trying to work out how best to locate Gigi when the butler appeared with his overcoat folded over his arm and top hat in hand. “Thank you, Irving.”
“Good evening, sir.” The butler attempted to escort Fitz to the door.
Fitz dug in his heels. “May I ask—”
“I am not at liberty to discuss such things.”
Seconds later, Fitz found himself outside Esmeralda’s town house, staring up at the three-story building with what he assumed was a bemused expression.
He huddled deeper in his coat. There was a hard chill in the air. The evening had been long and tedious, and Fitz had failed to accomplish his goal.
A weight settled in his stomach. He could not fail. He owed his cousin too much to return to Boston empty-handed.
He let out a slow, frustrated breath.
“Esmeralda has that effect on men.”
Fitz went still for the span of a heartbeat. The sound of footsteps echoed from the shadows on his left.
Triumph swept through him. He wouldn’t have to seek out Gigi after all.
She’d come to him.
Chapter Six
Fitz couldn’t see Gigi yet, but he could hear her heels striking the stone steps that led to a basement door below Esmeralda’s town house. He squinted into the inky night, finally spotting the dark figure moving toward him.
His shoulders shifted, flexed, and then went still again as a shadow elongated, then morphed into a familiar cloaked shape.
“Good evening, Gigi.”
“My name is Sally.” She stepped into the circle of light cast by the streetlamp. “I am Sally Smith now.”
Insulted that she spoke in that ridiculous accent even when they were alone, Fitz said nothing, letting the stony silence stretch between them in the hope of intimidating her.
“So.” A sigh leaked out of her. “You’re determined to extract your pound of flesh.”
It was his due. Her scandalous behavior had complicated his life in ways she couldn’t possibly understand. He was responsible for keeping too many secrets that weren’t his own, including hers.
And there she stood, glaring at him as though he were the villain in this farce.
You certainly aren’t the hero.
He growled at the thought, knowing it was true. He wasn’t without blame in Gigi’s fall from grace. He’d played his role.
Gigi lifted her head, revealing her face from beneath the hood of her cloak. For a moment, Fitz could only stare. Even narrowed to slits of insolence, her eyes were glorious in the glow of the streetlamp. Expressive and filled with irritation and fear.
“Why are you here, Fitz?”
Despite the cold, he was suddenly over-warm and oddly out of breath and feeling as defiant as she looked. It appeared this second meeting was to be filled with antagonism.
“I was invited to dine with Esmeralda and her daughter.” Though still not properly in control of his respiration, he added, “The three of us had a lovely evening.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” Her lips quivered, then firmed. “Why have you come to New York?”
“You know why.”
Her sullen gaze dropped to the ground, then whipped back up with lightning speed. She stood in the same pose as she had at the theater—straight spine, square shoulders, and lifted chin. There was a new strength in her that he couldn’t help but admire.
“Let’s walk,” he said.
He expected her to argue, but she agreed without complaint. “All right.”
As they fell into step, matching each other’s rhythm, Fitz was reminded of another time, a lifetime ago, it seemed, when he and Gigi had been friends. The
y’d been children, really. Life had been easy for them then.
Now, they each carried a heavy weight. Fitz studied her out of the corner of his eye.
He’d never seen that look of hopelessness in Gigi. She’d always been lighthearted and happy, a winsome girl free with her affections, living every day as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
“What happened to you? What led to your . . .” He nearly said ruin but caught himself in time. No need to create more hostility between them. “What led to you becoming a lady’s maid?”
“You don’t really want to know.”
No, he didn’t want to hear the details, because then he would have to accept his responsibility for her downfall. He’d nearly convinced himself that he didn’t care that he’d hurt her. But he did. He cared a great deal.
A breath-stealing numbness took hold of him. “Where is Nathanial Dixon now?”
Her head snapped to his. The anger he’d seen earlier had changed to something else. Annoyance. No, something far more powerful. Disgrace? Fitz felt the impact of the emotion as if it were his own.
“I don’t know where Nathanial is.” She said the words on a strangled sob. “He left a long time ago.”
Fitz cursed softly. The sound was lost on the wind. He stopped walking.
She did the same, though with obvious reluctance.
“When did you last see Dixon?”
Her hands went wide, as if to say, Isn’t it obvious?
“When, Gigi?” He knew his voice was too rough. Knew he was pushing her too hard. Any minute she would bolt like a frightened doe.
“I haven’t seen or heard from Nathanial since the week we came here.”
Fitz felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. Dixon had abandoned Gigi almost immediately upon arriving in New York. The scoundrel had left a pampered young woman to fend for herself in an unfamiliar city. If he stood before him now, Fitz would rectify the situation quickly. He would right the wrong and force the man to the altar, one way or another.
A vision flashed, Gigi in a beaded wedding gown, skin like porcelain, flaming red tresses cascading down her back. There was a time when Fitz would have claimed her for his own bride. Their union would have merged their two powerful families.
One problem. Gigi hadn’t wanted him.
She’d been wise not to. Their union could have had a disastrous ending, at least for Gigi. She could have been trapped in a lifetime of servitude, a different kind than the one she lived now but just as suffocating. She couldn’t have known that at the time. Fitz himself hadn’t known, which begged the question . . .
“Why didn’t you return to Boston after Dixon left?”
“I couldn’t go home.” The words were rife with pain and no small amount of regret.
Perhaps Dixon had ruined more than her reputation. Had the rat taken her innocence along with her dignity?
Fitz didn’t want to know. He didn’t need to know. Gigi had run off with the man and shared a hotel room for at least three days. No matter what had actually occurred between them, in the eyes of society, she was a fallen woman.
Even knowing this, Fitz still asked, “Why, Gigi? Why couldn’t you go home?”
Her lips twisted in a dejected smile. Her silky lashes lowered to conceal her thoughts. “My father told me if I continued seeing Nathanial, he would disown me.”
Fitz had no ready reply. He didn’t doubt the veracity of her claim. Harcourt Wentworth was a good man, but a hard one as well.
“You are his daughter. Surely he would have forgiven you, especially once Nathanial was no longer in your life.”
“The situation was not that simple.”
Fitz wondered what he was missing. Gigi wasn’t just sad. She was despairing, as if all was lost. Was the loss of her virtue the only reason for her state, or was there more to her tale? He wasn’t supposed to feel sympathy for Gigi’s plight, yet his gut roiled with the emotion.
In silent agreement, they resumed walking at a companionable pace, falling into an awkward silence as they approached the street corner. The evening air was scented with the promise of snow, thick and wet, the kind that stuck to tree branches and turned the world white. Even now, big, slow-moving flakes floated softly around them, creating a surreal, almost wistful feel to the moment. Another lie to add to all the others swirling between them. There was nothing soft about this moment. Nothing calm or wistful.
They paused at the street corner, where Fitz asked the one question he dreaded most. “Do you still love him?”
Gigi jerked at the words. Tears filled her eyes, along with fury. She’d looked at him like this when he’d confronted her about her growing attachment to the fortune hunter. Fitz had feared the worst that night, that Gigi was falling prey to the well-crafted lies.
“I have to get back.” She spun on her heel. “Before my absence is noticed.”
Fitz matched his gait to hers.
“I can find him for you,” he offered. “I can make him marry you.”
Her steps faltered, then halted altogether. “Please don’t do that.”
Though she’d uttered the words softly, Fitz heard the conviction in them and was surprised at the sense of relief that swept through him. “Will you run again, now that I’ve found you?”
Her answer would determine his next move.
She resumed walking but moved too quickly and stumbled over the hem of her heavy cloak.
Fitz reached out and took her elbow. Once her balance was restored, she yanked free of his touch and set off in the direction of Esmeralda’s town house.
“Will you run?” he repeated, easily matching his strides with hers.
“That is none of your business.”
“Oh, but it is.” Fitz was finished stalling. “I have come for the pearls.”
She pulled to an abrupt stop. “What did you say?”
Words formed in his head, disappeared, and then reformed in a new order. He’d made a promise to himself, one he would fulfill this very night. No more dancing around the matter. “I want the pearls you stole.”
Gigi went utterly still. Fear lived in her eyes. But when she spoke, it was in her real voice. “I didn’t steal them.”
Fitz didn’t know why he was disappointed. Deep down, he’d known she would deny the accusation. “Then you had Dixon steal them for you.”
She muttered something under her breath, presumably not for him to hear, but it sounded suspiciously like “Maybe I should run after all.”
Staring into her panicked expression, he felt the remaining scraps of his patience slip. Fitz let exasperation fill him and turn his heart hard to her situation.
“I don’t care what you do after you hand over the pearls. But I’m not leaving New York without the necklace. That, Gigi, is a promise.”
“My name is Sally.” She pushed out the words through gritted teeth, her silver-blue eyes turning the same dull gray as the clouds covering the moon. “I am Sally Smith.”
Enough. Enough.
Fitz pulled her into a side alley that housed more shadow than light. “You can change your name. You can dye your hair and speak in whatever outlandish accent you choose. But you will always be Gigi Wentworth, daughter of Harcourt and Alma, sister to Annabeth and Mariah.”
He let five humming seconds of silence drop between them.
“You can pretend to be a humble servant. What you cannot do is evade the truth any longer.” He held her gaze for another two full seconds. “You are a thief, and I have come to retrieve the property you stole.”
Her expression shifted, no longer filled with vulnerability or fear, but with rebellion.
To behold her now, no one would believe this was the woman who had once allowed romantic sensibilities to rule her every decision.
“Listen to me, Fitz. No matter how many threats you make, I will never give you the pearls.”
“You will.”
“They don’t belong to you.”
“Perhaps not, but neither do they belong to y
ou.” He leaned over her, using his superior height as a weapon in their verbal battle. “You will give the pearls to me, tonight, or—”
“Or what? What will you do, Fitz?”
“Or . . .” He let his lips curve into a ruthless smile. “I shall involve the police.”
Gigi stared into the eyes of a man she’d known all her life yet hardly recognized now. Fitz had always been intense and, if she was honest with herself, put her on edge whenever they shared the same air. But in all their time as friends, then awkward acquaintances, then opposing forces, he’d never frightened her.
Until now.
How was she supposed to hand over something she didn’t have?
You are a thief.
Fitz would never understand what had possessed her to sell the pearls. She’d made a grave error in her assessment of the man. She’d underestimated his cold-bloodedness. Or perhaps he’d never been the dull, self-righteous prig she’d dismissed so easily only a year ago.
Perhaps, despite the odds, the rumors about him were true.
As she held his gaze, she saw something flash there, something not quite civil.
A shiver traveled through her limbs, one Gigi chalked up to the chill in the air and the snowflakes falling lazily from the sky, mocking her effort to remain calm.
Lying to herself had become a nasty habit, she realized. Nevertheless, as she yanked the edges of her cloak tightly around her, Gigi turned her back on Fitz and said in her calmest voice, with no affectation or false accent, “We’re done here.”
“Not by half.”
He moved in front of her, using his body to bar her from exiting the alleyway.
When had Fitz become so intimidating?
Gigi shut her eyes, tried to calm her erratic heartbeat. She told herself that this was Fitz. He’d once been a friend.
He wasn’t a friend anymore. How dare he involve himself in a family matter.
He’ll be family soon, once his cousin marries Annie.
His inserting himself in the situation suddenly made sense. He was here on an errand for his cousin. But that didn’t mean he had the right to insult her. Who was he to judge?
The man deserved a crushing set-down. When Gigi opened her eyes to deliver it, she discovered he’d moved to stand beside her. He was too close. She could smell the scent of sandalwood and bergamot.
