was also exactly what he’d expected—a patrician from one of the best families on Park Avenue, Miss Flanna Beauchamp, in attendance with her stout, simpering mother with a keen eye to a “good match” and her overstuffed father, a financier whom she referred to as Papa, with the French inflection. The girl was a beauty, Byrch would give Bridget that, with an elegant long neck and smooth white shoulders. But he had no idea whether there was anything resembling a working brain beneath that wealth of raven hair, for Mrs. Beauchamp and Bridget monopolized the idle conversation.
Bridget presided over her table like a reigning queen. Kevin was clearly enraptured by his confection of a wife and hung on her every meaningless word. Byrch was not averse to light conversation and was known to engage in it himself, but Bridget’s superficiality and Kevin’s posturing rubbed him the wrong way.
“Byrch, why don’t you explain to Flanna the way the Clarion operates? I know she would be most interested, wouldn’t you, Flanna?”
Byrch could have cheerfully choked Bridget. Flanna’s dark eyes were turned on his expectantly, her fork poised in mid-air, as though explaining how a major New York newspaper conducted its business could be told between bites. “It really is so boring I can’t put it into words.” Promptly Flanna Beauchamp bit into another piece of fruit torte. “By the way, Kevin,” Byrch said, turning back to his cousin, “Father is delighted with my editorials. What do you think of them, Kevin? You’re usually so free with your views?”
Kevin Darcy sucked in his plump cheeks and stared across the table at his cousin. He knew he would never be the man Byrch was. At twenty-nine Kevin’s hair was becoming thinner by the day. He envied Byrch’s thick mane of mahogany hair and his strong jaw. Kevin would partner with the devil if it would guarantee he could look like Byrch. Tall, broad of shoulder, slim of hip, long of leg. But it wasn’t only the physical attributes that gave Byrch his dash; there was something hard and worldly about him, something that Bridget had said was like a “modern-day pirate.” Yes, that was what he envied most, Byrch’s sense of purpose, his dash and flair. Kevin’s rotund figure did nothing for his own self-image. There were days when he wondered how he had managed to snag the lovely, butter-gold Bridget for his wife.
Now, looking across at Byrch, seeing Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp heap attention upon a likely match for their elegant daughter, Kevin secretly thought he hated his own life, along with Bridget and the children. He would much prefer to be like Byrch, footloose and carefree, a single man of good repute welcome at the tables in the best of homes, sought after as a prospective son-in-law. Of course, after a rowdy night between the sheets with Bridget, Kevin’s opinion changed, but that was another thing that was falling apart. Bridget was rejecting his ardor, waiting to dole out her favors only when she wanted something. Like tonight. She had promised if he didn’t get into a spat with Byrch, she would let him cuddle with her for as long as he wished. All day Kevin had walked about in a state of excitement, waiting for the time when the lights went out. Now Byrch was spoiling it, the way he always spoiled everything. Bridget and Byrch were waiting for him to respond as to what he thought of the editorials. He had to be careful or he would spoil his hopes for a long, ardent night. Any way he looked at it, he was caught in the middle. And, damn it, this was the night he was going to dare suggest they leave the lamp burning for just a little while. Damn Byrch, he always spoiled things.
“Well,” Byrch prompted, “what do you say, Kevin?” The perverse side of Byrch was enjoying Kevin’s misery. He stifled a grin, and Kevin noticed. He was being baited, teased, dared. Bastard! Bridget was staring at him in a way he hated. It was going to be a long, cold, lonely winter. Damn Byrch Kenyon! How smug he’d be if he knew he was controlling my sex life! That’s another thing. I know, I just know Byrch has a woman every night of the week. A different woman every night!
Everyone was waiting for Kevin’s answer. “Now, Byrch,” he said, “can’t we just once have a nice, pleasant dinner without going into business?”
“Yes, that’s right, Byrch,” Bridget interceded. “You know you always rile Kevin up and then Kevin riles me up. It simply isn’t fair to our other guests.”
Byrch wanted to tell her that her dinner parties were so boring they were near to being deadly, and the only way he knew anyone was alive was to start a lively discussion. Bridget’s tone verged on childishness, but there was a hard center to her words that broached no opposition. Poor Kevin, he’d probably pay the piper if Bridget was made unhappy.
Leaning his elbows on the table because he knew it would irritate Bridget, Byrch stared across at her. “It’s your party, Bridget, what would you like to discuss?”
Disconcerted by his intense gaze, Bridget found herself stuttering, “Why . . . why we . . . we could discuss something that would interest the ladies. Yes, yes, that would certainly be a welcome change, wouldn’t it, Flanna?” She felt Byrch’s heated stare drop to the smoothness of her shoulders and then to the exposed cleavage above the deep neckline of her jade-green gown. The others were also aware of his intense scrutiny, especially Kevin. Now for certain he would demand time alone later. Already she could feel a backache coming on, and her head had been pounding from the moment Byrch had arrived. She should have worn another gown. Something less revealing—Byrch was a womanizer, everyone knew that. Yet the heat in his penetrating cat-green eyes was warming her flesh, creating a flush of pink to her bosom.
“And what would that be, Bridget?” His tone was insolently intimate.
Squaring her shoulders, Bridget repelled this latest attempt to unnerve her. She cleared her throat. “Actually, Byrch, you may even find yourself interested and want to write a column in the Clarion about this Magdalene Female Society. All of us here, including the Beauchamps, contribute generously. If the society garnered some favorable publicity, it might even stir the public to open its pockets and make donations. It’s a shelter for wayward women and their children. They have so little, and we who enjoy so much must be charitable, don’t you agree, ladies?”
Mrs. Beauchamp agreed so exuberantly that one of her hair-combs fell onto her plate when she nodded. Flanna dipped her head, her long, elegant neck arching like a swan’s.
“Tell me something,” Byrch said, addressing himself to Mr. Beauchamp and Kevin, “did you investigate this society before you allowed your wives to make contributions? There have been rumors about these societies, as I’m certain you’re well-aware.”
“Now just a minute, Byrch!” Bridget sputtered. “This is a fine Christian group, sponsored by the best people. It isn’t some soup kitchen down in Hell’s Kitchen. It has a rather smart address, 23 Bleecker Street.”
“How impressive,” Byrch answered snidely. “Somehow, Bridget, I didn’t think you would contribute money to where it was needed the most.”
Mrs. Beauchamp gasped. “Mr. Kenyon, do you know something about this society that we don’t?”
“No, I don’t have any particulars. that’s why I’m inquiring as to what kind of investigation Kevin made.”
Kevin’s tone was apologetic. “Certainly I looked into it . . . that is, as far as it was possible. Some of our friends made a trip to the house on Bleecker Street and saw for themselves what those good people are doing for homeless and wayward women.”
Bridget assumed a lofty attitude. “Information came on the best authority, Byrch. Mr. and Mrs. van Nostram are supporters of the society, and Mrs. van Nostram actually visits the house.” She was pleased to introduce the van Nostram name in front of the Beauchamps, smiling at them, gratified that they were impressed.
“An announced visit, I’m certain,” Byrch continued cynically, “so that preparations were made, and your friends were shown
