Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“ I ’M GRATIFIED YOU DECIDED TO SEE REASON,” E VELYN SAID AS Thomas led her into a stuffily appointed dining room. It was becoming increasingly clear to her that this mansion on Fifth Avenue wasn’t a home. Instead, it was just another part of Thomas’s facade—a big old pretender, which, as far as Evelyn was concerned, could also be said of the man who lived there.
“Yes. You’ll make a fine addition to The Empire’s staff. Please,” he said, pulling out her chair like the gentleman she knew he only pretended to be. “Be seated.”
“Mr. Gallier. You’re acting positively professional. You wound me.”
“Heaven forbid a man should want to speak to you vertically.”
A small chuckle escaped her lips. “Was that a joke? If it is, you’re surprisingly funny. If it’s not, then you’re an absolute tragedy.”
He tidily took his seat. “How so?”
“Because I rather enjoy it when men wish to speak to me in any direction.”
What he said next surprised her. But not nearly as much as the concern that tinged every word. “Always?”
“No. Not always,” she muttered, shocked into telling the truth. Strange. She didn’t like telling the truth around men. If she’d learned anything from her mother, it was that information was ammunition to men, and no woman should ever willingly disarm herself. Quickly, she backpedaled into a more comfortable state—flirtation. “But I believe I would with you.”
“If you’re quite finished, please. Take a seat.”
The rebuff stung and she reminded herself, again, of the reasons why she was in this man’s dining room. She owed Dr. Samson Jules’s life. She had the power to save her career and the livelihoods of her friends. She could become famous again. Beloved. Wealthy. Wanted. Undeniable.
But at the same time, she had to admit that it was that mystery of him, the promise of Thomas Gallier, that had ultimately made her come to this house this evening. That had pushed her here, to this place, with this man, staring down the barrel of this future. He was a puzzle she was figuring out—a game she was playing—and by God, she wasn’t about to let him win.
“I prefer to negotiate vertically , if you don’t mind. Power positions, and all that.”
“Whatever possessed you to believe this is a negotiation, I’ll never understand. You will be my employee.”
“So, under you? Directionally speaking, that is.”
“No—”
“Quite right. Because I won’t be your employee. I’ll be your partner.”
There was no mistaking the way the muscle in his jaw tensed. Interesting. “I don’t do partners.”
“Not yet, you don’t. We haven’t even begun our negotiations.”
“Of all the presumptuous cheek—”
A flash of sincerity struck her. “You can’t do this alone, Mr. Gallier. No matter how much you may wish to.”
Their eyes met across the table. He said nothing. An admission.
“Now,” Evelyn proceeded. “As you pointed out so helpfully when I arrived, these are not exactly sociable hours. If you wish to sleep before sunrise, I suggest we commence. Yes?”
“Your salary, then.”
He threw out a number quadruple her current pay. She would have taken half as much. Not that he needed to know that. Or suspect it.
“I’m afraid that doesn’t quite meet my expectations,” Evelyn said. “I won’t be underpaid.”
“Underpaid?”
“What you’ve proposed there is a star’s salary. Fine enough for someone to tread the boards, certainly. Generous, even. But now, I’m a star and management. I propose a twenty percent increase on that number there.”
“Fifteen percent. But I’ll make you earn that salary, Miss Cross. I’m a difficult boss to please.”
She smirked. “I’m counting on it.”
He ducked his head, a nervous habit that delighted her. Every time he did it, she tasted the sweet heat of victory—and perhaps something else? She shook the thought from her mind. That was a matter for her to consider later.
This, she could handle. A man enamored of her. As long as the feelings went that direction and none other, she was safe.
“And I want three shows a day instead of four.”
“Very well, but no Mondays off.”
“Mondays off, but four shows on Sunday instead of three.”
“Done.”
With one of those newfangled ballpoint pens, Thomas took down notes, which she watched with a keen eye from her place across the table. Her heart told her this was not the kind of man who would deceive her in negotiations, but still … one couldn’t be too careful.
“And I’ll want a cut of the box office of course,” she said, shamelessly pushing. “Three percent should be acceptable. It is my show and my name on the marquee, after all.”
“Three percent on everything left after the bills are paid.”
Evelyn glanced his way. He should have looked ridiculous sitting alone at the impossibly long table—his greatness minimized by the empty stretches all around him.
But he was perfectly at home. In control. Regal, even.
She needed to pull her head out of the sentimental slop bucket. She pressed harder—reaching for anything that might keep her on track.
She’d come here in the middle of the night to catch him off guard, not vice versa.
“I’ll trade my three percent for the ability to unionize and strike,” she blurted.
That caught his attention. He peered up at her through dark, hooded lashes.
“Unionize?”
“The unions that already exist are for white men, which means many of the performers I have in mind have no real protection against their employers. I want The Empire to be a union of their own. And I mean real unionizing. No strikebreakers. No union busters.”
“That could cost me a fortune. I would have to light this contract I’m writing with you on fire the moment you decide—”
His attention was sharp. Undivided. And if there was one thing Evelyn knew how to do, it was use a man’s attention.
She went for her wet glove and took to slowly peeling it off her skin—like a striptease. With satisfaction, she noted how Thomas catalogued every millimeter of skin she revealed.
The glove dropped to the table. She went for the second one. When that joined the first, she started for the button on her coat.
Unable to break his hypnotized stare, Thomas licked his lips. Had he even noticed he’d done that?
A thrill shot through Evelyn’s body.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting out of my wet things. You don’t want your star to catch her death, do you? That streptococcus is going around. Now, we were talking about unionizing and striking.”
Button—pop. Button—pop. Button—pop. Button …
The final button on her coat popped open, and Evelyn dropped it to the floor in a puddle of ruined velvet. She hadn’t been able to seduce him last night—fine. But she knew he wanted her, no matter how he tried to hide it.
She would just have to use that to her advantage.
The more flesh he feared she’d bare, the faster he’d be inclined to negotiate.
“Fine,” he conceded.
The one saving grace for Thomas—or curse, depending on how you looked at it—was that women’s clothing was so damned cumbersome. Evelyn gracefully slipped out of her overvest next.
“And sick pay.”
“Yes, yes.”
Her cuffs.
“Integrated dressing rooms?”
“Mm-hm.”
Her rumpled collar.
“Every other Sunday off.”
Her overskirt. This time, just a nod of the head as his eyes remained trained on the table before him.
“New sets.”
Her first boot. Another nod.
“A new wardrobe.”
Her second boot. Another nod.
By the time Evelyn—her only proper clothes her opened blouse and underskirt—collapsed into a chair, the man was a bundle of shaking nerves. His hands clenched so tight she worried his ballpoint pen would burst into a geyser of ink any second.
Yes. She had him right where she wanted him. Time for the grand finale. Lifting her legs, she placed one shapely ankle on the table, and then crossed the other over the top of it. Her skirts cascaded up her thighs, revealing sumptuous, stocking-clad legs.
She was well aware, as he must have been, that he’d seen her in even less clothing than this just last night. But the act of taking it all off for him, the closeness of his bedroom just upstairs, the understanding that there was no one in this house to catch them if they fell …
It proved intoxicating. Even to herself.
Her hands traced slowly up her thighs. She toyed idly with the bows linking her stockings to her bloomers.
“And you and I are partners in this. Fifty-fifty on all decision making.”
“Miss Cross, I’ve already told you. I don’t do partners.”
Surely Thomas had meant for that to be a firm declaration of terms. Instead, he chose that precise moment to finally change a look at her, only to find Evelyn slowly working her silk stockings down her legs.
His own voice broke. And he stared, slack-jawed, at her bare flesh within stroking distance.
“And how has that been working out for you so far, hm?” she asked, barely louder than a whisper. “All of that control, and where has it gotten you?”
She lay the stocking out across the table between them—her line in the sand. Then, she dragged her skirt up to reveal her other leg.
Heat built between her thighs as she became certain that’s where his attentions were traveling. God, she wanted this man in her bed. And it felt indescribably powerful to feel him want her—especially now, when she was beginning to worry she’d lost her touch.
“Very well,” he breathed. “I will want something else in exchange, though,” he managed, his voice barely above a growl.
“I’m listening.”
This was it, she believed. The moment he would give in and tie the two of them in a simple knot of sin.
Instead—
“I won’t see you outside of work hours.”
She dropped the bow on her second stocking. Her first fumble of the evening. “You don’t want to see me outside of The Empire?”
She didn’t do a winning job of hiding her surprisingly potent hurt.
He watched the rain against the window as if it were more appealing than she could ever be. That stung, too. “We’re going to be business partners, Miss Cross. For the sake of our work, we should restrict our relationship to those hours only. Friendship, fondness, affection, these things can complicate a partnership.”
“My, how I envy the woman who gets to marry you,” she deadpanned.
A wince crossed his face so fast she almost didn’t catch it.
“What about Dr. Samson? You’re friendly with him outside of working hours, aren’t you?”
“With his familial connections, Dr. Samson provides me access to certain sectors of Manhattan society from which we new money tramps generally are barred. He makes me look respectable. Ensures the populace that I’m not going to suffer a mental collapse any moment. Therefore, our social hours and calls are part of our work. You and I, on the other hand, will have no reason to interact outside of the walls of The Empire.”
“And why is this so important to you? Are you so ashamed of me?” she asked, passing off a genuine fear as a joke.
“No—”
“Ah, so you’re terrified that if you have a taste of me, you’ll never stop begging for more?”
“I—”
“Say no more, sir. I understand. You wouldn’t be the first man who’s had to tie himself to the ship’s mast to keep himself from falling prey to my charms. Fear not. I won’t darken your doorstep ever again.”
“I didn’t say there would never be occasion to see one another, just that I will be otherwise engaged and it wouldn’t be appropriate—”
“No, no. Don’t try to spare my feelings. You’ve been quite clear on this point. We’ll maintain a respectful, professional distance from one another. If I see you walking down Fifth Avenue, I’ll turn and walk the other way. I’ll steal a police horse and ride it all the way down to the Bowery, where I’ll hop on a boat to South America. I’ll—”
There he went again, ducking that head of his. But he was too slow this time. She caught the laughter in his eyes. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you, Miss Cross?”
Warmth blossomed in her heart, unbidden. “Tease you? My business partner ? Sir, I’ve never heard the like and I won’t sit here and be insulted by such spurious attacks on my character.”
They settled into a companionable quiet. What a pair they made. A surprising fondness itched at her heart, and firmly, she turned her mind back to their negotiation.
“If,” she said, “you will not be seeing me outside of work hours, I will require a trade-off.”
“And that is?”
“If your nights are yours, then your days are mine.”
The second stocking met its mate on the table. Thomas visibly gulped as Evelyn went to the bottom button on her blouse. His breathing went ragged.
“‘Yours’?”
“If you’ll have me.”
“What need could you possibly have for me?”
She smirked. “Besides the obvious?”
“Please,” he croaked.
Button . “If we’re meant to be partners, then the intricacies of our labor should be shared, yes?” Button . “There will be costumes to design, sets to approve, visits to our competitors, programs to lay out and print. In short, I will need you for everything. Just as you need me.”
Her hands stilled. A thought gripped her. And against her better judgment, she told him the truth.
“I think I like the idea,” she said softly. “Not working alone any longer. What do you say to that?”
“I say if it’s best for The Empire, I will do it. During work hours .”
Their eyes met. And suddenly this whole charade—the stripping, the cajoling, the half-hearted attempt at seduction—all felt terribly silly. Every time he looked at her like that, she felt naked enough.
Gripping his nearby pen, she hastily signed one of his papers, a scribble to serve as her mark. She then shot up, scrambling into her clothes and fighting her boots back onto her feet.
“Excellent. With all of that settled, then, I’ll leave you to draw up the legalese, yes? Send a copy to my home—Beatrice Matterly’s, home to all the lady stars. I’ll be terribly busy this weekend, so I’m afraid I won’t be able to see you again until Monday. A shame, that! Well, you know what they say, good things come to those who wait! That’s what I always say, anyway …”
She prattled the entire way through dressing, leaving not even a breath of time for him to interject. It was only moments later, when she reached for the front door handle, that he finally got a word in.
“And what about the bill?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll send you all of the bills, Mr. Gallier.”
“I mean the bill for the show,” he deadpanned.
“Leave that to me,” she rushed, trying to drown out the sound of leave, leave, leave roaring in her ears. “I’ll have everything arranged by Monday morning.”
With that, she moved to swing the door closed behind her and once again submerge herself in the deluge outside. But a firm hand gripped the door before she could manage it.
Thomas lingered in the doorway, neither moving to pull her deeper into the house nor shove her outside. Her breath fluttered.
“Is there something else I can do for you, sir?” she asked, her voice low. Wanting and not all at once.
His hand flexed around the doorframe.
“I … I am sorry for what transpired this afternoon. You aren’t a novelty act, Miss Cross. You are a wonder. A devil, too, I think. But a wonder all the same.”
Her usual impulse would have been to tease him or twist it into an innuendo of some kind. However, words failed her. All except: “Thank you, sir. I look forward to working with you.”
“And you.”
The warmth of the house and him beckoned her back. But she couldn’t let herself. Sex was one thing. But to let him smile at her and apologize and tell her she was a wonder?
No. The rain was preferable. She stepped out into the night.
“You may keep those stockings, by the by,” she called over her shoulder. “A small token of my appreciation.”
A NOTE FROM THE HISTORIAN
x Thomas Gallier
That was all it took. The only element of the original contract to survive, it was two little signatures on a few leaves of paper—one so simple, one so flamboyant—that made everything else come to pass.
At this point, Evelyn Cross wanted Thomas—and as far as their relationship went, that was the beginning and end of it. She would do anything to conquer him.
Surely, his influence, his wealth, his power attracted her. She was never one to back down from a challenge either, and he represented a hell of a challenge to her. But it feels like it was more than that, too. Something to do with the flash of lightning she couldn’t help but feel when she caught him looking at her.
That was the real risk, the seed that was planted the moment she opened her dressing room—and her life—to him. And Evelyn thought that the best way to inoculate herself against that risk was sex. The kind of transactional but pleasurable sex that she knew all too well at this point in her rollicking vaudeville existence. If she conquered him, if she got him into bed, it meant that he was just another in a long line of guys she banged—not someone to consider romantically or to, horror of horrors, actually fall in love with.
So she had one goal, which she would pursue single-mindedly: getting some Thomas Gallier dick.
On the other hand, Thomas couldn’t fall prey to Evelyn’s charms. He didn’t do casual. He didn’t do sex. He didn’t do anything that he might find even mildly enjoyable. He had a big, big secret. And he worried that letting anyone get close to him would result in that secret getting exposed. All of that means sex and romance were firmly off the table, especially with someone who captured him like Evelyn Cross did. He controlled his life tightly to keep his secrets safe and his plans on track, and he couldn’t let Evelyn jeopardize that. Not to mention the fact that he had to keep his options open where Miss Constance Alban was concerned—another reason that he and Evelyn becoming an item was a non-starter.
So he would try to single-mindedly pursue his own goal: keeping Evelyn Cross out of his pants.
But, c’mon. There’s only so much you can do to avoid the undeniable.
Present Day
W HEN WE FIRST STARTED WORKING TOGETHER, A RMITAGE KEPT the attic, where all of Thomas’s old relics were kept, under firm lock and key. He was the keeper of the records, and when I needed something, he would bring it down to me in the study, one box at a time.
It was infuriating, sitting beneath all that history, day in and day out. So close, yet so far. I hated being drip-fed information, and I hated the nettling feeling that he was keeping something from me.
I was also annoyed. Because reconstructing history one banker’s box at a time did not exactly make for timely work.
So, one day, I resolved to do something about it. I was the historian here. Armitage was the money. I would decide how this historical research would go, thank you very much.
“Ah, good morning, Phoebe.”
“Good morning, Armitage.”
It was a random Tuesday, with our normal greetings. He continued working behind his desk, pretending to only half-notice my existence, as I dropped my things off on the leather couch where I’d taken to doing my reading.
But then, instead of plopping down into it like normal, I strode across the room, past his desk, and swiped the brass key from its home next to an antique inkwell, never once letting my usual, cheerful grin slip from my face.
I was halfway up the nearby servants’ staircase by the time he realized what I’d done.
Tough luck, Mr. Gallier. That’s what happens when you pretend not to pay attention to the help.
“What are you doing?” he asked, catching up with me breathlessly as I ascended.
“I want to see the attic.”
“What do you need?” he asked, double-timing the steps and cutting me off at the second landing. “I can get it for you.”
When he reached for it, I held the heavy brass key behind my back, out of his reach.
“That’s alright. I’m good to get it myself.”
“I’d be a terrible host if I let you go up there. It’s a mess—”
“Armitage. I don’t just want something out of the attic. I want to see the attic. You can’t do that on my behalf.”
With that, I tucked the key into my pocket and skirted around him. He wasted no time in pursuit.
“I just don’t know what you’d want with it. I mean, it’s just a bunch of dusty old boxes. Nothing interesting.”
“In my experience, I’ve found that dusty old boxes usually hold the most interesting stuff in a house like this. And you must think so too, considering how much you’re paying me to go through them.”
We went back and forth like that for three more flights of creaking stairs. When, finally, we reached the white-painted door of the attic, he stood in front of it, blocking my entrance.
All this time, I’d kept my cool. I was levelheaded and breezy. How strange it was to feel in control when he was so clearly out of it.
“C’mon, let me through,” I said with a resigned sigh. When it looked like that wouldn’t happen, I tightened my grip on the brass key. “I mean, why won’t you let me see it? What’s the big deal?”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“I’m just not used to giving someone this much … access.”
A pang of sympathy struck me. I’d thought this was about control. About needing to feel big and powerful, even over something as simple as a locked door. But now, it felt like something else. Like he was afraid of letting someone in.
Literally.
That sympathy, though, didn’t eat away at my resolve.
“I think you’ll live.”
“But—”
I waved the key. “Step aside, or I’m leaving right now. Forget your research. Forget Evelyn and Thomas. I’m not working with someone who doesn’t trust me.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“I’m learning how to drive a hard bargain.”
It took him a minute to catch my meaning. But when he did, he couldn’t hide the small lift of his smile.
The last few workdays had been occupied by reconstructing the particulars of Evelyn and Thomas’s contract. Though the contract itself was missing, I’d taken plenty of circumstantial evidence and pieced together a rough idea of what they might have agreed on in that fateful document.
Thomas and I had been joking that Evelyn missed her calling as a negotiator.
Now, it looked like I was following in her footsteps.
“Ah. Evelyn’s rubbing off on you, then?”
“Yes,” I said, playfully narrowing my eyes. It was fun to channel her boldness until it felt like my own instead of something borrowed. “You’ve been warned.”
He heeded the warning and stepped aside. I slid the key into the lock. It groaned from disuse as it turned. But then, it opened.
“Oh, wow .”
I never could have prepared myself for what I found in that attic.
It was a treasure trove. An intimidatingly stacked playland of history. Overflowing boxes of handbills and posters. File organizers of papers and documents. Steamer trunks, jewelry boxes, discarded furniture.
A lifetime in ephemera, all hidden away.
Without further ado, I began scrounging through it all. Armitage’s stare over my shoulder was piercing, but I didn’t care. After a few minutes, I forgot he was even there. These were genuine artifacts, touched during the last hundred years only for dusting.
A historian’s dream.
My dream.
I bubbled over, unable to contain my excitement. I found postcards from Steeplechase Park and handwritten sheet music. Rough-draft design plans for The Empire with Thomas Gallier’s personal notes on them in careful pencil. Newspaper clippings and a Jules Moreau poster in full Vanity Fair costume. Gramophone records of some of vaudeville’s hottest stars.
“You should take some of this stuff downstairs,” I said. “Think of how cool the house would look if you decorated it with all of Thomas’s original stuff.”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I’m going to throw it out when this is all over.”
“But you can’t,” I protested.
Armitage shrugged. “No one’s needed this junk for years. I don’t think anyone’s going to miss it when it’s gone.”
On that point, we would have to disagree. However, before I could make my stand, I stumbled across a stunning hat. One I recognized.
It was one of Evelyn Cross’s hats. She’d been photographed and sketched in it dozens of times, with its distinctive confectionary swirl of pink feathers and paste diamonds.
With shaking hands, I picked it up and inspected it. The years had not been kind to this hat, but it still held a kind of magic—at least, to me.
I’m sure I looked as silly and awed as I felt. Again, Armitage’s opinion of me was the furthest thing from my mind, even as his stare burned, reddening my cheeks.
Then, he reached out for it, gently wresting it from my grip.
My heart sunk. I’d gone too far. Touching the old papers was one thing, I guessed, but coveting antique millinery must have crossed one of those invisible lines he was always drawing.
But to my surprise, he softly asked:
“You want to try it on?”
“I couldn’t—”
“Like I said. Everything’s getting thrown away when you finish your research. It’s just old junk. Come on,” he said, parroting my earlier words back to me. “What’s the big deal?”
I nodded and gestured for the hat. I’d expected him to hand it over and let me sort it out myself. But instead, he closed the space between us and settled the hat atop my head, perfectly perched above my messy low bun.
His fingertips brushed my ears. I told myself that my speeding heart was just, like, from the excitement of the historical finds or whatever. Nothing else.
“How do I look?” I asked, once he stepped away.
He opened his mouth to say something. But he had a terrible habit of self-editing, so instead of sharing that thought, he closed his mouth, reconsidered, and then finally landed on, “See for yourself.”
Whipping a velvet drape off a gilded mirror tucked away in the corner of the room, he revealed its oxidizing face. I shuffled over to it, inspecting my reflection.
I’d often wondered what it was like to be Evelyn Cross. To walk down the street knowing that everyone wanted you—even if they pretended that they didn’t, or even if they’d never admit it out loud. And yes, she was beautiful. Yes, she was talented. Yes, she’d fought to build a life for herself that no one could take away.
But she also had this hat. This hat that made me feel like I was wearing a cloud and a halo all at once, like I was a heavenly body gracing this sordid earth with my luminous presence.
I’m sure I didn’t look beautiful. But damn , did I feel it.
And the feeling couldn’t be contained. As I inspected myself, I began to sing one of Evelyn’s famous songs, preening this way and that, jumping into a little dance when the energy carried me away. I was only brought slamming back down to earth when I nearly tripped over a stray cigar box and had to steady myself against the mirror.
My eyes slid to Armitage, standing over my shoulder. His expression was completely unreadable. Every muscle in his body was rigid. He looked … well, I don’t know how he looked, exactly. I just knew that the laughter died on my lips. I fiddled with the moth-bitten ribbons dangling down past my shoulders.
“Are you regretting it?” I asked with a self-effacing smile.
He blinked, as if suddenly remembering where he was. “Regretting what?”
“Getting stuck with me.”
A considering silence.
“I’m one of the most powerful men in this entire city, Phoebe. Do you think I can get stuck anywhere?”
I snort-laughed. Attractive. “Okay, brag —”
“I’m just trying to say … if I’m somewhere, it’s because I want to be.”
The dismissive humor left my body. There was nothing else in my world but the sincerity of those words.
He wanted to be here. With me.
“Keep the key,” Armitage said, by way of goodbye. “And the hat, if you like it so much. Someone ought to enjoy all this old junk.”
Then, he was gone. Leaving me alone with a big, empty room full of his family’s secrets.