Magnate (2 page)

Chapter One

 

If given the choice between bears and bulls, Lizzie vastly preferred the bull. Bears were tentative and sluggish, whereas bulls charged forward and caused things to happen. She had finally decided to consider herself a bull, ready to pursue her hopes and dreams by any means necessary.

Which is how she found herself on upper Fifth Avenue this afternoon, waiting in the largest mansion on Millionaire's Row. The monstrosity belonged to one of the wealthiest men in the world, a steel magnate who had reputedly forged his empire through daring, determination, and sheer grit.

And before Lizzie left his house today, she intended to convince him to take another risk, this time on her.

A noise caught her attention, and she turned as an immense man stepped into the receiving room. “Miss Sloane, I am Emmett Cavanaugh.”

Lizzie clasped her trembling hands and tried not to gawk. She'd heard the rumors, of course. Not only was Cavanaugh the owner of the powerful East Coast Steel, but he was also her brother's friend. Still, the bits of news and gossip here and there hadn't quite prepared her for the shock of actually seeing him in person.

He was
huge
—a mountain of a man. Thick and tall, with wide shoulders that could only be borne of physical activity. The breadth of his chest . . . good heavens
.
His tailor must charge a fortune for the additional fabric required to clothe him.

He did not smile. No welcoming warmth lit his expression, no curious twinkle shining in his eyes. He merely stood watching her, as if taking her measure as well. Her knees wobbled in the weighted silence, uncertainty hollowing out her belly and drying out her mouth. There was a hardness about this man, an edge, like one of the new skyscrapers towering unapologetically over the city's old, elegant buildings.

“Mr. Cavanaugh,” she returned, straightening her shoulders. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Of course, though I'm a bit unclear on the rules. I don't normally entertain unmarried ladies in my home. Am I supposed to offer you refreshment?”

Yes, she'd heard rumors of the types of ladies he entertained. All actresses, and the liaisons never lasted long. “That's not necessary. I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

“Then by all means, please sit.”

Lizzie lowered herself onto a chair and studied him through her lashes as he assumed the chair opposite. She hadn't expected him to be quite so . . . striking. He had full lips and a finely curved jaw. Stark, slashing cheekbones and slightly long, dark brown hair. A small indent graced the tip of his bold chin, an imperfect mark on an otherwise perfect profile, and her heart began picking up steam, thumping hard in her chest. His handsomeness made her even more unsure of herself, unsure of her decision to come here today.

But what choice did she have? She needed a partner, one wealthy and influential enough to help get her business up and running. Using her talent for stock speculation, she could save her family's finances if given a chance. Unfortunately, no one else would even meet with her. Emmett Cavanaugh was her last hope.

She cleared her throat. “The reason I've called today is that I have a business proposition for you.”

One dark eyebrow shot up. “A business proposition? Interesting, though I'm curious as to why you've not taken this idea to your brother. William Sloane does own one of the country's largest railroads.”

True, the Northeast Railroad Company was one of the biggest railroads, and Will had served as the president since their father's death. Her older brother never included her in business matters, however. He staunchly refused to discuss any of their financial problems, insisting he had everything well in hand, even when she knew otherwise.
“Stick to your parties and theater, Lizzie,”
Will often said.
“Leave the business side of things to me.”

Why couldn't she do both, as Will did? That precise attitude—that women were narrow-minded creatures incapable of understanding financial matters—never failed to anger her. No one took her ambition seriously, not even her friends. To them, her dreams were merely a temporary fancy, one that would disappear the instant she found the right man to marry. All the more reason to move forward with her plans, quickly and quietly.

“I have spoken with him, yes, but he's proven difficult to convince. I'm hoping you'll be more open-minded.”

“Well, that does intrigue me. But what about the Rutlidge boy, the one to whom you're nearly engaged?”

Hardly a surprise Cavanaugh had heard the rumors about her and Henry Rutlidge. Will was keen on the match, as was Edith Rutlidge, Lizzie's good friend and Henry's sister. But Lizzie hadn't yet made up her mind. Henry's views on women in business were far from progressive. “Mr. Rutlidge is not in control of his own pockets, I'm afraid, and his father would never agree to what I'm proposing.”

“Then I suppose I'm flattered to be approached. You must tell me this radical idea.” Cavanaugh moved not a muscle, his focus unwavering yet guarded. She hoped that was a sign of interest on his part.

“I want to open a stock brokerage firm. I am seeking a partner, one to provide working capital to get started. Someone high profile enough to help me lure clients.”

No sign of amusement or horror showed on his face. His expression remained unreadable. “Like Vanderbilt did for Woodhull a few years back?”

“Precisely.” She relaxed a bit.
He understood
.

“And who will be doing the advising?”

“Me. I will advise on all the trades. I do plan to keep that knowledge from the male clients, however, at least until they're comfortable with the idea of working with a woman.”

He tilted his head and stroked his jaw. “You speculate on the exchange?”

She nodded. “Indeed. Of course, I can't trade myself, so I plan to hire a young man to represent me on the exchange floor.”

He gave her a long, indecipherable look. She couldn't tell if he was considering her plan or preparing to laugh.

“You are from one of the oldest and wealthiest families in New York, Miss Sloane. Surely you can finance whatever scheme you're dreaming up. Sell a bracelet or two to raise the money. Why bring someone in from the outside?”

This was a sticky, yet not entirely unexpected, question. She couldn't tell Cavanaugh the truth, that she suspected the worst of the Sloane finances. Her brother would not discuss it, but she was certain they were in trouble. Paintings disappearing, servants let go, stock sold . . . Had Will thought she wouldn't notice? Had he honestly believed she didn't pay attention? Yet her offers to help had been refused. So she had decided to do this without Will's assistance.

Moistening her dry lips, she charged on with the answer she'd prepared, one that was not a lie. “I do not come into possession of my trust until my twenty-fifth birthday, which leaves me with very little money to work with before then. However, even if I had the capital, I won't be taken seriously by my clients—the male clients—until I prove that I can earn money.”

“And I am to believe you're competent, entrust you with my money?”

She picked up the ledger she'd been keeping for four years, the proof that she wasn't some silly female with unrealistic aspirations. No, in here lay her undeniable abilities in ink. “These are records of the transactions I would have made, had I been allowed.” He held out his large hand, and she slipped the volume into his grip. “I read the reports, Mr. Cavanaugh. I follow the markets. You'll see I maintain a healthy balance in the black.”

“A fictional balance,” he noted, before studying the most recent entries. “Most of these are obvious, sure bets any trader would make.” He paused. “What's this, a short sale on Pennington? Did you truly see that price drop coming, when no one else did?”

Not easy to keep the smugness out of her voice, but she managed it. “Over the past three years, I've noticed their second quarter earnings are always delayed. The Pennington stock drops ten percent like clockwork as a result.”

“How do I know you didn't write these entries the next day, once you read the papers?”

Heat washed over her skin, like she'd been dipped in a hot water bath. “Are you saying that I am a liar?”

The question seemed to amuse him. His lips twitched as he handed the ledger back. “Why me?”

She lifted a shoulder, trying to appear casual when she felt the exact opposite. “First, you have the means and the influence. Second, I know about your meetings with my brother each month, along with Calvin Cabot and Theodore Harper.” She drew in a deep breath and admitted the truth, praying she would not offend him. “And neither Mr. Cabot nor Mr. Harper would see me when I paid a call.”

“Well, at least you're honest about my being your last choice,” he said dryly.

Cavanaugh's reputation for ruthlessness had factored into the decision to save him for last. Legend held he'd grown up on the streets of Five Points, fought his way out of the slums to a steel mill, which he later purchased to start his empire. Unlike the other wealthy men of business, he didn't involve himself in charitable causes and kept far removed from the social scene.

He surprised her by rising in one fluid motion. “Follow me,” he said, and started out of the room.

Stomach fluttering with nerves, she trailed him into the corridor and deeper into the garishly decorated house, passing the two-story entry hall with its sleek pink marble staircase and gold railing. Next came a long gallery, with paintings from Dutch and Italian masters and a carved ceiling decorated with frescoes and rimmed in gold leaf. If she weren't so anxious, she might've found the surroundings impressive.

Cavanaugh walked fast, and Lizzie had to lift the hem of her skirts in order to keep up. Not very loquacious, was he? Or polite, for that matter.

She had no idea where he was leading her. To the safe where he kept his money? A side door, where he'd eject her from his house? For some strange reason, she wasn't worried for her safety. He'd been patient with her, asking intelligent questions and listening to her answers. Moreover, he was her brother's friend.

They ended up in a large room containing a massive desk. Rows of books lined the walls and a collection of modern-day conveniences—telephone, telegraph machine, stock ticker—shared what must be Cavanaugh's office. The space smelled of cigar, lemon polish, and big business. A thrill slid through her as she imagined the deals and fortunes this room had witnessed.

“Colin, leave us,” Cavanaugh said, and a young man stood up from a smaller desk in the corner. He wore round glasses, his eyes curious behind the frames as he hurried to the hall. Lizzie guessed not many ladies had ever crossed into this masculine domain.

Cavanaugh continued to the stock ticker, which was churning and spitting out a long white strip. He ripped off the paper, returned to her side, and held out the tape. “Read it. The last five updates.”

Taking a deep breath, she lowered herself into a chair, set down her ledger, and smoothed the thin strip of paper between her fingers. Cavanaugh sat as well, thankfully saving her from craning her neck to see him. “Deere and Company down seven and three-eighths. State Street Corporation up two points. Seneca Textiles down twelve points. PPG Industries up six and one-eighth points. Kimberly-Clark up three and five-eighths.”

“Very good,” he said, though he hardly sounded impressed. “But interpreting the tape is the skill. So tell me, based on what you read, what would you advise your clients to do?”

She didn't even need to ponder it. “I would advise them to buy Seneca Textiles.”

“Why, when they've been down steadily since September?”

“Because Easter is three months away, and in a few days, the ladies will begin ordering their bonnets, dresses, gloves, and the like. I also know that Seneca will soon announce an exclusive agreement to import the same Honiton lace as supplied to Queen Victoria.”

Cavanaugh glanced away, his brow furrowed. She held utterly still, watching and awaiting his decision. Blunt fingers stroked the rough skin of his jaw, and her attention was drawn to the small indentation in his chin. She imagined tracing it with her finger....

“Not bad, Miss Sloane. Not bad at all. But my answer must still be no.”

* * *

Emmett studied her carefully as the news sank in. Christ, she was beautiful. How did a bastard like Will Sloane have such a breathtaking sister?

In a high-necked, blue-and-white-striped shirtwaist and matching skirt, Miss Sloane possessed a cool, untouchable beauty, the kind far removed from the type of women he usually fraternized with. She had the flawless skin found only in the top tier of society—people who'd never worked, toiled in a field, or sweat in the heat of a steel mill. Emmett felt dirty just sitting across from her.

Still, his blood stirred all the same. How could it not? Blond hair, perfect poise, slate-gray eyes, the fair Miss Sloane would cause a dead man to sit up and take notice.

And the way she'd read that ticker tape, with such confidence and skill, had almost knocked him on his ass. He hadn't met a woman that quick with numbers since Fannie Reid, owner of the most successful bordello in Five Points.

“I'm sorry, you said no?” Her blond brows pinched, and he had the ridiculous urge to smooth his thumb over the tiny creases that dared mar her immaculate forehead. “Why?”