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How someone who could charge cannons, get accepted to Harvard, and do their job well enough that the promotion would’ve been his if he wasn’t leaving, couldn’t ask one woman one question...?
“Give her a chance, Meg.” He rubbed the space just above the bridge of his nose. “She’s the client. We have to make her happy, get her to cooperate, or we won’t succeed.” Or I won’t succeed.
“Traitor.” She stuck her tongue out at him.
“I’ll talk to her.” Maybe. Possibly.
“Sure you will. You’re so upfront and honest with her, after all.” Meg sighed, and turned to exit the area. “Good luck, by the way. Ex-lover and ex-husband all in one room. I’d love a front row seat for that show.”
“Please just do what you’re told. Make sure we don’t all die.” David pressed a hand to his temple.
Meg didn’t answer and instead disappeared into the crowd.
Ex-lover indeed. They’d been two fumbling teenagers who believed themselves far grander and more sophisticated than reality. Oy, the sort of self-important, know-it-all proclamations he used to make... He grimaced at the memory. Thank god that was all in the past. He was older and wiser and would not give in to any base emotions like lust and envy.
Amalia had no power ove
r him.
The tea would be harmless. And an opportunity for some free food. And who didn’t like free food?
He reached into his satchel to reinspect Thad’s information on husband number one. His own age, yet hadn’t served in the war. But wealthy. From Cologne, or at least his family was. Were able to leave with all their money after Prussia revoked the liberties Napoleon granted the Jews. An entire proper, intact, family.
Bloomenstock himself was born in America. Like Amalia. Without any of the scars of Europe. No father who abandoned him and made the gossips whisper. No grandfathers and cousins who would’ve thrown him in a pit if they could. David squeezed the papers so hard they near split.
Images of Amalia giggling with some rich, smug railroad investor’s playboy son taunted him. Shmuck. He didn’t care anymore. Not. At. All. So what if she tossed him over for Bloomenstock? Look where that got her.
Why she’d want to visit him though... He shook his head. None of his business. He was just there to guard her. Hired muscle.
David strolled back through the car and knocked on the bedroom door. “Amalia?”
“Come in,” she called, loud and hurried.
David pressed in the door and entered. “I’m not sure you should keep letting a man into your bedchamber when you’re alone.”
“Aren’t you still pretending to be my servant?”
Like Meg reported, her nose was deep in her hand mirror. With no interest in meeting his gaze. Which was fine by him. “You have male lady’s maids? From what I saw of your parents, I don’t believe they’d permit that. Especially your father.”
“There’s no such thing as a male lady’s maid.” She tucked the mirror in her black bag. The one that rarely ever left her side. She fluffed her hair. “And at this point, I could probably dance naked and it wouldn’t matter. I mean, what would the Talmud call a third-time bride?”
David winced at her tone. Her eyes were so sad and he’d have to be a monster for that not to move him a little, even if entertaining and coddling her wasn’t part of his job. He pressed two fingers to his lips. What could make her smile? Someone was threatening to kill her. She needed a little humor in her life, no matter how shallow and spoiled she was.
“The wife of Bath?” He forced up the corners of his lips at his own joke.
She cocked her head at him and blinked. “You’ve read Chaucer?”
“No. Not even with my improved English. I have a good memory. It was Simon’s favorite. He could recite it all.” He coughed a little. “You Truitts have stamina.”
Amalia blinked for a moment and David’s heart sunk. Perhaps mentioning his late friend wasn’t the best course of action. After all, there was no one Simon loved as much as his baby sister. Which was probably why he’d always given her character more chances than he should—despite all the evidence to the contrary.
Her swallow was visible before she threw him a half smile that made his chest ache even more. “My brother most certainly did. And loved making people laugh, at the least appropriate things. You certainly got an education. What would your family think?” She picked up her skirts and moved past him to the door, so he could follow.
“What they don’t know, can’t hurt them.” His fingers itched. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if his promotion made the papers? With a photograph. He could mail them an article. And sign his name with an official title. And maybe, one day, there’d be a famine or trouble from the goyim and they’d have to come to America, come to him, and ask him for help. Bow to him like Joseph’s brothers.
David ran a hand through his shaggy hair. A bit long. They probably wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe be dazzled with the right clothes and styling. He eyed Amalia and her flawless petal pink and cream gown, her long curls bouncing on her elegant shoulders. Not one stray lock, even with the wind. Even her hat stood at attention.
She had wandered several feet ahead of him, but paused, turning back, her lips pursed. “You never talk about your family. Why didn’t you stay with them in Europe? Or come as a group? Or bring them over? If it’s the money, you could always ask Thad. I’m sure he’d—”
