Magnate (6 page)

“But Emmett would never do that. He'd never use some innocent woman out of spite. Would you, Em?”

Emmett couldn't even look at Kelly, who knew exactly what Emmett was capable of, so he kept his gaze focused on the table as he put away a second ball.

“You aren't sweet on her, are you?”

Emmett stopped to scowl at his brother. “Don't be ridiculous. Even if I was, which I'm not, it would be a waste of time.”

Brendan and Kelly exchanged a brief glance that set Emmett's teeth on edge. “Because she's a step above? A girl with Elizabeth Sloane's money and pedigree can choose whomever she wants, I think,” Brendan said. “And I'm coming to like the idea of having her as my sister-in-law.”

“No one has even mentioned marriage, Bren. Besides, you don't even know her,” Emmett growled, and thrust his cue forward, smacking two balls and missing the pocket.

Brendan sauntered forward for his turn. “Don't need to know her. What matters is her social standing. Have you thought about what happens in three years when Katie wants to have her coming out? Or the next year when Claire follows suit? That's not a lot of time, Emmett. How are you going to get society to accept them?”

“I don't give a damn if society accepts them or not,” Emmett snapped, and reached for his gin. “And I have a hefty dowry that says they will.”

Kelly muttered, “Tell that to Alva Vanderbilt.”

Poised over the table for a shot, Brendan paused and straightened. “Kelly's right. Money can't buy acceptance, not with these people. And you should care whether Katie and Claire are shunned or not. Because you want them to make good marriages, to men who will take care of them like”—he waved his hand to sweep the room—“this. Or do you want them on the Lower East Side, stealing and grasping to put food on the table?”

The idea of his half sisters struggling for one second had Emmett's chest tightening into a fist. He well remembered the uncertainty, the hunger, and the anger of everyday life in the slums. “They are both heiresses in their own right. Just as you never need work, should you come to your senses.”

“I know, and we all appreciate your generosity. But like it or not, their husbands will control whatever money Katie and Claire possess. What happens if they fall in love with the wrong man, instead of selecting one you've approved? The papers are full of men who've lost their fortunes.”

“You gotta give it to Harvard,” Kelly said, using his nickname for Brendan. “He's makin' a lot of sense. Elizabeth Sloane gives you a way into Mrs. Astor's circle.”

Emmett had never cared about Caroline Astor or her precious “circle.” Business was what mattered. He'd always been friendly enough with the men of high society, friendly enough to launch several interests with them over the years. That was the way of it. Emmett bothered himself with the financial gain, never the social side of things. He damn well wouldn't start now.

“I'd never give my blessing for any union between one of the girls and some goddamn fool bent on spending her money. And even if I did, I'd take a brickbat to him before I let her money be pissed away.”

“Which Claire or Katie would appreciate, no doubt.” Brendan shot Emmett an amused look. “You'd best prepare yourself, Em. They read the society pages every day. Every. Day. They're already planning the guest list.”

Emmett didn't want to think of debuts and marriages. The girls were too young, for God's sake. He could still remember them toddling around his first house over off Union Square.

But Brendan was right, damn it. Emmett hadn't considered the future. His intention had been to learn something at dinner, some insight into Sloane's financial stability, but he'd been so blinded by Elizabeth that he'd forgotten even that.

He downed the rest of his gin. “Why don't you marry Elizabeth Sloane, then? Or another one like her?”

“Sure. All women hope for a lame doctor still mooching off his older brother. I'll have a wife by breakfast.”

Emmett narrowed his eyes on his brother. Brendan was smarter than all of them put together. After his injury, he'd been housebound, where he had spent all his time reading. But Emmett knew better than to argue; stubborn pride ran in their blood.

Just as he knew there would be no society wife. Not now. Not ever.

“Get back to the game, Brendan. I've got work to do.”

* * *

The door to Emmett's study opened, and Kelly poked his head in. “Sloane's just pulled up. You wanna see him?”

Satisfaction surged through Emmett. Fourteen hours. It had taken only fourteen hours for the news of the dinner to reach Will Sloane's ears and prompt a visit. Not bad, considering Sloane had been in Boston yesterday.

“Oh, yes,” Emmett told his longtime friend. “I definitely want to see him. Colin, take a walk.”

Emmett's secretary nodded and rose from his desk to disappear into the depths of the massive house. Emmett went back to his reports, though he didn't see them.

He'd hardly slept last night, thinking of Elizabeth's face in the carriage. He knew when a woman wanted to be kissed. When her eyes turned dreamy and she moistened her lips. When she stared at a man like her next breath depended on his mouth meeting hers. Elizabeth Sloane, of the Washington Square Sloanes, had looked at him in precisely that manner—even after learning what he'd done at the steel mill. Unbelievable. It made no sense.

Christ, how he wanted her. Craved her with the same unrelenting drive that had burned in his gut to get out of the slums. Out of the steel mill. The same determination that had him up at dawn each morning to amass more wealth, ensuring his family never experienced poverty again.

If he'd given in to his baser instincts, God knows what might have happened. He'd never kissed a Knickerbocker. Did they use tongues? No doubt she would have slapped him. Hell, if he were in her shoes, he'd slap him, too.

In the end, what he desired made no difference. He would ignore the attraction between them as he'd ignored countless other women who thought of him as a prize to be won. Emmett knew precisely what he was, and there was no prize underneath the expensive tailoring and pleasing face.

The door swung open, and Kelly came through. “Mr. William Sloane,” he announced properly, as if he were a butler and not a former bare-knuckled boxer.

Sloane stormed inside. Emmett had never seen the man so disheveled. His blond hair, normally slicked to perfection, was a mess, and he still wore his evening clothes from the night before. His expression thunderous, he took a threatening step toward Emmett. “My sister? Have you no goddamned scruples, Cavanaugh?”

Kelly swiftly inserted himself between Sloane and the desk, an impenetrable wall Sloane would never topple.

Sloane kept his furious gaze pinned on Emmett. “Call off your guard dog, you thug, and face me like a man.”

Kelly snuck a glance over his shoulder, and Emmett jerked his chin. Kelly withdrew, leaving the room and closing the door softly, though Emmett knew his friend wouldn't go far.

Emmett leaned back. “Would you care to sit down?”

“No. What I'd like to do is punch you in the face.”

Emmett suppressed a smile. “You could try, Sloane, but I wouldn't advise it.”

“Yes, we all know you're no stranger to violence. Do you think I haven't learned about your past? Why they called you the Bishop—”

Emmett shot to his feet, slapped his palms on his desk. “Careful. You's best be very careful about what you're sayin' next.” He heard the slip in his speech, the guttural tone and pronunciation of his youth thanks to the rage now burning inside him. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to calm down. He needed to face Sloane as an equal.

“Or else what?” Sloane shot back, nostrils flaring. “If you think I am afraid of you or your ruffian friend out there, you are dead wrong.”

“Is that so?”

“Did you . . . touch her?”

Emmett lowered into his chair and folded his hands. He hadn't touched her, but Elizabeth's beautiful face floated through his mind, her skin flushed and pouty lips glistening in the low light of the carriage. Oh, he'd been dying to touch her. Still hungered for it, even this morning. Not that he could have her. But a man's cock did not possess the ability to reason, sadly.

“Is that what you're worked up about? Worried I've tainted your precious blue Dutch blood?”

Sloane closed his eyes as if in pain, his chest heaving. “If you touch her, I will kill you with my bare hands. I may not have grown up on the streets with the Popes, but I will see it done. Do you understand me?”

“So violent. You are full of surprises, Sloane,” Emmett said sardonically.

“You are deliberately toying with her, attempting to ruin her reputation because of some petty desire for revenge against me. All because I backed out of one deal a few months ago. Christ!” Sloane threw up his hands. “Are you really that insane?”

Emmett pictured Elizabeth's molten-gray eyes, how they turned to liquid silver in the gaslight. Now he wished he
had
kissed her, just so he could throw that fact in Sloane's face.

“I know it might be tough for you to believe, Sloane, but not everything is about you. Perhaps I truly like your sister.”

Sloane's lips thinned, and he spat, “You're incapable of feelings. You have no heart. No conscience. No morals. But make no mistake: I will hold you accountable if her reputation suffers. She will not be cast into a disreputable light because you hope to shame my family.”

Emmett flicked open the silver-guilloche enamel cigar box on his desk and withdrew one of the special H. Up-manns he imported from Havana. Using the platinum cutter, he snipped the end. “Your sister came to see me. Was I supposed to turn her away? Is that how you fancy Knickerbockers learned to treat ladies?”

Sloane gripped the back of a chair, his brow lowered. “My sister paid a call on you? Here? What did she want?”

“A dinner companion?”

“No. She has Rutlidge for that, and any other number of men who are . . .”

“Better suited?” Emmett struck a match and lit the end of the cigar. He drew the smoke into his mouth, savored the sharp nutty flavor, and blew it out. “Come, say what you really mean, Sloane.”

“Yes, better suited than you, Cavanaugh.” Sloane pointed a finger at Emmett. “I'll use everything I have to bring you down, if need be. She's my only family left, and I mean to see her settled with someone who will take care of her and respect her. Not a man who cavorts around town with any woman who's had a two-bit part in a burlesque show.”

Emmett sighed and took another drag off his cigar. This conversation had turned tedious. “You could use everything you have—and borrow even more—and that wouldn't touch me. And you know it.” Cigar clamped between his teeth, he rose and slipped his hands in his trouser pockets. “You've made your point, Sloane. Now stop annoying me, and take your privileged ass back downtown.”

Sloane fumed, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Is it any wonder why they don't accept you? Why you were unable to buy your way into the Academy of Music or the Union Club. Why you are never invited to the exclusive parties. There are some things your money cannot buy. My sister happens to be one of those things. Stay the hell away from her.”

Sloane spun on his heel and flung open the study door with such force that it bounced against the wall. Kelly appeared, and Sloane brushed by him, slamming into the driver's shoulder. Squat and sturdy with a physique like steel, Kelly didn't even budge, and Sloane stormed off.

“He seemed a might pissed off. Guess we won't be toastin' your nuptials any time soon.” Kelly closed the door and strolled in. He slid into a chair and put his feet up on Emmett's desk.

Emmett rolled the cigar in his fingertips and exhaled a mouthful of smoke. “I'm not worried about Sloane.”

“You can see where he's comin' from, though. You got sisters. You know how you'd feel if someone was playin' one of 'em, Bish.”

“I'm not playing her.”

Kelly raised one eyebrow. He didn't even need to say it, that's how well they knew one another.

“Fine. But I'll do what I damn well please, whether Sloane approves or not.”

“Is that what this is about, getting a jab at Sloane? And before you try to think of a lie, boy-o, allow me to remind you that I seen the two a' yous together last night.”

Nothing had happened. Emmett could state this as fact, but Kelly wouldn't care. Kelly would only bring up the fact that Miss Sloane was a far cry above the women with whom Emmett normally dallied. As if Emmett weren't painfully aware of that already. “Since when have I ever asked you to weigh in on my private life?”

“Since never . . . and that's never stopped me before. Best be careful. You might get more than you bargained for with this one.”

Chapter Four

A knock sounded on her dressing room door, and Lizzie barely had time to hide her stock tables and notes before her brother burst in.

“Will!” she said, pulling the lace curtain of her dressing table closed. “You've returned.”

Her brother had a strange light in his eye as he bent to kiss her cheek. “Hello, Lizzie. I apologize for barging in, but I need to speak with you.”

He shifted away, and she felt a stab of alarm. He looked terrible. And had that been whiskey she smelled on his breath? Why were all the men in her life suddenly drinking heavily?

“Is there something the matter?”

Will leaned against the wall near her dressing table, folded his arms. His stern expression reminded her of the day he'd caught her replacing her tutor's books with stock tables. “It is my understanding,” he began, “that you paid a call to Emmett Cavanaugh this week.”

Oh. So this was about the dinner. In her worry over Will's discovering her stock research, she'd forgotten. “Yes, I did.”

He waited for her to elaborate, and when she didn't, he prompted, “May I ask why you would risk your reputation in such a reckless manner?”

“Curiosity,” she lied. “He is one of your friends, after all.”

“
Friends?
” Will's lip curled slightly. “Why on earth would you believe that?”

So Will did not like Cavanaugh. Lizzie hadn't expected that. “You have dinner with him and those other two men every month.”

“How could you possibly know about those meetings?”

She snorted. “Like I'd tell you.” No need getting their driver fired. But she'd learned ages ago of the monthly dinners at the Knickerbocker Club between Emmett Cavanaugh, Calvin Cabot, Theodore Harper, and her brother.

Will lifted a hand to rub his eyes.

“Will, you look tired. Perhaps you should—”

“Lizzie, please. Those meetings . . . You shouldn't know of them. No one should know of them. They are for business only. Do you understand?”

Business. Sloane business, which meant they were his concern and not hers. A familiar ache flared in her stomach.
Have parties, Lizzie. Go to the opera. Leave the serious matters to me.

“I haven't told anyone, if that's your worry. Though I do not understand why the meetings need to be kept secret.”

“Because they must. Why did you agree to dinner with him?”

The more time that passed, the more secrets Will kept from her. He traveled constantly, rarely telling her where, not to mention his evasion about their financial well-being. The business was his first concern—not her, the only family he had left.

Well, she had secrets of her own.

“Because he asked.”

“You make it sound as if you are desperate for companionship. What about Rutlidge? Have you considered how your cavorting with Cavanaugh will affect your relationship with—”

“Henry and I are friends, Will. Nothing more. I know you want me married and off your hands, but Henry is not the man for me.”

“Lizzie, you're twenty-one. If I wanted you married off it would have happened years ago. Nevertheless, you can't wait forever. Rutlidge is a good match. I like him, and I think he cares for you.”

For the life of her, she couldn't picture Henry's face. All she could see was Emmett Cavanaugh's dark, piercing eyes in the carriage last evening. He'd almost kissed her, his hot stare never leaving her mouth. What would it have felt like? She bet the kiss would have been rough and wild, just like the man himself. She suppressed a shiver.

“Maybe I do not want to marry at all.”

Will gave her a compassionate half smile. “You're just being stubborn. Of course you want to marry. One of us has to ensure the next generation of Sloanes.”

“That's your responsibility, since my children won't be Sloanes. And I don't see why I need to marry.” She cocked her head. “Does this have anything to do with the paintings and stocks you sold—”

“No,” he cut her off. “I want you settled because I'm gone half the time, and I worry about you in this big place by yourself. And if something happened to me . . .” He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “I need to know you're taken care of. Mother and Father would have wanted that for you.”

The mention of their parents hung heavily between them, a reminder of the grief they shared as siblings. Will had assumed so much at a young age after their father's death fourteen years ago. Lizzie hated to add to it. “I'll think on it,” she hedged.

“That's a girl.” He came over, pulled her to her feet, and wrapped her in a hug. “I want you to be happy, Lizzie.”

“Then give me the money to start my brokerage firm.”

He backed away and threw his hands up. “That again! You cannot go to work, like some low-class shopgirl. You're a Sloane, for God's sake. Think of your reputation. What would everyone say?”

“Will, I know the business is in trouble.” Her brother flinched, but she continued. “There are things you aren't telling me. Please, let me help. I can—”

“Absolutely not.” He pushed back the sides of his coat, shoved his hands in his pockets. “We've talked about this. Everything is fine. There's absolutely nothing for you to worry about. Let it go, Lizzie.”

He was lying. She knew it in her bones. Yet each time she presented him with proof, he had an explanation ready.

Never mind him. The Sloanes would not go broke, not if Lizzie could do anything about it. She had been speculating in her head for years. Now she would take that ability and invest on a much larger scale for others, retaining a nice percentage for her efforts.

“Now,” Will continued as he strode toward the door, “I've sent a note to Rutlidge asking him to join us for dinner tonight. Being seen together will help put this god-awful Cavanaugh business behind you.”

She thought briefly about refusing, since Will had no business confirming dinner plans without checking with her first, but instead she blurted, “Why do you dislike Mr. Cavanaugh?”

Will stopped and turned, his expression hard. “He's the worst sort of man. Selfish and cold. If you knew some of the things he'd done in order to get ahead . . .” Will shook his head. “And the parade of women . . . Dear God. Stay away from him. I do not want you anywhere near Emmett Cavanaugh.”

He opened her door. “I can only be thankful you two ate in the main dining room. If he'd taken you to a private dining suite, I would've had to kill him.” Will closed the door, and his footsteps echoed down the hall.

Lizzie drummed her fingers on the table. She was more determined than ever to win her bet with Cavanaugh. Winning meant starting her own firm, and when she began turning a profit, she could help Will keep Northeast Railroad afloat as well as assume some of the household expenses. And with Cavanaugh as her backer, other investors would soon follow, she was sure of it.

Reaching beneath her dressing table, she withdrew her notes. She needed a plan for investing Emmett's money. Less than three weeks was hardly enough time to double a large sum. A heavy dose of luck would be crucial.

And she could not afford to fail.

* * *

A few days later, as fierce early January winds pummeled Wall Street, Lizzie watched as a young, auburn-haired man exited the restaurant located in the Mills Building. The man was Robbie, one of the traders Will used on the exchange. Lizzie planned to convince Robbie to make her trades as well.

Pulling her coat tighter, she hurried after him. “Robbie?”

He spun around and placed his hat on his head. “Yes?”

“I am Miss Sloane, William Sloane's sister.” She thrust out her hand, which he shook reluctantly. “May we sit in my brougham and speak?”

“I suppose. Is Mr. Sloane there?” He glanced hopefully to the carriage waiting at the curb.

“Not today. I would just like a moment of your time.” Without giving him a chance to refuse, she linked her arm with his and began pulling him toward the busy street.

Once they were settled, she said, “My brother has been quite pleased with your firm, and I'm wondering if you would be willing to assist me with a small matter.”

“A small matter?”

“Yes, you see I have a large sum of money that I need to invest on the exchange. I know you usually deal with my brother, but I'm hopeful that you will be amenable to dealing with me as well.”

“You need me to place an order for you?”

“Yes. Obviously, I cannot do it myself.”

He scratched his square jaw, his gaze wary. “Why not go through your brother, if you don't mind my asking? Wall Street's no place for a proper lady, miss.”

The tips of her ears warmed, and she fought her anger, struggling to remain calm. “Are you unwilling to take my money, merely because I am a woman?”

“Taking money from a woman isn't a problem for me, Miss Sloane. I just don't want to do nothing to upset your brother.”

She could understand his concern, as Will had recently fired his previous investment firm. But Lizzie had no intention of letting Will learn of this transaction—at least not yet. “Let me worry about my brother.”

He tapped his fingers on his knees. “So how much do you have to play with?”

“Ten thousand.”

“That's a nice chunk of greenbacks. I'm thinking one of the oil companies like Pacific Coast. They've been making steady gains. Your brother—”

“Pardon me, but I don't have time for steady gains. I need to double this money in less than three weeks.”

“Less than three weeks!” He jerked back, mouth agape. “You need a miracle, Miss Sloane.”

“I was thinking a short sale. Remember the Regional Telegraph rumor in November?”

He chuckled. “Of course. I pocketed almost a thousand dollars off that one.”

“I can imagine. Must have been a wild day on the floor.” She would have given anything to be there. Single-day stock swings of that nature were rare and a thing of beauty—as long as you weren't on the losing end.

“It was.” He stared at her a beat. “I'm not certain I can guarantee a large return in a short amount of time. I'll do my best, though.”

“I'd like you to hold off investing it for now. Just until we see an opportunity for a large gain.” She withdrew the check out of her small purse. “Here is the money.”

He accepted the paper and tucked it into his inner coat pocket. “So I'm just to hold on to this for now?”

“Yes. I'll be in touch soon.”

“I assume you'll be asking your brother's advice on where to invest it.”

The implication was clear: no woman could possibly be savvy enough to understand stocks. Lizzie longed to set Robbie straight, to tell him she likely knew as much as he did, if not more. But he would learn of her skills in due time, provided he did not balk at dealing with her.

So, for now, she would play the game. “Yes, of course,” she lied. “I plan to speak with him at my first opportunity.”

* * *

As he did the first Thursday of every month, Emmett Cavanaugh entered an alley off Thirty-Second Street and stepped into the busy kitchens of the Knickerbocker Club. The four men always met here, on neutral territory, where the risk of discovery was low. Not his preferred location—the blue-blooded club had once refused his membership application—but the other three had agreed on it, so Emmett went along.

Hardly mattered where they met, as long as they continued their little cabal. This was how business ran—serious business, anyway. The men here tonight were the visionaries, with enough power and money to shape the future. And Emmett aimed to see those plans shaped to his benefit, which was the reason he never missed a meeting. Who knew what would be set in motion if he didn't show up to protect his interests?

The waiters and cooks ignored him as he strode along the white tiled floor, the staff too well-trained to gawk—not that Emmett would have cared either way. Once up the service stairs, he continued to the big private dining suite at the end of the hall. A waiter in a black coat and white shirt opened the paneled door for him without a word. Emmett handed over his stick, hat, and coat.

Harper had already arrived. “Cavanaugh,” the man said, rising to shake Emmett's hand. A financial genius, Theodore Harper was a force to be reckoned with on the exchange. His New American Bank was one of the most powerful in the world, a backer to many of Emmett's ventures.

“Evening, Harper,” Emmett said as the two of them relaxed into seats around the large, linen-covered dining table. A waiter slipped a glass onto the table in front of Emmett, his preferred drink of chilled gin, a hint of vermouth, and a twist of orange rind. A long way from the days in Ragpicker's Row, Emmett thought, when straight gin had been like mother's milk.

Emmett sipped the spirits, enjoying the burn of juniper and citrus as it slid down his throat. “Where are Sloane and Cabot?”

“Cabot was coming into Grand Central from out west somewhere,” Harper said, referring to Calvin Cabot, the publisher of three of the country's most powerful newspapers. Harper swirled a tumbler of bourbon whiskey. “But he cabled that he'd be here. I have no idea why Sloane's late. He's usually early.”

Perhaps Sloane wasn't coming. The man had been furious when he stormed into Emmett's house on Saturday morning. Emmett nearly smiled at the memory. Sloane could be a sanctimonious prick, and Emmett had been on the receiving end of Sloane's scorn more times than he could count. He'd be damned before he gave up an opportunity to annoy the elitist bastard.