Still, as the minutes ticked by, Rory came to regret her decision to part with her clothes. Being decked out in only the robe kept her a virtual prisoner in the bedchamber. The waiting began to seem interminable, and she grew anxious, noting the deep hues of twilight gathering outside the window, the way the rain still pelted against the glass.
What if Tony couldn’t find her? No, she was being silly. Tony always managed to track the course of the balloon.
To occupy her time, Rory paced about studying the room’s pictures, furnishings and especially that mammoth bed beneath its canopy. Lord almighty, how did anyone ever sleep on such a thing? It would be like cuddling up for a nap inside of a museum. Rory stole a half-guilty glance about her. Although she felt like an urchin sneaking about in a palace, she couldn’t resist.
She boosted herself up onto the bed and sat down, testing the springs with a small bounce. The mattress was firm, much moreso than her own bed, worn so comfortably to the contours of her body.
Rory stretched herself out flat, arms at her sides, the brocade coverlet stiff beneath her. She stared up at the canopy looming over her head. This bed would definitely not be conducive to a good night’s rest.
But having assured herself that it was a thoroughly wretched place to sleep, Rory was reluctant to move.
She hadn’t realized until this moment just how tired she was. What a horror the day had been. She would be lucky if Dutton still paid her for that disastrous balloon flight. She would be lucky if she could mend the Katie Moira. She would be lucky if she didn’t lose her balloon company after all.
Well, then, if luck was what it would take, so be it. If she believed hard enough, she would always find a way. The eternal optimism of the Kavanaughs. It was the one legacy Da had left her that would endure forever.
Smiling at the thought, Rory felt her eyes drifting closed and jerked them open. She really should stay awake. She would be embarrassed to death if anyone found her testing out the mattress. What if it should be Wellington or worse yet Morrison himself?
Here she would be curled up in bed, clad in nothing but this clinging robe. The thought disturbed her enough that she struggled into a sitting position. She remembered that that unexpected warmth in Morrison’s eyes when he had gazed at her earlier.
What if he had planned this whole thing, to get her upstairs and in bed undressed? What did she know about the man really? No more than the rest of the world. Even the newspapers had dubbed him a man of mystery.
But she knew plenty about Rory Kavanaugh. For one thing, she couldn’t imagine herself the object of any man’s lust,especially not as she must have appeared to Morrison, about as desirable as a wet mongrel fished from the gutter. And for another, she knew she could handle any masher. Sometimes the lads who hung about her warehouse got a little fresh and she was quick to put them in their place.
Dismissing her fears as ridiculous, Rory yawned and lay back down. The thought did surface that Zeke Morrison might not be so easy to handle as the dockside boys, but Rory gave it only brief and drowsy consideration. Besides, it didn’t matter. Morrison wasn’t going to catch her in bed. No one was. In another few minutes, she was going to move. In another few minutes, she would thrust her head out into the hall and shout for the maid. In another few minutes...
In less time than that, Rory was fast asleep.
Three
The 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. AuroraRose 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 thesenewsmen 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.
