The Lady and the Robber Baron Page 3

  Chantry Kincaid III was one of the wealthiest men in New York. According to Peter, Kincaid had taken money inherited from his grandmother—and a total lack of scruples inherited from his grandfather—and created a holding company that bought up and controlled untold other companies. He was a millionaire many times over, and he still had not reached his thirtieth birthday.

  His grandfather, Chantry Kincaid, known as “Number One” in the tabloids, was even more unscrupulous, if that were possible.

  Peter must have seen the confusion and anger on her face. “Look, Jenn, I shouldn’t have brought this up tonight, of all times, but dammit—” He paused, and raked his strong fingers through his blond hair. “—I can’t help myself. That bastard killed our parents, so—” He choked, and a muscle in his smooth-shaven jaw bunched and writhed.

  “What, Peter? You know you can tell me anything.”

  “I…approached Kincaid on your behalf,” he said defensively.

  “What do you mean?” Jennifer felt the blood rushing to her head.

  “You were tied up in rehearsal, and Bellini and I met with Kincaid. Bellini agreed to sell him the theater and move the ballet company into Kincaid’s new hotel, the Bricewood East.” Peter took a breath, eyed her for a second, and said, “I acted as your manager, since Sammy’s out of town—”

  Jennifer stared at her brother, unable to speak.

  “—and signed contracts for you to star in three ballets at the Bricewood.”

  “Peter!” She couldn’t believe he’d practically sell her into bondage. She could tell by the look in his eyes—half miserable and half defiant—that he knew he’d had no business doing it. Only his hatred for Kincaid could have allowed him to even consider it. She clamped her jaws shut to hold back the angry words.

  “Dammit, I know it’s not fair,” Peter said, reading her reaction correctly. “But if we don’t do something, he’s going to get away with murder. You’ve got to spy on the man and find some evidence against him!”

  “I’m not an investigator. I don’t know anything about trapping a killer,” she protested.

  “Jenn, haven’t you ever looked at yourself? Don’t you have any idea what a potent weapon you are? God, Jenn, he would be putty in your hands,” he said, pulling her close and hugging her. She buried her face against his pounding heart, and her eyes filled with tears.

  Peter was as blond as she, but without any trace of softness. His skin was richly tanned and smoothly refined. Women were drawn to his powerful, masculine energy like cats to catnip, and men responded like tomcats protecting their territory from an invader. She’d seen him walk into a room and, within seconds, some man would feel an overwhelming need to challenge him, even if he had to pick a triviality to do so.

  Peter was cool and steely under pressure, just as their father before them had been, and Jennifer hated not to match his courage and determination, but she had to stand firm. She didn’t even know Kincaid, and the man terrified her.

  “Look, I won’t let him hurt you,” Peter said. “All you have to do is go to the Bricewood. He’ll take one look at you, and it’ll be all over but the shouting.”

  “What if—”

  “Don’t try to think about it tonight. Rest now. We’ll talk again tomorrow, before we go to the Bricewood.”

  “Go to the…”

  Peter held her at arm’s length and stared into her eyes. “It’s just a simple appointment to meet him, discuss the fine points of the contract, and get your foot in the door.”

  Jennifer had the terrible feeling that it had all been settled. Peter was not a man to change his mind.

  “You wouldn’t have to do much,” he said, scowling. His scowls were formidable. Generally, she could not withstand them—but this was different. “I’ll take care of you. Please, Jenn.” Peter never said please. She could see by the pleading look in his eyes that this was extremely important to him.

  She dragged in a frustrated breath. “What exactly would I have to do?” she asked.

  “Not much at all,” Peter rushed to assure her. “Just keep your eyes and ears open for anything that might be helpful. I want to know what he’s doing as soon as he knows.”

  “But I’m a dancer. I’ll have no contact with him…”

  “You will,” Peter said. “Once he sees you, he’ll drop Latitia Laurey like a red-hot horseshoe.”

  “Who’s Latitia Laurey?”

  “The Commodore’s granddaughter, and one of the finest business minds in this town. According to Derek, she learned all her lessons at her grandfather’s knee. A female robber baron, if you can imagine such a thing. I don’t think there’s any love between her and Kincaid, but they’re two of a kind. She may be in love, but he’s not. Derek says…”

  “What?” Jennifer asked, suddenly intrigued.

  “I don’t know if this is true or not, but Derek said a Frenchwoman, I can’t remember her name, ripped the heart right out of Kincaid a few years back. He’s never been the same.”

  “I can’t believe you did this to me,” Jennifer said, bringing the subject back to what was bothering her. “Before I’d agreed to anything.”

  “Jenn! Kincaid killed our parents. To hell with his alibi. He killed them as surely as if he pulled the trigger himself. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  Jennifer boiled with sudden anger. “Only that you’ve sold me to one of the most unscrupulous robber barons in New York—”

  “Not exactly sold. Leased…”

  “Whatever you call it, you know as well as I do that there isn’t a theater owner or manager in this country who doesn’t expect, as a God-given right, to sleep with his female entertainers. You know that’s why I’ve stayed at the Bellini.”

  “Jenn!” Peter whispered tensely. “He’s only a man, for Christ’s sake. You’re an accomplished dancer and actress. You’ve played parts that have had me in tears, and I knew what to expect ahead of time. You can do anything you set out to do. I’ll do the dangerous parts. Kincaid doesn’t resort to rape—he doesn’t have to. I promise you’ll be safe.”

  “So I’m just supposed to pretend to carry on with this man? Just pretend to be having a flirtation? Leading him on?”

  “That’s all. If he touches you, I’ll kill him,” Peter said grimly.

  Now it was clear to Jennifer what Peter really wanted—any excuse to tear into Kincaid with at least a slim hope of pleading self-defense. She could see her brother standing before the judge, waiting to be sentenced for the murder of Kincaid. “I was just defending my sister, Your Honor.”

  Jennifer knew what she had to do. She shook her head. “I can’t be part of this.”

  “Jenn, it’s not like you to be so—” Peter stopped in frustration.

  “Cowardly?” she demanded.

  Peter shook his head. His gaze wavered and dropped. He loved her too much to use a derogatory word like that, but she could see the disappointment in his eyes.

  Jennifer glared at him until his warm hand dropped away from her arm. Then she turned stiffly and stalked up the stairs to her bedroom.

  Later, lying in bed and too tense to sleep, she wished she hadn’t been so hard on Peter. He was twenty, two years younger than she, but at times he seemed worlds wiser. She admired everything about him, especially the way he had responded to the complicated circumstances surrounding their parents’ deaths. And yet, part of her was almost relieved to be rid of them. She was still so angry at them. She hadn’t even called them “Mother” and “Father” since she was twelve. In her mind they were always Reginald and Vivian Van Vleet. They had been difficult parents, with their volatile, flamboyant personalities. It was common knowledge that her father had kept mistresses—some less than half his age. Jennifer had hated it even more than her mother had. Stunningly handsome, even in his fifties, women had adored Reginald Van Vleet, including her and her mother.

  Vivian had spent a good deal of time yelling at Reginald and complaining to her friends. She claimed she couldn’t keep a young
maid in the house because Reginald was always climbing into bed with them. The practice was not all that uncommon; many men expected to sleep with their female household help. But Vivian refused to put up with it. Finally, she had taken to hiring only old women, some barely able to get around.

  Then, when Jennifer was sixteen, there had been a terrible scandal about her father and a fifteen-year-old girl. The tabloids had had a field day, but they never named the girl, who had apparently committed suicide over Reginald. That was a time marked by more yelling and even greater bitterness between her parents. The authorities had refused to prosecute her father over the girl’s death, so it probably was clearly a suicide.

  But the papers carried on so about it that Reginald had taken the family on an extended tour in Europe to let things die down. During those two years, Jennifer had studied ballet in Russia and France. She perfected her technique to the point where she was hired as the prima ballerina of the Bellini Ballet Company when the family returned to the States.

  Now both her parents were dead, and Peter thought Chantry Kincaid III had been responsible. She and Peter had argued about Kincaid’s involvement any number of times in the last three months. One of the tabloids had claimed his grandfather was to blame. They’d implied a Machiavellian plot in which the deaths somehow increased the Kincaid fortune. Peter swore that Number One was too old, and that the grandson, Chantry Kincaid III, was the real brains and destructive force at the helm of the Kincaid empire. Peter had almost convinced her that if the grandson hadn’t personally killed her parents, he’d hired someone to do it.

  She’d heard very little that was positive about either of the Kincaids, and she was sure the grandson would be nothing but trouble for her. Young and rich and handsome, Kincaid probably thought he could spin women around his little finger with charm alone. Jennifer clenched her fists. Well, it wouldn’t work with her. She’d learned that game, watching the way her father operated.

  She would keep the meeting with Kincaid tomorrow. But only to tell him that she was not going to honor the contract her brother had signed without her permission. Kincaid would have no choice but to accept her refusal. Powerful he might be, but she would not be bought, not at any price! She was a ballerina first, a woman second.

  Night sounds lulled her. A bird cried out, as if a cat had gotten it. The sound did not come again, so maybe one had. That’s the way her parents had died. Totally unexpectedly. One day she’d come home from ballet practice and found police carriages surrounding the house. She had run inside to see what was wrong, and had been met by their housekeeper, Augustine, who was hysterical.

  Slowly, the story had emerged. Augustine and Malcomb, their butler, had taken the day off. Peter had returned home from his job at the brokerage house at four o’clock to find Reginald and Vivian lying on the floor of the second library. Reginald had been shot through the heart and had died immediately. But Vivian, who had been shot in the stomach, crawled the full length of the room. She left a bloody trail, and died with her face twisted in terrible agony against the carpet.

  Jennifer closed her eyes tightly against the bloody image that still haunted her. She had not seen it herself, but the tabloids’ lurid descriptions made her feel as though she had been right there in the middle of it. Jennifer cried softly until the pain eased.

  Her mother had had a painful life from beginning to end—all because she’d married the wrong man. Jennifer vowed that she would not make the same mistake. She had no idea how Vivian had met Reginald, but she imagined a passionate courtship, driven by lust. A sudden flash to the handsome stranger in the carriage made Jennifer shiver. She didn’t know what had come over her. Had the fire made her delirious? Well, at least she’d never see that man again. Her mother might make a mistake like that, but she would not.

  Slowly, Jennifer unclenched her fists and forced herself to relax, one muscle at a time, until her mind was clear. But it was only a brief respite. Soon, thoughts were racing through her mind again. Peter was right. She owed it to her parents to try to bring Kincaid down. She would go to the Bricewood and meet him. And she would see what happened, and follow it as far as she safely could. Just thinking about it made her whole body tense again.

  She sat up in bed and went through a series of stretches—paying special attention to those places where her muscles were sore and tired and achy. Stretching had always helped, and it didn’t fail her this time. As she closed her eyes she could feel the energy flowing unobstructed through her body once again. Just before her consciousness closed down to a pinpoint, she had a flash of insight that she’d come to regret even going near Kincaid.

  Perhaps Peter was wrong. Perhaps there was no safe way to approach a robber baron.

  Chapter Four

  Ahead of Jennifer’s carriage, the wheels of hansom cabs carved delicate slits in the sun-glistened snow on the road curving off into the distance.

  Reluctantly, she had decided to confront Kincaid and try to undo the damage Peter had done to her career. She glanced past her brother’s handsome profile at three children knee-deep in a snowdrift, packing snow into balls.

  The unexpected storm late last night had dumped over a foot of clean white snow on the city of New York, leaving the streets momentarily clean.

  Her carriage glided to a halt and Jennifer leaned forward and peered up at the Bricewood, the jewel of the hotel and casino circuit and Chantry Kincaid III’s pet project.

  The Bricewood, on lower Fifth Avenue, near the elegant neighborhood of Washington Square Park, was five stories high and a block long. In an era of gingerbread and rococo flamboyance, the tall, white, gleaming structure was notable for its clean lines and simple style. A lofty colonnade overhung by a hip roof made it look more like a Mississippi River plantation house than a hotel.

  Peter leaned forward, his expression grim and impassive. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Even if it does belong to a bastard like Kincaid…I heard he built it for just under a million dollars two years ago. Now it’d sell for three, easily.”

  “Do you suppose the illustrious Mr. Kincaid allows his hired help to enter by the front door?” she asked. Peter scowled, and Jennifer softened. “Sorry. It’s just that—”

  “I know, I know, Jenn. I had no right. I realize that now. You’re entirely justified in being upset with me.”

  His taking full responsibility made her miserable. She leaned over and put her head on her brother’s chest. “I wish things were like they used to be…”

  “When we had money?” he asked, putting his arm around her.

  “Innocence,” she whispered, and immediately regretted it.

  “I can’t remember that far back,” he said, looking away. He gazed out the window, ostensibly watching a young woman walk past, but she knew from the way the muscles bunched in his jaw that he was fighting his emotions. Jennifer felt a deep sense of sadness. Somehow their relationship had been tainted. She didn’t know whether it was a residue from their parents’ deaths or from Peter’s obsession with Kincaid and getting revenge. She was terribly torn. Part of her felt that anything she had to do to end this stalemate would not be too much. But another part was angry and frightened and wanted desperately to walk away from everything.

  Peter stepped out of the carriage and turned back to her, arms uplifted. She gathered her voluminous skirts and moved to the step. Peter grasped her waist and lifted her across the gutter and onto the red brick sidewalk of the porte cochere. The carriage entrance smelled of cedar and pine—a surprisingly woodsy fragrance. She stopped, breathed its pleasantness deep into her lungs, and caught a glimpse of the elegant lobby through the biggest windows she’d ever seen. Smiling attendants bowed as they opened the wide double doors.

  On Peter’s arm, Jennifer swept past more than a dozen salons to reach the registration desk, where an attendant in white uniform with gold braid waited. The main lobby, which gleamed like a gold-and-white jewel, opened onto a profusion of parlors, salons, reading rooms, smoking rooms, dining rooms,
and bars, all elegant in gold and white beneath glittering crystal chandeliers.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Kincaid,” Peter said stiffly.

  “Your name, please?”

  “He’ll be expecting Miss Jennifer Van Vleet.”

  “One moment, please.”

  The man disappeared into the back. A few moments later a portly gentleman emerged from the back of the hotel and stopped in front of Jennifer. “Miss Van Vleet?” he asked politely.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Mr. Monroe. Come with me, please.”

  “Want me to come with you, Jenn?” Peter asked.

  Monroe shook his head no. Peter touched his hat in a small salute and angled toward one of the salons. “I’ll wait in there,” he said over his shoulder.

  Jennifer picked up her skirts and followed Monroe toward the elevators. Mirrors on all sides of the lobby told her she looked fine, but she felt overdressed in her late mother’s gold satin gown and white mink muff, hat, and coat—the first she’d ever seen with the fur turned to the outside. These clothes, and everything else she and Peter owned, however temporarily until the estate sale next month, had been bought when her parents were alive and thought themselves rich. Next month it would all go on the auctioneer’s block.

  That thought alone set her against Kincaid. If it hadn’t been for him and his grandfather, her parents would not be dead and she and Peter would not be losing everything they owned.

  Monroe stepped back to let her enter the elevator. As it began its slow ascent, Monroe nervously licked his wet, pink, cupid’s-bow lips. In the harsh electric light, his eyes appeared to glitter. Grateful for the presence of the elevator attendant, Jennifer tucked her hands into her mink muff as if that would protect her from Monroe’s eyes. She was glad she wouldn’t have to be alone with this man.