Susan Wiggs Great Chicago Fire Trilogy Complete Collection

by Susan Wiggs

“Fun?” she squeaked.

  “Isn’t that why you’re here?” He lifted an eyebrow, a dark curve that made him look more intriguing than ever. “For fun?”

  Kathleen tried to gather her composure. In her fondest imaginings, she’d had clever conversations with dozens of men, had bantered and matched wits with people of breeding and quality. When no one was looking, she had practiced smiling, flirting, laughing, offering quips and amusing anecdotes. For the life of her, she could not think of one clever thing to say at this moment. But she was not about to let herself be struck dumb by a handsome man.

  “I thought saving souls was on the agenda tonight,” she said. “That should be fun enough for you.”

  “I’m a Catholic,” he said smoothly. “Not a sober, pinch-mouthed Protestant. They don’t believe in having fun. Not in this life, anyway.”

  His admission stunned her. The highest ranks of society normally looked down upon those of the Catholic faith. Only a certain privileged few could admit to it and still keep their place in society. That was one reason Lucy had picked Baltimore as Kathleen’s fictional hometown. There, some of the oldest families were descended from venerable Catholic clans from centuries ago, which made them acceptable to socialites.

  “Do I shock you?” he asked.

  “Certainly not. Sir.” She deliberately emphasized the formal address. She knew that in this society, a person kept certain things secret. What could his blunt admission mean? That he knew the mass card for what it was and saw through her ruse? Or that he felt a genuine affinity for her because they had something in common?

  His laughter was low and rich, a sound she thought she would never tire of hearing. “I beg your pardon. It’s unforgivable for me to indulge in an intimate conversation with you before I’ve even introduced myself.” His bow was perfectly correct. As if posing for a photograph, he leaned forward from the waist, one hand behind his back and the other held out palm up, as if in supplication. “Dylan Francis Kennedy, at your service.”

  She wondered if it was better to pretend ignorance or to admit she had known who he was all along. No, she couldn’t do that. He’d ask where she had seen him before and she’d be forced to admit that she had been spying on him at the Sinclair mansion. “How do you do,” she said. “I am—”

  “Kate.” He winked at her. “Your friend Miss Hathaway gave me permission to call you Kate. She said you were far too modest to demand a formal address.”

  She narrowed her eyes, skeptical of his dashing charm. “For all the gossip I’ve heard about you, I would expect informality.”

  “Now I am intrigued. What gossip?”

  “That you are heir to a Boston shipping fortune, just back from a lengthy tour of the Continent,” she said.

  “You must have seen that in the Tribune.”

  “And that you are looking for a wife,” she added.

  He laughed. “Ever since that nonsense was published, I’ve been inundated by ambitious matrons trotting out their rich daughters. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy a parade of maidens, mind you—” he winked at her “—but I think I’ve narrowed the scope of my search.”

  She sniffed. “Then I shan’t tell you the rest. You’ll get a head swelled full of pride.”

  He chuckled. “Did your gossips say what manner of wife I’m seeking?”

  “No, but I heard you’ve left a trail of broken hearts scattered across half the continent.”

  “Patently untrue. I am the one who is brokenhearted. In all my travels, I have been asking for the unattainable.” He smiled sadly. “A woman of rare accomplishment and depth,” he said. “One who has red hair, flashing eyes and knows all the words to the Ave Maria.”

  “You are an unforgivable tease, sir,” she choked out, thoroughly intrigued.

  He touched her elbow, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “I never tease. But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Which secret?” she blurted out. She was usually in control of her tongue, but his touch, even the light cradle of his hand at her elbow, disconcerted her.

  “There’s more than one?” He had the most alluring manner.

  She bit her lip, thinking fast. Then she gave him the most dazzling smile she could muster. “Every woman has secrets,” she said. “The more, the better.”

  He constantly seemed as if he were on the verge of laughter. “My dear Kate, I was speaking of your true identity.”

  She gasped. “If you know my true identity, why do you still deign to speak to me?”

  “Because I want to put this earring on you. And if there’s any deigning to be done, then it is you who has to deign because it’s clear to everyone in this room that you outrank me.”

  “Outrank?”

  “I knew you’d be too modest,” he gently chided her. “Lucy warned me.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes. She said you’d never flaunt your family tree nor the wealth that shakes from its branches like autumn leaves.” He chuckled. “You see? I am insufferably vulgar, mentioning bloodlines and money in the same sentence.”

  “This is America,” she said, hoping her relief didn’t show. “We’re free to talk of anything we like.”

  “And we do, don’t we?” Still seeming to hover on the brink of laughter, he gestured at the exalted company in the room. The men wore custom-tailored suits and boiled collars so crisp that the edges seemed to cut their necks, and the women progressed through the conversation groups as if in the midst of a competitive sport.

  Dylan Kennedy’s suit, Kathleen observed, had the distinguished gentility of several seasons of age and wear, which made him look far more comfortable and natural in his role as lord of the manor. Not for him the spit shine and polish of new money, but the honored ease of generations of wealth. Next to him, even the English lord appeared bourgeois.

  Then he did a most unexpected thing. Placing his hand under her elbow in a proprietary fashion, he guided her through an archway of the big salon to a smaller room with French windows flanked by garish faux marble pillars.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Sightseeing.”

  “But I—” She broke off as he opened one of the tall, hinged windows, revealing a view that stopped her in her tracks. “Oh, my,” she said when she could breathe again. “That is quite a sight.” She took a step out onto the small, curved balcony. The windstorm that had been chasing through the city all evening blew even stronger now, howling between the tall downtown buildings and whipping up the surface of the lake like buckwheat batter.

  From this perspective, facing south and east, she could see the curve of the river as it widened to join the vast, churning lake. Only a block or two distant, she noticed the dome and spires of the ornate courthouse, and beyond that, the gothic steeple of St. Brendan’s, the church of her girlhood. There, in a pious, sincere whisper, she had taken her first communion, accepted her confirmation and confessed her weekly sins. She expected that one day she would be married there under the gazebo in the little prayer garden, and buried there as well.

  Tearing her mind from the moribund notion, she examined the perfect parallel lines of the streetlamps along Lake, Water and Randolph Streets. At the mouth of the river, giant grain elevators made ghostly silhouettes against the night sky. Every few seconds, the lighthouse at Government Pier lazily blinked its beam in her direction. And far to the south and west, the day seemed to linger, as if the sun had forgotten to set.

  She smiled at the fanciful notion, thinking of her family in the West Division. Her mother would probably use the extra daylight to do chores. She was that industrious.

  “Why do you smile?” Dylan Kennedy asked, his voice low and intimate.

  “It’s a beautiful sight, Mr. Kennedy. No wonder Chicagoans are so proud of their city.”

  “It’s called the Queen of the Prairie,” he said. “And you must call me Dylan.”

  A shiver of the forbidden passed over her. “I mustn’t.”

  “Why not?” />
  “I scarcely know you.”

  “You can’t be so formal with me after I do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “This.” Without further warning, he stepped very close to her, moving in so that she was trapped between a marble balustrade and his tall form. “Hold very still,” he whispered.

  “But—”

  “Sh. Be still.”

  Her senses filled with the nearness of him. He had the most delicate touch of any man she could imagine. With the finesse of a gifted musician, the light fingering of a master violinist on the neck of his instrument, Dylan Kennedy placed one hand under her chin, turning her face to one side. She didn’t know if it was her imagination, or if it was real, but she felt the fine brush of that delicate finger across her jaw as she turned her head.

  “I confess I don’t have much practice applying jewelry to a lady,” he whispered, “but I am a willing pupil.”

  “Mr…. Dylan, please. If you would hand me the earring, I could—”

  “And spoil my chance to be near the most beautiful woman in Chicago?” His mouth was very close to her ear. She could feel the warm eddy of his breath over her skin. The sensation was so pleasant that, just for a moment, she closed her eyes. Then she felt his fingers gently manipulating her earlobe. Sweet Mary, what was happening to her? A man was touching her earlobe and she could do nothing but let her insides turn to melted butter. She held perfectly still, in a state of rapture, as he worked the tiny screw of the earring so that the tear-drop-shaped jewel hung once again from her ear.

  Then, all too soon, he stepped back. “Beautiful,” he said, his bluer-than-sky eyes shining.

  “You,” said Kathleen in her haughtiest voice, “are a wicked man.”

  “True,” he said. “That’s why you find me so interesting.”

  “What makes you believe I find you interesting?”

  “Let me think.” He stroked his chin, pretending great concentration. “You followed me to this private balcony, as if for an assignation.”

  “I most certainly did not. You—you commandeered me as if I were a prisoner of war.”

  He laughed. “A prisoner of love, my dear.”

  “You’ve proved nothing except that you’re even more wicked than I thought.”

  “Sweet Kate, you are fascinated.”

  She couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “You are the most arrogant, conceited—”

  “But I’m right about you.”

  “You have not the first idea about me.” She left the balcony, edging back toward the carpeted room.

  He took her arm to stop her retreat. “My first idea was that you blushed the moment you met me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Oh, Kate. It wasn’t just a blush.” Bolder than ever, he touched the neckline of her gown, tracing the wide, U-shaped décolletage with a slow, deliberate caress. “You were seashell pink from here—” he traced his finger over the tops of her breasts and then upward, mapping the rise of her collarbone, the dip at the base of her throat, and then the side of her neck, up to the crest of her cheek and temple “—to here,” he concluded with a low, liquid laugh. “I swear, I never saw a woman blush like that.” He leaned forward and blew the whispered words into her ear. “Do you blush all over, Miss Kate? Do you blush with your whole body?”

  Finally, finally, he had pushed her over the edge. Forgetting the drawing room manners she had donned along with the Worth gown, Kathleen drew back her arm and walloped him one. It was not an openhanded, ladylike slap designed to put him in his place, but a full-fisted roundhouse punch of the sort used in saloon brawls in Conley’s Patch.

  He went down like a heap of unmortared brick. The thud of his body brought several people rushing over from the main salon.

  “What happened?” Mr. McCormick asked, his walrus mustache twitching as he sank down beside Dylan Kennedy.

  Kathleen braced herself. Now Dylan would reveal her for exactly what she was—a lowborn immigrant’s daughter, with crude manners, no sense of humor and a wicked punch. A fraud.

  But he surprised her. Shaking his head and running an exploratory hand along the length of his jaw, he stared straight at Kathleen and said, “I fell.”

  McCormick stepped back. “So I see.”

  Dylan took his proffered hand and stood up. “I swear, I never fell so hard in my life.” As he spoke, his gaze never left Kathleen.

  And to her mortification, she felt herself heat with an uncontrollable blush. She didn’t speak, and neither did Dylan Kennedy, but her thoughts rang loudly through her head: He’s right. I do blush with my whole body.

  * * *

  “Can you believe it?” Lucy Hathaway said excitedly, later in the powder room. “It’s you.”

  “What’s me?” asked Kathleen.

  “The woman Dylan Kennedy is interested in.”

  “Fiddlesticks.” Kathleen took a clean linen towel from the brass serving tray on the counter and dabbed at her overheated face.

  “She’s right.” Phoebe spoke with grudging admiration. “It is you. Dylan Kennedy wants you.”

  “How can you know that?”

  Phoebe gave her a tight smile. “I have made a careful study of him since he arrived in Chicago.”

  Lucy laughed. “You mean you inspected his pedigree to see if he’d be a suitable husband for you.”

  “I most certainly did. Is there something wrong with that?”

  “Well, is he a suitable husband?” Kathleen demanded. Discreetly, she studied the hand that had just socked Dylan Kennedy. The knuckles were bright red. She put her one glove back on before the others noticed.

  Phoebe fussed with the organza rosettes on her gown, then turned and fluffed out her bustle. “He is certainly rich enough. They say he has two million from his family’s shipping fortune. And he is stunningly handsome. I suppose you noticed that right off.”

  He is a god that walks the earth, thought Kathleen. She bit her lip to keep from saying it aloud.

  Phoebe ticked off his attributes on her fingers. “He comes from the East Coast, attended Harvard, traveled abroad. People say he is involved in shipping down the Saint Lawrence to Chicago. One of the most lucrative trade routes there is. No wonder he’s such a catch.”

  “So you marry him,” Kathleen suggested.

  Lucy shook her head. “She’s holding out for a duke, though Lord only knows why.”

  “Then you marry him,” Kathleen said, amazed to be having this conversation.

  “I shan’t be marrying anyone,” Lucy said. “I intend to devote my life to the cause of equal rights for women.” She grinned at Kathleen. “You’re elected.”

  Kathleen laughed to cover a sudden jolt of ungovernable yearning. “I’m a maid,” she reminded her friends. “I hang Miss Sinclair’s clothes in closets and do her hair for a living. My mother milks cows.” She spoke flippantly, but underneath it all she felt a familiar mortification. She had always harbored the secret belief that she’d been born into the wrong life. Being in the company of Chicago’s best people tonight was a delight beyond compare, yet at the same time it held the razor sharp edge of frustration. The night gave her a taste of a life she could never have. Meeting a man like Dylan Kennedy merely twisted the knife.

  “Not tonight,” Phoebe insisted. “Tonight you are a privileged young lady from Baltimore. Your ancestors were the founding fathers of the colony of Maryland.” Lacking her customary meanness, Phoebe took both of Kathleen’s hands in hers. “I didn’t think this would work, but so far you’ve made people believe our story. Initially I wanted to win my bet with Lucy, but I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You have?” Kathleen was amazed. This was a side to Phoebe she had rarely seen. She wasn’t sure she trusted it.

  “Tonight, Kate, I want to see you win. Don’t tell me you forgot about the invitation to the opera. That was the wager, or have you forgotten?”

  He made me forget my own name, Kathleen thought wistfully.

  The door to the po
wder room swished inward. Mrs. Lincoln, whose father-in-law had been the Great Emancipator, bustled in. A maid followed behind her, eyes cast down to the floor.

  Phoebe pretended to be helping Kathleen on with her other elbow-length glove. “These are simply too cunning,” she said loudly. “Did they come from Paris as well? I’ve heard you get all your gowns and gloves from the Salon de Lumière.”

  Before Kathleen could answer, Mrs. Lincoln put out her plump arms like a pair of wings. “My wrap,” she said to the maid. “And do hurry.”

  “Is something amiss, Mrs. Lincoln?” Lucy asked.

  “We’ve been hearing rumors of a great fire all evening. Robert wishes to go home early and secure the house.”

  Kathleen felt no alarm about the report. Fires were a common occurrence, especially during the current drought. The city engineers always managed to contain them eventually. She and the others wished Mrs. Lincoln a good evening, then returned to the party.

  “Remember your goal,” Lucy whispered to Kathleen. “You must get yourself invited to the opening of the opera house tomorrow night. If you do that, we’ll never be plagued by Phoebe’s snobbery again.” She hastened away to the main salon to hear the lecture, finding a seat that was suspiciously close to Mr. Higgins.

  Time was running out, Kathleen realized, edging into the back of the room. While it was perfectly true that everyone here was cordial to her, she had yet to secure the invitation that would prove… She frowned, taking a seat on a divan across the room from where Reverend Moody was preparing to hold forth. Just what would it prove?

  That she looked becoming in an expensive gown?

  That Chicago society lacked a discriminating sense of who was worthy and who was not?

  That the entire social structure upon which America was founded was a lie?

  She smiled privately at the thought. Lucy would certainly love that conclusion. The truth was probably closer to her first thought, which was fine with Kathleen. Invitation or not, she intended to enjoy the rest of the evening. Tomorrow—and reality—would come soon enough.

  She observed a group of men discussing the effect of the current drought on grain futures, and wished she could join in the speculation. Matters of commerce fascinated her, and she knew plenty from her shameless eavesdropping on her employer’s financial advisors. It was yet another way she had turned herself into a misfit, for the world didn’t need a woman from the labor classes who understood high finance. Yet she couldn’t simply stifle her interest or quiet her mind.