When he caught himself staring, Charles gestured toward the stairs. “Please, do be comfortable.”
“I can see you already are.” Winking, she brushed by him. “Let’s head to the lounge. I’ll put the kettle on, and you can tell me all about yourself.”
Dutifully Charles followed her up the pair of steep staircases. Claire managed them admirably in boots with heels of at least three inches. She moved through Victoria’s bedroom and into the kitchen – a necessary path which Charles now forced himself to ignore.
“This is Lucan.” When Claire set him down, the boy promptly grabbed Charles’ hand. “He’s four and good as gold. Keep him entertained while I fix the tea?”
Charles felt as though he’d plunged over a cliff into a river of rapids. With six brothers of his own, he had several nephews and one niece for a time. Nannies shepherded his younger relations from room to room, but he’d stolen a few sportive moments through the years. None had been from 2014, of course.
Unabashedly Lucan tugged him into the drawing room and onto the sofa. Its cushions were still disheveled from the nap Charles had taken after breakfast, when he awoke to find Victoria gone, her note of explanation clipped to one of his boots.
Grabbing two pillows, Lucan flopped backward. His black eyes never left Charles’ face, and his expression was indecisive.
Charles realized he wasn’t passing muster. Claire might be easily charmed, but her son wasn’t so trusting. Conversation was a great equalizer, however, even if children should be seen and not heard.
“Tell me, Lucan, what are some of your favorite toys?”
“My LeapTab3, my JBox Trainer, and my Wreck Bug Nanos.”
“I see.” Charles rubbed his cheeks with his hands, a nervous gesture he normally managed to quell. “And do you play any games of make-believe?”
“At school we play astronauts and submarines. Teacher lets us play transformers when we don’t misbehave.”
“Right.” As he sat on his hands, Charles prayed for Miss Smith’s swift return. “And do you play any lawn games?”
“You mean outdoors? Yeah, my favorites are cricket and skittles and conkers.”
Thanks be to God, Charles thought. “I enjoy all of those, too.”
“Want to play now?”
“He’s not here to play,” Claire called from the kitchen. “Milk and sugar?”
Charles realized she was speaking to him. “A splash of milk only, thank you.”
“You an actor?”
Unaccustomed to conversing with persons unseen, Charles couldn’t discern what Claire asked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you’re in fancy dress. Are you in a show on the West End?”
Claire emerged from the kitchen holding two of the cylindrical coffee cups. Mugs, Victoria called them, which must in some way reference their voluminous size. Charles freed his hands to accept one as he replied.
“No, I’m a journalist. I write for The Daily News.”
Sitting down beside Lucan, Claire looked confused. “Haven’t heard of that. You don’t mean the Daily Mail?”
“Yes, of course.” Charles stifled a wince at his blunder. “I’m still…waking up.”
With a catlike smile Claire sipped her tea. “You two had a late night, then? Steampunk party at one of the clubs? Or did Tori go as the Queen and you’re her Albert?”
“Mummy, who’s Albert?”
“He’s the prince we’re going to see.” She put an arm around Lucan. “We’re off to the National Portrait Gallery. That’s why I thought I’d pop over since Tor lives up the street.”
“What a fine idea.” Without daring to address her bombardment of questions, Charles volleyed one of his own. “Do you have an occupation?”
“I’m a solicitor. Taking a break to raise this one and his sister. But I’m going back when Lucan starts Year 2.”
Charles latched onto the part he understood. “A solicitor? That is an impressive profession.”
She seemed flattered. “Thank you. Following my father’s footsteps. I thought Tor might also, but then – well, I guess she told you about her parents?” When Charles shook his head, she wavered. “Maybe I shouldn’t be the one to say anything. We’re old family friends. Our dads go way back. But I’ll leave that for her to tell you.”
“I admire your discretion,” Charles replied.
“And I admire your manners.” Claire set her mug on the floor. “I need to bring Lucan over for lessons so he can learn to be a little gentleman.”
“No thank you!” Lucan said.
“Case in point!” She tickled her son who squealed with glee. “So how did you and Tor meet? I saw her just last week, and she didn’t mention you.”
“Hello?” Victoria’s voice careened up the stairs. “Is that Claire?”
Exhaling with relief, Charles thanked his Maker again.
“’Tis!” Claire hollered back. “With a bundle of trouble in tow.”
Lucan jumped off the sofa and ran to meet Miss Smith at the top of the stairs. “Hello, Auntie! Have you been shopping? What did you buy me?”
Dropping several large bags, she scooped Lucan up to hug him. “Nothing, you greedy goose. Unless you want a new toothbrush.”
When she entered the drawing room, Charles stood. So did Claire, but only to rescue her son and claim a hug for herself. Saucily she grinned at Victoria. “Toothbrush?”
Miss Smith froze, opened mouthed, and glanced at Charles. “How long have you two been here? I’m sorry I was out.”
“Don’t be silly. I should have rung.” Claire pried Lucan from Victoria’s arms. “And we should be going. Let’s have lunch soon – just the two of us. Text me when you’re free.”
Agreeing, Victoria showed them to the door.
In their absence Charles sank back onto the sofa. He wiped his damp palms on his trouser legs and tried to process everything Claire had shared. Something had happened to Miss Smith’s parents. Her father was a solicitor, and she could have been one also. The changes wrought between his century and hers, particularly for women, were almost incomprehensible. Even Nightingale would surely be satisfied.
When Victoria returned, lugging the bags into the drawing room, Charles stood again. Her presence consoled him more than he could express. She had changed into a frock the color of peonies which resembled something his aunt might have donned in her youth, with a high waist and layered sleeves, although Priddy’s hemline would have touched the floor, not her knees. When it came to attire in Miss Smith’s London, less was apparently more.
“You are as lovely as the flowers whose colors you bear,” he told her.
Tiny blooms of pink appeared on her cheeks. “I bought you some clothes, probably more than you need. I had to guess at the sizes. Even after nine years, I have a hard enough time shopping for me over here. Thank heaven for Hugo Boss.”
Nervous banter, Charles determined. Not worth an immediate inquiry. “You have my thanks,” he answered simply.
“Sure. My pleasure.” She sat down and began rifling through the bags. “I also bought a burner phone so we can find that missing pendant. I’ll take a picture of yours and post it on a couple of antiquarian sites. One of my bookworm buddies out there will know something.”
Charles approached the window. “Out where? In the court?”
“Wait. No.” Victoria joined him. “Not outside. On the internet. It’s like a giant synthesized world that people move through without actually moving.”
He didn’t pretend to understand. “If we’re not going outside, then why do I need a change of clothes?”
“Because of what just happened,” she said. “Claire isn’t the only friend with a key to this place, and if you walk around dressed like Dr. Watson, my friends are going to ask questions. The Hidden Treasure has been our home base in the city for years. Besides, we’re both going to want lunch, and I know this great place in Chinatown. It’s just across the road, so we can walk. No taxis or Tube – not yet.”
; Charles caught himself rubbing his face. Twice in one morning. Not a good sign. He wasn’t given to panic, but the volume of information flung at him in the last hour was more than his already-strained nervous system could tolerate. If he made a list of unfamiliar words, he’d need a second notebook.
Victoria wrapped her hands around his arm. “Here. Sit.”
“I am not a sheepdog,” he muttered.
“Yeah, but you look like you’re about to faint. If you swoon, I can’t catch you. You’re too darned big.”
With unexpected strength Victoria steered him to the sofa. Assertively she pressed him onto its cushions and hovered beside him, her hand braced upon his shoulder. The bouquet of her perfume commandeered the room’s other scents.
Charles wasn’t sure her closeness helped. He was trying to regain control, not lose it further. With as much gentility as he could muster, he removed himself to the sofa’s other end.
“I do not swoon,” he assured her.
Victoria shut her eyes and scrunched her face, like she gave and received her own internal scolding. “We’re too much for you, aren’t we?”
When the urge to rub his face returned, Charles sat on his hands. “Perhaps.”
“Okay, I’ll get take-out.”
Weary of asking questions, he gave her the quizzical look.
“Sorry. I’ll go get the food and bring it back here. The Brits call it take-away.”
“No. Thank you, but no.” Charles stood up and tugged his waistcoat into place. “I’m behaving like a ninny. If I’m to remain in this century for a few days, or perhaps longer, then I must move about. The Romanichal woman said opening the door would yield my greatest discovery. Clearly your London is it. What man of my era could fathom such a prospect? It has been handed to me on a silver platter, and I mean to dine fully on its delights.”
Victoria lunged outward to chuck him on the arm. “That was so Jane Austen!”
Startled, he leaned away. “You know her work?”
“She’s one of the most famous authors in the world. We should watch Pride & Prejudice.”
“Watch, and not read?”
“After we find the other pendant,” she added. “We’ll start a list.”
Charles reached into a pocket and pulled out his notebook. “That I can do.”
“Write Pride & Prejudice at the top.” She returned to unpacking the clothing she’d purchased. “Then add dim sum so we can cross it off after lunch.”
“Done.” Before he put the notebook away, Charles included a few notes of his own.
Clayre and Luken. Solicitor. Parents death.
Enter net. The Daily Mail. He underlined the last word twice.
Victoria. Tori. Tor. Bossey. Dreary?
Charles reviewed what he’d written. Stopping there would not do.
Ruby-lipped. Raven-haired. Beauty, he jotted.
Bold and beguiling. Like a rare claret.
Chapter Four
So far, so good, Tori thought as she watched Charles browse through her books. They had made it across the road and back to have lunch. Chinatown wasn’t too overwhelming, and Charles appeared to enjoy the food.
He liked to explore – which made sense for a journalist – and he must be a crusader if he’d been writing about children in workhouses. Hardly a puff piece.
Even better, he could use a toothbrush. Tori knew her Jane Austen backward and forward, but no one in those stories ever brushed their teeth. Thankfully Charles didn’t flinch when she presented him with his new green toothbrush and emphasized that he should not use the purple one which was hers. The affordability of toothpaste seemed to make his day.
Now down to business, she reminded herself. They had a missing pendant to find.
The burner phone buzzed and danced against the glass countertop. Picking it up, Tori read the latest text. She groaned in annoyance.
“Problem?” Charles asked from across the shop.
“Pervert.” Tori deleted the text.
Her other phone chirped. She held it up before Charles could ask. “Not a real bird,” she clarified. As a selfie of Claire filled the background, Tori skimmed its screen.
Used the toothbrush yet?
Charles looked up from his book. “Something helpful?”
She grinned. “Another pervert.” That is between me and my dentist, she replied.
With a definitive snap Charles closed the book. “Are you sure this internet is adequate?” He strolled to the counter. “Shouldn’t we be interviewing historical experts in the colleges?”
“It’s the easiest way I know to reach three billion people.”
His jaw dropped. “How many?”
“Three billion. Population of the earth is currently seven.”
Charles tilted against the glass case. “I may have to ask for your chair.”
“Not a problem,” Tori said as she guided him around the counter. “It’s still considered polite to give up your seat for the elderly.”
Sinking onto the stool, he shot her a flat look. “You are a comic.”
“And you are rocking the 21st-century style.” She eased back to study him. “How are the chinos?”
“If you are referring to these trousers, the waist is too low, and I prefer suspenders to a belt. Otherwise I’m comfortable. The shirt is adequate, and I approve of the sack coat.” He fiddled with the pendant strap beneath his white collar. “Did Mr. Boss not have a waistcoat available for purchase?”
“Mr. Boss did, but it isn’t a good summer look. I’ve learned how to dress for success.”
“Well, then. Let us pray we succeed.”
The burner phone rattled again. As its blue screen brightened, Tori moved closer to Charles and showed him the text.
“Hey, I know this guy. He’s a raging geek when it comes to symbols.” She read aloud. “Gog and Magog. Museum of London. Guardians exhibit. V&A painting.”
“Gog and Magog?” From the inside pocket of his coat, Charles pulled out his notepad and began scribbling. “They are said to be the eternal guardians of the City of London. Their wooden representations stand in Guildhall. Though, I don’t recall seeing a symbol on either of them. Could their likenesses have been moved to this museum?”
Tori smiled as she watched him write. “Sounds like it’s time to brave the Tube and find out.”
His enthusiasm waned. “The subterranean carriages you described during our luncheon? Their construction is a fledgling scheme in 1854.”
“There are eleven million people living in this London, and I bet at least half of them ride the Underground every day. That’s not even counting the tourists.”
Charles dropped his notepad onto the counter. “How many?”
Victoria picked it up and offered it to him. “I thought you weren’t going to be a ninny.”
One side of his lip lifted. “I’m not.” Accepting the notepad, he returned it to his coat.
“Good.” Tori reached for her purse. She stashed both phones in its outside pocket. Leaning over the counter, she plucked her keys from a blown-glass bowl and grabbed the folded yellow paper beneath them. It didn’t feel like a Never List day, but she had learned to be prepared. “Everyone freaks out about the Tube at first. A few rides, and you’ll wonder how you lived without it.”
For Charles it didn’t take a few rides. By the time they descended the escalator into the neon labyrinth of tiled tunnels, he was enrapt, Tori could see, by the boyish concentration on his face. More than once Charles stopped to gawk, earning glares from harried locals who could navigate the Underground with both eyes closed. Finally Tori grabbed his hand and tugged him to one side.
“Let’s get to the platform, and we can stand there. Okay?”
“I do apologize.” His astonishment shifted to their entwined fingers. “Is this customary?”
Tori let go. “Sorry. We call it holding hands. It’s not rude if you know the person well.”
“But you do not know me well.”
Tori looked up at
Charles. The bustling crowd blurred around her, and the tunnel’s hubbub dulled. Charles stared back, his lip quirking again. He could tell she was flustered. He seemed totally composed as he leaned down to be heard over the noise.
“I would be honored to allow it, however.”
Was he coming on to her? His body language told her no, but his blue eyes said otherwise. They reminded Victoria of a Cumbrian lake – pristine and refreshing with nothing disguised by their depths.
Sideburns, she told herself. Concentrate on the sideburns.
“I have 160 reasons why that’s a bad idea,” she replied.
“Of course.” Formality reclaimed his gaze. “Please lead the way, Miss Smith. I promise not to delay us again.”
Exhaling, Tori plunged into the river of passengers flowing northeast on the Piccadilly Line. She assumed Charles could keep up. With his height he wouldn’t lose sight of her, and there was always a delay between trains.
On the platform Victoria pushed past the people who ground to a halt right inside the tunnel. Every Tube stop had its sweet spot where the train compartments were most likely to be least occupied. Tourists clogged the entry points. Lazy locals didn’t help. Usually the sweet spot was the farthest distance from the busiest entrance, and after nine years of using the London Underground, Tori had, through trial and error, determined the prime location on most platforms.
Positioning herself where the passengers thinned, Tori checked to see if Charles kept up. With soft apologies he wove his way toward her. His posture and appearance were a sharp contrast to the slumping, underdressed masses. When he fell in beside her, he clasped his hands at his back.
Tori felt like she had to say something. “Do you still have your ticket?”
Charles fished the printed pink card from the pocket of his chinos.
“You’ll need it when we leave,” she told him. “When the train arrives, wait for the other people to disembark, but then hop on as fast as you can. These things only sit for a minute.”
She Hates Me Not: A Richer in Love Romance Page 18
