“I should like that,” Genevieve replied politely, not sure if she would like it at all. She was trying hard to reconcile an image of Esmie Bradley, possibly the least graceful young lady in the Astor 400, on a bicycle. “But as for tonight, I do need to be off. I was just looking for my cloak.”
“One more question, if I may. And then I’ll fetch someone for your cloak. How well do you know Rupert?”
Genevieve hadn’t thought the conversation could get any odder, but obviously she had been mistaken. “Not terribly well,” she admitted, a bit taken aback. “We’re friendly acquaintances. My friend Callie Maple knows him better. But surely you know him better than anyone now, Esmie.”
The other girl rolled her eyes a bit ruefully, then leaned against the edge of the sink and began toying with her sash. “You know how it is. It’s a marriage of convenience. I have the money, and Mother wants a title. Mother.” She bit the word off with surprising force. “Well, that’s one good thing about this marriage: I’ll be across the ocean from her, once Rupert and I move to England.”
Esmie took a deep breath. “I can marry him, if I must, and it appears I must. But I do want to know …” She lifted her gaze to meet Genevieve’s. “Is he a kind man?”
Genevieve’s stomach dropped a notch at the thought of having to marry a man she barely knew. Sending a quick internal prayer of gratitude toward her lenient, eccentric parents, Genevieve pondered what she knew of Rupert Milton, the sixth Earl of Umberland. He liked parties. And pretty women. He liked champagne but not, so much as she’d heard, to excess. She believed he enjoyed pranks and silly, childish games somewhat; she recalled Callie telling her a long story—she’d only been half paying attention—about Rupert creating an entirely new version of lawn croquet at the DeWitts’ house party in Newport last summer, some nonsense where all the players had to sing a line of verse from their favorite song if they lost their shot. It had been, by all accounts, ridiculous fun, and some of the gentlemen had turned to slightly bawdy songs, to the delighted shock of the ladies present. It had been a bit of a scandal, but a very mild one that only furthered Rupert’s reputation as a delightful, if slightly unpredictable, guest. And that was Rupert to the core, Genevieve mused. Or at least what she knew about him. Delightful, slightly unpredictable, with a hint of benign scandal. And titled, of course.
Esmie nodded as Genevieve relayed this information. “And he needs a wife. A rich one.”
“I believe so,” she agreed, gently. She tried to visualize Esmie and Rupert living in the same house, eating breakfast together. Going for an evening stroll. Arguing in a friendly way over an article in the newspaper, as her parents often did. Try as she might—and she didn’t want to try very hard—picturing Rupert and Esmie in any kind of embrace was nearly an impossible task, and her mind skittered away from the mere idea. “Perhaps the worst you might find him is”—Genevieve groped for the right word—“inattentive.”
Esmie sighed deeply and unhappily. “I know,” she replied, so quietly Genevieve could barely hear her. “He’ll force himself to bed me a few times; then perhaps he’ll get lucky and I’ll insist upon spending a lot of time in the country, doing whatever it is I like to do.” She appeared deep in thought for a moment, and Genevieve wondered if there was a polite way to inquire after her cloak again, but then Esmie drew herself up with such suddenness that Genevieve took an instinctive step backward. The other woman’s eyes were hard, and the fury in her face was downright frightening.
“I like to do all kinds of things,” Esmie said, drawing the sentence out so it suggested a mountain of innuendo. Genevieve resisted the urge to draw a hand to her throat, the change was so severe. Esmie drew back her shoulders and narrowed her eyes. “He can keep his silly songs,” she spat.
Genevieve floundered for an appropriate response, stunned by Esmie’s rage. Fortunately, Mrs. Bradley chose that moment to thunder into the kitchen.
“Esmie! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. People want to talk to you. What are you doing in the kitchen?” Elmira’s inquisitive, birdlike gaze darted around the room, hovering with suspicion on the icebox and then narrowing at Genevieve.
“I was looking for someone to find Genevieve’s cloak. We fell to talking.” Esmie’s expression was once again bland as milk toast. She lied with a great deal of ease, it seemed.
“I’m glad to see Miss Stewart has found her way. Did you girls have a nice chat?” Elmira eyed them both. Despite being twenty-six years old and not the progeny of Mrs. Bradley, Genevieve shrank from the older woman’s glare, feeling guilty by association about the ice cream and still slightly stunned by Esmie’s wrath. She tried to look as innocent as possible and nodded enthusiastically, desperately wishing to be gone before any more Bradley family drama ensued.
Esmie looked mildly at her mother, as though she’d never even heard of ice cream. “Quite.”
“I’ll have our housekeeper retrieve your things, Miss Stewart.” Elmira’s lip curled a bit in distaste at the name. “Come along, both of you.”
Elmira Bradley swept from her kitchen without a backward glance, confident that both young women would follow in her wake. And they did, Genevieve allowing Esmie to pass ahead of her and walk closer to her mother.
It was the last time she saw Elmira Bradley alive.
CHAPTER 11
Genevieve sullenly pressed the button for the fifth floor, huffing a frustrated breath as the elevator doors clanged close.
She had been sure, sure that Arthur would allow her to write the piece on Thomas Meade’s gang ties, but her editor had assigned it to Clive. Again. Which, again, made no
