Behind the Scenes Page 17

  “He’s done me a graver disservice by forcing me into society instead of allowing me to take over the running of his mines.”

  The moment the words left her mouth, Permilia felt ashamed of herself. Until her father had married Ida, she’d shared a bond with him that she’d never expected to lose. Even though she was furious with her father at the moment, had been furious with him for years, she’d never thought she’d turn into the type of woman to say such disparaging things about him, and to people she barely knew. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Perhaps we should enjoy our tea before it grows cold,” Miss Mabel suggested.

  Needing a distraction, and not quite as hesitant to drink tea that had come from the same pot as that of Miss Mabel, who’d already taken a few sips, Permilia picked up her cup.

  Raising it to her lips, she took the smallest of sips, blinking in surprise a second later. “Good heavens. That’s delicious.” She took another sip, having to resist the great urge she felt to smack her lips.

  Watching Asher lift his cup, she smiled when he took a sip, his eyes widened, and he sat forward in his seat, pinning Miss Mabel with a rather determined eye.

  “I do believe I’m going to have to insist you divulge where you’ve gotten this because . . . this is a tea I simply must acquire for my shop.”

  To Permilia’s relief, all talk of disappointments, inappropriate newspaper articles, and the reason Permilia was dressed as a milkmaid were pushed aside as everyone enjoyed their tea. An easy atmosphere settled over the library, until the door opened and Mr. Barclay stepped in.

  “I’ve received word that Mr. Tooker will be arriving soon, apparently having decided to join you, Miss Mabel and Miss Henrietta, for dinner,” the butler said. “His note said he will be arriving at four thirty, and it’s nearly that now.”

  Permilia set aside her cup. “Who is Mr. Tooker?”

  Miss Mabel rose to her feet and smiled a smile that was a little too bright. “He’s our nephew, dear, and as sorry as I am to have to say this, you and Mr. Rutherford are going to have to leave . . . immediately.”

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  “While I must admit that I’ve always wondered what the Knickerbocker Club looked like on the inside,” Harrison said, “and I am suitably impressed by our opulent surroundings at the moment . . . I find I can’t fully appreciate this experience, given the oddness of finding myself here instead of at Astor House. If you’ve neglected to realize, this is the day of the week I always join you at Astor House for lunch—and at noon, not eleven.”

  Pulling his attention away from the window and the view he’d been enjoying of 28th Street, Asher found Harrison contemplating him from the high-backed leather chair he was lounging in.

  There was little question that Harrison suffered no ill-effects from his accident of the day before, His eyes were clear, he’d complained of no pain in his head, and his mind seemed to have returned to its original razor-sharp state, making him far too observant at the moment.

  “Would you believe I recently came to the realization, what with my father currently escorting my mother through the designer salons of Europe, that no one was making use of our membership here? And, as I’m sure you’ve been able to deduce, because of the exclusive nature of this particular club, dues are rather dear to maintain. That right there explains why I became uncomfortable being neglectful of our attendance, especially since I’ve never been a gentleman to embrace a wasteful nature.”

  “I could almost believe that if not for the unusual situations we’ve found ourselves in of late, not the least of those being ambushed in the middle of Central Park and shot at with arrows. We were then rescued by two charming, albeit curiously dressed, young ladies, who went about whisking us to safety in a questionable milk wagon that certainly did not have its milk bottles properly secured. If that weren’t enough, you and Permilia then sat down to tea with the Huxley sisters, women known throughout the city for their unquestionably disturbing attitudes. Because of all that, I’m fairly sure there’s a completely different reason to explain why we’re really at the Knickerbocker Club.”

  “Did you know that they hold their membership here to only seven hundred?”

  “Fascinating to learn, while at the same time dashing any hope I may have held that a future application I might have considered making here will ever be approved, but . . . you’re avoiding my question.”

  When Harrison took to crossing his arms over his chest and staring at Asher without even bothering to blink—a tactic he’d developed when negotiating important business deals over the years—Asher blew out a breath, knowing it would be easier to just admit defeat.

  Besides, considering Asher had decided to become a more formidable type of gentleman, he’d hardly be successful in building that type of reputation if he were witnessed fidgeting in his chair simply because he was pinned under his friend’s unnerving stare.

  Leaning forward, he looked around, ascertained no was listening in on them, and then lowered his voice, just in case. “I’ve decided I need to make some changes in my life.”

  “Ah, finally listening to Permilia, are you—choosing to make yourself a more difficult target by switching up your schedule?”

  Asher sat back in his chair. “So you find me to be a predictable man as well?”

  Harrison picked up his glass of Apollinaris water and took a drink. “You say that as if there’s something lacking with being a predictable man.”

  “I’ve never known anyone to strive to be predictable, Harrison. It’s boring and lacks any semblance of danger.”

  “Where in the world is that coming from?”

  Asher began to drum his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Do you know that my doorman, Mr. Cushing, found it amusing to even contemplate the idea that an assassin had been hired to kill me?” Asher waved a hand Harrison’s way. “But he had no difficulty whatsoever believing you’d attract the notice of a killer, and . . . he was also of the opinion that the killer would have no chance of success in completing his mission with you as the target since everyone seems to believe that you’re a dangerous man.”

  “Mr. Cushing actually said that I’m a dangerous man?”

  “Well, no, not out loud, but it was definitely implied.”

  Harrison’s brows drew together. “I’m not certain where you expect me to go with this conversation.”

  Leaning forward, Asher caught Harrison’s eye. “I want you to teach me how to become a dangerous gentleman, one who looks as if he eats nails for breakfast and bullets for lunch.”

  Harrison choked on the Apollinaris water he’d been in the process of drinking and spent the next minute wheezing and gasping as he tried to catch his breath. Waving away a Knickerbocker server who’d appeared to offer him assistance, Harrison drew in a rasping breath. Clearing his throat a second later, he nodded to the server who’d not bothered to move so much as a single step, having more than likely been taught that allowing a gentleman to die while he was visiting the Knickerbocker Club was to be avoided at all costs.

  “I’m fine—really I am,” Harrison finally managed to say.

  “Was the water not to your liking, sir? Was it perhaps too strong for you?”

  Harrison pulled out a ratty-looking handkerchief and wiped eyes that had taken to streaming. “It’s water, my good man, not brandy, but perhaps it was the lemon—put in per my request, of course—that did me in.”

  “Lemons can be tricky, sir.”

  “Indeed.”

  The server put his hands behind his back. “Would you prefer something more soothing, perhaps . . . tea . . . or maybe a nice lemonade?”

  “Tea will be fine, since as was just mentioned I seem to be having difficulties with lemons today.”

  “Very good sir.” The server inclined his head, did the same to Asher, then turned and moved on silent feet out of the reading room they were sitting in.

  Shoving his handkerchief back in his pocket, Harrison
stretched his legs out in front of him and folded his hands over his stomach.

  “Now that I can breathe again,” he began, “allow me to set the record straight. I do not eat, nor have I ever eaten, nails for breakfast, preferring instead a nice dish of eggs, the fluffier the better, along with toast if there’s jam to spread on it, and . . .” He grinned. “I know most dangerous men are assumed to drink coffee, and black coffee at that, but”—he shuddered—“I can’t abide the stuff and normally enjoy a large glass of milk with my meal. As for bullets for lunch, well, I daresay you can’t name a lunch we’ve enjoyed together where I’ve ordered bullets.”

  Asher stretched out his legs as well. “The fact that you don’t actually eat nails or bullets is completely beside the point. You look like you could, and that right there is what I need you to teach me.”

  “Are you certain you didn’t suffer a head injury as well yesterday, one that rattled that interesting brain of yours and has you so out of sorts today?”

  “I’m not suffering from a brain malady, Harrison. Far from it. If you must know, I’ve finally realized that I’ve settled into a rather predictable life—become complacent, some might say. I need to make some changes before I turn into one of those stodgy old men who find disappointment around every corner.”

  “Ah, so this is about Permilia.”

  “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

  “When a gentleman longs to make significant changes in his life, it’s always due to a woman.”

  Asher simply stared at his friend for a second before he shook his head. “Or it might very well be a direct result of that gentleman—when he was under attack by a bow-wielding assassin—watching as his friend pulled the expected pistol out of his pocket, but when he stuck his hand into his own pocket . . . the only weapon he had at his disposal was a powder puff.”

  “And candy, which staved off the hunger pangs of that friend with the pistol,” Harrison added as his lips twitched at the corners.

  Asher narrowed his eyes. “A dangerous man would not be caught dead with a powder puff in his pocket, which means I’ve become a dandy.”

  “There’s a word you don’t often hear these days.”

  “Which further proves my point.”

  Sitting upright when the server returned with his tea, Harrison accepted the cup, thanked the man, and busied himself stirring his drink before he caught Asher’s eye.

  “You’re not a dandy. You simply have an appreciation for fashion, one that has allowed you to build up quite the fortune.”

  “You’ve built up a fortune as well, but your building up of a fortune has entailed using the sweat of your own brow while battling the forces of nature as you travel the high seas, testing out your ships.”

  “I’ve seen you sweat numerous times.”

  “When?”

  “Well, ah, I distinctly remember a time when you were delivered a note, while you were at Delmonico’s, notifying you that a large shipment of silk something or others had been delivered to the store earlier than expected. Since the only man at the store at that particular time was a guard with a touch of rheumatism, you took it upon yourself to leave Delmonico’s and unpack the wagons with your own two hands.”

  “You weren’t even there, so how do you know for certain I broke a sweat?”

  “Because I saw you afterward, and . . . your hair was disheveled.”

  “Name another.”

  Harrison shook his head. “I think not, because my point has been sufficiently made.”

  “You can’t think of another time, can you, when I might have taken to sweating?”

  “I’m not a man who has ever been overly observant about such matters, Asher. And while I’m sure you’re enjoying being so obstinate, in my opinion, you’re being overly hard on yourself.”

  “I’m not being hard enough, Harrison. I’ve willingly chosen to live within the relatively small community of the socially elite, and because of that decision, I’m woefully ill-equipped to deal with the real world.”

  “You’re one of my closest friends, Asher, and as you and I both know, I’m not a member of the socially elite, which means your world is not as small as you think.” Harrison lifted his teacup and took a sip. “However, having said that, I think, if you were being honest with yourself, you’d admit that all of this angst is a direct result of the affection you feel for Permilia.”

  “I never said I hold Permilia in affection.”

  Harrison waved that aside. “You didn’t need to, but if I may continue sharing my opinion with you, I believe you’re concerned that she won’t return that affection, which has made you doubt yourself as a man.”

  “Are you quite certain the physician who looked at your head yesterday found it to be in fine form?”

  “You know perfectly well that the physician found me to be quite well. You were standing right beside me when he pronounced me almost as fit as a fiddle.”

  “Did you consider the idea that he might have found you so fit because he was simply anxious to get back to studying Gertrude’s unusual condition?”

  Harrison smiled. “Her skin did seem to continue turning a brighter shade of orange as the minutes ticked by.”

  “Which is why you may not have been properly seen to, given the attention Gertrude was commanding.”

  “You sat with me for two hours as we waited for the hospital staff to complete their experiments on Gertrude, so you know full well I was not concussed, just a bit rattled because I’d been clobbered over the head with milk bottles.” He smiled. “I must say I was thankful the one physician made a point of telling Gertrude that I shouldn’t be held responsible for anything I might have said directly after suffering that clobbering.”

  “So she’s forgiven you for calling her a pretty little thing?” Asher asked, having no qualms whatsoever in embracing the idea of changing the subject.

  “I can only hope that my three sisters are never privy to the fact that those particular words slipped out of my mouth, brain injury or not, because they’d certainly waste no time in taking me to task on Gertrude’s behalf.”

  Asher frowned. “That almost sounds as if your sisters have become progressive sorts.”

  Harrison returned the frown. “Of course they’re progressive, Asher, as I would expect them to be. They’re included in every aspect of our shipping business. And since I’ve grown up with a mother who knows just as much about shipping as my father does, I’m definitely of the opinion that women have been soundly insulted over the years, given that their abilities have been misunderstood to such a great degree.”

  “One really does have to wonder why we’re friends when we hold such different opinions on almost everything.”

  “Being anything but supportive of the suffrage movement is an opinion you should reconsider, my friend, but . . . since we are friends and I’m of the belief that, as such, it’s perfectly fine for us to agree to disagree, let us return to what we were speaking about before.”

  “Miss Gertrude Cadwalader,” Asher said with a nod.

  Sending him a far too knowing look, Harrison took another sip of his tea. “Miss Gertrude Cadwalader is a fascinating woman, kind as well, since she did not take offense at me calling her a pretty little thing. Although, come to think of it, that lack of offense might have been more because she mentioned how poor the lighting was in the milk compartment and didn’t believe I’d been able to see her properly enough to make a sound judgment about her looks.”

  “You don’t find her to be attractive?”

  “I didn’t say that. She’s delightful, orange skin and all, even while wearing ratty trousers and sporting a hairstyle that she claimed Mrs. Davenport, her companion, had been responsible for.” Harrison’s look turned a little distant. “I think there’s much more to Gertrude than meets the eye, which is why I’m pleased to announce that she promised to go sailing with me once the weather turns warmer, and when the skin the doctors were unable to turn back to its original color fades
just a touch.”

  The distant look vanished in the blink of an eye as Harrison returned his attention to Asher. “But enough about Miss Cadwalader. To refresh that deliberately faulty memory of yours, we were actually discussing Permilia what seems like eons ago, so we’ll return the conversation to her.”

  “Must we?”

  “I fear we must. And since you seem reluctant to move the conversation forward, allow me to point out that, while you claim to not hold her in affection, I believe that affection was sparked between the two of you over two months ago, when you haggled with her at Central Park—when she took you to task over what you were charging for those ice skates, if memory serves me correctly.”

  “Why would you think I’d develop affection for a woman who was so proficient with haggling that I wanted to wring that lovely neck of hers?”

  “You were fascinated with the very idea that a woman was familiar enough with the price of skates that she could haggle with you about that price.”

  “It turned out to be an unsuccessful haggling session on my end, since Permilia ended up paying exactly what she wanted for the skates. If anything, I was beyond annoyed with her.”

  “I’m certain you were annoyed with her, but underneath that annoyance, you appreciated her spirit, and . . .” Harrison drew in a breath. “Before you make the claim that allowing her to win the day reinforces the idea that you’re a dandy, or makes you anything less than a gentleman, it doesn’t. If anything, it reinforces the idea that you’re a true gentleman in every sense of the word.”

  “I didn’t deliberately allow her to win the day.”

  Harrison rolled his eyes. “You’re being obstinate again, and you know you did because she fascinates you and you didn’t want to disappoint her. But . . . I hope that you also understand that she’s fascinated with you as well.”

  “She’s not fascinated with me,” Asher argued. “She grew up in the midst of miners, which means she’s more likely to be fascinated with a man like Mr. Slater, a man deeply involved in the mining industry, over a man like me.”