Betina Krahn (24 page)

Several of the directors started at her reference to their hallowed club and looked with alarm to Lynch and Winthrop.

“Don’t you see what she’s doing?” Lynch demanded stalking down one side of the board table. “She’s trying to divert attention from her own depraved behavior by indicting you in your own thoughts? Are you going to stand for it?”

Sensing the tide turning, she rose and took the other side of the table, walking slowly, pausing behind each director to let her presence be felt.

“You know me. I have worked with this board for twelve long and profitable years. We have faced crises and weathered financial storms together … have taken risks and celebrated many more victories than losses. I have proved both my devotion to moral principles and my fitness to lead this company.” Her mind raced to find examples that would link her to the men around the table.

“The teamster contracts in eighty-nine … remember, Haffleck? The way we avoided a strike at the Connecticut dye works—you were there, Augustine. We went without sleep for two days and nights to negotiate import agreements with the South American countries … to insure the native farmers would receive their share … didn’t we, Graham? In every case I insisted on ethical dealings.” A few heads began to nod agreement. “And I have conducted my personal life with the same standard of decency and integrity.”

“Enough of this harangue. I call for the question,” Lynch declared desperately, striding back to his seat with Winthrop in tow. “A vote of no-confidence. If you would remove Beatrice Von Furstenberg and her brand of hypocrisy from this board, vote with me.”

He lifted his empty water glass and with a flourish turned it upside down on the tabletop. Winthrop followed suit, and together they looked expectantly to William Afton.

He drew his neck into his thick collar, folded his arms and burrowed back in his chair. But after a moment, he too turned over his glass.

Beatrice held her breath as all eyes transferred to old Ben Haffleck. After a moment, he reached for his glass and turned it upside down with a smack. Graham, the vice president, left his glass untouched and N. T. Wright, the board secretary, also voted to retain her. Then treasurer Martin Welgoe and member Barton Kern left theirs upright.

The final and deciding vote was cast by old Leonard Augustine … who scowled, sniffed irritably, and turned his face away … leaving his glass untouched.

“Five to four,” intoned Consolidated’s head attorney, who stood at the head of the table to observe the voting. “Mrs. Von Furstenberg is retained as President of Consolidated Industries.”

Lynch was instantly livid.

“What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see what she is?” The others refused to meet his contemptuous gaze, so he turned it on her. “You think you’ve won, Von Furstenberg, but you’re wrong.”

He stalked to the door and snatched his hat from the rack. Winthrop quickly gathered up their papers and joined him, and the pair were soon joined by portly William Afton. “The rest of you”—Lynch’s hand trembled visibly as he pointed at the directors who had supported her—“you’ll rue the day you cast your lot with that witch. She’ll take you and this company down with her!”

The three strode out and the sound of slamming
doors wafted back into the open boardroom. The silence that descended was deafening.

She felt their eyes on her, searching and mistrustful, and it was all she could do to keep from railing at them for their lack of faith in her. How could they think her a loose and immoral woman? How could they treat her so shabbily?

At length, she forced a deep, calming breath and reached for her gavel.

“We still have a quorum present and I believe there is a motion to approve a banking proposal before the board.” With that statement and the tap of the gavel, a shocking air of normalcy descended. “Is there further discussion?”

The directors looked at each other. She seemed to expect them to continue business as usual, even after the charges they’d heard leveled against her.

“Maybe you
are
a man in disguise.” Old Augustine gave a crusty laugh. “You sure got the brass for it.” He leaned forward, squinting, scrutinizing her heated face. “All right. In your proposal you say you’ll need one and one-half million to fully fund this bank.” He paused to look at his fellow directors. “I say … you need to show us something. Get yourself a state charter. Convince those boys at the statehouse that you’re serious, and
if
they give you a state charter, then we’ll give you your first million. The rest is up to you.”

“A million dollars?” old Ben Haffleck shook his head. “That’s crazy.”

“Not if she has to raise or to put up the other half million herself,” old Augustine said with a canny expression.

“I agree,” vice president Graham spoke up. “If she gets a charter and raises a half million, she gets the rest from us. She’ll have her capital and we’ll have assurance
that there’s enough outside interest to make the thing profitable.”

The murmurs and side conversations around the table came to reluctant agreement. It was a devil’s compromise, but the looks on their faces made it clear that a hard compromise was all she would get.

Half a million dollars was a formidable amount of money to raise for such a project and they knew it. She had been prepared to invest a hundred thousand dollars herself, but the rest of her personal wealth was tied up in companies, stock, and properties. That meant she had four hundred thousand dollars to raise.

True to her pragmatic nature, she squared her shoulders and told herself she could do it. She had a chance. She would just have to make good on it.

“Thank you, gentlemen. You have handed me a challenge that I gladly accept. I promise, you will soon see the Barrow State Bank not only in operation, but also registering in black on your quarterly reports.”

When the last director had left, she sat staring at the empty seats around the table, remembering those shocked stares.

Over the years she had faced challenges and locked horns with powerful opponents, but never had she been so close to losing all she had worked for. How could the board’s confidence in her be so vulnerable to the word of Winthrop and Lynch, two men who thus far had contributed nothing to the company but discontent?

She was still unsettled when she left the offices. Despite the early-autumn sun, she felt cold when she stepped out onto the sidewalk. Once in the carriage, she crossed her arms to hold in what warmth she possessed, but found it did little good. Inside she felt raw and empty.

For the first time in a long, long time she felt an aching need to confide in someone, to tell someone everything that had just happened.

Her eyes filled with moisture and she turned to stare out the window, unblinking, afraid that Alice would notice. It was bewildering to her that the someone she wanted to see and to share with was Connor Barrow.

What the devil was happening to her?

BY THE TIME
Winthrop, Lynch, and Afton reached the street in front of Consolidated’s offices, they were red-faced from anger and exertion.

“The bitch didn’t even bother to deny it,” Winthrop said, matching his partner’s furious stride, “and they still voted with her!”

“She just climbed on her high horse and took off—dragging the lot of them with her,” Lynch ground out. “They’ve been following her around so long, they’ve forgotten how to walk without their noses stuck in her bustle.”

“And you—where the hell were you, Afton?” Winthrop demanded, catching the arm of the third member of the party and jerking him to a halt. “You could have spoken up … supported us.”

“I didn’t see anything at the Oriental.” Afton jerked his arm free.

“You want her out as much as we do,” Lynch snarled, “but you’re too lily-livered to stand up to her.”

Afton reddened furiously and his eyes and voice both
tightened. “You’re not a married man, Lynch. I am. I’ll support you, all right … when you give me something to support.” He wheeled and headed quickly down the street.

Lynch watched Afton’s retreat for a moment. “Henpecked bastard.” He turned to Winthrop with the cogs turning in his mind. “She made fools of us … used her own priggish reputation to …” He halted and his eyes darted here and there as he collected pieces of a new plan. Then he grabbed Winthrop’s arm and dragged him toward the curb. “Come on. By the time we get through with her, she won’t be able to show her face anyplace in the five boroughs.” He hailed a passing cab.

“Where are we going? What have you got up your sleeve?”

Lynch began to smile as they settled back against the cab’s worn leather seat. “There are at least half a dozen newspapers in this city that would kill for a juicy scandal involving one of the richest women in New York. She may have an ironclad arse in the boardroom … but in the rest of the world, her ‘very fine bottom’ is just bustle stuffing. Maybe it’s time she was reminded what the rest of the world thinks of a woman who tries to live like a man.”

WHEN BEATRICE ARRIVED
home that afternoon, Richards greeted her with news that she had a caller who had insisted on waiting. Stepping into the drawing room, she stared at a familiar broad back and dark head. Her rigid posture softened and her knees went a little weak.

Now, of all times. Had her thoughts in the carriage somehow conjured him in her drawing room?

“Mr. Barrow,” she said, startling him as she strode
across the room. “This is a surprise. And just in time … I have some wonderful news.”

“Good.” He met her halfway, snagged her elbow, and propelled her back out into the entry hall with him. “You can tell me as you pack.”

“Pack?”

“We have to be in Albany by tomorrow afternoon and it’s a long ride. Pack light. We’ll only be gone two days … three at most.”

“I’m not going to Albany!”

“You have to go … it’s your bank. I drew up the charter request, but they’ll have questions about the funding and the accounting … all the facts and figures.”

“I’ll give you the documents containing that information and you can study them on the train up to Albany.”

“Look, if I can take three days out of my campaign schedule and mislead and evade my own campaign manager about where I’ll be and what I’ll be doing in order to secure your cursed bank … then the very least you can do is come along and help with the groveling and pleading.”

She felt her face heating as he pursed one side of his mouth and looked her up and down. His eyes widened in understanding, then narrowed sharply.

“Of course, if you’re
afraid
to go with me”—that cursed Irish music crept into his voice again—“afraid you cannot control your lustful urges toward me … that you might forget yourself on the train and throw me down and have your wicked way with me … I suppose I can understand that. I am a mighty temptation to women.” Just as she was ready to give him an outraged shove, he leaned closer to stare into her eyes and produced a smile that would have kept St. Catherine from
qualifying for canonization. “But, you’re not reckoning with my steely nerve and legendary self-control.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she said, struggling to think against the embarrassment rising in her. “I simply don’t see why you can’t go alone. The committee is the only real deadline. You could present the proposal to them and still have plenty of time to wine and dine legislators afterward.”

He drew a long breath and his face sobered.

“I know some of the people who sit regularly on the committee,” he confessed. “They’re my grandfather’s cronies and they take a rather dim view of anyone who abandons their precious banking profession and their financial world.” He straightened. “Now do you understand?”

THREE HOURS LATER,
Beatrice was climbing onto the platform of the New York Central’s Express to Albany. With her, she had Alice, two books, a stack of corporate reports, and the vivid memory of Priscilla’s unhappy face as she watched her aunt’s baggage being loaded into the carriage.

When she and Alice were settled in the first-class compartment of the train, she closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath. But the arrival of another passenger, who brushed her skirts more than once, caused her to open her eyes. It was Connor … stowing his valise and settling into the seat across from her.

They exchanged few words as the train got underway, and by the time the train got up steam, both he and Alice had nodded off.

She tried not to stare, but something drew her back
again and again to his dark hair and dangerously handsome face. For all she knew about him, he was still something of a mystery to her. She was putting the fate of her bank and ultimately her position at Consolidated in his hands, and she wasn’t even sure she could trust him to tell her what day it was.

If only she had some clue as to what was inside him … what he truly believed, how he truly saw things. Could he be trusted with things that mattered to her? How could he have any honor or integrity and still be the darling of Tammany Hall’s bosses with their blatant use of graft and patronage? Most of all, she wanted to know why he was sitting across from her on a train bound for Albany. Was concern about the committee the real reason he insisted she come with him?