Magnate by Joanna Shupe (22)

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BARON,

the next book in the Knickerbocker Club series,
coming in November 2016!

 

William Sloane did not believe in the ability to commune with the spirit world. Hell, he didn’t even believe there was a spirit world.

Yet he here sat, inside a ramshackle theater in the Tenderloin district, watching this audacious spectacle. Madam Zolikoff, she called herself. The mystifying medium who could communicate with spirits and perform extraordinary feats. The woman was the worst actress he’d ever seen—and Will had seen plenty.

Eyes closed, she swayed and waved her hands, all while chanting utter nonsense. A man sat across from her, one she’d pulled up onstage, his gaze rapt as Madam Zolikoff attempted to speak to his dead mother. The electric lights overhead flickered, and the audience tittered.

“Ah! I think we are close!” she announced loudly in an appalling Russian accent.

Will nearly rolled his eyes. Was anyone really buying this act?

Shifting in his uncomfortable seat, he glanced around at the meager audience. About twenty men and women, all average-looking, a far cry from the extravagant crowd he usually associated with. No diamond tiaras or swallowtail coats here, just derby hats and plain bonnets. But every pair of eyes was trained on the young woman working the stage.

She was attractive, he supposed, if one preferred liars and cheats, which he most definitely did not. Still, her pale blond hair showed off striking brown eyes. A straight, delicate nose. High cheekbones. Arching brows. Full lips painted a scandalous red.

He liked those lips. Quite a lot, in fact. If he were dead, those lips alone might bring him back.

“I hear her!” A steady rapping sounded, reverberating around the room. An accomplice, no doubt, yet the audience gasped.

“Mr. Fox, your mother is here with us now. What would you like to ask her?”

The man onstage asked simple questions for the next fifteen minutes, with Madam Zolikoff “interpreting” the dead mother’s answers. Will absently rubbed his stomach, anger burning over this performance, that she would take advantage of someone’s grief in such a profoundly fraudulent way. When Will’s own mother had died, he’d fervently wished for something—anything—to bring her back. Nothing had, however, and he’d been left in a cold house with an even colder man.

Madam Zolikoff prattled on, regaining Will’s attention. Had this woman no shame? No empathy for the heartbreak that went along with losing a loved one? For the first time tonight, he looked forward to the confrontation with her.

He planned to shut the medium down. Run her out of Manhattan, if necessary, because she was standing in the way of something greater, a different sort of power than he possessed now, but one of equal import. One his bastard father had desperately craved, but fallen short of.

John Bennett, a former New York state senator and current gubernatorial candidate, had asked Will to partner on the ticket as lieutenant governor. It was something Will’s father had always wanted, to wield political influence, yet he’d died before his political career could take wings. Now, Will would be the Sloane achieving that goal—and dancing on his father’s grave after he and Bennett won.

But John Bennett had a weakness, one by the name of Madam Zolikoff. Seemed the madam had dug her hooks into Bennett, and the candidate would not listen to reason regarding the dangers this presented. But Will wasn’t about to allow her to jeopardize Bennett’s political career—or his own. They could not afford a scandal six months before the election.

When the performance finally ended, Will didn’t bother clapping or stamping his feet like the other patrons. He rose, turned on his heel, and headed straight for the door he’d learned would take him backstage.

No one stopped him. More than a few curious glances were thrown his way, so he tugged his derby lower to obscure his face. He’d run Northeast Railroad for the last thirteen years and came from one of the most prominent families in New York. The name Sloane was as well-known as those such as Astor, Stuyvesant, and Van Rensselaer. Consequently, Will had never shied from public attention, but he’d rather not be recognized here.

For several minutes, he cut through the long hallways in the bowels of the theater. Now at the door to her dressing room, he knocked. A slide of a lock, and then the door opened to reveal a brunette woman in a black shirtwaist and skirt, the same costume she’d worn onstage. Her lips were still painted a deep red. He inclined his head ever so slightly. “Madam Zolikoff.”

“Mr. Sloane. I’ve been expecting you.” Her voice was deep and husky, with a sultry tone more suited to a bedroom than a stage. He wondered if it were genuine—or fake like the rest of her. She stepped aside. “Come in, please.”

He wasn’t surprised she knew his name, but had she noticed him in the audience? Three steps found him inside her dressing room, if one could call a space no bigger than a closet a “room.” There wasn’t enough square footage to allow for more than the small table and chair already in place. A mirror hung on the wall above the table, and a blond wig rested on a stand atop said table.

She glided around him and lowered into the sole chair, facing away from him, and reached for a cloth. Folding his hands behind his back, he watched in the mirror as she slowly swiped the cloth over her mouth to remove the lip color. She didn’t rush, and Will had plenty of time to study her mouth. He highly suspected the display another type of performance, to throw him off balance.

“Is there another name I may call you, other than your stage name?”

“No.”

“I feel ridiculous calling you Madam Zolikoff.”

“That is your problem, not mine.” Finished with her cloth, she dropped the scrap to the table and caught his gaze in the mirror. “We are not friends, Mr. Sloane, so let’s not pretend otherwise. I know why you’re here.”

“Is that so?” He hadn’t expected her to be so forthright. In his mind, she’d been meek and frightened, concerned over the unpleasantness a man in his position could bring a woman in her position. But this particular woman seemed neither meek nor frightened. “And why am I here?”

“You want to scare me away from John. Get him away from my evil clutches.” She wriggled her fingers menacingly on this last sentence. “How’s that?”

“Good. This saves us both time. Now you may agree to never see Bennett again, stop bilking him out of hundreds of dollars, and stay out of his life forever.”

“Bilking him?” Her lip curled, drawing Will’s attention back to her mouth, damn it. “I’ve got news for you, mugwump. I’ve earned every dollar providing services to your friend—and not those kind of services, either. John and I are strictly business.”

Will smirked. He’d never met a man and a woman who spent time together with money exchanged who were “strictly business.”

“Miss whomever you are, I don’t care what kind of lies you’re shoveling out there to audiences, but I’m not some rube fresh off the farm. I know what you’re about, and all of it stinks.”

“Oh, indeed? So what am I about, then?”

“Blackmail. And if he doesn’t pay, you’ll take whatever personal details you’ve gleaned about him to the papers and turn him into a laughingstock. I will not let that happen.”

She rose and, because of the tight space, this put her close enough that he could see the hazel flecks in her brown eyes. Were those freckles on her nose? “I don’t care who you are or what you think of me. If you believe I’m going to let some stuffed, pompous railroad man scare me away from my best client, you are dead wrong.”

* * *

Ava Jones struggled to contain her smile while the handsome man across from her worked to understand her last sentence.

Everyone in New York knew William Sloane. Obscenely wealthy and from one of the best families, he was mentioned frequently in the papers, both on the financial and the social pages. No doubt men and women bowed to his demands all day, every day. Not her, no way. Ava owed him nothing and did not care about his demands. If not for her desire to get rid of him for good, she would’ve completely ignored him.

At least she would have tried to ignore him. Unfortunately, Mr. Sloane was a man a girl noticed. She’d spotted him in the audience right away. Strong, angular jaw. Pronounced cheekbones highlighting his aristocratic nose. Sandy blond hair swept off his forehead, oiled with precision, and a sharp, unsmiling mouth that challenged a woman to see if she could be the one to loosen him up.

At this distance, the view improved markedly. Piercing eyes that had seemed blue in the theater but were actually gray. He was tall, with an air of confidence suitable for a prince and a near-palpable energy radiating from his frame. Wide shoulders filled out the cut of his fancy coat quite nicely. She’d always been drawn to sturdy, capable shoulders. Something about Atlas bearing the weight of the world appealed to her.

But she’d learned long ago that there was no one to bear the weight of her burdens. Those were hers alone.

“Client?” he scoffed. “Wouldn’t ‘mark’ be a more accurate term?”

Goodness, she was growing to dislike this man. “You assume I am swindling him when I am providing a real service.”

“By communing with John’s dead relatives? Come now, Madam Zolikoff. We both know that’s impossible.”

Did he have any idea how lonely John Bennett was? Whether her clients believed in her powers or not, most needed someone to care about them. A friend with whom to talk. A person to give them hope that there was something beyond this drudgery called life. That was what Madam Zolikoff provided—for a nominal fee, of course.

These performances were another matter. People wanted a spectacle. A unique experience to share with their friends and neighbors. A bit of the fantastic to distract from the fatigue. Not everyone came from a wealthy family and ran a big company as a lark; most people needed a break from their daily trials.

“You speak of things you do not understand,” she told him. “When I hear from John that he no longer requires my gift, then I will respectfully back off. But you act as if he’s a hophead and I’m providing him with the opium. I am not forcing him to see me.”

“What I understand is that you are preying on a wealthy and soon-to-be influential man.”

Her muscles tightened, anger building in every inch of her body. “I would never blackmail him—I’m not trying to make trouble. The governor as my client would only help me.” Bigger-named clients meant more clients, which equated to more income. All she needed to do was save up enough money to get her two brothers and sister out of the factories. By her calculations, she had only four more months to go if all held steady. Four more months, after adopting the Madam Zolikoff likeness two years ago, and she’d have enough to keep her family safe.

Out of the city. Away from the filth and toils of life in New York. Away from bitter memories. Instead, they’d have clean air and open spaces on a farm upstate. Freedom.

Mr. Sloane shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, which caused Ava to roll her eyes. How could someone so wealthy appear so aggrieved? Did this man not know real problems? The tip of her tongue burned with an offer to take him to the match factory to show him cases of phossy jaw. Had he seen the women with their faces rotting away, jawbones glowing in the dark, all because they’d needed to put food on their table?

Those were hardships. Not the fact that his friend and political partner paid her five dollars a week to read tea leaves and pass on bits of “news” from the great beyond.

“How much will it take?” Mr. Sloane asked her. “How much do you need to walk away?”

Oh, so tempting. Ava could throw out a high number and see if the railroad man would bite. If he did, her siblings could quit their factory jobs. She would have enough to buy that piece of property, and they could all be together. Finally.

But she didn’t. First, pride would not allow her. Taking Sloane’s money would be akin to admitting she was robbing people, which she did not. Second, she knew better than most that accepting money never came without strings. If you took what was offered, they felt as if they owned you.

And no one owned Ava Jones. Not any longer.

“You don’t have enough money to cause me to disappear. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll cut you a deal on a séance.”

He made a sound in his throat. “That is the last thing I need.”

A knock sounded on the door before Gus, one of the assistants, called, “Ava, hurry up. I need the room.”

Mr. Sloane’s brows jumped, and Ava cursed inwardly, irritated at the small revelation. “Ava,” he drawled, as if testing the sound on his tongue. “Pretty. Also, I like your hair better this way, without the wig.”

She turned and began shoving her things into her carpetbag, trying to ignore the fluttering in her belly. The compliments were as unexpected as they were unwelcome. “Save the poetry for your Fifth Avenue debutantes, railroad man. You’re wasting your time with me.” She carefully lowered her wig and wig stand into the bag. Found her bonnet. Then she began shrugging into her coat.

A hand caught the coat and held it up. She slipped her arms into the sleeves. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

Without waiting for him, she pushed into the hall and strode toward the exit of the theater. The heels of her high boots ticked on the hard floor, and she could hear Sloane’s fancy evening shoes dogging her. No doubt he was headed somewhere glamorous, like to the opera or a high-society ball. Not to a cramped three-room apartment in a West Side boardinghouse that she shared with her siblings.

She opened the door to the lobby. “Everything all right, Ava?” Gus eyed her carefully, gaze bouncing to the silent man behind her.

“Fine, Gus. Tell your sister I’ll be by tomorrow. See you next week.”

He nodded, and she continued out the main doors. An early evening rain had fallen during her performance, cooling the air a bit more than one would expect in mid-spring. The gaslight from the street lamps cast a yellow glow over the dark, wet cobblestones. Ava loved the rain. It washed the city clean and provided the residents with a reprieve from the usual odors, those of sweat, offal, and horse.

“You’ve acquired quite a following for these shows.”

“You’re still here?” She started walking, not caring whether he trailed after her. Unfortunately, his long legs had no problem keeping pace. “I’m very good at what I do, Mr. Sloane. Admit it, you were entertained.”

His mouth twisted as if he’d sucked a lemon. “I was offended, if you must know.”

Now at the corner, she crossed over Twenty-Seventh Street, heading south, and tried to contain her annoyance. “We don’t serve champagne and caviar, so I can imagine what a hardship the evening was for you.”

“I was referring to the flimflam you performed on those poor, unsuspecting people.”

“Flimflam? Those ‘poor, unsuspecting people’ wanted a show, and that’s what I gave them. There’s a reason I perform in a theater, and I’m damn good at what I do.”

“You take their money and pretend their dead relatives are speaking to you.”

He spoke to her as if she were a criminal, his tone condescending and cutting, and blood rushed in her ears. “First of all, how are you so certain my talents are not real?” He started to open his mouth, so she stopped on the sidewalk and pointed a finger in his face. “You don’t have any idea, Mr. Sloane, so save your judgment. Second, I wasn’t aware that your own business practices were always so scrupulous.” His eyes dimmed significantly, and she knew she’d landed a blow. “I’m sure while running a big railroad you never skirt the law or buy political favor. So save me your sanctimonious attitude.”

“Fine,” he snarled, leaning closer. “Run your con anywhere you want, sweetheart, but leave John Bennett alone.”

Sloane was tall, much larger than she, yet she didn’t back down, not for one second. She’d already let one over-privileged, handsome man try to wreck her life. No way would she repeat the mistake.

She glared up at Will Sloane. “Not in your wildest dreams do I take orders from the likes of you. Go bully someone else.”