by Joanna Shupe
Her breathing turned erratic, her corset tightening like a vise around her ribs. “Mr. Hatcher!”
“Good evening, my lady.” He bowed over her hand. “I do apologize for my tardiness.” Blue eyes danced as he straightened, his expression filled with unholy glee.
Dash it all. How had he learned the true location for tonight’s event?
“Hatcher, we heard you were otherwise occupied this evening,” Cooke said, shaking hands with Julius. “Glad you made it. I was hoping to bend your ear for a few moments regarding a stock I’ve been watching.”
That was when Nora saw it. The slight twitch of his eye, the barest hint of her fake fiancé’s annoyance. Without knowing exactly why, she decided to rescue him. “While I am certain Mr. Hatcher would love to help, Mr. Cooke, I must steal my fiancé away for a few moments. I hope you understand?”
“Of course, my lady. Perfectly understandable for a young couple. We’ll speak on it later, Hatcher.”
Julius inclined his head. “I look forward to it.”
Cooke tottered off and Nora grabbed Julius’s arm. “Come with me.”
She led him to a far corner, well within sight of the party but a spot that would allow them to talk privately. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and smirked. “I hope you weren’t terribly worried when I ran late.”
Little point in admitting any wrongdoing now. Clearly, considering the amusement in his expression, they were both aware of what she had tried to do. “No, not worried at all.”
“That’s certainly a relief. You appeared quite surprised a moment ago and I grew concerned.”
“So that was what concern looks like? And here I thought you were enjoying yourself.”
He grinned, the unrepentant rogue. “Guilty—and I’m sorry to ruin your fun.”
“No, you are not a bit sorry.”
“True. Thwarting you is entirely too enjoyable. But enough about that bogus social schedule. I need to speak with you.”
“Bogus?”
He waved his hand. “Fake. False. Complete and utter drivel. A—”
“I understand now, thank you.” Americans had some of the strangest words. “What did you wish to speak with me about?”
His gaze bounced around the room, not meeting hers, while he drew in a deep breath. “My mother and sister have come to visit.”
“Your . . . mother? I thought she lived upstate.”
“She does.” He leaned in. “She arrived earlier today. Wants to meet my fiancée.”
“Meet your fiancée?”
He winced. “Perhaps you could say it louder? Doubtful the kitchen staff heard you, Nora.” He rubbed his eyes with his fingers.
“I apologize,” she said quietly. “This is all very surprising. You said she never comes to visit you.”
“She doesn’t. She’s never come to the city to visit me, which is why it’s so disconcerting. Regardless, do not visit my home, and refuse to see her if she calls on you. I’ll hold her off as long as I can and then hopefully she’ll tire of waiting and return to Albany.”
“Julius, your mother did not travel all this way to be ‘held off’ in meeting her prospective daughter-in-law. You must host a dinner party.” Which would provide Nora with ample opportunities to avoid any intense conversations with Mrs. Hatcher.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “She’d hardly enjoy it if I did.”
“Why not? Doesn’t she like parties?”
“Not only does she not like parties, she disapproves of my money and lifestyle. Trust me, you don’t want to meet her.”
She disapproved of his money and lifestyle? Good heavens. What sort of mother would not be proud of all Julius had accomplished?
And why was he so adamant Nora not meet her?
“I am capable of charming your mother, Julius. After all, I am English. We learn how to charm dour old matrons before we can walk.”
“She’s more than a crusty dowager. Not to mention, if you do meet her, you’ll need to pretend. I’d rather not hurt her by telling the truth regarding the engagement. No, it’s best if you two never cross paths.”
She liked when he needed something from her. It gave her leverage, which she fully intended to use to suit her purposes. “Would you consider it a favor? Otherwise, I may need to call on her tomorrow.”
“Yes.” Then his mouth twisted with regret. “Wait, is it too late to change my answer?”
She couldn’t contain her wide smile. “Yes—unless you do not want to gain my cooperation.”
The angles of his face shifted as a muscle jumped in his jaw. “Allow me to guess. In return for this favor, I must escort you on another attention-seeking venture into the underbelly of the city?”
“Yes. That is precisely what it means.”
“And if I agree, you’ll not cause any more mischief?”
She nodded and held her breath, worried this fortuitous turn of events could disappear at any moment.
“Fine,” he said, the one word dripping with unhappiness. “I’ll escort you this Friday night. My choice of location.”
“Perfect. See how easy that was?”
His lips flattened. “Shall we rejoin the others?”
She nodded but one more thing was bothering her. “Yes, but I have another question. If you dislike giving out stock tips, why not refuse when asked?”
He grimaced. “I usually do. Stocks are rarely a yes-or-no question. There’s planning and foresight involved, and each trade is a gamble. Some men like the risk and the results hardly matter. For others, the results could be disastrous.”
Like losing everything, something Julius was familiar with.
“Except you gave Mr. Pendleton a tip that earned him quite a bit of money, apparently.”
“I need these men to like and trust me. If dropping hints on favorable stocks earns me a spot in society, I’ll gladly do it.”
“What happens when someone loses money? What if you are held accountable?”
“I’m fairly certain these men can afford a loss here or there. And these are not secrets. I would never give away any information that might work against me or my purposes on the exchange.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning anything that might take money out of my own pocket. Speculation rewards outliers. If you’re merely following the crowd, you’ll never reap any substantial benefits on Wall Street. I only give away information any serious investor should already have.”
“So you consider yourself an outlier, never following the crowd?”
He took her arm and moved in close, his breath warm on her ear. “That is one of the things you and I have in common, Lady Nora. We aren’t afraid to break the rules.”
After the longest dinner of Julius’s life, the eight gentlemen left the dining room and retired to the smoking room down the hall. The conversation during the meal had been fairly banal, except for Nora’s aunt, who had entertained Julius’s end of the table with outrageous stories. Hell, he hoped Nora never heard those stories. They might give her ideas.
Now settled with cigars, the men turned to talk of business and mistresses. The only one not smoking, Julius took a seat on the leather sofa and stretched his legs. Within seconds, two men approached and lowered themselves into the chairs opposite the sofa. One was Mr. Whitehouse, an older man who served on the board of one of the nation’s largest railroads. The other guest, Mr. Cooke, had clearly come to make good on his earlier promise to talk stocks.
“Hatcher, mind if we have a word?”
Julius hid his irritation behind a polite smile. “Not at all. What’s on your mind, gentlemen?”
Cooke leaned in as if they were discussing national secrets. “Reynolds Petroleum. What do you think the forecast looks like?”
Reynolds was as healthy as a rotten apple. The company leadership was abysmal and the board refused to invest in new drilling technology. They’d be lucky to survive the year. “I would not buy it, if that’s what you are asking.”
Whitehouse frow
ned. “I have a friend on the board. Says they’re predicting double-digit gains in the third quarter.”
Only with divine intervention, Julius thought. He lifted a shoulder. “Merely my opinion. Ocean Petroleum is a safer bet.”
Two more gentlemen wandered over to their group and crowded around. James Cortland lowered himself directly next to Julius. “Pendleton said he made a killing on that tip you gave him at the opera.”
It had been two tips, but Julius refrained from mentioning that. “Stocks are all about the timing. I sometimes get lucky.”
“Dashed lucky, I’d say, considering your record,” Cortland said. “You should consider opening an investment firm.”
“I might consider it, if only I had the time.” Which he did not. Besides, he’d rather earn money for himself than tell others how to do it. “As my father often said, investing in your own future will serve you better in the long run.”
“Sounds like a smart man,” Cooke said. “Was he a trader on the exchange as well?”
“Not exactly. He was a man of business. Warren Hatcher. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
Blank faces stared back at him. If someone in the group was lying about not knowing Julius’s father, he was damned convincing. “Not that I remember,” Whitehouse finally said. “Related to the Hatchers of Boston?”
“No. These were the Hatchers of Bedford Street.”
An uncomfortable silence descended as smoke wafted and swirled toward the ceiling. No one in New York society liked to be reminded of an acquaintance’s common roots.
“Ocean Petroleum, you say?” one of the gentlemen asked. “Any other stocks you fancy?”
“I’m watching Transatlantic Communications. And if you still have Irving Silver, I would dump it.”
Heads nodded all around, each man soaking in the knowledge. No doubt cables would be sent to traders as soon as the party disbanded.
“May I have a private word, Hatcher?” Mr. Peter Moore asked from the rear of the group. When everyone glanced at him, he held up his hands. “Non–stock related, I promise.”
Julius nearly rolled his eyes. Heaven forbid one of these jackals received private insight not made available to all. Perhaps this was about his father? Anticipation surged in his veins as he stood. “Shall we talk outside?”
Moore nodded and Julius trailed him onto the terrace, shutting the door behind them. They drifted into the darkness where the chances of being overheard dramatically decreased. Julius thrust his hands in his pockets and waited.
Around Julius’s age, Moore was a wealthy bon vivant whose focus remained limited to women, horse racing, and the clubs. The two had crossed paths over the years but were not friends. Moore ran in the most exclusive circles and had little interest in business; hence, he had little use for an outsider like Julius.
They stood near the edge of the terrace, where Moore leaned against the balustrade. “I’ll get right to the purpose. I saw you the other night.” He flicked ashes off the tip of his cigar over the side and into the gardens. “At the Haymarket.”
Julius stiffened. His only outing to the Haymarket had been with Nora and he wasn’t keen on that information being made public, no matter what Nora hoped. Perhaps Moore was mistaken? “When?”
Moore threw him an impatient look. “Miss Desmond performed and threw you a flower. Whole dashed place nearly crashed down around us.”
Shit. Still, what was Moore’s purpose in mentioning it? And had he seen Nora? “What are you saying?”
“Now, friend to friend”—he motioned between the two of them—“you must be aware that you cannot subject Lady Honora to those places. While society is new to you, there are certain rules. Standards to be upheld. I would hope you would respect proper ladies by not subjecting them to your other . . . stomping grounds.”
Stomping grounds with which Moore was well familiar. Anger simmered in Julius’s blood, outrage at being lectured like a schoolboy—especially when the whole damn thing had been Nora’s idea. He could not tell Moore as much, however.
God knew he did not want her reputation ruined.
There was only one thing to do. He forced a contrite, amicable tone. “I appreciate the advice, Moore. I thought her ladyship, being a fan of theater, might enjoy seeing Miss Desmond perform. Tried to sneak her in, but obviously that was an error in judgment on my part.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Moore said, when nothing could be further from the truth.
Julius ground his back teeth together. Any imbecile with a lick of common sense would know not to take a woman of Nora’s pedigree to a dance hall/brothel. Moreover, he hated the superiority exuding from Moore’s slick smile. And the insouciant body language, as if Moore did not honestly care about the rules but was forced to relay them anyway. Because, after all, tradition must be maintained.
“I shall keep this under my hat, of course,” the man continued.
Julius dipped his chin and the pleasure at thwarting Nora briefly overshadowed the irritation of this conversation. “I would appreciate that, as I know would my fiancée. It would not do to have her reputation smeared about.”
“Indeed, it would not. As gentlemen, we must protect the upstanding women of New York. I know your fiancée is British but the same principles apply—and you wouldn’t want to make an enemy of her father.”
Julius had little information to go on with regards to the earl. Perhaps Moore could be useful for something. “What do you know of him?”
“Old family. No scandals. Very proper.” He shrugged. “Like all the other aristocracy over there. Smart idea, marrying into nobility. Wish I’d thought of pursuing Lady Nora myself, actually.”
Was Moore implying that Nora would marry him . . . if only he’d asked before Julius? More fury flooded Julius’s veins. Nora wouldn’t have this pompous prick if—
Dear God, was that burn in his chest actual jealousy? She’s not truly your fiancée, Hatcher. So why did the idea of Moore and Nora together scrape over Julius’s nerves like an old bowstring across an out-of-tune violin?
He exhaled carefully and tried not to think too deeply on the dark emotion rioting inside him. He liked Nora. Wanted to see her happy with a man who deserved her. That was all, nothing more. Jealousy would imply serious feelings, which he resolutely avoided. Marriage meant disappointment and responsibility. No more parties on horseback and rum punch fountains. He’d stick to bachelorhood, thank you.
Moore extinguished his cigar on the stone railing. “Of course, it would be easier to forget this business if I had incentive of some kind.”
The edge of Julius’s lip curled. “Is this . . . blackmail, Moore? Are you saying you’ll ruin Lady Honora if I don’t, what, provide you with a stock tip?”
“You make it sound so sordid. All I want is a bit of information, something you withheld from the others in there.”
Julius rubbed his forehead. Had this man no shame whatsoever? So much for honor and tradition amongst gentlemen. Turned out greed lay at the bottom of most every conversation. Yet what choice did Julius have? He could not see Nora ruined, not until after he learned the identities of the men who had destroyed his father. He gritted out, “Hopper Chemical.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Hatcher.” Moore flicked the remnants of his cigar to the ground. “Incidentally, I hear you and Miss Desmond have severed ties.”
Looking for permission to screw her?
Not that Julius needed to give permission. They were all adults, with Moore and Poppy capable of making their own decisions. But was this how the New York set discussed women at their clubs, like chattel? A stock one considered trading, with little regard to how the woman felt about the entire business? The more he knew of society, the less Julius cared for it. “We have. A result of the engagement, I’m afraid.”
“So why did she throw you the flower the other night?”
One could speculate, but Julius went by facts and numbers . . . not guesswork. The only person who could answer that was Poppy, and h
e hadn’t been to visit her yet. “She has a unique sense of humor,” he hedged.
“She must. The place erupted into a Bowery brawl. I nearly didn’t escape in time.”
Memories of another narrow escape, of blood and fear as violence rained all around, caused sweat to prickle on the back of his neck. He pushed the dark thoughts away. “A close call for many, I’m certain.”
“Indeed, it was that. Shall we return inside?”
Julius swept his arm out. “After you.”
“Thank you for being so reasonable. And don’t worry.” Moore slapped Julius’s back. “I shall keep quiet regarding Lady Honora’s visit to the Haymarket.”
Because I acquiesced to your blackmail demands, you bastard.
“I appreciate it,” Julius forced out.
Above all else, he hoped to hell Nora never learned of what he’d done to thwart her plans for notoriety.
Delmonico’s bustled on late Thursday evening. White-coated waiters rushed to and fro, carrying glasses and plates to the elite patrons packed into the dining room. Julius loved the frenetic energy, the conviviality of New Yorkers gathered together for a pleasurable night out. He’d spent many hours here, downing oysters and champagne, usually in the company of a beautiful lady.
Tonight he was here to dine with Frank Tripp and a few other friends. No women, but hopefully plenty of oysters and champagne. Frank’s invitation had been a welcome distraction from the week. Between his mother’s ongoing visit from hell and thoughts of Nora, his concentration had been fleeting at best. He’d missed a sure thing on an oil stock yesterday.
Once inside he was shown up the stairs to one of the private dining suites. Which meant Tripp had a long, raucous evening planned, one that required privacy. Away from prying eyes in the main dining room. Julius rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
He stepped through the red velvet curtains and into the suite. Blinking in the low light, he searched for Tripp.
