An Heiress to Remember

by Maya Rodale

  “We’re going to sell it,” Edward said, leaning against the mantel. In the fireplace were the smoldering remains of a fire that had been allowed to die out. But a few stubborn embers remained.

  “Sell it!?” Beatrice exclaimed. “That’s like saying you want to sell a heart or a lung. Edward, what are you saying?”

  Edward shrugged. “It’s a lot of bother for little return. Besides, we don’t need it. Not with the rents from our various real estate investments. With the proceeds of the sale I can invest in Hodsoll’s silver mine.”

  Her mother sat on a chair with her spine straight—there was simply no excuse for bad posture—sipping some wine.

  “The shop isn’t quite what it used to be, dear,” her mother said. “Frankly, it’s an embarrassment now. None of my friends shop there anymore. Terribly awkward. Best to just sell it and be done with it. Since we don’t need it. We are assured a fortune if we invest in the Hodsoll’s mine.”

  “You could—and I’m just thinking out loud here, and I am just a woman so what do I know,” Beatrice began with her usual preface to any thought, meant to ward off her former husband’s plentiful criticisms. “But . . . maybe you could try a bit harder to make the store successful?”

  “Beatrice, your brother has been working very hard and circumstances are just beyond our control. Things never quite recovered after the recession in 1873.”

  “That was twenty-five years ago.”

  “And in 1893.”

  “Well, then. Something bad happened a few years ago. But what about second chances?”

  Beatrice was a fervent believer in rising up from the wreckage of one’s past mistakes. Of not giving up on oneself. She had divorced a duke, was exiled from English society, and crossed an ocean for her second chance. The least her brother could do was to try not to ruin a once-successful business.

  “It’s that damned Dalton’s store is what it is,” Edward said. “He had to go and build a bigger, newer store right across the street from ours. Things would be fine if it weren’t for that.”

  DALTON.

  She had known a Dalton once upon a time. She had even loved him, though she had lacked the courage of her convictions. To be fair, it was hard for a young girl to follow her heart when faced with the enormous pressure exerted by her mother, society, and the way of the world. But all that felt like another lifetime entirely. He’d probably gone out West to seek his fortune. He’d probably vanished from earth entirely. He certainly had no place in her head or heart anymore.

  Not after what he’d done.

  That was a fire that was nothing but ashes now.

  Beatrice was just a woman, so what did she know about anything but she had to think that just because a competitor moved in next door didn’t mean their store had to wave last season’s white flag. Especially if the competitor was Dalton.

  “What I’d like to know is what we ever did to him to make him come into our turf and steal our customers,” Edward grumbled. He stared down at that last glowing ember and kicked some ash toward it with the toe of his shoe. Mother sipped her wine. He continued. “We’d been there for decades. We were there first.”

  “Have you tried updating the merchandise?” Beatrice asked. “I did notice some of the hats were out of style. And coming from someone who is woefully out of style herself . . .” Beatrice shrugged to soften the fact that she had happened to notice the latest fashions in hats by looking out the window during the journey from the docks to the store.

  In other words: How could Edward miss something so obvious?

  “We can’t buy new inventory until we sell the old,” Edward explained impatiently, as if she were simpleminded. It was, she noted, not unlike how her ex-husband spoke to her. What did she know? She was just a woman. Just a wife. Just some silly society girl.

  She’d crossed an ocean to get away from that and the less than way it made her feel. She would not tolerate it anymore.

  “What about marking it down?” Beatrice inquired. “Move it out quickly, start fresh.”

  “Our clientele—traditional, respectable men and women—do not want discounted items. We are Goodwin’s. We are not cheap.”

  “So you’re just going to sell the whole shop, probably for little more than a song. You are going to give our father’s life work, our family’s pride and joy, to the highest bidder. You are going to give up.”

  “Beatrice, that is no way to speak to your brother.”

  “Never mind, Mother,” Edward replied. “If she’s so smart, maybe she can present a better idea?”

  “Maybe I will,” Beatrice snapped.

  And just like that, that little fire in her heart that she’d been nurturing flickered and burned a little bigger and brighter. Maybe you will think of something. It was a whisper of a mad idea but Beatrice listened. She closed her eyes and shut out the nay-saying of everyone in her life and listened intently for that little voice inside her. Maybe you will think of something.

  Maybe not. But she could certainly try.

  It’s not like she had anything else to do.

  “I should mention that you don’t have much time to do it,” Edward said. “The board meets on Friday.”

  “That doesn’t leave much time to save it at all,” Beatrice murmured. Her eyes were avoiding her family and staring intently at that last little ember. It wasn’t cold outside; otherwise the fire would be stoked to roaring. But she had a hankering to tend to it. She just couldn’t let it burn out and fade away. Not the fire. Not the store. Not herself.

  So Beatrice stood and made her way to the grate.

  “Step aside, Edward.”

  “Stooping low these days, I see.”

  “And I see work that needs to be done and no reason not to do it.”

  “I beg your pardon, your ladyship.”

  That was not the way she was to be properly addressed but that was exactly the point. She was just some lofty lady, out of touch with matters of business and the fast-paced New York life. What did she know about anything? She was just some flighty society girl, some disastrous duchess, some dried-up divorcée.

  She was foolish and useless and used up. Or so the duke had said. Roared, really.

  She crouched down to tend to the fire.

  “Why don’t you find a new husband instead?” Edward asked of her backside. Beatrice took a deep breath and let out a slow exhale and concentrated on the fire and not smacking her brother with the poker.

  “One of the Schermerhorn boys is said to be looking for a wife,” mother said, perking up. “Another marriage would help everyone forget about your failure with the duke.”

  And just like that Beatrice was eighteen again. Full of hopes and dreams and told to make herself pretty and docile so she could be fobbed off on someone else who would tell her how to style her hair, with whom to associate, and what was appropriate reading material. Someone who would admonish her not to walk too fast or talk so much or laugh so loudly.

  Except she wasn’t eighteen any longer. She was a grown woman who had endured years of petty slights and outright commands to shrink her body, silence her tongue, stifle her spirit, and otherwise mold herself into a pretty little vessel called Perfect Lady. No longer.

  Against all odds, she had escaped.

  Every moment now was her second chance.

  Beatrice coaxed a little flame out of that last ember. She blew softly upon it and set her mouth in a satisfied smile as it caught into a full-blown flame. The fire, finally, caught flame. It sparked into something bright, hot, and dangerous.

  Just like her.

  She stood, brushed her hands off on her skirt, ignored her mother’s gasp of horror at the ruined dress, and said, “Friday, you say?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t matter,” Edward said. “We’re going to sell and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Chapter Three

  Dalton’s Department Store

  Tenth and Broadway

  The next day

  “Good mo
rning, Mr. Dalton.”

  Wes gave the shopgirl a wink as he passed through her department and onto the next. Like all the others, she was well turned out in her freshly pressed uniform and ready for another busy day to begin.

  It was all part of the routine.

  At precisely a quarter to nine each morning, he left his office on the top floor and took the long way to the front entrance of the store, passing through every department of his store on his way.

  Home furnishings on six, fabrics on five, women’s fashions on four, goods for men on three, accessories and seasonal displays on two. He made observations, gave orders, and ensured that everything was in perfect order. He strolled down the sweeping, dramatic staircase to the center aisle which led past a maze of enticing displays—everything from gloves and diamonds—onward to the distinct revolving door that opened onto Broadway.

  At precisely nine o’clock he would unlock it.

  This morning, Connor caught up with him on the second floor, in the middle of the newly installed soda fountain, a few minutes shy of the opening hour. They kept walking at a brisk pace down to the main sales floor.

  “What’s the news, Connor?”

  Sam Connor was his second in command, the one person in the world whom Dalton could rely on. They had come up together from nothing and succeeded despite all odds stacked against them. Dalton had the vision and the daring; Connor knew how to get things done.

  They got plenty done.

  Creating the most dazzlingly successful department store in Manhattan, for instance.

  Because Dalton knew how to create spectacles that sparked desire and longing in the heart of the beholder. He had a skill, honed over years of practice: how to make women want things they never knew they needed. He knew how to lower the defenses between a woman’s better judgment and her purse.

  He knew how to spark visions and kindle dreams of the women they could be and the beautiful lives they could have . . . If only she had the right hat or dress or china on her dining room table.

  He hadn’t always known how to do this.

  A broken heart gave him the motivation to learn and a deal with the devil gave him the opportunity.

  Sixteen years later he had earned a fortune from women, specifically the type of society women who had thought nothing of flirting with him but would never consider him for, say, marriage, if they knew who he really was. And so Dalton extracted a fortune from the lot of them, one pair of handmade kidskin gloves at a time. And he laughed all the way to the bank.

  “Your duchess has returned to New York,” Connor said, which prompted the discovery that even after all these years the mention of her still caused a tightening in his chest that interfered with breathing. “It’s all over the papers. It was in the New York Post, the New York Times, the New York World . . .”

  Wes knew. Oh, he knew. He’d overheard women talking in the jewelry department yesterday and saw a glimpse of her name in this morning’s paper. Both times he’d felt a pang which, being a man, he’d promptly ignored.

  “I don’t particularly care,” Dalton said. “And she’s not my duchess.”

  Connor grinned at him, knowingly. “Oh, I think you do care. She may not be your duchess, but she’s definitely the girl who got away. And she’s no longer a duchess.”

  Dalton walked right into a display of perfumes in glass bottles. The whole table rattled precariously and one delicate bottle fell to the marble floor and shattered, assaulting everyone in the vicinity with the strong scent of eau de lilacs.

  Shit. Ruthless, seductive, millionaire tycoons did not walk into displays of store merchandise at the mere mention of a woman’s name. Even if it was her. Not just the one who got away, but the one who ditched him for a duke at the first opportunity. The woman who gave purpose and meaning to his days, just not in a way his younger, idealistic, romantic self had hoped.

  But damn.

  The girl who had picked respectability and security over the promise of his love was now divorced. One had to appreciate the poetic justice in that.

  “I don’t care that she’s back. Or no longer a duchess,” Wes said, doing his best to sound bored. “It means nothing to me.”

  “The gentleman doth protest too much. Shall I tell you why you care that she has returned to Manhattan society?”

  “As if I could stop you.”

  “Because she might complicate things,” Connor said, and Wes paused to let his friend explain. He exerted an enormous amount of control to ensure that he outwardly projected calm disinterest even though his heart was pounding wildly. “As you know, Goodwin’s is on the verge of bankruptcy.”

  “All part of my evil plan.”

  “Easily accomplished because Edward Goodwin doesn’t have a head for business. Not like Goodwin Senior, may he rest in peace.”

  Wes nodded at the known fact. “Maybe if Edward sobered up and applied himself, he would.”

  It went without saying that he did not.

  “The board is meeting Friday. They’re going to discuss putting the store up for sale.”

  Dalton stopped short. They were nearly to the revolving door where a crowd of eager customers were awaiting entry, and mere minutes away from nine o’clock.

  “How do you know this?”

  “I have my ways. You know that.”

  “Finally.” Wes breathed a slow exhale. “Finally.”

  “Finally,” Connor agreed. This was the moment he had been diligently, ruthlessly working toward for sixteen years. Ever since Estella Goodwin made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Ever since Beatrice revealed that she cared about prestige and fortune more than him.

  “But Beatrice might complicate things,” Connor continued. “You know how she loved that store. She might put up a fight.”

  “If I recall correctly, she’s not a fighter.”

  He could vividly recall seeing the notice of her engagement to the duke in the newspaper. The public declaration that she did not love Dalton—not enough anyway. He could also remember the way she laughed, the taste of her kiss, her wit, her smile over her shoulder at him as she slipped out of her bedroom on her way to the duke. The way his heart had felt like it would burst out of his chest. Almost. He could almost forget.

  “She divorced a duke. I’d say she’s a fighter. Just my two cents,” Connor said with a shrug.

  “But so am I.”

  How else would he have gone from Nobody to Somebody? The last time he saw her, she’d left him because he didn’t have wealth, power, prestige, or promise. And now he stood in the midst of a retail empire that was so popular and so well-known he didn’t even have a sign above the door. He had earned so much money that doors that were previously closed were cracking open for him. Memberships for exclusive clubs; ballrooms of the Four Hundred.

  Power. Prestige. Wealth. Revenge.

  He was so. Damned. Close.

  Goodwin’s would soon be his. Revenge would soon be his.

  Dalton unlocked the door and the women rushed in around him, past him. A fleet of shopgirls moved into position, at the ready to cheerfully divest customers of their money. The air was pitched with the sound of women’s chattering voices, exclaiming over the carefully selected and displayed merchandise. What a sensual riot those displays were: a stunning array of colors, scents, and textures. All designed to tempt, to seduce, to conquer. All around him women bought and sold and wanted and craved. Money changed hands.

  It was the background noise to his life.

  Yet it could not drown out the drumbeat of his heart or the voice in his head repeating: She’s back. She’s back. She’s back.

  Somewhere on this island. Beatrice was back. Walking on the same earth. Breathing the same air. Just being near. The thought affected him more than he liked. He shoved it aside, repeating instead his all too familiar refrain of the past sixteen years.

  My name is Wes Dalton. You stole my love and insulted my honor. I have sworn revenge.

  “Friday, my friend. The moment you’
ve been waiting for.” Connor clapped his back and made his exit.

  Soon, revenge would be his. There was no way he’d allow Beatrice to complicate it. If anything, it only made his inevitable revenge sweeter that she would be here to watch it.

  Chapter Four

  The House of Adeline

  Later that day

  “I have nothing to wear,” Beatrice declared.

  She stood in the House of Adeline, the dressmaker of Manhattan society according to the periodicals lying around the house, mentions in the gossip columns, and the advertisements in the newspapers. The dressmaker, Adeline herself, a petite woman with dark hair and mischievous eyes, appraised her in the mirror that they stood before.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. I left nearly all of my gowns in England. Now that I’m no longer a duchess, they simply won’t suit. I’m no longer a debutante. I need an entirely new wardrobe for the woman I am determined to be.”

  “And who are you determined to be?” Adeline asked.

  “Not a wife, that’s for certain,” Beatrice answered. “My family wishes for me to find another husband. But I only just escaped the first one and I’m determined not to return to that gilded cage.”

  “So we are not dressing you to make a match. We’re dressing you for you.”

  “Yes. Precisely. Whoever that is. I’m not certain I know anymore. However I do know that I am a divorced duchess returning to society, which is something of a scandal. All eyes will be on me.”

  “So you must look sensational. Proud. Unapologetic.”

  “Yes.” Beatrice breathed a sigh of relief. For the first time in a very long while, Beatrice felt seen. And taken seriously. “And I want to feel sensational. I have spent too many years feeling wrong. I always said the wrong thing, or nothing at all. My ex-husband married me for my money and womb and when I failed to deliver on one of the two, he never ceased to remind me of my failures and flaunt his infidelities. So I have felt lonely and aimless. Invisible and in the way, all at once.”