She finally asked what seemed like the most pressing question. “Where are we going?”
“Delmonico’s.”
She waited for him to elaborate. When nothing else came, she asked the next most pressing question.
“Why?”
“Because I thought you might be hungry.”
She was, actually. Her last bowl of chowder had been eaten a few hours prior; she was famished. The mere thought of the delicious dishes one could order at Delmonico’s set her mouth watering.
But then her brow furrowed. “Which Delmonico’s?”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile, seeming to indicate approval. “The original. William Street.”
Oh, good. She settled back in her seat, satisfied. The other three branches were new, and she preferred the first location.
As the cab wended its way through traffic, Genevieve pondered this unusual turn of events. She was now in a carriage, apparently headed to dinner, with the very man she’d been wanting to speak with all day.
A man who might or might not be responsible for a rash of thefts all over the city.
The social implications of being seen with Daniel McCaffrey at Delmonico’s flashed before her, but she dismissed them before they had a chance to fester. She was a journalist, and journalists did not let opportunities like this pass them by.
They each watched the passing scenery for a few blocks. She stole an occasional glance at the hard, handsome lines of his face, sometimes brightly illuminated by the lights of theaters, music halls, or restaurants, sometimes softly accentuated by a gas streetlamp. She allowed the silence to unfold, knowing that sometimes a reporter’s best strategy was to stay quiet.
When it became clear Daniel was disinclined to speak first, she asked another pressing question.
“How long did you know I was there?”
He turned his face toward hers, expression lost in the shadows of the carriage interior. “The whole time,” he replied.
She briefly closed her eyes; she’d thought she’d been so careful. “I thought I was better at this.”
“You’re not bad, actually. I’ve just had lots of practice evading your kind.”
She turned back, only to find his face was still hidden in shadow. “Why not evade me tonight, then?”
Daniel’s face was turned toward hers, but she still couldn’t make out his expression. The silence returned and unspooled, growing thick and warm in the close confines of the cab. He gestured out the window. They had arrived at their destination. “We’ll talk inside.”
Genevieve followed Daniel into the large, well-appointed main dining room of the Manhattan establishment. Though cafés and coffeehouses had abounded on the island for at least a century, Delmonico’s had been the first true “fine dining” restaurant in the city, introducing concepts such as à la carte ordering and a wine list. Genevieve had eaten there since she was a child, her parents having been frequent patrons for years.
She had removed her black head scarf in the cab, and now gratefully handed it and her Drab, heavy coat to a waiting employee. Her red-plaid wool walking dress and jacket had been chosen for warmth rather than style that morning, but now she was glad she hadn’t worn the dull-blue muslin. While not quite as dressy as she might have liked, the plaid was serviceable enough for Delmonico’s.
Daniel appeared well known at the restaurant also, as the maître d’ greeted him warmly and immediately responded to his request for a private room.
Oh dear, Genevieve thought. A private room. While not entirely improper, particularly given her age, dinner in a private room would still set tongues wagging.
Straightening her back, Genevieve put on her best Polly Palmer persona. Let the tongues wag; she was here on business. Nothing else.
Daniel nodded at a few acquaintances as they made their way toward the stairs that led to the private rooms, including, she noted with surprise, the Earl of Umberland and Esmie Bradley. As usual, Esmie was clad in an awful gown: bright pink again, this time with a high, ruffled neck that almost obscured her chin and covered in an alarming pattern of purple and green butterflies. The effect was somewhat dizzying. Sympathetically, Genevieve wondered how the poor girl could eat with the stiff fabric bunched around her neck, then wondered how Rupert would manage as well, being faced with such a blinding dress at the dinner table. They both looked miserable as they picked at their food in silence.
Once settled in the ornate, dimly lit room, Genevieve felt more at ease. The heavily clothed table could have sat up to six, but was small enough that two didn’t feel overwhelmed. The lavish settings of china and crystal were as familiar to her as those in her parents’ dining room, and she surveyed her menu happily. Spring lamb with mint sauce? Halibut in hollandaise sauce? Deciding that the cold night called for comforting food, she ordered squab chicken with a side of the restaurant’s famous potatoes, while Daniel asked for a terrine de foie gras for them to share, and chose a French wine.
“You’re not having an entrée?” she asked in surprise.
“I already ate.”
She put down her menu in annoyance. “Then why ask me to dinner?”
“As I said, I thought you might be hungry. And it was past time we talked, don’t you agree?”
Genevieve remained silent, pondering the questions she wanted to ask, until the wine and foie gras and her meal arrived. After the ritual of the wine being opened, tested, and poured, she settled back in her chair, eyeing her unexpected dinner companion over the edge of her glass. He offered her some of the pâté, then helped himself to a small portion.
“I thought you ate.”
“I did.” He smiled. “But I cannot resist their foie gras.”
She smiled back uncertainly, a bit disconcerted at how pleasant this encounter was turning out to be, then shook her head slightly to clear it from any foolishness. It was time to get to business. Was she a good enough reporter to discern if he was, in fact, Robin Hood?
“Mr. McCaffrey,” she began carefully, “why did you come find
