“And I’m a coward. And I like good food, and good champagne. So I’ll marry the scrawny wench dressed in egg yolk, force myself to bed her a few times, and perhaps I’ll get lucky and she’ll insist upon spending a lot of time in the country, doing whatever it is she likes to do.” With another bitter smile, Rupert tossed back his drink and headed toward the sideboard for another. “They do keep good liquor in the house, I’ll give that …”
Rupert stopped abruptly, reddening in the face and looking over Daniel’s shoulder in shock. Daniel turned and saw Esmie standing behind him, having just emerged from one of the shadowed reading nooks, and by the stricken look on her face, she’d overheard everything.
“Esmie,” Rupert said in a harsh whisper, looking stricken himself. “Please, Esmie, I didn’t mean …”
Esmie stood half in the nook and half out, her hand over her mouth and her face deathly pale. She held her hand out to stop him from speaking, then slowly straightened her spine and lifted her chin, somehow looking dignified under mounds of orange-yellow lace. She suddenly appeared much older than her twenty-four years.
“Yes, you did mean it, every word,” she said in a low, halting voice. Tears pooled in her eyes and threatened to overflow. “You know, I don’t particularly wish to marry you either. And you know, I … I don’t pick out my own clothes,” she blurted. The tears that had been threatening began to stream down her face, and Esmie turned on her heel and quickly but quietly left the room.
Cursing softly, Rupert followed her out the door, thrusting his half-poured glass at Daniel as he left. Daniel placed both their glasses on a nearby table and started after their retreating forms.
Rather than returning to the ballroom, Esmie turned right and hurried down the entryway, past the grand main staircase and towards the back of the house, Rupert hot on her heels. Daniel moved to follow but was blocked by a hand grasping his upper arm. He whirled, nearly colliding his nose with that of Genevieve Stewart, who jerked her face back the spare inches in barely enough time to avoid a painful impact.
“Leave them be,” she said, eyes sliding past his face, appearing to assess the situation in one quick glance. “Let them work things out on their own. They’ll have to get used to it, if they’re to be married.”
Daniel quashed the urge to rip his arm from her clasp and hurry after his friend. His loyalty to Rupert ran deep, but he knew Genevieve was right. She removed her hand of her own accord and stepped back, smoothing the front of her gown.
She looked beautiful. He made this observation begrudgingly, but it was the truth. Her moss-green gown perfectly suited her coloring. He liked that her skin had a slight duskiness to it, as if she spent time outdoors without a hat. And what was revealed of her arms above the long, cream-colored gloves she wore suggested strength, the muscles gently delineated.
Genevieve raised a gentle brow at his scrutiny, and Daniel felt a light flush on the back of his neck from being caught staring.
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he said, overly gruff to cover his embarrassment.
“I came here to find you,” she replied.
A small chuff escaped before he could stop it. He ought to be used to her bluntness by now.
“And why are you seeking me? Shouldn’t you be following the money, as I recommended?”
“I’m not sure why you remain under the delusion that I have any obligation to heed your advice, Mr. McCaffrey. I go where my story leads me, and tonight it has led me, again, back to you.”
He felt a smile begin to tug at the corner of his mouth. “And round and round we go.”
“Indeed.”
“What is today’s lead, Miss Palmer? Has one of your sources revealed where I purchase my socks, and you believe this is front-page news?” Her shock showed on her face, and Daniel felt a quick pang for deliberately mocking the types of stories she was typically assigned.
Now who is being unkind? She was a good reporter and he knew it. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and he was—apparently—ungentlemanly enough to hit below the belt if needed.
Her chin raised a notch, and she set her gorgeous mouth into a firm line.
God, he admired her backbone.
“Theresa Dolan is my lead, in fact. You never told me Reginald Cotswold was a friend.”
“You never asked.”
“Nor that Jacob Van Joost paid for your education.”
He remained silent. Seconds ticked into a full minute in the Bradleys’ entryway, noise of the ongoing ball drifting through the walls.
It was she who broke the silence. “Mr. Cotswold wasn’t happy with the committee,” she admitted softly. Interesting. “That seems significant,” she continued.
“It does.”
“There’s more.” She was watching him carefully. “A valuable item was stolen the night of his death. A Russian box inlaid with rubies and diamonds, forming an Orthodox cross. And he didn’t pass in his sleep, but in his study, where the box was kept.”
Daniel was careful to keep his face an impassive mask. It did him no good to reveal how painful it was to hear about Reginald’s death.
“Keep following the money, Genevieve,” he said quietly, well aware only a doorway separated them from the majority of New York society.
Her brown eyes flared. “How is it all connected? Help me,” she urged.
An unseen clock chimed
