by Joanna Shupe
Eva’s mind whirled as she tried to put all these pieces together. His fiancée had been with child? Where was said child now? He’d led her to believe—
“She was indeed. And would you care to guess as to the identity of the father?”
“Well, I assume it wasn’t Mansfield,” Nora said. “Otherwise the wedding would’ve proceeded.”
“Correct. The girl only accepted Mansfield’s proposal because she’d conceived a child with some butcher’s son. Fancied herself in love with the young man.”
Oh, no. Eva closed her eyes, sympathy swelling in her chest like a bubble. Poor Phillip. He would’ve hated the embarrassment above all else, the public blow to his pride. This was clearly what his mother had been referring to when she’d mentioned Phillip’s broken heart.
No wonder he shied away from marriage.
And why did that knowledge sadden her? She had no intentions of marrying, not after three failed attempts. While she knew she wasn’t truly cursed, perhaps fate had been telling her something with those failures. That perhaps she was meant for greater things than household accounts and hosting dinner parties. That she should focus on her career and passion in architecture instead.
A knock on the door interrupted them. The Cortland butler emerged with a silver tray carrying what appeared to be a cable. “I beg your pardon, but this telegram just arrived for your ladyship.”
He came to Eva’s side and held out the salver. “Me?” He nodded and she scooped up the message. The only cables she ever received were from her father’s secretary. Tearing it open, she paled as she read the words inside.
When she finished she could barely breathe. Could barely think. Cold fear had wrapped around her heart.
Nora clasped her hand. “Eva, what is it? You’re scaring me half to death.”
“My father,” she rasped. “He’s taken a hard fall and is bedridden. He—he may not live.”
“Oh, no. Eva, I’m so sorry.” Nora’s grip tightened on Eva’s hand. “What can I do?”
“I . . . I must pack. I need to return home.” She had to see him, needed to sit at his bedside. She started to rise, but Nora grabbed her arm to stop her.
“I think you should wait a day or so. Leaving immediately feels rash.”
Eva frowned, surprised at her friend’s comment. “Rash? What if he dies? I’ll never forgive myself for not being there.”
“The trip will take you three weeks, longer if you find yourself in bad weather. If he recovers in a day or two, there’s no turning back once you’re on the ship.”
She pressed a hand to her chest, hoping to alleviate the ache there. “But if he dies . . .”
“You still won’t make it in time.” Nora’s eyes were gentle. “Darling, I know this is upsetting but think what your father would want you to do. What did he always tell you?”
Eva swallowed. “The work comes first.”
“That’s correct. The work comes first. So wait a few days. Cable your staff as often as you like to keep abreast of his condition. The truth is, he won’t ever know if you are there with him or not—even if he is awake.”
Tears pooled in Eva’s eyes, a hot, stinging flood of emotion. Unfortunately, Nora was right. Her father’s memory had deserted him. Even if Nora were there, he wouldn’t recognize her. “But I will know,” she said, wiping the moisture from her cheeks.
“He’s too stubborn to die from a fall. He’s hardheaded, just like his daughter.” Nora rubbed Eva’s back in long, calming strokes. “Give it two days. If he’s the same, then book your passage home.”
“All right. I’ll wait. I hope this isn’t a mistake.”
“You’ll see. This will all work out.”
Eva wished she shared her friend’s confidence. If they were wrong, she’d never recover. Perhaps her father had been wrong all these years about his priorities because, right now, it did not seem like the work should come first.
The curtains to the private dining suite parted and in entered Mr. Ogden Doyle, the renowned Boston architect and designer. Phillip rose from the table and closed the distance between them, his hand outstretched. “Mr. Doyle, thank you for coming.”
Doyle, a lanky man in his early thirties, shook Phillip’s hand. “Mr. Mansfield. I appreciate the invitation.”
They settled in chairs and a waiter appeared to take drink orders, vermouth cocktail for Doyle and a whiskey for Phillip. “And please bring a bottle of champagne for our third guest.”
Doyle removed his gloves and tucked them in his coat. “Third guest?”
“My architect’s representative.”
“Ah. I had heard E. M. Hyde is your primary architect.”
Phillip couldn’t keep the smug smile from appearing. “Yes, I was fortunate enough to land him.”
“Especially before he became ill.”
“Indeed. He is expected to recover soon, however, and will join us here in New York.”
Lines of confusion dotted Doyle’s brow. “Oh. But I had heard his condition was—”
Eva burst into the room at that moment, a vision in an emerald green silk evening gown. Just the sight of her curves had Phillip’s blood heating. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her today, not after she canceled their Monday evening rendezvous. She’d begged off, saying she was unwell.
She looked exquisite tonight, however. Perhaps he’d have luck in convincing her to join him at the apartments after dinner. He quickly pushed the reaction aside. There would be time enough for that later.
Both men came to their feet. She hurried to the table, her gait purposeful yet feminine, a large case in her right hand.
“I apologize for my tardiness. There was a streetcar accident on Forty-Second Street.” She thrust her hand at Doyle. “I am Miss Ashford, his lordship’s secretary.”
Doyle froze for a brief second then quickly bowed over her hand. “How lovely to meet you, Miss Ashford.”
When Doyle released her, she gifted Phillip with a soft, heart-stopping smile. Something inside him turned over. “And good evening to you, Mr. Mansfield.”
He also bowed over her hand, kissing her gloved knuckles for good measure. “Miss Ashford. Thank you for joining us tonight.”
“Of course, though I am a little befuddled as to the purpose.”
“All in good time. Let’s enjoy our drinks and order dinner first.”
The waiter returned as they were discussing Boston, the people they shared in common. Doyle came from a good family there, his uncle a long-practicing architect in the Northeast. Phillip resolutely avoided any discussion of the Kerrys or their daughter—his former fiancée—Caroline. That business had long since ceased to be important to him.
A dinner order was placed and the staff gave them privacy. Phillip leaned back in his seat, ready to get to tonight’s purpose. “I was impressed by what you did inside the Back Bay Club, Doyle. I had the occasion to visit earlier this year.”
“Thank you. It was something a bit new for me.”
Eva interjected to ask, “What exactly did you do?”
Phillip liked that she was not shy about inserting herself into a conversation or asking questions. He let Doyle answer.
“They hired someone else to design the exterior, but allowed me to handle the interior. I had complete control over every detail, from the draperies, to the furniture, carpets, and paintings.”
Eva’s brows went up, and Phillip knew what she was thinking. With most projects, the interior was left to upholsterers, who believed the more furnishings used—which all had to be upholstered, naturally—the better. There was no eye for taste or continuity, just gewgaws every which way one turned.
“You have a talent for it,” Phillip added. “Which is why I wanted to meet with you. I’d like for you to design the interior of the new Mansfield Hotel.”
Doyle’s eyes rounded, his face going slack. “Your new Fifth Avenue hotel? I would be a fool to say no.”
“Even still, you should think it over. As you may
have heard, I can be a difficult employer. I’m exacting and don’t care to be deceived or placated. This project is important to me for various reasons and I plan to be very involved.”
“Mr. Mansfield,” Eva said, gaining his attention. “Before Mr. Doyle provides an answer, I have a question. What of the rooms I’ve already earmarked with a certain design theme? Some cannot be altered.”
“For example?”
“Well, the ladies’ drawing room on the main floor. We agreed to recreate Marie Antoinette’s apartment.”
“How clever,” Doyle said, stroking his chin. “All round, with mirrored walls?”
“Exactly.” She leaned in, excitement fairly glowing on her face. “The ceiling will be inset and covered by a large fresco. I’ve already made inquiries into replicating the furniture.”
“Sounds as if you have a majority of the work planned out.” Doyle looked between Phillip and Eva, clearly wondering where he would fall in line.
“Not even close. You would, of course, consult with both Miss Ashford and E. M. Hyde about the space and any plans they had. But there’s much to be discussed outside those common areas, such as decisions on the rooms, from the most expensive suite right down to the cheapest single.”
Three waiters entered, their arms laden with china plates and bowls. The food was arranged in front of them, drinks refreshed, and then the waiters disappeared once again. Phillip nodded for Eva to begin, and she started on a plate of clams. He’d selected cream of artichoke soup, and Doyle had gone for the bisque of shrimp.
“I am intrigued,” Doyle said. “But I’ve only decorated a few homes and the Back Bay Club. Why me? You could hire almost anyone for this project.”
“You sell yourself short. You come highly recommended, and I’ve also seen the home in Newport you decorated. I believe you have an eye for this kind of thing. My hotel must have the right atmosphere, one unparalleled in this country. I want luxury but also want accessibility. Jaws should drop, but it shouldn’t cost so much that only a handful of people can afford it.”
“That is quite a lofty goal.”
“I realize as much, which is why I only hire the very best people. The ones who can accomplish the impossible.”
“Well, I’m no E. M. Hyde,” he said, dragging his soup spoon through the bisque. “Or even Miss Ashford, it seems.”
Eva flushed under the compliment. “You are too kind. And I suspect humble, as I know Mr. Mansfield’s standards.”
“When would I need to start?”
Phillip leaned back in his chair. Doyle would say yes, he could feel it. “As soon as you’re able. The foundation will be poured the week after next and then we’ll start framing the floors. Hyde will arrive in a few weeks or so, once he recovers. Having your input from the beginning will be critical.”
A familiar face appeared in the doorway. Phillip pushed back from the table and rose. “Miss Hall. Good evening.”
Becca’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the scene before her. “Good evening. I apologize for the interruption, but I wondered if I might have a moment to speak with you, Mr. Mansfield.”
He nodded and then turned to his dining companions. Eva had gone stiff, her gaze pointedly on her clams. She wasn’t upset over Becca’s arrival, was she? Eva knew there was no reason for jealousy. “If you’ll both excuse me, I’ll only be a moment.”
Doyle waved his hand in Eva’s direction. “No rush. This will give Miss Ashford and me time to get acquainted.”
Phillip didn’t care for the sound of that, but how could he complain? To the outside world, Eva was merely Hyde’s secretary and Phillip’s employee. Without further comment, he followed Becca into the corridor. Electric lights framed with glass sconces hung on the walls, throwing a soft yellow glow onto the patterned wallpaper. No one else was about, thankfully.
Becca was wringing her gloved hands. “I’m sorry. I had to warn you, and when I heard you were dining upstairs I came as quickly as I could.”
“I don’t mind. I’m with business associates.” He rolled his shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable with referring to Eva in those terms. Acting as if she were unimportant to him, as if he wasn’t burning to bury himself inside her once again.
“It’s my father,” Becca said, reclaiming his attention.
“Your father?”
“He’s growing anxious.” She motioned between the two of them. “About us. He plans to seek you out to determine your intentions.”
He winced. This had been the consequence he’d feared most. With him and Becca spending so much time together, her parents had every right to make assumptions about an imminent betrothal. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him there is nothing serious between us, that I do not wish to marry you. I’m afraid he’s heard it before, unfortunately. This time he doesn’t believe me, especially with all the rumors flying around the city.”
“Perhaps he’ll believe me.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“He cannot force us to marry, Becca. He has no leverage over me and I’m hardly a green lad. The worst is he tries to retaliate in some manner, but I doubt it. My family is too venerable to strong-arm.”
She mulled this over a moment. “He’s desperate to marry me off. I think . . . I think they suspect something between me and her.”
“I’ll deal with him if he approaches me. In the meantime, we should just continue to go about our business as usual—with a bit more circumspection.”
“As long as you’re prepared.” She ran a hand over her stomach, smoothing her gown. “I must find a way out of that house. Move someplace where no one knows my name.”
“I can assist you with that. Merely say the word.”
The lines in her forehead eased and she rose on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “You’re a good friend, Phillip. Thank you.”
“No thanks are necessary. Just keep it in mind if your situation becomes untenable. Now, hurry back to your table before they notice you’re missing.”
Chapter Fourteen
The instant Phillip left, Mr. Doyle put his knife and fork on the edge of his plate, his boyish expression turning shrewd. “So, tell me. Why are you lying, Lady Eva?”
Eva’s jaw dropped, the comment catching her by surprise. “How did you . . . ?”
He leaned in. “Because I am a student of architecture. I have studied his lordship for years. He’s . . . something of a hero to me. And that is why I suspect E. M. Hyde did not design the Mansfield Hotel.”
Eva swayed in her seat, all the blood draining so quickly that she felt dizzy. Her heart pounded behind her ribs, a powerful drumbeat of doom. Mouth gone dry, she swallowed. “He did.”
“It’s obvious from your reaction he did not.” He chuckled. “You must be worried I’ll tell Mansfield. I won’t, you know. I have too much admiration for E. M. Hyde—and for you. There has been talk for some time in the community about your talent.”
“Why would you keep such a secret—if it were true, I mean?”
“Mansfield is no fool. He’s obviously carefully reviewed what you’ve done. If you made him believe it was your father’s work, you must be as talented as the rumors. Does he know you are Hyde’s daughter?”
Her chest swelled, the compliment filling some of the cracks in her confidence, the ones formed from years of doubt and frustration. “Yes, Mansfield knows. We thought it best to conceal my true identity from the workers because of the moniker I’ve acquired in London.”
“Ah, yes. Lady Unlucky. The superstitious fools. May I see the plans?” He gestured to the satchel by her feet.
Reaching, she found the satchel and withdrew the traces of the hotel, while Mr. Doyle moved their plates to a nearby table, giving them room to spread out the drawings.
He bent to examine the front exterior, following the angles and markings with his finger while mumbling under his breath. “Loggias, gables, tiled roof. All of these top-floor rooms will have balconies?”
“Yes
.”
Turning to the floor plan, he asked, “What do you plan here, in this interior garden courtyard?”
“White terra-cotta and frescoes. Three fountains in a line.”
“Beautiful. And this room here, this large one on the main floor? It merely says State Room.”
“Mansfield plans to turn that into a restaurant. We’re thinking mahogany and green marble.”
He continued through each level, concentrating on the details and flourishes she had included. The touches that would make this design hers. When he finished, he straightened and gestured toward the drawings. “This is absolutely stunning. The city—and the country—has never seen anything like it.”
“Thank you. He wanted it to be the best in the world. An unlimited budget helped as well.”
“The towers, these with the mansard roofs, they’re very Second Empire. Nicely done.”
Eva grinned, pleased he’d caught that. “Yes, I thought so.”
“And the domes over the corner turrets . . . I am quite impressed. It is easy to see why Mansfield loved your design.”
She admitted nothing, but she assumed her face was the color of a tomato, her chest nearly bursting with pride. Doyle hadn’t belittled her or mocked her at all. She liked that about him. He seemed kind and thoughtful, not one to overtake a project with his own ideas. “Does this mean you want to work with me?”
“Of course. As I said, I’d be a fool to refuse. Tell me, how is your father’s health?”
Grief knotted her throat. Since receiving the news of her father’s fall, she’d hardly been able to eat or sleep. Two more cables had arrived from her father’s secretary to say her father was resting comfortably, having awoken a few hours after the fall. He’d hit his head and was confused, but alive.
As Nora had predicted, he hadn’t died and remained unaware of his surroundings. He wouldn’t have known if Eva returned or not, a fact that broke her heart.
Her father. Her protector, her mentor. Her family.
And he no longer knew her.
Eva kept hoping his condition would improve, that the doctors were wrong. Sadly, this seemed unlikely as time passed. Still, she needed to be with him in these final years, for however long he had. She had decided to see the foundation poured and then return to England for a visit.
