Magnate (7 page)

“How's Mrs. Harper?” Emmett asked. Harper had met a young woman by chance on a train to St. Louis recently and quickly married her. Emmett happened to be very fond of the young but levelheaded woman.

Harper's rare grin emerged. “Wonderful, thank you. Still keeping me on my toes. She wants to go back to work at the perfume counter after the baby's born.” He shook his head. “I may have to buy out Hoyt's and close the damn store just to keep her home.”

Emmett chuckled. “Might not be a bad investment in either case. I've been looking to buy into a department store.”

The door opened just then, and a perfectly polished William Sloane strode in. Harper came to his feet and shook Sloane's hand. Emmett remained seated, downing more gin, and if the slight bothered Sloane he gave no hint of it. Neither man acknowledged the other.

A waiter delivered a glass of red wine to Sloane's side as Sloane leaned toward the candle on the table to light a cigar. “Cabot coming?”

“Yes, he said he would be here,” Harper said, then looked between Emmett and Sloane. “Are you two not speaking to one another?”

Emmett said nothing, and Sloane blew out a long, thin stream of smoke. “Don't be ridiculous.”

The door bounced open, and the tall form of a perpetually harried Calvin Cabot appeared. “Sorry I'm late,” he rushed out.

“We were just about to get started,” Emmett told him, rising as handshakes were traded.

“Good.” Cabot dropped into a seat, and a large tumbler of lager arrived by his right hand. “Sloane, I'm told you've got a real problem with the union in West Virginia again.” There had been a large-scale railroad strike in the area a little more than ten years ago, and word had it the workers were mobilizing once more.

“I know. I'm headed there tomorrow.” Sloane reached into his pocket and withdrew a sheet of paper. “Here's what I'd like you to print.”

Cabot pocketed the piece without glancing at the contents. “Fine. Before we begin”—he lifted his glass for a long draught—“I heard Cavanaugh had dinner with your sister, Sloane . . .”

“I'd like to get down to business,” Sloane snapped. “Some of us have places to be.”

Cabot exchanged a look with Harper. Tension permeated the room like sweat at a dance hall. “Sure, if that's the way you want to play it. Who wants to go first?”

As the talks progressed, demands were thrown about and concessions granted. Emmett agreed to Cabot's request for cheap building materials out in San Francisco and Harper's desire to drive the stock down on a chemical company. When they got to Sloane, he turned to address Emmett for the first time that night. “I've decided not to go in on the Ninety-Sixth Street pier and waterfront property.”

Harper and Cabot stilled, and the temperature in the room plummeted.

“You can't back out,” Emmett said, his tone chilly. “We agreed on that ages ago, and they're breaking ground in less than three weeks.”

“Well, now I'm un-agreeing.”

“This is the second deal you've backed out on since August,” Emmett noted, his voice low and hard. “I think you owe me an explanation. If this is about what happened the other—”

“I don't have to explain myself to you,” Sloane said, stamping out his cigar in a crystal dish. “The reasons why are none of your goddamn business.”

Emmett seethed, his hands curling into fists. This deal had been eighteen months in the making . . . and Sloane just backed out on a fucking whim? Or worse, as retribution for Emmett's having dinner with his sister?

Of course the pier project was expensive. If Sloane was experiencing financial difficulties, that could explain his need to pull out. Emmett's mood lifted considerably. “Far be it from me to stand in your way, then. After all, we are here to help one another.”

Emmett then launched into what he needed from each man: Cabot's help in uncovering information against a politician; Harper's backing in a resort project on the Jersey shore; Sloane's influence with city hall to get permits approved cheaply.

With agreements all around, handshakes were then exchanged. Sloane hurried out, wasting no time in departing, but Cabot and Harper both hung back, apparently trying to judge Emmett's mood.

“You took Sloane's news on the pier well.” Harper finished his drink, setting the tumbler down. “I was about to start taking bets on who would swing first.”

“No contest.” Cabot shook his head. “Cavanaugh would rip Sloane limb from limb.”

Emmett knew they thought of him as a thug, one step above the filthy gutter he'd been born in. The reputation followed him wherever he went, especially since Emmett hadn't done much to disprove it. Why would he, when the notoriety served his purposes so nicely? Very few were stupid enough to cross him.

Sure, fifteen years ago this might've been settled in an alley with fists. But those days were behind him now. Mostly.

“Elizabeth Sloane.” Cabot whistled. “I had no idea you ran in those circles, Cavanaugh.”

“I don't,” Emmett said. “And I have my reasons for not challenging Sloane on the pier.”

“Yeah, like a second dinner with his sister.” Cabot snickered and elbowed Harper.

Emmett just smiled enigmatically. Let them think what they wanted while he dug a bit deeper into the Sloane finances. The reasons would become clear soon enough.

* * *

The outside of the Metropolitan Opera House, called “the Yellow Brick Brewery” by some, was wretchedly ugly. The design of the palazzo-style façade fell far short of the beautiful Italian Renaissance buildings on which it had been based. Instead of honoring the classic European buildings, the Opera House resembled a factory at its corner of Broadway and Thirty-Ninth Street.

The inside, however, was glorious, unlike anything else in New York. Light and sunny, the interior swam with ivory and gold accents around a stage that seemed larger than any in the world. Paintings covered the ceilings, and life-sized statues of the eight Muses adorned the proscenium.

From her well-positioned private box in the lower tier, also called the “Diamond Horseshoe,” Lizzie peered at the Friday night opera crowd in the gaslight. There were many familiar faces, including Edith Rutlidge, who sat four boxes away with her parents.

Emmett Cavanaugh had been one of the initial investors in the Opera House, yet she'd never seen him at a performance here. Still, a small part of her had hoped he would appear at tonight's staging of Wagner's
Siegfried
. Lizzie herself attended only because Will had insisted, saying they needed to maintain appearances after “that disastrous dinner with Cavanaugh.”

Lizzie disagreed. She had fond memories of last week's dinner. Emmett was a fascinating man, certainly more interesting than the thick-jowled, heavily mustached society types surrounding her. He'd been given nothing in life, yet had taken everything. What drove such a complicated man?

Then there was the moment where he'd almost kissed her, his gaze intent and predatory inside the carriage. No other man had ever looked at her in such a way, like she was a banquet and he hadn't eaten in years. Though it may be shameless of her to admit it, she wished he had followed through on that kiss. Wished that he'd held her close and pressed his lips to hers. Slipped his tongue inside her mouth....

Heat slid through her veins, warming her all over, and she used her ostrich-feather fan to cool her skin. The movement caught her brother's attention. He leaned over, a blond brow raised in question.

“Are you ill?”

“I need some air,” she whispered, and then rose. He started to get up as well, but she patted his shoulder. “Please, sit. I'll visit the ladies' dressing room for a few minutes.” Lizzie lifted the skirts of her ivory satin opera gown and departed, passing the other gentlemen Will had invited this evening. Business acquaintances, he'd told her. Hardly surprising, since that was all her brother cared about.

She passed through the small salon at the back of their box and then into the corridor. Behind the tier were dressing rooms for the ladies and smoking rooms for the men. Lizzie traveled to the nearest dressing room, intent on pressing a cool cloth to her neck.

When she entered, there were three middle-aged women inside, busily chatting with one another. Lizzie recognized them as the wives of men who had recently built their fortunes—one with a telegraph company, one in shipping, and the other with a mine somewhere out West.

She nodded in greeting and continued to a small dressing table, where she requested a cool cloth from the maid hovering nearby. As Lizzie waited, she stripped off her gloves. The tight quarters made it impossible to avoid overhearing the ongoing conversation, not that the women put forth any effort whatsoever to keep quiet.

“. . . and I told him that we don't own china fancy enough to serve Mrs. Astor.” That was Mrs. Connors, whose husband was the president of Gotham Telegraph.

“Which Mrs. Astor?” the miner's wife asked.

“Don't be ridiculous,” the third woman snapped. “Waldorf's wife hardly has the same social weight as Caroline Astor. But why would you need to serve her? I thought her husband called to see Mr. Connors.”

“Yes, he did. Snuck in, too,” Mrs. Connors said as Lizzie accepted a cool cloth from the maid. “Didn't want to make too much of a stir, he said. Can you imagine, Backhouse not making a stir? The man never leaves his yacht, so of course I was shocked to see him. But now that he has called at our home, surely convincing him to bring his wife to visit shall not prove difficult.”

Lizzie wanted to snort. Etiquette demanded the lady of higher social rank pay a call first, yet Caroline Astor did not pay many calls. As the reigning matriarch of New York society, she hardly needed to. She had a large circle of friends, one that did not include new-monied types or divorcées.

“So what did Astor want with your husband?” one of the women asked.

“I haven't a clue. He met with Mr. Connors and one of the Gotham lawyers. They were sequestered in the study for hours.”

Lizzie blinked, the cloth in her hand forgotten. Why would Mr. Astor sneak around to see the president of Gotham Telegraph and his lawyer? Gotham was incredibly profitable; their stock had split twice in the last fourteen months. Connors had started the family-run company two decades ago, just as the telegraph boom hit. He had two sons who would, according to reports, step up when Connors no longer wanted to oversee the company.

So what had been the purpose of the visit? No rumors of a sale had circulated, but if traders even suspected Astor was considering investing in—or buying out— Gotham, the stock would climb, perhaps enough to double Emmett's money.

All Lizzie needed was the right moment, a few hours for the stock to jump in price, when she could buy and sell quickly. The rumor didn't necessarily need to be true, either. Wall Street traded in innuendo and suspicion. If she could purchase a large chunk of the Gotham stock before any rumors of a sale began, then she would stand to make a huge profit.

“Whatever they met over, it certainly put Mr. Connors in a jubilant mood,” his wife said. “He told me to start booking my spring trip to Paris, and said he'll finally be able to come with me this year. I tell you, that man hasn't vacationed with me since our honeymoon.”

Things began adding up in Lizzie's brain. Connors must be selling Gotham to Mr. Astor—and sitting on something wasn't Mr. Astor's style. He'd rather focus on horse races and yachting than on business, so she assumed the deal would be announced soon. If she could buy enough shares next week, then a well-positioned word in the right ear could spread like fire over the exchange. When the price of Gotham stock rose high enough, she could sell and win Emmett's ridiculous bet. Excitement bubbled through her, a swell of anticipation that had her leg bouncing.

“Lizzie! Are you ill?” Edith Rutlidge appeared, her silver beaded gown rustling as she approached.

Edith was twenty, unmarried, and Lizzie's closest friend. The two had met as small girls in Newport, though Lizzie could never give an exact date. It seemed the Sloanes had always been acquainted with the Rutlidges. Thanks to her close friendship with Edith, speculation began during Lizzie's debut, linking her to their oldest son, Henry—speculation Lizzie had done her best to extinguish at every turn.

“I saw you get up,” Edith said, frowning. “I was worried.”

Lizzie came to her feet, unable to hide a grin. “I am quite well.”

Edith cocked her head, her gaze assessing. “Are you certain? You are acting very strangely lately.”

“Strangely, how?”

“Staying home more often than not. Refusing callers. Dinners with nouveau riche.”

Lizzie choked, then coughed to cover the sound. “It was one dinner. In full view of the other patrons, no less. Hardly anything worth noting.”

“Are you joking? It's all anyone's been talking about this week. Rumor has it your brother went to Cavanaugh's house and punched him.”

Lizzie's shoulders jerked, her body rocking back in surprise. Will wouldn't have done that . . . would he? He'd looked terrible that morning, with his hair askew and eyes rimmed red, but Will rarely grew angry or raised his voice. She couldn't imagine him doing anything so uncivilized. “You know Will would never do that.”

“That's what I told everyone. Your brother is the stuffiest man I've ever met. It's as if he was born with a stick up . . . well, you know where.”

Though Lizzie adored her brother, not even she could argue that point. “Let's get back, shall we?” she said. “I don't want to miss the last act.” Threading her arm through Edith's, she led them toward the exit.