by Joanna Shupe
“You are from one of the oldest and wealthiest families in New York, Miss Sloane. Surely you can finance whatever scheme you’re dreaming up. Sell a bracelet or two to raise the money. Why bring someone in from the outside?”
This was a sticky, yet not entirely unexpected, question. She couldn’t tell Cavanaugh the truth, that she suspected the worst of the Sloane finances. Her brother would not discuss it, but she was certain they were in trouble. Paintings disappearing, servants let go, stock sold . . . Had Will thought she wouldn’t notice? Had he honestly believed she didn’t pay attention? Yet her offers to help had been refused. So she had decided to do this without Will’s assistance.
Moistening her dry lips, she charged on with the answer she’d prepared, one that was not a lie. “I do not come into possession of my trust until my twenty-fifth birthday, which leaves me with very little money to work with before then. However, even if I had the capital, I won’t be taken seriously by my clients—the male clients—until I prove that I can earn money.”
“And I am to believe you’re competent, entrust you with my money?”
She picked up the ledger she’d been keeping for four years, the proof that she wasn’t some silly female with unrealistic aspirations. No, in here lay her undeniable abilities in ink. “These are records of the transactions I would have made, had I been allowed.” He held out his large hand, and she slipped the volume into his grip. “I read the reports, Mr. Cavanaugh. I follow the markets. You’ll see I maintain a healthy balance in the black.”
“A fictional balance,” he noted, before studying the most recent entries. “Most of these are obvious, sure bets any trader would make.” He paused. “What’s this, a short sale on Pennington? Did you truly see that price drop coming, when no one else did?”
Not easy to keep the smugness out of her voice, but she managed it. “Over the past three years, I’ve noticed their second quarter earnings are always delayed. The Pennington stock drops ten percent like clockwork as a result.”
“How do I know you didn’t write these entries the next day, once you read the papers?”
Heat washed over her skin, like she’d been dipped in a hot water bath. “Are you saying that I am a liar?”
The question seemed to amuse him. His lips twitched as he handed the ledger back. “Why me?”
She lifted a shoulder, trying to appear casual when she felt the exact opposite. “First, you have the means and the influence. Second, I know about your meetings with my brother each month, along with Calvin Cabot and Theodore Harper.” She drew in a deep breath and admitted the truth, praying she would not offend him. “And neither Mr. Cabot nor Mr. Harper would see me when I paid a call.”
“Well, at least you’re honest about my being your last choice,” he said dryly.
Cavanaugh’s reputation for ruthlessness had factored into the decision to save him for last. Legend held he’d grown up on the streets of Five Points, fought his way out of the slums to a steel mill, which he later purchased to start his empire. Unlike the other wealthy men of business, he didn’t involve himself in charitable causes and kept far removed from the social scene.
He surprised her by rising in one fluid motion. “Follow me,” he said, and started out of the room.
Stomach fluttering with nerves, she trailed him into the corridor and deeper into the garishly decorated house, passing the two-story entry hall with its sleek pink marble staircase and gold railing. Next came a long gallery, with paintings from Dutch and Italian masters and a carved ceiling decorated with frescoes and rimmed in gold leaf. If she weren’t so anxious, she might’ve found the surroundings impressive.
Cavanaugh walked fast, and Lizzie had to lift the hem of her skirts in order to keep up. Not very loquacious, was he? Or polite, for that matter.
She had no idea where he was leading her. To the safe where he kept his money? A side door, where he’d eject her from his house? For some strange reason, she wasn’t worried for her safety. He’d been patient with her, asking intelligent questions and listening to her answers. Moreover, he was her brother’s friend.
They ended up in a large room containing a massive desk. Rows of books lined the walls and a collection of modern-day conveniences—telephone, telegraph machine, stock ticker—shared what must be Cavanaugh’s office. The space smelled of cigar, lemon polish, and big business. A thrill slid through her as she imagined the deals and fortunes this room had witnessed.
“Colin, leave us,” Cavanaugh said, and a young man stood up from a smaller desk in the corner. He wore round glasses, his eyes curious behind the frames as he hurried to the hall. Lizzie guessed not many ladies had ever crossed into this masculine domain.
Cavanaugh continued to the stock ticker, which was churning and spitting out a long white strip. He ripped off the paper, returned to her side, and held out the tape. “Read it. The last five updates.”
Taking a deep breath, she lowered herself into a chair, set down her ledger, and smoothed the thin strip of paper between her fingers. Cavanaugh sat as well, thankfully saving her from craning her neck to see him. “Deere and Company down seven and three-eighths. State Street Corporation up two points. Seneca Textiles down twelve points. PPG Industries up six and one-eighth points. Kimberly-Clark up three and five-eighths.”
“Very good,” he said, though he hardly sounded impressed. “But interpreting the tape is the skill. So tell me, based on what you read, what would you advise your clients to do?”
She didn’t even need to ponder it. “I would advise them to buy Seneca Textiles.”
“Why, when they’ve been down steadily since September?”
“Because Easter is three months away, and in a few days, the ladies will begin ordering their bonnets, dresses, gloves, and the like. I also know that Seneca will soon announce an exclusive agreement to import the same Honiton lace as supplied to Queen Victoria.”
Cavanaugh glanced away, his brow furrowed. She held utterly still, watching and awaiting his decision. Blunt fingers stroked the rough skin of his jaw, and her attention was drawn to the small indentation in his chin. She imagined tracing it with her finger....
“Not bad, Miss Sloane. Not bad at all. But my answer must still be no.”
* * *
Emmett studied her carefully as the news sank in. Christ, she was beautiful. How did a bastard like Will Sloane have such a breathtaking sister?
In a high-necked, blue-and-white-striped shirtwaist and matching skirt, Miss Sloane possessed a cool, untouchable beauty, the kind far removed from the type of women he usually fraternized with. She had the flawless skin found only in the top tier of society—people who’d never worked, toiled in a field, or sweat in the heat of a steel mill. Emmett felt dirty just sitting across from her.
Still, his blood stirred all the same. How could it not? Blond hair, perfect poise, slate-gray eyes, the fair Miss Sloane would cause a dead man to sit up and take notice.
And the way she’d read that ticker tape, with such confidence and skill, had almost knocked him on his ass. He hadn’t met a woman that quick with numbers since Fannie Reid, owner of the most successful bordello in Five Points.
“I’m sorry, you said no?” Her blond brows pinched, and he had the ridiculous urge to smooth his thumb over the tiny creases that dared mar her immaculate forehead. “Why?”
He forced his gaze to hers. “I said no for two reasons. First, I have no interest in owning an investment firm. And second, while it seems you have a knack for speculating, I cannot see how this is a good idea. I wish you luck, however.”
Her shoulders went rigid, and he knew he’d offended her. “I have more than a ‘knack.’ Why do you think I will not succeed?”
How could he explain it to her, that talent only got one so far in business? More important were cunning, a lack of scruples, and an ever-ready supply of favors you could call upon at a moment’s notice. This woman was far too well-bred to play in the street with the other vermin.
“The world yo
u think to involve yourself in is a cutthroat, nasty business. I cannot believe you have the stomach for it.”
Her lips thinned into a white line. “And how do you know what, precisely, I have the stomach for?”
She hadn’t backed down, so perhaps Miss Sloane was stronger than she appeared. Still, she had no idea what awaited her if she continued along this insane path. Bribes. Lying. Cheating . . . Christ, he’d bought off two politicians already today—and the day was only half over. No woman, especially one whose family could be traced to the Dutch patroons of New Amsterdam, should swim in those filthy waters.
“I don’t, not really,” he admitted. “But I have a strong suspicion.”
“A suspicion based on how I look. On my last name.”
It was not a question, but Emmett felt he owed her the truth. “Yes. Life in Washington Square will not have prepared you for—”
Anger bloomed on her cheeks, her pristine skin turning a dull red. “You have no idea of my life or what I’m prepared to do. I know as much about stocks as any man. Women shouldn’t be forced to put up with . . . with . . .”
She trailed off, and Emmett couldn’t drag his eyes away. Furious, she was downright breathtaking. Emmett’s body began to take notice, but the last thing he needed was a bit of stiff in his trousers. With an effort, he returned to the conversation. “With?”
“With men like you! You are just as closed-minded as my brother.”
Emmett frowned. God knew he wanted nothing in common with Will Sloane. Emmett hated her brother with everything he had, which was quite considerable.
He studied the determined set of Miss Sloane’s shoulders. The resolute gleam in her steady gaze. “Why?” he finally asked.
“Why, what?”
“Why do you want to do this? You have to know it won’t be easy. You’ll likely be shunned by high society once word gets out. And who will serve as your clients?”
“They won’t shun me, not if I’ve proven myself. Which is why I need a prominent name on the door, one that people will accept at first. As for my clients, they’ll likely be mostly women at the outset. Shopgirls, teachers, widows, society women. And ladies with . . . other sources of income.”
“Prostitutes, you mean.” God Almighty, her brother would lose his snobbish, blue-blooded mind if he knew. Emmett was growing to like this girl.
She flushed, but did not dodge, answering, “Yes, those as well. But a successful businessman as the face of the company will encourage other men to invest their money. I just need help getting started, really. My gender won’t matter when the company returns a profit.”
He admired her conviction, but wondered at the reason behind it. Were the Sloanes in some sort of financial trouble? Why else would she be here, so anxious to prove herself, instead of doing this on her own? The idea had Emmett nearly salivating; he’d had his eye on Sloane’s Northeast Railroad Company for a long time. Owning the railroad that transported his steel across the country would almost double Emmett’s profits.
And bringing the stick-up-his-ass Sloane down while helping his sister engage in something scandalous? Nearly irresistible.
Yet something held him back, like his strange reaction to her presence. His gut told him to run the other way from this woman—and he always trusted his gut.
“I like your determination,” he admitted. “But—”
“Wait!” she blurted. “I have an idea. Let’s make a wager. You give me an amount of money, and, if I cannot double it on the exchange within three months, then you’re off the hook.”
Before he thought better of it, he asked, “How much?”
She shrugged. “You may decide. Five thousand, perhaps?”
He admired her spirit, so he played along. “Too low. Make it ten.”
“Fine. And when I double it, I’ll take the twenty thousand and another fifty to start my business.”
“Our business,” he corrected. “And you only get three weeks. Not three months.” No use making it easy on her.
Her jaw dropped. “Three weeks! I cannot possibly—”
“Then we have nothing else to discuss.” He stood and walked around his desk. “Good day, Miss Sloane.”
“Fine! Three weeks from today.”
He suppressed a smirk. She would need to learn better negotiation skills for certain. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tell me something.”
“Yes?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Well, money, of course.”
“I’ve got plenty of money. You’ll have to do better than that.”
This caught her off guard, and she started chewing her lip. “I . . . There’s nothing other than altruism and money in it for you, I’m afraid.”
“One unappealing and the other completely unnecessary. What else?” He moved toward her, relieved to see she didn’t back away from him like other women had in the past. When he reached the edge of his desk, he leaned on the heavy wood and crossed his feet. “For example, what happens if you fail? I’m out ten thousand dollars.”
“I don’t have the money to pay you back, at least not yet.” She paused, then brightened. “But I can repay you in Northeast stock. From my trust.”
“I can purchase common stock anytime I choose.”
“This is preferred stock. My father started the company only a few years before he died, and he put some in a trust for me. I’m certain I have enough stock to sign over to you, should I fail. Which I won’t.”
Emmett swore he could hear his heart beating in his ears. Northeast hadn’t put preferred stock on the market in eight years. Owning some not only promised a higher dividend return on the company’s earnings, but such stock could possibly allow him voting rights. Will Sloane would shit himself when he found out—not that Emmett would tell any of this to Elizabeth.
“Why not wait until your twenty-fifth birthday, then, to start your company?”
“Because I am tired of waiting. Another four years is intolerable.”
Something about her answer felt off; Emmett would swear on it. The woman stood to inherit a large trust in a few years, so why not wait? More evidence all was not well in the house of Sloane.
Damn, he’d enjoyed this visit, probably more than he should have. He liked her; it surprised him how much.
The two of them had little in common—his upbringing in the filth of Five Points could not be more different than her privileged youth—but she had spirit, an unwavering desire to succeed, much as he had when first starting out.
A shame their paths wouldn’t cross again. No chance she would win the wager, not in such a short period of time. Which meant her brother would never learn of this visit. Unless . . .
“You present a tempting offer, Miss Sloane. Now, would you like to hear my counteroffer?”
“A counteroffer?”
“Yes, something I want from you in exchange.”
She clasped her hands, almost as if bracing herself. “And what might that be, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
“I want you to have dinner with me.”
“Dinner?” Rounded gray eyes quickly narrowed suspiciously. The woman had no idea how to conceal an emotion. Really, the jackals on Wall Street would swallow her whole. “When?”
“Friday, at Delmonico’s.”
“I couldn’t possibly do that. What would . . .”
When she didn’t finish, he said, “Yes, what would they say? Knickerbocker’s finest, dining with the likes of me. Could the city handle such a scandal?”
“You are mocking me.”
“I do no such thing, Miss Sloane. I want to have dinner with you. Are you brave enough, or should you like to check with your brother first?”
That had the desired result. She threw back her shoulders, determined to prove she was one of the modern, independent women who answered to no one. Emmett could only imagine the conversations in the Sloane household. She must drive her brother daft. Yet another reason to like her.
“Fine. Which Delmonico’s?”<
br />
“Twenty-Sixth Street, of course,” he replied smoothly.
“Of course,” she repeated, her tone sardonic. He knew why she would be unhappy. The location ensured that all of New York society would see them together. The news would race to Sloane’s ears before dessert had been cleared. “In the main dining room, I assume.”
He inclined his head. “Indeed. Shall I write the bank check? Do we have a deal?”
She swallowed, her eyes uncertain, and he was filled with a sudden desperation for her to say yes. Clearly from a desire to bedevil Sloane—not the anticipation of watching her full, delectable mouth as she ate.
Finally, she jerked her head. “We have a deal.”
* * *
Elation and relief bubbled inside Lizzie as she left the Cavanaugh mansion. She had actually done it. A signed bank check now rested in her small bag, the first step to her new future. She hadn’t convinced him to fund her company outright, of course, but it was a start.
She had no doubt in her ability to win the bet, even if he’d cut the time of the wager to almost nothing. She could do this—no, she must do this. Not because of the Sloane name or legacy, or even for her and Will’s comfort, but for the hundreds of servants and Northeast Railroad employees who depended on the Sloanes for their livelihoods. Two members of their household staff had already been let go, and Lizzie would do all in her power to prevent any more dismissals—even if it meant sharing dinner with Emmett Cavanaugh.
Her brougham remained where she had left it, on Seventy-Fifth Street where prying eyes might be less likely to see it. At her approach, her driver, Brookfield, moved to open the door. “You’ve got guests, miss.”
“Guests?”
Brookfield colored slightly. “I apologize. I didn’t see them sneak in, miss, and by the time I noticed, they wouldn’t leave.” He opened the door, and two young girls stared out from the carriage depths. They both had pretty, dark hair done up in ringlets and wore matching yellow dresses. The two almost looked like twins, but Lizzie could tell that one girl was slightly older. She guessed they were no more than twelve or thirteen.
