The guards weren’t the only challenge he faced in that room. The gallery was filled with a veritable who’s who of New York society—bankers from Wall Street and politicians from Tammany, and many of the millionaires who’d built their houses along Madison or Fifth. A few well-known reporters lurked by the far wall, making notes with stubby pencils in their palm-size tablets as they watched the crowd with sharp, perceptive eyes. Harte recognized Sam Watson, the Sun reporter who’d done a feature on his act the previous summer. The story had helped ticket sales, but Harte hated how it had made him feel like an insect on display.
He also hated that at least a small measure of his success was owed to the same man who’d made it his mission to write so regularly—and viciously—about the dangerous Mageus that might be lurking among the newly arrived immigrants. Seeing Watson that night wasn’t all that surprising, but the last thing Harte needed was for Watson to start dropping hints about his pedigree—or lack of one—in front of Jack.
Before Harte could turn away, Watson spotted him and began making his way across the room. “Harte Darrigan,” he called, extending his hand with a slick grin. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Oh?” he said, shaking Watson’s hand. It would have been easy enough to get rid of the reporter, but with the guards, Harte was forced to deal with him.
“Doesn’t seem like your usual crowd.” ?Watson nodded toward the full room. “Or maybe you’re here as the floor show?” he suggested with a less-than-friendly smirk.
“I think you’re mistaking me for one of the chorus girls you like so much,” Harte said breezily, but he clutched his hands behind his back to keep himself from punching the ass. “Evelyn sends her regards, by the way.”
“Really?” Watson said a little too eagerly, but when he realized Harte was only toying with him, his expression went dark.
“How’re things in the newspaper business?” Harte asked before Watson could needle him any more.
While Watson was prattling on about his latest editorial, something drew Harte’s attention to the far side of the gallery. One of the servers stumbled, nearly running into a man in tails in an attempt not to drop a tray of empty glasses. The man reached out to steady the boy, and when he did, the server’s hand dipped quickly into the man’s pocket.
He watched with interest as the server used the confusion as a distraction, nimbly slipping whatever he’d taken into his tunic.
No, not his . . . hers.
Harte almost laughed out loud. With the shapeless tunic and her dark hair tucked beneath her cap, the girl blended in with the rest of the staff well enough. No one—him included, until that moment—was paying any real attention to the people bearing trays of drinks and canapés. But he was paying attention now.
“Would you excuse me?” Harte asked Watson. He didn’t wait for a reply.
He was almost halfway to her when he heard his name over the din of the crowded room. “Darrigan!” Jack’s voice called again, unmistakable this time.
Harte turned to find Jack pushing his way through the crowd and lifted his hand in greeting. If he went for the girl now, Jack would probably follow him, so he gave Jack a short nod and gestured toward a server carrying a tray of champagne. After retrieving a glass for himself and a second for Jack, he made his way back through the crush of the room.
“Good man,” Jack said, accepting the drink.
“Thanks for having me.” Harte lifted the glass in a silent toast as he scanned the room, looking for the girl. “This is quite the event.”
Jack downed the champagne, set the empty goblet on a passing server’s tray, and picked up another one. “Same as always, but my uncle seems pleased. Might even be happy enough to get him off my back for a while.”
“Best of luck with that,” Harte said, barely sipping at the drink as he looked again for some sign of the girl. He didn’t see her, which didn’t make him feel any better, but he ignored his nerves and pulled on the mask he always wore for Jack. “Have you had a chance to look at the exhibit yet?”
“I have.” Jack’s eyes lit. “There’s at least one piece that looked interesting—one of the Babylonian seals he collects.”
“A seal?” Harte asked, trying to picture it.
“A small cylindrical piece about so big.” Jack held up his thumb and forefinger two inches apart. “It makes an imprint when rolled across wet clay or rubbed with ink. ?They were often used as signatures, but my uncle tends to be more interested in the ones used as amulets. Most are made from ceramic or stone, but I believe the one I was examining was carved from unpolished ruby . . . astounding, really, considering the size of it. But my uncle interrupted me before I could find out for sure.” He scowled. “Now it’s under glass for the foreseeable future.”
Before Harte could ask anything else, a drumroll sounded through the room, ending with a sudden crack. A shout of “Aiiiieeee!” went up, and the crowd turned, almost as one, to see what was happening.
“I believe that’s the entertainment. It’ll probably be the only redeeming thing about this bore of an evening,” he murmured. “Shall we?”
“After you,” Harte said affably, following Jack through the press of bodies to a space where the crowd had moved aside to allow the performers room.
A procession was coming through the grand arched entrance of the gallery. First came two men in the same sort of billowing pants the servers wore, but their outfits were more extravagant, with heavy embroidery and intricate details on their vests and shoes. They carried wide, flat drums on their hips and were followed by another musician plucking a driving tune made up of minor chords and melodies on a pear-shaped guitar.
A figure wrapped in gauzy silken veils appeared in the doorway, and then she was spinning, dropping the veils as she undulated across the floor, until she was in the center of the room. The curves of her stomach and chest were exposed in flashes of skin and then hidden again by the gossamer fabric she whipped around her, and her fingers tapped tiny cymbals to the rhythm of the drums as her hips twisted and snaked.
“Egad,” Jack said with a laugh as he elbowed Harte hard enough to nearly spill the champagne Harte was holding. “It’s a damn good thing the old man left me in charge of the entertainment, isn’t it?” He tossed back the last of his champagne, licking his lips as he watched the girl dance.
Harte couldn’t blame him. He was also finding it difficult to take his eyes off the dancing girl. Her costume seemed to hide as much as it revealed, teasing the audience as her hips moved in an almost indecent rhythm. She was the embodiment of a mystery, especially with the bottom of her face covered by a veil that fluttered beneath her strange violet eyes—
Viola?
Harte looked more closely, awareness prickling. It was ?Viola. First the girl, and now this? It had Dolph Saunders written all over it, and Harte didn’t want to be anywhere close when whatever they were planning happened.
But how was he supposed to leave so early without making Jack suspicious?