Magnate by Joanna Shupe (4)

Chapter Four

A knock sounded on her dressing room door, and Lizzie barely had time to hide her stock tables and notes before her brother burst in.

“Will!” she said, pulling the lace curtain of her dressing table closed. “You’ve returned.”

Her brother had a strange light in his eye as he bent to kiss her cheek. “Hello, Lizzie. I apologize for barging in, but I need to speak with you.”

He shifted away, and she felt a stab of alarm. He looked terrible. And had that been whiskey she smelled on his breath? Why were all the men in her life suddenly drinking heavily?

“Is there something the matter?”

Will leaned against the wall near her dressing table, folded his arms. His stern expression reminded her of the day he’d caught her replacing her tutor’s books with stock tables. “It is my understanding,” he began, “that you paid a call to Emmett Cavanaugh this week.”

Oh. So this was about the dinner. In her worry over Will’s discovering her stock research, she’d forgotten. “Yes, I did.”

He waited for her to elaborate, and when she didn’t, he prompted, “May I ask why you would risk your reputation in such a reckless manner?”

“Curiosity,” she lied. “He is one of your friends, after all.”

“Friends?” Will’s lip curled slightly. “Why on earth would you believe that?”

So Will did not like Cavanaugh. Lizzie hadn’t expected that. “You have dinner with him and those other two men every month.”

“How could you possibly know about those meetings?”

She snorted. “Like I’d tell you.” No need getting their driver fired. But she’d learned ages ago of the monthly dinners at the Knickerbocker Club between Emmett Cavanaugh, Calvin Cabot, Theodore Harper, and her brother.

Will lifted a hand to rub his eyes.

“Will, you look tired. Perhaps you should—”

“Lizzie, please. Those meetings . . . You shouldn’t know of them. No one should know of them. They are for business only. Do you understand?”

Business. Sloane business, which meant they were his concern and not hers. A familiar ache flared in her stomach. Have parties, Lizzie. Go to the opera. Leave the serious matters to me.

“I haven’t told anyone, if that’s your worry. Though I do not understand why the meetings need to be kept secret.”

“Because they must. Why did you agree to dinner with him?”

The more time that passed, the more secrets Will kept from her. He traveled constantly, rarely telling her where, not to mention his evasion about their financial well-being. The business was his first concern—not her, the only family he had left.

Well, she had secrets of her own.

“Because he asked.”

“You make it sound as if you are desperate for companionship. What about Rutlidge? Have you considered how your cavorting with Cavanaugh will affect your relationship with—”

“Henry and I are friends, Will. Nothing more. I know you want me married and off your hands, but Henry is not the man for me.”

“Lizzie, you’re twenty-one. If I wanted you married off it would have happened years ago. Nevertheless, you can’t wait forever. Rutlidge is a good match. I like him, and I think he cares for you.”

For the life of her, she couldn’t picture Henry’s face. All she could see was Emmett Cavanaugh’s dark, piercing eyes in the carriage last evening. He’d almost kissed her, his hot stare never leaving her mouth. What would it have felt like? She bet the kiss would have been rough and wild, just like the man himself. She suppressed a shiver.

“Maybe I do not want to marry at all.”

Will gave her a compassionate half smile. “You’re just being stubborn. Of course you want to marry. One of us has to ensure the next generation of Sloanes.”

“That’s your responsibility, since my children won’t be Sloanes. And I don’t see why I need to marry.” She cocked her head. “Does this have anything to do with the paintings and stocks you sold—”

“No,” he cut her off. “I want you settled because I’m gone half the time, and I worry about you in this big place by yourself. And if something happened to me . . .” He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “I need to know you’re taken care of. Mother and Father would have wanted that for you.”

The mention of their parents hung heavily between them, a reminder of the grief they shared as siblings. Will had assumed so much at a young age after their father’s death fourteen years ago. Lizzie hated to add to it. “I’ll think on it,” she hedged.

“That’s a girl.” He came over, pulled her to her feet, and wrapped her in a hug. “I want you to be happy, Lizzie.”

“Then give me the money to start my brokerage firm.”

He backed away and threw his hands up. “That again! You cannot go to work, like some low-class shopgirl. You’re a Sloane, for God’s sake. Think of your reputation. What would everyone say?”

“Will, I know the business is in trouble.” Her brother flinched, but she continued. “There are things you aren’t telling me. Please, let me help. I can—”

“Absolutely not.” He pushed back the sides of his coat, shoved his hands in his pockets. “We’ve talked about this. Everything is fine. There’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about. Let it go, Lizzie.”

He was lying. She knew it in her bones. Yet each time she presented him with proof, he had an explanation ready.

Never mind him. The Sloanes would not go broke, not if Lizzie could do anything about it. She had been speculating in her head for years. Now she would take that ability and invest on a much larger scale for others, retaining a nice percentage for her efforts.

“Now,” Will continued as he strode toward the door, “I’ve sent a note to Rutlidge asking him to join us for dinner tonight. Being seen together will help put this god-awful Cavanaugh business behind you.”

She thought briefly about refusing, since Will had no business confirming dinner plans without checking with her first, but instead she blurted, “Why do you dislike Mr. Cavanaugh?”

Will stopped and turned, his expression hard. “He’s the worst sort of man. Selfish and cold. If you knew some of the things he’d done in order to get ahead . . .” Will shook his head. “And the parade of women . . . Dear God. Stay away from him. I do not want you anywhere near Emmett Cavanaugh.”

He opened her door. “I can only be thankful you two ate in the main dining room. If he’d taken you to a private dining suite, I would’ve had to kill him.” Will closed the door, and his footsteps echoed down the hall.

Lizzie drummed her fingers on the table. She was more determined than ever to win her bet with Cavanaugh. Winning meant starting her own firm, and when she began turning a profit, she could help Will keep Northeast Railroad afloat as well as assume some of the household expenses. And with Cavanaugh as her backer, other investors would soon follow, she was sure of it.

Reaching beneath her dressing table, she withdrew her notes. She needed a plan for investing Emmett’s money. Less than three weeks was hardly enough time to double a large sum. A heavy dose of luck would be crucial.

And she could not afford to fail.

* * *

A few days later, as fierce early January winds pummeled Wall Street, Lizzie watched as a young, auburn-haired man exited the restaurant located in the Mills Building. The man was Robbie, one of the traders Will used on the exchange. Lizzie planned to convince Robbie to make her trades as well.

Pulling her coat tighter, she hurried after him. “Robbie?”

He spun around and placed his hat on his head. “Yes?”

“I am Miss Sloane, William Sloane’s sister.” She thrust out her hand, which he shook reluctantly. “May we sit in my brougham and speak?”

“I suppose. Is Mr. Sloane there?” He glanced hopefully to the carriage waiting at the curb.

“Not today. I would just like a moment of your time.” Without giving him a chance to refuse, she linked her arm with his and began pulling him toward the busy street.

Once they were settled, she said, “My brother has been quite pleased with your firm, and I’m wondering if you would be willing to assist me with a small matter.”

“A small matter?”

“Yes, you see I have a large sum of money that I need to invest on the exchange. I know you usually deal with my brother, but I’m hopeful that you will be amenable to dealing with me as well.”

“You need me to place an order for you?”

“Yes. Obviously, I cannot do it myself.”

He scratched his square jaw, his gaze wary. “Why not go through your brother, if you don’t mind my asking? Wall Street’s no place for a proper lady, miss.”

The tips of her ears warmed, and she fought her anger, struggling to remain calm. “Are you unwilling to take my money, merely because I am a woman?”

“Taking money from a woman isn’t a problem for me, Miss Sloane. I just don’t want to do nothing to upset your brother.”

She could understand his concern, as Will had recently fired his previous investment firm. But Lizzie had no intention of letting Will learn of this transaction—at least not yet. “Let me worry about my brother.”

He tapped his fingers on his knees. “So how much do you have to play with?”

“Ten thousand.”

“That’s a nice chunk of greenbacks. I’m thinking one of the oil companies like Pacific Coast. They’ve been making steady gains. Your brother—”

“Pardon me, but I don’t have time for steady gains. I need to double this money in less than three weeks.”

“Less than three weeks!” He jerked back, mouth agape. “You need a miracle, Miss Sloane.”

“I was thinking a short sale. Remember the Regional Telegraph rumor in November?”

He chuckled. “Of course. I pocketed almost a thousand dollars off that one.”

“I can imagine. Must have been a wild day on the floor.” She would have given anything to be there. Single-day stock swings of that nature were rare and a thing of beauty—as long as you weren’t on the losing end.

“It was.” He stared at her a beat. “I’m not certain I can guarantee a large return in a short amount of time. I’ll do my best, though.”

“I’d like you to hold off investing it for now. Just until we see an opportunity for a large gain.” She withdrew the check out of her small purse. “Here is the money.”

He accepted the paper and tucked it into his inner coat pocket. “So I’m just to hold on to this for now?”

“Yes. I’ll be in touch soon.”

“I assume you’ll be asking your brother’s advice on where to invest it.”

The implication was clear: no woman could possibly be savvy enough to understand stocks. Lizzie longed to set Robbie straight, to tell him she likely knew as much as he did, if not more. But he would learn of her skills in due time, provided he did not balk at dealing with her.

So, for now, she would play the game. “Yes, of course,” she lied. “I plan to speak with him at my first opportunity.”

* * *

As he did the first Thursday of every month, Emmett Cavanaugh entered an alley off Thirty-Second Street and stepped into the busy kitchens of the Knickerbocker Club. The four men always met here, on neutral territory, where the risk of discovery was low. Not his preferred location—the blue-blooded club had once refused his membership application—but the other three had agreed on it, so Emmett went along.

Hardly mattered where they met, as long as they continued their little cabal. This was how business ran—serious business, anyway. The men here tonight were the visionaries, with enough power and money to shape the future. And Emmett aimed to see those plans shaped to his benefit, which was the reason he never missed a meeting. Who knew what would be set in motion if he didn’t show up to protect his interests?

The waiters and cooks ignored him as he strode along the white tiled floor, the staff too well-trained to gawk—not that Emmett would have cared either way. Once up the service stairs, he continued to the big private dining suite at the end of the hall. A waiter in a black coat and white shirt opened the paneled door for him without a word. Emmett handed over his stick, hat, and coat.

Harper had already arrived. “Cavanaugh,” the man said, rising to shake Emmett’s hand. A financial genius, Theodore Harper was a force to be reckoned with on the exchange. His New American Bank was one of the most powerful in the world, a backer to many of Emmett’s ventures.

“Evening, Harper,” Emmett said as the two of them relaxed into seats around the large, linen-covered dining table. A waiter slipped a glass onto the table in front of Emmett, his preferred drink of chilled gin, a hint of vermouth, and a twist of orange rind. A long way from the days in Ragpicker’s Row, Emmett thought, when straight gin had been like mother’s milk.

Emmett sipped the spirits, enjoying the burn of juniper and citrus as it slid down his throat. “Where are Sloane and Cabot?”

“Cabot was coming into Grand Central from out west somewhere,” Harper said, referring to Calvin Cabot, the publisher of three of the country’s most powerful newspapers. Harper swirled a tumbler of bourbon whiskey. “But he cabled that he’d be here. I have no idea why Sloane’s late. He’s usually early.”

Perhaps Sloane wasn’t coming. The man had been furious when he stormed into Emmett’s house on Saturday morning. Emmett nearly smiled at the memory. Sloane could be a sanctimonious prick, and Emmett had been on the receiving end of Sloane’s scorn more times than he could count. He’d be damned before he gave up an opportunity to annoy the elitist bastard.

“How’s Mrs. Harper?” Emmett asked. Harper had met a young woman by chance on a train to St. Louis recently and quickly married her. Emmett happened to be very fond of the young but levelheaded woman.

Harper’s rare grin emerged. “Wonderful, thank you. Still keeping me on my toes. She wants to go back to work at the perfume counter after the baby’s born.” He shook his head. “I may have to buy out Hoyt’s and close the damn store just to keep her home.”

Emmett chuckled. “Might not be a bad investment in either case. I’ve been looking to buy into a department store.”

The door opened just then, and a perfectly polished William Sloane strode in. Harper came to his feet and shook Sloane’s hand. Emmett remained seated, downing more gin, and if the slight bothered Sloane he gave no hint of it. Neither man acknowledged the other.

A waiter delivered a glass of red wine to Sloane’s side as Sloane leaned toward the candle on the table to light a cigar. “Cabot coming?”

“Yes, he said he would be here,” Harper said, then looked between Emmett and Sloane. “Are you two not speaking to one another?”

Emmett said nothing, and Sloane blew out a long, thin stream of smoke. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

The door bounced open, and the tall form of a perpetually harried Calvin Cabot appeared. “Sorry I’m late,” he rushed out.

“We were just about to get started,” Emmett told him, rising as handshakes were traded.

“Good.” Cabot dropped into a seat, and a large tumbler of lager arrived by his right hand. “Sloane, I’m told you’ve got a real problem with the union in West Virginia again.” There had been a large-scale railroad strike in the area a little more than ten years ago, and word had it the workers were mobilizing once more.

“I know. I’m headed there tomorrow.” Sloane reached into his pocket and withdrew a sheet of paper. “Here’s what I’d like you to print.”

Cabot pocketed the piece without glancing at the contents. “Fine. Before we begin”—he lifted his glass for a long draught—“I heard Cavanaugh had dinner with your sister, Sloane . . .”

“I’d like to get down to business,” Sloane snapped. “Some of us have places to be.”

Cabot exchanged a look with Harper. Tension permeated the room like sweat at a dance hall. “Sure, if that’s the way you want to play it. Who wants to go first?”

As the talks progressed, demands were thrown about and concessions granted. Emmett agreed to Cabot’s request for cheap building materials out in San Francisco and Harper’s desire to drive the stock down on a chemical company. When they got to Sloane, he turned to address Emmett for the first time that night. “I’ve decided not to go in on the Ninety-Sixth Street pier and waterfront property.”

Harper and Cabot stilled, and the temperature in the room plummeted.

“You can’t back out,” Emmett said, his tone chilly. “We agreed on that ages ago, and they’re breaking ground in less than three weeks.”

“Well, now I’m un-agreeing.”

“This is the second deal you’ve backed out on since August,” Emmett noted, his voice low and hard. “I think you owe me an explanation. If this is about what happened the other—”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Sloane said, stamping out his cigar in a crystal dish. “The reasons why are none of your goddamn business.”

Emmett seethed, his hands curling into fists. This deal had been eighteen months in the making . . . and Sloane just backed out on a fucking whim? Or worse, as retribution for Emmett’s having dinner with his sister?

Of course the pier project was expensive. If Sloane was experiencing financial difficulties, that could explain his need to pull out. Emmett’s mood lifted considerably. “Far be it from me to stand in your way, then. After all, we are here to help one another.”

Emmett then launched into what he needed from each man: Cabot’s help in uncovering information against a politician; Harper’s backing in a resort project on the Jersey shore; Sloane’s influence with city hall to get permits approved cheaply.

With agreements all around, handshakes were then exchanged. Sloane hurried out, wasting no time in departing, but Cabot and Harper both hung back, apparently trying to judge Emmett’s mood.

“You took Sloane’s news on the pier well.” Harper finished his drink, setting the tumbler down. “I was about to start taking bets on who would swing first.”

“No contest.” Cabot shook his head. “Cavanaugh would rip Sloane limb from limb.”

Emmett knew they thought of him as a thug, one step above the filthy gutter he’d been born in. The reputation followed him wherever he went, especially since Emmett hadn’t done much to disprove it. Why would he, when the notoriety served his purposes so nicely? Very few were stupid enough to cross him.

Sure, fifteen years ago this might’ve been settled in an alley with fists. But those days were behind him now. Mostly.

“Elizabeth Sloane.” Cabot whistled. “I had no idea you ran in those circles, Cavanaugh.”

“I don’t,” Emmett said. “And I have my reasons for not challenging Sloane on the pier.”

“Yeah, like a second dinner with his sister.” Cabot snickered and elbowed Harper.

Emmett just smiled enigmatically. Let them think what they wanted while he dug a bit deeper into the Sloane finances. The reasons would become clear soon enough.

* * *

The outside of the Metropolitan Opera House, called “the Yellow Brick Brewery” by some, was wretchedly ugly. The design of the palazzo-style façade fell far short of the beautiful Italian Renaissance buildings on which it had been based. Instead of honoring the classic European buildings, the Opera House resembled a factory at its corner of Broadway and Thirty-Ninth Street.

The inside, however, was glorious, unlike anything else in New York. Light and sunny, the interior swam with ivory and gold accents around a stage that seemed larger than any in the world. Paintings covered the ceilings, and life-sized statues of the eight Muses adorned the proscenium.

From her well-positioned private box in the lower tier, also called the “Diamond Horseshoe,” Lizzie peered at the Friday night opera crowd in the gaslight. There were many familiar faces, including Edith Rutlidge, who sat four boxes away with her parents.

Emmett Cavanaugh had been one of the initial investors in the Opera House, yet she’d never seen him at a performance here. Still, a small part of her had hoped he would appear at tonight’s staging of Wagner’s Siegfried. Lizzie herself attended only because Will had insisted, saying they needed to maintain appearances after “that disastrous dinner with Cavanaugh.”

Lizzie disagreed. She had fond memories of last week’s dinner. Emmett was a fascinating man, certainly more interesting than the thick-jowled, heavily mustached society types surrounding her. He’d been given nothing in life, yet had taken everything. What drove such a complicated man?

Then there was the moment where he’d almost kissed her, his gaze intent and predatory inside the carriage. No other man had ever looked at her in such a way, like she was a banquet and he hadn’t eaten in years. Though it may be shameless of her to admit it, she wished he had followed through on that kiss. Wished that he’d held her close and pressed his lips to hers. Slipped his tongue inside her mouth....

Heat slid through her veins, warming her all over, and she used her ostrich-feather fan to cool her skin. The movement caught her brother’s attention. He leaned over, a blond brow raised in question.

“Are you ill?”

“I need some air,” she whispered, and then rose. He started to get up as well, but she patted his shoulder. “Please, sit. I’ll visit the ladies’ dressing room for a few minutes.” Lizzie lifted the skirts of her ivory satin opera gown and departed, passing the other gentlemen Will had invited this evening. Business acquaintances, he’d told her. Hardly surprising, since that was all her brother cared about.

She passed through the small salon at the back of their box and then into the corridor. Behind the tier were dressing rooms for the ladies and smoking rooms for the men. Lizzie traveled to the nearest dressing room, intent on pressing a cool cloth to her neck.

When she entered, there were three middle-aged women inside, busily chatting with one another. Lizzie recognized them as the wives of men who had recently built their fortunes—one with a telegraph company, one in shipping, and the other with a mine somewhere out West.

She nodded in greeting and continued to a small dressing table, where she requested a cool cloth from the maid hovering nearby. As Lizzie waited, she stripped off her gloves. The tight quarters made it impossible to avoid overhearing the ongoing conversation, not that the women put forth any effort whatsoever to keep quiet.

“. . . and I told him that we don’t own china fancy enough to serve Mrs. Astor.” That was Mrs. Connors, whose husband was the president of Gotham Telegraph.

“Which Mrs. Astor?” the miner’s wife asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the third woman snapped. “Waldorf’s wife hardly has the same social weight as Caroline Astor. But why would you need to serve her? I thought her husband called to see Mr. Connors.”

“Yes, he did. Snuck in, too,” Mrs. Connors said as Lizzie accepted a cool cloth from the maid. “Didn’t want to make too much of a stir, he said. Can you imagine, Backhouse not making a stir? The man never leaves his yacht, so of course I was shocked to see him. But now that he has called at our home, surely convincing him to bring his wife to visit shall not prove difficult.”

Lizzie wanted to snort. Etiquette demanded the lady of higher social rank pay a call first, yet Caroline Astor did not pay many calls. As the reigning matriarch of New York society, she hardly needed to. She had a large circle of friends, one that did not include new-monied types or divorcées.

“So what did Astor want with your husband?” one of the women asked.

“I haven’t a clue. He met with Mr. Connors and one of the Gotham lawyers. They were sequestered in the study for hours.”

Lizzie blinked, the cloth in her hand forgotten. Why would Mr. Astor sneak around to see the president of Gotham Telegraph and his lawyer? Gotham was incredibly profitable; their stock had split twice in the last fourteen months. Connors had started the family-run company two decades ago, just as the telegraph boom hit. He had two sons who would, according to reports, step up when Connors no longer wanted to oversee the company.

So what had been the purpose of the visit? No rumors of a sale had circulated, but if traders even suspected Astor was considering investing in—or buying out— Gotham, the stock would climb, perhaps enough to double Emmett’s money.

All Lizzie needed was the right moment, a few hours for the stock to jump in price, when she could buy and sell quickly. The rumor didn’t necessarily need to be true, either. Wall Street traded in innuendo and suspicion. If she could purchase a large chunk of the Gotham stock before any rumors of a sale began, then she would stand to make a huge profit.

“Whatever they met over, it certainly put Mr. Connors in a jubilant mood,” his wife said. “He told me to start booking my spring trip to Paris, and said he’ll finally be able to come with me this year. I tell you, that man hasn’t vacationed with me since our honeymoon.”

Things began adding up in Lizzie’s brain. Connors must be selling Gotham to Mr. Astor—and sitting on something wasn’t Mr. Astor’s style. He’d rather focus on horse races and yachting than on business, so she assumed the deal would be announced soon. If she could buy enough shares next week, then a well-positioned word in the right ear could spread like fire over the exchange. When the price of Gotham stock rose high enough, she could sell and win Emmett’s ridiculous bet. Excitement bubbled through her, a swell of anticipation that had her leg bouncing.

“Lizzie! Are you ill?” Edith Rutlidge appeared, her silver beaded gown rustling as she approached.

Edith was twenty, unmarried, and Lizzie’s closest friend. The two had met as small girls in Newport, though Lizzie could never give an exact date. It seemed the Sloanes had always been acquainted with the Rutlidges. Thanks to her close friendship with Edith, speculation began during Lizzie’s debut, linking her to their oldest son, Henry—speculation Lizzie had done her best to extinguish at every turn.

“I saw you get up,” Edith said, frowning. “I was worried.”

Lizzie came to her feet, unable to hide a grin. “I am quite well.”

Edith cocked her head, her gaze assessing. “Are you certain? You are acting very strangely lately.”

“Strangely, how?”

“Staying home more often than not. Refusing callers. Dinners with nouveau riche.”

Lizzie choked, then coughed to cover the sound. “It was one dinner. In full view of the other patrons, no less. Hardly anything worth noting.”

“Are you joking? It’s all anyone’s been talking about this week. Rumor has it your brother went to Cavanaugh’s house and punched him.”

Lizzie’s shoulders jerked, her body rocking back in surprise. Will wouldn’t have done that . . . would he? He’d looked terrible that morning, with his hair askew and eyes rimmed red, but Will rarely grew angry or raised his voice. She couldn’t imagine him doing anything so uncivilized. “You know Will would never do that.”

“That’s what I told everyone. Your brother is the stuffiest man I’ve ever met. It’s as if he was born with a stick up . . . well, you know where.”

Though Lizzie adored her brother, not even she could argue that point. “Let’s get back, shall we?” she said. “I don’t want to miss the last act.” Threading her arm through Edith’s, she led them toward the exit.

As they passed the small group of women still chatting inside the dressing room, Lizzie stopped. “Excuse me, Mrs. Connors?”

The older woman looked up. “Hello, Miss Sloane. Miss Rutlidge.”

“I wanted to say thank you,” Lizzie told her.

Confusion marred Mrs. Connors’s weathered face, and she clutched her long strand of pearls. “Whatever for?”

“For coming to the opera tonight.” The comment would make no sense to anyone other than Lizzie . . . but few people ever understood her anyway. What were three more? “And I would be honored if you and Mr. Connors would join my brother and me for dinner one evening. Perhaps I could invite Mrs. Astor as well, to introduce you.”

Mrs. Connors appeared shocked, but rushed out, “How kind of you to offer, Miss Sloane. I would quite enjoy that.”

“As would I. I’ll speak to my brother and call on you soon. Good evening, ladies.”

As they walked to the boxes, Edith murmured, “I didn’t know you were so fond of Mr. and Mrs. Connors.”

“After tonight, I am their biggest champion.”