Page 8 of Daredevil Lady and the Mysterious Millionaire (The Hidden Hearts Collection #3)

Three

T he police were gone. The officers had been understandably annoyed to find themselves summoned out in the rain for no particular reason, but Zeke Morrison had placated them with a few jokes and an invitation to enjoy the hospitality of his well-stocked kitchen.

The policemen left with no further difficulty. Zeke was not surprised.

One thing he had always excelled at, he thought wryly, was dealing with the police. The two hundred some guests, the cream of New York’s social register stuffed into his drawing room, were another matter.

Even from where he lingered in the hall, Zeke could hear the hubbub of voices.

The accents, normally so well-bred, were raised in pitch, some of them even shrill with outrage and shock.

But as flustered as his guests were, Zeke counted it an improvement.

Earlier that afternoon, he had been yawning behind his hand.

All those perfect ladies and gentlemen gathered on his lawn had displayed as much animation as the marble statue gracing his fountain—that is until Miss Kavanaugh’s balloon had come swooping down.

Since no one had been killed or seriously injured, Zeke could afford to be amused by the disastrous end to his fête.

Aurora Rose Kavanaugh might be a spitfire and a little crazy to go flying about in that contraption, but Zeke had to give her credit for one thing.

She had certainly livened up an otherwise dull party.

He supposed he ought to march into the parlor and play the urbane host, soothing, calming and apologizing. What he really wanted to do was to strip out of his suit and take a long soak in a hot bath. His wet clothes were drying to a state of stiff dampness that was damned uncomfortable.

The suit was probably ruined, but Zeke hadn’t liked it much anyway.

His tailor had assured Zeke that the silk striped vest and close-fitting jacket would give him a dapper appearance, just like any of those young sprigs who had gone up to Harvard.

But the transformation had never taken place.

He had the tough exterior of a prizefighter, and his muscular frame threatened to burst the silk’s flimsy seams.

Zeke couldn’t wait to toss the suit into a heap and get into something more comfortable. Surely he could leave the cosseting of his guests to his redoubtable butler Wellington and the charming Mrs. Van Hallsburg. This infernal party had been all Cynthia’s idea anyway.

Even as he considered this appealing notion, Zeke frowned.

If he abandoned his role as host, Mrs. Van H.

would likely be even more irritated with him.

Not that Zeke feared any woman’s wrath, but he owed Cynthia Van Hallsburg a great deal for her help these past months in opening the doors to New York society.

Zeke Morrison was a man who always paid his debts.

He reluctantly headed for the drawing room, but a situation arose that required more immediate attention. Someone was hammering on the front door. When a harried parlor maid opened it, Zeke was not altogether surprised to see a representative of the press standing on the doorstep.

Nothing of interest could take place at Morrison’s Castle without bringing the reporters out in droves, and none of these newsmen was more persistent than Mr. William Duffy of the New York World.

Wellington would have barred the fellow admittance, but the bold red-haired reporter easily slipped past the little parlor maid.

Duffy’s sharp features lit up as he spied Zeke paused outside the drawing room.

He crossed the hall in three quick strides, his faded brown coat dripping rainwater with every step.

“Mr. Morrison! Just the man I wanted to see.”

“The feeling isn’t mutual,” Zeke replied. “What the hell do you think you are doing, barging in here?”

“Oh, Mr. Morrison,” the parlor maid wailed. “I tried to keep him out.”

“That’s all right, Maisie. You go help Wellington with the tea. I can look after Mr. Duffy.” Zeke spoke softly, but his voice had enough of an edge that the reporter took a wary step backward. As the relieved parlor maid scuttled off, Duffy flung out his hands in a placating gesture.

“I’m here on legitimate business this time, Mr. Morrison. I came to cover your party for my society editor.” Duffy produced a small notepad and pencil from his inner breast pocket. He moistened the pencil tip with his tongue and affected to write. “Now what did Mrs. Van Hallsburg wear today—puce?”

Zeke glowered and snatched the pencil away. “Get out of here. Don’t you have anything better to do than hang about my house and bother me?”

“No.” Duffy grinned. “Like it or not, you are news, Mr. Morrison. The mysterious tycoon of Millionaire’s Row. You can’t just breeze into this town, buy up a whole block, build yourself a castle, and expect not to attract attention.”

Zeke sucked in his breath with an impatient hiss. He collared the reporter and propelled him back toward the door.

“Ow! Watch the coat, Morrison. I still owe money on it, and I already near split my pants climbing your fence.”

“You’re lucky I don’t split your head.”

“All right then. All right! I didn’t just come to cover the party. I was down at the police precinct and heard there was some sort of an accident out here—something about a balloon crash. Did you hire it for your party?”

“No. I don’t provide my guests with cheap circus entertainment.”

“Hey, what’s wrong with cheap entertainment? I like it.”

There had been a time in his life when Zeke would have agreed with him. That he had come across sounding like the kind of snob he despised only added to his annoyance.

As Zeke yanked open the massive front door, Duffy made one last desperate plea. “Aw, come on, Morrison. Do a fellow a favor. Give me a leg up in my career. Just one little interview.”

He tossed out a spate of breathless questions. “Is it true you made your money running a gambling establishment in Chicago? What about the rumor that you were once a New York boy? How about the gossip that you were involved with gangs on the East Side like the Dead Rabbits?”

“You’re going to be a dead duck if I ever catch you trespassing again.” Zeke started to shove him out, but Duffy clung to the door jamb.

“It’s raining buckets out there. You wouldn’t throw a fellow creature out into a storm, would you?”

Zeke would and did.

Duffy went flying, but managed to regain his balance before he fell. Turning back, he glanced toward Zeke, his grin undiminished by the rain beating down on his head.

“Never mind, Morrison. I’ll get my story somehow.”

Turning up his collar, Duffy bounded down the steps, his cheerful exuberance quite unimpaired.

As irritated as he was, a half-smile escaped Zeke.

Duffy might be as annoying as a green-head fly on a hot day, but brashness and persistence were qualities that Zeke had always admired, perhaps because he possessed a measure of both himself.

Zeke watched until he made sure that Duffy did actually exit from his property, going through the iron gate and down the street. He eased the door closed. Just as the latch clicked into place, he heard a cool feminine voice calling from behind him.

“John?”

He swiveled to observe the woman haloed in the light of the hall chandelier.

Everyone else might be damp and disheveled, but Cynthia Van Hallsburg was still a vision of perfection in her silvery-blue frock, the color in tune with her white-blonde hair, the pale blue of her eyes.

The Ice Goddess—that was the name the society columns had dubbed one who had long been a reigning beauty among New York’s upper set.

There was definitely winter in the stare that she now turned upon Zeke. “What is the matter now?”

“Nothing,” Zeke replied, coming away from the door. “I was merely convincing Mr. William Duffy that I am not at home to callers.”

“That reporter! I suppose this whole unfortunate affair will end up in the papers tomorrow. Exactly the sort of publicity one most deplores.”

“Oh, I don’t know. With a little digging, Duffy could find far worse things to print about me.”

Mrs. Van Hallsburg frowned. Zeke had learned early on in their acquaintance that the one sure way of ruffling her ice-like serenity was to hint that some elements in his past were less than sterling.

This time she chose to ignore his comment. “You should go in now and attempt to placate your guests. Some of them are still very upset and demanding their carriages be sent for.”

“Well, let them. I take no prisoners.”

When his quip caused her lips to thin, Zeke relented somewhat, adopting a milder tone. “I’m sorry the party got spoiled. I know you worked damned hard to help me bring it off. But you can hardly blame me for what happened.”

“I don’t hold you responsible for what happened, merely how you dealt with it. I think you could have found far better employment for those policemen than having them gorge themselves in your kitchen.”

So she was still harping on that. Zeke rolled his eyes. “Believe me, there are far more desperate criminals in this city for the police to arrest than a bunch of circus people in a runaway balloon.”

“Then what do you plan on doing with that circus girl?”

“She’s already gone. I sent her off with her husband, booked them into the bridal suite at the Waldorf for a wedding present.”

“I don’t mean her. I mean the other one, the one you had Wellington take upstairs.”

Oh, her. Miss Aurora Rose Kavanaugh. Just thinking of her was enough to make Zeke want to chuckle.

He could picture her so clearly, a little slip of a thing, barely up to his shoulder, yet squaring off, her fists upraised, ready to darken his lights, disheveled strands of silky hair tumbling before her flashing eyes.

Zeke suppressed his smile lest Mrs. Van Hallsburg misinterpret it. “Miss Kavanaugh is only waiting here until her assistant comes to take the balloon away.”