Tiffany Girl (34 page)

She shooed his words away with a wave of her hand. “Don’t be silly. I’ve every confidence he’d behave as a gentleman with me.”

He clasped her arm. “You must heed me on this, Miss Jayne. There are things I know about him that you don’t.”

Frowning, she shook her head. “I won’t hear any ill talk of him. He’s part of our family.”

He gave her a gentle shake. “He’s not part of your family. None of us at 438 are part of your family.”

“Yes you are, and he’s been nothing but the consummate gentleman in my presence.”

“Which is what makes him so dangerous.”

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone is dangerous in your sight. Even I’m a danger to myself, according to you. But, we digress. Would you like to go to the reception or not? It would give you a chance to interview the girls and it would give me an escort for the evening. Either way, it makes no difference to me.”

“And if I don’t go, you’ll submit Oyster’s name?”

“I imagine I will.”

“Then I’ll go. What time?”

“You’re squeezing my arm.”

He immediately released it. “What time?”

“The ball won’t start until almost midnight. All of the wealthy set will be attending dinners at the homes of their society friends and only afterward will they head to the hotel. I’d thought to leave here about eleven thirty. It’s a good twenty-five minute walk.”

“We’ll leave at eleven forty-five and I’ll have a carriage.”

She blinked in surprise. “That’s not necessary. It’s not as if we’re real members of society.”

“Will we be entering through the front door?”

“Oh, yes. Certainly.”

“Then I’ll have a carriage.” With that he spun around and returned to his room.

She remained in the middle of the floor, her arm gently throbbing from the heat of his clasp, her heart lifting at the thought of him hiring a carriage for her. Of a sudden, she didn’t want to wear what she’d originally planned on wearing. Moving to her wardrobe, she opened the door and contemplated the gowns inside.

CHAPTER

47

R
eeve paced the parlor slapping his gloves into his hand and drawing them through, only to repeat the process. The entire household had stayed up to see Miss Jayne in all her finery. All except for the Trostles. Mr. Trostle was still in Milwaukee and Mrs. Trostle had gone to visit her sister.

Oyster, Nettels, and Holliday played cards at a table. Mrs. Dinwiddie softly snored in a rocker, her knitting forgotten. Miss Love was in Flossie’s room and Mrs. Holliday curled up on the couch rereading the previous columns of the
Merry Maid of Mumford Street
.

He was surprised no one had suspected he was I. D. Claire, but perhaps it wasn’t so strange after all. Other than Marylee, none of the boarders in his column were anything like the ones at Klausmeyer’s. Besides, boardinghouse satires were in every corner theater, in a plethora of magazines, and in several books.

Mrs. Dinwiddie had hinted to him of her suspicions when they were alone, but the others had only seen what they expected to see, though they had asked him if he’d known who I. D. Claire was. He’d carefully told them that only Claire’s editor knew the writer’s identity.

He adjusted his tie and new black jacket. He’d not only
had the
New York World
pay for his clothing and carriage, but he’d demanded a good deal more money for the article. Ulrich, salivating at the prospect of reporting on the event, met Reeve’s terms so long as he wrote something about who was there and what the ladies were wearing.

Reeve checked his pocket watch. It had taken him a mere twenty minutes to dress. Miss Jayne, however, had started preparing in the early afternoon. Finally, a commotion in the hall pulled him up short.

Miss Love rushed into the parlor. “Just wait until you see her.”

Mrs. Dinwiddie gave two short snorts, then woke up. “What? Where? What’s happening?”

“It’s Flossie.” Miss Love helped the elderly woman to her feet. “She’s all dressed and ready. Just look.”

Miss Jayne rounded the corner. Reeve’s breath left him in a whoosh. The other three men surged to their feet.

A gown of palest pink hugged her figure, the neckline dipping just enough to titillate but not reveal anything of import. Spangles dotted her bodice, catching the light like a sprinkling of fairy dust. Long white gloves rode up and over her elbows, leading his eye to a patch of creamy skin partially covered by pale-pink bows of satin draping over her shoulders.

Yards and yards of black hair swept up the back of her head like a series of ocean waves, the uppermost crashing back into itself, piled high and held at bay with a tiara of filigree silver.

He had an insane urge to bow and kiss her ring finger. “You’re late.”

“You’re ravishing.” Oyster rushed past him and took her hand to his lips. “My dear Miss Jayne, I am completely besotted. You will outshine even the Astors.”

“My, oh, my.” Mrs. Dinwiddie placed a hand against her heart. “What a sight you are. I had no idea you had so much hair. How long is it?”

Miss Love leaned close to the woman’s ear. “It goes nearly to the floor when she lets it out completely.”

He swallowed hard.

“You are indeed enchanting.” Mr. Nettels cleared his throat. “I daresay you will be the belle of the ball.”

Reeve sighed. There they went again. Telling her how special, how beautiful, how much better she was than everyone else. And although she was a glorious creature, they were on their way to a gathering of the richest of the rich. People whose spangles would be made of diamonds, not reflectors. Whose headpieces would be made of real silver, not nickel. Whose necks would be draped with jewels, not a piece of velvet.

Wasn’t simply being Flossie Jayne enough? Did she have to be Flossie Jayne the Unflawed Beauty of the Century?

Her eyes found his, their depths deep and dangerous. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said.

“It was worth the wait.” And it was, although he hadn’t meant to add to the already inflated opinions of the others.

She gave him a soft smile. “Thank you.”

Shouldering Oyster aside, Reeve held out his arm. “Shall we?”

She laid her gloved arm atop Reeve’s. The courtliness of her gesture took him off guard, for he’d expected her to tuck a hand beneath the crook of his elbow. He swallowed again. This gentle riding of her arm upon his was in many ways more intimate.

Trapping her fingertips with his, he led her to the entry hall, adjusting his step to compensate for the train that dragged behind her and slowed her steps. At the door, he draped her shoulders with a light wrap, the nerve endings on his fingers shooting sensations up his arms each time he brushed her skin.

Pulling in a deep breath, he tugged on his gloves and placed a top hat upon his head. He needed to get ahold of himself. They had a long night ahead of them and they’d yet to even make it out the door.

CHAPTER

48

T
hey sat in the unmoving carriage, gas lights from the street providing a modicum of light.

“I guess we should have left earlier.” He sat across from her, her skirt and train covering his boots, his trousers, and the floor like a swath of snow. “I didn’t think about everyone’s carriages arriving at the same time.”

She toyed with a silver bracelet on her gloved wrist. “It’s all right. It’s rather nice to have this calm before the storm.”

He’d hardly describe these moments as calm. His breathing was labored. His pulse hammered. And his fingers ached to stroke the skin from the tip of her chin to the edges of her décolletage. “Since I’m to write about who’s in attendance and what they are wearing, perhaps you should tell me what to look for. Who to take special note of.”

She looked out the window, ducking her head a bit in order to view the sky. Her position gave him an unrestricted view of her long, smooth neck and the skin between it and the bows at her shoulders. “Not yet. If you don’t mind, I’d rather just sit and absorb the moment. It’s not often I get to dress up and go to the San Remo.”

He’d never in his life done such a thing. And with the way she
looked, if they didn’t discuss something—anything—he’d very likely become as besotted with her as everyone else.

“What about the other Tiffany Girls?” he asked. “Which of them will be there?”

Sighing, she pulled back to center. “My dearest friend at work, Aggie Wilhemson, will be there.”

Aggie. He knew of Aggie. Miss Jayne had spoken of her often, at least to Miss Love. What he hadn’t known was her last name. “Tell me about Miss Wilhemson.”

“Well, let’s see. She’s six feet tall. Very fair and noble looking. She’s from Sweden and is engaged to a forty-year-old butcher.”

He lifted his brows. “Six feet tall?”

“She really is. I know you think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not.”

He vaguely remembered a tall girl the day the men were picketing. “Okay. Who else?”

She told him of the girls, giving anecdotes about each. Instead of distracting him from his disquieting thoughts, her undivided attention made it worse. He very rarely had her all to himself, but to have her alone and with nothing else to look at, he found himself fascinated with the way her dimple flashed when she spoke. The way her hands did as much talking as her mouth. The way her lower lip was just slightly fuller than her upper one.

Of a sudden he realized she wasn’t talking anymore.

He shifted his gaze to the window. “We’re moving.”

“Yes. We’ve been moving for a while now.” Her voice was soft, husky.

He didn’t dare look at her. Instead, he nodded. “Good. That’s good.”

The air in the carriage thickened. He kept his focus on the street. Finally, they pulled up in front of the hotel. A footman whisked open their door and assisted Miss Jayne to the ground. Reeve pressed his head back against the wall of the carriage, took another deep breath, then joined her and escorted her inside.

SOIREE 
²⁸