CHAPTER THREE

 

The police were gone. The officers had been understandably annoyed to find themselves summoned out in the rain for no particular reason, but Zeke Morrison had placated them with a few jokes and an invitation to enjoy the hospitality of his well-stocked kitchen. The policemen left with no further difficulty. Zeke was not surprised.

One thing he had always excelled at, he thought wryly, was dealing with the police. The two hundred¬some guests, the cream of New York's social register stuffed into his drawing room, were another matter.

Even from where he lingered in the hall, Zeke could hear the hubbub of voices. The accents, normally so well-bred, were raised in pitch, some of them even shrill with outrage and shock. But as flustered as his guests were, Zeke counted it an improvement. Earlier that afternoon, he had been yawning behind his hand. All those perfect ladies and gentlemen gathered on his lawn had displayed as much animation as the marble statue gracing his fountain- that is until Miss Kavanaugh's balloon had come swooping down.

Since no one had been killed or seriously injured, Zeke could afford to be amused by the disastrous end to his fête. Aurora Rose Kavanaugh might be a spitfire and a little crazy to go flying about in that contraption, but Zeke had to give her credit for one thing. She had certainly livened up an otherwise dull party.

He supposed he ought to march into the parlor and play the urbane host, soothing, calming and apologizing. What he really wanted to do was to strip out of his suit, and take a long soak in a hot bath. His wet clothes were drying to a state of stiff dampness that was damned uncomfortable.

The suit was probably ruined, but Zeke hadn't liked it much anyway. His tailor had assured Zeke that the silk striped vest and close-fitting jacket would give him a dapper appearance, just like any of those young sprigs who had gone up to Harvard. But the transformation had never taken place. He had the tough exterior of a prizefighter, and his muscular frame threatened to burst the silk's flimsy seams.

Zeke couldn't wait to toss the suit into a heap and get into something more comfortable. Surely he could leave the cosseting of his guests to his redoubtable butler Wellington and the charming Mrs. Van Hallsburg. This infernal party had been all Cynthia's idea anyway.

Even as he considered this appealing notion, Zeke frowned. If he abandoned his role as host, Mrs. Van H. would likely be even more irritated with him. Not that Zeke feared any woman's wrath, but he owed Cynthia Van Hallsburg a great deal for her help these past months in opening the doors to New York society. Zeke Morrison was a man who always paid his debts.

He reluctantly headed for the drawing room, but a situation arose that required more immediate attention. Someone was hammering on the front door. When a harried parlor maid opened it, Zeke was not altogether surprised to see a representative of the press standing on the doorstep.

Nothing of interest could take place at Morrison's Castle without bringing the reporters out in droves, and none of these newsmen was more persistent than Mr. William Duffy of the New York World.

Wellington would have barred the fellow admittance, but the bold red-haired reporter easily slipped past the little parlor maid. Duffy's sharp features lit up as he spied Zeke paused outside the drawing room. He crossed the hall in three quick strides, his faded brown coat dripping rainwater with every step.

"Mr. Morrison! Just the man I wanted to see."

"The feeling isn’t mutual," Zeke replied. "What the hell do you think you are doing, barging in here?"

"Oh, Mr. Morrison," the parlor maid wailed. "I tried to keep him out."

"That's all right, Maisie. You go help Wellington with the tea. I can look after Mr. Duffy." Zeke spoke softly, but his voice had enough of an edge that the reporter took a wary step backward. As the relieved parlor maid scuttled off, Duffy flung out his hands in a placating gesture.

"I'm here on legitimate business this time, Mr. Morrison. I came to cover your party for my society editor." Duffy produced a small notepad and pencil from his inner breast pocket. He moistened the pencil tip with his tongue and affected to write. "Now what did Mrs. Van Hallsburg wear today—puce?"

Zeke glowered and snatched the pencil away. "Get out of here. Don't you have anything better to do than hang about my house and bother me?"

"No." Duffy grinned. "Like it or not, you are news, Mr. Morrison. The mysterious tycoon of millionaire's row. You can't just breeze into this town, buy up a whole block, build yourself a castle, and expect not to attract attention."

Zeke sucked in his breath with an impatient hiss. He collared the reporter and propelled him back toward the door.

"Ow! Watch the coat, Morrison. I still owe money on it, and I already near split my pants climbing your fence."

"You're lucky I don't split your head."

"All right then. All right! I didn't just come to cover the party. I was down at the police precinct and heard there was some sort of an accident out here—something about a balloon crash. Did you hire it for your party?"

"No. I don't provide my guests with cheap circus entertainment."

"Hey, what's wrong with cheap entertainment? I like it."

There had been a time in his life when Zeke would have agreed with him. That he had come across sounding like the kind of snob he despised only added to his annoyance.

As Zeke yanked open the massive front door, Duffy made one last desperate plea. "Aw, come on, Morrison. Do a fellow a favor. Give me a leg up in my career. Just one little interview."

He tossed out a spate of breathless questions. "Is it true you made your money running a gambling establishment in Chicago? What about the rumor that you were once a New York boy? How about the gossip that you were involved with gangs on the East Side like the Dead Rabbits?"

"You're going to be a dead duck if I ever catch you trespassing again." Zeke started to shove him out, but Duffy clung to the door jamb.

"It's raining buckets out there. You wouldn't throw a fellow creature out into a storm, would you?"

Zeke would and did.

Duffy went flying, but managed to regain his balance before he fell. Turning back, he glanced toward Zeke, his grin undiminished by the rain beating down on his head.

"Never mind, Morrison. I'll get my story somehow."

Turning up his collar, Duffy bounded down the steps, his cheerful exuberance quite unimpaired. As irritated as he was, a half-smile escaped Zeke. Duffy might be as annoying as a green-head fly on a hot day, but brashness and persistence were qualities that Zeke had always admired, perhaps because he possessed a measure of both himself.

Zeke watched until he made sure that Duffy did actually exit from his property, going through the iron gate and down the street. He eased the door closed. Just as the latch clicked into place, he heard a cool feminine voice calling from behind him.

"John ?"

He swiveled to observe the woman haloed in the light of the hall chandelier. Everyone else might be damp and disheveled, but Cynthia Van Hallsburg was still a vision of perfection in her silvery-blue frock, the color in tune with her white-blond hair, the pale blue of her eyes. The Ice Goddess—that was the name the society columns had dubbed one who had long been a reigning beauty among New York's upper set.

There was definitely winter in the stare that she now turned upon Zeke. "What is the matter now?"

"Nothing," Zeke replied, coming away from the door. "I was merely convincing Mr. William Duffy that I am not at home to callers."

"That reporter! I suppose this whole unfortunate affair will end up in the papers tomorrow. Exactly the sort of publicity one most deplores."

"Oh, I don't know. With a little digging, Duffy could find far worse things to print about me."

Mrs. Van Hallsburg frowned. Zeke had learned early on in their acquaintance that the one sure way of ruffling her ice-like serenity was to hint that some elements in his past were less than sterling.

This time she chose to ignore his comment. "You should go in now and attempt to placate your guests. Some of them are still very upset and demanding their carriages be sent for."

"Well, let them. I take no prisoners."

When his quip caused her lips to thin, Zeke relented somewhat, adopting a milder tone. "I'm sorry the party got spoiled. I know you worked damned hard to help me bring it off. But you can hardly blame me for what happened."

"I don't hold you responsible for what happened, merely how you dealt with it. I think you could have found far better employment for those policemen than having them gorge themselves in your kitchen."

So she was still harping on that. Zeke rolled his eyes. "Believe me, there are far more desperate criminals in this city for the police to arrest than a bunch of circus people in a runaway balloon."

"Then what do you plan on doing with that circus girl?"

"She's already gone I sent her off with her husband, booked them into the bridal suite at the Waldorf for a wedding present."

"I don't mean her. I mean the other one, the one you had Wellington take upstairs."

Oh, her. Miss Aurora Rose Kavanaugh. Just thinking of her was enough to make Zeke want to chuckle. He could picture her so clearly, a little slip of a thing, barely up to his shoulder, yet squaring off, her fists upraised, ready to darken his lights, disheveled strands of silky hair tumbling before her flashing eyes.

Zeke suppressed his smile lest Mrs. Van Hallsburg misinterpret it. "Miss Kavanaugh is only waiting here until her assistant comes to take the balloon away."

“That sounds exactly like the sort of excuse my late brother, Stephen, used to give whenever I caught him with one of his inamoratas."

Inna— Zeke couldn't even pronounce the word, but he gathered the gist of it. "Wait a minute. I only just met that girl today. I carried her into the house because she had hurt her ankle. She's only a kid, for heaven's sake."

Even as Zeke made this declaration, he recalled that moment at the foot of the stain when Miss Kavanaugh's clinging gown had outlined some surprising and delectable feminine curves, revealing that she was not quite as young as Zeke had first supposed her to be.

Still, for all that, she had looked like a drowned kitten, certainly nothing to provoke such an outburst from Mrs. Van Hallsburg. An outburst of jealousy? Given the woman’s dispassionate nature, the thought was ludicrous, but Zeke hardly knew what else to call it.

"Miss Kavanaugh nearly killed herself in a balloon today," Zeke continued. "I was only trying to be kind to her."

But he saw that all his assurances were useless. Mrs. Van Hallsburg clearly didn't believe him.

"In any case, I don't mean to be rude, but I hardly see where my intentions toward Miss Kavanaugh are your affair. I am not your brother."

"No, but I have invested a great deal of time in you, smoothing out your rough edges, attempting to bring you on in society."

"Well, some investments just don't pay off."

"I am not accustomed to taking losses."

Zeke's jaw tightened, and he wished he could be rid of Cynthia Van Hallsburg as easily as he had disposed of William Duffy. Something had been creeping into Mrs. Van Hallsurg’s manner of late that disconcerted him. It was as though the woman believed she owned him. He did owe the lady a lot of favors, so he strove to check his temper.

He rubbed one hand wearily along the back of his neck. "It's been a long day and this is turning into a damned silly argument. Why don't you run along and have yourself a cup of tea with the others before you get me angry as well. It doesn't bother me to have a shouting match in the middle of the hall, but I don't think you would like it."

He forced a smile to his lips. He really didn't want to quarrel with her, but he had a notoriously short fuse. He terminated the discussion by stalking past her into his study.

The rain was still lashing against the latticed windows, but a cozy fire crackled upon the hearth. Above the mantel hung a serene landscape by Constable, The walls were lined with shelves of books, the spines pristine. In the center of the study stood a large oak desk and a wing-back chair of green leather. The entire room was a subtle testimony to wealth, that Zeke could well afford to hire someone to decorate for him and had done so. But it revealed nothing of his own personality.

As he stalked over to a small cabinet to pour himself a much-needed whiskey, he realized that Mrs. Van Hallsburg had followed him. She closed the door behind her.

"I don't want to quarrel either, John," she said. "But forgive me if I am a little confused. You seemed almost delighted that that circus girl crashed down here, ruining what should have been the best garden party of this season. Even the Whitneys came. That was quite a coup for you.

"I thought you wanted to be something more than a vulgar adventurer who happened to strike it rich. You are so close to being accepted by the best families in New York. But I get the feeling you would throw it all away just on a whim. Sometimes I don't understand you at all

Zeke said nothing. Thrusting his hands deep in his trouser pockets, he stalked over to stare out the window at the rain washing the glass. He didn't even understand himself. It was his ambition to be accepted by New York's sacred Four Hundred, the top of the social register. But he also had an unholy urge to thumb his nose at Mrs. Van Hallsburg. and all her set, just the way he used to when he was a kid hawking papers on the street corners, making faces at all the fancy Dans rolling by in their carriages.

On days when he thought about it too much, he didn't even know why he had built this costly barracks of a house on Fifth Avenue, why he was trying so hard to be agreeable to people he held mostly in contempt. Perhaps because it was a challenge to see if he could get those blasted snobs eating out of his hand, a hand most of them at one time wouldn't have let shine their boots. Perhaps because having obtained all the money he could desire, he needed another goal. He had to keep running toward something. If he stopped for too long, he was afraid that he would notice the great emptiness that was his life.

What was it that Sadie Marceone had always told him?

Those dreams of yours, Johnnie, maybe they're gonna take you far. Maybe they're gonna make you rich, but they're never gonna make you happy.

At the recollection of those words, a clear image rose in Zeke's mind of the careworn face of the woman who had raised him. Abandoned at an orphanage when only hours old, he had never known either of his real parents, so whenever he thought the word "mother," he thought of Sadie. He was unaware that his expression had softened, having forgotten Mrs. Van Hallsburg's presence until she said, "That's a nice smile."

Zeke was quick to wipe it from his face.

She rustled over and rested her hands lightly on his chest. "You can be so charming when you want to be. Why don't you ever smile at me that way, John?"

"Zeke," he complained. "Why can't you ever call me Zeke? You know I prefer it."

"And I have asked you more than once to call me Cynthia."

"It seems neither of us is destined to get what we want." He studied the face of the woman pressed so close to him. The merest hint of lines appeared at the corners of Mrs. Van Hallsburg's eyes. The lovely widow's age was one of the best-kept secrets in New York.

Zeke knew she was at least ten years older than him, and he had seen his thirtieth birthday last week. Still, she was undeniably beautiful, her figure quite good. He wondered why he didn't have any of the normal masculine impulses toward her.

He had never once thought of trying to take her to bed, While she fascinated him, something about her repulsed him as well. Perhaps it was her eyes. They were as brilliant as gemstones and almost as hard.

He caught her hands and eased her away from him. "I always thought you were after something more than my smiles, Mrs. Van H. What's in all this for you? You're not the sort of woman whose friendship comes without a price. But you don't need my money. Van Hallsburg left you loaded. Yet I can't see what else I have to offer you."

"My dear John, you're so cynical and so modest as well. Let us just say that I regard you as an unbroken stallion, wild and rugged, but a thoroughbred for all that. As I have told you before, you remind me—perhaps too much—of my brother, Stephen. You even look like—"

She checked what she had been about to say, turning away from him. A shadow crossed her features, a brief second of rare vulnerability.

Zeke knew little about Mrs. Van Hallsburg's older brother other than that the man had met an untimely death several years ago. The lady did not mention him often.

"You must miss your brother a great deal," Zeke said awkwardly. He had never been good at consoling other people in their grief.

"Miss my brother?" Mrs. Van Hallsburg echoed the words as though surprised by them. "Yes, I suppose I was rather fond of Stephen."

Zeke had never heard affection expressed so coldly. As though she realized that she sounded heartless, she hastened to explain, "Stephen could try one's patience to the limits. He was a complete devil with women, you know."

She gave a brittle laugh. "Actresses! Dance hall girls. He couldn't keep away from them. It was my great dread he would actually marry one of the low creatures."

"That would have been unfortunate, I suppose."

"I would have known how to deal with it." She said this so quietly, but something in her manner chilled Zeke's blood.

She appeared to regret having confided even this much about her brother.

"Enough of these morbid reminiscences," she said. “I had best return to the drawing room, and try to convince everyone that the next party given at Morrison's Castle won't be quite so enervating."

"Thanks, Mrs. Van H., but I should tend to that myself. You have done more than enough for me already."

"I don't mind," she said, moving toward the door and opening it. "Just as long as you do one thing for me, John."

"And what might that be?"

Mrs. Van Hallsburg paused on the threshold to glance back at him. "Make sure you get rid of that circus girl."

Although she smiled when she said it, something in her arctic tones almost made the low-keyed words sound like a warning.

As evening overtook the city, the rain finally stopped. All of Zeke's guests had at last taken their leave, most with polite smiles, some even with a weak jest, but Zeke doubted that many of them would be eager to come back again. At the moment, he felt too tired to care.

When he saw Cynthia Van Hallsburg off in her carriage, he breathed a sigh of deep relief. He and the lady had parted on amicable enough terms, but Zeke had deliberately held himself aloof.

Maybe it was time to start putting more distance between himself and the lady. Mrs. Van H. was the sort of female who could cage a man, body, mind and soul. Zeke had avoided many traps of that kind, although he conceded Mrs. Van H. was more clever than most. He wished he understood more clearly her motives for befriending him. The conversation they had had in his study continued to disturb him.

Make sure you get rid of that circus girl, John.

He didn't take kindly to receiving orders from anyone, especially one that smacked faintly of a threat. Yet he was probably making too much of the remark. Likely Mrs. Van H. had been exercising a woman's infernal prerogative. Didn't they always have to get in the last word?

Mrs. Van H. had been right in one respect. He was going to have to do something about Miss Kavanaugh. When he noticed Wellington ambling toward the kitchen, likely intent upon securing his own supper now that the hubbub had died, Zeke flagged the man down. "Where is that little gal from the circus? Has she come down yet?"

"Why, no, sir. I put her into your room."

"My room!"

"You did give instructions, sir, to get her upstairs and get her clothes off, so I assumed-" Wellington gave a discreet cough.

Zeke stared at him, thunderstruck. His butler had leaped to the same wild conclusions as Mrs. Van H. Anyone would think that he was some kind of a Bluebeard, ravishing every female that crossed his path.

"Sometimes, Wellington," Zeke said, "you have some very unbutlerlike thoughts."

"I am sorry, sir. If I made a mistake, I will see that the girl is moved at once."

"No, go on downstairs before your supper gets cold. I can take care of Miss Kavanaugh." Zeke sent the butler on his way with a weary wave of one hand.

As Wellington gratefully took his leave, it occurred to Zeke that he hadn't had his own supper yet. He longed for nothing more than to sit down to a nice thick steak and a nickel beer.

But first he was going to have to go have another look at that moppet of a girl everyone seemed to think he was so hot to seduce.