Betina Krahn (21 page)

“Almost forgot, McQuaid,” he declared through a haze of pungent blue smoke. “Give your evening clothes to the servants to freshen. The Charity Society Ball is this Saturday.
Should be quite a do. The registered charities get everybody sauced proper and slip a hand into their pockets. Wine and money flow free and everybody tries to appear more charitable than their neighbors.”

He took a drink of wine and peered over the rim of his glass at Bear. “And of course, Diamond Wingate will be there.…”

In the shadows collected by the trees and hedges lining the entrance to the Vassars’ Pennyworth, three figures watched the family’s driver bring their coach around from the stables. When it stopped directly in their line of sight, the leader of the three muttered an oath and made a sharp hand motion. Moving with restricted impatience, they shifted in the bushes to better view the area between the front doors and carriage. Twigs snapped underfoot.

“Watch where you put your damned feet!” Lionel Beecher snarled at his sinewy companions. “You sound like a herd of buffalo.” The others glowered irritably at each other, then followed on with considerably more stealth.

When they once again had a clear view of the front doors, the tall, rangy Beecher bent and gingerly pushed branches aside to observe the doors. “You’re sure this is where he came?”

“Seen ’im with our own two eyes,” one whispered back.

“Him and that other one got in that fancy rig wi’ the white wheels.” The other pointed to the distinctive carriage. “When we seen it agin in town, we follered it here.”

“They’re stayin’ ’ere, all right. Pay up.”

“Not until I’ve seen them with
my
own two eyes,” Beecher said, focusing his gaze on the arched entrance.

He hadn’t long to wait. Shortly a black-clad manservant emerged from the door and stood in readiness at the top of the steps. A short, thick man in evening dress appeared, then turned to urge a tall, rail-straight woman and a shorter, younger female to hurry along.

“That’s Vassar, of the Mercantile Bank.” Beecher ground his teeth. “What the hell would they be doing at
his
house?”

As the Vassars descended the steps, two more figures appeared in the doorway; one in evening dress, the other in more ordinary clothing. Squinting across the distance, Beecher recognized Bear McQuaid and Halt Finnegan.

“Damnation.” He pulled away from the sight, but an instant later reapplied his eye to the gap in the branches and watched Bear McQuaid join the Vassars in the coach. As the vehicle rumbled off around the circular drive, toward the main road, Beecher reacted.

“How the hell did he manage this? The bastard’s not only in Vassars company—he’s moved into Vassar’s house!” He swung his burning gaze to his henchmen, his voice rising. “Two dozen fat bankers in Baltimore, and he finds the
one
we didn’t visit. Vassar’s known to be tight with a buck—I didn’t think he’d give McQuaid the time of day, much less—”

Just then the carriage neared their hiding place. Beecher silenced abruptly and dropped to a crouch, pulling the others down with him. As soon as the vehicle was safely out of range he stood and headed back through the trees for the main road. By the time they reached the horses, hidden a quarter of a mile away, he had already formulated a plan.

“He’s got the damned money—or soon will have it.
That means he’ll be heading back to Montana to make good on his land options. They’ll start shipping his steel and ties … he could be laying track by …” He squinted, doing mental calculations. “Damnation. Gould will have my guts for garters if—”

Beecher realized that the others were watching him and returned their stare, visibly assessing their possible uses.

“Hard to say how long McQuaid will be here.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Nobody in Montana could know he’s got the money yet. If I can get back there first, maybe I can pick up a few of his options
for
him.” He seemed to like the picture forming in his mind. “And you two …” A humorless smile spread over his long, sallow face. “He’s going to need men … with strong backs … used to bad food and meager pay.”

“What?” One of his henchmen scowled at the other as Beecher’s meaning dawned. “You mean, hire on wi’ him?”

“The hell I will,” the other declared, crossing his beefy arms and pulling his head into his thick neck. “I ain’t bustin’ my back breakin’ rock day after day in th’ hot sun.” He received a vigorous second from his companion. Beecher studied them for a moment with a broadening smile.

“Of course you won’t. And how would you like to ‘not work’ for double whatever he’ll be paying you?”

The charity society Ball was one of the highlights of the social season. The Baltimore Charity Organization Society had been formed in the early eighties to bring a semblance of order and accountability to the chaotic and sometimes shady dealings of the city’s charitable concerns. In the five years of its existence the organization had managed to review, inspect, and register most of the organizations that dealt with the city’s poor, sick, and needy.
Inspired to do their part in charitable reform, some of the leading ladies of the city had developed a plan to assist legitimate charities with fund-raising.

Thus the Charity Ball was born … a curious and not always comfortable pairing of the wealthy and the zealous for an evening of flattery, influence-peddling, and conscience-pricking. This year, as in each of the two years past, it was hosted by Charles J. Bonaparte … grandson of Napolean Bonaparte’s youngest brother, and a prominent social and civic reformer. This year, as in each of the last two years, one of the main attractions of the event was the presence of Baltimore’s resident soft touch.

From the moment she arrived, Diamond was besieged by money-seekers and, as on other occasions, took refuge on the dance floor. There, at least, she could be subjected to only one wheedler at a time.

“Oh, Miss Wingate, if you could but see the tears of gratitude streaming down our urchins’ hunger-wasted faces … 
two, three, four
 … if you could but hear their plaintive, motherless cries as they … 
two, three, four
 … settle into their lonely beds each night …”

“Of course we have added two operating theaters to the hospital since you last—
Oh, dear—was that your foot
? Where was I? Oh, remember the problem of blood making the floors slippery? Well, we installed concrete and put a sink with running water in both of the new operating—
Are you certain your foot is all right
? Also, you’ll be pleased to know that we finally found the source of that foul odor in the rear wing, near the cisterns. It seems some of the cleaners were emptying the slop pans into—
Oh, no—your hem! I hope it can be repaired
.…”

“Last year we had a fourteen point three percent increase in the utilization of our services, but had revenue increases of only—
isn’t that Senator Gorman over there
?—ten point seven percent last year. We expect to need at
least twenty percent more this—
hello, Governor Lloyd! You’re looking fit as a fiddle
!—year. That’s ten thousand additional dollars, with costs still rising. Our projections are that—
Mrs. Bonaparte! My, aren’t you stunning this evening!”

“It’s a shame we’ve haven’t met before, Miss Wingate. We have things in common, you and me. We’d both give our last ounce of flesh, our last shred of virtue, and our last drop of blood for others. We’d strip the pride of possession from our souls and the very shirts from our backs, our chests, our breasts … You know … a healthy young woman like you must get lonely out there in that big old house.…”

In the first half hour, Diamond had been fawned over, stepped on, leered at, banged into, tripped up, sweated on … suffocated, overpowered, dampened, propositioned, and importuned by one too many of Baltimore’s fervent fund-seekers. When she looked up from torn lace at her hem and smudged satin pumps to find Morgan Kenwood bearing down on her, her first thought was,
Thank God
. At least Morgan knew how to dance on his own feet.

Her relief evaporated moments later when he swept her onto the dance floor and promptly began to lecture her.

“Honestly, Diamond, you cannot allow these people to abuse you so. Why some of them”—he cast a sneer around him at the motley assortment of clothing and manners on display—“are little more than riffraff. Not a decent set of manners in the bunch. And three of them combined wouldn’t make a normal ration of wits. Charity has its place, but, as the saying goes, charity begins in the home. And that’s where you should be:
home
preparing for—”

“There you are!”

That irritating nasal voice sounded like the horns of the U.S. Cavalry, riding to the rescue. Searching the crowd as Morgan turned her smoothly past a bank of onlookers, she
spotted him at the edge of the dance floor, dressed in his customary “parson” garb and looking decidedly out of place. “Louis!” She gave him a smile of gratitude for his timely appearance … which dimmed as she caught his scowl and realized it was caused by the sight of her in Morgan’s arms. Turning her head irritably, she spotted a dark, rakish face and a pair of mesmerizing blue eyes trained on her from across the room and surprise caused her to miss a step.

Oh, Lord, she groaned silently. Louis she had expected; he was newly elected to the board of the Charity Organization Society and the director of the Harborside Mission. And Morgan she could understand being here … for, despite his distaste for charities, he liked to be wherever people of power and importance gathered. But what the devil was Paine Webster doing here? She just had time to notice that his clothing was immaculate and his face had an oddly taut and angular appearance. There was something different about him, she thought. As Morgan led her into a series of graceful turns that gave her a succession of glimpses of Paine, she realized what it was. He was sober.

She looked up at Morgan’s superior expression, over at Louis’s unabashed disapproval, and back at Paine’s serious new demeanor. There was one thing they all shared: determination. Clearly, each of them had come to do business.

And it wasn’t hard to figure out what sort of business they had in mind.

Bear would have offered Clarice Vassar his arm as they exited the coach in the warm spring evening, but Evelyn intervened, commandeering his arm and spiriting him toward the entrance. While they waited in line to be announced, Bear scrutinized the elegant Louis XIV furnishings
in the entry hall and peered casually over the heads of the other attendees, looking for Diamond.

Tonight, he had told himself, was the night. Tonight, he was going to get her alone and put forth his proposal, no matter what she thought of him afterward. No more hemming and hawing. No more getting sucked into her self-incurred disasters. No more looking into those huge blue eyes and going all “twiddly in th’ knees.” In the grip of that grim determination he sailed through a series of introductions and straight into the cavernous ballroom.

The guests had sorted themselves into groups on much the same principle that water seeks its own level. Scions and debutantes clustered in opposite corners eyeing each other; middle-class matrons huddled in awe near the walls while society ladies arrayed themselves prominently in the chairs under the musicians’ gallery; men of substance were closeted in the library or out on the terrace puffing cigars, while men seeking substance flocked to the refreshment table, stuffing their mouths and pockets with foods they’d never tasted before.

Then he spotted her, swirling around the dance floor in elegant circles with Morgan Kenwood. For a moment he was too stunned to move. Her skirts were a deep, Montana-winter-sky-blue that paled as they wrapped up over her waist, to become a white tinged with blue in the bodice. Small lapis beads and seed pearls were appliquéd around her neckline and extended into lacework that formed a seductive sort of sleeves. The train of her gown, looped over her wrist for dancing, created a broad, lustrous curve as she whirled around the floor to the strains of a waltz.

She looked like a princess.

And he felt like a frog … until he made his way to the edge of the dance floor and spotted Louis Pierpont at the edge of the crowd, waiting for a chance to pounce. His
jaw clenched and his hands contracted involuntarily into fists.

It was none of his damned business, he told himself, forcing his hands to open and his jaw to unlock. He looked at the guests ringing the dance floor and realized that many of them were watching Diamond with an acquisitive eye. He looked back at her graceful form and cameolike features and felt a startling urge to give every last one of the vultures a good trouncing … especially Pierpont.

“Lovely music, eh?” came a cultured male voice from beside him. “And the scenery’s not half bad.”

Nudged by memory, Bear looked over to find Paine Webster tracking the direction of his gaze with a knowing smile. He stifled his first reaction, dismay, in favor of a echo: “Not half bad.”

Webster laughed. “Never met a woman as consistent as Diamond.”

Bear scowled. “ ’Consistent’ is not a word
I
would choose to describe her.”