“Yes,” Eliza interjected. “The two of you have been spending an awful lot of time together lately.”
“Has he taken you anywhere romantic?” Callie’s gaze wandered dreamily at the thought.
“Well, a comic opera at the Casino Theatre, an exhibition of Dutch paintings at the Metropolitan, and we ate at Lüchow’s in Union Square.” Genevieve ticked off her recent activities with Daniel on her fingers, then wrinkled her nose at her friend. “Is German food considered romantic?”
Callie stamped her foot impatiently. “Did he kiss you on any of these outings?” she hissed in a stage whisper.
“No,” Genevieve said firmly. “He has been the perfect gentleman.” Callie appeared crestfallen.
“Genevieve, are you being quite honest with us?” Eliza asked. Callie glanced at her in surprise.
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked.
“Yes, Eliza,” said Genevieve, tension suddenly coiling in the pit of her stomach. “Whatever do you mean?” She and her friend exchanged a long, considering look, while Callie’s eyes snapped between them in confusion.
“What is going on?” Callie asked.
Genevieve held Eliza’s gaze, silently daring her to voice her concerns. She knew her friend was in a hard spot, and on one hand felt guilty for exploiting it: there was no way Eliza could state that she believed the courtship was false without appearing wildly insulting. But on the other hand, Genevieve desperately needed her friend to accept the falsehood that she and Daniel were spreading.
The truth could endanger them. Endanger anyone she cared about.
It was Eliza who broke the silent standoff. “I just don’t want Genevieve to get hurt,” she said, sending a meaningful glance toward the fading bruise.
Genevieve swallowed. She was already nervous about attending the costume ball. She and Daniel had spent their recent outings discussing the best strategies for prying information from the relevant guests, a tricky position, as any one of them could be behind the masked man’s attack. It was going to be a delicate dance all night, with them going their separate ways, each ferreting out what they could, rejoining, pretending to be romantically involved, and engaging in the same steps again.
It could all come to naught. Or she could find the answers she needed. The answers, it seemed, that could keep her alive.
CHAPTER 14
Days later, Genevieve’s nervousness had not abated one bit, though her bruise, thankfully, had mellowed to a yellowy tinge.
Gnawing on her lower lip, Genevieve paced the front hall of her parents’ house, waiting for the carriage that would take her, Callie, and Callie’s grandmother to the Porters’ costume ball. As usual, Genevieve’s parents had declined to attend the ball but had given their typical absent-minded permission for Callie’s grandmother to serve as the girls’ chaperone, though chaperones weren’t entirely necessary in New York society. Wearing a warm, silk-lined cloak, which hid her Aphrodite costume, Genevieve reviewed the plans for the coming evening in her head again. And again.
She checked out the window. Still no carriage.
“Blast,” she muttered.
“Don’t let Mother hear you swear,” chuckled her brother’s voice behind her.
Genevieve turned and regarded Charles with pleasure, grinning at him. “I’d just tell her I was having a moment of solidarity with the working class, and she’d probably start swearing too.”
Charles grinned back. “That sounds like Mother, all right. You heading to the Porters’ costume ball?”
Genevieve couldn’t hide her surprise. “You knew it was tonight?”
Charles shrugged, looking down. “I still receive invitations, you know. Even though I never accept them.”
Genevieve regarded her brother thoughtfully. When they’d been younger, all of her school friends had mooned over her older brothers terribly, angling for invitations to her house so they could bat their eyes in the boys’ direction. Gavin had always flirted back, the scoundrel, but Charles would shrug it off and duck into another room, away from the girls’ giggling attentions. As adults, their lives had progressed in much the same way, with outgoing Gavin, ever the romantic, skipping off to Egypt without a glance backward, and Charles staying put and avoiding public attention, despite the widespread praise for his architectural designs.
“Why don’t you?” Before tonight, it had never occurred to Genevieve to ask. She had always assumed that Charles was simply uninterested in the machinations of New York high society, as she had been. She was realizing more and more, though, that her own disinterest had stemmed from insecurity about not fitting in and shame over her broken engagement.
“Society’s always happy to have more eligible bachelors,” she reminded him. And eligible he was. A successful—some even said brilliant—young architect with a promising future, he made plenty of money, and that didn’t even count their family fortune. He was quite good-looking, with eyes that were a clear amber, darker than hers, and thick, light-brown hair. “You’d make some debutante very happy.”
Charles smiled slightly. “Surely I’m too solitary and cranky for some bright young woman.”
“But you go out when we’re in Newport,” Genevieve protested. Charles loved summers at their Rhode Island home, spending hours and hours on the water in his sailboat. He even ventured to the occasional picnic, lawn party, or evening soiree when there, though he typically sipped a drink in the corner or talked boating with his friends, still oblivious to the young ladies who batted their eyes in his direction. But at least he attended.
He shrugged. “It’s different there. It seems … freer somehow.” The slight smile returned. “Maybe it’s the salt air.”
Genevieve felt a surge of warmth toward her brother.
“You should get out more,” Genevieve ventured. “Maybe try talking to some of the ladies who so obviously adore you. You might be surprised—some of them might share your interests. You could talk sailing, or architecture …” She trailed off, unsure of what else her older brother might like to do these days. He was rather solitary, she
