The Lady and the Robber Baron Page 24

  In the shop, the thick, watermelon-red carpet beautifully set off the veined marble columns and walls. Matching red draperies screened the dressing rooms from the luxurious viewing salon.

  Steve introduced her. “Madame d’Orsay, I would like to present Mrs. Chantry Kincaid the Third. She wishes to make certain purchases, today and perhaps in the future.”

  “But of course, madame! I am honored, madame, honored that you would consider my humble establishment.”

  The name Kincaid registered in Madame d’Orsay with a shock. She barely heard the beautiful Mrs. Kincaid’s smiling response. Oh, la, la! A dress hung in plain sight near the back of the store that Mrs. Kincaid must not see. Latitia Laurey had charged it on Mr. Kincaid’s account only yesterday, and the tag was clearly visible. Perfectly pressed, it was awaiting delivery this afternoon.

  To Jennifer, Madame d’Orsay looked a little frantic. Jennifer followed her to the left side of the spacious shop.

  “Please be seated, madame, m’sieu,” Madame d’Orsay murmured. “I will have my models show you the most suitable gowns.”

  Jennifer smiled. Madame d’Orsay seemed beside herself with nervousness. “That will not be necessary. I know what I like. I can simply pick a few and try them on myself.”

  Madame d’Orsay looked horrified. Jennifer swept past her toward a purple gown that had caught her attention near the back of the shop. Madame d’Orsay followed closely behind her.

  “Come. Let me show you—”

  “What about this one?”

  Madame d’Orsay felt faint. The very one she did not wish Mrs. Kincaid to see. She reached out and covered the tag. “This one is not for sale.”

  “A pity. It’s quite the most beautiful one in the shop.”

  “I have many beautiful gowns, madame…”

  “But that one is my color—”

  “I beg to differ with madame. With your glorious hair, this silver-white gown by Worth will be sensational!”

  Madame d’Orsay pressed the gown on Jennifer. Disappointed, Jennie held the silver-and-white creation up to her and walked to the mirror. It did pick up the silver glints in her hair, but it made her look too pale. She handed the gown to Madame d’Orsay and walked back to the purple one. Lifting the hanger off the rack, she carried the dress to the mirror. Immediately, her skin glowed and her eyes picked up the rich purple color.

  Jennifer fumbled for the tag to see who would be wearing her gown. Madame d’Orsay rushed forward. “Madame, please allow me—”

  Jennifer finally found the tag and read it. Chantry Kincaid, III!

  Madame d’Orsay made a small strangled sound, but Jennifer smiled brightly.

  “Please wrap it. My husband was probably going to surprise me with it as an anniversary present.” Her smile dared the poor, distraught woman to disagree.

  “But madame, I cannot—”

  “Such a pity to spoil his surprise, but surely it’s not your fault. The gods themselves must have brought me to this particular shop this afternoon, no?” Jennifer asked.

  Madame d’Orsay turned her pleading gaze on Steve.

  Steve shrugged. “I’m sure Mr. Kincaid would not want his bride of less than two weeks to be unhappy,” he said significantly.

  Madame d’Orsay’s eyes rolled back in her head. Latitia Laurey would be furious with her. She took the gown with trembling fingers and gave it to her assistant to wrap in tissue. Jennifer picked one other gown, two crinolines, three chemises, a pair of slippers, and two hats. Enough to revive Madame d’Orsay’s spirits.

  Steve staggered under the load. He piled the boxes on top of the carriage and followed her into the next shop. Jennifer chose an ermine jacket and a matching fur cloche—the latest fashion from Russia, with the fur worn on the outside.

  “I’ll take them,” she said, turning to admire herself in the mirror. She looked flushed and triumphant in white, and Steve knew in that moment that Jennifer Kincaid had come to reclaim her husband. If he could have, he would have warned her against the futility of it, but he knew better than to get between them.

  Steve loaded the two new boxes onto the carriage and followed her into Tiffany’s. Charles Lewis Tiffany strode over to greet Jennifer. He looked his usual stiff and dour self.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, looking down his nose at Jennifer.

  Steve cleared his throat. “Mr. Tiffany, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Chantry Kincaid the Third.”

  Jennifer smiled her gratitude at Steve. Tiffany blinked, and Steve could almost feel all of the man’s resistance dissolve. What had survived her dazzling smile had been vanquished by the Kincaid name, which, thanks to Number One, ranked with Vanderbilt, Rockefeller, and Morgan.

  Tiffany brought out a tray of his finest European crown jewels. Steve could have kicked himself. Ensuring that Jennifer was treated with respect might have just caused the one thing he’d come along to prevent. Jennifer reached at once for an amethyst pendant on a diamond-studded chain. It was stunning. Its tear-shaped purple stone nestled between Jennifer’s breasts would be more than Chane could bear if he saw it, and Steve was sure that was her intent.

  “Steve, it’s terribly expensive. Maybe I shouldn’t.”

  “The necklace belonged to the Crown Princess of Holland,” Tiffany said. “Ten thousand,” he added reverently.

  Steve understood New York politics too well to blink at the price. If he did, Tiffany might just mention to an associate that Kincaid must have money problems. A rumor like that could finish Chane. Loans would no longer be available. The railroad would be doomed.

  Jennifer frowned, but Steve grinned as nonchalantly as possible. “I’m sure Mr. Kincaid would want you to have it.”

  Jennifer searched Steve’s eyes, then turned back to Tiffany and nodded. “That will be fine.”

  Outside the shop, Steve said, “I’m curious. Are you going to a party?”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling that sweet, dreadful smile again. “Chane’s and Latitia’s party.”

  Steve shook his head in wonder and admiration. It was disloyal to grin, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “What time should I be there?”

  “Drinks at seven. Dinner at eight.”

  What she planned made her heart pound. “How many people?”

  “A small, cozy affair for twenty friends and business associates.” Steve hesitated. “You know he never expected to see you again. Latitia is an old friend.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said with a terrible brightness. “I know.”

  Steve wisely dropped the subject.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chane stopped in the doorway to Steve’s office. Steve looked up, a guilty flush darkening his cheeks.

  “How did the afternoon go?” Chane asked.

  “Expensive.”

  That explained Steve’s guilt. And Jennie’s strategy. If she wanted to destroy him, that would be one way to go about it—if she didn’t know about the gold his grandfather had given him.

  “How expensive?”

  “Eleven thousand,” Steve said miserably.

  Chane frowned. “She wanted her own ballet company?”

  “An amethyst-and-diamond pendant—she fell in love with it before she learned it was a crown jewel.”

  Steve looked as if he blamed himself. Chane shook his head. “Forget it. We’ve got bigger problems than that.” He waved a telegram at Steve. “Remember Roudenko, the man I just hired? He tried to make a deal with Jim Hardy. Offered to let Jim overcharge the Texas and Pacific for steel rails if Jim would kick back part of the overcharge to him.”

  Steve groaned. That was the worst possible news. He felt moments away from being stuffed into a train and sent hurtling toward Colorado. “What do we do now?”

  “While you were out with Jennie, I fired Roudenko and decided to build the railroad myself.”

  Steve groaned again.

  The sun burst through the clouds and shone on the glistening snow. Carriages wi
th sledge runners carved wide, deep ruts through the white powder. Jennifer stepped out of the carriage and walked toward the Bricewood. It felt good to walk.

  At the bakery, the smells of fresh-baked bread drew her in. “’Morning, ma’am.”

  “I’ll take this,” she said, pointing to a roll covered with cinnamon and glaze. Jennifer paid and started to leave.

  “Ma’am,” the girl called after her.

  Jennifer stopped. “Yes?”

  “Well, it may be nothing, but—” She paused. “—I just thought you ought to know. I think a man is following you.”

  “Me? What makes you think that?”

  “I’ve seen him watching you almost every day.”

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “No, he’s a stranger. And he keeps his hat real low and the bottom part of his face covered by his topcoat, like he’s real cold, you know. But I think it’s just so we won’t get a look at his face.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “A tall man, kinda slim. I’ve never seen much more of him than that.”

  The description was vague, but it evoked an odd feeling in Jennifer. She remembered the man she’d seen near her house, and a chill raced down her neck.

  Saturday night, Steve stationed himself left of the arch leading into the dining room. From here he could watch the front door for Jennifer’s arrival, if she came. The other guests were scattered around Chane’s parlor in companionable groups.

  The room glowed with the soft light of imported gas chandeliers, faceted lead crystal drops sparkling like thousands of tiny diamonds. Beyond the arch the dining table gleamed with golden candelabra, gold-trimmed bone china, and Mrs. Lillian’s thinnest crystal.

  At precisely seven-thirty the doorbell rang. Mrs. Lillian opened it for Jennifer and her escort, a small, trim gentleman with a classic French profile—a sharp beak of a nose, slanting brow, and balding head. The man removed her coat and passed it to Mrs. Lillian.

  No one else seemed to have seen Jennifer’s entry. Chane stood with his back to the door. Latitia smiled prettily at powerful banker, Andrew Thaxter, president of Chase National Bank. Then she glanced up and saw Jennifer, wearing the purple gown she’d ordered for this very party. She let out a cry audible all the way to where Steve stood, and started forward.

  Christopher heard the warning sound and turned to pat Jennifer’s cold hand. “You are stunning, chérie. If girls had looked like you when I was a young man…who knows?”

  From across the room Chane turned slowly. Jennifer knew the exact second he saw her. His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned into a threatening slit.

  “Thank you, Christopher. Excuse me, won’t you?”

  Heart pounding, Jennifer glided forward to greet Latitia Laurey and her reluctant husband, who could not possibly avoid her in front of his guests.

  She had taken great pains with her hair and gown, but she saw no glint of appreciation in Chane’s cold, green eyes as he watched her cross the room. Out of the corner of her eye Jennifer saw Steve step forward and intercept Latitia.

  Scowling formidably, Chane strode forward and stopped Jennifer in the middle of the enormous room. Conversations died as people turned to watch them. Jennifer had known better than to expect real warmth in his eyes, real welcome in his smile. The achingly familiar hollows on either side of his mouth filled with shadows as he forced a smile for the benefit of those watching. But it was a sardonic curling of lips, without warmth or welcome. His eyes watched her with measuring calculation.

  “Well, if it isn’t my beautiful wife,” he said, his voice so low that it couldn’t be heard by listening ears, but cool enough to let her know he didn’t mean it.

  “Chane, darling,” she gushed, loud enough for others to hear. “It’s so good to be back.”

  Latitia shook off Steve’s grip and followed them into the middle of the room. “Where did you get that gown?”

  “Oh,” Jennifer said, smiling coolly. “Do you like it? My husband bought it. I was so surprised to discover it,” she said, deftly reminding Latitia that she had erred in charging it to Chane.

  Andrew Thaxter, smiling warmly, walked over and joined them. Latitia controlled herself with an effort.

  “Well, well, Chane!” Thaxter said, slapping Chane on the back. “What have we here?”

  “Andrew,” Chane said, his voice ringing with barely controlled fury, “I’d like you to meet my…wife, Jennifer Van Vleet…Kincaid.”

  Thaxter smiled warmly at Jennifer, took her hand, and kissed it. “You don’t remember me, Mrs. Kincaid, but I was one of the men who pulled your carriage through the streets of New York after your debut at the Bellini.”

  Jennifer smiled in spite of herself. That had been one of the happiest days of her life. She had dreaded her New York debut, because she thought New Yorkers would be too jaded to accept another European-trained ballerina. They had amazed her in a great many ways—serenading her hotel, pulling her carriage to the theater, and piling the stage high with roses.

  “It is about time you finally unveiled your bride, Chane. But now I can see why you’ve tried to keep her from us. She is even more exquisite than before.

  “We do get to kiss the bride, don’t we?” Thaxter asked, pulling her forward and pressing warm lips against her cheek.

  Every man and woman in the room queued up to meet her. After his initial shock, Chane stayed by her side and introduced her. Jennifer was complimented in the most glowing terms by men and women alike.

  To all outward appearances, Chane played the adoring husband. His manner was correct, even to the degree of warmth with which he smiled at her, as long as they were being observed, but after the last introduction, he steered her forcefully into a quiet corner. Alone with her, he dropped his pleasant mask.

  “What do you hope to gain by this charade, Jennie?” he asked, his husky voice grim.

  Jennifer set her champagne glass down on the sideboard next to her. “Smile, darling, Mrs. Teasdale is watching you.”

  Chane turned her so his back was to the assemblage. “I don’t give a damn what they think of me, and you know it. But I had hoped to spare us both a public display of our dirty laundry.”

  Jennie’s skin was as smooth and flawless as carnation petals in the golden glow of the chandeliers. Her lovely mouth reflected the rosy hue of her gown. Even her eyes had taken on a rich purple cast. Every line and curve, even the delicate yet heady fragrance of her Gillyflower perfume, called out to his senses. Part of him wanted to pick her up and toss her out the seventh-floor window. Another part of him felt alive for the first time in weeks.

  “I’ve no pride, Jennie. I’m willing to beg you to leave and never come back, if that’s what it takes…”

  She lifted her chin as if daring him to kiss her. A flash of pure hellcat flickered in her eyes. “It didn’t take you long to find a replacement.”

  “Latitia is an old friend.”

  “Then she won’t mind if I kiss my husband.”

  Without taking her gaze from his, she stepped close to him. One hand touched his face and the other rested on his jacket. He knew he should move away, but her touch burned into his chest and paralyzed him.

  Jennifer felt his helplessness and pain all the way to her toes. She might have stopped, spared him and herself, except her only hope was to take control, however she could get it. If she had been powerful before, she must still have some of that power. If she didn’t use it, she would regret it the rest of her life.

  Deliberately, her hands slid up behind his neck, felt the familiar stubble of hairs there, slid around until they rested lightly on either side of his face, cupping it. And once she had touched him, the ache and the need were there, fierce and hot within her.

  Chane would have given anything in the world if he could feel nothing, but his heart and body, probably even his soul, quaked before this woman. She touched him, and her hands seemed to control him, even the rate and rhythm of his heartbeat.

  “I coul
d break every bone in your body,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Then do it,” she replied, gazing intently into his eyes.

  Chane cursed himself for his weakness, but he just stood there, outwardly tall, powerful, and sturdy, and let her do what she wanted with him. He felt as if his whole awareness was focused on her. She seemed to be supporting his entire weight with two cool, trembling hands on his face. Her warm, satiny mouth touched his tentatively, and the shock neutralized any energy he might have used against her.

  Supported by her hands on his face and her mouth, moving over his, he felt incapable of anything except the response he couldn’t control. Part of him wanted to fling her away from him. But the part that controlled movement was mesmerized by her tongue tip darting with diabolical skill, destroying him totally and effortlessly. His hand fell away from her arm.

  Finally, she relinquished his lips and opened her eyes. He wanted to say something to deny what she had done to him, but words did not come.

  “I had to talk to you,” she said. She reached for her glass, but her fingers trembled, so she hid her hands behind her.

  “We have nothing to say to one another.” The steely look in his eyes told her he was back in control. And determined to stay that way.

  “I was tricked into going to Frederick’s. I had no choice. Frederick made it seem as if the driver would take me home during the snowstorm, but the driver wouldn’t.”

  Chane shook his head in disgust and turned away.

  “It’s true,” she said, stopping him before he could walk away from her. She felt certain that if he did, it would all be over. “Frederick might have planned this, or maybe someone gave him the idea.”

  “Who would do that?”

  “Your enemies.”

  “I don’t have any enemies. Except you.”

  “I was never your enemy. I admit my brother tried to enlist my help, but I refused. Who told you that I was working against you?” Chane shrugged, but she sensed the truth. “It was Latitia, wasn’t it?”

  “What if it was?”