Secret Desires of a Gentleman

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “Well—” Prudence began, as if to answer that question, but Maria cut her off.

  “He’s no threat to me. It isn’t as if he can do anything. And he isn’t going to be living there forever. Besides…” She paused to consider the ramifications. “I rather like the notion of being right under his nose. It will irritate him so much,” she added with a smile.

  “Are you sure it’s wise to stir things up?”

  Maria ignored that. Instead, she reached for her glass. “Here’s to being the bane of Phillip Hawthorne’s existence,” she said, but when Prudence didn’t respond to the raillery, she lowered her glass again with a sigh. “Oh, Pru, you’re not going to spoil all my fun by saying no, are you? Being my financial partner, you could, you know.”

  “I should,” Prudence answered, looking unhappy. “But I won’t. Still, I do feel impelled to caution you. Perhaps it would be best to avoid trouble and search for a different location.”

  “What, go scurrying away like a frightened rabbit because Phillip Hawthorne said boo?” She shook her head. “No, he forced me to take that course once before. He’ll not do it again.”

  “What about his brother?”

  “Lawrence?” she asked in surprise. “What does he have to do with it?”

  “You’ll eventually encounter him, too.”

  “Nonsense.” She swirled her glass and downed the last of her Madeira. “Lawrence moved to America ages ago. Eight or nine years, at least. Last I heard, he’s living in New York.”

  “He isn’t, not anymore. He arrived in London a week ago.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I read the society pages. I have to. As a duchess, I must pay some attention to the comings and goings of peers.”

  “Lawrence isn’t a peer. He’s merely the brother of one. I can’t imagine why the gossips deem his return from America worth talking about.” She felt a pang of alarm. “He hasn’t come home because he’s ill, or something of that kind?”

  “No, he’s not ill. It seems he’s engaged.”

  “Lawrence? Engaged to be married?”

  “That is what the scandal sheets say, although no engagement has been officially announced.”

  “Who…?” She broke off, surprised by this news, more surprised, she supposed, than she should have been. “Who is the girl?”

  “A Miss Cynthia Dutton, of New York. Her father is Howard K. Dutton, the shipping magnate. He owns a fleet of those transatlantic liners. Family’s got heaps of money.”

  “So Lawrence hasn’t gone off with the wrong sort of girl this time. He’s making a creditable marriage.” Maria’s lips curved in a sardonic smile. “Phillip must be so relieved.”

  She thought of how he had looked this afternoon and the changes time had brought to his face, and she wondered what marks the years might have left upon his younger brother. An image of Lawrence came into her mind—eyes the same deep blue as his brother’s, but brimming with laughter. His hair, a lighter shade of brown, but never as neatly combed. His face, similar in features, but much more carefree, the sort of face that had once made a young girl’s heart ache with both pleasure and pain. Just for a moment, she felt again that powerful pang of first love—all the joy, all the longing, all the agonizing uncertainty.

  “Maria?” Prudence’s voice brought her out of her reverie, and she looked up to find her friend eyeing her with concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course. Should I not be?”

  “I thought you might find this news a bit shattering. You did love him once.”

  “Passionately,” she agreed, and gave a little laugh. “When Phillip parted us, I thought I’d die of a broken heart.” As she spoke, the nostalgic, romantic moment passed, and she was herself once more, a mature, sensible woman of twenty-nine, not a love-struck girl of seventeen. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “There’s something else you should know.” Prudence leaned forward in her chair, the concern on her round, cherubic face deepening. “Lawrence is staying with his brother here in London.”

  Maria began to feel rather like Lewis Carroll’s Alice, who’d been expected to believe six impossible things before breakfast. “Lawrence is also living next to my shop? Are you sure?”

  Prudence set aside her glass, rose, and walked to an elaborate gold-and-white table of papiermâché by the fireplace where several newspapers had been neatly stacked. She pulled the Social Gazette from the pile and opened it. After a moment of flipping through the pages, she gave a nod. “‘While in London,’” she read, “‘Mr. Lawrence Hawthorne will be staying with his brother, the Marquess of Kayne, who is presently keeping rooms in Half Moon Street while his home in Park Lane undergoes renovation. The Marquess is said to be adding electricity, telephones, four full bathrooms and steam central heating to his already luxurious residence. Mr. Hawthorne will retain the rooms in Half Moon Street once his brother vacates them.’”

  “Lovely,” Maria murmured with a groan. “That’s just lovely.”

  Prudence refolded the paper, placed it on the pile, and returned to her chair. “So you see? You cannot lease that shop.”

  Maria thought of Phillip and how he had snubbed her. She folded her arms, feeling a bit contrary and stubborn. “I don’t see why not,” she said. “Where Lawrence and Phillip live hasn’t anything to do with me.”

  “Maria…” Prudence’s voice trailed away as she gave her friend a warning glance. “Didn’t you make a promise never to—”

  “Yes, yes,” she interrupted with a hint of frustration. “I promised I’d never see or speak to Lawrence again. But it’s a meaningless promise nowadays, surely!”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course. All of us are adults, mature and sensible. Phillip needn’t have any fear his brother will go running off to Gretna Green with me now. It’s been twelve years, in heaven’s name. Besides, Lawrence is about to marry someone else.” She paused to consider how she felt about that, then she shrugged. “And I truly couldn’t give a fig. I’m happy for him.”

  “That’s a very generous attitude.”

  Ignoring Prudence’s somewhat skeptical look, she glanced at the clock. “Lord, is that the time? I have to be going. It’ll be dark soon,” she added as she stood up, “and you know how Mrs. Morris worries if we aren’t in before dark. Tomorrow I’m going back to that property agent and arrange for the lease.”

  Prudence also rose to her feet. “If you’re determined to do this, I’ll have an account at Lloyd’s opened in your name first thing tomorrow so you can write a bank draft for the deposit.”

  “Darling Pru,” Maria said, laughing at her friend’s serious face. “Don’t look so worried. As I said, that entire to-do with Lawrence was a long time ago. It means nothing now.”

  Prudence did not look convinced. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I know exactly what I’m doing,” she answered, refusing to believe otherwise.

  Considering how long it had taken Maria to find the perfect location for her shop, once that goal had been reached, it was amazing how quickly everything else fell into place.

  Within a week, she had negotiated the terms of the lease, opened accounts with suppliers, and moved out of her flat in Little Russell Street. Only ten days after first viewing the shop, she decided it was time to tackle the horrible yellow-green paint, and she began the process by applying samples of various other colors to a wall of the shop’s front room.

  Once that task was accomplished, she stepped back to study her efforts. Tilting her head to one side, she felt a loose tendril of hair tickle her cheek, and she shoved it absentmindedly back into the kerchief wrapped around her hair as she considered the choices before her. The beige was pleasant enough, but it might be too pink when all the walls were done. The taupe was too depressing, the brown too dark, the lavender too awful. There was nothing wrong with the tan, she supposed, viewing it without enthusiasm. It was only that it was so…well…so dull. Just looking at it made her want to y
awn.

  “I heard a rumor there’s a new bakery in the West End.”

  Maria turned toward the door, which was open to ventilate the smell of paint, and she smiled at the elegantly dressed woman standing in the doorway.

  “Emma!” she cried with relief and bent to set the brush atop the tin of paint on the tarp-covered floor. “Thank goodness you’ve finally arrived in town. I’m in desperate need of help.”

  “Yes, so it would seem.” The Viscountess Marlowe laughed, shaking her head and causing the enormous white plumes atop her wide-brimmed green hat to bounce as she crossed the room. “Oh, if only you could see yourself.”

  “Why? Do I look as discouraged as I feel?”

  “That wasn’t quite what I meant.” Emma paused in front of her, opened her small, white leather handbag, removed a round pocket mirror from the bag, and held it up.

  “Good lord.” Maria stared at her reflection in dismay. Paint seemed to be everywhere—there were smears on her face, her kerchief, even on the unprotected lobe of her ear. She glanced down and was glad to see no paint on her white shirtwaist and brown skirt, although the big bibbed chef’s apron she wore over them and the old gauntlet gloves on her hands were spattered with a variety of colors.

  “I look like an artist’s palette,” she said, laughing with her friend. “How can a person become so covered in paint after only dabbing a few samples on a wall?”

  “It happens,” Emma said, returning the pocket glass to her bag. “So, what sort of muddle are you in that you need my help? Prudence told me you were moving along with your bakery at breathtaking speed. No problems at all.”

  “Paint, Emma. Paint is my difficulty. I simply must cover up this awful color.”

  “Cover it?” Emma stared at her in mock horror. “But Liberty colors are part of the whole aesthetic movement, darling! Still considered by many to be the height of fashion.”

  Maria made a face. “Including the property agent. The entire place was renovated for the last tenant, who had intended to open a tea shop. But she abandoned the project before the paint was laid on, so the property agent was asked to have the place painted.” She waved a hand at the walls. “He chose this.”

  “Not a very appetizing color for a bakery.”

  “Just so.” She turned to the wall and sighed. “But I don’t like any of the colors I’ve tried either. Can you help me? You’re so good at this sort of thing. I remember your flat in Little Russell Street always looked ever so smart.”

  “Thank you, and I’d be glad to help. But you must first give me a tour of the place.”

  Maria was happy to comply. She began with the kitchen, unable to resist showing off all her modern cooking devices. Emma was suitably impressed. Then she led the other woman through the upper floors that comprised the living quarters.

  “It’s larger than I expected,” Emma told her as they went back downstairs. “Four bedrooms, a spacious drawing room, maid’s quarters in the attic. And that balcony off your bedroom is lovely, even if it does extend all the way along the back of the building.”

  “‘Even if’?” she echoed. “A spacious balcony is a problem?”

  “No, except that you share it with the house next door.”

  Maria stopped on the landing. Heavens, she hadn’t even thought about that. Being Phillip’s next-door neighbor was bad enough, but sharing a balcony with him? That did not bode well. She felt a sudden pang of misgiving.

  “So nice, too, that the rooms come fully furnished,” Emma continued, then stopped, noticing Maria was not keeping pace with her. She glanced over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  Maria reminded herself that Phillip was pretending not to know her, and she could only hope that meant he would never lower himself enough to speak with her. “Nothing,” she said, pushing the glimmer of doubt aside. “What did you think of the bath?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Wonderful,” Emma answered as they continued down the stairs. “Very modern. And so conveniently located beside your bedroom.”

  “Once I saw it, I knew I couldn’t wait until the place had been painted to move in,” she explained as they returned to the front of the shop. “Speaking of paint…” She paused and pointed at the wall of paint smears. “Have you any ideas?”

  “You must have some ideas of your own,” Emma countered, turning toward her. “How do you see it in your mind’s eye?”

  Maria glanced around, thinking it over. “I envision the ambience of a French café with tea tables and chairs in the center of the room, so people can take tea here if they wish. I want something very modern, very posh. I intend Martingale’s to be the place everyone thinks of when they think of pastries. Which reminds me…” She paused for a moment, then went on. “If you would feel all right about it, I was hoping you would recommend my pâtisserie in All Things London.”

  All Things London was a shopping guide Emma wrote under the pseudonym of “Mrs. Bartleby.” The guides were published quarterly by her husband’s publishing company and were wildly popular.

  “Are you thinking of the spring edition?” Emma asked, and Maria heard a hint of hesitancy in her friend’s voice.

  She hastened into speech. “I realize that since we’re not open for business yet, and you haven’t tasted a thing from the kitchens, it’s awfully cheeky of me to ask, but a recommendation from you would mean so much and—”

  “Cheeky?” Emma interrupted in surprise. “Not at all! You’re my friend, and I already know you make the most delicious pastries in the world. I had three pieces of Prudence’s lovely coconut wedding cake, if you recall. I’d be happy to recommend your establishment. It’s just that the folio is about to go to press, so I shall have to speak with my husband about adding a passage to the text. It’s past the production deadline, you see.”

  “I wouldn’t wish to be a lot of bother.”

  “No, no. Harry will give me his usual speech, of course,” she added, her expression softening as she spoke of her husband. “He’ll be terribly exasperated with me, and he’ll ask me why authors are always wanting to make changes right up to the end, and why can’t we just leave well enough alone, but in the end, he’ll do it if I ask him to. When do you plan to open?”

  “I should be ready in about a week.”

  “A week?” Emma laughed. “It may have taken you months to find the right place, but now that you have, you’re not letting any grass grow under your feet, are you?”

  “It’s already March. I want to take as much advantage of the London season as I can. That’s why the spring edition of All Things London is so important.”

  The viscountess took another look around the room. “What about a color scheme that conveys warm, delicious pastries—a soft, buttery yellow for the walls, for instance, with creamy white for the moldings and doors, and walnut-stained wood for your display cases and tea tables?”

  “That’s perfect!” Maria cried. “Oh, Em, you’ve grasped what I want exactly! As I said, you’re so accomplished at this sort of thing. I shall use those colors in my insignia. And on a striped ribbon for the paperboard boxes.”

  “Boxes? To take away pastries?”

  “Yes, and for picnic luncheons, too. Green Park is across the street, so I thought I’d offer picnic luncheons during the summer months.”

  “Intend to compete with Fortnum and Mason’s famous picnic hampers, do you?”

  “I don’t just want to compete with Fortnum and Mason,” Maria told her. “I want to surpass them.”

  A deep, male voice answered her before Emma could. “An ambitious goal.”

  Maria grimaced at that familiar voice, feeling a hint of dread. Hoping she was mistaken, she turned, but the sight of the tall man in the doorway told her she had made no mistake. Phillip Hawthorne stood there, looking as grim as a Presbyterian funeral.

  He glanced down the length of her, a slow, deliberate perusal that made her suddenly, painfully aware of her paint-smeared face and spattered clothes. His own attire was imma
culate, of course. His charcoal-gray suit showed not a single speck of lint, his claret-red waistcoat had nary a wrinkle, and his linen shirt was a pure, snowy white.

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her face growing hot as his gaze traveled back up her body. She thought he must be appalled, but to her surprise, when he returned his gaze to her face, he didn’t look appalled. In fact, there was a faint but unmistakable curve to one corner of his mouth. Phillip, the man who never smiled, the man who never laughed, was laughing at her.

  She watched him press his lips together as if to hide it, and she strove to muster her dignity. “There is nothing wrong with being ambitious.”

  “Perhaps not, Miss Martingale.” He entered the shop, moving with the arrogant assurance people of his class possessed almost from birth, not seeming to care in the least that he hadn’t been invited to come in. “Though ambition is not always an appealing trait in a woman.”

  “And eavesdropping on conversations isn’t an appealing trait in anyone,” she shot back.

  “It was hardly eavesdropping,” he pointed out, gesturing to the open door with his hat.

  “So any open doorway is an invitation to not only listen in on other people’s conversations, but also to add one’s own opinions?”

  The silence seemed to crackle with tension, and Emma made a delicate little cough.

  Phillip, ever polite, immediately turned in her direction and bowed. “Lady Marlowe.”

  “Lord Kayne.” The viscountess curtsied in reply, then glanced at Maria. “I was not aware you were acquainted with my friend, Miss Martingale,” she murmured, looking from Maria to Phillip and back again. A tiny frown knit her brows, as if she sensed the tension but did not understand it.

  If Phillip was surprised that someone as lowborn as Maria was friends with a viscountess, he didn’t show it, but before he could reply, she spoke first. “Oh, but this man is not acquainted with me, Emma,” she said, her voice bright and cheery. “We don’t know each other at all. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.” She ignored her friend’s deepening frown of bewilderment and smiled sweetly at the man opposite her. “Acquaintanceship would imply a familiarity with me of which this gentleman is unaware.”