The heads whipped back to Tommy, standing on the stairs.
Tommy’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly, but he rocked back on his heels and peered at the ceiling. “Maybe not,” he allowed. “But here we are regardless. Of course, money helps. And you do have all that money. Jacob Van Joost took you in as a young boy, didn’t he? You and your sister … Margaret, wasn’t it?”
The heads turned back his way. Daniel nodded in studied nonchalance. “Yes, he did. Margaret and I had no family left. Jacob was very kind.” The lies slid from his mouth as he continued to regard Tommy mildly, as if the secrets of his youth were not being spilled in front of half of New York society. If Tommy knew the truth, he would reveal it now.
But Tommy didn’t. He simply widened his sharklike smile and turned back to the crowd of openmouthed spectators. “So you see, my friends, a man’s origins have no bearing on his ability to make something of himself in this country. I ask you, what could be more American than that? And as mayor, I promise …”
Daniel discreetly glanced in both directions, and it was clear Tommy’s gambit had worked. Wide, greedy eyes behind raised fans and astonished expressions kept sliding his way, then instantly retracting, then sliding back again. The general titter of whispers was so strong it nearly drowned out Tommy’s speech.
This ball was done for him. Rather than face a thousand questions he wasn’t ready to answer, Daniel began to politely move through the crowd toward the door. He could hear Rupert’s voice over his left shoulder as his friend followed, casually answering some of the queries guests murmured in his ear as he passed.
“Of course I knew, didn’t everyone? No, not that big a shock, not really. Yes, we’ll speak later …”
Somehow Rupert conjured his belongings, and a footman held open his coat. As he turned slightly to facilitate its donning, he caught sight of Genevieve, who, like most of the party, wasn’t even pretending to listen to Tommy now but was watching Daniel depart. The apology in her eyes was accompanied by a slight rolling of the shoulders and a slight head tilt toward the stairs.
I’m sorry it happened this way.
He gave the barest of shrugs back and felt the corner of his mouth tilt into a half smile.
It’s not your fault. It will be fine.
Another silent exchange. Once again, he felt the intractable pull between them, its tug soft but insistent. The heavy door closed at his back, and he left the cloying, overly warm space of the mansion behind him, taking in a lungful of crisp, clean air.
All his ghosts, it seemed, were coming home to roost, leaving him partially flayed and aching. He just hoped he could corral them before a certain reporter exposed him to the bone.
The barest smattering of polite applause greeted the end of Mr. Meade’s speech, as a good portion of the guests had already dispersed. Genevieve had felt herself quite unable to move after Daniel’s departure, seemingly rooted to her own private square of carpet as the other partygoers flowed around her, eager to return to the music and the food. From the ballroom, the band struck up a quadrille.
Her mind was racing. She would send a telegram to her editor immediately tomorrow morning. Or later this morning, as the case was. It was Sunday, but Arthur would want this information about a mayoral candidate right away. It exposed Daniel, but half of New York now knew what he’d revealed in private to her at Delmonico’s.
“Shall we go in? I believe the supper is to be served soon,” Callie said, interrupting her thoughts. “Perhaps we can find a quiet corner to talk,” she whispered.
Genevieve shook her head. “No, not here. And I’m not hungry. Let’s find Eliza for you. I’m going home. I need to think.”
“Don’t worry about me, darling. I ought to go bat my lashes at some of these gentlemen. Eliza and I shall call tomorrow.” Callie squeezed her hand once, then allowed herself to be swallowed by the remaining guests filtering toward the ballroom.
As she didn’t see a readily available servant about to fetch her cloak, Genevieve went against the current of the few guests still drifting toward the festivities and ventured toward the back of the house, past the massive staircase. She poked her head into what turned out to be a water closet, then tried the ornate door across the hall, hearing voices within.
“Excuse me, I’d like my—” She stopped abruptly, feeling herself flush. Amos and Elmira Bradley turned in unison and glared at her from the confines of what looked like a private study. Amos’s face was red as a beet, his thick finger a mere inch from his wife’s nose as he towered over her menacingly. Elmira’s chin was raised and her arms were folded in front of her chest defiantly.
“Do pardon me,” she managed to whisper before yanking the door closed again. Mortified to have interrupted a domestic squabble, most certainly over Elmira’s challenging Mr. Meade, Genevieve picked up her skirts and hurried deeper into the recesses of the mansion, not daring to open any more doors, simply hoping someone would appear to help her.
This house was enormous. She turned down a hallway lined with paintings, only to find it dead-end at a closed door. Backtracking, she retraced her steps and tried turning left instead. Here she had more luck: a murmur of chatter emerged from a partially open set of double doors, mingling with the sound of rattling dishes. The kitchen must be back this way, and surely there she could find someone to retrieve her cloak.
A maid bustled out of an opposite door as Genevieve entered, and she found, instead, Esmie, who was leaning against a large, marble-topped work space in the center of the room. If the other girl was surprised by her sudden appearance, she didn’t let on, instead dipping a spoon
