Clive took another step closer, making Genevieve wish she had space to back away farther, but the backs of her thighs were already pressing against the edge of the small desk she’d been using. Just thinking that Clive somehow knew of her whereabouts and movements made her feel slightly nauseous. He leaned in closer, causing her to shrink back, the smell of his cologne sickening.
“I know you, Miss Stewart.” Clive narrowed his eyes at her, and Genevieve was startled by the utter hatred she saw glittering within them. “You may not think it, but I do. I know you’re ambitious, and I also know, despite your being female, that you’re actually a very, very good journalist. I know you’re desperate to prove to Horace that you’ve got the chops to work on more serious stories. I also know how this town works. I know that because you’re from old New York money”—he practically spit the words out—“old Horay would actually give you those serious stories you so long for, if he thought you could do it.”
Clive abruptly straightened up again, and Genevieve exhaled in relief. “And I know you’ve been somehow nuzzling up to Daniel McCaffrey,” Clive continued. “Who, it turns out, is from Five Points. Which tells me that either, one”—and here Clive held up a finger as if he were a teacher lecturing his class—“the two of you are actually romantically involved …” He snorted, letting his gaze audaciously roam up and down Genevieve’s long, lean frame. “Which I highly doubt, you being an old-maid bluestocking, after all.” Genevieve let out a shocked little gasp, wanting to remind Clive that quite recently he’d been desperate to have dinner with her old-maid, bluestocking self, but Clive went on before she could interrupt. “Or two”—here he held up a second finger—“that you’re pursuing a story of some kind.”
Clive pointed at Genevieve. “You think Mr. McCaffrey is Robin Hood, don’t you?” Genevieve involuntarily gasped again. She should have known she wouldn’t be the only person to make the connection between the mysterious Mr. McCaffrey and the mysterious Robin Hood. “And the bugger of it is, you’re probably right. It makes perfect sense.”
Genevieve’s heart pounded. She still wasn’t sure if Daniel was the thief or not, but she’d be damned if Clive was going to figure it out before her.
And on the slight chance that Daniel was Robin Hood … Clive could be dangerous to him. She wasn’t sure why that thought was so unsettling.
The odious man hissed, “This is the biggest story of the decade, and I am not about to let a stuck-up, rich little girl who thinks she’s too good for anyone else snatch it out from under my nose. Leave off whatever you’re investigating, Genevieve. This story is mine.”
Enough was enough. Genevieve pushed against Clive’s chest with all her strength, surprising him into toppling backward against a file cabinet. She was shaking with anger.
“No, you leave off, Clive. For your information, I am not investigating Mr. McCaffrey, but I can and will research whatever and whomever I damn well please.” Unable to stomach one more second in the cramped space with him, Genevieve marched past Clive and out of the records room.
CHAPTER 12
The door to the old Van Joost townhouse swung open, and Genevieve blinked in surprise.
Standing in the doorway was the largest and possibly least attractive man she had ever seen. He was a giant. Genevieve was tall, but this man loomed over her. His height was matched by his sheer physical girth, and it was obviously a powerful physique under his—oh, actually rather well-made and well-tailored—suit. Most alarming, however, was the man’s face. Several rough scars crisscrossed his broad cheekbones, one running across his mouth and down his chin, and it was obvious that his nose had been broken and not reset properly. All in all, he looked a bit like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster, albeit in a very nice suit. Dr. Frankenstein’s monster, in a lovely suit, answering the door to what was now Daniel’s home and place of business.
The monster spoke. “Yeah?” he asked in a gruff voice, thick with a Lower East Side accent.
She cleared her throat slightly and handed over her card. “I haven’t an appointment, I’m afraid.”
The large man glanced at her card impassively, then opened the door slightly wider to let her step in. “Wait here a minute,” he commanded, then stomped down the hall toward the back of the house.
Genevieve nodded at his giant back. Though it was typically considered rude to leave a guest waiting in the hallway, there was no way she would budge from her assigned spot.
A scant moment later, the man thumped back down the hall, then led her to a large, well-appointed office with big sunny windows and a plush carpet from the Far East. “He’s coming,” the man grunted, closing the door behind him.
Genevieve took in the high shelves of books, the massive mahogany desk, and the deep-red leather chairs. She ran a finger over the back of one of the chairs facing the desk. Several neat stacks of paper and files resting on the desk’s wide surface caught her eye.
She shouldn’t. She really, truly, honestly shouldn’t.
The files in question sat in perfect, well-lined piles, all in a tidy row. They were utterly tempting, begging to be opened. What if the secret to Robin Hood was right here? Though she was alone, Genevieve pretended a sudden, intense interest in the view from the window behind the desk. If she happened to catch a better look at the files on her way around the desk, well, that would just be coincidence, wouldn’t it?
The window yielded a lovely view of the neat confines of the park on which the old Van Joost mansion—now the McCaffrey mansion, she supposed—was located. As the winter trees were still bare, she could see the well-ordered paths crisscrossing its expanse, lined with perfectly trimmed hedges. Unlike Washington Square Park, Gramercy
