needed more than what was probably a list of men her brother was funneling counterfeit bills to.
Frank rested his foot on the floor with more force than he intended, causing the splint to thump against the shoe, sending a jolt of pain shooting up his leg. This day grew exponentially worse for both of them.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Miss Vaccarelli.” He waited until her expressive brown eyes met his blue ones. “You need my protection, whether you want it or not.”
Chapter 5
[In] fashionable society an “escort” is unheard of, and in decent society a lady doesn’t go traveling around the country with a gentleman unless she is outside the pale of society.
—Emily Price Post, Etiquette
3:08 p.m.
T wenty-seven minutes. That’s how long she’d been waiting. Not that anyone seemed to mind but her.
Malia paced the library’s carpeted floor, circling the mahogany center table in a room that still smelled like the lemon-and-garlic remains of the lunch Irene had ordered from Delmonico’s. She listened to the wall clock; waited for her lawyer, the marshal, and Special Prosecutor Cady to return; and tried to stifle her growing panic. Every door was locked. As were the windows. She’d tried them all. Someone—everyone—didn’t want her to flee.
She looked past the shelves of law books to the row of windows, the sky blue and clear and sunny. Because they were on the seventh floor, the tips of several buildings were visible nearby and in the distance. When Giovanni looked through the window in the police department, did he see what she saw? She was no freer than he was.
The clock continued to tick.
She continued to pace and pray, but mostly pace.
Twenty-nine minutes.
Thirty.
Thirty-one.
Thirty—
The door opened. “I’m so sorry it took so long,” Irene said, rushing inside, her breathing harried. Miss Barn, the shy stenographer, followed close behind.
Malia stopped pacing. “You said you would be gone only a few minutes.”
Miss Barn closed the library door.
“I know, I know.” Irene looked as flustered as she sounded. “But Cady didn’t agree with Frank on what to do with you. Once we came to an agreement, there were arrangements to be made, phone calls.” She took the tan leather trench coat and straw hat from Miss Barn then walked to Malia. “Frank and Cady walked around the building’s perimeter and didn’t see anyone suspicious, but we can’t take any risks. You need to put these on.”
“I have a hat.” Malia reached for her white feathered one in the middle of the table, but Irene grabbed it first.
“Sorry, you can’t keep it. It fits the description of what you were wearing at the art exhibit.” She gave it to Miss Barn, who kept her gaze on the ground. “Hat for a hat.”
Miss Barn whispered thanks.
“If my dress would have fit you,” Irene went on, “I’d have happily exchanged because black is far less conspicuous than white. Seeing that the good Lord blessed you with more of...well, everything than He did me, I had to find someone more suitably matched. Miss Barn became the lucky volunteer.” She handed Malia the coat. “Frank said a coat would do.”
Malia’s lips came together to ask Miss Barn if she felt lucky or volunteerish (for she looked neither), but before she could utter the first syllable, Irene demanded she put on the coat.
“Hurry, Malia,” she added as she opened Malia’s pochette.
Malia drew the trench coat on over her dress. Considering the minimalism of Miss Barn’s white blouse and gray skirt and her lack of jewels, the coat was likely the most expensive item the stenographer owned. Malia didn’t want to calculate how many months of putting money aside that the girl had to do. Inside her closet in her Waldorf-Astoria apartment were at least a dozen coats, capes and stoles, including a supple lambskin coat from Italy that Giovanni had bought her the same day he bought his petromobile, and a pair of slink gloves that
Frank rested his foot on the floor with more force than he intended, causing the splint to thump against the shoe, sending a jolt of pain shooting up his leg. This day grew exponentially worse for both of them.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Miss Vaccarelli.” He waited until her expressive brown eyes met his blue ones. “You need my protection, whether you want it or not.”
Chapter 5
[In] fashionable society an “escort” is unheard of, and in decent society a lady doesn’t go traveling around the country with a gentleman unless she is outside the pale of society.
—Emily Price Post, Etiquette
3:08 p.m.
T wenty-seven minutes. That’s how long she’d been waiting. Not that anyone seemed to mind but her.
Malia paced the library’s carpeted floor, circling the mahogany center table in a room that still smelled like the lemon-and-garlic remains of the lunch Irene had ordered from Delmonico’s. She listened to the wall clock; waited for her lawyer, the marshal, and Special Prosecutor Cady to return; and tried to stifle her growing panic. Every door was locked. As were the windows. She’d tried them all. Someone—everyone—didn’t want her to flee.
She looked past the shelves of law books to the row of windows, the sky blue and clear and sunny. Because they were on the seventh floor, the tips of several buildings were visible nearby and in the distance. When Giovanni looked through the window in the police department, did he see what she saw? She was no freer than he was.
The clock continued to tick.
She continued to pace and pray, but mostly pace.
Twenty-nine minutes.
Thirty.
Thirty-one.
Thirty—
The door opened. “I’m so sorry it took so long,” Irene said, rushing inside, her breathing harried. Miss Barn, the shy stenographer, followed close behind.
Malia stopped pacing. “You said you would be gone only a few minutes.”
Miss Barn closed the library door.
“I know, I know.” Irene looked as flustered as she sounded. “But Cady didn’t agree with Frank on what to do with you. Once we came to an agreement, there were arrangements to be made, phone calls.” She took the tan leather trench coat and straw hat from Miss Barn then walked to Malia. “Frank and Cady walked around the building’s perimeter and didn’t see anyone suspicious, but we can’t take any risks. You need to put these on.”
“I have a hat.” Malia reached for her white feathered one in the middle of the table, but Irene grabbed it first.
“Sorry, you can’t keep it. It fits the description of what you were wearing at the art exhibit.” She gave it to Miss Barn, who kept her gaze on the ground. “Hat for a hat.”
Miss Barn whispered thanks.
“If my dress would have fit you,” Irene went on, “I’d have happily exchanged because black is far less conspicuous than white. Seeing that the good Lord blessed you with more of...well, everything than He did me, I had to find someone more suitably matched. Miss Barn became the lucky volunteer.” She handed Malia the coat. “Frank said a coat would do.”
Malia’s lips came together to ask Miss Barn if she felt lucky or volunteerish (for she looked neither), but before she could utter the first syllable, Irene demanded she put on the coat.
“Hurry, Malia,” she added as she opened Malia’s pochette.
Malia drew the trench coat on over her dress. Considering the minimalism of Miss Barn’s white blouse and gray skirt and her lack of jewels, the coat was likely the most expensive item the stenographer owned. Malia didn’t want to calculate how many months of putting money aside that the girl had to do. Inside her closet in her Waldorf-Astoria apartment were at least a dozen coats, capes and stoles, including a supple lambskin coat from Italy that Giovanni had bought her the same day he bought his petromobile, and a pair of slink gloves that
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