Home > Starcrossed (Magic in Manhattan #2)(8)

Starcrossed (Magic in Manhattan #2)(8)
Author: Allie Therin

   But as far as Arthur knew, Rory had never left New York. Would he even consider going abroad?

   “Enjoying the view?”

   John’s voice cut through the generic chattering and soft clinks of fine dishes. Arthur looked up. Of all the Kenzie siblings, he and John were the most matched. They had same blue eyes paired with Kenzie black hair, John’s touched with gray at the temples, and were within an inch of each other’s heights with the same muscled build.

   Arthur pushed off the window with a twinge of guilt. He might not want to be here, but he’d agreed to come, and he needed to soldier up and work the crowd for John. “It’s a very quaint street. But I was just thinking I’d find your friend Walter and see if he’s interested in the new National Football League.”

   John gave him a flat smile that said he knew Arthur was full of shit. But to Arthur’s surprise, he didn’t turn and head back to the donors. “When do you return to the city?”

   “Tomorrow.” Where was John going with this? “You?”

   “Tonight, right after this.” John stared out the window. “I can’t really afford to be away. City Hall is absolutely inundated right now, thanks to that Coney Island windstorm.”

   “Oh. That.” Arthur took an awkward sip of ginger ale. “Yes, I suppose that would be a nightmare for the aldermen.”

   “It’s a mess. Did you even know there was a Ladies Society for the Promotion of Boardwalk Welfare? I know all about it now, because their lead girl has been in my office every day for a week.” John was still staring at the street, and then he said, very suddenly, “Do you still dream of the war?”

   Arthur nearly spit out his drink.

   John had been a new politician when President Wilson requested the declaration of war. Harry had just taken over two of the family businesses. Will had served as an army lawyer in the Judge Advocate General’s Corps, although he’d returned to private practice after the treaties had been signed. Arthur had been the only one of the four Kenzie boys to see combat. His service was often praised in family get-togethers, but only in the broadest of terms, sugarcoated and vacuous, as if the war had been nothing more harrowing than another of Arthur’s eccentric jaunts around Europe.

   His family meant well, but when any potential weakness could make one a target for the papers or political adversaries, things like shellshock and nightmares just simply weren’t discussed.

   “Do you still dream of your first election night?” he said lightly. “Everyone revisits certain times in their sleep. Why?”

   “Hmm.” John’s shoulders were oddly stiff. “Come see me tomorrow.”

   “What’s that? Why yes, I am frightfully busy and I do already have plans—”

   “I need to speak with you.”

   “We’re speaking right now,” Arthur said impatiently. “Literally speaking to each other, at this precise moment—”

   “In private.” John glanced at Arthur. “Please.”

   Arthur stilled. The gray afternoon light through the window highlighted John’s face, the unusual pallor to his face, the deep bags beneath his eyes. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days. “Is everything all right?”

   “Come to Trinity when you get in,” John said, naming his private gentlemen’s club instead of answering. “I’ll expect you around four.” He looked past Arthur. “Ah, Stevens! Just the man I was looking for.”

   Arthur frowned at John’s retreating back. John had been an exceptional pugilist, and at thirty-nine could still match Arthur in the ring. It wasn’t like him to neglect his health, no matter how busy he got.

   As John disappeared into a group of suited men, Arthur’s gaze landed on a tensed figure quickly snatching up hors d’oeuvres. Edgar Barnes—Dear Edgar, Arthur tended to think of him, because he was better acquainted with Edgar’s wife, his sister’s sorority sister Josephine. Edgar was a pale, skinny man with limp blond hair and a lawyer, Arthur remembered, one who didn’t often stray from his Fifth Avenue clients. If anyone here might know something about trusts and estates—specifically, one recently deceased mogul’s estate—it could be Edgar.

   He strode hurriedly over, catching Edgar just as he was scurrying away from the buffet. “Mr. Barnes, how are you?”

   Edgar hunched as he glanced Arthur’s way. “Kenzie.” His thin lips curled in a sneer as he didn’t offer his hand. “Good to see you.” It sounded like a lie.

   “And you, though I’m surprised to see you so far north of the city,” Arthur said easily. “What brings you up?”

   Edgar’s eyes darted to John, who had already moved on from Stevens and was now charming a widow Arthur knew had even more money than his parents. “I go where my clients need me,” he said, his lip curling again on the word client. He couldn’t mean John; none of the Kenzies were clients of Edgar’s.

   Before Arthur could ask, Edgar added, “Josephine’s been talking about you.” His gaze darted across the width of Arthur’s shoulders and briefly down his body. “You and your suits.”

   Arthur barely managed not to roll his eyes. Jealous husbands were everywhere at these things, most of them happy to letch after their secretaries but unable to tolerate the same from their wives. “And how is your lovely wife?” he said innocently. “I haven’t seen her since everyone was celebrating the mayor’s inauguration.”

   Edgar blanched like he’d seen a ghost. “Were you there too?” He wet his lips, then stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper that just barely cut over the crowd. “At the gala? The night Luther Mansfield was murdered?”

 

* * *

 

   The ring box was heavy in Rory’s pocket as he picked his way down the steep, tree-covered hill. It was colder than he’d expected as the wind cut over the Hudson River, carrying specks of ice through the air and right through the holes in his coat. The trees were taller and grown in thicker than they looked from the estate, their bare branches shadowing what little light was left in the day.

   Rory took a careful step over a rock only to put his foot down on a root. He bit back a yelp as his foot slipped, grabbing the tree’s trunk. He reflexively reached for the small box in his pants pocket to make sure it hadn’t slipped out and then yanked his hand away just before he made contact. He didn’t need icy fingers stinging from lead too.

   He steadied himself, holding on to trees with his bare hands as he maneuvered downhill around patches of ice and frozen mud under white powder. It wasn’t anything like Central Park, where he could always hear the city when he listened. Here, the forest was muffled like he had blankets over his head. There were no leaves to rustle in the wind, nothing to hear but the soft crunch of snow beneath his sneakers and bickering cardinals high in the trees.

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