She rotated the cake to an empty spot still in need of roses. With a sigh, she continued piping and carefully sliding roses into place, but she felt no satisfaction over the beauty in what she was creating. Rather, she wished for noise over solitude, something entirely unlike her. She wished for people to surround her and make noise so she could stop thinking about a specific—handsome—stranger.
He was being friendly, nothing more. Her thoughts were the sound and logical ones of a seasoned old maid. All the same, a crumb of hope, even if nothing but a fantasy, refused to be dislodged.
When at last she finished the cake, she stood back and admired it. She really did have a hand at such things. Oh, to have her own shop—her own piping bags and tips, her own ingredients and recipes, her own bowls and spoons and cupboards. Her own customers. Sometimes, if she remained alone in the shop, she could almost believe that she owned the place. The cake before her had been made by her hands, yes. But not with ingredients she’d purchased, nor baked in an oven that belonged to her.
Someday.
For now, she needed to get the cake to the Millennium Hotel. She glanced at the clock on the wall and amended her thought: she had to get it to the hotel quickly. Daydreaming about handsome strangers apparently made time rush by. The order indicated that the cake was to be delivered by nine o’clock, and it was already eight thirty. On a typical day, she could walk the distance in a matter of ten minutes, but with a cake in hand, even one like this, with only a few layers, she’d have to move slowly and carefully. That necessary care doubled the time required to cross the distance. And the hotel cook would require an opportunity to prepare it for its presentation to the guest of honor—a wealthy gentleman from the continent, she’d gathered.
She could get there in time, but just. She had no more than a few minutes to spare.
Quickly, she transferred the cake from the old pedestal to the center of an unfolded paperboard box. With the cake in the center, she scored the corners, folded the box about the cake, and tied the whole of it with twine for carrying. She left through the back door and headed into the alley, then down the street toward the back of the Millennium Hotel. Vigilance marked her every step until at last she reached Grosvenor Street and headed into the wide passage adjacent to the hotel stables. The way was paved by cobblestones, but that was the only real separation between it and the stables themselves. The distinction was enough to ensure that the section she had to pass through was typically clean, if visible from the horse stalls. The day had seen no rain whatsoever, so she had no need to avoid slippery patches of wet or muddy cobbles, which made her passage that much easier.
Halfway to the servants’ entrance, she heard voices that made her stomach twist uncomfortably.
“Pretty little thing, she is,” the first said. “Don’t you think so?”
“Old, I’d say,” the other said. “A bit too long in the tooth for my taste.”
Those were the voices of the stable hands, Hank and Eric. They enjoyed taunting anyone who wore a skirt, girls and women alike. She’d known them long enough to be aware that they were mostly bluster, though she’d heard rumors that one or the other had been in a fistfight not too long ago.
Bluster or not, I’d like to be seen as someone other than an old maid good for nothing but teasing. She was certainly aware of her spinsterhood; she didn’t need to be reminded or mocked because of it. With a party going on at the hotel, why weren’t the hands busy? Whatever the reason, here they were, creating their own entertainment at her expense.
Hoping to get inside before the men decided to create any additional mischief, Anne increased her pace. She held the box securely with both hands, but she hadn’t gone more than two steps before both men hopped over the edge of the stalls, ran ahead of her, and blocked her way to the short staircase that led to the entrance. She sighed, not in the mood to contend with young men who acted like boys or to be the target of their teasing. She leveled her best old-maid stare at them in the hopes that they might have had instilled in them some modicum of the value of respecting their elders.
“Hey, old lady,” Eric said in greeting.
While the two had never caused her any serious harm, they were certainly regular burrs for her. They’d tripped her more than once, irredeemably staining her best work dress. If they trip me tonight, the cake will be outright ruined, she thought with dismay. And they’ll see it as a hilarious joke—might even eat the smashed mess. And I’ll have to report to Mrs. Argus that the diplomats didn’t get their cake. She didn’t want to think what Mr. Argus would say. His wife would be bad enough.
“I have a delivery for the hotel,” Anne said evenly. “Let me through, or I’ll take it up with the prime minister.”
“Oh, ho ho,” Hank said with exaggeratedly wide eyes. “The prime minister, you say?”
She had no idea which world leaders were in the hotel at the gathering, only that there were representatives from around the world, including important leaders of Great Britain. But mentioning the prime minister couldn’t hurt, and after all, he might be inside. Instead of giving a yes or no answer, she simply leveled another look at Eric, and then a matching one at Hank. “Let me pass. The cook is expecting the cake now.”
Instead of answering, Hank elbowed his mate. “She’s so old.” Both wore ridiculous grins as if they knew where to poke and prod to get the desired reaction from her.
She lifted her head and pulled her shoulders back, looking first Eric and then Hank in the eye. “You must excuse me, boys,” she said, making a special point to emphasize the last word. “This old maid has work to do.”
Hank jutted his chin out as if pointing to the cake box. “Who’s it for?”
“Not for you.” Anne took a step to the side, hoping they’d take the hint and move over to make room for her to pass.
“Just give us a peek,” Eric said.
“Yeah,” Hank chimed in. “And a small bite for me?”
“A bite for each of us,” Eric clarified. They laughed uproariously at that. Anne groaned silently again and gripped the box even tighter even as Eric went down one stair and said, “Come, give us some.”
A heavy step sounded on the hard ground behind Anne, followed by a deep voice she’d imagined hearing for days now. “Stop at once.”
With a start, the boys’ heads came up, and she turned to see who was behind them. Visible back a couple of yards to her right stood the American. Anne’s cheeks went hot; matching pink was surely creeping up her neck. He couldn’t have known that she’d thought of him hundreds of times over the last four days. She’d honestly believed she wanted to see him and had been genuinely disappointed every night when she hadn’t. But now, there he stood, in a smelly stable, right before her, and she wished she were anywhere else.
“Get away from the young lady,” the man ordered, stepping closer. He sounded tense, with each word clipped, as if he was holding back anger. “That’s an order. Move away from her and allow her passage. Now.”
To an outsider, the situation likely did look much worse than it was. “Sir,” Anne said, hoping to assuage his worries. “I’m quite—”
But before she could say another word, the man raised his walking stick and quickly walked past her, toward the stable hands on the stairs. “Get away from her now. And yes, she is a lady to you. I assume even sewer rats can grasp the basic decency involved in respecting a woman.” As if to punctuate the seriousness of his threat, he raised his walking stick, this time holding it with both hands like a cricket bat.
At the sight, Hank and Eric scampered down the steps and toward the stables like startled mice. The American followed them to a stall where they apparently were hoping to go undetected. Walking stick still in the air, he said, “You two are a disgrace.”
Anne couldn’t see the hands anymore, but she could certainly hear tremulous fear in Eric’s voice when he spoke next.
“P-please—” He sounded incapable of more speech so long as the black walking stick was held in the ai
r above him.
The American squinted slightly as if measuring the mettle of the stable hands. He was older, clearly, yet in spite of a life that prevented calloused hands, he seemed plenty strong enough to take both men if the need arose. “You should know that I spent my childhood in a rebellious former colony, learning the ways of the world. Part of that means I never run from a fight. It also means I’ve been known to land plenty of punches and break my share of noses.”
Hank made a strangled noise. For her part, Anne had to stifle a laugh. The American lowered his walking stick and made a show of tugging on his suit cuffs and smoothing his coat. “Truth be told, I rather miss fighting. It’s been too long since I’ve had the opportunity to have a really good brawl. But alas, you rodents aren’t worth my effort tonight. Unless . . .” The trailing off of his voice was accompanied by the tilt of his head and a silent implied threat.
In the gap between the stall and the ground, she could see Hank and Eric scooting backward, sending straw all over. They succeeded only in backing into the stall edge.
“We won’t bother her,” Hank said in a rush.
“We won’t,” Eric agreed. “I swear it on my father’s grave.” His tongue had apparently loosed.
The man drew nearer, his walking stick now resting over his shoulder as if it were nothing of consequence. “Do you swear to leave this young lady alone? I mean not just tonight, but every moment hereafter?” His booming voice seemed to echo throughout the cavernous structure. “Both of you?”
“Yes,” both men said at the same time.
“Good. Now get out of here.” The walking stick swooped through the air and pointed toward the street.
The stable hands scuttled away into the darkness. Anne pressed her lips together to keep herself from saying anything, though she did wonder if they’d sneak back to finish their work, or if they’d simply run home in abject terror. After their footsteps had faded, the American lowered the stick and turned about to face Anne. She fully meant to thank him for his aid, though it hadn’t been precisely necessary, and then hurry the cake inside to the hotel cook.
Instead, she stood there still as stone because he was walking toward her, closer and closer. She was quite sure her limbs had gone numb. She’d drop the cake to the ground at any moment. Yet she couldn’t tear her eyes from the man, who was even handsomer than she remembered, which didn’t seem possible. He stopped only an arm’s length away and lifted his hat with a nod, as if she were of the upper class and not a woman whose every dress was old, whose face was becoming lined, and whose days were spent working so she could live another day.
“Th-thank you,” she managed, as breathless as if she’d run a mile.
“My pleasure, I assure you,” he said with a half bow. He glanced over his shoulder and shook his head. “Those scoundrels . . . did they hurt you?”
“N-no.” Anne shook her head to emphasize the word, and the movement seemed to bring her out of her frozen state. “I’m quite well, thank you.”
Except a bit addled in the head.
He extended a hand. “Davis Whitledge at your service.”
She eyed his hand, surprised at the overture, but then, balancing the box in her left hand, reached out the other and allowed him to take it. “Anne Preston.”
American etiquette had to be very different if a man could be so forward as to introduce himself in such a manner instead of being properly introduced by a shared acquaintance. And to do so in such a low place, alone, without a chaperone—
Her eyes widened with realization at how this situation might be interpreted by an onlooker—a single woman alone with a man. She tried to wipe her reaction from her face as quickly as it had appeared so as not to offend. “I truly must get inside.” She nodded to the box bound with twine. “This cake is needed inside right away.”
“Oh, of course,” Mr. Whitledge said; but instead of leaving, he slipped past her, took the four stairs in two bounds, then held the door open for her.
No man, as far as she could recall, had ever held open a door for her. A warm spot bloomed in her chest. He truly is a gentleman.
She went up the steps and crossed the threshold, all the while oh-so-aware of how close Mr. Whitledge stood. Her dress sleeve brushed his coat, and the masculine scent of him came over her—far too briefly. One breath of it, and it was gone. It left every hair on her arms standing on end. Once inside, she turned about. “Thank you, Mr. Whitledge.” This time, her voice sounded even and soft, perhaps because the intent behind her words was so sincere. He might assume she was thanking him for saving her from Hank and Eric, but she was really thanking him for treating her with the utmost kindness, as if she were more than a working woman or a servant. He’d treated her like a gentlewoman.
“It was my pleasure, Miss Preston.” He gave one final half bow and tip of his hat, then released the door.
Anne stood there as if in a dream as the weight of the door settled into place and the latch clicked shut. She didn’t want to move, not yet, so she stood there, letting her mind gather details of what had transpired as if picking up pebbles on a path. She needed to capture the moment, commit every detail about him and what had just happened to memory.
Whenever something pleasant happened to her, she made a point of doing that very thing—capturing and treasuring it. She did so partly because truly pleasant moments tended to be rare in a life such as hers, and partly because holding such experiences close allowed her to live them anew when reality grew dark and dreary. First when she grew too old to be considered a marriage prospect, and then when, one by one, she lost her family members, and later still, when she had to find a way to support herself in the world, she’d reexamined the cherished memories she’d saved and tucked away in her heart. During particularly lonely and hard times—like last winter, which was so cold that her little bottle of ink froze in her room at the boardinghouse some nights—she endured by selecting a memory, opening it slowly like a priceless gift, and reliving every second of it, down to the tiniest of details. Therefore, the more she memorized after something good happened, the better.
Still holding the cake, she almost felt as if she were embracing a loved one. She closed her eyes and relived the interchange. She might have added a few details that bordered on fictitious, ones that would certainly make the recalling of the memory that much happier the next time she needed a lift in spirits. The ritual wouldn’t take long, but until she’d finished it, she couldn’t make her feet move. When she finally opened her eyes, she had an urge to open the door, peer into the stables, and see if Mr. Whitledge was still on the other side. But no. That would serve only to pop the newly created soap bubble of a memory. And she wouldn’t do that for the world.
She was vaguely aware of quick yet heavy footsteps along the stone corridor and a voice speaking to her. “There you are. I was getting nervous that the cake wouldn’t arrive in time.” A portly woman, whom Anne would have once upon a time called middle-aged or even old, but who was probably forty-five, took the box from Anne’s hands and shuffled away with it.
With the cook’s words and the movement, Anne’s happy moment officially ended. She looked about, blinking, as if she needed to reorient herself to the real world. A grandfather clock nearby gonged, and she looked over at it. Nine o’clock. The cake would need to be transferred to a serving platter before being wheeled out on a fancy cart to be presented to the gathering of diplomats. It wouldn’t appear at the party for another five minutes at least.
Anne leaned back against the door, smiling slightly as she let the warmth of Mr. Whitledge’s smile and concern wash over her, not caring in the least that the party guests would need to wait for their cake.
Chapter Three
Davis Whitledge maintained his gentlemanly composure only until the door to the servants’ entrance had securely clicked into place. For the sake of woman on the other side—Anne, her name was—he’d tamped down his righteous indignation, but knowing that she was now safely inside the hotel, he
couldn’t keep still. Those stable workers needed to be taught a lesson. Plenty of places in London were dangerous. An upper-class place like Grosvenor Square and its surrounding streets shouldn’t number among them.
Not that Davis knew London all that well; he’d come with his best friend from their Harvard years, Peter Cowley, who now worked as a diplomat for the American government. Davis hadn’t come along merely to see the sights, but to conduct business: find investors, widen his connections, and hopefully find other businesses he could work with for importing and exporting goods between England and the United States.
He’d heard plenty of horrifying things about the dirty, dangerous districts of London, which he hoped were exaggerations. He’d heard equally broad statements about the elite and expensive Grosvenor Square and its environs. People described them as the place where the highest in Society gathered and where to find the most elite—which meant the most expensive—places to dine and shop. Supposedly, this was where one could find the world’s latest fashions, best foods, and more all gathered in a relatively small area of London.
When he first alighted from the carriage that brought their company to the hotel, he’d assumed that the talk about Grosvenor Square and such were exaggerations. So far, however, he’d found them to be quite accurate, a discovery that made him worry that perhaps the descriptions of poor, sickly, and crime-ridden areas of the city were equally real. The very idea made his stomach turn at the injustice.
Which brought him back to Miss Anne Preston—or was it Mrs. Preston? How she’d been taunted and nearly assaulted by two men who could have easily overpowered her small frame. One of them alone could have had restrained her with hardly any effort; Davis had no doubt of that. What evil could the two, working together, have done?
A Night in Grosvenor Square Page 10