So much begged to be discussed, yet hesitation reigned. Kessler inhaled, his lips compressed. He merely shook his head, refusing to answer. Beside her, Wallace cleared his throat. For heaven’s sake!
She looked to Philip. He alone returned her gaze. It took a moment before she could read his look: Leave it to me. Kessler would not speak of the Timson case in Julia’s hearing, but he and Wallace clearly had something to discuss. Beneath Philip’s atrocious posture, melted lazily into the cushions of his club chair, and his indolent air of supreme indifference, she now knew he was more alert than ever. I’ve got this, his manner telegraphed. He’d listen on her behalf and share everything at first opportunity. A mole! A partner in espionage. The small thrill of it eased the sting of the role she knew she must play.
“Oh, gentlemen.” She sighed. “Does chivalry never rest? I may as well take my nose off for a long powder.” She excused herself and threaded a slow, circuitous route to the ladies’ lounge, bracing for the noisy and meddlesome crush she’d find there. For every cigar-congested lair where men congregated, there was an overmirrored, overscented, and plushly decorated lounge where women held court. Men might rebuff her questions, but women might gush with answers, most of them spontaneous and, if possible, titillating.
She was right. The ladies’ lounge was crowded with a dozen or more avid conversations dissecting the social niceties of who had spoken with whom at which restaurant last week, of whose daughter had caught the eye of which up-and-comer from Yale or Princeton or Wall Street. Julia settled onto a padded velvet stool beside the long marble counter, drew an ashtray close, and commenced to enjoy one of the Régies she’d filched from Philip’s unattended case. To her surprise, another woman edged in beside her and spoke her name.
It was Mrs. Macready, whom Julia knew only as Philip’s mysterious friend. They’d met in a predawn encounter last fall in Philip’s library when neither woman (nor Philip) had been dressed in more than a hastily pulled-on dressing gown. Clearly she was Philip’s lover, of sorts, but beyond that Julia couldn’t discern and Philip would not say. All she knew was that their relationship seemed intensely private.
She looked radiant, her beautiful hair a more auburn shade than Julia remembered but still lustrous, dressed in a becoming loose chignon. She wore a stunning gown of ivory chiffon with a collar of rubies at her throat.
“Leah Macready,” she said, as if Julia might not recall their extraordinary acquaintance. “You look ravishing tonight, my dear.” She squeezed Julia’s hand. “You have an exquisite dressmaker.”
Julia repaid the compliment. She hesitated and then decided the shroud over Christophine’s talent would combust if she didn’t lift it just a bit. She admitted that she had the rare good fortune to employ one of New York’s undiscovered talents. She lifted the underside of her frock’s hem, where Christophine had stitched a slender curl of the chartreuse organdy across the blue satin. No one could see it, except in a swirling flash as she danced.
“That’s marvelous,” Leah Macready breathed. “I’d love to see more of her work.”
Julia explained her modiste’s preferences for anonymity but said she hoped to soften those restrictions. She’d already confided too much. Mrs. Macready sighed, thanked her for her candor, and lamented that she’d be missed if she didn’t return to her party. Julia waited another ten minutes and followed her out.
She rejoined the men in time to hear Kessler grumble cryptically, “Two weeks, then. Not a day more.”
Julia had no sooner caught Philip’s eye—Anything?—and perceived a satisfying glimmer in reply than she heard with alarm a voice approaching from behind, slurred with alcohol and venom. She recognized it with dread: Willard Wright. He must have seen her crossing the room and followed. She dropped quickly into a chair, but his weaving rant drew closer. Detestable man. He was known to hover like a vulture, sniffing out any fresh morsels of gossip about the city’s latest salacious crime, and Timson’s murder would be a banquet. He pestered even vague acquaintances in search of fodder for those infernal detective novels he kept threatening to write.
“Gentlemen,” Wright said, leaning over Julia’s chair. “Drumbeats in Harlem? Murderous moll on the loose? Do tell.”
Kessler reached for his brandy. “You know I can’t comment.”
“Go home, Wright,” Philip said, twisting to turn his good ear away from the man. Julia suppressed a smile, knowing how Wright would interpret his subsequent failure to hear properly as a personal affront. She’d done as much—understandably!—last fall before Mrs. Macready had enlightened her to Philip’s deafness.
Jack added, more kindly, “You’re drunk.”
“I’ve neglected my lovely guest,” Wallace said abruptly, touching Julia’s arm. “Please excuse us.”
Julia thought the men did so with unusual alacrity. Perhaps to protect her from Wright’s baiting, or perhaps to dispatch him in terms they’d rather she not hear. It didn’t matter. She too wanted well away from the unpleasant man.
Wallace danced beautifully. Time and the simple immediacies—that French scent, the muscles beneath his jacket—ought to have dissolved all cares for the world beyond his arms, but Julia resisted long enough to ask, “Two weeks?”
Wallace considered her with an expression she couldn’t interpret. Apology? Pity? Regret? “Nothing to trouble you, my dear.”
“Is it about Eva Pruitt?” Her feet slowed. “Is she all right?”
He regripped her hand, caressing her fingers. “I admire your concern for our mutual friend. I can only say I’m doing everything I can to protect her. Trust me. There’s nothing to worry about.” His other hand resettled too, cupping the bare curve of her lower back, and the subject was closed.
Later, as the heavy Duesenberg moved through a plum-streaked Manhattan daybreak, the weight of countless champagne toasts and a blur of brandies drove Julia’s head into the smooth leather upholstery. Her thoughts spun with the turn of
