The Way to London

by Alix Rickloff

  Lucy snatched two champagne flutes from a passing tray, handing one to Michael. “Yum. Veuve Clicquot. Nothing but the best.”

  He downed it in one go. Plucked another while it was still within arm’s reach.

  “Easy, champ. I don’t have time to peel you off the carpet. I’ve a man to catch.”

  “Don’t remind me,” he grumbled.

  She shot him a look, but he was staring unflinchingly past a gray-haired man in uniform bearing a colonel’s worth of pips and chest medals, over a rather dumpy young woman in an MTC tunic and skirt, and through a hawk-nosed matron of statuesque proportions with a tittering laugh to focus with gun-sight precision on a young woman in a chic off-the-shoulder evening gown in a smoky shade of pink. “There she is.”

  Lucy didn’t need to be told. She recognized her from the photo hidden away in Michael’s drawer. Just watching her, she could tell that Arabella was everything Lucy wasn’t. She carried herself with that unconscious grace that only comes from being the apple of the world’s eye—and knowing it.

  As if sensing their gaze, the woman turned and her smile stiffened, her expression frozen in a bewildered mix of pleasure and apprehension.

  “She didn’t think you’d come,” Lucy offered.

  “I wouldn’t have if it weren’t for you.”

  Something in his tone made Lucy cock him another sideways glance, but his gaze remained focused on Arabella, now gliding through the crowd as if tugged by an invisible cord, her moment of shocked surprise smoothed into polite pleasure.

  “What do I say?” he hissed through a frozen smile.

  Lucy leaned close, whispering, “‘Hello’ is always a good place to start.”

  Arabella pulled to a nervous stop, her eyes darting between the two of them. “Michael . . .” She smiled as if she walked on eggshells. “I can’t believe it. Is it really you?”

  “It’s good to see you again, Bella. Been a long time.”

  “Two years and three months, but who’s counting?”

  He cleared his throat as he shifted from one foot to the other.

  Good golly, what happened to her gregarious social butterfly? A block of wood had more personality than Michael. Lucy stepped in before this reunion died on the vine. “How do you do? I’m Lucy Stanhope.”

  “Arabella Nash.” The young woman dragged her reluctant gaze from Michael to smile politely. “It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Stanhope.”

  “This is quite a party. What’s the occasion?”

  Arabella’s forehead wrinkled, her rosebud lips pursing as if she was ashamed of the ostentatious display. “My father’s birthday. He’s been absolutely living at the office recently so Mother decided a party would be just the thing to divert him. It’s mostly his stodgy old friends in attendance, but there are a few of us under the age of fifty milling about.”

  Lucy barely took in the dashing men in uniform and the pretty women in evening gowns until . . . wait a minute . . . she focused on one particular miss whose face looked frighteningly familiar. She’d exchanged her sturdy ARP wool for ethereal Champcommunal silk, but there was no mistaking the no-nonsense sturdiness of Irene Turnbull. So where was Lady Turnbull? Not by the piano. Not by the drinks bar. Not by the—oh dear. There she was. Draped on a very harried-looking ensign.

  Neither of them had spotted her yet. There was still a chance to slip away unnoticed.

  “Father . . . Sir Reginald . . . your father is Sir Reginald.” Lucy’s string of cocktails swam uneasy in her stomach. “Sir Reginald is your father.”

  “That’s right. Do you know him?” Arabella looked at her curiously. Michael looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  “Only by complete coincidence.” She tried casually edging behind Michael, praying Lady Turnbull would remain locked in discussion and not look over.

  “Daddy’s work at Whitehall has simply knocked the stuffing out of him. Barely sleeps. Barely eats. Mother hoped a party at the Dorchester would remind him of better times, but I can’t help thinking that nothing will ever be normal again. We won’t be normal ever again.” As she said this, Arabella tore her eyes away from Lucy’s odd crablike lurking to glance hopefully up at Michael.

  “If you mean, can we go back to the way things were before the war, then no, I don’t think we can,” he said somberly. Frankly, he hadn’t been anything but somber since they arrived. If he didn’t snap out of it soon, he was going to blow his big chance. “But maybe we can build something new.”

  Bull’s-eye! Pink stretched high across Arabella’s cheekbones. “Could we?” She girlishly bit her bottom lip. “I’d like that.” Placing a manicured hand on his forearm, perfect pink polished nails against the black of his tuxedo, she looked up at him through long dark lashes. “Are you thinking about moving to London? Will you look for a job?”

  Lucy didn’t wait to hear his answer. She’d done her part. It was up to Michael now.

  Oozing her way free of the couple, she headed for the door. If she was subtle and quick, she might be gone before anyone was the wiser. Just before she made her getaway, she glanced back to check on the lovebirds’ progress. Arabella had relaxed into conversation and Michael laughed at something she said, their heads bent close, bodies almost touching.

  For the briefest of moments, envy knifed Lucy’s heart and she caught herself imagining a different happy-ever-after.

  An obliging champagne-laden waiter passed.

  Then so did the moment.

  Chapter 21

  So much for not going anywhere.

  Pamela and Lizzie were still at the table, a bit glassy eyed and definitely feeling no pain, but Mr. Oliver had been replaced by a pair of accommodating naval officers. After checking in the hotel’s restaurant as well as the bar and the ballroom, and skulking near the lifts until the hotel detective started cocking her a suspicious eye, Lucy gave up and asked at the desk.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Stanhope. Mr. Oliver has gone out for the evening.”

  Bloody perfect. She’d been close enough she could taste the damn daiquiris. That would teach her to play village matchmaker.

  “Would you care to leave him a message?” the helpful clerk asked.

  “Yes, please.” She managed to scribble a quick note that included her current address and a burning desire to continue their reminiscences of old times and good friends. And if she happened to spill a splash of perfume on the envelope as she did so, that was no one’s business but her own. “If he does return, let him know I’m in the bar.”

  “Very good, miss.”

  It took two more drinks and a Sobranie before she could think about the situation without either weeping or cursing. A good beginning. A drunken binge later, she might even get over the fact that she had let a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity slip through her fingers—and for what?

  To help Michael rekindle an old flame with a sweet dewy girl who doubtless made it her life’s work to be kind to babies and old people, never drank anything stronger than sherry, and knitted scarves for the deserving poor when she wasn’t rescuing puppies.

  She and Michael would be very happy together, the stupid sod.

  A lump formed uncomfortably in Lucy’s throat. Best to wash it down with another gimlet.

  “Be careful, Miss Stanhope.” A tap on the shoulder brought her up out of a tall cocktail glass of self-pity. “That gin you’re slurping might very well have started life in an upstairs bathtub.”

  Could this evening get any worse?

  “Good evening, Lady Turnbull.” She glanced past to check for oncoming policemen but saw only a hotel porter and two women on their way to the loo for a touch-up.

  “I told Irene I’d seen you but she didn’t believe me. Said I was mistaken. I am never mistaken.” Without asking, she settled into a chair, her flowing orange-and-gold gown drifting about her ankles like a pumpkin-colored cloud.

  “Won’t you join me?” Lucy asked facetiously.

  “Love to. Sir Reginald’s party is just what I thought
it would be—all hot air and small minds. He’s always been a bit of a dull boots, which age has done nothing to remedy.” She flagged down a waiter and was brought a glass of barley water and two antacid tablets. “I escaped just before Mrs. Ness-Pryce began describing her latest health crisis. She’s probably still in there droning on over her puffy ankles. The woman is a slave to Harley Street.” She guzzled the barley water with a satisfied smack of her lips. “Ah. Better than the hair of the dog for preventing a case of the morning-after blue devils.”

  Was the woman ever going to come to the point, or did she derive enjoyment from playing with her prey like a cat with a rather tired and wilted mouse? Lucy tried to remain aloof, her face fixed in an expression of unconcern while her insides rattled.

  “You look as if you could use one yourself.” She flagged down the same waiter and a second barley water with antacid tablet chaser appeared. “Who was that young man I saw you with earlier?”

  “Just someone I bumped into in the lobby.”

  “Frightfully handsome. Nice eyes. A bit on the thin side, but pleasing nonetheless.”

  “He and Arabella Nash are an item.”

  “Are they? Tip-top girl. Takes after her mother, thank heavens.” She settled more comfortably in her chair. “You’re probably wondering why I sought you out.”

  “It had crossed my mind.”

  “You didn’t think I’d put two and two together, did you, Miss Stanhope? But Lady Boxley’s cousin was my late husband’s sister-in-law, and I remember Lady Amelia Trenowyth’s wedding to that brash American financier. It was the talk of London that spring. As was your very premature birth five months later.” Her diamond-hard gaze softened. “I spoke to your aunt this afternoon, as a matter of fact. I’m very sorry to hear about your mother.”

  Lucy’s hands tightened round her glass. “You wait. Just when everyone’s written her off, Amelia will make a grand entrance. That’s what she does. Keeps you guessing. Keeps you hoping.”

  “Perhaps.” She paused. “Lady Boxley is most vexed, you know. So is your cousin. Something about a missing automobile.”

  “I can explain that . . . and the scratch too.”

  “No doubt, but neither the whereabouts nor the state of Lord Melcombe’s roadster are my concern.”

  “They aren’t?”

  “Of course not. It’s you I’m worried about—as is your aunt. She’s been fretting for days.”

  “I doubt that. She barely noticed I was there to begin with. I doubt it mattered that I left.”

  “It mattered very much.” Lucy’s face must have betrayed her skepticism. “Oh, I know Lady Boxley can come off a bit pompous, but deep down she’s an old softie.”

  “Fathoms apparently.”

  “When she heard the news about your mother, she worried you might do something foolish while overcome by grief.”

  “One has to care to grieve.” Lucy stared into her drink. “One has to have had a family to feel its loss when it’s taken away.”

  “Perhaps you care far too much.” Lady Turnbull stood up to leave but not before placing a thick ivory calling card on the table. “If you ever have need of me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “As I said, your aunt’s cousin is my late husband’s sister-in-law.”

  “What does that make you?”

  “Your family.”

  An hour later, Lucy remained at her table, fingering Lady Turnbull’s calling card as if it were one of Bill’s marked aces and sipping on a pink gin, compliments of a rather snozzled gentleman at a nearby table. Hope for Mr. Oliver’s return dwindled, but she was not yet ready to admit defeat and drag herself back to the Connaught with her tail between her legs. Hopefully, Michael’s night had gone better than hers. One of them should be able to call their trip to London a success.

  A waiter approached and expectation instantly replaced intoxication. “Is Mr. Oliver back?”

  “No, miss. There’s a young boy at the front desk. Says he won’t leave without you and is threatening fisticuffs unless we produce you immediately. I believe he is under the impression you’re in some sort of trouble. Guests are beginning to stare and Mr. Blacker, the desk manager, is growing quite agitated. I fear he may call a constable if something’s not done.”

  “This young boy wouldn’t happen to have brown hair, freckles, and a mouth like an East India dockworker?”

  “That does fit the description, miss.”

  “Of course it does. Because my night hasn’t been a complete disaster.”

  She followed the clerk into the lobby, where a small knot of people stood huddled off to one side out of the way of the evening’s clientele. By the irritated frowns, jabbing hand gestures, and official tone of voice, events seemed to be quickly spiraling out of control.

  “Bill Smedley, what the devil are you doing here?” she demanded, pushing her way through to reach the center of the storm.

  Startled by her tone, the entire group paused in their worried protestations. A gentleman with his back to Lucy turned around, hands in his pockets, tie unknotted and loose around his neck. “He says he’s come looking for you.”

  See a penny, pick it up. All the day you’ll have good luck.

  Wasn’t that the saying?

  Michael McKeegan was beginning to resemble a very bad penny.

  Lucy, am I glad to see you.” Bill threw his arms around her waist, his face buried in her sequins.

  It was hard to maintain one’s temper at a greeting like that. Despite her best efforts, she felt herself melting, her own arms coming round to hug him close. His breathing was sharp, as if he’d been running; his body was warm in the chill of the lobby and smelled cleanly of powder and bath soap.

  “You’re shaking.”

  He pulled away, straightening with a guilty flush, shoulders squared and hips cocked in a swagger. The little boy giving way to the sullen teen in a split second. “Just relieved to see you’re safe is all.”

  “I’m perfectly safe. But I told you not to leave the hotel room. Oh dear, nothing’s happened, has it? I mean, they don’t suspect”—she cocked a glance around—“that we’re squatters, do they?”

  “Naw, we’ve got ’em bamboozled but good.”

  She sensed Michael explaining away the disruption with his usual charm until the sharp features eased and the raised voices softened. She had to admit, he was certainly handy to have around, though why was he here and not locked in an embrace with Arabella? And why was she just a little bit relieved?

  “I didn’t mean to bother you while you was having fun with that bloke Oliver,” Bill explained. “But when you didn’t come home, I started worrying, and then I heard the guns and the searchlights were blazing.”

  She’d been barely aware of the antiaircraft guns pounding away close by in Hyde Park. Between the sound-deadening strength of the Dorchester and the orchestra’s amazing ability to play along with the rhythm of flying ack-ack, it was easy to forget there was a war going on outside the walls. In fact, everything about this place seemed engineered toward one purpose: to insulate the influential from any discomfort. But step out onto the pavement and the truth could very well explode in one’s face.

  “I’m sorry you were scared.”

  “I weren’t scared,” he replied defensively. “I thought maybe you were. And when you didn’t turn up, I started worrying maybe you’d got lost. You’re not used to being on your own in London. You don’t know it like I do. Anything might happen.”

  “Too bad nothing did,” she muttered.

  “Michael said as how I was to look after you, but you said as how I wasn’t supposed to leave the hotel room. I didn’t know who I should listen to.”

  “Since you’re here, I assume Michael won the day.”

  “In the end, but while I was going back and forth over whether to come look for you, there was a knock on the door. I hid in the bathroom and, after a bit of banging, whoever it was pushed a note under the door and went away again.”

/>   “What did it say?”

  “Michael?”

  All three of them turned at the sound of Arabella’s approach. “Are you coming back inside? We’re just about to sing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ and cut the birthday cake. I know Daddy would be disappointed if you missed it.”

  She stood there in her pink-and-white gown with her pink-and-white china doll complexion and a look on her face Lucy had last seen on that young mother in Yeovil—shy and hopeful and completely smitten.

  “I’d love to, but I really ought to see them back to their hotel first.” Michael straightened, shoving his rumpled tie in his pocket.

  Arabella looked as if she wanted to argue, but her oh-so-proper upbringing stood in the way. Of course, that had never stopped Lucy, but then she’d already acknowledged Arabella was perfection personified while she was . . . well, not.

  “You’re quite right. Miss Stanhope is new to London, and it seems she’s got herself quite a handful to contend with.” Her gaze drifted pointedly toward Bill. “I’m sure she’d appreciate your help. Daddy and I will be here when you get back. Just don’t be too long. I’ve asked the band to play our favorite song.” She leaned up on tiptoe and kissed him on his cheek. Had she planted her flag in him, she couldn’t have been more obvious about her intentions.

  As she trailed back into the party, throwing one last friendly wave over her shoulder, Lucy fought the urge to hurl something heavy at her. And how did she know Lucy was new to London? Or about Bill? Had Michael spilled all her secrets?

  “Is that the girl you was talking about on the bus, Michael?” Bill asked. “She’s smashing. Like a picture from a book, she is.”

  Et tu, Bill Smedley?

  “But I bet she don’t know ‘The Four Old Whores from Baltimore’ like Lucy does. That’s a whale of a song. The first old whore from Baltimore said, ‘Mine’s as big as the air.’”

  “Weren’t you telling us about a note, Bill?” Lucy hastily interrupted before Bill hit his stride on the rousing chorus.