There was a knock on the door.

  “That’s lunch,” Tiernan said. “I ordered in.”

  “Good.”

  That afternoon, Tiernan took Mist down Cliff Walk. It was her first experience with the sea, and she was enthralled. All the cares and worries from earlier that day were swept away once she experienced the ocean breeze and the crashing of the waves.

  “At last!” she cried, pushing the hair from her face. “I’m here. All my life, I dreamt of the sea, and now I’m standing right here.”

  Tiernan put his arm around her and ran his eyes over the seascape. “And you’ll never get used to it. Each time, it’s as exhilarating as the first.”

  The waves rolled in, hitting the rocks below, sending spray high into the air again and again. Mist had on boots and was glad she had dressed for the hike. Some portions of the path had a walkway, but most of it was jagged and uneven, littered with rocks. It was a difficult hike, but the air was invigorating and fresh, urging her on.

  “Look behind you,” Tiernan said, stopping and pointing up. They had come to their first mansion. “This is the Chanler summer retreat,” Tiernan said.

  It was a sweeping residence painted a cream color with turrets, a widow’s walk, and porches running the length of the house. Mist loved it. To her, it looked like a light and airy summer home.

  “Have you been in any of these?” she asked.

  “Not this one.”

  They walked on, coming to The Breakers and The Vineland. These houses were more formal and staid. Mist did not think they looked like relaxing seaside escapes.

  It was a long hike past the grand homes, and as the trail became more challenging, they stopped to rest and enjoy the view. “Have you read any Edith Warton?” Tiernan roared, the wind drowning his voice.

  “Yes, I love her books.”

  “This is her home,” he said, pointing above them. “Land’s End.”

  Mist looked and gasped. “No! She lives out here?”

  “She does. Still rubbing elbows with those she despises.”

  It was a sprawling white residence of wood, lined with shuttered windows and a mansard roof.

  The next and final home they passed was under construction.

  “Who’s building that?” Mist asked.

  “Some architect named Pope,” Tiernan replied.

  The Cliff Walk ended at Bailey Beach, and they started back to the house. Mist slept heavily that night. The walk had been exhilarating but exhausting.

  The next day, she rose early and went downtown to purchase a new dress for the dinner party. She needed a garment that was understated so she could wear her new necklace. No question, the women in attendance would not be in ready-to-wear, but Mist refused to be intimidated. She was a woman who made her own way in life. Nothing was handed to her.

  Mist finally decided on a long black velvet sleeveless dress that was form-fitting and simple with a scoop neck to profile the necklace.

  “You look stunning,” Tiernan said, running his eyes over her that evening. He was dressed in a dark tuxedo with tails, a white vest, and a white bow tie. “That gown is perfect for that necklace, and your blonde hair with the black and green bandeau is striking.” He kissed her. “You’re going to knock ‘em dead.”

  “Thank you, and you look handsome as ever,” she replied, brushing a lock of his dark hair from his face.

  She didn’t know how it was possible, but he looked even better to her than the first day she had seen him. “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you too,” he replied. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  With shoulders back and chin high, she assumed her work demeanor and was ready to face the guests.

  They went downstairs and found everyone on the patio having cocktails. It was a warm autumn night, so Oliver had the staff move the beverage cart outside. It was a small gathering, with less than twenty people. Fortifying herself with a Manhattan, Mist took Tiernan’s arm, and they moved through the group, meeting every one of the guests. There were business associates from Vane Jewelers, several cousins, Oliver’s friends, and Tiernan’s childhood chums. His childhood friends instantly put Mist at ease. She recognized some of their names from the newspapers, but they were far from impressed with themselves. They laughed and joked and were easy to talk to.

  “Absolutely gorgeous necklace,” one of the women said. “Don’t tell me--Vane Jewelers.”

  Mist laughed. “How did you know?”

  Her name was Evelyn Peabody. Tiernan had grown up with her husband, Duncan. They were an attractive couple, both in the publishing business. When Tiernan stepped away, Duncan commented under his breath, “You are the first woman he has ever brought around.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Mist replied.

  “We were starting to think old Tier had the same leanings as his brother,” Ernest Morgan said, another childhood friend. He had curly red hair and a twinkle in his eye.

  His wife smothered a smile and scolded, “You knew differently, Ernest.”

  Mist sipped her Manhattan, knowing it was safest not to comment. The Vanes indeed had many secrets. She wondered if anyone knew about their involvement with the I.R.A. She guessed very few.

  “Brace yourself, my dear,” Earnest warned. “Here comes Shauna.”

  A beautiful brunette with light skin and a Dutch-boy bob walked up. She was wearing a black mid-length chiffon gown with pearls and using a cigarette holder.

  “Duncan, do you have a light?” she asked, never taking her eyes from Mist as she leaned forward. “I only just arrived,” she said, blowing smoke. She had a husky voice with a hint of an Irish accent. “We haven’t met.”

  “I’m Mist Windegaard.”

  The woman ran her eyes over Mist, appraising her. “I’m Shauna Callahan, a close friend of Tiernan’s. I understand you came with him tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “From the Midwest, I hear,” Shauna said. “I thought everyone was full-figured out there, being corn-fed and all.”

  Not sure whether this was a compliment or not, Mist replied, “Not everyone.”

  Looking at her dress, Shauna stated, “Let me guess. A social activist?”

  “No, why?”

  “Oh!” Shauna replied, feigning ignorance. “Don’t mind me! You are so boldly sporting ready-to-wear.” She chuckled, pretending to be embarrassed. “I thought you were making a statement for the less advantaged.”

  Mist felt that jab, but before she could reply, Evelyn Peabody interjected, “If anyone is making a statement, it’s Tiernan with that necklace he gave her.”

  The smirk dropped from Shauna’s face.

  “Don’t you think it’s lovely, Shauna?” Duncan asked, smothering a laugh.

  “Peachy,” Shauna said and left.

  That night, when Mist and Tiernan returned to their rooms, Tiernan asked, “Well, how did it go?”

  “Really well,” Mist said, kicking off her shoes. “Dinner was delicious, and I was glad we were seated near your cousins. They were so pleasant, but my favorites were your friends.”

  Tiernan pulled her into his arms. “You liked them?”

  “Yes, they were very warm and welcoming.”

  “Well, they liked you.”

  “All except for Shauna.”

  “Shauna,” he stated with a frown, “she’s not part of that group.”

  “She seems to think so. She said she was one of your closest friends.”

  Tiernan made a face and chuckled. “There are several camps that would like to see us be even more than close friends, but that will never happen.”

  “Is your brother in one of those camps?”

  “He is.”

  “I think she is the picture of Colleen Moore,” she said. “She’s quite beautiful.”

  “Is she?” Tiernan murmured, and he kissed her.

  “And she’s Irish.”

  Running his lips down her neck, he replied, “I suppose she is, but she’s no Egyptian goddess.” He started unzipping Mist’s gown. “Now, on to more important things. Let’s see about getting Cleopatra to bed.”

  Chapter 17

  “Dr. Vane,” the servant said, “Mr. Morgan to see you.”

  Tiernan looked at Mist and shrugged. It was the morning after the dinner party, and they were getting ready to have lunch with Evelyn and Duncan Peabody.

  “I have no idea why Earnest’s here,” he said.

  He found his friend, Earnest Morgan, standing in the entry dressed in a sweater and trousers and holding a tweed flat cap. “I have news,” he said with a worried look on his face.

  “Come in,” Tiernan replied, and they stepped into the sitting room.

  When Tiernan shut the pocket doors, Earnest said, “I wish Oliver was here, too.”

  “I don’t know where he went.”

  Earnest lowered his voice. “I received word this morning. They have decided to go through with it.”

  Tiernan drew his brows together. “Who is going through with what?”

  “The O’Rourke assassination.”

  “What? I don’t know anything about this.”

  “I told Oliver yesterday that it was in the works. I assumed he would have told you.”

  Tiernan took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. “He did not.”

  “Kelly found O’Rourke hiding in plain sight in New York City, working as an accountant at Bloomingdales.”

  “New York! I thought he was in London.”

  “They moved him over here.”

  Tiernan clenched his fists. “I want the details.”

  “The shooting is planned for tomorrow evening, somewhere near his apartment on the Upper East Side, Columbus and 3rd.”

  “Goddamn it,” Tiernan muttered. “Twomey knows my stance—no war on American soil.”

  Earnest added, “Oliver didn’t seem bothered by it.”

  “Yes, and that’s why he didn’t tell me.”

  “So what now?”

  “What now?” Tiernan said. “I’m going down there to stop it.”

  * * *

  “I’m sorry to cut our trip short,” Tiernan said to Mist at the train station that afternoon. He was dressed in a shirt with suspenders and carrying a flat cap as if he were going to a dig. He pulled her close. “But I will be back in Chicago in a few days.”

  “It’s really just as well,” she replied, her new trench coat over her arm and her train case in hand. “I should be getting back to the restaurants.”

  Tiernan saw that tender look in her eyes, an expression he knew was only for him. How he loved her gentle demeanor and quiet ways, her azure eyes, and her golden hair that smelled like honeysuckle. But he knew the tranquility was only skin deep. Underneath that serene deportment was a woman, hard and determined, made of unbreakable steel that had been forged in pain.

  The loudspeaker announced overhead, “The 1:15 to New York City departs in five minutes, track ten.”

  “I have to go,” Tiernan said.

  Mist’s look changed suddenly from tenderness to worry. “I know you can’t tell me what you are doing, but I know it’s dangerous. I can feel it. Please be careful.”

  Tiernan nodded, kissed her one more time, and started for the platform.

  “Come back to me!” she called.

  Turning around, he took off his cap, bowed low, and stepped out the door.

  It was a short trip to New York City, and the minute Tiernan stepped off of the train, he went straight to a phone booth in Grand Central and called his contact.

  “Have them meet me in an hour,” he told the man.

  Tiernan jumped into a cab and went straight to a tenement in Manhattan’s Garment District. It was loud and busy; the streets were crowded with motorcars, wagons, and vendors. Youngsters were throwing balls, jumping rope, and playing hopscotch. Older children were tending infants or chasing toddlers. Laundry hung on clotheslines strung from building to building. Every child was either speaking Irish or had an Irish accent. There were few adults around; Tiernan knew they were all toiling in the garment sweatshops nearby.

  After helping a girl with a battered baby buggy navigate down the stairs, Tiernan went up three flights and knocked at a door. A big-boned man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth answered. “Dia dhuit, Mr. Brennan,” he said and invited him in.

  Killian Brennan was the name Tiernan took when he joined the fight in Ireland years before. It was his great uncle’s name, and the alias gave him some level of security and anonymity.

  Patrick Murphy, the man who answered the door, was one of the three gunmen who came to New York to kill the British informant Willie O’Rourke. He was the only man Tiernan recognized.

  The other two jumped to their feet.

  A young man with a large, port-wine stain on his cheek said, “It’s an honor, sir. We’ve heard so much about ya.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This is Danny Cleary and Martin Donegal,” Murphy said, and they shook hands.

  “Please sit down,” Tiernan offered, but he remained standing.

  The room was darkened with sheets over the windows and sparsely furnished with only four kitchen chairs and rumpled bedrolls on the floor. Tiernan noticed firearms on the table. All three men were dressed in threadbare suits. Although their hair was neatly cut and they were clean-shaven, Tiernan noticed they had lifeless eyes, something he had seen many times during the war.

  “I hear you are taking out O’Rourke tonight,” he said, looking from one to the other.

  “We are,” they replied, nodding.

  “That will not be happening.”

  They frowned.

  “What?” Cleary barked, his face flushing around the birthmark on his cheek. “We’ve come a long way to take that snitchin’ bastard out.”

  “And you want to do it here on my turf without my permission.”

  “But Twomy said--” Donegal argued.

  “I don’t give a damn what Twomy said. It was not his call to make.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Murphy barked, slapping the table and jumping to his feet. “I’ll be goddamned if--”

  “Do you know who you are addressing?” Tiernan challenged, locking eyes with him.

  With his chest heaving, Murphy reconsidered and sat back down.

  “Kidnap him and use your connections down at the docks to get O’Rourke out of the States. Once he’s back in Ireland, do with him what you want, but there will be no violence here.” Tiernan looked from one to the other. “Is that understood?”

  “It is,” they grumbled.

  Throwing money on the table, he added, “And send Twomy a wire telling him exactly what I said.”

  Tiernan left the tenement but decided not to return to Chicago quite yet. His instincts told him Twomy would go through with the ambush, so he had a late lunch at a diner and then went to Central Park to walk and wait.

  Around four in the afternoon, he headed to O’Rourke’s address down the street. He had changed into an inconspicuous three-piece suit and fedora. He took off the suitcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and sat down on the steps of a brownstone across the street. Taking out a newspaper, he pretended to read. The streets were still busy with motorcars, taxis, and delivery trucks. Pedestrians walked back and forth, returning home from work or shopping at the corner grocer. Tiernan sat for over two hours watching the apartment.

  At last, O’Rourke appeared coming down the steps of the building. Tiernan recognized him immediately, even though he hadn’t seen him in years. He was a tiny man, middle-aged with a receding hairline and a pencil mustache. Looking around warily, he lit a cigarette and started to walk. Nothing happened. Just when Tiernan thought maybe Twomy had indeed called everything off, he saw Murphy fall into step behind him. Cleary and Donegal dashed down an alley.

  Adjusting the pistol strapped to his chest, Tiernan stood up, threw his paper in the trash, and started following too. He hoped this was merely a kidnapping.

  O’Rourke crossed Central Park West, stepping onto the boulevard with Murphy still behind him and Tiernan in the rear. When O’Rourke turned into the park, Cleary jumped out from behind a tree and faced him. O’Rourke froze, looked over his shoulder, and spotted Murphy. He was trapped. He made a move to run, and Cleary fired.

  “Get down!” Tiernan roared at pedestrians on the sidewalk.

  There were screams and more gunshots as O’Rourke sprinted down Central Park West, clutching his shoulder. Murphy took off in hot pursuit. The street was busy with people, and O’Rourke pushed past them, elbowing and shoving.

  Tiernan gave chase, determined to stop Murphy before he hurt innocent bystanders. Jumping out into the street, he dashed alongside parked motorcars. Drivers slammed on their brakes and honked, but Tiernan was oblivious; he was gaining on Murphy. He swung back onto the sidewalk and, just as he was about to grab Murphy, he fired. Instead of hitting O’Rourke, Murphy shot an elderly woman carrying groceries. The woman stumbled and dropped to her knees, her groceries scattering everywhere. Tiernan dashed over to help, easing her to the pavement. Blood was staining the back of her dress. A crowd gathered, and there were more shots, Tiernan took off again, finding O’Rourke a block down, sprawled on the pavement. He had been shot in the chest multiple times.

  A motorcar raced up with Cleary behind the wheel, and Murphy swung the door open. Bursting from an alley, Martin Donegal jumped inside. They careened around the corner and were gone.

  * * *

  Tiernan was outraged and took the first train to Newport the next morning to confront Oliver. He found him on the tennis court with Shauna Callahan.

  “I thought you had gone,” Oliver said after returning Shauna’s volley. He was dressed in white duckcloth slacks and a blue V-neck sweater. She was in a white tennis skirt and blouse.

  “We need to talk,” Tiernan demanded.

  “After this match.”

  “No, now!” Tiernan barked.

  Oliver lowered his racket and called over to Shauna. “Let’s pick up again in a few moments, darling.” Pointing to a pitcher of lemonade on a table by a tree, he added, “Have something cool to drink, Shauna. My little brother is throwing a temper tantrum and needs my attention.”