Magnate (3 page)

He forced his gaze to hers. “I said no for two reasons. First, I have no interest in owning an investment firm. And second, while it seems you have a knack for speculating, I cannot see how this is a good idea. I wish you luck, however.”

Her shoulders went rigid, and he knew he'd offended her. “I have more than a ‘knack.' Why do you think I will not succeed?”

How could he explain it to her, that talent only got one so far in business? More important were cunning, a lack of scruples, and an ever-ready supply of favors you could call upon at a moment's notice. This woman was far too well-bred to play in the street with the other vermin.

“The world you think to involve yourself in is a cutthroat, nasty business. I cannot believe you have the stomach for it.”

Her lips thinned into a white line. “And how do you know what, precisely, I have the stomach for?”

She hadn't backed down, so perhaps Miss Sloane was stronger than she appeared. Still, she had no idea what awaited her if she continued along this insane path. Bribes. Lying. Cheating . . . Christ, he'd bought off two politicians already today—and the day was only half over. No woman, especially one whose family could be traced to the Dutch patroons of New Amsterdam, should swim in those filthy waters.

“I don't, not really,” he admitted. “But I have a strong suspicion.”

“A suspicion based on how I look. On my last name.”

It was not a question, but Emmett felt he owed her the truth. “Yes. Life in Washington Square will not have prepared you for—”

Anger bloomed on her cheeks, her pristine skin turning a dull red. “You have no idea of my life or what I'm prepared to do. I know as much about stocks as any man. Women shouldn't be forced to put up with . . . with . . .”

She trailed off, and Emmett couldn't drag his eyes away. Furious, she was downright breathtaking. Emmett's body began to take notice, but the last thing he needed was a bit of stiff in his trousers. With an effort, he returned to the conversation. “With?”

“With men like
you!
You are just as closed-minded as my brother.”

Emmett frowned. God knew he wanted nothing in common with Will Sloane. Emmett hated her brother with everything he had, which was quite considerable.

He studied the determined set of Miss Sloane's shoulders. The resolute gleam in her steady gaze. “Why?” he finally asked.

“Why, what?”

“Why do you want to do this? You have to know it won't be easy. You'll likely be shunned by high society once word gets out. And who will serve as your clients?”

“They won't shun me, not if I've proven myself. Which is why I need a prominent name on the door, one that people will accept at first. As for my clients, they'll likely be mostly women at the outset. Shopgirls, teachers, widows, society women. And ladies with . . . other sources of income.”

“Prostitutes, you mean.” God Almighty, her brother would lose his snobbish, blue-blooded mind if he knew. Emmett was growing to like this girl.

She flushed, but did not dodge, answering, “Yes, those as well. But a successful businessman as the face of the company will encourage other men to invest their money. I just need help getting started, really. My gender won't matter when the company returns a profit.”

He admired her conviction, but wondered at the reason behind it. Were the Sloanes in some sort of financial trouble? Why else would she be here, so anxious to prove herself, instead of doing this on her own? The idea had Emmett nearly salivating; he'd had his eye on Sloane's Northeast Railroad Company for a long time. Owning the railroad that transported his steel across the country would almost double Emmett's profits.

And bringing the stick-up-his-ass Sloane down while helping his sister engage in something scandalous? Nearly irresistible.

Yet something held him back, like his strange reaction to her presence. His gut told him to run the other way from this woman—and he always trusted his gut.

“I like your determination,” he admitted. “But—”

“Wait!” she blurted. “I have an idea. Let's make a wager. You give me an amount of money, and, if I cannot double it on the exchange within three months, then you're off the hook.”

Before he thought better of it, he asked, “How much?”

She shrugged. “You may decide. Five thousand, perhaps?”

He admired her spirit, so he played along. “Too low. Make it ten.”

“Fine. And when I double it, I'll take the twenty thousand and another fifty to start my business.”

“Our business,” he corrected. “And you only get three weeks. Not three months.” No use making it easy on her.

Her jaw dropped. “Three weeks! I cannot possibly—”

“Then we have nothing else to discuss.” He stood and walked around his desk. “Good day, Miss Sloane.”

“Fine! Three weeks from today.”

He suppressed a smirk. She would need to learn better negotiation skills for certain. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tell me something.”

“Yes?”

“What's in it for me?”

“Well, money, of course.”

“I've got plenty of money. You'll have to do better than that.”

This caught her off guard, and she started chewing her lip. “I . . . There's nothing other than altruism and money in it for you, I'm afraid.”

“One unappealing and the other completely unnecessary. What else?” He moved toward her, relieved to see she didn't back away from him like other women had in the past. When he reached the edge of his desk, he leaned on the heavy wood and crossed his feet. “For example, what happens if you fail? I'm out ten thousand dollars.”

“I don't have the money to pay you back, at least not yet.” She paused, then brightened. “But I can repay you in Northeast stock. From my trust.”

“I can purchase common stock anytime I choose.”

“This is preferred stock. My father started the company only a few years before he died, and he put some in a trust for me. I'm certain I have enough stock to sign over to you, should I fail. Which I won't.”

Emmett swore he could hear his heart beating in his ears. Northeast hadn't put preferred stock on the market in eight years. Owning some not only promised a higher dividend return on the company's earnings, but such stock could possibly allow him voting rights. Will Sloane would shit himself when he found out—not that Emmett would tell any of this to Elizabeth.

“Why not wait until your twenty-fifth birthday, then, to start your company?”

“Because I am tired of waiting. Another four years is intolerable.”

Something about her answer felt off; Emmett would swear on it. The woman stood to inherit a large trust in a few years, so why not wait? More evidence all was not well in the house of Sloane.

Damn, he'd enjoyed this visit, probably more than he should have. He liked her; it surprised him how much.

The two of them had little in common—his upbringing in the filth of Five Points could not be more different than her privileged youth—but she had spirit, an unwavering desire to succeed, much as he had when first starting out.

A shame their paths wouldn't cross again. No chance she would win the wager, not in such a short period of time. Which meant her brother would never learn of this visit. Unless . . .

“You present a tempting offer, Miss Sloane. Now, would you like to hear my counteroffer?”

“A counteroffer?”

“Yes, something I want from you in exchange.”

She clasped her hands, almost as if bracing herself. “And what might that be, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

“I want you to have dinner with me.”

“Dinner?” Rounded gray eyes quickly narrowed suspiciously. The woman had no idea how to conceal an emotion. Really, the jackals on Wall Street would swallow her whole. “When?”

“Friday, at Delmonico's.”

“I couldn't possibly do that. What would . . .”

When she didn't finish, he said, “Yes, what would they say? Knickerbocker's finest, dining with the likes of me. Could the city handle such a scandal?”

“You are mocking me.”

“I do no such thing, Miss Sloane. I want to have dinner with you. Are you brave enough, or should you like to check with your brother first?”

That had the desired result. She threw back her shoulders, determined to prove she was one of the modern, independent women who answered to no one. Emmett could only imagine the conversations in the Sloane household. She must drive her brother daft. Yet another reason to like her.

“Fine. Which Delmonico's?”

“Twenty-Sixth Street, of course,” he replied smoothly.

“Of course,” she repeated, her tone sardonic. He knew why she would be unhappy. The location ensured that all of New York society would see them together. The news would race to Sloane's ears before dessert had been cleared. “In the main dining room, I assume.”

He inclined his head. “Indeed. Shall I write the bank check? Do we have a deal?”

She swallowed, her eyes uncertain, and he was filled with a sudden desperation for her to say yes. Clearly from a desire to bedevil Sloane—not the anticipation of watching her full, delectable mouth as she ate.

Finally, she jerked her head. “We have a deal.”

* * *

Elation and relief bubbled inside Lizzie as she left the Cavanaugh mansion. She had actually done it. A signed bank check now rested in her small bag, the first step to her new future. She hadn't convinced him to fund her company outright, of course, but it was a start.

She had no doubt in her ability to win the bet, even if he'd cut the time of the wager to almost nothing. She could do this—no, she
must
do this. Not because of the Sloane name or legacy, or even for her and Will's comfort, but for the hundreds of servants and Northeast Railroad employees who depended on the Sloanes for their livelihoods. Two members of their household staff had already been let go, and Lizzie would do all in her power to prevent any more dismissals—even if it meant sharing dinner with Emmett Cavanaugh.

Her brougham remained where she had left it, on Seventy-Fifth Street where prying eyes might be less likely to see it. At her approach, her driver, Brookfield, moved to open the door. “You've got guests, miss.”

“Guests?”

Brookfield colored slightly. “I apologize. I didn't see them sneak in, miss, and by the time I noticed, they wouldn't leave.” He opened the door, and two young girls stared out from the carriage depths. They both had pretty, dark hair done up in ringlets and wore matching yellow dresses. The two almost looked like twins, but Lizzie could tell that one girl was slightly older. She guessed they were no more than twelve or thirteen.

“Hello,” she said, climbing inside and sliding onto the empty bench.

Both girls grinned. “You're pretty,” one of them said.

“Very pretty. I love your dress,” the other girl said, gesturing to Lizzie's outfit. It was one of Lizzie's favorite day dresses, a French silk of blue stripes paired with a pointed basque trimmed with lace. The skirt had two deep ruffles and pannier drapery. She had wanted to look her best when meeting Cavanaugh.

“Thank you. I am curious who you are, though.”

“We're Emmett's half sisters. I'm Kathleen,” the older-looking one said. “But everyone calls me Katie.”

“I'm Claire. May I touch your hat?”

Cavanaugh's . . . half sisters? Lizzie quickly recovered from her shock and leaned forward, bending her head toward the girl. “Yes, of course. That's an ostrich feather. What do you think?”

“It's so soft,” the girl whispered. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. I like it, too.” Lizzie straightened. “So how old are you, Katie and Claire?”

“I'm thirteen. Claire's fourteen months younger than me.”

“Oh,” Lizzie said. “That must be nice, having a sister so close to your own age.”

While Lizzie appreciated her older brother, she'd always wished for a sister. Borrowing clothes, sharing stories, discussing young men . . . A sister would have been a friend and confidante to help ease the lonely years of adolescence. Will had done so much for her, but his responsibilities at the company and finishing his schooling hadn't left much time for his younger sister.

“It is, especially since Mama died when I was born,” Claire said.

Lizzie's chest tightened. She knew all too well the hole a mother's absence left in a little girl's heart. “I'm sorry. My mother died when I was young as well.”

Both girls gazed at her with solemn understanding. “Do you remember her?” Katie asked.

“Very little, I'm afraid.” Lizzie had been four when Caroline Sloane died in childbirth, along with the baby. She could recall brushing her mother's long, blond hair at night. The ghosts of a few other brief moments existed—a kind word or a kiss on the forehead—but never as many as she'd wished. Will had provided Lizzie with most of the memories, often telling her stories of her parents. Did Emmett do the same for his half sisters?

Lizzie refocused on the young girls. “I'm sure your mother loved you both very much.”

Katie smiled. “Brendan tells us about her all the time.”

“Brendan?”

“Our other half brother,” Katie said. “We all had the same father. Emmett's the oldest, then Brendan, then us. Emmett and Brendan's mother died, too. Before our father married our mother.”

“We spend a lot of time with Brendan. Emmett's usually too busy for us.” Claire swung her booted feet, her legs too short to reach the carriage floor. “He works all the time.”