She plopped down a few seats away, feeling satisfied with the scene. Undoubtedly she had Christopher Stanley to thank for those avid readers. Readers who no doubt would feel interested in a book written by the same expert who took a London playboy to task for his careless ways.
It was not often that discretion paid off in the history of the Darcy-Bennet alliance. According to family history, when the Darcy line covered up her ancestress Georgiana’s romantic indiscretions, it ended with a worthless rake married into the Bennet line. In the modern-day rags, Lydia Bennet’s elopement with a rakish soldier would have been the equivalent of a cabinet member’s daughter running off for a wild weekend with a pop star.
The modern-day Darcy, however, could benefit from a little exposure now and then–or at least by exposing someone intent on stifling their career. This justification kept Olivia comfortable with her decision all the way to Hay Street and beyond. Even if a twinge of guilt struck her now and then, between sips of coffee and tawdry tales of celebrity misdeeds in the tabloid’s pages.
Family legend also recorded Lydia Wickham’s own daughter ending up in quite a scandal–involving a foreign count and a stint on the German operatic stage.
*****
Another email from Connections Anonymous was waiting in her inbox. She frowned as she glanced at the bold caption. “Another potential match awaits,” it proclaimed in caps.
Perhaps my profile needs a bit of tweaking to find a match. But a second appearance, uninvited, might spark the agency’s attention and lead to workplace anecdotes that could blow her cover. Not at all what she intended when she signed up for undercover relationship connections.
She clicked open the message. YoungRomantic waiting to meet you at eight o’ clock, Rosing’s tonight. Elegant dining in a well-lighted atmosphere meant additional effort was required. She had rather hoped for something a bit more casual. Formal meant pressure–the last thing she needed on a date.
Pulling her date planner from the desk drawer, she flipped it open. Stealing a furtive glance to make sure no one was watching, she moved her pen past the previous date and scribbled a notation in the calendar.
She half-expected another letter to be among her emails or envelope pile, expressing Mr. Stanley’s dismay over the missing apology, but none was there. A twinge of disappointment shot through her as she finished sorting through the day’s epistles. Complaints about lovers who snore and sweethearts who sleepwalk, yes. But not a word from PyroTech’s lawyers threatening her with libel.
The final notice in her inbox was from the paper’s archives. Rory was true to her word: the attached files on Christopher Stanley stretched on in a digital mile. She clicked on the first one, a profile of PyroTech’s overnight rise in the digital world.
The phone rang, startling her from her thoughts. “Morning Post, Miss Darcy’s desk, how may I help you?” she recited, cradling the receiver against her shoulder.
“Miss Darcy,” the voice on the other end began. Deep, male, and offensively familiar. Her shoulders stiffened slightly as if the man in question had crept up behind her.
“Why, Mr. Stanley,” she answered. “What a pleasant surprise.” How fortunate that there should be a phone line and heaven knows how many miles between us right now.
“Hardly pleasant, I’m sure,” he answered. “I think we can avoid the need for pretend conversations after the tabloid covers this morning.”
“I was wondering how long it would take for you to contact me on that subject,” she answered. “I trust you’re not phoning to apologise? After all, you did expose me to unwarranted publicity.”
There was a hoarse laugh on the other end. “An accurate statement, although the unwarranted part is hardly true. I believe that if anyone benefited from such an incident, it was yourself.”
He cleared his throat. “However, I realised my behaviour was somewhat...harsh,” he continued. “For someone like yourself, that is. Unaccustomed to the world of business and the ‘unniceties’ of profits and markets.”
“I think your behaviour qualified as insulting by most normal people’s standards,” Olivia retorted. “You overestimate your personal charm considerably, sir.” She interpreted the sound on the other end as a derisive snort from her antagonist.
She drummed her fingers against the desk. “Let me assure you, if you’ve called because you fear I’ll put the episode in one of my columns, you’re quite mistaken. I have no intention of airing my personal business to the world.”
“Too late for that, Miss Darcy,” he answered. “But that’s not why I phoned. I wanted to ask you to meet me in private. Perhaps to strike a truce, if you’re open to such a concept.”
“Of course I am,” she said. “I would be happy to put this issue behind us for once and all.” Beneath her desk, she crossed her fingers. Envisioning a meeting that yielded a new theme for the column–perhaps a future book chapter on guidelines for making peace with an opposing force in one’s love life.
“Three o’ clock, then. At Brandon’s Brew,” he said, referring to a coffee shop a few blocks from her office.
“Perfect,” she answered. “See you then.” She hung up the phone.
Two hours in which to rally her offensive line and face the arrogant mind behind digital innovations. Unless that stack of stuff held his Achilles’ heel, it would take every bit of her pride to resist apologising to the same man who insulted her opinions mere days ago.
Perhaps today was not as promising as she first imagined.
*****
A lavender suit and heels made a statement no businessman could refuse. Miss Darcy had read that marketing premise on the garment’s sales tag and agreed. So pale it was merely a sheen of colour over white, she appreciated its ability to be both a bit chic and a bit business at the same time, making it possible to attend dinner engagements straight from work.
She appreciated the confidence it conveyed as she made her way towards Christopher Stanley’s table in the coffee shop. Amidst the crowd of sweater-wearers and dog-walkers, her appearance was no doubt formidable. Even commanding, dare she say it, since Stanley himself was wearing a rather faded blue sweater and khakis.
His smile faltered slightly as he surveyed her appearance. She was quite certain he forced it into place again by the time she slid into the seat across from him.
“Mr. Stanley,” she said, with a brief flash of white between her lips. Hands folded neatly on her lap, her legs crossed in a professional pose that forced her to sit sideways.
“We meet again,” he answered. His manner was forced and awkward– it was obvious that he was equally uncomfortable in this meeting. “I really didn’t intend this to be business. As I’m sure you’re aware at this point.” He tugged at the folds of faded blue on his arm.
“Then I apologize if I seem a little overdressed for the occasion.” With a little helpless smile and shrug.
“I realize that we hardly know each other, so it’s a bit difficult for us to talk–coming from such different backgrounds,” he continued. “You, of course, are aware who I am and what I do, I assume.”
“I’m aware of a bit more than that,” she answered. “For instance, the relationship rumours –a few dozen in the past few years, mostly attractive, low-profile types. Arm candy, as the critics describe them.”
As the waitress poured them two cups of coffee, Miss Darcy reached for one and took a sip. “Then there’s the image you’ve peddled of a teenage wonder tinkering in his basement, dreaming of taking a company public by the time he was thirty.”
"I see," he answered, a slight element of surprise in his voice. "Your research is impressive."
She added a splash of cream from the jar on the table. “So I suppose that fantasy has come true for you, hasn’t it? Complete with millions and a model or two hanging on your arms.”
Her smile was a trifle wider as she met his eyes. He released a short laugh.
“Well done,” he answered. “A bit short and inaccurate in places–” he
studied his palms for a moment, “–but not bad. Considering you obviously had no idea who I was when we first met.” As he glanced up into her face with a grim smile. “But then I’ve also done a little digging into your past.”
It was her turn to be momentarily discomfited, envisioning all the things he could have found out. Was it possible for a media genius to hack into the dating base of Connections Anonymous?
“Your big break into the magazine world was particularly revealing,” he continued, “with its unfortunate consequences for Mr. Hartshall Elliot. And, of course, there’s your inevitable Pride and Prejudice connection–as one of the Darcy’s.”
“Quite right,” she said, her heart slowing to its normal pace. “Considering you had never heard of me either.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Since we were equally ignorant, perhaps now we are equally informed.”
“I had some idea of who you were,” she defended. “Your company is hardly a public secret at the flurry of Christmas video games.” She stirred a cube of sugar into her cup.
“But you were willing to debate me at the Brighton’s cocktail party.” He grinned. “Not many would choose to openly debate a heartbreaker on the subject of romantic faux pas.”
She avoided answering his argument. “Then I suppose there’s no doubt about why we’re here, Mr. Stanley. Since you raised the subject yourself.”
He leaned forward. “You have something I very much want, Miss Darcy. The power to retract your opinions in print.”
“You mean the opinions you object to, I assume. The ones about your careless romantic habits,” she answered. “Then you should assume that you’re wasting your time by asking.”
She disarmed her statement with another smile, hoping to soften the temper building so evidently in his features. The jaw muscles working furiously beneath crimsoning skin.
“Perhaps you meant well in offering your advice, Miss Darcy; but I assure you it isn’t needed. Or necessary, for that matter.” His voice grew softer with these words. “Your point is taken, if that makes you happy.”
“What makes me happy is sharing any opinion I chose,” she replied. “Consider it the ‘doctor’s privilege’ of my profession, if you will. If I retract them arbitrarily, what will my readers think? My advice will come into question in the future, my column will lose its credibility. And all because I tried to appease one unhappy reader.”
“You won’t lose your credibility–” he began, shoving away his cup of coffee impatiently. “I can’t understand your hardheaded insistence that no one will respect you if you retract a rash and irresponsible column.”
“A column that only you see as a problem,” she countered, her eyes focused with a growing fascination on the tension twisting his features.
“Because I do not wish to be recognized as its subject!” His fist slammed down on the table. The rattle of china and silver attracted the attention of other patrons, including an elderly woman who frowned in their direction.
Olivia’s silence effected a sheepish glance from Stanley, who was making great effort to check his temper, as evidenced by the veins moving in his neck. His eyes roved the room in a quick glance, taking in the curious patrons, his fingers playing with the sugar bowl in front of him.
“We’ve been over this subject in the past, Miss Darcy,” he continued, in a controlled voice. “Nevertheless, I must insist that you drop this topic in your column and issue a retraction of your previous opinions. In no uncertain terms.”
Heat rose in Olivia’s cheeks. “Perhaps you might explain how ‘uncertain’ those terms are,” she replied. Her antagonist seemed unaffected by her tone as his gaze fell casually on the scenes outside the window.
“Perhaps an incentive to apologise and move on would help change your mind. A monthly guest feature in the Telegraph, for instance?”
Even those cool grey eyes could not possibly read the depths of her indignation. She gripped the ceramic mug in her fingers, muscles rigid with repressed anger.
“If you’re planning to bribe me, I would advise you to rethink the matter,” Olivia answered. “After all, it was you who stalked me to my office and you who tried to convince me to give up my column’s integrity.” She rose and gathered her shoulder bag from beside the table.
"Miss Darcy–" he began.
“Somehow I think the public will be more sympathetic to my side of the story, don’t you?” she asked, before walking away from his table with swift steps.
Her sudden action caught him by surprise. Scrambling to his feet, his shin made sharp contact with the table’s leg. She heard an oath escape his lips as he fell back into his chair, but she didn’t bother looking over her shoulder to confirm the crimson tide undoubtedly consuming his features at this moment.
Mr. Christopher Stanley wasn’t worth a second glance from her.
His offer was still burning in her mind as she sat aboard the bus, clinging to the hand rail to guard against the sway of its movement. How dare he! The insolence, the sheer arrogance–it was as if the whole world was for sale and he simply needed to name a satisfactory figure to control its movements.
No wonder his girlfriend felt unwanted–no doubt his interest in her vanished the second he spotted another desirable female commodity.
Thinking about him built her anger even as it made her feel cheap and speculative, like a gossip reading the tabloids with childish glee. A feeling Miss Darcy loathed despite her desire to feel triumphant following her departure from the coffee shop.
No matter Mr. Stanley’s feelings of shame, he still had no right to bribe her or publicly scold her into a change of opinion. That was the important lesson in all of this, she reminded herself. That was the important lesson that was going to define her column for the next month.
Mariah accosted her as soon as she entered the office. “I hope you’ve got a draft ready to show for tomorrow’s paper,” she said. “Collins has been bugging me for a half hour about your whereabouts since he wants to see the write-up of the next column.”
“He’ll have to wait,” Olivia answered. She slid into her chair and rattled her mouse to awaken the sleeping computer monitor.
“What are you up to?” Mariah asked, suspiciously. Miss Darcy shook her head, her fingers stroking the password’s keys in a swift motion.
“Wait and see,” she answered. Her mouse clicked open a new document as she made herself comfortable behind her desk. Across the bank page, her words appeared with a rapidity that matched the speed of her thoughts–all of which pertained to the last hour of her life.
Glancing at the clock, she noted the time. Four hours until her blind date at Rosing’s. Until then, her time belonged to the growing enigma Christopher Stanley.
At six o’ clock, she handed over her column to the copy editor. “Give that to Mr. Collins. With my compliments,” she said.
“Isn’t it a bit late?” Stacy asked. “He wanted ‘Life and Love’ together by five, he told me.”
“Well, he’ll have to put up with it being late,” Miss Darcy answered. “But once he reads it, I think he’ll agree it’s worth it.”
Chapter Seven
Dear Miss Darcy: I’ve fallen in love ... as somebody else! I know, I know, it sounds weird, but it's true. I was pretending to be a friend of mine, using their life to impress people at a bar, when the Perfect One strolled up to me. We hit it off instantly and we've been seeing each other every week, but I don't have the courage to tell the truth about who I am. What if it all ended the moment the truth came out? How do I get out of this mess?
–Lovestruck in Lambton
The interior of Rosing’s was bright and dripping in elegance. White walls with gold filigree, oppressively heavy red velvet drapes, a string quarter throbbing a Baroque melody. Customarily, half the tables were reserved for London’s elite and patrons from the upper ranks of society, leaving only a handful available to the average diner. Miss Darcy anticipated that tonight’s dinner would be a side-by-side affair at the bar.
She was ten minutes early to the restaurant, but only because she hadn’t changed after office hours. Checking her jacket, she surveyed the lavender dress in the lobby mirror and stole a glance at her heels for signs of smudges. Nothing amiss, everything perfect, right down to the curls coiffed at the base of her neck.
Taking a deep breath, she strolled to the entrance of the dining room as she reminded herself that the quaking inside her body was merely a mild case of nerves. A hostess armed with a menu intercepted her in the dining room.
“Good evening, Madam,” the hostess said with a smile. “Do you have a table reserved with us?”
“Actually, I’m meeting someone ...” she began, then trailed off. The presence of a young man at the bar attracted her notice. A young man with dark hair and a slightly rumpled suit, the trademark pink rose of Connections Anonymous tucked in his lapel.
Henry! No, no, it can't be... Her eyes froze on his figure as the hostess glanced helpfully in the same direction.
"Is that the gentleman?" she asked. For a moment, Miss Darcy could say nothing. Snapping free of her thoughts, she shook her head.
"No, no, it isn't," she answered. "I'll just seat myself and wait for him, thanks." The hostess moved on, leaving Olivia in plain view of everyone in the dining room. As Henry's glance roved from the bar towards the dining room, she ducked out of sight.
"Trick ankle," she explained to the nearest table as its occupants stared at her with surprise. She raised her head to see if Henry was still looking; but he was busy conversing with the bartender, his eyes trained away from her.
Her retreat was as hasty as her stiletto heels would allow. A few short feet to the foyer and she would be free with her secret safe.
She collided with a man entering the dining room, whose arms grasped her in an attempt to keep them both from falling. Glancing up with an apology, she felt the words die on her lips.
Dear Miss Darcy (The UK Edition) Page 6
