“Let me do it,” Gwen said. “I’m less threatening than a lawyer, and I’ll get the job done quickly. And if I can scuttle Mick Malone’s memoir, will you sign a document restoring the college’s annual funding in perpetuity?”
Frederick’s eyes narrowed. “I’d never guarantee anything in perpetuity,” he said instantly. “Try again.”
“Five years,” she countered. “Continue the college’s annual funding for the next five years, at which time the college must show the ability to generate enough revenue to cover our operating budget.”
The corner of her grandfather’s mouth turned down as he considered her proposal. It didn’t take long for him to reach a decision.
“Our lawyers have already initiated a preliminary injunction to halt the publication of the book,” he said. “I don’t like calling attention to scandal better left in the past, so if you can prevent that public court case, I will authorize a five-year extension on the college’s funding. I will commission a profile of Mick Malone’s lawyer to discover his weaknesses and provide insight for your fight.”
Her grandfather’s terms were nonnegotiable, and Gwen felt compelled to accept. It wasn’t what she’d hoped. She now had to deliver on this unsavory deal or her grandfather would never reverse Uncle Oscar’s decision to yank the college’s funding.
But she was not without hope. In her experience, lawyers would do anything for a quick payoff, and she suspected any man who aligned himself with Mick Malone would be no different.
3
Patrick poured more water over the pot of wilting marigolds on his office’s window ledge. It hadn’t looked this droopy when he bought it last week, and he’d been watering it daily in hope of a resurrection. His mother swore that talking to plants could perk them up, but Patrick couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Besides, he had a meeting with a prospective client in a few minutes. He had no idea what Mrs. Gwen Kellerman wanted, but he hoped she could pay in cash instead of eggs or laundry service. The rent on his office was due in two weeks, and he needed the money.
It wasn’t much of an office. No telephone, no electricity, and only a single window with a view of the brick wall across the alley. He kept the window and office door open to encourage a little breeze, even though it exposed him to noise from a leather-stamping shop below. It wasn’t anyone’s idea of an ideal office, but it came with a desk and a filing cabinet, which was all he needed. A scrap of paper folded into a tight square and placed beneath the leg of his rickety desk kept it steady, so all was perfectly fine.
Except for this miserable, wilting plant on the windowsill. “Come on, what is it you want?” he broke down and asked the plant.
“It wants a little air for its roots,” a cool voice said behind him. “You’re drowning that poor marigold.”
Patrick almost dropped the plant when he spotted the woman standing in the open doorway of his office. What a stunner! She had pale green eyes and a long braid of honey-blond hair draped over her shoulder. She looked serene. It was the perfect word to describe that swanlike neck and gentle humor on her face. She wore a loose, flowing gown in a soft printed silk and was probably the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.
“Mrs. Kellerman?” he asked, holding his breath in silent prayer. She looked like someone who could pay in cash, and a client like this could pay his office rent for months.
“Indeed,” she replied. “And you are Mr. O’Neill?”
“That I am,” he said, stepping around the desk to tilt an office chair toward her. Too late, he noticed an ugly beetle squatting in the center of the seat and blanched, but she calmly picked it up before he could knock it away.
“Beetles are good luck,” she said, cradling it in her palm as she carried it to the open window and set it on the ledge. “This one eats aphids, so you should count yourself fortunate.”
He counted himself a prime idiot for making a terrible first impression, but she didn’t seem upset as she returned to sit in the same chair that had so recently housed that beetle. He was about to apologize for it when he noticed two hulking men standing in the hall outside his office.
“Who are the toughies?” he asked, immediately on guard. The men exuded menacing suspicion despite their fine clothing.
“They accompanied me here,” she replied. She glanced over her shoulder at the closest man. “It’s all right, Zeke. I’ll be fine if you’d like to wait downstairs.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Zeke said, “but we’ll wait right here.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Kellerman said. She stood to close the door, but the shadowy outlines of the men were still apparent through the frosted glass. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said to Patrick. “The Five Points has a rather alarming reputation, and I didn’t feel comfortable coming alone.”
It was understandable. The Five Points was named after the intersection of five streets in the middle of urban squalor and ramshackle tenements. It was the most notorious slum in the city, ruled by rough Irish street gangs when Patrick arrived almost two decades earlier. In recent years, reform-minded New Yorkers had torn down some of the worst tenements, renamed the streets, and tried to give the slum a new reputation, but he could understand that a woman like Mrs. Kellerman wouldn’t feel comfortable coming to this part of the city.
“How can I be of service, Mrs. Kellerman?”
Instead of answering, she nodded to the plant on the windowsill. “You’ve been overwatering that marigold, which is a shame. Marigold leaves can be brewed into a wonderfully healing solution with astringent properties.”
He leaned back in his seat, wishing she would keep talking. Her voice was so gentle. It was calming and joyful at the same time. Soothing. “How do you know so much about marigolds?”
“In my deepest heart, I once wished to become a specialist in botanical medicine,” she said, a gorgeous shade of pink staining her high cheekbones. “I wanted to become the next Hildegard of Bingen, growing a monastic garden brimming with herbs and plants to cure the people who came to her hospital for hope.”
Patrick knew all about the medieval Benedictine nun. After all, he had a Saint Hildegard medal around his neck at this very moment. He always wore it beneath his shirt because he didn’t want people thinking he was a superstitious clodhopper, but he couldn’t help himself. He tugged the medal out from his shirt to show her.
“Hildegard is my patron saint,” he said. “I was born on her feast day, and I always liked the idea of a nun who could stand up to kings and popes.” Mrs. Kellerman didn’t seem the least put out by his saint’s medal, but it was probably time to get down to business. He tucked the medal back under his shirt. “Now, what can I do for you, Mrs. Kellerman?”
