The Way to London

by Alix Rickloff

  Stepping into the hotel’s grill, she paused for a moment to survey the evening crowd of diners. A few faces she recognized from the newspapers. A few more looked as if they actively avoided being photographed. She dismissed them all, her attention firmly riveted on the man holding court at a table near the bar.

  Bookended by a slender round-faced redhead and a healthy bubbly blonde who looked as if she’d be more at home with a hockey stick in her hand than a champagne flute, Mason Oliver was much as she remembered him. Still handsome in a well-fed, preening way like a prized Persian cat.

  In place of an elegant dinner jacket or a sharp uniform, he wore a sober three-piece suit, though she noted canary-yellow socks peeking from beneath his trouser cuffs. Observing him from the far end of the room, she watched as the redhead leaned across for the bottle of champers, allowing Oliver a view straight to the South Pole. To his credit, he seemed completely oblivious to the ploy. The blonde gushed at something he said, her eager enthusiasm and horsey laugh drawing looks from the nearby tables.

  Lucy snagged a whiskey from a passing tray. It burned a path from her gullet to her knees but fortified her against a mad desire to turn tail and flee. She’d come too far to back out now.

  Seating herself at the bar—perfectly situated so that Oliver’s gaze would casually fall her direction—she ordered a gimlet, heavy on the gin. As hoped, the handsome young bartender winked and waved away her money as he pushed the drink across to her.

  “Miss Stanhope?” A light tenor voice interrupted her appreciation of both the delicious bartender and his delicious gimlet. “Is that really you?”

  She turned on her stool, her expression one of aristocratic ennui. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

  He was standing with a jovial, toothy smile, much to the dismay of his dinner companions. “Mason Oliver—we met in Singapore last year. Don’t pretend you don’t remember. I never forget a face, and certainly not one as striking as yours.”

  She lifted her brows in slow recognition. “Of course, Mr. Oliver. It’s wonderful to see you again, though I’m surprised to find you in London. Last I heard you were headed home to the good old US of A.”

  “I’m here visiting as part of a USO mission. Now that our boys are joining the fight, we have to have some good clean American entertainment to remind them of what they’re fighting for.”

  “I’ve met some of those boys. Are you sure clean is what they’re after?”

  Laughing, he conceded, “We can lead a horse to water, Miss Stanhope. We can’t make him drink.” He glanced back at the blonde, who looked as if she’d like to knock a hockey ball right between Lucy’s eyes. “Scoot over, Pamela. That’s right, Lizzie. Make room for an old friend from the exotic Far East. What’s your poison? The girls are drinking champagne, but as I recall you like your alcohol with a little more kick.”

  “Another gimlet would be divine.” Lucy gracefully slid into the chair vacated by the disgruntled Pamela. “I never did ask you how that evening at the bangsawan theater went.”

  He gave a friendly laugh. “I couldn’t have been more delighted, though, as I recall, your mother seemed rather unwell and we had to leave partway through. How is Lady Amelia? Did she accompany you to London?” He scanned the room expectantly.

  “I’m afraid not.” Ignoring the lurch of her stomach and unable to meet his eyes, she reached into her handbag and artistically removed a Sobranie from her cigarette case. “She and Fortescue made arrangements to remain in Australia. I suppose he wanted to be as close to his investments as possible in case any news of them reached the Allies.”

  His dazzling cap-toothed smile faded, but only for a moment before it returned a thousand watts brighter than before as he offered her a light. “London’s loss is Melbourne’s gain.”

  She leaned close, not in a vulgar “look at me” way as that tart Pamela had tried, but just enough to show she was interested. “I hope I can make up—at least in small part—for Lady Amelia’s absence.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s like old times seeing you again.”

  “I saw Thistledown Manor four times when it came to town a few months ago. I got goose bumps it was so good.”

  “You’re sweet to say so, and I suppose the academy agreed, but I could have done better. With this next one I’m planning—”

  “So there’s a next one?”

  Oliver reclined in his chair with tycoon smugness. “Soon as I get back. We’re still searching for just the right actress, but we’ve got our leading man all lined up.”

  “Really?” Lucy couldn’t help herself. “It wouldn’t be William Powell, by any chance, would it?”

  The evening was perfect—well, almost perfect. Damn it, it should have been perfect. Everything was progressing according to plan. The mirrored ballroom reflected back a dazzling kaleidoscope of dancers clinging to each other in the dim lamplight, a heady buzz loosened her limbs and hazed the world in a gentle glow, and the handsome man in her arms had the power to sweep her far away from Aunt Cynthia and the dreary, disinfected corridors of Nanreath Hall. Yet, something felt wrong. No, not wrong exactly, but definitely uncomfortable, like a pebble in one’s shoe. She could ignore it for so long and then the pang would strike, and her pleasure would dim, her evening’s perfection fraying at the edges.

  It wasn’t Mr. Oliver’s fault.

  He couldn’t help that his wavy cinematic hair wasn’t that certain shade of sun-touched barley gold. At least he had a full head of it.

  She closed her eyes and held him close.

  Or that he was a bit padded round the middle. Really, what was so special about those lean, athletic types anyway?

  Ignoring his slight paunch, she glanced swiftly up at Oliver, who was as blandly handsome and innocuously kind as ever, his manner still brimming with over-the-top joie de vivre.

  He’d never scold with boy-next-door provincial morality or offer sharp-edged Sunday school criticisms of her principles. But then neither would she catch a fleeting glimpse of something hot and dark in his superficial gaze or experience that zing of unexpected anticipation when he offered her his lotion-soft hand.

  He didn’t spend his evenings down at the pub with his mates. Or help little old ladies dial up their favorite radio show.

  He would never ever own a cow.

  Mason Oliver might be her rescuer.

  He wasn’t her knight in shining armor.

  Lucy gave herself a mental slap. What was wrong with her? She needed to get a grip. She’d not hitched halfway across England to hesitate now. Not when she was a foxtrot away from a California future.

  “. . . Bass if you have it . . .”

  That voice. That beer. Was this someone’s horrible idea of a bad joke?

  She risked a glance toward the bar.

  Slicked-back blond hair. An angular face, all teasing eyes and quirky mouth. He chatted with the bartender over his pint as if he were down at the local public house with the lads, dimple flashing. The only one in this damned hotel not playing a part.

  “. . . not really my crowd . . . more a beer-and-skittles type . . .”

  He’d refused the invitation. He’d told her flat out he wanted nothing to do with Arabella. So what in God’s name was he doing here?

  “. . . lost ten bob on Manchester City in the third round of the War Cup . . .”

  Did he still think he could convince her to stay in England? Was that his intention by following her here? Who did he think he was, telling her what she should and shouldn’t do? What gave him the right to boss her about?

  Maybe if she simply pretended she hadn’t seen him. The room was crowded, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that she wouldn’t notice. The refrain of “Day Dream” and Oliver’s fancy footwork sent her spinning out of range. She could breathe again.

  “May I cut in?” A tap on Oliver’s shoulder brought them stumbling to a stop.

  No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. Her evening was not about to be sabotaged.

  �
��Of course,” Oliver conceded—damn him. He might have put up a little more of a fight. She didn’t necessarily want a scene, but now and then it was gratifying to feel like a bone caught between two dogs.

  “Evening, lass. I believe you still owe me a dance.”

  This was completely and utterly unfair. Dirty pool at its dirtiest. She wanted to beat him senseless. Instead, all she could do was smile like a damned fool. “Never let it be said I don’t pay my debts.”

  She recovered her aplomb almost immediately, finishing the dance in stone-cold silence, hoping her frozen glare was enough to rid him of any misconceptions.

  All she accomplished was a throaty chuckle and a flash of that damned infuriating dimple. “You can frown all you like, lass, but I know the truth.”

  “And what’s that?” she said as they broke apart.

  He caught hold of her hand before she could escape, his fingers encircling her wrist. The scar on his knuckle stood out white against the tan of his skin. “You’re pleased to see me.”

  A flutter in her belly, she tore free. “Aren’t you an arrogant sod. I was startled, that’s all.”

  He grinned. She fumed.

  The story of their relationship.

  Despite her very obvious cold shoulder, he trailed Lucy back to Oliver’s table, where she reluctantly explained through a clenched jaw that Michael was an old friend up from Somerset.

  While Pamela and Lizzie tipsily batted their lashes, Oliver smiled indulgently. “Has anyone ever told you how closely you resemble a young Tyrone Power? I think it’s the line of the jaw and perhaps the way you part your hair.”

  “It’s not the full-waiters?” Michael said with a laughing glance down at his dinner jacket. “Haven’t worn this penguin suit since before the war. Surprised it still fits.”

  “It fits divinely,” Lizzie hiccupped into her champagne flute.

  Lucy grudgingly admitted she had a point. On anyone else, the rumpled knees, crooked tie, and scuffed shoes of his evening dress would have given off an air of the dress-up box. On Michael, they hung with old-money-hits-hard-times elegance. Perhaps a result of years as a scholarship boy. He knew how to smooth a path without ruffling a feather. Even the hotel staff took him for some down-on-his-luck earl’s son and bowed and scraped accordingly.

  Oliver chuckled fondly. “You two should go have a drink. Pamela and Lizzie will keep me company. Won’t you, girls?”

  “Of course, Ollie, love,” they cooed.

  “Actually, I really don’t think that’s necessary—” Lucy objected.

  Oliver paid her no heed, shooing them toward an empty table. “Go on now. He’s come all this way to see you.”

  Pamela smiled drunkenly. “How awfully roman”—she belched—“tic.”

  Lucy would have argued that opinion, but Michael was already leading her away. Grabbing hold of Oliver, screaming bloody murder, and refusing to let go didn’t really mesh with her evening’s air of exotic mystery.

  A waiter took their order. She already felt a little tipsy but this evening demanded to be washed down with copious amounts of alcohol.

  Alone, Lucy leaned across the table, staring Michael down with what she hoped was a shriveling glare. “What are you doing here? You’re ruining everything. I left you safely back at the bus stop on your way to deliver jam. Next thing I know, you’re cutting in and spoiling what was going to be my big moment.”

  “You mean he hasn’t invited you to star in his next picture?”

  “He was working up to it,” she said with a completely straight face despite the fact that during the whole of their evening, not a single mention of Oliver’s original offer had ever come up. He’d either forgotten, changed his mind, or handed out his business card to every female between eighteen and fifty. But Michael didn’t have to know that. Let him think she had Oliver eating out of the palm of her hand. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I was too busy basking in the warmth of your welcome. I wish you’d come to your senses and give up this ridiculous notion of yours.”

  “Ridiculous?” How could Michael manage to make her giddy with happiness one minute and a hairsbreadth from murder the next? “Are you saying I couldn’t get a job in one of his movies? That I’m not talented or clever enough? That he would only hire me because he wanted to sleep with me? I may look like an empty-headed bimbo, Michael McKeegan, but I do possess some intelligence.”

  “Of course you do. So stop relying on your pretty face and your slinky maneuvers and use it.”

  His agreeing with her rather stunted her argument. She took her frustration out on her drink and ordered a second . . . or was it a third? Their waiter was extremely attentive. “You think I’m pretty?”

  “Don’t be daft. You know you’re beautiful.”

  “But I asked whether you thought I was pretty.”

  His brows drew down into a frown, his mouth thinning almost to an angry line. “How many drinks have you had tonight anyway?”

  If that didn’t answer her question like a kick in the teeth. Embarrassing heat crawled up her neck and burned in her cheeks. “I’m sorry you had to make the long trip to London just to see me. You could have saved your fare and your breath.”

  “I didn’t come to see you.” He took a sip of his pint, his jaw jumping.

  “Oh.” And no, that was most definitely not disappointment aching her chest. It was simply too many gimlets on an empty stomach. “Oh, well . . . that’s good, then, because I’m going to America with Oliver and that’s that.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  “That’s settled, then.”

  “It is.”

  “Then there’s nothing more to say.”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  They fumed in silence. Michael lit a cigarette. Lucy tried not to glance over at Oliver’s table with obvious longing.

  “Did you ever find Bill’s mother?” Michael finally asked.

  “I’m working on it,” she mumbled, bracing for his scalding I-told-you-so. If only she’d been able to tell him Bill was safely and happily back in the arms of Mrs. Smedley, he’d have had to concede her accomplishment. Then maybe she’d see more than either tolerant amusement or frustrated disapproval in his eyes.

  But there was no self-righteous comeuppance. Not one grumbling remark about her casual inattention. Instead, Michael turned his pint round and round, staring into the glass with a strange tightness to his features, seeming only half-aware of their conversation.

  It suddenly occurred to Lucy that she and Michael had much in common—a lifetime of being on the outside looking in, wedged like square pegs into round holes. Michael had shaped himself to fit by learning to be one of the in-crowd, more gentlemanly than any Etonian heir. She had fought tooth and claw against the whole damned lot with their rules and their hypocritical decorum, too furious and full of spite to bend even a little, though it might save her from greater pain.

  The only difference was that Michael had chucked it all in to return to the one place where he didn’t have to be anyone but himself.

  Lucy had no such refuge.

  “I suppose if you’re not here because of me, you must be here to see Arabella.”

  He continued staring into his pint as if reading his future within the foam. “I got to thinking about what you said. About taking a chance or always having questions. I knew Arabella and I were a long shot. But for those few short months, it didn’t matter. I’ve wondered over and over if we could have made it work if we’d only tried a little harder. Now I’ve the chance to find out, how can I just walk away?”

  “You must love her very much.”

  He didn’t answer at first. He traced a watermark on the tablecloth, his gaze turned inward, his shoulders hunched. Silently, Lucy watched the past play out behind his stony features.

  “I got as far as buying the ring.” His hand tightened around his glass; his breath caught, then settled. He gave a sad laugh and a shake of his head. “It was my l
ast night in London before I was due to ship out. It seemed like the perfect moment to propose. I’d be leaving, but I’d have a piece of home that I could dream about while I was gone.”

  “Arabella had other ideas?”

  “She wanted her father to pull strings and have me transferred to a training company or some posting that would keep me in England. We had a huge row about it, and I left for overseas, the ring still in my pocket. Not exactly the grand romantic gesture I’d been aiming for.”

  “So here’s your chance.” Her chest was as tight as her smile. “Go in there and sweep her off her feet all over again.”

  “I don’t know what I’d say to her. What we’d say to each other.”

  “Corporal McKeegan at a loss for words? That I’d pay folding money to see.”

  “I knew I could count on you for a sympathetic ear,” he said with the first hint of a smile.

  “You don’t need sympathy. You need a kick in the pants.” She stood up from the table, swaying only slightly, and grabbed him by the arm.

  “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

  “To Arabella, of course.”

  “But what about Mr. Oliver? Your big chance?”

  “You mean my ridiculous notion?” She glanced over to see Pamela tilting precariously while Lizzie flirted with a busboy. Oliver chatted with a gentleman at the next table. “He’s not going anywhere. I’ll help you secure your happy ending, then I’ll come back and secure mine.”

  “Just when I think I have you pegged, Lucy Stanhope, you surprise me.”

  She smiled. “So who’s riding to whose recue now, eh?”

  The wood-paneled reception room glowed golden warm in the soft light from the wall sconces, while an enormous chandelier gilded the pomaded hair of the dinner-jacketed men and set the precious stones around the necks of silk-clad women sparkling. A groaning buffet stood along a far wall heaped with delicacies most Londoners hadn’t seen since Chamberlain’s government fell. Waiters glided through the crowds dispensing drinks and savories while a small trio of musicians warred with the clamorous babble of conversation.