DECEPTION BY GASLIGHT
A GILDED GOTHAM MYSTERY
Kate Belli
For determined women everywhere who refuse to be gaslit
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Though this is a work of fiction, certain characters and events were inspired by real historical figures. My heroine Genevieve Stewart is loosely based on Elizabeth Cochran Seaman, better known by her pen name Nellie Bly, largely considered to be the first female investigative journalist in America. Though Bly was a native of Pittsburgh and not New York, she was groundbreaking in her field, opening doors for other women in the industry. The pairing of Rupert Milton and Emsie Bradley was inspired by the phenomenon of the so-called “dollar brides” in the late nineteenth century, or American heiresses who brought much-needed revenue to England by marrying British royalty. Esmie and Rupert are based on the couple Cornelia Martin and William George Robert, fourth Earl of Craven and Viscount of Uffington, whose 1893 wedding is described in M. H. Dunlop’s book Gilded City: Scandal and Sensation in Turn of the Century New York (Perennial, 2000). And of course the blizzard at the end of the book is modeled on the Great Blizzard of 1888, a horrific storm that crippled the east coast for days.
This book would not have come to fruition without the intense efforts and faith of my tenacious agent, Danielle Egan-Miller of Browne and Miller Literary Associates. Danielle has been a fierce champion of this book since the day she first read it, and I am grateful for her confidence in my work, particularly when I have none, and for her continued guidance through the murky waters of publishing. I am also grateful to her team, past and present, whose vigilance and thorough reads of the manuscript made it stronger, and to Eleanor Roth for being so helpful with all logistical matters. My editor at Crooked Lane Press, Faith Black Ross, expertly polished the manuscript, and I am also thankful for her enthusiasm and support of this book. I have much gratitude also to the entire team at Crooked Lane, especially for the hard work of Melissa Rechter, and to Nicole Lecht for the gorgeous cover design.
Early readers of this book included Juli Ann Patty and Christina LaFontaine, and I remain thankful for their astute comments—the book is better for their suggestions. My entire family has been nothing but supportive during this endeavor, and their cheerleading has meant the world. My sister Christine Gillespie in particular has offered commiseration, advice, and endless encouragement at all hours. She has read countless drafts and been a champion of this project from the beginning; everyone should be blessed with such a sister. My husband Marc has been the ultimate hero throughout this process, from designing my website to giving me time and space to write when I needed it. Finally, the arrival of my son five years ago was the impetus to finish my long-tinkered with manuscript. I am eternally grateful to both my guys; they are the reason this book exists.
CHAPTER 1New York City
February 1888
When the man in the pineapple-embroidered waistcoat landed in front of her with a soft thud, Genevieve knew it had been a mistake to turn down this particular alley.
He’d leapt, sleek and nimble as a cat, from a first-story fire escape and was now standing between her and the entrance to the street.
There was no other way out.
Genevieve bit her lip. Being trapped between a rock and a hard place, or between a brick wall and a man in a dirty and torn waistcoat in a darkening alley, was unsettling, to say the least. But the only way to be a real journalist was to get a good story, she reminded herself.
And she was chasing the best story in town.
Shoulders squared, Genevieve looked at the man planted in front of her. It was obvious his waistcoat had once been rather fine, and even in the deepening gloom the gold pineapples glinted and winked. His head was bowed low, and she couldn’t make out his face under the shadows of his hat.
This was exactly the sort of situation in which the heroine of a penny dreadful might find herself. The thought galled her. Genevieve loathed, above all things, anything resembling stereotype.
“Lost, miss?”
A gruff male voice came from behind her. She wheeled around, but no one was there.
What game was being played here? She shot a quizzical glance at Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat, and as he raised his head, his face passed through a beam of lamplight shining from the street. Her breath caught. He was, quite simply, one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. Her brain flashed a brief image of Michelangelo’s marble David, which she’d visited in Florence. She had only a moment to ponder the incongruity of encountering such beauty in a place like Bottle Alley before the man offered her a wry little half smile and gestured upward with his brows.
Genevieve followed his gaze, and there, perched on the iron ledge of another fire escape, sat one of the men she’d been tailing, his legs dangling.
“You were following us,” accused another voice. She whirled around again and almost collided with a third man, his scruffy, bearded face only inches from hers. He grabbed her elbow to help steady her. Genevieve pulled free and took a step backward.
Her heart thudded. No story was worth her life. She darted a quick glance back toward where the alley spilled open to Mulberry Street and to some promise of safety. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat idly kicked at something on the dirty ground and subtly stepped to the right, freeing a narrow passage for her. Glancing up from under his hat again, he flashed the same half smile. Go, if you like, his look seemed to say.
“My associate there seems to think you were following us, miss,” the man on the fire escape called down in a thick Bowery accent. “But me, I think you might be lost. Maybe you wanna let
