Magnate (5 page)

Her eyes rounded, filled with sympathy. Before she could say anything, he continued, “You see, I was rushing the other men. My shift was nearly over, and there was a brothel less than a mile from the mill. I was eager to get back to the girl I'd had a few nights before. So I convinced the other men that the chains would hold, to hurry up and move the pipe. And when the chains broke, two men died.”

She stiffened, the sympathy in her expression now a memory, yet he had no intention of stopping. He lifted his flute and swirled the contents. “The union, assuming the company's equipment to blame, fought to get me a small settlement. I took that money. I took it and never said a word about how the accident came to be, that it was my fault, because I wanted out of that steel mill more than I wanted my next breath.”

He could still feel it sometimes, the sweat. Woke up at night drenched in it. No, he had absolutely no regrets about getting out of the steel mill or the things he'd done since.

After downing the rest of his champagne, he placed his glass on the table with a thump. “Do not try and make me into something I'm not, Miss Sloane.”

Her throat worked before she croaked, “And what is that, Mr. Cavanaugh? What exactly am I making you out to be?”

He leaned in and held her startled gaze. “Nice.”

* * *

An awkward silence stretched, and the sounds of the dining room swirled around them. Lizzie concentrated on her food and tried to get Cavanaugh's warning out of her head. No doubt he'd been trying to scare her with his story, but the opposite had occurred. There were many layers to the man, all of them fascinatingly complex. He was flawed, just like the rest of the mortals on earth, but it was the flaws she wanted to unwrap and study like the stock tables she loved.

And that worried her. Her purpose was not to examine all the various facets of Emmett Cavanaugh, but to save her family's finances.

Her gaze bounced around the room as she tried to regain control of her emotions. Near the windows she spotted two older women who happened to be terrible gossips, their bold stares fixed on Cavanaugh as they whispered to one another. Both wore clear looks of disapproval, and Lizzie grew annoyed on his behalf. He'd done nothing untoward tonight to deserve their criticism.

Then the ladies looked at her, and she could read the judgment from across the room.
Is that Elizabeth Sloane? Why on earth is she dining with him? Notice how she isn't even paying him attention, how uncomfortable she appears.

She straightened her spine. She didn't want anyone feeling sorry for her or believing she was here against her will. True, he hadn't given her much choice in the matter, but no one need know that. Moreover, Cavanaugh had been a perfectly respectable dinner companion.

She did what came naturally, from years of training by governesses and deportment tutors: she pasted a smile on her face and launched into conversation. “You have a brother, I understand.”

That question seemed to snap Cavanaugh out of his thoughts. He relaxed in his chair, his mouth curving. “Yes, I do. Brendan. He's a doctor.”

“I can see you're fond of him.”

“I am. He's annoyingly smart. Works himself to the bone nearly every day, practicing in the roughest parts the city.”

“He must find it rewarding,” she offered.

“I suppose, though I keep reminding him he needn't work. Save himself the aggravation.”

“He could, but some people prefer to work.”

“I suspect you fall into that category as well.” He tapped his fingers on the edge of the table, his gaze shrewd. “Why stocks?”

She shrugged. “I like the excitement, the risk involved. And I've always had a head for numbers. In fact, my best memories are of my father reading the stock tables to me during breakfast.”

“How old were you when he died?”

“Seven.” A familiar ache welled up in her chest. “I remember not believing it, that he was truly gone. Even when I saw his body, I kept waiting for him to get up and tell me it was a big joke. I'm afraid I was a handful for poor Will.”

For some reason, that made Cavanaugh's lips twitch. “I can only imagine. You're smarter than other women, probably were even back then.”

She inhaled sharply, drawing the unexpected compliment deep inside her, to where uncertainty and self-doubt thrived. No one had ever called her smart—no one other than her brother, though he used the word as a way of discouraging her ambitions. Will tended to say things such as, “
You're too smart to go into business,
” and, “
Let a husband appreciate your intelligence with money.
”

It meant something that Cavanaugh thought her smart.

She picked up the full glass of cold champagne, tried not to let him see how he was affecting her. “I don't know that I'm so clever. Perhaps just more reckless.”

“Recklessness is never a bad thing.” Something about his tone, the way the low, husky words rumbled from his chest caused her body to heat. Was he flirting with her? No, she must be misreading him. He preferred actresses, as everyone knew.

She tried to return them to safer waters. “In business, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

“In everything. But there's a difference between recklessness and stupidity.” He placed his fork and knife down carefully on his gold-rimmed plate. “And I think it's safe for you to call me Emmett, at least during dinner.”

“That would hardly be proper.”

Cavanaugh said nothing, merely reached one large hand toward his delicate champagne glass. His skin looked rough and tanned, with fine brown hairs on the knuckles. Strong, capable hands that were different from any she'd seen. She wondered what they would feel like, if they would be gentle.

“Do you remember,” he said, “what happened when you Knickerbockers were determined to keep the new monied-types out of the Academy of Music?” He took a sip and leaned back in his chair. “Alva rallied everyone who'd ever been shut out, myself included, and raised the money to build the Metropolitan Opera House. And now what's happened to your precious Academy? It's become a vaudeville house.”

“And your point?”

“My point, Miss Sloane, is that your rules don't stand a chance, no matter how fervently Mrs. Caroline Schermerhorn Astor wills it to be so. Money always wins, and too many of us undesirables have it now.”

Lizzie bristled, resenting that he lumped her in with the rest of the old families so desperate to retain the status quo. “They are not my rules. I was never in favor of keeping the Vanderbilts out of the Academy, not that I had anything to do with it considering I was
fifteen
at the time. The world is changing, and if you think I'm not eager for it, then you don't know me at all.”

His eyes glittered, and he pressed his lips together, as if amused but desperate not to show it. “Is it so hard to admit I'm right?”

“Fine. Emmett,” she snapped quietly.

He let out a short noise, and she suspected it might be a laugh, albeit a rusty one. Sort of like the hinges on a door long gone unopened.

“You wanted me to make a fool of myself.” She swallowed the rest of her champagne, and her head swam. How many times had her glass been refilled?

“No,” he said. “I wanted to point out the absurdity of continuing to call me Mr. Cavanaugh.” His face softened, and her chest expanded with giddiness. Goodness, he was attractive. Little wonder why actresses fell at his feet.

“I have another question for you.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Why hide behind a man's name when you start your investment firm? You're a Sloane. I'd think you could do anything you pleased and no one would deny you a thing.”

The comment nearly caused her to chuckle bitterly. He'd be surprised how much she was denied, because of both her station and her gender. Even if women were welcome on Wall Street, none of them would be from the old families of New York society. Young unmarried ladies of Lizzie's set could never do what they pleased. Nevertheless, this venture could not fail—the future of the Sloanes hinged on it—so if employing subterfuge for a short time helped her succeed, she would not hesitate.

“Women with my background are not supposed to work. We're bred to support a husband and run a household. It's exactly as you first assumed, that my life has not prepared me for more than parties and dress fittings. But I need to do more—I
can
do more. Society will come to accept it, after I've proven myself.”

“So the investors will believe the advice you're dishing out is from me?”

“Not quite,” she said. “They merely need to believe you're invested in the financial success of the firm. That I have your ear. I'll do the rest.”

A shadow fell over their table. “Hello, Lizzie.”

Lizzie drew back swiftly and found Henry Rutlidge standing unsteadily at her side. His eyes were rimmed red, and his slick, brown hair was mussed. Not to mention, he reeked of spirits. Was he inebriated? “Mr. Rutlidge. You know Mr. Cavanaugh, I assume.”

“Evening, Cavanaugh.” Henry gave a jaunty salute.

Emmett's lip curled. “Rutlidge.”

“Here I was at the Fifth Avenue Hotel,” Henry slurred, “having drinks, when my friends and I decided to pop over here for dinner. Could hardly believe it when I heard you were here, too—and with Cavanaugh, no less. I said, ‘I've got to go and save Lizzie from that bouncer! '” He turned to Emmett. “No offense intended, Cavanaugh.”

Emmett downed the remaining champagne in his glass. “Oh, no offense taken.”

Lizzie frowned at both the insult from Henry and the barely restrained loathing from Emmett. This could be very bad, indeed. “I am fine,” she told Henry quietly. “I do not need rescuing. Mr. Cavanaugh and I are merely having dinner. Perhaps you should go home, Henry.”

He suddenly clutched the table. “Whoa. The room has started to spin. Do you feel it, Lizzie?”

“You're
drunk
, Rutlidge,” Emmett enunciated slowly. “No one feels it but you.”

“Come on, Cavanaugh. You're no stranger to the drink.” Henry leaned close to Lizzie and spoke in a stage whisper. “He lived in the Old Brewery for a time, I heard. Ran with a gang. A regular b'hoy, he was.”

“That would be a feat, considering the Methodists took over the building a few years before I was born,” Emmett said dryly. “But I'm certain I could remember a trick or two from my days downtown, if you're interested in following me outside.”

Oh, for heaven's sake. The last thing they needed was a brawl in the middle of the Delmonico's dining room. “Mr. Cavanaugh, thank you for dinner. I think it would be best if I saw Mr. Rutlidge home.”

Emmett's jaw clenched, and Lizzie pleaded with her eyes for him to understand. She had known Henry forever, yet she'd never seen him like this. Who knew how many more insults he would lob at Emmett before things took a disastrous turn?

Emmett signaled a waiter. “I'll take you both in my carriage.”

“No, that is unnecessary,” she rushed out. “I am perfectly capable of getting him into a hack.”

“Nevertheless, it would be my pleasure, Miss Sloane.” She opened her mouth to refuse, but his cold, dark gaze stopped her flat. His tone brooked no argument as he said, “And I insist.”

Chapter Three

Henry lapsed into unconsciousness on the ride home, thankfully preventing any further interaction between the two men, and Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief. Noting Emmett's rigid jaw, she deduced he was still quite angry—not that she could blame him. Henry's appearance and drunken, rude comments had upset her as well. For some reason, Henry had been determined to insult Emmett into a reaction, which made no sense.

This new side of Henry worried her. He was usually so jovial and sweet. Of course, she'd never seen him inebriated before.

Since Henry was sprawled on one side of the opulent carriage, Emmett and Lizzie had been forced to sit next to one another on the other side. With his huge shoulders and long limbs, Emmett took up a good amount of space. She tried to put distance between them, but there was no place to go.

He stared out the small window, more remote, more untouchable than before. An incredible gulf had risen between them, and she found herself strangely eager to breach the distance.

“I'm sorry our evening was cut short,” she said.

“Are you?”

“Of course. I wouldn't say the words if I didn't mean them.”

When he turned, his expression revealed nothing. His emotions were completely under control, and she couldn't read him. “Are you truly considering marrying that imbecile?”

“He is not an imbecile. And I have never seen him intoxicated before. He's not a habitual drinker.”

“Oh, yes,” Emmett remarked with a disbelieving roll of his eyes. “No doubt this was a celebration of some kind. There's always one to be had for men like him.”

She cast a glance at Henry's sleeping form. He looked so boyish and young, like the Henry she remembered while growing up. “He's not a bad sort.”

“Undoubtedly—until the liquor kicks in. Elizabeth and Henry,” Emmett drawled dramatically, as if on the stage. “You should marry him. You'd be the darlings of New York society.”

“That's a terrible reason to marry someone.” The only reason to marry was for love, in Lizzie's opinion. And as fond as she was of Henry, she didn't love him. That information, however, was none of Emmett Cavanaugh's business.

“I can't think of one better, actually.”

“You're a cynic, then,” she returned.

“Indeed, I am. Among other things.”

“Such as?” He didn't answer, just stared down at her. So she elbowed him in the ribs. “Come, now. I'll trade you my faults for yours.”

Even in the low light she could see his mouth quirk. “Did you just jab at me with your elbow, Miss Sloane?”

She did it again. “No.” He jerked in surprise, and she had to bite her lip to keep from giggling.

His focus settled on her mouth, where her bottom lip was currently caught between her teeth. “Have dinner with me again,” he said in the rough, husky tone that caused her stomach to flutter.

“Why?”

“To conclude the wager. We'll either toast your success or drown your sorrows.”

“Oh, I won't fail.”

“Is arrogance one of your faults, then?”

“Says the man who believes only men to have the stomach for—what did you call it?—this ‘cutthroat, nasty business,'” she retorted.

“I'm beginning to see why Rutlidge drinks,” Emmett said dryly.

She elbowed him again, more seriously this time. “Take that back. Henry and I are merely friends.”

“Miss Sloane, if you nudge me once more, I fear there will be consequences.”

Lizzie didn't believe a word of it. His dark eyes were twinkling, and he looked on the verge of actually smiling. Heaven help her if he actually laughed.

“What sort of consequences?” she blurted before she thought better of it. She was goading him, pushing, without considering what might happen. Yet she couldn't seem to stop herself.

At that moment, their eyes locked, and all the available air left the carriage. Shadows played across the planes of his handsome face, highlighting the small delectable dent on the tip of his chin. A buzz of sensation broke out over her skin, and she could not look away. His lips were full when he wasn't scowling or frowning, and she wondered how they would feel on hers. She'd kissed only two men in her life, Henry being one of them, but no kiss had caused her to lose her head, not like the novels promised would happen when a man embraced you.

Something told her Emmett was different, that this man could cause a woman to lose her head. So did that scare her . . . or tempt her beyond reason?

He leaned in, ever so slowly, and she held her breath, remaining perfectly still. They were so close she could see the hint of stubble on his jaw, while a faint trace of wool and cigar smoke teased her nose.
Please, kiss me. Just once, so I'll know.

Suddenly, the wheels hit a bump in the road, jostling the carriage, and Henry snorted loudly. Emmett and Lizzie both jerked apart, the moment broken.

While he turned to the window, Lizzie tried to calm her racing heart. Entertaining feelings for this man was a considerably bad idea. She barely knew him. And he was too . . . forceful. She wanted someone who was understanding and peaceful. Easygoing. Who would give her room to breathe. Heaven knew, a man with Emmett Cavanaugh's reputation, he would be a locomotive that crushed anything in his path.

The carriage slowed as they arrived in Gramercy Park. Lizzie reached across to gently pat Henry's cheek. Her friend didn't stir, not even when Emmett opened the door. “Henry, wake up. You're home.”

“Allow me.” Emmett stood outside the carriage. He leaned in, grabbed Henry's ankle with one large hand, and pulled hard. Henry slid to the carriage floor with a bone-jarring thud, and Emmett continued to drag him toward the door. Bending, he threw Henry over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

Mouth agape, Lizzie scurried after them. Emmett's driver, a stocky, muscle-bound man, opened the wrought-iron gate to the stairs, and Emmett climbed them easily, as if he weren't lugging a large man over his shoulder. He pounded on the front door, the wood rattling with the force of the blows.

The Rutlidges' butler, Price, came to the door. The servant did not seem all that surprised to have an unconscious Henry on the doorstep. “Come in, please,” Price told Emmett.

Lizzie followed Emmett inside, and they continued to the small receiving room Henry's mother used for close friends. “Put him there, if you please.” Price motioned to a sofa.

Emmett dumped Henry on the furniture with no ceremony. He straightened and looked at Lizzie, a silent question in his eyes.

“I will rouse the cook for some coffee,” Price told the room and disappeared.

Emmett's dark stare remained on Lizzie. She thought back to the moment in the carriage, when he'd nearly kissed her. Oh, how she'd wanted it, even though she knew it was madness. Reckless and running counter to everything she'd been brought up to believe, that kissing men you hardly knew was insanity. A sure way to ruin her future. She'd kissed Henry only twice, and they'd known each other all their lives.

This . . . attraction to Emmett Cavanaugh was dangerous. And getting in a carriage with Emmett now, alone, would only mean more temptation.

“I should stay and make certain he is all right,” she said quietly.

“Of course.” Emmett dipped his chin, his expression a mask of civility. “Then I bid you good night.”

His long legs carried him out of the room swiftly. “Emmett,” she called, and he stopped on the threshold.

“Thank you for dinner.”

“You are welcome,” he returned over his shoulder.

He disappeared and soon the front door closed, allowing Lizzie to draw her first deep breath of the evening.

* * *

“Ah, you've returned.”

Emmett handed his top hat and walking stick to his butler and glanced up in the direction of the voice. His brother, Brendan, came limping down the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing to keep the weight off his left leg.

Five years younger than Emmett, Brendan had been run over by a wagon as a boy. Emmett had been up to no good with the Popes at all hours, avoiding a father who drank too much and liked to use his fists. With no one to care for him, six-year-old Brendan had gone out to steal food one afternoon, slipped, and gotten caught under a passing wagon. Lucky to be alive, they said at the time . . . but not so lucky as to retain full use of both legs.

Though Brendan was now a doctor—a graduate of the Harvard Medical School—the ache in Emmett's chest, the crushing guilt over his brother's affliction, never let up. It had been Emmett's job to protect Brendan, and he'd failed. Their mother had disappeared shortly after, ending up dead four years later in San Francisco—not that Emmett blamed her for leaving. Patrick Cavanaugh had been one cruel bastard.

From that day forward, Emmett had vowed to do anything—beg, cheat, or steal, if necessary—to get his brother out of Five Points. That resolve had only magnified when Emmett's two half sisters were born. His three siblings would not suffer harm or go hungry, not while Emmett had breath left in his body.

Brendan reached the bottom of the stairs, a smile on his face. “Destroy any companies today?” he asked, his voice teasing.

“Just two,” Emmett answered with all seriousness.

“God, you're telling the truth. I'm glad I'll never have to go up against you. Except in billiards, of course. Can I tempt you into a game?”

“Mr. Cavanaugh.” Colin James, Emmett's secretary, strode swiftly down the hallway. Twenty-four and smart as a whip, Colin remained a permanent fixture in the mansion, residing in one of the guest suites, since Emmett tended to work round-the-clock. “I have your messages, sir.”

Emmett took the cables and slips of paper and flipped through them. Nothing that couldn't wait. “Tomorrow,” he told Colin, “I want you to find someone who can get us the Northeast Railroad P&L statements. No matter what you have to pay. I have a feeling the company might be ripe for the pickings. But that's enough for tonight. We'll pick up in the morning.”

“Very good, sir.” With a broad smile, Colin raced up the main stairs like a man possessed.

“He's sweet on some shopgirl over at Lord and Taylor,” Brendan murmured, watching Colin depart. “I think he's taking her out dancing tonight. I offered to show him some steps, but . . .”

Brendan chuckled, amused, but Emmett could see no cause for levity. When he closed his eyes, he could still see his brother's small, broken body on the bed. “Brendan . . .”

“It was a jest, Em.” Brendan slapped Emmett's shoulder. “You're too serious. Come on. Let's play for a bit.”

Emmett could sense his brother would not relent, so they made their way to the billiard room, one of Emmett's favorite places in the house. No expense had been spared here. A five-light gasolier illuminated the huge rococo-inspired billiard table, a one-of-a-kind piece complete with an intricately carved walnut base and green baize-covered slate surface. The mosaic-tiled floor—imported from a palace in Italy—had been reinforced just to hold the massive table. The walls were papered red with gold accents, and the furniture held a Far Eastern flare. Brendan often called the room the “opium den.”

“How were your patients today?” Emmett asked his brother.

“Sick.” Brendan leaned against a stick, a cut-crystal glass full of whiskey cradled in his hand. “I poured you some gin.”

Emmett murmured his thanks as he went to select a stick. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kelly stride in. Kelly was Emmett's driver and guard, as well as the only person Emmett fully trusted—and that was only because the two of them had grown up in Five Points together. They'd fought and scraped their way out of one of the worst hellholes on earth, and there wasn't anything one wouldn't do for the other.

“Where were you tonight?” Brendan asked Emmett. “Off with your Mrs. Rose?”

“Gettin' into trouble, is what he was doing,” Kelly answered. “With one Miss Elizabeth Sloane.”

Brendan whistled. “Elizabeth Sloane? That's a new one. Not your usual type of woman, is it, Em?”

Emmett didn't answer, and Kelly prompted, “Well, go on. Tell him, then.”

“It's business,” Emmett said, selecting his stick and testing its weight. “I'm backing her company.”

“Over dinner.” Kelly poured a glass of fresh orange juice and sat. Kelly never drank alcohol, not since they had left Five Points. Emmett just glared at him.

“Dinner!” Brendan exclaimed. “Well, that is surprising.”

Emmett finished arranging the balls on the table and lifted the rack. “You break.”

Brendan stepped to the table, lined up, and jammed his cue forward. A loud smack, and the balls careened around the felt. Two went in, one striped and one solid. Brendan claimed stripes and moved in for another shot. He made one, missed the next.

Emmett approached as Brendan returned to his drink and the earlier conversation. “So why is taking Elizabeth Sloane to dinner going to cause trouble?”

“I suspect her brother'll have a thing or two to say about Bishop's dinner tonight,” Kelly said. “Considering pissing the brother off was the motive for takin' her out in the first place.”

Kelly was the only person Emmett allowed to use his old childhood nickname, Bishop. Kelly used the name out of habit, but Emmett was not proud of the way he'd earned it. He ignored them and concentrated on sinking the solid-colored balls.