Magnate (24 page)

A weight pressed down on her chest, strangling her, as the recent, tenuous bond between her and Emmett was severed. Destroyed by his mistrust.

Love was like a stock, Lizzie realized. You gambled on its paying off in the long run—but it could just as easily cost you everything.

Tears threatened, but she forced them back. Dragged air into her lungs. “Do you really believe I would participate in such a nefarious plot? That, as your wife, I would try and take your company away from you—whether my brother wanted to or not?”

“As if you could,” he threw back, his lip curling. “You should know that could never happen. Tell your brother he'll never gain a majority—and even if he did, the board would never listen to anyone but me.”

She stared at him, this complete stranger who happened to be her husband. Precisely why she had never wanted to marry him. Was there to be no faith in one another, no benefit of the doubt? Obviously Emmett had made up his mind, discounted Lizzie's explanation, and condemned her.

The betrayal, this unforgivable accusation, cut deep. Even if he admitted he was wrong, this would always be between them. That he could even consider for an instant she would participate in something so hurtful was intolerable.

Yet even as her heart cracked into pieces, she felt sorry for her husband. To be so hard, so cynical, was to be pitied, in her opinion. Yes, his upbringing had been tragic, but life was not about the past. One had to move forward, into the future, whether one liked it or not. And to always believe the worst of those around you must be exhausting.

“You're wrong, and you'll regret everything you've said tonight,” she said, an embarrassing quiver in her voice. “At some point in your life, Emmett, you need to trust someone. To believe that one person might care for you and not want to drag you down. All I know is that person will no longer be me.”

Chapter Seventeen

By the time dawn crept over the East River, Emmett had been at his desk, working, for several hours. With cigars and righteous anger as fuel, he had powered through contracts, finance reports, correspondence, newspapers . . . anything he'd put off since the storm.

Never take your attention off the work. He'd forgotten that lesson in the last few days. He would not make the same mistake again.

The door opened, and Kelly strolled in, a china teacup and saucer in his large hands. Emmett ignored him, continuing his letter to the East Coast Steel investors—a reassurance that there was no pending investigation or criminal activity to be concerned over.

Kelly dropped into the chair opposite the desk, sipped his coffee. The silence stretched, and Emmett could feel Kelly's disapproval descending like the steam in the Turkish bath. And little that reminder did to sweeten his mood.

“What?” Emmett finally snapped. “Whatever you need to say, spit it the fuck out.”

Colin chose that moment to arrive for work, pushing into the large room. “Come back in fifteen,” Emmett shouted. Colin's eyes went wide behind his glasses, and he beat a hasty retreat.

“I guess I don't need to ask how your evening went,” Kelly drawled when the door closed. “How long have you been at it? Dawn?”

Emmett didn't answer because Kelly would feel no sympathy. He'd told Emmett to go easy on Elizabeth, to hear her out. Not to leap to conclusions. As far as Emmett was concerned, he'd leapt at the only conclusion that could be reached.

“You were wrong,” he told Kelly. “She admitted it.”

Kelly's square jaw dropped. “To working with Sloane?”

“No. That she denied. She admitted to buying the stock. Said it was to protect me, to keep someone else from buying it.”

“Well, there you are.” Kelly nodded as if that explanation tied it all into a neat little bow. “That's hardly a crime. Downright considerate, if you ask me.”

“No one did ask you,” Emmett shot back. “And I haven't risen to where I am by ignoring my gut—and my gut tells me that she and her brother were working together on this.”

“And I think the gin has finally gone to your head, Bish.” Kelly tapped his temple with two fingers. “That woman worships you, or at least she did until you screwed up. She never woulda done somethin' like you're thinking.”

“Everyone is capable of deceit and cruelty when pushed, Kelly. We, of all people, understand that.”

“That may be true, but your wife is different. She's loyal. And honest. How many women would have kept out of your bed just so they wouldn't have to lie for an annulment?”

“And when that didn't work, look at what happened.”

Kelly shook his head. “There's a bigger problem you just don't want to face.”

Emmett sighed. “Which is?”

“Someone started that rumor about the pending investigation. And it wasn't Sloane or your wife. So who was it?”

“I think you are mistaken, but I guess time will tell.”

The other man sipped his coffee, replaced the cup on the saucer, and set both on Emmett's desk. “So what'll you do to prove her guilty?”

Emmett rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. In all the anger and hurt last night, he hadn't gotten this far. Stupidly, he had thought she'd admit the wrongdoing, after which he could throw her out and then divorce her. Christ.

“Have her followed,” he said suddenly. “Hire Sheridan. Any time she leaves, I want to know where she goes and who she's meeting with.”

Kelly worked his jaw back and forth, a sign he was trying to rein in his temper. “That is the stupidest damn—”

Emmett slapped his hand on the desk, a crack that echoed off the walls. “Do what I say or I'll do it myself—after I kick you out of the goddamned house!”

The two of them stared at one another, locked in a battle of wills. Emmett knew Kelly didn't agree with him, thought better of Elizabeth . . . and Emmett didn't care. The problem would be handled his way—not Kelly's. His muscles tensed, and he gritted out, “See it done, Kelly.”

Kelly rose slowly. With exaggerated flair, he bowed. “Of course, your highness.” Snapping his heels together, he marched to the door. “Heard her say she's going out to see Edith Rutlidge. Want me to follow?”

Where Henry Rutlidge also happened to reside. That did not take long. No doubt she would cry on her former beau's shoulder while surrounded by her high-society friends.

“Yes,” he snarled. “Stay with her this morning, then hire Sheridan this afternoon. And send in Colin—it's past time to get to work.”

* * *

Lizzie took in the gaily dressed crowd gathered in the elegantly appointed Rutlidge drawing room, a group of people known to her since birth. Familiar surroundings, yet never had she felt more isolated, more apart. To be truthful, she'd never fit in with New York society. The things she wanted were unheard of by women of her set—a career, independence—and the older she grew, the less she cared about hiding her true self.

Tonight's misery, however, had little to do with society's constraints. Lizzie's heart ached, the weight of Emmett's accusations suffusing her with misery. How could he have believed the worst of her?

No matter how close they'd grown since the storm, Emmett did not trust her. What more could she do? She'd given herself to the man, even admitted she no longer planned to seek an annulment, and what had all that gained her? Certainly not his faith or his love.

Which meant they had nothing.

She dragged in an unsteady breath. Part of her wanted to stay and fight, prove to Emmett he'd been wrong about her, if only to see his face when he learned the truth. After all, he'd come to meet her that night at Sherry's, setting up a private room for them. He'd wanted her then. There had to be part of him that cared for her, that could come to love her someday. Love her as much as she loved him.

The other part of her wanted to throw her wedding ring in his face, walk out, and never look back. Because even if she stayed, how could she ever forgive him?

Edith appeared and linked her arm with Lizzie's. “It's entirely unfair that you can be so beautiful even when heartbroken.”

Earlier in the day, Lizzie had confessed the entire sad tale to her friend. Of course Edith had been outraged, ready to take on Emmett herself on Lizzie's behalf. Common sense prevailed, however, and they had decided to drown Lizzie's sorrows with cake instead.

Lizzie attempted a smile. “I apologize. I'm ruining your party.”

“Oh, stop. The last thing you need is to be holed up in that giant monstrosity. You need to be surrounded by the people who love you, who understand you.”

The implication was clear, that Emmett was not “of their kind,” and the idea rankled. Lizzie was tired of hearing what people should and should not do, of being judged inferior merely because their ancestry was different. Under his gruff exterior, Emmett was a good man—a good, misguided, cynical, entirely-in-the-wrong man.

“I'm not certain that's true, but I did not want to disappoint you,” she told her friend.

“Don't be absurd, of course it's what you need. Tonight we shall forget about that silly cartoon as well as your husband. Let's have fun instead.”

Lizzie sipped her champagne and wished it were that simple. How could she forget a man who'd affected her so deeply, like he'd become a part of her?

Henry, Edith's brother, approached, a crystal tumbler dangling in one hand. Elegant in his evening dress, he possessed not a hair out of place, though his eyes told another story. Both were rimmed red, as if he'd been drinking steadily. “Good evening, Lizzie.”

“Henry,” she said with genuine fondness. He'd avoided her in Newport and had refused to attend her wedding. She'd worried tonight would be awkward, so it pleased her that he was making an effort to retain their friendship. “How are you?”

Edith excused herself, and Henry took Lizzie's arm. “Walk with me?” Without waiting on an answer, he led her to the far end of the drawing room. He leaned against the wall and took a large sip of his drink. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” The Worth cream satin dress had been bought for her never-used trousseau, and Lizzie loved it. Roses fashioned from black seed beads adorned the boned bodice, with more roses on the front of the floor-length skirt. Plain satin gathered at the bustle and draped into a simple train.

“I hear all is not well in Cavanaugh castle.”

She stiffened. Had someone told Henry of Lizzie's marital discord? Edith would never dare. “I am not certain I know what you mean.”

His mouth hitched. “Come now, Lizzie. I know about his stock. Everyone knows, in fact. Nasty rumor that started the slide, too. What I haven't been able to piece together is who purchased the shares. They were bought up as quickly as they were sold.”

Lizzie relaxed, grateful the comment was not a personal one, as well for Robbie's discretion. The young trader had sworn not to reveal information regarding her trades or clients to anyone else. Despite Emmett's somehow learning who had bought his shares, likely no one else would.

She lifted a shoulder and kept her expression clear. “I have no idea, but my husband was not overly worried.”

“Not worried? Someone bought a quarter of his company, and he was not worried? He'd be a fool.”

Yes, Emmett was a fool—but not over concerns for East Coast Steel. And she did not wish to discuss such a raw topic at this moment. “I couldn't say. If you'll excuse me.” She made to move past Henry, and he reached out a hand to stop her.

“Wait, do not leave,” he rushed out quietly. “Dash it, Lizzie. I have to speak with you now that I finally have you alone.”

She disentangled herself from his grasp. “What is it, Henry?”

He took a bold step closer. “I still want you. I love you, no matter who you are married to.”

Lizzie froze at the sheer audacity, the utter inappropriateness.. . . When she didn't immediately move away, Henry blurted, “I can make you happy. It's clear you're miserable. I knew it in Newport, and I'm even more convinced of your unhappiness now. You deserve better than Cavanaugh.”

She
was
miserable, but her feelings were no one's concern but her own. That Henry would even broach such a subject—in a semipublic place, no less—caused her to bristle. “My marriage is none of your affair, nor anyone else's. My loyalties lie with my husband. If you thought otherwise, then you were mistaken.”

“Do you even care what they are saying about you? About this investment business you're starting?” The words “investment business” were said with the same amount of scorn as one might say “Tenderloin bordello.”

“Henry—”

“They say you're becoming common, Lizzie, just a common laborer whose hands are every bit as filthy as her husband's.”

Her muscles trembled with shock and outrage, the reaction swift and fierce. Undoubtedly, the words would not bother Emmett, but she rushed to defend him all the same. “Everything my husband has, he achieved through hard work and daring. If you think comparing me to him is offensive, you could not be more wrong.”

Henry's mouth twisted, fury and failure turning his boyish visage considerably ugly. “Didn't you notice how Mrs. Van de Berg and the other matrons avoided you tonight? How they turned their backs instead of greeting you?” He gestured across the room to where a group of three older women stood, whispering. Lizzie actually hadn't noticed the slight, her misery clouding her perceptiveness this evening.

“That cartoon has turned you into a joke. They have been gossiping about you and your husband all evening. Wondering how the mighty Sloanes have fallen so far as to let their pride and joy fall into the hands of a coarse barbarian like—”

“Enough,” Lizzie hissed, cutting him off. “I won't stand here and allow you to insult me or my husband.”

Emmett's remarks bolstered her confidence, and impassioned words poured from her mouth. “I'm tired of caring what people say about me. First they criticized me because I wasn't demure enough during my debut, then they complained I wasn't interested in marriage. I made the unforgivable mistake of not allowing my dresses to sit for a season before I wore them. Oh, and how dare I not shun the Hayes girl as everyone else did? I have garnered censure at every turn, and I am sick of it. I won't live my life for anyone other than myself, not anymore.”

Turning away from his bewildered expression, Lizzie set her champagne glass on a side table and marched to the other side of the room.
Might as well deal with this directly.
“Ladies,” she greeted in a firm, resolute voice.

Mrs. Van de Berg and the other two ladies spun, surprised at Lizzie's sudden appearance. “Oh, Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Mrs. Van de Berg drawled. “How lovely to see you this evening. And where is your husband?” She glanced about dramatically. “Did he escort you?”

If intended to throw her off, the comment failed. Lizzie was prepared for whatever insults these ladies hurled at her. “He did not, as he had other matters to attend to this evening.”

The matron nodded sympathetically. “Yes, we have heard of the long hours he keeps. That must be quite tedious for you, a husband obsessed with business—oh, but you're business-minded as well, it seems. Perhaps you two are not as ill-matched as we feared.”