Chapter Seven
Fitz’s throat tightened. He brutally swallowed the burning ache, composed himself, and strode across the street. He waited until he heard Gigi enter Esmeralda’s town house before turning back around.
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he stared up at the three-story structure. A man used to getting what he wanted, and wise enough to reject what he couldn’t achieve quickly, he found himself in uncharted territory.
His heart pounded with antipathy. Gigi’s resistance to giving up the pearls wasn’t a surprise, precisely. The woman had always been difficult. It was, however, a complication he could do without.
One of the previously darkened windows on the third floor came alive with flickering light. Gigi lived in the servants’ quarters, Fitz concluded. The thought sat about as well as her inability to be reasonable had earlier, which was to say not at all.
There was more to her story, something she wasn’t telling him about the pearls. She’d seemed genuine in her desire to return the necklace. And yet, Fitz sensed a secret there. He knew all about keeping secrets.
Maybe he was overthinking the situation.
Frowning, he rocked back on his heels and pulled in a deep breath of the frigid night air. He caught a wisp of stale cigar smoke mere seconds before a murky figure stepped out of the shadows and joined him on the sidewalk.
“You want me to keep following her?”
“Yes.” Fitz didn’t take his eyes off the third-floor window. “She could run again.”
Gigi could be packing her belongings even now.
“She won’t get far.” The confidence in the detective’s voice was why Fitz was paying the man a small fortune.
Fitz swiveled slightly to his left. The investigator’s eyes glinted black in the dark night. Mr. Offutt had come highly recommended and proven competent, except for the mistake he’d made this morning when he’d lost Gigi in the crowds on Thirty-Fourth Street.
They discussed their next meeting time and place. And then Fitz waved down a carriage for hire to take him back to his hotel.
Thirty minutes later, he entered the Waldorf-Astoria and retrieved his key from the front desk.
The evening clerk, an older gentleman with a receding hairline and a perfectly trimmed beard, was dressed in an impeccable blue suit and a silver brocade waistcoat. His nameplate identified him as Marvin Kapinsky.
“Good evening, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
Fitz returned the greeting, his mind back in the alley with Gigi. She’d mentioned her father’s ultimatum as the reason for staying in New York. No ultimatum would keep her from going home. She loved her sisters too much.
So why not return home the moment Dixon had abandoned her in this very hotel? Fitz would find out why, in time.
Regrettably, time was something he didn’t have.
“A telegram arrived after you left earlier.” The clerk set the slip of paper on the counter and then wished Fitz a good night.
Fitz shot the telegram a cursory glance, noted the name of the sender. The muscles in his back instantly tensed. Connor wouldn’t have contacted him unless it was important.
It could be nothing more than checking in.
Fitz’s gut said otherwise.
Fitz always trusted his gut.
A headache beat behind his eyes. He ignored the pounding as he stepped out of the elevator and onto the seventh floor.
In his room, Fitz sat at the writing desk and read the telegram.
Your father left his house before dawn. Showed up at the office hours later. Took entire staff out to lunch at the Parker House Hotel. Situation under control.
Fitz’s heart sank. So much said in a spattering of sentences. So much left unsaid. His father had escaped his nurse this morning and wandered the streets of Boston for hours, alone. He’d then shown up at the office and played the benevolent boss.
Lowering his head, Fitz read the last sentence again. Situation under control. Translation: Your secret is still safe.
Once again, Connor had proven his loyalty to the family and protected them from scandal. Fitz had only to recollect how the press pilloried members of society for something far less than a business titan’s erratic behavior.
Time was running out. He had to find a cure.
Fitz ran a hand over his face. No doubt today’s incident had left his mother in a frantic state. He would write back in the morning and recommend his cousin hire an additional nurse for their father’s care. One clearly wasn’t enough.
Finding trained workers that could keep their mouths shut was costing the family a fortune. Fitz would find a way to cover the expense.
And his father’s bad investments. The company had been teetering on the edge of ruin for a while, thanks to Calvin Fitzpatrick’s loss of sound judgment. Had Fitz not insisted on reviewing the ledgers, the situation would have become dire, perhaps even irreversible. Immediately upon discovering that the firm was on the brink of bankruptcy, Fitz and Connor had taken control of the company.
Although they’d made remarkable progress, it would take years to restore the business to its former glory. Fitz had settled his father’s debts, paid off the bad mortgages, and reorganized the accounting system.
The investment firm was solvent again, but not yet thriving. Connor’s marriage to Annie Wentworth would go a long way to putting them at the top again. Her inheritance would provide the necessary income to expand.
Even without Annie’s inheritance, Fitz would bring the firm back to greatness. The source of his larger concern was his father. The man’s unpredictable behavior was getting worse.
Unable to sit still, Fitz stood abruptly and paced along the perimeter of the room. Few knew of Calvin Fitzpatrick’s condition. Connor had aided Fitz in keeping his father’s illness from becoming public knowledge. So many secrets, he thought, feeling the weight of them like a millstone around his neck.
An image of Gigi flashed in his mind.
The woman he’d encountered today was so far removed from the vibrant young girl he’d once adored from afar. He didn’t know quite how to process the changes. Even the name she’d chosen spoke to her situation.
Sally Smith was plain, unassuming, practically invisible. Gigi Wentworth had been charming, sparkling, a woman who turned heads and—
Fitz experienced a pang of guilt. He’d seen the sadness in Gigi’s eyes when he’d mentioned Nathanial. The wistfulness. As though she wished for his return, regardless of what she’d said.
Fitz knew about wishing for what he could never have.
He knew about pining for someone who could never be his.
Lips pressed in a hard line, he pivoted on his heel and retraced his steps around the room. If Gigi refused to give him the pearls, he would have to rethink this strategy.
He must gain Gigi’s trust. Therein lay the problem. She’d never trusted him, and time was working against him. Originally, Fitz had thought to return to Boston in a few days, a week at most. He could tell her family where she was and let her father handle matters from there. But the last time Fitz had interfered in her life, he’d caused more harm than good.
By his third pass around the room, his headache had settled into a dull throb. An improvement, yet Fitz couldn’t shake his foul mood. He picked up the telegram, read the typed words again, let out a slow hiss.
Situation under control.
For how long?
Fitz crumpled the piece of paper in his hand, then tossed it in the fire. He shut his eyes and searched his pounding, churning mind for answers. Answers, he resolved, that would come in time. He needed another week.
Perhaps two. Three at the very most. Far more time than he’d arranged to be gone. It couldn’t be helped. Connor would have to understand. Fitz sat at the writing desk and composed a response to his cousin.
When Gigi awakened the next morning, her mood was as dark as the sky. Mechanically, she rose from her bed and proceeded to braid and coil her hair with an efficiency born of habit. The previous evening’s encounter with Fitz had been frightening, but the man hadn’t broken her will.
Two days, indeed.
He could stay in New York a week, a month, a year, and she wouldn’t give him the pearls. She’d had the courage and fortitude to create a new life for herself on her own. She would figure out a way to send Fitz back to Boston empty-handed. He could not—would not—be the one to return the necklace she’d taken.
You mean the necklace you stole.
Borrowed. She’d always intended to return it.
Blinking through the pre-dawn gloom, she stared up at the ceiling. The plaster was peeling in places, its repair evidently not a priority.
Sighing, Gigi lowered her gaze. She’d tossed and turned all night and still hadn’t been able to decipher Fitz’s motivation. What did he have to gain by playing the hero in this little farce of theirs? What sort of debt did he owe his cousin?
As she laced up her ankle boots, Gigi reviewed their conversation and the man’s threat to bring the police into the matter. She very much doubted he would go that far.
Her mind stuck on something else he’d said. The wedding must go off without a hitch.
Why would that be a concern?
If Annie and Connor’s union was a love match, as Fitz claimed, nothing could keep them apart. Not even scandal.
Gigi had seen the power of true love. Both of her previous employers had found their soul mates in the midst of scandal and were living happily ever after. Though it hadn’t turned out so well for Gigi, she knew love could, and often did, conquer all. She wasn’t so jaded to think otherwise.
What if Annie wanted Gigi at her wedding? They’d been close once upon a time, as close as any sisters could be. They’d laughed and shared confidences. Some had been silly, some serious. They’d dreamed of the future and of meeting their everlasting love.
Then Nathanial had shown up at a party hosted by a friend of a friend. Gigi had been instantly smitten and would hear nothing against him. She’d shut out her sisters, her friends, and anyone who didn’t approve of her attraction to the handsome charmer. Annie hadn’t been as vocal as the others, but she’d urged Gigi to be cautious. Gigi had happily taken leave of her senses. She’d seen the beauty in her love for Nathanial, not the danger.
Did Annie hold her selfishness against her?
Gigi would only know when she returned to Boston.
And when she returned, Annie should be the one to decide if she wanted Gigi to be a part of the wedding celebration.
If she was turned away . . .
No, she refused to let her mind spin in that direction. One step at a time. First, she had to send Fitz back to Boston. But not before extracting his promise not to tell her family where she was. Gigi must make restitution on her own.
She finished dressing, then stepped out of her room and hurried down the back stairwell. She followed her nose to the one place she felt truly comfortable in this house.
The noise level increased as she conquered each step. By the time she reached the first floor, the scent of bacon frying and bread baking restored the appetite she’d lost the day before. The growling of her stomach reminded her she’d missed dinner last night. Knowing Fitz was in this house had made the thought of eating distasteful.
Not so, now.
Unlike the rest of the town house at this early hour, the kitchen was a hive of activity. The room was well lit, warm, and welcoming. Gigi attributed the latter to the staff’s laughter. Heat and pleasant aromas drew her forward.
She paused in the doorway, a smile on her lips. I’ll miss these people when I’m gone.
Swiping at her eyes, she took in the familiar scene.
A wooden table sat in the center of the room, with two identical tea services waiting to be prepared and then taken up to the bedchambers where the ladies of the house still slumbered. A smaller table off to her right was filled with Gigi’s fellow servants. They were already digging into a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, a medley of fruit, and thick pieces of toast loaded with butter and jam.
Gigi’s mouth watered.
The cook, a large man whose girth practically equaled his height, barked at Gigi to stop dawdling in the doorway and sit at the table. He then turned to his assistant, Lottie, and gave the reed-thin blonde a succession of curt orders. The girl scurried back and forth from the pantry to the table.
The housekeeper looked up from her plate and motioned Gigi to sit. “Eat, dear, before the eggs get cold.”
Gigi took the chair directly across from the plump woman with the twinkling eyes and ready smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Garrison.”
“Good morning, Sally.”
They were joined at the table by the butler, Irving, the gardener and his assistant, Esmeralda’s lady’s maid, and the two additional housemaids. All but Lottie were on the wrong side of fifty. Every one of them had once worked in the theater, but the roles had shriveled up with each passing year, the curse of making a living on the stage.
Even Lottie had been a child actress. Her cuteness had matured into something not quite womanly and several steps from attractive, and thus she’d found herself out of work by the ripe old age of thirteen.
Of all the homes where Gigi had served in the past year, this one had her favorite staff. They were open and friendly, and told marvelous stories about their days on the stage—treading the boards, as they called it. Gigi suspected most of their outrageous stories were more fiction than fact, at the very least heavily embellished. She didn’t mind. Listening to their tales of life in the theater was the one indulgence she allowed herself.
Well, that and the Boston newspapers she read from cover to cover whenever she had a free moment. Something that would be far more precious now that she had to earn fifty extra dollars in only a few weeks.
As she filled her plate and began eating, Gigi listened to the chatter floating around the table. They were gossiping, of course, about Esmeralda, their favorite topic. Gigi felt a smile tug at her lips until she realized the speculation wasn’t about Esmeralda after all but rather the surprise dinner guest from the night before.
Gigi’s appetite took a dramatic turn for the worse. She thought she might be sick. Setting aside her fork, she silently mourned the waste of all that lovely food on her plate.
“Do you think he’s pursuing Sophie?”
Perfect. Even the servants were playing matchmaker. The roiling in Gigi’s stomach took on a life of its own.
She couldn’t imagine Fitz and Sophie together. Although maybe if she squinted her eyes very tightly and thought it through very, very carefully, she could envision them as a couple.
Fitz would provide Sophie the one thing she desired most, respectability. Sophie would bring light into Fitz’s austere existence. Where Fitz was hard, Sophie was soft. Her gentle nature would temper his arrogance. His steadiness would bring her stability.
They would produce beautiful babies.
The thought of Fitz and Sophie building a family together brought an odd reaction, a strange sort of unwholesome desire to rip every hair out of her friend’s beautiful head. The ugliness of her reaction to something that hadn’t yet happened brought heat crawling up Gigi’s neck.
“It must be Sophie he’s wanting,” the gardener’s assistant said. “He’s far too young for Esmeralda.”
“Right,” one of the housemaids said in a sarcastic British accent. “As if the age difference has ever stopped a young man from pursuing the mistress.”
Agreement sounded from nearly everyone in the kitchen, save for Cookie, who was too busy sending Lottie back and forth from the pantry to the stove.
There was a pause, and then, “But who is he?”
Another pause fell over the table, and Gigi could see each of them waiting for one of the others to supply something of substance about Fitz.
The silence lengthened.
“Surely, he has a name?” the housekeeper asked the room in general. “Does no one here know it?”
“Christopher Nolan Fitzpatrick.”
All eyes turned to Gigi. There was another beat of silence, during which the entire staff seemed to stop and wait, and then the interrogation began in earnest.
“Have you met him?” Followed by, “Is he as handsome as Lottie claims?” This had both housemaids wondering out loud and saying simultaneously, “Does he have designs on our Sophie?”
Gigi held up a hand to still the flow of inquiries. She answered them in order. “Yes, I met him at the theater yesterday,” she told Mrs. Garrison. To the gardener’s assistant, Gigi said, “He’s quite handsome,” because, well, Fitz was attractive, if a woman went for dark hair, intense green eyes the color of fresh ivy after a spring rain, and the strong, broody, silent type. Lastly, she said, “I have no idea if he’s pursuing Sophie.”
The hitch in Gigi’s throat could be explained away by her need to respond briskly to the rapid-fire questions.
“I believe he is in negotiations to purchase the Summer Garden Theater,” she added with no additional prompting.
“He’s rich?”
As Midas. “I believe so.”
“And respectable?” Lottie asked, setting another tray of toast on the table.
Gigi thought about her answer. “Very.”
“A handsome, wealthy, respectable man is wooing our Sophie?” Mrs. Garrison asked the rhetorical question with a wistful note in her voice. “How absolutely . . . wonderful.”
Gigi agreed that Sophie deserved a good man. The problem was Gigi couldn’t say for certain if Fitz was a good man. On paper, yes. In reality, she simply didn’t know. Respectable didn’t necessarily equal moral. In truth, Fitz had always been a mystery to Gigi. And now, he was being as secretive as ever, making threats and demands without offering a hint as to his real motives.
More questions came at her. She answered them as best she could, evading when a truthful answer would reveal a stronger connection to Fitz than a single meeting would warrant.
At last, the conversation turned to the current production of Carmen and the dubious talent of half the cast. None of whom were as gifted as those sitting at the table had been in their day.
Seizing her opportunity for escape, Gigi went to work filling the tray with Sophie’s preferred breakfast items. She added that morning’s edition of the New York Times and headed up the back stairs.
Once she was alone with only her thoughts for company, a sense of desperation nagged at her ability to remain calm. You have two days.
She’d spent much of the night trying to come up with a plan. The obvious answer was to tell Fitz the truth about the pearls and ask for his help.
If only she could trust him.
What am I going to do, Father God?
Silence met the question, just like all the other times she’d sought guidance from the Lord. Gigi was alone, as she’d been for eleven long months.
She cleared her mind of Fitz and his preposterous two-day deadline. Gigi would figure out what to do. She always did.