“Henry Crawford. Errand boy for the Morning Post.” Henry shook his hand in a slow motion created by astonishment and more than a few pints, prolonging a meeting which Olivia wished fervently to undo.
“I can’t believe this is real,” Henry said. “I mean, you’re a bit of a legend around the office now, you know.”
Stanley released a short laugh. “I can imagine.” This, with a side glance at Miss Darcy, whose burning face was concentrating on a new pint being drawn behind the counter.
“It’s not what you think,” she answered. “I never mention your name if I can avoid it.” She cast a carefree smile in his direction as she took a sip from the new round placed before her.
“That’s why I’m here,” said Stanley. “So you can have cause never to mention my name again if it inconveniences you. Although it seems to have done wonders for your career.”
“Ah, so you’re here about the truce,” Henry said. “The one where Livvy gives up her column subject for your story.”
“Yes, Livvy,” Stanley chimed in. “I was wondering a bit after reading your latest column–” he unfurled today’s Post on the counter, “– particularly the part about Cottingley’s boyfriend’s nonresponse to your challenge.”
She shrugged. “You haven’t given me your story yet. Until then, I’m free to write whatever I choose.”
“We had a deal.” Stanley’s voice took on a cooler edge.
“One that benefits you,” she pointed out, “and at the expense of my column. If you make time in your schedule to give me your side of the story, I’ll print my advice and be done with it.”
He snorted. “I called you to arrange an appointment–it was you who refused the offer.”
“Then why not try again? By all means, make an appointment this very moment if you choose.”
She doubted he would do it. Stringing her along was far better for him, if he could somehow cut off her columns on the elusive ex of Cottingley. She watched his face for signs of evasiveness, the grey eyes so busy scowling into a half-empty glass.
“Then we’ll do it tomorrow night,” he said. “You choose the place, ring up my office and inform my secretary. And I will be there at whatever hour you like.”
“It’s a deal,” she answered. “And as soon as I publish your story, I’ll drop the matter from my column.”
He had been swallowing a draught from his glass; but her words caused him to sputter.
“What do you mean, publish it?” he demanded, slamming the glass on the counter. “That wasn’t part of the deal, Miss Darcy.”
“It is now,” she replied. “You should have moved faster, Mr. Stanley.”
“That isn’t–” he began.
“I’m afraid I can’t compromise the integrity of my column," she continued, interrupting him. "My readers want a reply from Cottingley’s ex and that’s what they’ll get. Without your name attached to it, of course.”
“So you expect me to let you modify the deal as you choose,” said Stanley. “Did it ever occur to you it might be wrong to punish me for something I haven’t yet done?” He peered into her face in the dim light of the pub. “I know you expect me to break our word. In fact, you’re depending on it, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she answered. Uncomfortable, she dodged contact with his eyes, wishing he would answer her one way or the other.
His fingers tightened around his glass. “But if I talk to you tomorrow night, no more columns after my story, correct? I assume it’s too late to beg off tomorrow’s publication, of course.” She saw a satisfied smile spread across his face at the sight of her blush. He was enjoying his position, predicting outcomes he knew to be correct.
“You make it sound as if I’m cheating you. Merely by using the tactics any shrewd man of business values.”
“The devil himself must have instructed you on driving this bargain. Else you have a knack for conveniently erasing my every argument from the conversation.” A trace of admiration was evident in his soft tones, his concluding laugh causing a sudden warmth to spread through her veins.
“Time is of the essence,” she said. “For our reputations, that is.”
He swished the contents of his glass and downed them in a single gulp. “If that’s what it takes to put an end to this, then yes. Print your story and be done.”
“Then I guess our handshake still stands,” she replied. Meeting his gaze now that a little triumph was evident in her eyes.
How long they held that gaze, she was not certain. Too long, she was aware, as feelings she couldn’t identify became visible in his depths.
“I should go,” he said, breaking the moment, “and leave you to your celebration.” Pushing his glass aside, he counted a generous tip onto the counter–the kind Rosie would still be talking about when she issued the evening’s last call. An action hardly in keeping with her image of Stanley the Tyrant whose cold heart tossed feelings aside like rag dolls.
“What celebration?” The voice belonged to Eddie, his knapsack slung over his shoulder. Mariah stood beside him, her eyes wide with curiosity as she glanced from Olivia to the man sitting at the counter stool.
“Mariah called and said to rush right over,” Eddie continued, eyebrows raised. “So what’s the big news, then?”
Stanley turned towards her. “Don’t tell me you haven’t announced the book contract yet?"
Her mouth dropped open slightly. "How did you know? I only signed the contract today–even Mariah didn't know until a moment ago..."
A half-smile appeared on his face. "There's very little that happens in the publishing world that I don't know about, Miss Darcy.”
“That's smashing news, Livvy,” Eddie interjected, his arm coming round her shoulders in a playful squeeze. “It calls for some proper revelry too–sandwiches, pints, music–"
"We're going out, Eddie," emphasized Mariah. "Someplace proper to celebrate."
"We can celebrate here," said Eddie. "What's not here that you want, Livvy? A big steak, a bottle of wine? We got friends, we got music, we got darts...”
“What about Habuchi's instead? I have a sudden craving for Japanese cuisine,” Olivia interrupted. She needed to escape while she still had the chance, before Mr. Stanley became a permanent feature on the stool beside her.
"And go blocks away?" countered Eddie. "We’re all here already, so why not make an evening of it? We'll buy you a proper dinner later, with a reservation and all. Oy, Rose, a platter of sandwiches,” he called.
Beside him, Stanley rose, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets.
"Hey, where're you going?" asked Eddie. "You're staying for the party, aren't you? Livvy, isn't he–this bloke here–staying?" He glanced at her, brow furrowed.
Her cheeks flushed. "I didn't ask him, actually.” What on earth was Eddie doing? She glanced from the scene in general to Stanley, hoping to see him raise his hand in protest at the thought of association with her lowlife friends.
Eddie stuck his hand out to Stanley. "Ed," he said. "A musician and lover of life, as they say. And this,” he said, wrapping an arm round Mariah’s shoulders, “is Mariah–my fiancé.”
“Christopher Stanley,” the businessman supplied, his smile encompassing both her friends as he shook hands with Eddie. “And I….” he paused, his eyes meeting Miss Darcy's as he spoke."I would be honored to stay. And celebrate Miss Darcy's triumph tonight."
Bestowing a sporting clap on Eddie’s shoulder, he added, "First round of house lagers on me.” Amidst a round of cheers from the rest of the group, he pulled the wallet from his pocket again and leaned over the bar.
Olivia rose before he could see her dismay, crossing the room only to pause as Mariah caught her arm. "Is this a joke?" Mariah whispered. "What is the Christopher Stanley doing here?”
“Apparently he’s taken to stalking me when not waiting outside my workplace. Although he may regret it,” she said, glancing back at the bar, where a waitress lingered hopefully at Stanley’s elbo
w. “I’m afraid the likes of Mr. Stanley may consider this place an evening wasted on low entertainment."
Mariah frowned. "What are you thinking? That he just stayed to annoy you?"
"Of course," Olivia whispered. "Why else would he be here? You can't think–" she paused, not sure what exactly she was planning to accuse Mariah of thinking. "You can't think this is actually a friendly gesture."
She looked at him again only to find him studying her intently. Had he overheard their conversation? Crimson burned her cheeks, her instinct to escape his gaze carrying her further across the room where the wooden game board hung.
Its surface pockered from thousands of shots, feathered tips protruding like barbs from a tribal hunter in the middle of the bull's eye. Plucking them out, she took aim and tossed with the force of frustration, the darts stabbing deep into the wood. From the corner of her eye, she detected a familiar masculine shape.
"Fancy a round of darts?" she asked, pressing her lips into an overly polite smile. “You do play, don’t you?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Stanley replied with a shrug. “Actually, I was quite the champ in school." He leaned closer to her, his grey eyes meeting her gaze. "You'll have quite a challenge on your hands if I accept."
"Hey, what's this? A challenge?" A couple of pub regulars were now watching, one letting out an incoherent shout dirty-minded in spirit, as Olivia knew from experience. Stanley's eyes darted in their direction, the muscles in his jaw tightening.
“Shall we?” she asked, offering him a handful of darts. The other hand crossing its fingers in hopes her skills weren’t as rusty as last Christmas’s “Carriage and Horses” tournament.
“Ladies first," said Stanley, taking three red-feathered darts from her hand. "I'm sure your book deal should put some wind in your sails.”
Let’s hope so. “Three sets or five?” she asked.
“Three,” he answered, without a second’s hesitation.
“Warm up?” she asked.
“No. And you?”
She shook her head, aware of a tingling sensation as he rolled the darts back in forth in a careless motion, his grey eyes locked with her own as he spoke.
“Then fire at will.”
She turned towards the board, aware that he hoped the famed Miss Darcy was not so capable at most things as she pretended. The evidence would prove him right if she didn't shut out the memory of his confidence for this shot.
Eyes fluttering closed, she drew a deep breath. Raising her arm, she flicked her wrist forward in a graceful, sweeping motion.
Thwap! Her first dart cemented a comfortable thirty point shot.
“Nicely done.” Stanley’s tone was a trifle less cocky than before. Nonetheless, she felt his gaze burning her in the back of her head as she tossed the second dart, then the third for respectable results–enough to maintain a lead if Stanley's skills were as rusty as she suspected.
How much time did a millionaire playboy have for playing pub games? She pictured Stanley in a suit and tie, flinging darts from across an elegant dining table as his supermodel date filed her nails as she waited her turn.
Without a word, Stanley brushed past her, studying the board a moment before he raised his arm. Then let the dart fly with considerably more force than necessary.
Its tip bounced off the wood surface, the dart skittering across the floor. He scowled, shooting a glare at her.
"What?" she protested. "It isn't my fault that you're a lousy player, apparently. Perhaps you should pay more attention to your technique."
"Somehow I'd like to think I can make a shot without closing my eyes and taking blind aim," Stanley retorted. With that, his arm shot up, firing off two shots in rapid succession. Twenty-two points.
Her rival's irritation was enough to bolster Olivia's confidence as she nailed her next shot easily. Eyes open this time, in case he was watching.
“Go, Livvy!” cheered Mariah, through a mouthful of chips, in response to two more swift, well-aimed shots.
“Seems you’re charmed tonight, Miss Darcy.” There was a note of admiration in Stanley’s voice as he took the floor again. “However, let us not dismiss your inordinate fondness for all forms of game playing. Although practice may not always guarantee you the upper hand.”
With that, he cast a dart at the iris’s outer green, where it landed with a solid thunk and twenty-five points to his credit.
“That’s showing them what for, love!” called out a female spectator.
"Perhaps you have a lucky charm to help you out, after all." Miss Darcy whispered as she leaned closer. "Or perhaps that was just the liquor talking on her part."
"I think it's appalling the way people here are drinking like fish tossed in a barrel of gin,” he said, flicking his wrist for a double twenty.
"I suppose we have proof that drink doesn't affect your game," she said, after a moment's pause to reflect on her dwindling lead. Stanley was far from inept when it came to darts, apparently.
"I have better ways to spend my time, Miss Darcy," he chuckled. "Although everyone is entitled to their own form of relaxation."
"Like pursuing eligible young women?" she guessed, bringing her arm forward with surprising gusto. The dart struck the board with force, knocking loose Stanley’s precious double twenty to the roar from the pub patrons still watching the match.
“Impressive,” he said, as she scored again with two more throws. Although she detected a frown in his voice, perhaps, by the knowledge his next three shots determined the final score in a game where now he trailed rather badly.
She stepped aside, squeezing in beside Mariah. "I think Mr. Stanley is nicely done for," she said, keeping her voice low. But her eyes stayed focused on her opponent, the intense concentration on his face as he took aim. Two wobbly throws landing him thirty points.
Good, but not good enough, Mr. Stanley. She surveyed his preparation for the deciding throw with a mixture of triumph and pity.
"Where do you get off playing like that, Livvy?” Mariah whispered. Honestly, it’s like watching two schoolchildren kick dust on each other's shoes. I suspect you were pouting at the thought of losing to him."
Miss Darcy shook her head. “I relish the competition, especially on my own ground. And I did suspect that Mr. Stanley's skills might be a tad rusty at this point."
Her thoughts trailed off as Stanley took aim and fired his last shot.
Thwap!
A split-second of stillness fell over the immediate vicinity of spectators, the color draining from Olivia’s face. Stanley's own seemed to morph from the steely glint to cool satisfaction in an instant.
“Bullseye, Miss Darcy,” he said, giving her a glance of triumph. As his voice was drowned out by spirited cheers.
Chapter Seventeen
Dear Miss Darcy: Are there actual signs for true love? My boyfriend seems like he’s perfect, but I want something more than just a guess when it comes to the big question. How will I know if I’m really, truly in love with him?
–Romantic in Richmond
This was not what she was supposed to feel. Flopping down on her bed, Olivia buried her face in the sheets. Ashamed of herself for letting him goad her into such a petty challenge, for drawing her into that ridiculous public contest of wills.
How could she let his behavior have such an influence over her? Now she would have to face him again tomorrow night at a disadvantage, sharing dinner with a man who knew how effortlessly he pushed all her buttons. He was probably sitting in a restaurant right now with a voluptuous redhead beside him, having a good laugh over her foolishness.
Sitting up, she brushed her hair from her eyes. The view in the dressing table mirror revealed dark eyes ringed by mascara, untidy curls escaping their pins at every angle. No trace of tears or lovestruck emotions, thank heavens, unless those hollows beneath her eyes were a sign of feelings beyond repair.
Her heart was still safe. Imagine losing all her common sense and falling for a scoundrel who routinely sna
red silly women with a little charm. Fortunately, she had seen enough proof of damage from Stanley’s charms to avoid leaping into the flames.
Sliding off the bed, she kicked her shoes into a corner and reached for her robe in a pile of cast-off clothing.
“I have the power to resist this,” she reminded herself. “Countless others have faced a crisis of feeling and passed through it without getting burned.”
Miss Darcy's enthusiasm the next morning for drafting her column was sorely lacking as she flipped through the stacks of letters, trying to ignore the ones with the Cottingley insignia on the outside. A few were now marked “Cottingley Girl Lives!” instead of the original abbreviations.
The number from Stanley’s former amores was not as large as she imagined, once she began opening letters; most of the mail was from fans of Cottingley or the sparse number of defenders for her ex-boyfriend.
“Hey, this girl is a supermodel, I think,” said Henry, examining one of the pages. “I saw this photograph in one of the Milan spreads.”
“I’m not surprised,” Miss Darcy replied. Although she was surprised at the tacky decision of the woman in question to use her runway photo as her stationery’s background.
“You’re going to have to give it up, aren’t you?” asked Henry. “The whole column bit about Stanley and his girls, the covert operations with his girlfriends ...”
She shoved a pile of letters into the trash. “Let’s forget about our playboy’s romances for now, shall we?” Her smile was a trifle flat as she spoke. “After all, today’s column is supposed to be advice for anybody with romantic problems.” Ignoring Henry’s perplexed glance, she tore open a letter from the stack–one with an ordinary envelope that bore no trace of perfume or supermodel stationery.
*****
The most private booth at The Lakes was in the right-hand corner. Shrouded in darkness, diminutive art deco light sconces cast a cozy glow over individual tables. Darkness attracted illicit romance, but not at The Lakes. Its black and white elegance was reserved strictly for above-board dealings; one wanted to be seen with their companion at The Lakes.
Dear Miss Darcy Page 15