“Thank you, miss.” Letty bobbed her knees gratefully and opened the door, her relief palpable.
A great breath escaped Genevieve the moment the door closed behind her. Daniel not only knew Mr. Cotswold well, he had been a frequent visitor to the house. But what use would a millionaire have with one jeweled box? And according to Mrs. Dolan, Daniel’s relationship with Mr. Cotswold had been friendly, perhaps even filial. Were Reginald’s “headaches” with the mayoral committee why Daniel had directed her focus in that direction?
Mulling over these revelations as she made her way down the front steps with care, Genevieve clasped her hat, which was nearly yanked off by a sudden gust. The wind had increased in speed and the temperature had dropped during the hours she had spent at the Cotswold house, and the walk south down Fifth Avenue toward her home in Washington Square was decidedly less comfortable than her reverse journey had been earlier that afternoon. The few pedestrians she passed in this largely residential area were bundled to their eyebrows, walking with their heads bent against the wind, hurrying home in the deepening shadows.
Genevieve ducked her own head and picked up her pace. The Square was only a few blocks away, and it seemed silly to hail a hansom cab for such a short distance.
Silly, that is, until an uncomfortable chafing across the back of her left heel caused her to stop. Clicking her tongue in frustration, Genevieve ducked alongside the steps of another grand townhome, hoping their bulk would provide a modicum of shelter from the biting wind as she adjusted her boot. The laces had loosened, causing the leather to rub uncomfortably.
As she straightened back up, boot now tightly laced, she caught sight of a man about half a block behind her. He was too far away and it was too dark for her to make out any identifying details—he was just an outline of a figure in a hat, coat, and scarf, like every other man she’d seen on the street today—but what caught her attention was his movement.
Or lack thereof.
He was standing stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk, facing south, toward her.
Not ducking his head against the wind, not readjusting his scarf or clamping down his hat, not hastening home toward a warm fire. Just standing—and looking.
Uneasy dread began to prickle at her belly, then spread toward her limbs.
It’s nothing, the rational part of her mind whispered.
Move. Now, another, more primal part of her whispered back.
The dreadful feeling circled and ticked her spine as she turned her back on the figure, walking south again. She forced herself to maintain an even pace, heart pounding, the rational and emotional sides of herself still warring with each other.
Crossing the busyness of Broadway provided some relief, as there were a few more pedestrians rushing down the thoroughfare, and Genevieve breathed a trifle easier. Only six blocks until home. Was he still behind her?
She paused at the corner of East Tenth Street and peered west, as if trying to decide whether or not she should turn right. Risking a peek over her shoulder, the dread blossomed into full panic. The figure was still there. And he had also stopped.
He was matching her movements.
Both sides of her brain were in agreement now: Run.
Heedless of whether she was making a fool of herself by running from a perfectly normal businessman on his way home or whether she was truly in danger, Genevieve hitched up her skirts and began sprinting toward the intersection where Fifth Avenue transformed into the park. Her family’s house was just around the corner on the northeastern edge. If she could make it to that corner, surely she’d be safe.
Was it her imagination, or did she hear footsteps behind her quickening as well?
The discomfort in her left heel came roaring back as the dratted laces on her boot reloosened, but she dared not stop to fix them. She was almost there.
Why were the streets suddenly so empty? Where was a leering police officer when a girl needed one? The wind continued to pick up, the dry tree branches clicking together eerily as she raced beneath them toward home.
Almost there, almost there.
Boots thudding, heel chafing, she ran, then abruptly halted when she reached the corner of Fifth and Washington Square North. Her next-door neighbors, the Wellingtons, were alighting from their carriage in front of their townhouse. Emboldened by their presence, as well as by that of their sturdy groom, she whirled around, ready to face her pursuer.
Fifth Avenue was empty. It yawned northward in a seemingly endless trajectory, mansions and shop facades shuttered and still in the cold February night. A lone carriage crossed the Avenue about ten blocks up, but otherwise the street was almost preternaturally devoid of life.
If someone had been following her, he was gone.
“Miss Stewart? Genevieve?” Henry and Clara Wellington gathered around her, glancing from her face toward the Avenue. Heart pounding, she kept her eyes facing north, until a few shadowy figures of pedestrians emerged from side streets and houses, populating the Avenue once more. “Are you quite all right?” Mrs. Wellington pressed.
Her body was cooling from its exertions, and Genevieve shivered in the chilly air. Her jacket clung to her damply. Offering a distracted nod to her bewildered neighbors, Genevieve passed them without a word and climbed the front steps of her house, refusing to look back.
CHAPTER 8
“Oh, so he’s not from India, then?” Callie appeared crestfallen at the news that Daniel did not hail from an exotic locale. She brightened as a new thought occurred to her. “That doesn’t necessarily mean the part about his parents dying of snakebite isn’t true!” she suggested, giving her shiny black curls a satisfied shake.
“Yes, because there are so many poisonous snakes creeping around the Lower East Side,” remarked
