“Davis, there you are,” Peter said.
“Yes, here I am,” he replied, raising his drink as if in a toast. He took a sip and looked over the room. “Beautiful event,” he added, looking about for the cake that must have been recently rolled out and presented to the room.
Can I not go more than two minutes without thinking on Anne Preston? He cleared his throat as if that would somehow set his thoughts on a different path. All the effort accomplished was making him more curious than ever to seek out the cake and admire the workmanship of Anne’s own hands. He felt a slight weight on his arm and looked down to find Clara’s hand there.
She seemed to be studying his face. “Are you quite all right?”
“Y-yes,” Davis stammered.
Clara folded her arms. “Very convincing.” Her raised brows and challenging tone said more than a ten-minute speech from Peter ever could.
Davis never could hide his feelings from Clara. She was better at divining them than Peter.
I cannot very well say that I’m enamored with the woman who made that cake. He took another sip of champagne. But perhaps I can mention my concern for her. Not for a moment did he believe that his command to the stable hands would be obeyed for longer than a few hours. No, much stronger action needed to be taken to ensure Anne’s future safety.
“As a matter of fact, something is on my mind.” He stared at the rim of his glass.
Peter must have heard, because he stepped closer, his arm circling Clara’s waist, his eyes growing hooded. “What is it?”
“Nothing of a diplomatic nature,” Davis assured him. “At least, I don’t think it would be, unless we decide to make it one.” Now he was thinking aloud, and his words made no sense.
Peter and Clara exchanged glances. She squeezed his arm gently. “Tell us. Perhaps we can help.”
At once, Davis forgot any cause for embarrassment, any fodder for teasing the revelations about Anne could create. All of those fell away as concerns for himself dropped and his concerns for Anne Preston’s well-being took precedence. “I came across something tonight that distresses me,” he began. “I fear that had I not been where I was at the very moment I appeared, things could have turned out vastly different for a local woman.”
He tipped his head toward the front of the room, where the cake was now in view thanks to the thinning crowd. It sat atop a silver pedestal in regal glory, with iced roses and lace covering the whole. How one could create such beauty left him almost breathless, but he managed, “It was the woman who made that cake, actually.”
Peter glanced that direction but then stepped forward and put a hand on Davis’s shoulder. “What is it, man? Tell us.”
So he did, including his order to the stable hands. “I’m sure my words were about as biting as a toothless dog. They’re bound to cause trouble again, and as Miss Preston seems to be a favorite target of theirs, I worry about her. I’ve laid eyes on her but twice, and yet—”
“When was the other time?” Clara broke in.
Blame it all. He shouldn’t have said that. She and Peter would be that much more likely to tease him now. But his genuine worry for Miss Preston outweighed any prospective discomfort from the two of them, so he pressed on.
“She’s the woman from Gunter’s Tea Shop who served us the other day.”
“Oh, yes,” Clara said. “Beautiful girl. I was quite taken with her.”
As was I.
“Come,” Peter said, for once not seeming eager to jump on an opportunity to needle his schoolmate. “Let’s speak with the hotel manager right now.”
“Are you in earnest?” Davis asked even as he set his half-empty glass on a passing server’s tray.
Peter did the same. “Absolutely. We’ll demand those hands are dismissed immediately. If the hotel manager refuses, we’ll remind him that I represent the United States, and that we will not put our own women at risk by patronizing a business known to harbor criminals.” His mouth widened into a grin. “You see, diplomats from many nations stay at the hotel, and they must all be assured of their safety. I’ll have two of my security men talk to the manager tonight.” He sighed, pleased with himself.
“I like the way you think, my dear chum,” Davis said.
For once, Peter’s innate ability to get what he asked for come what may would benefit Davis.
Rather, it will benefit Anne, he thought. Which, in this case, is the same thing.
Chapter Five
In spite of Anne’s attempts to distract herself from thoughts of Davis Whitledge, hours of repetitive work allowed her mind to drift. As she stirred icing and smoothed it onto layers of cake, or stretched taffy, or washed dishes, or as she did a thousand other things, her thoughts always returned to the handsome American who had hints of gray at his temples and crow’s feet by his eyes from smiling so much.
Over and over she replayed the night he had appeared behind her to rescue her in the stables. Only in her mind, it was not Hank and Eric but nefarious pirates that Davis had saved her from, and not only a destroyed cake he’d prevented but her very death by walking the plank. At times, she almost believed her fanciful imagination and the variations it created as to what had really happened that night. Almost, but never quite.
Daydreaming helped to fill what was otherwise a lonely void in her life. For a few minutes at a time, she could feel like more than an old maid with no family, with days so monotonous that they all blended together into a single shade of gray. Without such daydreams, she did not know how she would live one day to the next without losing her sanity entirely.
But she did wish that one dream would vanish like so much morning dew on the grass: the idea that Mr. Whitledge would ever return to Gunter’s. Her nerves were nearly shot thanks to the jingling bells on the door that rang each time it opened for customers going in or out. Each time, her heart jolted just a little more. No amount of reasoning that the person coming or going had nothing to do with the American could stop her heart from jumping.
And so it was three days after the night of the cake delivery, as she drizzled flavored and colored syrups onto a cool slab of marble, on which the syrup would harden in various designs. The door jingled yet again. Anne gritted her teeth and focused on the dragonfly shape she was drizzling with the syrup. She would not ruin the design and waste precious materials.
It is not him, she thought. He is likely on his way back to America even now. I will never see him again.
America. Now that was something worthy of her distraction. She felt her mouth curve into a slight smile as her thoughts drifted away once more, but this time across the Atlantic Ocean. She let her mind roam to some town near the harbor. She could see herself on a busy little street, setting up her own shop and having her own bells to announce the door. No, she’d use something else. Something prettier sounding than the bells at Gunter’s.
As she was finishing her mental inventory of the many tools and implements and ingredients her personal shop would one day have, one of the young boys raced back to the kitchen. Anne glanced up, her gaze returning to the marble and her work, only to jump back up as she realized that Freddie’s eyes were wider than they had been the day Mr. Whitledge first visited Gunter’s. Her airway narrowed, and she struggled to keep her hands steady. She tilted the syrup bottle upward so it wouldn’t spill.
“What is it?” she asked Freddie.
It cannot be the American. Yet the look on the boy’s face said otherwise. Maybe it’s another American, and that’s why Freddie’s so excited. Or some very rich Englishman, or a member of the Royal Family. Or . . .
“It’s him,” Freddie said breathlessly. He held up a shiny coin between finger and thumb. “Look what he gave me! Just for coming into the kitchen to tell you that he’s here—inside the shop!”
Anne froze and gaped, staring at Freddie until he pointed to the counter. “Um . . .”
The single word thawed her enough to look down at the marble, only to find a veritable puddle of red syrup and the d
ragonfly designs blurred into unrecognizable blobs. On the instant, she gasped and quickly righted the little earthenware pitcher of syrup. Her normally quick reflexes seemed to have abandoned her, however. She could not think how to save the syrup. Indeed, the necessity of doing so seemed to have fled her mind, likely accompanied by her reflexes, wherever they’d gone.
“Will you go out to speak with him?” the boy asked, eyes sparkling. “He promised me two more pennies if you do.”
“What does he want with me?” She stood there half-thrilled, half-terrified, her gaze lingering on the door to the front of the shop, as if she could see through it to see Davis Whitledge standing on the other side.
“He didn’t say, except that he has something he wanted to speak with you about.”
Freddie’s reply drew Anne’s attention back to him; she hadn’t realized she’d spoken the question. She swallowed against the sudden knot in her throat, then reached for a damp dishcloth and wiped her sticky hands with it. They shook as if she were about to beard a lion in its den. Had she done something to unwittingly offend him? Should she go out to meet him? Would that be wise, or terribly foolish?
As if I have a say in the matter.
“Come,” Freddie said, sounding a bit too much like a governess coaxing a child. He rounded the counter, then pushed her toward the kitchen door.
She didn’t resist, at least, not much. Not that she could have, so weak were her knees, and her heart hammered against her chest like a bird trying to escape a cage. Before they reached the door, she took the boy’s hands off her and handed him the dishcloth. “I can handle it from here,” she said. Though truth be told, she wasn’t all that sure she could. But she was not about to let Mr. Whitledge see her being pushed from the kitchen by a young boy.
The child gripped the cloth in one hand and gestured toward the door. “Go on, then.” Again, he used a tone he must have heard from adults demanding behavior of him, which sounded strange and sweet all at once.
She smiled and ruffled his hair. “I’m going.”
“Don’t mess up my hair!” he said in the first and only instance of vanity she’d ever seen in him.
“I beg your pardon,” Anne said, glad for the excuse to return to some levity. “I’d never wish to hinder your prospects by making you look any less distinguished.”
“That’s all right,” Freddie said as if she’d been in earnest. With one hand, he tried to smooth any misplaced hairs, then added, “His lady friend said that when it lies flat, I look grown up.”
The simple statement made Anne’s step come up short. Her hands were already pressed flat against the door, ready to push it open, but she froze. His lady friend. A sudden flare of envy rose within her—a foolish, illogical emotion, considering how little she knew Davis Whitledge. She had no claim at all on him, other than the one in her daydreams.
She dared not encourage the boy to reveal anything more, as that would only make her more nervous. With bold steps, Anne pushed the door open and stepped through. Hopefully she did not look as flushed and nervous as she felt. She casually looked about the shop until her gaze landed upon Mr. Whitledge and his lady friend. Anne could not be sure, but the woman looked very much like the one from the carriage the first time she’d seen Mr. Whitledge.
If my brothers could fight Napoleon, I can face two unarmed Americans.
Anne strode bravely across the room. “Mr. Whitledge, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you,” he said tipping his head in her direction. He held his top hat in one arm, his gloves draped over the edge, and gestured toward the lady with his other. “May I introduce my cousin, Mrs. Clara Cowley. I believe you crossed paths once before but did not get a proper introduction.”
The jealous heat in Anne’s breast retreated, and she smiled broadly at Mrs. Cowley. “A cousin. Indeed?”
Davis made the pretense of shock with a false gasp. “Hard to believe, I know. Who would’ve thought that my foppish university mate could fool such an intelligent lady as my cousin into joining him in matrimony?”
Mrs. Cowley lifted one eyebrow and tilted her head in challenge. “I am not entirely sure if that statement is more of an insult to my husband or a compliment to me.”
“Perhaps I misspoke about the intelligent part,” he said, eying Anne with a chuckle.
His cousin playfully swatted his arm with the back of her hand, then extended it toward Anne. “A pleasure to see you again,” she said. “And a pleasure to be properly introduced, even if it had to be by my rather ridiculous cousin.” She leaned forward slightly and mock whispered, “We tolerate him and let him think he’s the smart one.”
“Ah,” Mr. Whitledge said, placing an outstretched hand on his chest. “I am deeply hurt.”
The banter completely melted whatever ice had previously frozen Anne, and she laughed warmly—something she hadn’t done with such freedom in some time. To think she’d ever felt a moment’s envy of Mrs. Cowley. Unfortunately, the moment had only made Mr. Whitledge that much more admirable and attractive.
“I understand you asked for me,” Anne said. “How may I be of service?” She forced herself to look between the two Americans, even with her cheeks heating into what had to be a remarkable shade of pink.
“Let’s chat elsewhere,” Mrs. Cowley said. “Come with us for a turn about the park. But please, call me Clara. I am not used to the British rules of etiquette and prefer to hear my Christian name. To my ear, ‘Mrs. Cowley’ will always be my husband’s mother.”
“Very well, Clara, but then you must call me Anne.”
“Agreed.” Clara slipped her arm about Anne’s elbow. “You’ll walk with us, then?”
Anne had never felt such inner turmoil at making a quick decision. Oh, how she would love to go outside and walk with Clara and Mr. Whitledge. But she could not up and leave the shop if she hoped to remain employed. “I would love to, truly, you have no idea how much. But I’m afraid that I must work—”
“Surely the shop can spare you for a few moments,” he said.
What would it be like to never fear the consequences of such choices? To him and his cousin, the invitation involved nothing more than a walk. To a member of the working class, and a woman besides, it could mean losing more than she could afford to risk.
“Mr. Whitledge,” she began.
“Don’t you worry about that little detail.” He walked toward the counter but slowed his step enough to turn slightly and speak over his shoulder. “But I must request that, hereafter, you call me Davis.”
Anne thought she nodded agreement, but once more she couldn’t move. Mr. Whitledge leaned against the polished wood and spoke with Mrs. Argus. “What is he doing?” Anne asked Clara.
With a pat on her arm, which was still in Clara’s grasp, the latter said, “He is addressing the situation.”
A moment later, Mrs. Argus took several coins from Davis and slipped them into an apron pocket. Straightening, Davis tossed two more pennies to Freddie, who’d waited patiently by the kitchen. The rotund Mrs. Argus patted her pocket and blushed, clearly pleased with the attention from Mr. Whitledge as well as the money he’d offered. As she turned to the next customer, Davis walked back to the women as casually as if bribing people were an everyday occurrence for him. Perhaps it was.
He clapped and rubbed his hands together. “Now, do I have the pleasure of escorting you two fine young ladies about the park?” He held out his elbow, offering it to Anne. Unsure, she took it, highly aware that she was about to exit the shop, in public, walking with each of her arms taken by a wealthy, influential person. Davis held the door open for them, and they passed through, after which they crossed the street into Berkeley Square, and he wound her arm about his again. Anne had long wished to be escorted somewhere—anywhere—by a man such as Davis Whitledge. But in all of her daydreams, she hadn’t considered the small details of what such an event might feel like.
Now, a thousand little things about the new experience felt exciting, fro
m the warmth and heft of his arm beneath her hand to the sound of his heavier footfalls beside hers. The reality of his tall, broad self. His very masculinity, which seemed both natural and powerful at once. She focused on every detail, committing them to memory, intent that when this day was over, she would be able to recall every moment and every sense—the sound of his voice and laugh, the scent of his soap, the rumble of his laughter in his chest.
As they walked about the park, she mostly listened to Davis and Clara talk about their home in Boston, the sights they’d seen so far in England, their observations and opinions on English food, and more. The longer they walked, the more Anne became aware of others staring as they passed. Rather, staring at her.
I must look like a dandelion trying to blend in with red roses.
Her boots were old, and she could not remember when last they’d been shined. Only her toes peeked out from her hem, which itself was thready and ragged. She couldn’t bear to look at the upper-class people about the square; their expressions would ruin the moment—and future daydreams—for her. So she lowered her eyes and kept them trained on her feet. Soon she was aware of every crack and scuff on her boot tips. Each imperfection seemed to call out another way she did not belong in Berkeley Square or anywhere else in the Mayfair district of London.
As they rounded another corner, Clara stopped speaking—about what, Anne couldn’t have said—and furrowed her brow, halting their progress and turning to Anne. “My dear, whatever is the matter?”
“Nothing,” Anne said quickly, regretting her clear inability to hide her emotions. “I am quite well. That is, it’s nothing—”
Thanks to Clara’s words, Davis looked at her and leaned in. “It most certainly is something,” he said. Then, addressing his cousin: “I’m not sure how this is possible, but she looks both feverish and peaked at the same time.”
A Night in Grosvenor Square Page 12
