Jilted at twenty years old, Genevieve hadn’t known what to do with herself. Given that she’d always enjoyed reading and knew women were writing for papers, she’d told her parents she wanted to give it a try. They’d helped her find a position with the Globe and she had thrown herself into her chosen work, attempting to claw her way toward some kind of meaningful career.
It was all she had.
Well, that wasn’t quite true. She had her family, whom she loved despite their oddities, and she had her friends. She avoided parties, avoided Ted, and time had mostly healed her heart.
Without risk, there is no reward, her father liked to tell his children. And look at what the Stewart children had done with that advice: Her oldest brother Gavin, jaunting off to the desert without a backward glance. Her brother Charles, designing beautiful buildings that were changing the face of the city.
She hugged her notebook tighter.
What was she willing to risk to unmask Robin Hood and break the story of the century?
Everything.
CHAPTER 6
“Reginald Cotswold is dead.”
Genevieve sat down hard on the edge of a wooden chair facing her editor’s desk. The seat was mostly crammed with papers, but her knees had buckled unexpectedly at the news. Mr. Horace regarded her with alarm.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.” He peered at her worriedly. “Shall I send Alice for some water?”
Her hand floated to her mouth, and she was surprised to find it trembling. “Murdered?” she managed.
Mr. Horace let out a bark of surprised laughter. “Heavens, no. Died peacefully in his sleep. He was ninety-one, after all. A good long life.”
“But—wasn’t he on that mayoral committee? The one on housing reform?”
Her editor’s gaze turned sharp. “I told you to forget about that committee, Genevieve.” He shook his head. “You weren’t supposed to see that list; nobody was, until it was announced.”
“Hasn’t it been announced?”
“No, and I’m not sure it will be. The deputy mayor seems to want to keep it quiet, for reasons known only to him. Are you quite all right?” He glanced at his closed office door. “Let me get Alice.” Mr. Horace clearly did not want to deal with whatever female vapors he assumed Genevieve was enduring.
She took a deep breath and firmed her voice. “No need. The news simply came as a bit of a shock. Mr. Cotswold was a great friend of my father’s.”
“Ninety-one, Genevieve,” he remarked mildly. “His death can’t be all that surprising.”
“No,” she agreed, though in truth it was surprising. Reginald Cotswold was one of those renowned pillars of Knickerbocker society, well known for his charitable deeds and for being continually appointed to various committees. One simply assumed he was a permanent fixture, and he had been in remarkably good health, including the last time she’d seen him.
Which, she recalled with a start, had been at the Huffingtons’ ball.
“I’d like you to write a remembrance of him,” Arthur said. “About his philanthropy, his habits, that kind of thing. He’s rather a symbol of a certain type of citizen of this city that is rapidly disappearing, for better or worse.”
Understanding grew: Arthur was referring to her kind of people, to the hushed, dignified, old-money set of New York, who until a decade or so ago had ruled the city with a collective iron fist. But vast, shiny piles of new money were being accumulated on a daily basis by newcomers, and power was starting to shift and erode older social barriers.
She herself felt no particular qualms about this shift; it was simply the way of the world. The new elbowed out the old, and whether the old were destroyed in the process or simply bruised about the edges mattered not. The old could make room or be plowed over as if by a racing streetcar.
“He hasn’t any family left,” Arthur continued, “but his housekeeper’s been with him forever and said she’d be happy to speak to someone. Alice will locate the address if you need it. I don’t know where I’ve placed it.” He patted several nearby piles of paper, causing one to wobble precariously.
“It’s fine. I know where he lives,” Genevieve hastened to assure him, eyeing the stacks. “Or lived, I should say.”
She stood to go, relieved that even though her mind was still unsettled, her legs seemed to have recovered.
“Wait, Genevieve. I need you to cover another story as well.” Arthur pulled a sheet from the stack, almost toppling a teacup that had been balanced on the top. “Barnum Brothers Best Baby Contest. Yes, that’s the one. I forgot to give it to you this morning.”
She stared at the address. A best baby contest? “Mr. Horace,” she began wearily, “I don’t know anything about babies.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine, Genevieve,” Arthur said as he began rereading his editorial. “Noon tomorrow. On the nose. Barnum first, then Cotswold.” He turned his attention fully to the piece on his desk, scratching out a word and replacing it, shaking his head.
Conflicting feelings battled within Genevieve as she shrugged into the tailored dark-blue jacket that matched her skirt. For the past week, logic had been telling her to approach Mr. Horace with her information about Daniel being from Five Points. The mere fact that he’d revealed his origins was huge news, answering a years-old question.
But the possibility of a bigger story kept holding her back. Daniel’s cryptic advice about the mayoral committee had been unsettling, but now in
