by Joanna Shupe
“You are deliberately toying with her, attempting to ruin her reputation because of some petty desire for revenge against me. All because I backed out of one deal a few months ago. Christ!” Sloane threw up his hands. “Are you really that insane?”
Emmett pictured Elizabeth’s molten-gray eyes, how they turned to liquid silver in the gaslight. Now he wished he had kissed her, just so he could throw that fact in Sloane’s face.
“I know it might be tough for you to believe, Sloane, but not everything is about you. Perhaps I truly like your sister.”
Sloane’s lips thinned, and he spat, “You’re incapable of feelings. You have no heart. No conscience. No morals. But make no mistake: I will hold you accountable if her reputation suffers. She will not be cast into a disreputable light because you hope to shame my family.”
Emmett flicked open the silver-guilloche enamel cigar box on his desk and withdrew one of the special H. Up-manns he imported from Havana. Using the platinum cutter, he snipped the end. “Your sister came to see me. Was I supposed to turn her away? Is that how you fancy Knickerbockers learned to treat ladies?”
Sloane gripped the back of a chair, his brow lowered. “My sister paid a call on you? Here? What did she want?”
“A dinner companion?”
“No. She has Rutlidge for that, and any other number of men who are . . .”
“Better suited?” Emmett struck a match and lit the end of the cigar. He drew the smoke into his mouth, savored the sharp nutty flavor, and blew it out. “Come, say what you really mean, Sloane.”
“Yes, better suited than you, Cavanaugh.” Sloane pointed a finger at Emmett. “I’ll use everything I have to bring you down, if need be. She’s my only family left, and I mean to see her settled with someone who will take care of her and respect her. Not a man who cavorts around town with any woman who’s had a two-bit part in a burlesque show.”
Emmett sighed and took another drag off his cigar. This conversation had turned tedious. “You could use everything you have—and borrow even more—and that wouldn’t touch me. And you know it.” Cigar clamped between his teeth, he rose and slipped his hands in his trouser pockets. “You’ve made your point, Sloane. Now stop annoying me, and take your privileged ass back downtown.”
Sloane fumed, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Is it any wonder why they don’t accept you? Why you were unable to buy your way into the Academy of Music or the Union Club. Why you are never invited to the exclusive parties. There are some things your money cannot buy. My sister happens to be one of those things. Stay the hell away from her.”
Sloane spun on his heel and flung open the study door with such force that it bounced against the wall. Kelly appeared, and Sloane brushed by him, slamming into the driver’s shoulder. Squat and sturdy with a physique like steel, Kelly didn’t even budge, and Sloane stormed off.
“He seemed a might pissed off. Guess we won’t be toastin’ your nuptials any time soon.” Kelly closed the door and strolled in. He slid into a chair and put his feet up on Emmett’s desk.
Emmett rolled the cigar in his fingertips and exhaled a mouthful of smoke. “I’m not worried about Sloane.”
“You can see where he’s comin’ from, though. You got sisters. You know how you’d feel if someone was playin’ one of ’em, Bish.”
“I’m not playing her.”
Kelly raised one eyebrow. He didn’t even need to say it, that’s how well they knew one another.
“Fine. But I’ll do what I damn well please, whether Sloane approves or not.”
“Is that what this is about, getting a jab at Sloane? And before you try to think of a lie, boy-o, allow me to remind you that I seen the two a’ yous together last night.”
Nothing had happened. Emmett could state this as fact, but Kelly wouldn’t care. Kelly would only bring up the fact that Miss Sloane was a far cry above the women with whom Emmett normally dallied. As if Emmett weren’t painfully aware of that already. “Since when have I ever asked you to weigh in on my private life?”
“Since never . . . and that’s never stopped me before. Best be careful. You might get more than you bargained for with this one.”
Chapter Four
There are no purely good manners in the absence of correct tastes.
—American Etiquette and Rules of Politeness, 1883
A knock sounded on her dressing room door, and Lizzie barely had time to hide her stock tables and notes before her brother burst in.
“Will!” she said, pulling the lace curtain of her dressing table closed. “You’ve returned.”
Her brother had a strange light in his eye as he bent to kiss her cheek. “Hello, Lizzie. I apologize for barging in, but I need to speak with you.”
He shifted away, and she felt a stab of alarm. He looked terrible. And had that been whiskey she smelled on his breath? Why were all the men in her life suddenly drinking heavily?
“Is there something the matter?”
Will leaned against the wall near her dressing table, folded his arms. His stern expression reminded her of the day he’d caught her replacing her tutor’s books with stock tables. “It is my understanding,” he began, “that you paid a call to Emmett Cavanaugh this week.”
Oh. So this was about the dinner. In her worry over Will’s discovering her stock research, she’d forgotten. “Yes, I did.”
He waited for her to elaborate, and when she didn’t, he prompted, “May I ask why you would risk your reputation in such a reckless manner?”
“Curiosity,” she lied. “He is one of your friends, after all.”
“Friends?” Will’s lip curled slightly. “Why on earth would you believe that?”
So Will did not like Cavanaugh. Lizzie hadn’t expected that. “You have dinner with him and those other two men every month.”
“How could you possibly know about those meetings?”
She snorted. “Like I’d tell you.” No need getting their driver fired. But she’d learned ages ago of the monthly dinners at the Knickerbocker Club between Emmett Cavanaugh, Calvin Cabot, Theodore Harper, and her brother.
Will lifted a hand to rub his eyes.
“Will, you look tired. Perhaps you should—”
“Lizzie, please. Those meetings . . . You shouldn’t know of them. No one should know of them. They are for business only. Do you understand?”
Business. Sloane business, which meant they were his concern and not hers. A familiar ache flared in her stomach. Have parties, Lizzie. Go to the opera. Leave the serious matters to me.
“I haven’t told anyone, if that’s your worry. Though I do not understand why the meetings need to be kept secret.”
“Because they must. Why did you agree to dinner with him?”
The more time that passed, the more secrets Will kept from her. He traveled constantly, rarely telling her where, not to mention his evasion about their financial well-being. The business was his first concern—not her, the only family he had left.
Well, she had secrets of her own.
“Because he asked.”
“You make it sound as if you are desperate for companionship. What about Rutlidge? Have you considered how your cavorting with Cavanaugh will affect your relationship with—”
“Henry and I are friends, Will. Nothing more. I know you want me married and off your hands, but Henry is not the man for me.”
“Lizzie, you’re twenty-one. If I wanted you married off it would have happened years ago. Nevertheless, you can’t wait forever. Rutlidge is a good match. I like him, and I think he cares for you.”
For the life of her, she couldn’t picture Henry’s face. All she could see was Emmett Cavanaugh’s dark, piercing eyes in the carriage last evening. He’d almost kissed her, his hot stare never leaving her mouth. What would it have felt like? She bet the kiss would have been rough and wild, just like the man himself. She suppressed a shiver.
“Maybe I do not want to marry at all.”
Will gave her a compassionate half
smile. “You’re just being stubborn. Of course you want to marry. One of us has to ensure the next generation of Sloanes.”
“That’s your responsibility, since my children won’t be Sloanes. And I don’t see why I need to marry.” She cocked her head. “Does this have anything to do with the paintings and stocks you sold—”
“No,” he cut her off. “I want you settled because I’m gone half the time, and I worry about you in this big place by yourself. And if something happened to me . . .” He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “I need to know you’re taken care of. Mother and Father would have wanted that for you.”
The mention of their parents hung heavily between them, a reminder of the grief they shared as siblings. Will had assumed so much at a young age after their father’s death fourteen years ago. Lizzie hated to add to it. “I’ll think on it,” she hedged.
“That’s a girl.” He came over, pulled her to her feet, and wrapped her in a hug. “I want you to be happy, Lizzie.”
“Then give me the money to start my brokerage firm.”
He backed away and threw his hands up. “That again! You cannot go to work, like some low-class shopgirl. You’re a Sloane, for God’s sake. Think of your reputation. What would everyone say?”
“Will, I know the business is in trouble.” Her brother flinched, but she continued. “There are things you aren’t telling me. Please, let me help. I can—”
“Absolutely not.” He pushed back the sides of his coat, shoved his hands in his pockets. “We’ve talked about this. Everything is fine. There’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about. Let it go, Lizzie.”
He was lying. She knew it in her bones. Yet each time she presented him with proof, he had an explanation ready.
Never mind him. The Sloanes would not go broke, not if Lizzie could do anything about it. She had been speculating in her head for years. Now she would take that ability and invest on a much larger scale for others, retaining a nice percentage for her efforts.
“Now,” Will continued as he strode toward the door, “I’ve sent a note to Rutlidge asking him to join us for dinner tonight. Being seen together will help put this god-awful Cavanaugh business behind you.”
She thought briefly about refusing, since Will had no business confirming dinner plans without checking with her first, but instead she blurted, “Why do you dislike Mr. Cavanaugh?”
Will stopped and turned, his expression hard. “He’s the worst sort of man. Selfish and cold. If you knew some of the things he’d done in order to get ahead . . .” Will shook his head. “And the parade of women . . . Dear God. Stay away from him. I do not want you anywhere near Emmett Cavanaugh.”
He opened her door. “I can only be thankful you two ate in the main dining room. If he’d taken you to a private dining suite, I would’ve had to kill him.” Will closed the door, and his footsteps echoed down the hall.
Lizzie drummed her fingers on the table. She was more determined than ever to win her bet with Cavanaugh. Winning meant starting her own firm, and when she began turning a profit, she could help Will keep Northeast Railroad afloat as well as assume some of the household expenses. And with Cavanaugh as her backer, other investors would soon follow, she was sure of it.
Reaching beneath her dressing table, she withdrew her notes. She needed a plan for investing Emmett’s money. Less than three weeks was hardly enough time to double a large sum. A heavy dose of luck would be crucial.
And she could not afford to fail.
* * *
A few days later, as fierce early January winds pummeled Wall Street, Lizzie watched as a young, auburn-haired man exited the restaurant located in the Mills Building. The man was Robbie, one of the traders Will used on the exchange. Lizzie planned to convince Robbie to make her trades as well.
Pulling her coat tighter, she hurried after him. “Robbie?”
He spun around and placed his hat on his head. “Yes?”
“I am Miss Sloane, William Sloane’s sister.” She thrust out her hand, which he shook reluctantly. “May we sit in my brougham and speak?”
“I suppose. Is Mr. Sloane there?” He glanced hopefully to the carriage waiting at the curb.
“Not today. I would just like a moment of your time.” Without giving him a chance to refuse, she linked her arm with his and began pulling him toward the busy street.
Once they were settled, she said, “My brother has been quite pleased with your firm, and I’m wondering if you would be willing to assist me with a small matter.”
“A small matter?”
“Yes, you see I have a large sum of money that I need to invest on the exchange. I know you usually deal with my brother, but I’m hopeful that you will be amenable to dealing with me as well.”
“You need me to place an order for you?”
“Yes. Obviously, I cannot do it myself.”
He scratched his square jaw, his gaze wary. “Why not go through your brother, if you don’t mind my asking? Wall Street’s no place for a proper lady, miss.”
The tips of her ears warmed, and she fought her anger, struggling to remain calm. “Are you unwilling to take my money, merely because I am a woman?”
“Taking money from a woman isn’t a problem for me, Miss Sloane. I just don’t want to do nothing to upset your brother.”
She could understand his concern, as Will had recently fired his previous investment firm. But Lizzie had no intention of letting Will learn of this transaction—at least not yet. “Let me worry about my brother.”
He tapped his fingers on his knees. “So how much do you have to play with?”
“Ten thousand.”
“That’s a nice chunk of greenbacks. I’m thinking one of the oil companies like Pacific Coast. They’ve been making steady gains. Your brother—”
“Pardon me, but I don’t have time for steady gains. I need to double this money in less than three weeks.”
“Less than three weeks!” He jerked back, mouth agape. “You need a miracle, Miss Sloane.”
“I was thinking a short sale. Remember the Regional Telegraph rumor in November?”
He chuckled. “Of course. I pocketed almost a thousand dollars off that one.”
“I can imagine. Must have been a wild day on the floor.” She would have given anything to be there. Single-day stock swings of that nature were rare and a thing of beauty—as long as you weren’t on the losing end.
“It was.” He stared at her a beat. “I’m not certain I can guarantee a large return in a short amount of time. I’ll do my best, though.”
“I’d like you to hold off investing it for now. Just until we see an opportunity for a large gain.” She withdrew the check out of her small purse. “Here is the money.”
He accepted the paper and tucked it into his inner coat pocket. “So I’m just to hold on to this for now?”
“Yes. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“I assume you’ll be asking your brother’s advice on where to invest it.”
The implication was clear: no woman could possibly be savvy enough to understand stocks. Lizzie longed to set Robbie straight, to tell him she likely knew as much as he did, if not more. But he would learn of her skills in due time, provided he did not balk at dealing with her.
So, for now, she would play the game. “Yes, of course,” she lied. “I plan to speak with him at my first opportunity.”
* * *
As he did the first Thursday of every month, Emmett Cavanaugh entered an alley off Thirty-Second Street and stepped into the busy kitchens of the Knickerbocker Club. The four men always met here, on neutral territory, where the risk of discovery was low. Not his preferred location—the blue-blooded club had once refused his membership application—but the other three had agreed on it, so Emmett went along.
Hardly mattered where they met, as long as they continued their little cabal. This was how business ran—serious business, anyway. The men here tonight were the visionaries, with enough power and money to shape
the future. And Emmett aimed to see those plans shaped to his benefit, which was the reason he never missed a meeting. Who knew what would be set in motion if he didn’t show up to protect his interests?
The waiters and cooks ignored him as he strode along the white tiled floor, the staff too well-trained to gawk—not that Emmett would have cared either way. Once up the service stairs, he continued to the big private dining suite at the end of the hall. A waiter in a black coat and white shirt opened the paneled door for him without a word. Emmett handed over his stick, hat, and coat.
Harper had already arrived. “Cavanaugh,” the man said, rising to shake Emmett’s hand. A financial genius, Theodore Harper was a force to be reckoned with on the exchange. His New American Bank was one of the most powerful in the world, a backer to many of Emmett’s ventures.
“Evening, Harper,” Emmett said as the two of them relaxed into seats around the large, linen-covered dining table. A waiter slipped a glass onto the table in front of Emmett, his preferred drink of chilled gin, a hint of vermouth, and a twist of orange rind. A long way from the days in Ragpicker’s Row, Emmett thought, when straight gin had been like mother’s milk.
Emmett sipped the spirits, enjoying the burn of juniper and citrus as it slid down his throat. “Where are Sloane and Cabot?”
“Cabot was coming into Grand Central from out west somewhere,” Harper said, referring to Calvin Cabot, the publisher of three of the country’s most powerful newspapers. Harper swirled a tumbler of bourbon whiskey. “But he cabled that he’d be here. I have no idea why Sloane’s late. He’s usually early.”
Perhaps Sloane wasn’t coming. The man had been furious when he stormed into Emmett’s house on Saturday morning. Emmett nearly smiled at the memory. Sloane could be a sanctimonious prick, and Emmett had been on the receiving end of Sloane’s scorn more times than he could count. He’d be damned before he gave up an opportunity to annoy the elitist bastard.
“How’s Mrs. Harper?” Emmett asked. Harper had met a young woman by chance on a train to St. Louis recently and quickly married her. Emmett happened to be very fond of the young but levelheaded woman.
