The Duplicitous Debutante (Cotillion Ball)

by Becky Lower

  “Harry Hawk can’t keep you warm at night, though, Rosemary. Or provide me with another grandchild.”

  Rosemary’s cheeks grew warm with her mother’s words. She was not totally unaware of what was involved with making babies, but was stunned her mother would even mention it.

  “Mother, please.” She wrung her hands again, wrinkling the glove fabric. She had to stop the course of the conversation before she ruined the cotton. What would Mr. Cooper say if she showed up with wrinkled gloves?

  Her mother had her blasted, enigmatic smile on her face. Rosemary had seen it many times before, and it meant her mother was making plans. And Rosemary feared those plans right now included getting Rosemary to the altar before summer was over. Her writing career was of little consequence in the larger picture of her mother getting another daughter married off.

  “I must go.” Rosemary stood before her mother could say anything more.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Henry couldn’t take his eyes off his newest author interviewee as she let herself into his office and floated across the room. She had on a simple gray skirt with a sash around an impossibly tiny waist, and a few tendrils of her dark hair clung about her cheeks, even though it was captured in an appropriate chignon.

  “Hello, Mr. Cooper,” she spoke in a soft voice as she extended a gloved hand to him. “I’m Phoebe Wyatt, Mr. Elliott’s niece.”

  A jolt of awareness raced up Henry’s arm at the innocent touch of her protected hand shaking his. Who was this lovely woman? He had been expecting a gruff, snuff-swilling, gravelly-voiced old man, and the vision in front of him was almost angelic. Even with a desk between them, he caught a hint of her fragrance. It was not the subtle toilet water most women of the day favored. No, indeed. Miss Wyatt wore a strong perfume—patchouli, if he wasn’t mistaken. It seemed to be at odds with her gentle appearance.

  As she took a seat in front of his desk, he sat again in his chair, but not before he realized her eyes were the same gray color as her skirt. And her skin was radiant—glowing, in fact—with healthy color. Not the pasty-faced image he’d seen on the other authors he’d interviewed in the past day and a half. This woman was different. Enchanting. Exuding confidence, even if she was dainty.

  He brought himself back to the present. What was wrong with him? He was here to do a job, his father’s last and final test for him before he was totally disowned. Henry had failed at all the other tests his father had thrown his way over the years, constantly having to do penance for the misfortune of resembling his mother. And never quite measuring up to his father’s exacting standards.

  Henry shuffled the papers in front of him and snuck another glance at the woman. She had removed her gloves and had her hands folded in her lap, but she was chewing on her lip and her eyes were downcast. Well, if she wasn’t going to begin the conversation, he should. He cleared his throat.

  “I believe my missive to Mr. Elliott specifically stated I was to meet with each author, not each author’s niece.”

  Her gaze flitted upwards, and he could see her straighten in her chair and her eyes blaze in anger. Her lips formed a tight line. “I am not merely Mr. Elliott’s niece, but also his secretary. I take my uncle’s scribbles and translate them so they are readable. I am intimately familiar with his novels and all the associated contracts. My uncle is a recluse and hasn’t seen or talked to anyone other than family for a number of years.”

  “I see. Certainly, you present an unusual set of circumstances.” Henry steepled his fingers together, elbows on his desk as he peered over them. “Well, all right then, Miss Wyatt. For the time being, I will discuss matters with you. But, before I can sign any new contract with the reclusive Mr. Elliott, I’ll have to meet with him. Even if it means I come to his home. Are we understood?”

  He caught her nearly inaudible gulp before she pinned him with her stare. If anything, she seemed angrier, not the least bit taken aback by his demands. “Of course, Mr. Cooper. But for now, let’s discuss if Mr. Elliott even has a future with your company, or if he would be better served to take his works somewhere else. To someone who will let him stay a recluse so he can continue to churn out great stories.”

  Feisty little thing, Henry thought. “Touché, Miss Wyatt.” He ran a hand over his chin in an attempt to hide his smile.

  “You speak French? I thought I detected a trace of a French accent in your speech, sir.”

  “I have lived in New Orleans for the past ten years. One can’t help but pick up some French there.”

  “Really? Do tell me about the city. I’d love to see it. From what I’ve read, it’s full of beauty, mystery, and music.”

  “And good food, don’t forget.”

  Phoebe Wyatt’s lovely gray eyes danced as she warmed to her subject, and all signs of nervousness left her. But they were straying away from discussing contracts. And her uncle. Perhaps her line of questioning was intentional and the reason for her lack of nerves. Not simply the desire to find out more about New Orleans. He probably could have brought up the topic of the many rats to be found on the New York streets and garnered the same kind of response from her. Interesting.

  “Let’s return to your uncle’s, and by consequence your own, future with my company. I’d prefer Mr. Elliott to stay with us, and I’ll tell you why. My father runs a most successful publishing house in Boston and handles the release of major hardcover books there. Mr. Page’s few authors whose work matches my father’s specialty, I plan to send to him and keep the New York operation devoted strictly to dime novels. I think the format works in terms of reaching the most readers, and we’re serving a whole new market that has only just discovered reading for pleasure. Besides, the printing press downstairs is set up to handle mass production of the dime novels.”

  Miss Wyatt’s shoulders heaved as she took a deep breath. Strange reaction. It was as if she had come to their meeting expecting the worst news. Surely, Mr. Page had informed her that her uncle was one of the most popular writers in his stable of authors? Maybe not. She dampened her lips with her tongue, and Henry’s eyes followed the movement. He was glad he was sitting behind a desk since certain body parts were now also beginning to notice the charming woman in front of him. Especially when she ran her tongue over her full lips. He gauged his body’s reaction for another moment, and stifled a groan before he again directed his attention to her.

  “Do you think your uncle would accept an offer to continue with my company?”

  Miss Wyatt drummed her now-naked fingers on his desk lightly. Fingers stained with purple ink, he noticed. Her uncle must work her tirelessly. She raised her eyes to him again.

  “Of course I’ll have to discuss the matter with him, but I think he’ll be flattered you wish to retain him. Do you have a particular number of novels per year you’d care to see?”

  Henry shifted in his chair and took a calming breath. He didn’t want Mr. Elliott taking his novels anywhere else. If he botched this, his father would hold him up to ridicule yet again. “Since the dime novel format is basically a short, lively story, and it’s important to keep the reader’s attention, I’d love to see one a month at the very least. I also have some ideas for expansion, and I’d love to include your uncle in them. It’s going to be more work than ever. If your uncle is up to it.”

  “Oh, he’s more than up to the challenge. He has five published Harry Hawk stories already, and is working on the final one in the series even as we speak. But the series could be extended, if it suits your needs.”

  “All right, then. I’ll honor the terms of the contract he’s now under with Mr. Page with regard to royalties for the ones currently completed and for the last one. You speak to your uncle and let me know if my offer is acceptable. I’ll expect to hear back from you within a week. Then, of course, I’ll need to meet with him to seal the deal and to sign the contract.”

  He noticed her nervous mannerisms had returned, as her hands clenched. She stood, and he followed. Reaching across the desk, she unclenche
d one of her hands long enough to shake his.

  “I’ll tell my uncle about our meeting and get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you for your time, Mr. Cooper.”

  “Avec plaisir,” Henry responded. He caught the upward movement of Miss Wyatt’s eyebrows, and was certain his own eyebrows were doing the same. He never spouted French, except when he was involved with fencing. Or in bed with a delectable woman. “Sorry, I merely thought I’d give you a bit more New Orleans flavor before you leave since you seemed to enjoy it.”

  Miss Wyatt’s eyes danced again, and she smiled for the first time in the interview. “Merci, monsieur.” She dropped into a slight curtsy before she turned to leave.

  Merci, indeed. Henry ran his hand over his hair before he returned to his seat. Miss Wyatt was the biggest surprise of his day. He made a note on his calendar for a week from then, when he expected her to return with her uncle’s answer.

  And began counting the minutes.

  • • •

  Upon reaching the sidewalk in front of the office building, Rosemary skipped once before she gained control of herself. She had pulled it off! She hadn’t even needed to embellish her story about how she was a poor orphan taken in by distant relatives. Although the plot line would be a good beginning for one of her stories. And she was going to be able to write more stories! Mr. Cooper wanted one a month from her.

  Of course, there was still the pesky business of finding a man to impersonate F.P. Elliott. Perhaps her father could still be of use, if he didn’t have pressing banking business to take care of. She could continue to adopt the persona of Phoebe Wyatt for any transactions other than the actual face-to-face with the author, and her father could help her in putting a face to F.P. Elliott’s name. That would lighten his load of impersonation, and allow her to keep in the middle of things. Yes, it might work just fine.

  And, as for Mr. Cooper, when her nerves had calmed and she’d seriously studied him, she’d been intrigued. She had met people from Boston before, and had not been overly impressed by their pale looks, but Henry Cooper didn’t resemble any Brahmin she’d ever seen. His skin was slightly olive in tint, and his hair was so dark it was almost black. And tied in a queue at the back of his head. What Brahmin ever groomed his hair in such a manner? His eyes were large and a deep brown color. His grip was strong when he shook her hand, and his stance when he rose from his chair was lithe and commanding at the same time. She’d registered all the minute details of his appearance in mere seconds, telling herself she was merely taking note for possible use as a character in an upcoming book. If Mr. Cooper wanted one story a month, she needed some new ideas. And using Mr. Cooper as a villain might be most appropriate.

  Had they met under any other circumstances, she would have been interested in getting to know him better. His background, or the bit of it he’d revealed to her today, was most intriguing. How had he come to live in New Orleans? He could not have been old enough to have struck out for the city on his own ten years prior. He would have been barely into his teen years. Boarding school? And wouldn’t his name be Henri rather than Henry if he were of French blood? Did he have a New Orleans mistress who whispered the French version of his name into his ear as he lavished her with kisses? A sudden vision of Henry kissing a large-breasted woman with curvaceous hips as they rolled around on a bed doing Lord knew what entered her mind, and her mouth went dry. Oh my.

  Why was she even thinking such nonsense? Such bosh, as Harry Hawk would say? Her cheeks flushed with warmth as her active imagination made her knees buckle, and she tripped on the sidewalk. None of what she was thinking when her thoughts drifted to Henri Cooper could ever be used in her novels. It would be in her best interest to banish all thoughts of him, lascivious and otherwise, from her mind and keep their future meetings to a minimum. Even if he did fill out his trousers better than any man she’d ever come into contact with. Even if his hair begged to be touched. Even if her fingers itched to smooth the lapel of his jacket over his broad shoulder.

  He had treated her with respect, though. Her footsteps slowed as she continued to process their meeting. She had posed as a working woman, far beneath him in status, yet when she’d offered her hand to him, he hadn’t backed down. He’d taken her hand as if she were an equal. As he would a man. And he hadn’t treated her as if she were an underling, there to merely do his bidding. No, he’d regaled her with stories, or at least the tip of a story. She’d love to learn more about New Orleans and why he’d spent a large chunk of his youth there. And where he learned to treat women as equals …

  Rosemary stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stomped her foot on the pavement. Other pedestrians on the same sidewalk bumped into her because of her abrupt halt, before they veered around her. She shook her head before she continued her walk. Such ridiculousness, assigning glowing attributes to the man. A man she had barely gotten to know. The mere fact he treated her as a human did not mean he viewed her as an equal! The tidbit about his past, the fact he’d spent some time in the French-infused environment of New Orleans, only gave him a mystique he wouldn’t have had otherwise. It didn’t necessarily give him any forward-thinking logic.

  She still needed to deal with the immediate problem of finding a gentleman to pose as F.P. Elliott when the praise Mr. Cooper was going to bestow should rightly fall on her ears, not on those of an impostor. For all its banishment of the archaic British titles and royalty, America was still a backward country when it came to the rights of women. Of humans, for that matter, if you considered the slaves in the South and the Indians out west. And Mr. Cooper was no exception to the rule of the land. He was just lighter on his feet. That was all. She took a deep breath before she continued her walk home. And her gloved fingers curled as she again thought of Henry Cooper’s long, dark hair.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Come on, you’re doing the wrong thing and you know it.”

  “White man does us wrong, we do same.”

  “And two wrongs don’t make a right.” Harry glanced from the sniveling woman to the Indian. “Your father would not be pleased with this behavior, Screaming Eagle. Hiding behind a woman’s skirts.”

  Rosemary stood from her desk and moved to the small garret window, where a tiny shaft of morning sunlight shone into the room. She was restless. Somehow, duplicity, even in its simplest form, even when it was done for all the right reasons, didn’t sit well with her. F.P. Elliott might well have been Screaming Eagle, hiding behind a woman’s skirts. Did she dare let Mr. Cooper—Henry—know who the real author was? Henri.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Rosemary. You don’t have any idea how the man really thinks. You can’t place your future, or lack of it, in his hands until you are able to better assess the true nature of the man. Even if his hands are large and well shaped.

  Or was her hesitation merely a ruse to schedule another meeting with him? Was it because she hoped to have another discussion with him? To verbally spar with him? To get to know him better? To find out more about New Orleans? To undo his queue and run her hands through that impossibly dark mane of hair? To get close enough to register more than a mere hint of his manly scent? She gasped and tried to rein in her unruly and out-of-control thoughts. Her stern reprimand to herself fell on deaf ears, and it confounded her. Usually she had no problem adhering to common sense.

  Why was Mr. Cooper still occupying her mind in the first place? She’d never been one to fill her head with thoughts of a man. Was it because she was trying to outsmart him? If so, she was in for a battle. Her gut instinct told her he would match, and probably best, whatever challenge she could place in front of him. She was a mere pawn in his chess game. Or maybe chess wasn’t his game. Perhaps he played for larger stakes.

  She put away her bottle of ink and cleaned her pen, well aware her muse had vanished out the garret window. She moved down the various flights of stairs until she got to the main level of the family brownstone. Her mother was reading the paper in the drawing room, as she always did after bre
akfast. Rosemary smiled at the sense of normalcy her mother provided. She moved into the room and sat. The scent of her mother’s lilac toilet water soothed her as much as a cup of peppermint tea.

  “Mother, I have a problem.”

  Her mother’s eyes left the newspaper and locked on Rosemary’s. “I could swear we’ve had this conversation before. And you took care of it by posing as a young secretary. Very clever of you, I must say.”

  “But the problem has only been compounded by my actions.”

  “What do you mean? I thought the meeting with Mr. Cooper went well.”

  Rosemary sighed and clasped her hands together. “Yes, the meeting went well. Perhaps too well. He believes me to be a working woman in hire to Mr. Elliott.”

  Her mother’s eyes raked over her face, and Rosemary could tell in an instant she had been exposed. “Ah, so you are interested in the young man and now feel he’ll not glance at you twice because you’re a working woman? Not of his class?”

  Rosemary shifted in her chair. Then she rose and began to pace in the small room. How was it her mother could see right through her? She had to shift her mother’s line of thought. And quickly. “Not in any kind of romantic way, if that’s what you think, Mother. He is from Boston, after all, and you know how I feel about those patrician Brahmins who think they’re better than the rest of society. But I don’t appreciate the fact I must hide my true identity from him. If he were to meet Papa, or whomever I eventually do get to play the part of F.P., he would heap praise on him when it should rightfully be my praise. Even if I overhear the conversation, it won’t have the same impact. It’s my talent the man recognizes, and I should be the one he’s praising.”

  Charlotte tapped her fingers against her teeth, setting Rosemary’s on edge. She hated that affectation of her mother’s. Their eyes met, and again Rosemary had the notion she was standing in the room naked.