Invitation to the Dance Read online

  Holloway rose, settling on a corner of the desk, and leaned toward Will. “People are caught up in this wedding business. Society girls, British lords. New York wants to hear all about it, Will, and you’re in a unique position to provide us with an authentic glimpse into the matchmaking going on now. Belcourt and the rest, they’re as guarded as always around reporters. But they’ll see you as one of them.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “Of course it’ll require a little play-acting.” Holloway laid a hand on his shoulder in what was no doubt meant as a reassuring gesture. “You wouldn’t be the first reporter resorting to a certain subterfuge to chase down a story.” His glance at Charlie spoke volumes. “It takes nerve and a little creativity. I realize you’re primarily an editor, Will, but I think you can pull this off.”

  Will didn’t believe Holloway would discharge him if he refused. But a lack of cooperation would not put him back in the man’s good graces nor speed his path to better and more profitable roles within the hierarchy. Pretending to be someone he wasn’t for an evening entailed very little real risk, if there were a good number of Nesmiths running about. It was unlikely that the folks at Mrs. Wortham’s party would have met every relation, near and distant, of Jonathan’s. And he might neatly avoid talking about himself, Will realized, if he encouraged the other guests to talk about themselves. People could be counted on to oblige, when it came to that.

  He might possibly pull it off.

  Still…

  “I don’t have a dress suit.” It was his final stand and not a good one, he knew, when Holloway just chuckled.

  “Charlie, have the boys downstairs hire a dress suit for Mr. Nesmith. Top quality.”

  Charlie cleared his throat. “I’ll need one, too.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Keep yours cheap. You don’t want to outshine your boss.”

  The note of approval and the smile Holloway flashed at him took Will by surprise and he realized Holloway was referring to him. Charlie’s disgruntled snort was soft enough to reach only Will’s ears, and that too was rather satisfying.

  It might not be such a terrible evening after all.

  Chapter Five

  There was little in the world more uncomfortable, in Charlie’s estimation, than a second hand dress suit. It didn’t fit quite right and he found himself perpetually tugging at the cuffs. Of course, Holloway hadn’t doled out the same ridiculous amount he’d paid for Will’s suit. Not by a good five dollars.

  But Charlie couldn’t deny it was a necessary investment. Though Will’s crown of unruly hair hadn’t succumbed entirely to a battening down, he didn’t appear out of place, the tall, trim shape of him polished to the finicky standards of even the most mercenary of mamas. If he’d seemed nervous upon arrival, he’d swiftly acquired the proper wry smile and comfortable cradling of a champagne glass. He’d even, to Charlie’s amusement, stirred up some chatter, mostly from the curious women who’d been maneuvering in his direction for the better part of an hour.

  He and Will had been so fixated on the prospect of interviewing Belcourt, they hadn’t taken into account how much interest Will might stir in the guise of wealthy, unattached stranger in town. Whether that might be used to any advantage was yet to be seen. So far, it had succeeded in separating the two of them, even though Charlie was supposed to be playing the part of chaperone. Will had stepped away in search of Belcourt, but Charlie had the feeling Belcourt was as entangled in feminine nets. Capturing him for a private conversation seemed impossible. Though Mrs. Wortham had given her guests the run of several rooms, including her fair-sized ballroom and the terrace beyond, the crowd was considerable and the string quartet noisy enough to prevent much in the way of even public conversation.

  The terrace seemed a better venue for—at the very least—productive eavesdropping. Charlie stepped into the cool evening and took a route right through the middle of the crowd, confident no one would look at him twice in his second-hand suit. He did garner a few curious glances, most likely from folks who’d learned he was Will Nesmith’s chaperone, but no one pulled him into conversation. He was glad for it because he had no idea what lies Will was scrambling to tell to shield himself from discovery. He didn’t expect Will would be particularly clever about it. The man didn’t seem to have any capacity for subterfuge.

  Unwilling to risk contradicting him, Charlie avoided further eye contact with the guests and instead sidled to a leafy corner of the terrace where he could linger unnoticed and watch the guests parade past. Luck favored him with the appearance of Eleanor Mayhew, the young Miss Mayhew’s mother, and behind her, a flock of matrons as stately. They seemed to be seeking a private corner, themselves, and Charlie slunk farther back into the shadows, hoping he wasn’t about to be chased off.

  But the flock came only as far as the comfortable half-circle of gilt-edged chairs under a canopy brightened by stone lanterns, a spot made all the cozier by the rose-covered trellis behind it. Shielded from the evening breeze, it was also a quieter spot and voices carried to Charlie’s hiding place.

  “Well, he seems quite taken with her.”

  “Positively smitten.”

  “And with hardly more than three waltzes between them.”

  Charlie risked a hasty glance around a potted juniper. The four women were much alike, middle-aged figures attired in flattering concoctions of satin and lace accented with the sharp glitter of diamonds. Mrs. Mayhew, the only one who hadn’t spoken, sat at the very edge of her seat, wringing the life out of a handkerchief. One of her companions reached out and patted her shoulder. “Fortune has smiled upon you, dear Ellie. Poor Rose is so bashful… Well, of course a well-bred man wants nothing to do with a forward girl—and heaven knows there are enough of them about—but Rose is so impossibly shy, well…”

  “We’re afraid for her,” one of the other ladies clarified, with a solemn nod of her bejeweled head. “The poor little thing. Lord Belcourt is just a dear, but the responsibility of running his household would prove trying, I’m sure, even for someone more…” She cleared her throat. “Sociable.”

  Mrs. Mayhew’s sniff had a trace of indignation about it. “Lord Belcourt seems to find Rose’s sociability up to the task or he would not have accepted our invitation to lunch next week. Her nature no doubt reminds him of the well-mannered young women back in England. Such refinement is rare here, it seems.”

  The bejeweled head tipped back, an outraged chin achieving prominence. “Why, Eleanor Mayhew! I hope you’re not suggesting my Amelia is forward—”

  “No, no, of course not, my dear. I was referring to the average American girl. Truth be told, I don’t know how much I care for the idea of anyone sweeping Rose so far from home.” Mrs. Mayhew’s sniffle seemed more genuine. “I wouldn’t deny her happiness for all the world, of course—”

  “What about that young gentleman from California?”

  About to sneak away, Charlie froze. There might be other young gentlemen from California at the party, but… He leaned around the juniper, straining to catch every word as the mother of Amelia continued brightly. “Dashingly handsome—and such a charming way of talking about himself, so modest, as if he can’t imagine why anyone would want to know a thing about him. Just the sort of reticence and humility one desires in a husband. And they say he’s made an unheard of fortune out west, and that he’s in for more when his cousin dies. So he comes without a title…” She shrugged. “There are other advantages. A train trip is certainly less wearying than an ocean voyage. And you may even talk him into making Manhattan his home.”

  “Yes, indeed,” the quietest of the four suddenly interjected. “I had the chance to ask him what he thought of New York and he said he was coming ’round to liking it, despite one rather vexing individual he’d run across.”

  Charlie choked back a laugh. Will seemed to be holding his own. Still, it wasn’t wise to leave him alone too long. Returning indoors, Charlie meandered from room to room, each as dazzlingly lit and noisy with talk a
s the last, until he caught sight of Belcourt chatting with a group of gentlemen beside a cheery hearth fire. Young ladies lingered at the edge of their circle, seemingly too shy to join in the talk, and Charlie assumed Belcourt was regaling them with stories of London high society.

  “Mr. Kohlbeck!” Belcourt waved him closer. “I’ve been looking everywhere for Mr. Nesmith. Do you know where he might have gone? This is Isaiah Knox…” He gestured at the bearded man who stood wide-legged, hands behind his back, before the fire. A full head taller than Belcourt, Knox took up more than his share of room at the hearth, but seemed oblivious to any discomfort the ladies might be enduring in their gauzy draperies. At the introduction, he smiled genially at Charlie and extended a beefy hand. Charlie shook it as Belcourt went on. “Mr. Knox is with a land company downtown and has just been telling us what he’s discovered about our acreage out west. Most exciting. I thought Mr. Nesmith might care to share in it.”

  “He’s gone out for a little air…” Something in Knox’s dark-eyed, considering gaze made Charlie pause. There was a hard glint there, perhaps not uncommon among financiers, but it felt out of place at such an innocuous little party. “Acreage, you said? You’ve bought land here?”

  “Lord Belcourt owns property in Georgia and Colorado.” Knox’s tone suggested Charlie was backward for not knowing as much.

  “It isn’t mine, alone,” Belcourt said with a laugh. “I’m just the first to sail over and have a look around.”

  Charlie couldn’t contain his curiosity. “Beg your pardon, Lord Belcourt. You’re part of a syndicate of investors?”

  Belcourt nodded enthusiastically. “Jolly group of fellows back home. Seven of us—no, six now. Lost one over the summer. But good old Knox has a notion to bring in some American investors—to smooth things over, really, since some of you chaps aren’t keen on foreign landlords,” he finished with another little laugh that was echoed by the young ladies and two or three of the men. One, an older gentleman with thinning gray hair and a moustache that more than made up for it, leaned toward Belcourt and spoke in lowered tones.

  “Any mining on the property, my lord?”

  “Well…” Belcourt lowered his voice, too—though everyone present could hear him. “I’ve heard it said that gold may be a possibility. Isn’t that so, Mr. Knox?”

  “I would not like to perpetuate that rumor, my lord,” Knox said.

  Charlie choked on a laugh. Knox wouldn’t like to perpetuate the rumor, but of course he’d just convinced everyone it was true. Charlie knew the man’s business—and had written that tale often enough; broker turned promoter, taking every opportunity to talk naive investors into buying land that might—or might not—turn a profit. Belcourt may not have come to New York looking for a wealthy bride, but if he trusted Knox too readily with his money, before long he would need one.

  The gray-haired gentleman—Timothy Mayhew, Charlie remembered all at once—appeared only more intrigued at the information; not surprising, as Mr. Mayhew had only recently made his way up the social ladder, and then by the mundane route of brewing beer. He wasn’t known to speculate on Wall Street—or indulge in any other kind of gambling. But gold was a temptation all its own.

  Charlie had meant to bow out of the conversation and go looking for Will, but that smirk of Knox’s was too provoking. “What’s the going rate to throw in?”

  The question appeared to surprise Knox—or maybe it was just from whence the question originated. All the same, he answered as smoothly as before. “Fifty.”

  Mayhew lost a little color. “Fifty thousand? Good heavens.”

  Belcourt laughed aloud. “My reaction, too… At first.” He spread his hands, then laid a palm over his heart, as if taking an oath. “I’ve never made a better investment in my life.”

  Perhaps the deal was as profitable as Belcourt made out; or perhaps Knox had given him some incentive to lure in other investors. Charlie didn’t want to think the worst of him. Belcourt seemed a jolly sort of fellow. And writing one too many newspaper stories on the subject had left Charlie rather cynical. He was more set than ever to get an interview out of Belcourt. He just needed the right venue. He needed…

  He realized exactly what he needed. And regrettably, old Smitty remained a necessary passport to Belcourt’s world. The game wasn’t over yet.

  * * *

  Will had no particular fondness for parties, even those to which he had been invited by people not mistaking him for someone else. Of course, people might not be mistaking him for someone else if he hadn’t given them the distinct impression he was someone else.

  Now, in the relative peace of Mrs. Wortham’s library, he was wishing he hadn’t. Pretending to be someone else was more trouble than he’d anticipated; and once or twice, it had been altogether heart-stopping when guests had innocently and earnestly informed him they’d met certain of Jonathan Nesmith’s relations in the past. Then he’d scrambled to assume an air of interest—at least, an air of interest equal to that of an actual relative—and feign familiarity with people he’d never met. Swamped with a sense of shame over the hitherto unmatched number of lies he was telling, he’d struggled to remind himself that once he was back home, he would be ordinary Will Nesmith again… And still gainfully employed.

  But after three hours of presenting himself as a wealthy young bachelor new to Manhattan, it began to sink in just how dangerous it was to be a wealthy young bachelor at loose ends in unfamiliar territory. He’d collected well over two dozen invitations to luncheons, teas, parties, and balls, stammering out a non-committal reply to each, and he’d reached the end of his decidedly frayed rope. He could not walk out without his chaperone, though—so he sought a safe corner in which to catch his breath.

  The dim, cool quiet of the library had washed over him the moment he’d slipped inside and he didn’t want to leave. He settled in a comfortable leather chair beside the dark hearth and listened a while to the unintelligible chatter outside, appreciating its distance. If someone came in, he would just feign exhaustion. He was, after all, recovering from some sort of terrible illness. He’d forgotten just what.

  He’d started to drift off when the sound of a door opening startled him awake. Hoping for Charlie, he was discouraged to find himself in the presence of yet another young woman, one no doubt determined to follow the fashion of the moment and acquire a Nesmith for her autumn ball.

  The doors to the moonlit terrace were tempting, but Will knew there was no escape. As she came into the room, he rose to greet her—only to be taken aback when she gasped and hastily retreated behind the chair opposite his. She’d thought the library was empty, he realized. “I beg your pardon… It’s Miss Mayhew, isn’t it?”

  She smiled tentatively and Will returned the smile, retreating a step. She wasn’t much more than eighteen, a dark-haired young woman in a pink gown, her bouquet of rosebuds clutched in a gloved hand. Where her chaperone might be, he didn’t know, but he could not get her into trouble. “I’m sorry, Miss Mayhew. I should go—”

  “Oh, no. I beg your pardon, Mr. Nesmith. I just wanted to catch my breath.”

  She’d wanted to get the devil away from that lot, herself. Will nodded. “Of course. But I don’t think it would do for me to remain.”

  “You were here first.” She dropped her gaze to her bouquet and absently plucked loose a petal. “I should find my mother, anyway, before she worries.”

  “I suspect she’ll find you first. Certainly if you’ve left a trail of rose petals.” Will took a step in the direction of the door. “I’ll find her, if you like, and send her to you.”

  “Oh, not just yet.” She seemed embarrassed. “I know it’s silly—”

  “Not at all. Any number over two at a party and I’d much sooner stay home, myself.”

  She laughed and lifted a shy gray gaze to meet his. “As would I, but Mother insisted…” Her smile faded.

  “Yes, mothers are notorious for that. As are private secretaries.”

  She didn�
�t seem to take his rueful tone seriously. “Your Mr. Kohlbeck is a very kind gentleman.”

  It was no easy thing to suppress a snort, but Will did. “My Mr. Kohlbeck has a dedication to his job that is…” He sighed. “Trying, at times.”

  Her head tilted, smile deepening. “I’m sure it must only be concern for your welfare.”

  “I may forgive him if he hasn’t accepted any more invitations on my behalf. I’ve never been offered so many—” He broke off, remembering who he was supposed to be. “Well, so far from home. Manhattan may not have been the wisest choice,” he added, letting the rueful note slip back in. “I’ll have to find some lonely spot in the woods, I think. I’m more suited to it.”

  The idea brought a twinge of homesickness and he wondered if he might indeed escape on Sunday for a day on the island. Violet might not want to…

  “You must have such wonderful places to explore,” Miss Mayhew said quietly. “Out west, I mean.”

  “Wonderful places,” Will echoed with a small laugh. “You’ll have to forgive me, Miss Mayhew. I haven’t been in town long enough to feel quite at home.”

  “I’m sure you will. Everyone’s eager to help you,” she went on with a little laugh of her own. “I suppose you have all the invitations you can bear to accept at the moment.”

  Will heard the wistful tone. “I have the suspicion you mean to ask me to tea, Miss Mayhew.”

  “We’re hosting a luncheon on Thursday.” She was shyer than ever, but earnest. “It’s only a little luncheon. Nothing so grand as this. I don’t suppose you would…”