She folded her arms across her chest, prepared to do battle, but the movement caused a little packet to drop from her skirt pocket and splat on the ground. Cigarette rolling papers. Her eyes widened, and she froze. She looked so horrified, he immediately rushed to set her at ease.
“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” he whispered, trying to block the amusement from his voice.
“It’s a terrible habit,” she admitted. “I almost made it an entire week until just now.” The frustration in her voice echoed off the bare concrete stairwell. It hadn’t escaped his notice that she’d dashed for the roof the moment his meeting came to an end.
“Please don’t tell me I caused your fall from grace.”
“No, no, I take complete responsibility,” she admitted. “When my older brother first caught me smoking, he warned me about the dangers of tobacco. I ignored him, as I so often did. And now here I am, sneaking out onto the roof, a slave to this horrid vice.”
“So your brother was right.”
“Gray isalwaysright. Tedious and boring, but right. Don’t overindulge in sweets. Don’t neglect your prayers. Don’t go for moonlit swims in public fountains.”
His eyes widened. “And did you mind his instructions?”
If possible, the blue in her eyes got even deeper as she smiled. “Two out of three isn’t bad.”
He bent down and collected the wrapping papers. “Here. Please call me Nathaniel. The rules won’t be too hideous.”
She took the papers and shoved them in her reticule, then offered a handshake. “I’m Caroline, and I hate rules.”
“Why is that?” he asked, genuinely curious. She seemed so poised and successful, as though the world had dropped into the palm of her hand like a ripe plum. Why would a woman of such privilege be so determined to throw it all away?
She shrugged. “Rules are meant to be broken. Everyone knows that.”
“Anyone who genuinely believes that is either dead or stupid. You are neither.”
“All right, then you explain my atrocious history with rules. My brother Gray would pay a small fortune if you can provide an explanation.”
Since she’d extended the invitation to be dissected, he obliged, studying her golden hair, upswept but for a few artfully loose tendrils. It was intended to imply disarray but actually required careful arranging. A cursory look at her qualifications revealed she spoke at least three languages, and she had the complete trust of George Cortelyou, one of the savviest men in Washington.
“You are a beautiful woman who is used to getting her own way. You are smart, accomplished, and successful, and as such, secretly believe the rules don’t apply to you.”
Instead of being insulted, her eyes brightened. “How very perceptive,” she admitted. “Please continue.”
“You don’t mind when people underestimate you, for it allows you to run rings around them behind their back.” He must be right, for she looked delightfully smug. “You work in the White House, so you aren’t afraid of a challenge. You work for Ida McKinley, a woman whose reputation sends a chill through Washington society. It is a thankless task ... for Mrs. McKinley never does thank you, does she?”
“I’m far too discreet to answer that,” she said with a knowing smile.
“A woman like you could have any man in the city, but instead of settling down in a comfortable marriage, you are here. I wonder why that is?”
He caught a quick flash of pain before she tightened the strings on her reticule. “When you think you know, please tell me,” she said in an artificially bright voice, then leaned in shockingly close to whisper in his ear. “And on that count, you will surely be wrong.”
She left him standing in the hallway while he extinguished the involuntary thrill of attraction that raced through him at that intimate whisper.
Caroline Delacroix might have the trust of George Cortelyou and the first lady, but she was trouble.
Four
It was the dead of night, and Caroline wore only a robe hastily pulled over her nightgown as she raced in bare feet to the White House basement, where a telephone operator was on duty at all hours. It was two o’clock in the morning, and there wasn’t time to pull on a proper set of clothes, not when the first lady needed a doctor.
The telephone operator was asleep, her mouth slack as she leaned against the pillar beside the switchboard. No matter. Caroline was perfectly capable of placing a telephone call.
She lifted the receiver and mouthpiece. “White House calling for Dr. Tisdale, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The operator on the other end was instantly alert and didn’t need to ask for the extension, for Dr. Tisdale was regularly called to the White House. He lived only a block away, which was a blessing on nights like this.
The extension was patched through, and the doctor’s bleary voice answered the call a few moments later. “Tisdale here.”
