Hopefully her visit with the housekeeper would reveal more.
And there was still the unsettled matter of Robin Hood. It had been almost two weeks since his theft after the Huffingtons’ ball.
As she placed a freshly sharpened pencil into her satchel, her mind groped to recall exactly when she’d seen Reginald at the ball. On the few occasions she attended parties, Genevieve often danced with him, as he was amusingly quick-witted and surprisingly spry for his age. But she hadn’t that night. She paused, thinking. No, the only memory she had of him was seeing him deep in conversation with Ernest Clark in a dim corner of the ballroom. She’d meant to seek him out to say hello, but of course the whole evening had been upended by the appearance of Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat himself, Daniel McCaffrey.
“Off so soon?” came a low, nasally voice from behind her, interrupting her train of thought. Genevieve clenched her jaw in annoyance. Clive.
“Yes,” she replied curtly, not bothering to turn around as she put her notebook into her satchel. “I’m leaving this second.” She hoped to dart out of the office without having to reveal where she was going.
It didn’t work. In a moment Clive was in front of her, perched on the edge of her desk.
“And just where is old Hoary sending you?” Clive smirked an oily grin, making Genevieve grimace. His diamond stickpin flashed in the early-afternoon sun.
“That is between me and Mr. Horace.” Genevieve tried to scoot around her desk toward the door.
That didn’t work either. Clive grabbed her hand as she tried to get past him, pulling her back toward the desk. “Really, Mr. Huxton!” Genevieve snapped, snatching her hand out of his grasp.
Clive let her go, looking unfazed. “Fine, Miss Stewart. Run away on your little mystery errand. You know I’ll only read about it in tomorrow’s edition with the rest of the city.”
Genevieve’s annoyance grew, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “As a matter of fact, I’m covering P. T. Barnum’s Best Baby Contest,” she informed Clive with as much dignity as she could muster. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about the piece on Mr. Cotswold too, but something made her hold back.
Let him read it in the paper when it’s published.
To his credit, Clive didn’t laugh, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “Good old P. T. Barnum. Well, he’s colorful enough, and you’re talented enough that you could probably wring a good story out of this.”
Genevieve regarded Clive with surprise. Had he actually paid her a compliment? “What do you want, Clive?” she asked.
Clive smiled and looked down at the desktop. He fiddled with the pencil Genevieve had been chewing earlier. “Perhaps when you’re finished with the babies, you’d join me at Delmonico’s and tell me all about it.”
Genevieve gaped. The mention of Delmonico’s sent her thoughts instantly to Daniel McCaffrey. “Really, Mr. Huxton,” she stammered in confusion, “I was under the distinct impression you disliked me.”
Clive smiled and looked down at the desk again. Clive looking shy? Genevieve was flabbergasted.
“Come on, Genevieve,” he said. “You know I only give you such a hard time because you’re the only other reporter on staff with an ounce of skill.”
Genevieve knew no such thing. In fact, Clive was fond of loudly stating, in her presence, that while it was perfectly acceptable for an unmarried young woman from the working class, such as Alice, to have employment, particularly secretarial or factory employment, any woman over the age of twenty-two was simply stealing a man’s job.
As Genevieve was twenty-six, she took this rather personally.
And yet she hesitated. Could it be that Clive was threatened by her, causing his abominable behavior? Had he been harboring tender feelings for her this whole time? It seemed utterly implausible, yet he—oh dear—was actually trying to gaze into her eyes.
He wasn’t so bad looking, Genevieve thought while trying to avoid gazing back. There was a reason Alice and the chambermaids giggled in his presence. He had thick dark-blond hair shot through with golden highlights, which might have been nice if he hadn’t slicked it so prodigiously with hair oil. He had attractive light-blue eyes. Sneaking a peek at him while avoiding his searching gaze, however, Genevieve admitted to herself that there was something in his manner she didn’t care for. His manicured hands. His ridiculous diamond stickpin. Why did he need to decorate himself? What was he trying to prove? A man like Daniel McCaffrey would never wear such a loud diamond, Genevieve thought, and he was one of the richest men in New York.
“Genevieve?” Clive interrupted her rambling train of thought. “Five o’clock, then?”
“Mr. Huxton … Clive … I’m sorry, but I can’t have dinner with you.”
“You already have plans, I take it? Perhaps later this week?”
This was going to be harder than she’d thought. “No, it’s not that,” she began. “I just don’t think it is a good idea for us to get any closer than we are. You know, working together and all.”
Clive’s soft-eyed expression of encouragement began to shift into a sulky pout. “You don’t think I’m good enough for you, do you?” he asked. “I know I’m not society, but I didn’t think you Stewarts cared about that.”
“Now, that’s not it at all,” Genevieve protested.
“Well, what then?” Clive stood up and looked down at her. “I’ve been to university too, you know,” he sneered. “I know I’m just from the outskirts of Albany, but the gossips all say your laughingstock of a family doesn’t care if you marry wealth.”
Genevieve gasped at the insult to her family. “Marriage? Mr. Huxton, we were just speaking of a meal. And it has nothing to do with Albany.”
“Oh, I know what you think,”
