He stopped at his usual table and she glanced at him with a smile one could only call radiant. His heart sped up. The least he could do was say good morning. Good morning was not a commitment. He was halfway across the room before he realized he was grinning like an idiot. He sobered immediately. Perhaps he was indeed a coward but he still believed avoiding romantic entanglement to be best for all concerned. Now, he simply had to make that clear to Dulcie. And apparently to his rebellious heart, as well.
“Good day, Mr. Shepard,” she said brightly, rising to her feet, the faint, delightful scent of exotic flowers and spice drifting past him. Her blue eyes twinkled with welcome.
“Good day, Miss Middleworth.” Good God. He had no idea what to say now. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t practiced any number of things in the long, sleepless hours of the night but at the moment absolutely nothing came to mind. All he could do was stare like an idiot. “Fine weather we’re having.”
Amusement flashed in her eyes. “Indeed we are.”
“Miss Middleworth.” He drew a deep breath. “About last night...”
“Lovely evening don’t you think?”
He nodded. “Yes, it was but—”
“You should join us again sometime.”
“Perhaps but...”
“Yes?” She smiled up at him.
“I think we should talk about last night. About, well, you and me.”
Her brow rose. “You and me?”
“I thought perhaps you might have gotten the impression...that is, that I...” He studied her with a growing sense of horror. “But you didn’t, did you?”
She stared at him as if he were daft. “Apparently not as I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Hot humiliation washed through him. Just because he felt the way he did did not mean she shared his feelings. “My apologies then, Miss Middleworth.” He nodded and started toward his table.
How could he have been so stupid? Certainly, he didn’t have a vast amount of experience with women although he was not completely inexperienced either. But then he had never before known anyone who made his head spin and his blood pound. And as much as it was for the best, he couldn’t help regretting that he did not kiss her last night. The way she had looked at him... He pulled up short, swiveled and strode back to her.
“I nearly kissed you last night.” He glared at her.
Dulcie frowned thoughtfully. “Did you?”
“I did and you well know it.”
Dulcie shook her head slowly. “I really don’t recall.”
“Of course you recall.” He refused to believe something that had kept him up all night was not worth remembering.
“Perhaps...”
“And I am fairly certain, Miss Middleworth—” he rested his hands on the table and leaned forward “—you would have kissed me back.”
“Goodness, Michael.” She shook her head and sighed. “Indeed I would have.”
He frowned. “You would have?”
“And with a great deal of enthusiasm I suspect.”
“Then I must tell you—” he straightened and squared his shoulders “—that it would have been a dreadful mistake.”
“I know.”
“What?” He stared. Dulcie Middleworth might well be the most confusing creature he had ever met.
“While last night I would have indeed kissed you back and no doubt thoroughly enjoyed every moment, fortunately for us both, I have given this a great deal of thought since then.” She clasped her hands together in front of her in a manner entirely too prim for this type of discussion. “And I agree with you.”
“About what?” Caution edged his voice.
“About your resolve not to marry.” She smiled. “The more one thinks about it, the more it makes a great deal of sense.”
“It does?” He cleared his throat. “Of course it does.”
“Well, I began thinking about poor Mrs. Livingstone and then of course the roses—” Dulcie waved at a vase behind her filled to overflowing with roses “—reminded me of Mrs. Everheart’s unfortunate demise.”
“Why would an extravagant display of roses remind you of Mrs. Everheart?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Because they’re from Mr. Everheart of course.” She gazed at the roses with admiration. “They were here when I arrived along with a lovely note.”
“Why would he send you flowers?”
“In appreciation for my work.” Her gaze remained on the flowers and she sighed. “Wasn’t that thoughtful of him?”
Michael wasn’t sure what he’d call it but he was fairly sure it wouldn’t be thoughtful. “He hasn’t seen your work. How could he appreciate it?”
“I don’t know nor do I care.” She plucked a rose from the vase, held it to her nose and inhaled deeply. “The note that accompanied the flowers was extremely flattering and rather romantic.”
“Romantic?” His brow rose in disbelief. “How can a note from a man you’ve never met be romantic?”
“I have no idea. And yet...” She sighed. Again. “It was.”
“Utter rubbish.” He snorted. “And would you please stop sighing like a lovesick schoolgirl. It’s most unbecoming.”
“Goodness, Michael.” Her eyes widened innocently. “One would think you were jealous.”
“Hardly,” he muttered. “Enjoy your flowers, Miss Middleworth.” He nodded, turned and strode to his table.
Jealous? Ha! Why on earth would he be jealous? Yes, he was in love with the blasted woman, but that was even more reason why he should do all that he could to make sure her life was happy.
But Reginald Everheart? She had never met the man. Certainly Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore spoke well of him, but for any woman to have the look in her eyes that Dulcie did from nothing more than a charming note and a pretentious array of posies was utterly absurd.
He sank into his chair a moment before Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore, Lady Blodgett and Mrs. Higginbotham sailed into the library. Good. He got to his feet. Who better to ask about the character of this Everheart than people who actually knew him.
“Good morning, Mr. Shepard.” Lady Blodgett nodded as she and her friends breezed past him. “My goodness, what lovely roses!”
The other ladies responded with exclamations of out-of-proportion delight and headed toward the flowers with the single-mindedness of bees to, well, flowers. Until this very moment, Michael had never realized how very different women were from men, from normal people.
He followed after the ladies. “Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore?”
She stopped and turned. “Yes, Mr. Shepard?”
He lowered his voice. “I was curious about Mr. Everheart. He’s never even met Miss Middleworth and yet he has been so presumptuous as to send her—”
“The roses are from Mr. Everheart?” The older woman’s eyes widened in delight. “How exciting.”
“Exciting?”
“Yes, of course. When a man sends a woman roses, it is a clear indication of his intentions.” She leaned close in a confidential manner. “Mr. Everheart is an eminently eligible bachelor—handsome with fame and fortune. Why, a woman could scarcely do better. And younger women marry older men all the time.”
“How much older?”
“It scarcely matters when love is involved.”
“Love?” He choked. “How can love possibly be involved when he’s never met her?”
“And you never talk to her.” She smiled pleasantly, moved to greet Dulcie and join her friends in excessive admiration of the ostentatious floral arrangement.
Being older and hopefully wiser, one would think Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore and the other ladies would be less taken in by such an unoriginal ploy on Everheart’s part to work his way into Dulcie’s affections. But apparently women, regardles
s of age, disregarded rationality when it came to flamboyant gestures.
“Lady Blodgett.” A voice rang over the room from the doorway. “And Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore and Mrs. Higginbotham, as well.” Mrs. Lithgow, the head of the Ladies Committee, swept into the room like a force of nature. “Just the people I wished to see.”
Mrs. Higginbotham wisely threw her shawl over the baboon and moved to block it from sight. Michael discreetly stepped out of the way of Mrs. Lithgow’s approach, as was the universal advice from the majority of club members regarding Mrs. Lithgow.
“Mr. Shepard,” she said in passing, her gaze focused on the ladies in front of her. “I need to speak with you on a matter of some importance.”
“Really, Margaret?” Lady Blodgett’s brow arched. “A matter of some importance.”
“Yes, I understand—” Mrs. Lithgow paused. “Roses, Miss Middleworth? For you?”
Dulcie nodded.
“From Reginald Everheart,” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore said, and the three older ladies sighed in unison.
“Most impressive.” Lithgow studied the flowers with a calculating eye. “Three dozen if I’m not mistaken.”
“Five would have been too many.” Mrs. Higginbotham shrugged.
“And one not nearly enough.” Lady Blodgett studied the arrangement with the oddest look of satisfaction. “Three is perfect.”
“Do you know him well, Miss Middleworth?” A thoughtful note sounded in Mrs. Lithgow’s voice.
“In truth, Mrs. Lithgow, we have never met.” Dulcie gazed at the roses—apparently it was her turn to sigh. “But I am looking forward to meeting him in person.”
“Pity. That you haven’t met that is.” Mrs. Lithgow turned to the other ladies. “But I understand you are well acquainted with the eminent American.”
“Indeed we are,” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore said proudly.
“Excellent.” Mrs. Lithgow smiled with satisfaction.
The ladies traded cautious glances.
“Once I learned that Mr. Everheart was making one of his rare appearances in London, it seemed to me the Explorers Club would be remiss if we did not seize the opportunity to pay tribute to such an illustrious honorary member. He is exceptionally accomplished,” Mrs. Lithgow said in an aside to Michael. “His member file is quite extraordinary.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Higginbotham said faintly.
Mrs. Lithgow continued. “I’m fairly certain he was quite good friends with my first husband although I don’t remember ever meeting him myself.” Her brow furrowed in a puzzled frown. “Indeed, I can’t recall hearing much about him at all even if his name is quite familiar.”
“These things happen with age, Margaret,” Lady Blodgett said in an overly patronizing manner given she and Mrs. Lithgow did appear to be contemporaries. “Did Mr. Fennell say anything else?”
“Fennell,” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore said under her breath. “Of course.”
“Only that he had heard Mr. Everheart is to give a lecture here in a few months. Unfortunately, we could not find it noted on the club calendar.” Mrs. Lithgow’s lips pursed in disapproval. Michael didn’t know the woman but the consensus among the membership was that she was not to be crossed. Woe be it to whomever had left Everheart’s lecture off the sacred calendar. “That will be rectified soon enough.” She smiled. “If you will be so good as to give me the name of his hotel—”
“No!” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore eyes widened. “Absolutely not. We can’t. We simply can’t.”
“What Poppy is trying to say,” Lady Blodgett said smoothly, “is that Mr. Everheart guards his privacy fiercely. He would quite frankly never forgive any of us for giving away his residence in London. Even to you. We are sorry.”
“But I must reach him.” Mrs. Lithgow huffed and glanced at Dulcie. “Was there a note on the roses? Perhaps there was the name of a flower shop that we might inquire at?”
“There wasn’t.” Mrs. Higginbotham smirked in an oddly satisfied way.
“There was a note but nothing to indicate what shop the roses came from.” Dulcie hesitated. “It does seem to me, Mrs. Lithgow, if Mr. Everheart prefers his privacy we should respect his wishes.”
“Yes, I suppose.” Mrs. Lithgow tapped her foot impatiently. “Regardless, I must get word to him. I’m sure you are all aware of the quarterly membership banquet next week.”
The ladies nodded.
“We thought that would be the perfect opportunity to honor Mr. Everheart. Why, everyone in the entire club is already talking about his presence in London. As you well know, he’s quite famous.” Mrs. Lithgow fairly glowed with triumph. “It shall be an unforgettable evening. An unqualified success.”
Mrs. Higginbotham choked.
“You and Mr. Fennell decided this?” Lady Blodgett asked.
“And the director agreed.” Mrs. Lithgow shook her head. “Although he too had a difficult time placing Mr. Everheart.”
“I often find it hard to remember Americans,” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore said helpfully. “They are all so interchangeable.”
“Yes, well, in the director’s case I would indeed attribute it to age.” She thought for a moment. “At the very least, I do need to have a note delivered to him.”
“We can deliver it for you.” Mrs. Higginbotham smiled. “He is joining us for dinner tonight.”
“Oh?” A calculating look shone in Mrs. Lithgow’s eyes. “Perhaps I should pay a call—”
“Or rather we are joining him,” Lady Blodgett said.
“I see.” Mrs. Lithgow heaved a sigh of surrender. “Then if you would deliver the note?”
“It would be our pleasure.” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore beamed.
A minute later Mrs. Lithgow took her leave and Michael was finally able to escape back to his usual table. It struck him as exceptionally odd that, while Reginald Everheart’s name was familiar to nearly everyone, no one—with the exception of Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore and her friends—could recall actually meeting the man. Oh, Drummond claimed to have met him but Drummond claimed at least a passing acquaintance with every notable personage in existence.
There was something extremely odd about a man with an outstanding reputation that no one could remember. Perhaps there was something in his file that would shed light on the mysterious American. Explorers Club files were not freely available to members but they were not especially guarded either.
In spite of Dulcie’s claim, this wasn’t jealously. Far from it. If he truly cared for her, the least he could do was make certain this man was not some sort of aging charlatan who was no doubt determined to lead her down a path to ruin. No, indeed. Even if Michael could not claim Dulcie’s heart, he was not about to let a man obviously unworthy of her work his way into her affections. This was yet another cliff he would not let her step off. She deserved better. It was up to him to make certain she had a chance at better.
Even if it killed him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I DO HOPE someone has a good idea.” Poppy paced the floor of Gwen’s parlor. After Mrs. Lithgow’s announcement yesterday about honoring Reginald, they had agreed to ponder their predicament separately then meet after church today to decide their next step. Poppy wasn’t sure about her friends but she did request a bit of divine intervention during the interminably long sermon. Indeed, she and the Almighty had had a lengthy one-sided chat. Poppy assumed he had bigger things on his mind and was not simply ignoring her as she left St. Anne’s without being struck by any kind of answer. “No, good is not enough. It will have to be brilliant.”
Gwen and Effie traded serene looks.
Poppy narrowed her eyes. “You already have a plan, don’t you?”
“Not exactly a plan,” Effie said. “But we do have an idea. Which is the start of any good plan.”
“And we do have a little bit o
f time,” Gwen added. “Admittedly, far less than we thought we’d have.”
“I believe things are going quite well with Dulcie and Mr. Shepard,” Effie said thoughtfully.
Poppy nodded. “He did seem to find the flowers most annoying.”
“I think another artifact or two for her to draw would further incite him.” Effie shot Poppy a firm look. “Gwen and I will select them.”
Poppy shrugged.
“Another heartfelt note, perhaps more.” Gwen paused. “Even better—an invitation.”
“To the banquet.” Poppy brightened. “What an excellent idea. But...” She winced. “He won’t actually be attending the banquet because, well, you know...”
“Because he’s not real, you mean?” Gwen asked.
“There is that...”
“Therein lies our problem.” Gwen sighed. “The original plan was, once Dulcie and Mr. Shepard had accepted their feelings, to send Everheart off to the ends of the earth—”
“If not farther,” Effie murmured.
“Cancel his lecture and that would be that. Now, however, we have only a few days to bring them together.” Gwen grimaced. “And do something about Everheart.”
Effie glanced at Gwen. “We do think we have come up with a solution.”
“Excellent.” Poppy perched on one of Gwen’s overstuffed arm chairs. “Go on then, what is it?”
“Well...” Gwen’s brow furrowed as if the words were somehow painful. “You see, we were thinking... And it does seem...well...”
“Oh for goodness’ sake, Gwen.” Effie huffed. “Just spit it out.” She turned to Poppy. “We’re going to have to kill him.”
“What!” Poppy leaped from her chair. “You can’t!”
“Don’t be absurd.” Effie scoffed. “We most certainly can.”
“No,” Poppy wailed. “We can’t!”
“Do sit down, Poppy.” Gwen sighed. “Why can’t we kill him?”
“Because he’s mine.”
“Nonsense.” Effie studied her curiously. “You do understand he doesn’t exist, don’t you?”
The Rise and Fall of Reginald Everheart Page 9
