Their stunningly beautiful pairing once again became the focus of the entire ballroom. Edith, at over 1.7 meters tall, was a perfect match for Henry's height. The intricate decorations of her bustle skirt—the colorful frills, tassels, and embroidery—shimmered under the light. The dress, with its flowing curves, accentuated her graceful figure, and as Henry led her in the dance, she was as light and ethereal as a rose swaying in the wind.
They didn't speak during their first dance, lost in the music and the movement. A spin, a demure glance, an intimate touch of the hand—it was a conversation without words.
When the waltz ended, Henry escorted her back to her seat and promised her another dance in two songs' time.
He then invited Consuelo to dance. She was shorter, but with his LV 4 Courtly Dance skill, he made the pairing look effortless. With her sweet, innocent face and her status as the heiress to one of America's greatest fortunes, she was known as the "First Lady of New York." They, too, became the center of attention.
Henry and Consuelo chatted as they danced.
"You know, Henry," she said, "you are nothing like a young man from a small mining town."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. I have met members of the British royal family who did not possess your noble bearing."
"Thank you."
"My grandfather would like to invite you to our home for afternoon tea tomorrow. Are you free?"
"I would be honored."
When the music ended, Henry's next partner was Amanda. After that, as promised, he danced with Edith again, this time a lively Polka. The dance was simple, cheerful, and intimate, and Edith felt a deep, spiritual connection to the man leading her across the floor.
As the dance was ending, she made her move. "Henry, are you free tomorrow morning? Linda and I were planning to visit with the children."
"I am. Shall I pick you up?"
"Please. Nine o'clock?"
"It's a date."
In a ballroom, for an unmarried couple to dance more than twice was a public declaration of intent. Henry understood Edith's subtle, clever maneuver. She had given them a reason to be together, away from the prying eyes of society.
After five straight dances, Henry took a break. Kaylee, playing the part of the gracious hostess, introduced him to the other young ladies of the ball. His name, thanks to the New York Sun, was now known throughout the city. The men were in awe of his power; the women were captivated by his charm.
After a lavish, two-hour dinner, the dancing resumed. Henry, as a guest of honor, could not leave early. It was nearly midnight when he finally said his goodbyes and returned to his hotel.
While Henry was charming the high society of New York, the Whyos Gang was tearing itself apart. In a back room in the Five Points, the eleven remaining capos had spent an hour arguing over the remnants of Mike's empire. When the shouting was over, they had fractured into four separate gangs. The reign of the Whyos was over.
At nine o'clock the next morning, Henry's carriage arrived at the Jones family estate. He was surprised when Edith came out to meet him alone.
"You look beautiful, Edith," he said, admiring her bright yellow dress and the elaborate feathered hat.
"Thank you," she said with a sweet smile.
He held out his hand, and in it appeared a single, perfect red rose, still glistening with the morning dew.
"Thank you," she said, her voice a whisper as she took the flower and brought it to her nose. She looked up at him, her bright eyes filled with a deep and tender affection.
He leaned forward. Her pupils dilated, but she did not pull away. He gently pressed his lips to hers.
Twenty minutes later, the carriage stopped in front of Linda's parents' apartment. The two of them were no longer the same as when they had left.
Linda noticed it immediately. The way they looked at each other, the unconscious way they moved closer—they were in love. She felt a pang of regret for her friend Alice, but she was happy for them.
While the group was enjoying a happy reunion, a thousand miles away in the Chicago headquarters of the black market, Morrison was reading a telegram from the Pinkerton Detective Agency.
It was Henry's social calendar for the week.
A series of balls and banquets, hosted by the Semma, Jones, Livingston, and Adams families. And, on the 29th, the grand eighteenth birthday ball for Consuelo Vanderbilt.
"That's the one," Morrison whispered to himself. He began to send out telegrams of his own.
"The Black Widow Spider Queen. The Eye of Balor. And nine of our Diamond-level operatives. Let's see how you die, Henry."
The bosses behind the black market were furious. Their orders were simple and absolute. Henry Bruce was not just to be killed. He was to be made an example of. He was to die without a grave.