The police were gone. The officers had been
understandably annoyed to find themselves summoned out in the rain
for no particular reason, but Zeke Morrison had placated them with
a few jokes and an invitation to enjoy the hospitality of his
well-stocked kitchen. The policemen left with no further
difficulty. Zeke was not surprised.
One thing he had always excelled at, he
thought wryly, was dealing with the police. The two hundred¬some
guests, the cream of New York's social register stuffed into his
drawing room, were another matter.
Even from where he lingered in the hall, Zeke
could hear the hubbub of voices. The accents, normally so
well-bred, were raised in pitch, some of them even shrill with
outrage and shock. But as flustered as his guests were, Zeke
counted it an improvement. Earlier that afternoon, he had been
yawning behind his hand. All those perfect ladies and gentlemen
gathered on his lawn had displayed as much animation as the marble
statue gracing his fountain- that is until Miss Kavanaugh's balloon
had come swooping down.
Since no one had been killed or seriously
injured, Zeke could afford to be amused by the disastrous end to
his fête. Aurora Rose Kavanaugh might be a spitfire and a little
crazy to go flying about in that contraption, but Zeke had to give
her credit for one thing. She had certainly livened up an otherwise
dull party.
He supposed he ought to march into the parlor
and play the urbane host, soothing, calming and apologizing. What
he really wanted to do was to strip out of his suit, and take a
long soak in a hot bath. His wet clothes were drying to a state of
stiff dampness that was damned uncomfortable.
The suit was probably ruined, but Zeke hadn't
liked it much anyway. His tailor had assured Zeke that the silk
striped vest and close-fitting jacket would give him a dapper
appearance, just like any of those young sprigs who had gone up to
Harvard. But the transformation had never taken place. He had the
tough exterior of a prizefighter, and his muscular frame threatened
to burst the silk's flimsy seams.
Zeke couldn't wait to toss the suit into a
heap and get into something more comfortable. Surely he could leave
the cosseting of his guests to his redoubtable butler Wellington
and the charming Mrs. Van Hallsburg. This infernal party had been
all Cynthia's idea anyway.
Even as he considered this appealing notion,
Zeke frowned. If he abandoned his role as host, Mrs. Van H. would
likely be even more irritated with him. Not that Zeke feared any
woman's wrath, but he owed Cynthia Van Hallsburg a great deal for
her help these past months in opening the doors to New York
society. Zeke Morrison was a man who always paid his debts.
He reluctantly headed for the drawing room,
but a situation arose that required more immediate attention.
Someone was hammering on the front door. When a harried parlor maid
opened it, Zeke was not altogether surprised to see a
representative of the press standing on the doorstep.
Nothing of interest could take place at
Morrison's Castle without bringing the reporters out in droves, and
none of these newsmen was more persistent than Mr. William Duffy of
the New York World.
Wellington would have barred the fellow
admittance, but the bold red-haired reporter easily slipped past
the little parlor maid. Duffy's sharp features lit up as he spied
Zeke paused outside the drawing room. He crossed the hall in three
quick strides, his faded brown coat dripping rainwater with every
step.
"Mr. Morrison! Just the man I wanted to
see."
"The feeling isn’t mutual," Zeke replied.
"What the hell do you think you are doing, barging in here?"
"Oh, Mr. Morrison," the parlor maid wailed.
"I tried to keep him out."
"That's all right, Maisie. You go help
Wellington with the tea. I can look after Mr. Duffy." Zeke spoke
softly, but his voice had enough of an edge that the reporter took
a wary step backward. As the relieved parlor maid scuttled off,
Duffy flung out his hands in a placating gesture.
"I'm here on legitimate business this time,
Mr. Morrison. I came to cover your party for my society editor."
Duffy produced a small notepad and pencil from his inner breast
pocket. He moistened the pencil tip with his tongue and affected to
write. "Now what did Mrs. Van Hallsburg wear today—puce?"
Zeke glowered and snatched the pencil away.
"Get out of here. Don't you have anything better to do than hang
about my house and bother me?"
"No." Duffy grinned. "Like it or not, you are
news, Mr. Morrison. The mysterious tycoon of millionaire's row. You
can't just breeze into this town, buy up a whole block, build
yourself a castle, and expect not to attract attention."
Zeke sucked in his breath with an impatient
hiss. He collared the reporter and propelled him back toward the
door.
"Ow! Watch the coat, Morrison. I still owe
money on it, and I already near split my pants climbing your
fence."
"You're lucky I don't split your head."
"All right then. All right! I didn't just
come to cover the party. I was down at the police precinct and
heard there was some sort of an accident out here—something about a
balloon crash. Did you hire it for your party?"
"No. I don't provide my guests with cheap
circus entertainment."
"Hey, what's wrong with cheap entertainment?
I like it."
There had been a time in his life when Zeke
would have agreed with him. That he had come across sounding like
the kind of snob he despised only added to his annoyance.
As Zeke yanked open the massive front door,
Duffy made one last desperate plea. "Aw, come on, Morrison. Do a
fellow a favor. Give me a leg up in my career. Just one little
interview."
He tossed out a spate of breathless
questions. "Is it true you made your money running a gambling
establishment in Chicago? What about the rumor that you were once a
New York boy? How about the gossip that you were involved with
gangs on the East Side like the Dead Rabbits?"
"You're going to be a dead duck if I ever
catch you trespassing again." Zeke started to shove him out, but
Duffy clung to the door jamb.
"It's raining buckets out there. You wouldn't
throw a fellow creature out into a storm, would you?"
Zeke would and did.
Duffy went flying, but managed to regain his
balance before he fell. Turning back, he glanced toward Zeke, his
grin undiminished by the rain beating down on his head.
"Never mind, Morrison. I'll get my story
somehow."
Turning up his collar, Duffy bounded down the
steps, his cheerful exuberance quite unimpaired. As irritated as he
was, a half-smile escaped Zeke. Duffy might be as annoying as a
green-head fly on a hot day, but brashness and persistence were
qualities that Zeke had always admired, perhaps because he
possessed a measure of both himself.
Zeke watched until he made sure that Duffy
did actually exit from his property, going through the iron gate
and down the street. He eased the door closed. Just as the latch
clicked into place, he heard a cool feminine voice calling from
behind him.
"John ?"
He swiveled to observe the woman haloed in
the light of the hall chandelier. Everyone else might be damp and
disheveled, but Cynthia Van Hallsburg was still a vision of
perfection in her silvery-blue frock, the color in tune with her
white-blond hair, the pale blue of her eyes. The Ice Goddess—that
was the name the society columns had dubbed one who had long been a
reigning beauty among New York's upper set.
There was definitely winter in the stare that
she now turned upon Zeke. "What is the matter now?"
"Nothing," Zeke replied, coming away from the
door. "I was merely convincing Mr. William Duffy that I am not at
home to callers."
"That reporter! I suppose this whole
unfortunate affair will end up in the papers tomorrow. Exactly the
sort of publicity one most deplores."
"Oh, I don't know. With a little digging,
Duffy could find far worse things to print about me."
Mrs. Van Hallsburg frowned. Zeke had learned
early on in their acquaintance that the one sure way of ruffling
her ice-like serenity was to hint that some elements in his past
were less than sterling.
This time she chose to ignore his comment.
"You should go in now and attempt to placate your guests. Some of
them are still very upset and demanding their carriages be sent
for."
"Well, let them. I take no prisoners."
When his quip caused her lips to thin, Zeke
relented somewhat, adopting a milder tone. "I'm sorry the party got
spoiled. I know you worked damned hard to help me bring it off. But
you can hardly blame me for what happened."
"I don't hold you responsible for what
happened, merely how you dealt with it. I think you could have
found far better employment for those policemen than having them
gorge themselves in your kitchen."
So she was still harping on that. Zeke rolled
his eyes. "Believe me, there are far more desperate criminals in
this city for the police to arrest than a bunch of circus people in
a runaway balloon."
"Then what do you plan on doing with that
circus girl?"
"She's already gone I sent her off with her
husband, booked them into the bridal suite at the Waldorf for a
wedding present."
"I don't mean her. I mean the other one, the
one you had Wellington take upstairs."
Oh, her. Miss Aurora Rose Kavanaugh. Just
thinking of her was enough to make Zeke want to chuckle. He could
picture her so clearly, a little slip of a thing, barely up to his
shoulder, yet squaring off, her fists upraised, ready to darken his
lights, disheveled strands of silky hair tumbling before her
flashing eyes.
Zeke suppressed his smile lest Mrs. Van
Hallsburg misinterpret it. "Miss Kavanaugh is only waiting here
until her assistant comes to take the balloon away."
“That sounds exactly like the sort of excuse
my late brother, Stephen, used to give whenever I caught him with
one of his inamoratas."
Inna— Zeke couldn't even pronounce the word,
but he gathered the gist of it. "Wait a minute. I only just met
that girl today. I carried her into the house because she had hurt
her ankle. She's only a kid, for heaven's sake."
Even as Zeke made this declaration, he
recalled that moment at the foot of the stain when Miss Kavanaugh's
clinging gown had outlined some surprising and delectable feminine
curves, revealing that she was not quite as young as Zeke had first
supposed her to be.
Still, for all that, she had looked like a
drowned kitten, certainly nothing to provoke such an outburst from
Mrs. Van Hallsburg. An outburst of jealousy? Given the woman’s
dispassionate nature, the thought was ludicrous, but Zeke hardly
knew what else to call it.
"Miss Kavanaugh nearly killed herself in a
balloon today," Zeke continued. "I was only trying to be kind to
her."
But he saw that all his assurances were
useless. Mrs. Van Hallsburg clearly didn't believe him.
"In any case, I don't mean to be rude, but I
hardly see where my intentions toward Miss Kavanaugh are your
affair. I am not your brother."
"No, but I have invested a great deal of time
in you, smoothing out your rough edges, attempting to bring you on
in society."
"Well, some investments just don't pay
off."
"I am not accustomed to taking losses."
Zeke's jaw tightened, and he wished he could
be rid of Cynthia Van Hallsburg as easily as he had disposed of
William Duffy. Something had been creeping into Mrs. Van Hallsurg’s
manner of late that disconcerted him. It was as though the woman
believed she owned him. He did owe the lady a lot of favors, so he
strove to check his temper.
He rubbed one hand wearily along the back of
his neck. "It's been a long day and this is turning into a damned
silly argument. Why don't you run along and have yourself a cup of
tea with the others before you get me angry as well. It doesn't
bother me to have a shouting match in the middle of the hall, but I
don't think you would like it."
He forced a smile to his lips. He really
didn't want to quarrel with her, but he had a notoriously short
fuse. He terminated the discussion by stalking past her into his
study.
The rain was still lashing against the
latticed windows, but a cozy fire crackled upon the hearth. Above
the mantel hung a serene landscape by Constable, The walls were
lined with shelves of books, the spines pristine. In the center of
the study stood a large oak desk and a wing-back chair of green
leather. The entire room was a subtle testimony to wealth, that
Zeke could well afford to hire someone to decorate for him and had
done so. But it revealed nothing of his own personality.
As he stalked over to a small cabinet to pour
himself a much-needed whiskey, he realized that Mrs. Van Hallsburg
had followed him. She closed the door behind her.
"I don't want to quarrel either, John," she
said. "But forgive me if I am a little confused. You seemed almost
delighted that that circus girl crashed down here, ruining what
should have been the best garden party of this season. Even the
Whitneys came. That was quite a coup for you.
"I thought you wanted to be something more
than a vulgar adventurer who happened to strike it rich. You are so
close to being accepted by the best families in New York. But I get
the feeling you would throw it all away just on a whim. Sometimes I
don't understand you at all
Zeke said nothing. Thrusting his hands deep
in his trouser pockets, he stalked over to stare out the window at
the rain washing the glass. He didn't even understand himself. It
was his ambition to be accepted by New York's sacred Four Hundred,
the top of the social register. But he also had an unholy urge to
thumb his nose at Mrs. Van Hallsburg. and all her set, just the way
he used to when he was a kid hawking papers on the street corners,
making faces at all the fancy Dans rolling by in their
carriages.