Though born of English immigrants, Davis was American through and through. As such, he struggled to grasp the English mentality of class and the etiquette demanded of such things. While certain people in America were most definitely considered higher class, the reasons usually amounted to money or education, though the two often went hand in hand. But in America, a man could pick himself up by the bootstraps and change his status; he wasn’t bound to the station he’d been born into.
That was precisely where he lost understanding with the English, no matter how much he admired their literature, architecture, and art.
All these thoughts flitted through his mind in a matter of seconds. He was briefly tempted to open the door and check on Anne, to be sure she hadn’t been unduly upset over the encounter, but thought better of it. While he knew little about the rules of English etiquette, Peter had pounded one lesson into him: that a man and an unmarried woman should never be alone together. Such a thing might taint a man’s reputation, but it would utterly destroy a woman’s.
So no, Davis would not open that door to seek out Anne Preston, for her sake. That didn’t mean, however, that he was finished with the matter.
With the side of his walking stick, he tapped his palm several times. From the top of the short staircase, he scanned the stables, hoping to find evidence of where the hands were now. He suspected that they hadn’t left altogether, though they’d run into the dark street. They’d likely return to finish their work tonight. Had they run home? Although, come to think of it, did they have a home that wasn’t part of the hotel and stables?
When he saw no sign of them, he stepped down the stairs slowly, one at a time. They were probably hiding from him until he left. Let them think he planned to. With each step, he used his walking stick to announce his presence. He even cleared his throat once or twice to be sure they’d hear where he was and that he was heading toward the street. When Davis reached the shadows outside the mews, he secreted himself behind a burnt-out lamppost and watched the stables for movement, hardly daring to breathe in case the sound, or the puffs of white air, would give him away.
After a few minutes, the men appeared, first moving cautiously, looking about the stables, then toward the servants’ entrance, and even over their shoulders toward the street. They gave no sign of spotting Davis. Seemingly confident of being alone once more, they returned to talking and laughing—and to referring to Miss Preston in the most disrespectful terms. Their language was not as foul as he’d heard on the docks in Boston, but anything ill spoken of a woman sent a surge of protectiveness through Davis, the kind he felt for his elder sister Bonnie, who’d seen to his upbringing after their mother passed away in his infancy. He’d heard men on the street spreading lies about how Bonnie earned the money that kept him eating and their small flat from freezing. He knew they were all lies, for he’d seen her take on jobs to make every penny—laundry, ironing, mending, and more, until her hands were raw and chapped.
By the time he was grown and strong enough to stand up for his sister, to protect her from such vicious lies, she’d already taken to her bed for the last time. He’d forever regret being unable to avenge his sister’s honor, yet in some small way, all of these years later, Anne Preston had lit a similar protective flame inside him. A small but undeniable flame. He could not protect Bonnie, but this night, he could make certain that Anne Preston returned to Gunter’s Tea Shop unmolested.
Minutes passed, with little happening beyond the stable workers mucking stalls, feeding horses, scraping muddy rocks from hooves with a hook, and doing other mundane tasks. From his position, Davis watched the boys, never taking his eyes off them except to check the servants’ entrance for any sign of Anne. Small and wiry, no doubt thin from constant work, she looked perhaps thirty or so. Close to the age at which Bonnie had passed.
Of course Anne Preston was not Bonnie, but she reminded him of her, and he’d vowed to spend his life trying to atone for his sister’s death. No matter how many associates assured him that it wasn’t his fault, he could never convince himself. He’d been so occupied with his university studies that he hadn’t noticed Bonnie’s one brief mention of a fever in a single letter, or at least, it hadn’t concerned him. She’d always been capable of caring for herself and anyone else.
In her typical fashion, Bonnie didn’t want to be a burden to him. By the time he learned of the nature and seriousness of the illness and flew to her bedside, it was too late for him to do anything but hold her hand and offer what comfort he could. If only he’d asked her about the illness or inquired of her neighbors. Even when he left Boston to go to her bedside, he had to search to find her, as she’d moved to a tiny flat several blocks away. The room was scarcely nice enough for vermin to live in. She’d gone without coal to cook with and warm up by, managing to survive on raw vegetables—mostly potatoes—and near-freezing water to drink and bathe with. She spent her days wrapped in blankets over blankets so as not to freeze to death at night.
She’d done it all to give every possible penny to Davis for his schooling. He’d had no idea. He’d assumed that their father had set aside a fund for his education—and while that was technically true, it had been a paltry sum that hadn’t lasted more than a few months. Bonnie supplemented the rest however she could.
He’d sat at her bedside, shedding tears and begging her to stay, promising to care for her no matter the cost. He didn’t understand the full sacrifice she’d made for him, and wouldn’t until after her quiet burial. That was when the rumors caught hold and spread like a flame set to dry bushes. First it was the whisperings of men and women alike as he passed. He overheard their words, their degrading tones.
He’d never been a dandy who drank his money or spent it on lavish clothing, art, or the opera. But during his university years, he hadn’t worried about money. He’d never felt a need to flinch at purchasing a new book. He’d never worried over hiring a laundress or housekeeper or eating meat at most evening meals. None of those things seemed frivolous. Comfortable, surely. But he had plenty of friends who drank their family money, gambled it away, and indulged in the darker side of humanity by consorting with the kind of women Bonnie had been accused of being. Even so, his spending had cost Bonnie everything.
More than fifteen years after her death, Davis still found his hackles rising at the insinuation. His nostrils flared at the attacks his innocent sister had endured, and he wished he’d known they were happening. She’d done it all in the name of keeping a promise to their mother that Davis would get an education. As the only living son, he would carry on the family name with honor and have a beautiful life and posterity. He would be able to care for Bonnie in her old age . . . if she’d lived to see it.
Here I am, almost forty years old, with no wife or posterity, and no sister to support, either.
But he did have that Harvard education. Unlike his classmates, he’d had no family to witness his graduation. He’d plunged into starting his own business, yet he found himself often distracted by situations like these—by women who, due to no fault of their own, could benefit from help the way his Bonnie would have. Women like Miss Preston. This world was not a safe one for women, not when men like those despicable stable hands existed, and he viewed it as his duty as a man to stop such abuses wherever he could. He wouldn’t be in London long, but he most certainly would take action to be certain that she would not be accosted in such a manner by those two sniveling, vulgar men ever again.
He’d done similar things in other cities when he could, but he did not recall many faces or names. But Anne Preston held his fascination and stoked the flame of protectiveness more than any woman he’d encountered in his travels. He knew instinctively that he’d remember her long after tonight and for more than the protective surge that reminded him of Bonnie. There was something more about her that held him captive.
The wood door of the servants’ entrance finally creaked open again. Suddenly alert, Davis peered around the lamppost, waiting. The stableboys
did the same, standing from their chores, wiping sweat from their brows, and watching Anne Preston as she walked, head high, gaze straight forward, along the stone-paved walkway from the door to the street. She didn’t look the least bit afraid.
Good on her, David couldn’t help but think. She’s got a fire inside. He admired the tilt of her lifted chin, how her shoulders were pulled back, how she walked with a stately air that almost seemed to belong to one of the women in ball gowns inside the hotel.
The party. Drat.
Peter was certainly waiting for him, though few others would notice his absence. He wanted Davis there, however; somehow his presence among the London elite was supposed to help elevate both his business and marriage prospects. Part of his mind said he should care about such things, but he always snorted whenever Peter brought up the topic.
Not that Davis didn’t admire women. On the contrary. And he wasn’t opposed to matrimony. But to make that kind of commitment, he would need to find a very special kind of woman—one who saw the world and its problems as he did. One who would not protest their wealth being spent—squandered, in some people’s minds—on small acts of kindness that might forever go unseen.
Davis highly doubted he’d meet such a woman at an upper-crust ball at the Millennium Hotel. Most women in attendance wouldn’t have the slightest concept of what the world outside of their personal experiences looked like. “Charity” to them would mean sending money to some far-flung mission in Africa to convert heathens, not helping the poor, sick, and indigent on the streets of their own cities.
He watched Miss Preston reach the street, his eyes darting to the stable hands every few seconds. Fortunately, while they stopped their work to watch her, they didn’t approach or speak to her. And when she entered the darkness outside the stables, she let out an audible sigh of relief. For a moment, Davis felt the slightest bit guilty for watching her unawares, though his motives were good. The gentleman in him wanted to make sure she was aware of his presence, but speaking up right now would likely only startle her into a fright. Instead, he remained silent and walked a distance behind her all the way to a back alley of Berkeley Square, where she unlocked a door and went inside. When he heard a bolt click into place, it was his turn to breathe a sigh of relief.
He wanted to stay, to peer through a window to watch her work for a moment, to admire her profile and gentle eyes, the confidence each of her movements spoke of. But he’d already stepped beyond the bounds of propriety by secretly escorting her. Not to mention that Peter would be wondering at his absence at the ball.
Time to change into his best suit and make an appearance. Not at all how he would prefer to spend his evening, no matter how fancy the caviar and wine. He suspected he’d enjoy an evening in the kitchen of a sweet shop, watching Anne Preston at work and learning more about her—perhaps making her laugh or smile. That would be an enjoyable way to spend an evening.
He hurried back the way he came, but when he reached the stables again, his step came up short thanks to the laughter and conversation between the two stable hands.
“Did you see her face?” one said.
“You mean when she looked like this?” The other must have been mimicking poor Miss Preston.
“Next time, I dare you to open the box and eat whatever’s inside.”
“Care to make it interesting?” the other said. “What will you give me if I do?”
Standing just outside the yellow lantern light of the stables, Davis felt his heart beat double time. His fists involuntarily clenched.
“I’ll muck out your share of stalls for a week.”
“That long?”
“But you must eat at least two bites of her delivery and kiss her.”
“Kiss that old thing? That’s a lot to ask. Make it two weeks.”
“That old thing”? And wagering on kissing her? How dare they!
As much as Davis wanted to march into the stables and pound the boys, he knew that one must play by social rules. Oh, he’d go to the ball. And while there, he’d ask Peter for how best to handle the situation with the stable hands.
Because one thing was certain: if Davis Whitledge had anything to say about it, those fiends would never again have the opportunity to harass Anne Preston.
Chapter Four
Davis stormed into the stables and planted his walking stick firmly on the ground. The hands looked up in surprise.
“I will say this once and once only. You will never again bother Miss Preston in any manner whatsoever. You will not speak to her. You will not block her way. You will not touch her, nor anything she carries. For the remainder of your days.” He paused to let his words sink in, then added, in a confident but less demanding tone, “I assume I have made myself clear.”
The men seemed stunned into silence. Davis didn’t wait for a response. He spun on his heel, this time striding quickly until he was engulfed by the darkness of the street. He almost felt as if he were covered in a vile smell from his interactions. As he reached a streetlamp, he slipped his timepiece from his vest pocket.
Blazes, he thought. He knew he was late, but not that late. Peter would be wondering what delayed him, though at least Davis wouldn’t get an earful about schedules and showing respect to a country’s leaders during a diplomatic visit—not during the party. He’d surely hear it all later, in their adjoining suites. Clara had a way of diffusing tensions between the two friends, who were as close as brothers.
He returned the pocket watch to its home and increased his pace to round the hotel and enter from the front. He passed the tall white columns that lined the hotel’s facade and glanced into the night-darkened square. He’d rather spend the evening meandering the paths—a pleasant respite from the bustle of the city streets. That was not to be tonight. Peter expected him to appear at the ball.
Davis hurried to his room, where he changed into his best suit. Not for a moment did he stop thinking of Anne, reliving every detail: her voice, her words, the strong shoulders and raised chin that told the stable hands that she didn’t fear them. Her smile. Her warm eyes. He hadn’t been taken with a woman in far too long—and had nigh unto given up hope of ever experiencing such a thing again.
It’ll be some time before I forget the fire in those eyes and the sweetness of that smile, he thought as he tied his cravat.
He’d tired of young women practically throwing themselves at his feet, batting their eyelashes, speaking in a falsely high-pitched tone that he half expected to shatter crystal. Despite their fancy dresses and jewels, he found none of them appealing, and he was quite sure that they did not find him attractive, either. They found his reputation and success attractive. If he lost those things, they would never again look his direction. The fawning was nothing but pretense, as if they wore masks to hide their true selves. Not to mention that most were so young that he could practically be their father.
No, he found himself drawn to the rare woman whom he could enjoy a long conversation with, a woman with opinions of her own even if they differed from his. He enjoyed the women who made him think and challenge his own assumptions and opinions. He could not bear the thought of spending his life with someone who batted her eyes but had nothing in her head. The brief interactions he’d had with Anne told him that she did, in fact, think for herself. She had a tangible inner strength that he’d rarely seen in women. He found that undeniably attractive. Such strength was created through life and experience—through maturity. Girls newly out in Society quite simply could not possess such a thing. No, Davis wanted a woman to share his life with, not someone who functioned as a pretty decoration on his arm but left his emotional home and hearth barren and cold.
The closest woman he’d found to that description was his cousin Clara, who, as fortune would have it, married Peter two years ago. She’d proved to be a delightful addition to his life, with wit, brains, opinions, and even a striking, almost dangerous sense of humor when she decided to wield it. What he felt for Clara was nothing beyond brotherly af
fection—and she certainly seemed to have entirely taken on the role of sister, to the point that they could tease each other mercilessly. While he didn’t love Clara in a romantic sense, her existence proved that intelligent, mature, pretty women did exist. At least one did.
Once, fifteen years ago, he’d fallen madly for Angelique, a French girl visiting the States. She’d toyed with his heart and then casually tossed it aside after her eight-month tour of America. He hadn’t heard from her since and had no desire to, either. He’d never again allowed flattery, outer beauty, and that irritating high-pitched manner of speaking to distract him again. As his business had grown and he became known as a successful, wealthy man, more women than ever sought after him—something he found neither pleasant nor flattering. No, if he ever married, it would be to a woman who cared for him for the person he’d been before he made money, and who would love him even if he were to lose every penny.
He’d practically given up hope that he’d ever meet someone like Clara for himself. Naturally, cruel as fate was, the very kind of woman he yearned for might well have appeared in his path, living on the other side of the globe.
Davis made his way back to the ballroom, where a doorman bowed slightly and held a door open for him. Davis returned the bow, then smoothed one hand across his hair to ensure it lay properly. He sauntered into the ballroom without drawing undue attention to himself. Better yet, he spotted Peter and Clara in full evening dress, standing a pace off, each holding a flute of champagne as they listened to the prime minister speak at the front of the room.
Passing a waiter with a half-full tray, Davis retrieved a flute of champagne for himself, then took a spot beside Clara and pretended to be deeply engrossed in the prime minister’s words. Neither Peter nor Clara noticed him for several moments, which gave him time to, he hoped, calm his heart rate, warm up from the outside chill, and look as if he’d been there the entire time. With the official business over for the evening, the throng shifted, and a murmur seemed to buzz in the room as people conversed with one another.
A Night in Grosvenor Square Page 11
