Once an Heiress (Gilded Promises) Page 4

“No, you are not.” Esmeralda Cappelletti was the most revered opera singer in the world. She was also flamboyant and dramatic to the core. She enjoyed attracting attention—the good, the bad, and everything in between.

  “I won’t be compared to her.”

  Some things could not be helped.

  “Comparison is inevitable.” The daughter would always be weighed against the mother, especially now that the world knew who Sophie’s father was. “You demanded Warren Griffin acknowledge you in front of New York’s social elite. You cannot continue to hide from what you’ve done.”

  Was she speaking to Sophie, Gigi wondered, or to herself?

  “I can try.”

  If only it were that simple. If only youthful mistakes could be erased with determination alone.

  “You must present an aura of confidence. It is the only way to earn society’s respect.” Perhaps with respect acceptance would come. It was Gigi’s greatest wish for the young woman she’d come to think of as a friend.

  Sighing, Sophie lowered herself into a chair facing her dressing table. Picking up a hairbrush, Gigi moved in behind the girl. With a skill honed from endless hours of practice on her own hair, she worked the dark curls into a modern style she’d come across in a recent edition of Harper’s Bazar.

  “At the moment, you are somewhat of a novelty,” she said. “This luncheon is your opportunity to make a proper impression before the newness wears off and the whispers turn ugly.”

  “Oh, Sally.” Sophie’s doelike amber eyes filled with tears. “The society pages have branded me the Daughter of Scandal. How much uglier can it get?”

  Much uglier, Gigi thought.

  She understood how these matters worked. Though Gigi had avoided scandal, it was only because of the well-crafted lie her family had told in the wake of her disappearance. Even after eleven months, the Boston gossip columns still speculated over the veracity of the Wentworths’ claim that Gigi was studying music abroad. Every day, she teetered on the edge of disaster. One wrong move on her part and the ruse would be over. Her sisters’ chance at happiness would be at risk.

  Gigi had ruined her own life. She would not ruin theirs.

  “What if I make a mistake this afternoon?” Sophie asked, her voice shaking with obvious concern. “What if I say something inappropriate, or eat with the wrong fork, or drink from someone else’s water glass?”

  In that, at least, Gigi could alleviate the young woman’s concerns. “We have practiced for weeks. You are ready.”

  Sophie looked prepared to argue. Gigi didn’t give her the chance. “Your half sister and her mother-in-law are hosting the luncheon. You cannot ask for a more influential pair in your corner.”

  “Penelope and Mrs. Burrows have been very kind.”

  Sophie’s half brother, Lucian Griffin, and his wife, Elizabeth, had also aligned themselves with the young woman. She was not alone in her scandal.

  Unlike you.

  Gigi caught Sophie’s gaze in the mirror and, smiling softly, gave her the same advice she’d given her previous employer. “I have found that taking the first step makes the next one easier, and the one after that easier still.”

  It was good advice, Gigi thought. Words of wisdom she herself should take to heart. All she had to do was keep trudging toward her goal, one step at a time. Or rather, one dollar at a time.

  Of course, she would have to keep her identity secret a little while longer. How hard could it be? She’d been Sally Smith for eleven months. Certainly, she could continue the deception for one more.

  Chapter Two

  She was here. Christopher Nolan Fitzpatrick could practically feel her presence. It had taken him considerable time and money, two private investigators, and several wrong turns, but Fitz’s search was over. He’d found Gigi Wentworth.

  According to the current investigator’s report, she’d changed her name—one of the many reasons the trail had gone cold—and was now working as a lady’s maid in Esmeralda Cappelletti’s household. A lady’s maid! In an opera singer’s home.

  How far the spoiled heiress has fallen, Fitz thought wryly, his eyes narrowing as they roamed over the interior of the Summer Garden Theater.

  Gigi was nowhere in sight. But she was here. Fitz was certain of it. The tensing of his shoulders, the uncomfortable roil in his gut, and the inability to breathe easily were nothing new. Fitz always had this visceral response whenever Gigi was near. His reaction to the woman was the source of his greatest frustration.

  He managed most areas of his life with decisiveness and precision. Not so where Gigi was concerned.

  If only she’d stayed hidden.

  But, of course, she hadn’t.

  Fitz consulted his pocket watch for the third time in as many minutes. He would have preferred to leave this particular errand to one of his subordinates. Unfortunately, the stakes were too high, and the need for privacy too great, to trust anyone but himself.

  And so here he stood, loitering in the wings of a New York theater, waiting for the troublesome woman to show her face.

  A theater wasn’t a bad place to hide, Fitz admitted to himself. A bit obvious, but Gigi had always been a bit obvious. She embraced drama as though it were as vital to her existence as air. This place was so filled with drama that Fitz’s skin crawled.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, felt the perfectly cut wool of his jacket move smoothly with the gesture.

  Someone whispered his name loudly enough for him to hear. Fitz glanced to his left. A pack of young women huddled closely together. Heads bent, they spoke in rapid, hushed whispers.

  Occasional pauses accompanied their swift glances in his direction. Fitz welcomed their interest like a cold rush of biting air on bare skin. He tried to ignore their conversation, but the acoustics in the theater were top-notch.

  “I hear he plans to purchase the theater from Mr. Everett.”

  Giggles followed this statement. More glances were tossed in Fitz’s direction. Fitz blew out a slow hiss of air. He’d never liked being the center of attention.

  “I do so hope the rumor is true,” one of them said in a stage whisper—Fitz finally understood the odd term—and then added, “He’s very handsome.”

  Another pause, longer than the first. More glances and giggles, accompanied this time with heartfelt sighs.

  Fitz shifted his stance and put his back to the lot of them.

  There, he thought, problem solved. Or . . . not.

  The whispers grew louder. “I’d be more than willing to assist Mr. Everett with the negotiations. I can be quite persuasive.”

  Fitz shook his head. The female interest in him wasn’t new, nor would it last. He was not a man ladies sought for light company, not once they got to know him. He was distant. Reserved. Some would say broody. Others would say callous and unfeeling.

  It wasn’t that Fitz didn’t have feelings. Of course he did. He simply didn’t make outward displays. He was gifted with numbers not words. He preferred to read contracts and study ledgers. He had little acquaintance with literature, philosophy, or art.

  On more than one occasion, Gigi had called him boring and unimaginative. She had not been wrong, especially when compared to her.

  Gigi Wentworth was Fitz’s complete opposite in every way. Where he thought through every action, she leapt in without a second glance. He followed the rules. She pushed the boundaries. She was engaging, romantic, and full of smiles.

  Fitz was . . . none of those things.

  Men had always been drawn to Gigi, Fitz included. But she’d never crossed a line. Not until Nathanial Dixon. From the beginning, Fitz hadn’t trusted the man. He’d tried to warn Gigi. His advice had gone unheard.

  At least her family had been able to keep her scandalous behavior secret. Fitz wasn’t especially pleased with his role in their duplicity, but deception had been necessary. Her reputation was safe, for now.

  For how long?

  If Fitz’s hired man had been able to locate her, surely someone
else could as well. A reporter, perhaps, especially now that her sister’s wedding was nearly upon them and the Wentworths were once again in the news.

  Another round of giggles sent Fitz on the move.

  Where was Gigi?

  Fitz wanted this business over.

  His gaze scanned the theater quickly, restlessly, ignoring the men, focusing solely on the women. He willed himself to be patient. More hushed whispers wafted over him, the speculation about his presence growing more absurd.

  Whose fault is that?

  He could set the record straight, tell them he had no plans to buy the theater. But then he’d have no cause to be milling around backstage on a Monday afternoon less than two weeks before opening night of Esmeralda Cappelletti’s return to the American stage.

  Allowing Mr. Everett to believe he was interested in purchasing the theater hadn’t been Fitz’s finest moment.

  Although the stage was abuzz with activity, rehearsal wouldn’t get under way until Esmeralda graced them with her presence. Like most divas with her level of international acclaim, the opera singer operated on her own schedule, caring not that her whims inconvenienced others.

  No wonder Gigi felt at home in the diva’s household.

  As Fitz waited along with the rest of the cast and crew, he, too, felt their frustration. His hands slid into his pockets.

  Patience, he told himself. Gigi would show herself soon enough.

  There’d been a time when he’d despaired of ever finding her. She’d left Boston in the middle of the night. Not alone. No, not alone.

  She was alone now.

  The investigator’s report had been clear on that point. It had been unclear on many others. For instance . . .

  What had led Gigi to change her name? Why had she become a lady’s maid? Just how far had she fallen? And, most important of all, where was Nathanial Dixon?

  Gigi had arrived at the Waldorf-Astoria with the man. They’d lived extravagantly. Both had vanished a few days later. Gigi had been located two weeks ago.

  Dixon was still missing.

  The conclusion was obvious enough. The scoundrel had abandoned her.

  Fitz’s gut roiled. He’d warned Gigi about the man. Fitz hated being proved right. Hated more that Gigi had suffered at Dixon’s hands.

  The specifics of her disgrace are not your concern.

  No, Fitz’s goal was simple. Though he feared his task would not be easy. His attention moved to the stage. Gigi could be anyone she wished in this false world, where nothing was as it seemed and donning disguises was an everyday affair.

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick.” A sultry female voice interrupted his thoughts. Fitz turned away from the stage to face the incomparable Esmeralda Cappelletti.

  He’d met the singer two evenings ago, at a party thrown specifically for Fitz by Mr. Everett. In an attempt to woo him, or rather his money, the theater owner had encouraged Esmeralda to use her charms to persuade him to invest.

  Of average height, the diva was fashionably curvy. Her eyes were nearly black as coal, and her ebony hair spilled in wave upon wave down her back. There was no denying she was alluring.

  Fitz remained unmoved.

  Only one woman had ever captured his interest. The thought brought a slice of mind-numbing regret. So many things he would do differently, given the chance. Then again, nothing would come from entertaining such a notion.

  So he smiled at Esmeralda. She reached out to him.

  Knowing his role in this particular drama, Fitz took the outstretched hand and swept a brief kiss across the knuckles gloved in fine kid leather. “Miss Cappelletti.” He released her hand. “Always a pleasure.”

  “I should think we are beyond such formal address.” Eyes locked with his, she curled her slim fingers around his forearm. “You must call me Esmeralda. And I shall call you Christopher.”

  “My friends and family call me Fitz.”

  “Then I shall call you Fitz.”

  He inclined his head. “I insist you do.”

  Her smile turned beguiling. The opera singer was very good at making a man feel special. Gigi had been blessed with the same gift.

  “Tell me, Fitz. Have you come to watch today’s rehearsal?”

  “Among other reasons.” He did not expand.

  Esmeralda possessed an awe-inspiring presence. Her exotic heritage could be Italian, as she claimed. Fitz suspected she was possibly Spanish but probably Mexican. Her age was indeterminate, anywhere from twenty-eight to forty years old. Since she had a twenty-one-year-old daughter, Fitz was leaning heavily toward the upper end of that range.

  “What is your first impression of the Summer Garden?” Esmeralda asked, her distinctive Italian accent thicker than before. “You approve, yes?”

  Fitz swept his gaze over the stage’s riggings, past the row of dancers warming up, and beyond the other players in various poses. The entire scene was too loud, too messy, too chaotic. In sum, everything Fitz avoided in his well-ordered life.

  The burdens he carried were too heavy for disorder.

  And yet, this glimpse of what it took to produce an opera utterly fascinated him. The way all the various working parts, seemingly unrelated and hectic, eventually came together and created something orderly was similar to what he did as an investment banker. “I approve.”

  Clearly pleased with his answer, Esmeralda slipped her arm through his. “You must allow me to show you around.”

  Esmeralda had an entire opera company waiting on her. “Another time. I’m afraid Mr. Everett is waiting for me to review the accounting books with him.”

  “You would prefer numbers to my company?” From her stilted tone it was obvious she’d taken offense.

  “I am a financier,” he said simply. “Numbers are my business.”

  It was exactly the wrong thing to say, Fitz realized a moment too late. A tantrum built in the diva’s eyes. The private investigator had done his research here as well. Upsetting Esmeralda was never a wise move.

  Fitz switched tactics. “Perhaps you would escort me to the office while pointing out various areas of interest along the way.”

  After a moment of quiet contemplation, Esmeralda performed a very Gallic shrug. “That would be acceptable. Come. We go now.”

  Lips pressed into a pretty pout, she began the abbreviated tour. They wove through the labyrinth of rigging and freshly painted set pieces. Esmeralda chattered and pointed and generally entertained Fitz with her candid observations. What he found most amusing was how the thickness of her accent came and went with her enthusiasm.

  Fitz found he rather liked the singer, which came as a surprise. Perhaps it was her hard-driven will to excel in her profession. A trait they shared.

  A movement to his left caught his attention. He snapped his head in that direction in time to see a cloaked figure moving along the far wall.

  The shadowy form moved with soft, elegant steps, floating along like a tender snowflake, slowly, smoothly, and yet coolly controlled.

  Fitz’s heart kicked an extra-hard beat.

  That flowing, almost poetic grace could only belong to one woman. Georgina Catherine Wentworth, the missing daughter of the wealthiest family in Boston.

  Fitz let out a slow, imperceptible hiss of relief. His search was over.

  Now came the tricky part.

  Gigi stuck to the shadows out of pure survival instinct. Disaster had struck in the form of a man.

  Disaster always came in the form of a man.

  Of all the people to come looking for her, why did it have to be . . . him? Gigi continued moving, deliberately and carefully. She didn’t dare glance in his direction for fear he would catch a glimpse of her face. Oh, but the urge was strong.

  Don’t look, Gigi told herself.

  Do. Not. Look.

  She looked.

  Her feet dragged to a halt.

  Her breath clogged in her throat. Her heart slammed against her ribs. It was him. Christopher Fitzpatrick. Fitz. Once a friend, turned villain.
No. Not quite a villain, but certainly an antagonist in her story.

  Fitz was exactly as she remembered. The far-too-serious boy with the shy manner and kind smile who’d grown into an even more serious man, the one her father had expected her to marry—insisted upon actually. An impossible demand. Fitz was everything Gigi was not. Principled. Driven. Someone who knew his purpose in life.

  Gigi had always felt a little on edge in his presence. Fitz had been the only person to make her feel that way. She averted her gaze.

  It was no use. Fitz’s image remained branded on her mind. She knew every facet of that strong, coldly handsome face. She knew the full breadth of those wide, muscular shoulders, the intense green eyes that were the same rich color as the velvet curtains of the theater. His hair, a shade nearly as black as a raven’s feather, was expertly cut. Gigi expected no less.

  Fitz was always the picture of perfection, a man who never took a misstep, never showed any sign of human frailty. She couldn’t help but feel a little inferior in his company and had grown to dislike him because of that.

  Why was he here? Why now?

  Alarm stole through her limbs as a thought took hold. Her worry turned into sheer panic. Had something happened to someone in her family?

  No, Gigi would have discovered something that awful in the Boston newspapers. She read them daily, always looking for news of her sisters, her mother, even her father.

  Fingers fumbling for purchase, Gigi adjusted the mobcap on her head and melted deeper into the shadows. Casting a discreet glance from beneath her eyelashes, she watched in stunned fascination as Fitz disentangled himself from Esmeralda’s hold on his arm.

  He took a step in Gigi’s direction.

  His eyes were unreadable from this distance. She held her breath and prayed for . . . what? What did she want? More time? A moment of inspiration? A deep hole in the floor to sink into?

  Fitz took another step toward her, then stopped abruptly when Esmeralda called out to him. He was forced to turn his back on Gigi.

  This was her chance to slip away from the theater. It would not be easy. Fitz stood halfway between her and the backstage door. She would have to be careful. Stealthy.