Authors: Jill Morrow
February 1898
I
’m hoping to catch a Vanderbilt at one of these hoity-toity dinner parties,” Cassie Walsh said as Adrian handed her down from the brougham in front of the Phillips residence. “Newport teems with them, doesn’t it?”
Adrian smiled. A few hours of rest had worked wonders; he’d awakened feeling nearly human again. “In season it does. Your timing isn’t quite right, Miss Walsh. Had you chosen to run away in June, your society marriage prospects would have tripled.”
She lifted her hand from his and buried it deep in her fur muff. “I’ll make do,” she said, studying the Phillips residence. It was more a well-appointed home than a lavish mansion, but its sprawling architecture, Bellevue Avenue address, and landscaped grounds
made it clear that Peter and Marjorie Phillips had grown up wanting for very little.
Cassie eyed the gingerbread trim. “I’ll settle for a well-to-do professional man, a lawyer or doctor, perhaps. It’s not as if I’ll ever be allowed to break into the Four Hundred, after all.”
Adrian’s smile flattened. “That’s correct.”
“Of course, I’d hoped that since one of your relatives—
our
relatives—married an Astor some fifty years ago . . .”
“Very good. You’ve studied well. Then you already know that I’m not on that esteemed list either, and that Mrs. Astor would require even more credentials from a distant cousin on my mother’s side.”
Cassie’s gloved fingers smoothed his sleeve. “Even though the Delanos are connected to the Roosevelts by marriage? The Roosevelts are on the list, aren’t they?”
He didn’t even try to hide the sarcasm that trickled into his voice. “Goodness, Miss Walsh, you ask too much of America’s royalty. How dare you even think of sullying the precious bloodlines?”
“God, Adrian. You wealthy are an affected lot.”
“And yet you wish to join the ranks.”
“
Your
ranks.” She stopped dead in the middle of the front walk. “Why shouldn’t I want the best? You’ll stay near me tonight, won’t you? Come to my aid if I do anything wrong?”
“I’ll do what I can,” he said, wondering even as the words left his mouth what it was about Cassie Walsh that could make him agree to such folly.
He caught sight of a tiny dimple in her cheek as they reached the front door. “Good,” Cassie said. “I’m tired tonight. That may put me a bit off my game.”
Game. Adrian forced a pleasant expression to his face as the Phillips’s door swung open. That was as good a term as any for the evening that lay ahead.
He didn’t wonder that Cassie was tired. Despite her original intention to rest that afternoon, she’d instead set about unpacking his trunks with the zeal of a Salvationist. It hadn’t taken long to discover why she’d developed a sudden interest in sifting through his luggage. Leaning against the bedroom door jamb, he’d watched in amazement as she withdrew several frocks from his largest trunk.
“You were sending the trunks anyway,” she’d said, rummaging past his packed clothing. “It seemed a waste of space. You can rest in this room if you’d like. I’ll be very quiet.”
He’d dropped gratefully on top of the counterpane, too exhausted to argue. Slipping in and out of sleep, he’d been distantly aware of her puttering about the cottage. She’d gone from pressing her clothes to hanging them and had eventually disappeared down the hall to run a bath. Even as he’d dozed, the scent of patchouli had tickled his nostrils. He’d smiled through his dreams, unsurprised that Cassie’s choice of fragrance would contain spicy notes rather than floral ones.
Cousin Kate. What madness. What long-ago spell had this cook’s daughter cast that allowed her to weave him so thoroughly into her plans? This masquerade would never work anyway. His colleagues weren’t fools: they’d know at once that she wasn’t of their class.
He winced at his own elitism. How exactly would they know? Years of tending to his younger sister, Edith, had made Cassie as much an expert in manners and fashion as any daughter of society. And, as Marjorie Phillips introduced her to each of the other ten guests gathered in the parlor, he had to admit that no one seemed to
suspect their new acquaintance was anyone other than Kate Weld, Adrian Delano’s distant cousin come to call. James Heyward raised an interested eyebrow as Cassie praised Newport’s beauty. David Houghton, ignoring the presence of his own wife, leaned toward her in that solicitous way Adrian recognized from their university days on the prowl. And Peter Phillips, their host—Peter, lush and letch extraordinaire—smiled broadly at the young woman before him. He looked like the wolf come across Red Riding Hood in the wood. Adrian glumly noted that Cassie was the prettiest woman in the room.
“She’s quite lovely.” Marjorie Phillips interrupted his train of thought. “Why haven’t we met this little jewel before?”
“My apologies.” Adrian stepped to one side to peer around his hostess’s blond head. “I’ve been remiss.” Cassie dimpled at something Peter said. Adrian sighed. He’d have to warn her later about his friend’s rakish ways.
Marjorie moved closer. “We’re about to enter the dining room. You’ll escort me, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Adrian said reflexively, watching as Peter offered Cassie an arm. He wondered which lady his friend had just dropped in order to escort “Cousin Kate” to the table. That meant she’d sit at Peter’s right for the evening, that he’d have her full attention . . .
“Mr. Delano . . .” Marjorie smiled coquettishly. “Your arm?”
“Arm? Yes, of course.” It was too early to offer it—a good hostess repaired to the dining room behind her guests—but Adrian was too preoccupied to remember that Peter’s older sister had set her cap for him quite some time ago and so allowed the proprietary grip on his sleeve without protest.
He’d already admitted to himself that Cassie Walsh was beautiful.
He’d had no choice: she’d swept into the cottage parlor earlier that evening, a pre-Raphaelite vision in white organdy. Startled, his gaze had traveled from the flow of gauzy fabric about her rounded hips, past her tiny cinched waist and daring décolletage, straight up to her huge brown eyes and loose chignon of wavy dark hair. The realization that this angel was his cook’s daughter, a girl who’d grown up in his own household, had captured his breath.
The pearls dripping through her gloved hand had reminded him at once that it was perfectly acceptable to breathe.
“Those belong to my sister,” he’d said, surprised.
“Yes.” She’d extended the triple-strand choker toward him. “I know. Your great-aunt Rose had them sent to Edith as a sixteenth-birthday gift. Could you help me put them on? The clasp is difficult.”
“But . . . they’re not yours.” That bewitching undercurrent of patchouli had again become a distraction. Without thinking, he’d accepted the proffered pearls.
“Of course they’re not, Adrian. How could I ever afford anything from Cartier? Edith let me borrow them for my grandfather’s wake while you were away at school, so I think she would have lent them again had I been able to ask her. I couldn’t very well wake her up in the middle of the night to check, now could I? You can bring them back home when you go.”
She’d turned her back to him, waiting. Adrian had slipped the necklace around her graceful neck and fastened it, and the transformation had been complete. Every debutante he knew proudly displayed pearls such as these. Illuminated by their luster, Cassie Walsh disappeared and Kate Weld emerged, aglow with excitement for the evening about to begin.
“Thank you.” She’d reached out to adjust his white bow tie, and he couldn’t help but notice that Edith’s pearls would be shown off to perfection.
She was a puzzle, this Cassie Walsh.
Marjorie gently tugged him toward the dining room. “Your cousin is quite an addition to the party,” she said. “I admit, I could have throttled you when you changed my guest list at the very last minute, but perhaps this was providence. Peter seems quite taken with her.”
Indeed. Adrian escorted Marjorie to her chair and seated himself beside her, gaze riveted to the head of the table. Peter rose to propose a toast. Cassie’s eyes shone as she smiled at him, champagne glass raised. The words of the toast blurred in Adrian’s ears as he followed the delicate arc of her arm. He only knew when the toast ended because everyone else raised glasses to lips in response. Pasting yet another stale smile onto his face, he followed suit.
Was Peter Phillips really Cassie’s choice? He was prosperous enough. His credentials weren’t all that different from Adrian’s own: solid position in a respected family law firm, enough inherited wealth and family reputation to receive reasonable social invitations . . .
A discreet “ahem” signaled that a footman stood beside him, waiting. Adrian absently selected several oysters from the offered platter.
Peter was a cad, an out-and-out womanizer. Cassie was naïve if she thought she could mold him into the faithful sort. Adrian frowned as he lifted his oyster fork to his mouth and chewed.
“Is everything all right?” Marjorie leaned toward him, concerned.
“All right? Of course. The entire evening is perfect, and you were very kind to allow my cousin to be a part of it.”
Marjorie looked doubtful. “If it’s all so perfect, perhaps you’ll come down from the clouds and talk to me. I feel as if I’m having a conversation with myself! Tell me of Europe—did you enjoy Paris? It’s quite my favorite city in the world.”
“I can understand why.” It was easy enough to launch into a safe conversation about Paris in the autumn. It required very little thought.
Surely Cassie would blunder, say something that revealed her as nothing more than a charlatan. Adrian froze as Peter’s voice floated down the table, asking where Miss Weld had hidden herself for so many years.
Tears pooled in Cassie’s eyes. “I debuted rather late, I’m afraid, due to the untimely death of my father.” Her sadness apparently brought out the gallant in Peter, who bent toward her with concern, handkerchief at the ready. Cassie brushed away a tear, lifted a brave chin, and rallied. “Forgive me, Mr. Phillips. This is a party, and we are to be gay. I’d much rather hear about you.”
A skillful return. Cassie could take care of herself.
“Mr. Delano,” Marjorie prodded. “You are miles away.”
“I’m sorry.” He leaned back to allow the footman to remove his oyster plate. “I’m afraid I feel a responsibility toward Miss Weld. This is her first trip since her father’s death. She took the loss rather hard.”
Marjorie relaxed. “That’s admirable, and I understand perfectly. I just wondered if there might be something . . . more. Exactly how distant a cousin is she?”
Adrian silently swore to become a more attentive guest.
He managed through the vermicelli soup and turbot in lobster sauce, through the spring chicken with peas. Cassie’s melodic voice grazed his ears as he savored the palate-cleansing punch served after the fourth course, but he could not distinguish her words. He didn’t have to: the enthralled look on Peter’s face said more than words could have. The situation was so clear that Adrian had little appetite for the several courses that followed the punch. Only by glancing at the menu card placed between him and Marjorie could he determine what exactly had been served.
“Adrian.” Peter Phillips glanced toward the dining room door as the ladies swept from earshot after dinner. “Miss Weld will accompany you to the wedding Saturday morning, won’t she?”
For the first time he could remember, Adrian had no thirst for the tawny port just poured. “She hasn’t been invited. She leaves tomorrow.”
Peter’s eyes glittered. “I’ll see to it that she’s welcome,” he said. “Bring her.”
A
re you hungry, Mr. de la Noye?” Nicholas Chapman settled back in his chair at the end of the dining room table.
“No.” Adrian remained planted by the dining room door.
“Well, I’m ravenous. Would you mind if I rang for breakfast?”
“Yes, I would. I’d prefer to hear what you have to say as quickly and briefly as possible. I have a great deal to accomplish today.”
“Drafting my father’s new will, perhaps?”
“It’s on my list.”
“Maybe not,” Nicholas said. “I did get the name right before, didn’t I? You’re Adrian Delano. Your family hails from upstate New York.”
“I don’t deny that.”
“Yet you go by the surname de la Noye.”
Adrian shrugged. “Our original family name was de la Noye. I reverted back to it a long time ago.”
“So I’ve been told. You fought in the Spanish-American War, were wounded and received a Medal of Honor under that name. I believe it was in Cuba that you began your friendship with young Mr. Reid’s father, was it not?” Nicholas rose and walked toward the coffee service on the buffet. “You must admit that on the face of it, changing your name was an odd decision. After all, you come from a family of some prominence. Giving up the Delano name surely meant sacrificing some of the privileges that came along with it.”
Adrian paused before answering. The man had obviously made inquiries. “I found it preferable to rely on ability rather than pedigree.”
“Ah.” Nicholas poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver pot, added two lumps of sugar, and stirred well before turning back to face his adversary. “I hadn’t pegged you as a man of the people.”
Adrian reached for his pocket watch. “Despite your extensive research, it appears you don’t know me very well after all.”
“No. But I do know human nature, and men just don’t change their last names for purely selfless reasons.”
Adrian flipped open the cover of his watch and pointedly checked the time. He had faced opposing counsel like this before, lawyers who flung half-baked suppositions through the courtroom in the hopes that something would stick due to the mere momentum of the throw. Nicholas clearly had some facts at his fingertips, but it was hard to tell exactly which ones. Key components were missing. Did the man honestly believe that Adrian himself would eagerly step forward to fill in the gaps?
He closed the watch with a loud click and returned it to his pocket. “You seem to have invested a great deal of effort into exploring my past, Mr. Chapman.”
Nicholas smiled. He shouldn’t have. He had the insincere grin of a patent elixir salesman. “A considerable amount of money as well, Mr. Delano.”
“It is legally de la Noye, sir.”
“De la Noye, then. Forgive me. It’s hard for me to remember that, since I had some association with your family in the past.”
Adrian’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me, but have we met before?”
“No, sir, not at all. Your sister, Edith, was one of the young ladies I considered courting many years ago, but you were away in Europe at the time . . . sowing your own wild oats, as I recall. But, yes, I attended a few soirees hosted by your family. It’s ancient history now, brought back only because you’ve come to call at Liriodendron.”
Adrian nodded politely. “Are we quite finished here, Mr. Chapman? My last name is unimportant to the proceedings at hand.”
Nicholas raised the porcelain cup to his lips and carefully blew steam from the top. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter what you choose to call yourself. But the reason you reverted to de la Noye in the first place might have some significance.” The coffee reached its destination, and Nicholas took a deep swig.
“I’ve told you the reason.”
Nicholas eyed him from across the rim of his cup. “The real reason, Mr. de la Noye. The one you’d prefer I keep to myself.”
Years of practice and training had taught Adrian to temper his reactions. He was an expert when it came to controlling both his expressions and his gestures. He could not, however, prevent the heat that rushed through his veins. Was this a bluff? There was no way to know.
“Mr. Chapman, let me make sure I understand. Are you saying
that you’ll reveal some unknown nugget from my past should I move forward with the execution of your father’s new will?”
Nicholas cradled the coffee cup in both hands. “You are as smart as my sources say. Yes, Mr. de la Noye. That’s exactly what I’m saying. But the reverse is true as well: if my father’s current will remains intact, your secrets are safe with me.”
“What of your father’s marriage to Miss Walsh? I’ve nothing to do with that decision.”
The delicate cup landed on the buffet with such force that Adrian expected it to crack in two. “You leave Miss Walsh to me,” Nicholas said.
Adrian fixed the other man with a steady gaze. “Miss Walsh is not my concern,” he said. “She is not my client; your father is. That’s as far as my interest in this matter runs.”
“Is it now?” Nicholas met the stare. “Ethics are of no use to a lawyer, Mr. de la Noye. Surely you’ve learned that.”
Both men started as determined footsteps sounded in the hall. Adrian spoke beneath his breath. “I will take your words into consideration.”
“Consider quickly. Time is short. Oh, by the way—regards to your wife and children. Dear Constance was your stenographer before your marriage, wasn’t she? Lovely lady, but hardly of your class.”
Adrian bit back his response as Bennett Chapman strode through the dining room door. The older man seemed to have gained even more vitality during his trip to and from the telephone.
“It’s done,” Bennett said, squaring his shoulders beneath his navy blue blazer. “I’ve spoken to an old friend of mine, Judge Thomas
Bourne. He’ll arrive from Boston by four o’clock tomorrow afternoon to marry us in the parlor.”
Adrian nodded. “Judge Bourne? A good choice. He’ll see to it that tomorrow proceeds smoothly indeed.”
Nicholas looked as if the floorboards had cracked beneath his feet. “You can’t be serious.”
“No need to fuss, Nicky. As I’ve told you before, you are certainly welcome to attend the ceremony. Where is Catharine? She might want to order flowers for the parlor, plan a wedding dinner—I suppose we should arrange some sort of honeymoon . . .”
“Bennett.” Adrian clapped a firm hand on his client’s shoulder, angling him away from his son’s furious glare. “I’ve only one question for you: have you reached this decision through your own volition? Is this marriage what you really want?”
Bennett’s shoulders slumped slightly beneath his palm, but his gaze remained fixed and true. “Yes. I am fully cognizant of my actions.”
Adrian’s hand dropped back to his side. “Then congratulations to you, sir. Please accept my every wish for your continued happiness.”
“You’ll stay through tomorrow night, Adrian, won’t you? It would mean a great deal to me to have you and Mr. Reid attend the marriage ceremony. And you, Nicky—I would never consider asking you to be my best man, but will you stay to see me wed?”
“You can’t be serious,” Nicholas repeated, but his father’s attention had shifted toward the fireplace. His businesslike demeanor melted away as he studied the spot to the right of the mantel, eyes misted by the pleading gaze of a supplicant.
His voice, when it came, seemed far away. “I understand that
neither of us cares for the other very much, Nicky, but your presence during this ceremony would please your mother greatly.”
“Oh, for the love of—”
“Look closely. She’s still with us, standing by the mantel. Wait, she has more to say . . .”
“You can hear her?” Adrian asked.
Bennett blinked, momentarily nonplussed. “I suppose I can. What a wonderful turn of events! Perhaps I won’t need to bother Amy anymore if I can speak with Elizabeth on my own—oh?” He squinted. A faint whiff of lavender wafted through the room; both Adrian and Nicholas froze.
Bennett nodded his head as a dreamlike smile wreathed his face. “Very well, then. Of course it’s all right. Anything you wish, my dear.”
“What’s happening?” Nicholas demanded.
His father shot his cuffs as he turned toward him, once again the consummate businessman. “No need to concern yourself. Your mother simply prefers that we continue to speak through Miss Walsh for the time being, and only when we are all present together. She agrees, however, that Mr. de la Noye would be a delightful addition to the wedding guest list, and says that your presence, Nicky, is obligatory. Plan to stay, Adrian.”
“Perhaps Mother herself would like to be a guest at the wedding,” Nicholas said sourly. “It would give her a chance to meet Judge Bourne.”
“She already knows Judge Bourne,” Bennett said.
Adrian glanced up, a germ of an idea racing through his head. “Mr. Reid and I would be honored to attend your wedding,” he said slowly. “I’ll draft a will that you and the new Mrs. Chapman can
sign immediately following the ceremony. Judge Bourne can witness it.”
“An excellent idea, Mr. de la Noye. No wonder I retained you so many years ago.”
Nicholas faced his father, but his words were for Adrian. “You’re imposing, Father,” he said. “Surely Mr. de la Noye’s family longs for his return to Brookline as quickly as possible.”
“Oh, they’ll see me soon enough.” Adrian finally reached for a coffee cup. “You’ve never met my wife, sir. A wise, resilient woman, if you’ll indulge my bragging. Constance always reminds me that any task worth doing is worth doing well. She’d be disappointed if I were to leave this one in the middle.”
“Then I take it I’ll be sharing some very interesting information with Judge Bourne tomorrow night,” Nicholas said evenly.
“I’m sure we will be at no loss for conversation.” Adrian extended his cup. “Would you be so kind as to pour me some coffee? Bennett, Nicholas had a splendid idea a moment ago. Perhaps Elizabeth could attend the ceremony.”
Bennett clapped his hands together with delight. “Are you suggesting a séance, Mr. de la Noye?”
“Why not? The late Mrs. Chapman obviously approves of the marriage.”
Nicholas nearly dropped the coffeepot he’d just lifted from the buffet. “You would . . . let Judge Bourne know Father believes Mother is here?”
Adrian held his cup steady as Nicholas poured. “Why not?” he repeated.
“You’re as mad as my father is. Because the minute you inform
the judge that Father thinks a ghost is attending the wedding, you prove my case.”
“We’ll see,” Adrian said, meeting the other man’s gaze squarely. “Perhaps it’s time to invoke Clause Eight of our agreement, the one that allows a neutral third party to decide the outcome of our dispute. Judge Bourne should do nicely. Maybe you should ring for breakfast after all. I’m suddenly hungry.”
“I’ll inform the housekeeper on my way out.” Nicholas deposited the coffeepot onto the buffet with a loud thump. “You’ll excuse me. I’ve a telephone call to make.”
“Don’t mind him, Adrian,” Bennett said as his son left the room. “I’m sure my recent decisions have rattled him, but Nicholas is usually more bark than bite.”
“No trouble at all. Would you join me for breakfast? I’d like to hear more about Elizabeth.”
“She’ll be so pleased.” Bennett turned toward his chair at the head of the table. “So pleased.”