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A Week in Brighton is a Timeless Romance Anthology® book
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TIMELESS REGENCY COLLECTIONS:
Autumn Masquerade
A Midwinter Ball
Spring in Hyde Park
Summer House Party
A Country Christmas
A Season in London
A Holiday in Bath
A Night in Grosvenor Square
Road to Gretna Green
Wedding Wagers
An Evening at Almack’s
A Week in Brighton
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Grande Hotel by the Sea by Jennifer Moore
About Jennifer Moore
Signs of Love by Annette Lyon
About Annette Lyon
The Reluctant Heir by Donna Hatch
About Donna Hatch
Arthur Grande was pleased to find his hotel suite was less than satisfactory. The rugs were faded, the rooms drafty, and the view from the windows marred by a warehouse in desperate need of paint. He rolled up a stack of schematics and architectural drawings and slid them into his satchel, then double-checked that the contracts, lease agreements, titles, and other documents were in order—not that he doubted the competency of his solicitor, Mr. Fawcett, in the least—but today’s meeting was extremely important, and arriving at the site unprepared would not do at all. First impressions were everything.
He checked his presentation once more in the mirror, straightened his cravat, locked the door, and started down to the dining room, noting with a pleased nod the musty smell of the staircase—yet another aspect in his favor. Brighton was in need of a luxury hotel, and as luck would have it, that endeavor was precisely what had brought Arthur Grande to Sussex in the first place.
Mr. Fawcett stood when Arthur entered the room, and Arthur was not surprised to see that the man’s collar was freshly starched and his cravat tied in a splendid knot. The solicitor was always immaculately attired. “Good morning, sir. I know you’re likely too overwrought with nerves to have an appetite”—Mr. Fawcett motioned to the breakfast table—“but a meal will do you good. And you’ll need your energy today.”
The man was correct. The sight of eggs and sausage turned Arthur’s anxious stomach, but he obediently put a piece of toast onto his plate and poured a cup of tea. “Thank you.”
Mr. Fawcett settled back into his seat, opened the newspaper, and tucked into his breakfast. The solicitor was past his sixtieth year, but one would hardly know it based on the man’s energy—and his appetite. He had served the Grande family for thirty years, since before Arthur was born, and knew both the man and his finances better than even Arthur.
Arthur buttered the toast and took a reluctant bite.
“You have everything?” Mr. Fawcett pointed with his fork at the satchel.
“Yes.” Arthur handed the bag across the table, knowing the detail-oriented solicitor wouldn’t be satisfied unless he inspected the documents with his own eyes.
Mr. Fawcett looked through the papers. “All in order.” He gave a nod, flipped over the satchel’s flap, and fastened the buckle. He set it on the floor beside his chair and returned to his breakfast, mopping up a drip of yolk with his toast as he read the Times.
Arthur took a sip of tea and tapped a finger on the table, wishing the older man would eat faster. He’d planned and worked and waited years for this day.
The final titles and contracts had been signed over six months earlier, loans had been negotiated and plans had been drawn, and at last today the real work would begin. He glanced at his pocket watch. They were not expected at the site for another hour, but they had arrived in town late last evening, and Arthur was eager to see the property again.
He’d first come to Brighton years earlier in search of a location for his hotel. Mr. Pickering, the land broker, had shown him various sites. They’d visited the hills of the downs and properties throughout the town, but when Arthur saw the block of the mismatched cluster of warehouses, shops, and tenement buildings directly facing the beach, he knew it was the perfect spot for The Grande Hotel by the Sea. Purchasing the properties had been a test in patience. While some of the shops were leased or rented from the same owner, many were independently owned, and negotiating various loans and transactions had been complicated and time-consuming—not that Mr. Fawcett was the least bit incapable of such an undertaking.
But now the final lease was expired, the initial plans were drawn, and Arthur would begin working in earnest with the builders, engineers, and craftsmen. His dream was becoming a reality.
Arthur patted his coat pocket, ensuring his pocketbook was inside. Supplies and materials had already been purchased, and others were on order. Thank goodness Mr. Fawcett was such a fastidious bookkeeper. Arthur’s mind spun with the immensity of the project, and a thrill of anticipation moved through him. He stood, unable to sit still a moment longer. “I’ll meet you at the site.” Arthur put on his hat, grabbed his walking stick, and pushed in his chair.
Mr. Fawcett nodded. “The clean air will do you good, sir. I’ll be along presently.” He lifted the satchel. “And I’ll bring the documents.”
Arthur stepped outside as an ocean breeze rushed past. He grabbed hold of his hat lest it blow away. The street where he was staying was narrow, with high buildings on either side funneling the wind from the ocean. He set off at a quick pace. This early in the morning, the roadway was nearly empty. But that would change in just a few months as soon as the Season ended and high society turned its attention to the coast and the latest health craze: the sea-water cure. Bathing machines would line the beach, and vendors and pleasure seekers would crowd the walkways. Each year the city became more popular for both recreation and health-improvement purposes. And when the prince regent had begun renovating his pleasure pavilion, making it into an Oriental-style palace, Brighton had fairly exploded with tourists.
Arthur emerged from the street and stepped onto the smaller road that followed the rocky shoreline. The sea spread out before him. He slowed his pace and breathed in deeply. Overhead, seagulls glided, their calls distant beneath the sound of the waves. Further down the beach, fishermen spread out their nets on the rocks. The water was a light-grey color, broken by the frothy white crests of waves. Arthur thought he could never tire of the view. Only a few other people were out for a morning seaside stroll, and the air felt crisp and the day full of possibilities.
Arthur put his hands on his hips,
closing his eyes, and inhaled a deep breath, enjoying the feel of the cool air on his skin.
A breeze blew past, followed by a sudden gust that lifted his hat from his head.
He whipped around, grasping for it as it flew off. When it landed on the rocks, another gust picked it up, rolling it down the beach.
The hat blew past a young woman walking up the path toward him. She snatched at it but missed. She glanced toward him, then turned around and hurried after it.
Arthur ran to catch up to her.
The hat landed on a patch of prickly grass but blew away before the woman reached it.
She smiled at Arthur when he drew near. “I suppose we’d better give chase.” Her eyes were bright and filled with amusement.
Arthur couldn’t help but grin in return. “Surely it will tire before we do.” He chuckled and swept his arm in an exaggerated invitation for her to precede him. “Tallyho, then, miss.”
As if in answer, a swirl of wind blew the hat up and away, and the two broke into a run. The hat landed, bouncing along the rocks ahead of them, and seemed to jump away when one of the pair reached for it. They scampered across the beach, climbing over driftwood, scooting around large rocks, and no doubt looking extremely comical to anyone who might be watching. The hat evaded them again and again, and each time, their laughter grew with the absurdity of the situation.
Finally, the hat settled on a flat rocky area. Arthur sprinted forward. He kicked out with his foot to trap it, but unfortunately his step was too well placed, and the hat was crushed beneath his boot.
He and the woman stopped and stared first at the hat, then at each other. They were both panting. Her hair was in shambles beneath her bonnet, honey-colored locks falling around her flushed face.
“Oh, what a pity.” She burst into laughter, bending down and lifting the remains of the headpiece. The hat’s crown was smashed and split apart from the brim on one side. The woman peered at Arthur through the opening. “I think it is quite done for.”
Arthur bent at the waist, catching his breath with hands on his knees. “Poor chap.” He took the hat from her. “It put up a good fight.”
She brushed the hair from her face. “I’m sorry, sir. This is not the outcome you’d hoped for.”
He squeezed the hat’s crown, pushing from the inside, trying to reshape it, but the hat was well and truly finished.
“You might as well have allowed it to fly out to sea,” she said.
“I think that’s what it wanted, the sly devil.” Arthur scowled at the offending headpiece.
The woman nodded, putting on a serious expression, though her eyes still sparkled and her mouth fought against a smirk. “Top hats can be very crafty.”
The smile broke through, and it was utterly fetching. The expression was not restrained like those cultivated by proper ladies in London, but an honest grin. Seeing it muddled his thoughts for a moment. Arthur cleared his throat and shook his head. “Have you an idea where I might find a hatter in this town? Or a men’s clothier?”
“You’re a visitor.” She nodded. “I wondered why I hadn’t seen you before. Not a very nice welcome, I’m afraid.” She glanced at the hat and then toward the town. “Brambles and Guff Haberdashery is on Broad Street, there.” She pointed to a side street that was directly in front of them. “Your hat almost led you right to it.”
“Thank you, miss . . .” He stepped back up from the beach to the roadway and offered a hand to assist her, realizing he’d not introduced himself. “I—”
“Sir!” Mr. Fawcett strode toward them, the satchel banging against his leg as he hurried down the pathway. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“I had a bit of a mishap.” Arthur released her hand and turned. He held up the hat. “We’ll need to make a brief stop at . . .” He turned back to the young woman, raising his brows.
“Brambles and Guff,” she repeated.
“Yes. It is just down Broad Street,” Arthur pointed with his walking stick.
“Then we’ve no time to waste,” Mr. Fawcett consulted his pocket watch, then his eyes widened and his expression took on a tinge of panic. Few things were more important to the solicitor than punctuality. He inclined his head, lifting his hat in a farewell. “Pardon us, young lady.” He started toward Broad Street.
“Thank you for your assistance, miss. If you’ll excuse us.” Arthur held the remains of his hat over his head, tipping it forward in farewell. The top flopped over, eliciting a smile from his companion.
She dipped in a curtsey.
Arthur started away after Mr. Fawcett, but he stopped and turned back toward the woman. “I wonder . . . do you walk here often?”
“Every morning.”
“Good. I mean, very well.” He winced at his awkward reply and out of habit moved to put his hat onto his head, but he caught himself and tucked it under his arm instead, giving another bow. “Good day to you.” He walked quickly to catch up to his solicitor. “A very good day indeed,” he muttered to himself as he stepped onto the paving stones of Broad Street.
Daphne Dayley tapped the top of a raisin bun and, satisfied that it was sufficiently cool, took the batch from the pan, placing them one by one on a tray and sliding it beneath the glass display counter.
She glanced at the other trays of baked goods, taking a mental inventory. The shelf of rye buns was still full, but the sweet breads had all sold earlier today than usual. Perhaps she’d send Mary to fetch some gooseberries, and they could fill the space with tarts.
Daphne stepped through the doorway into the kitchen just as Ruth pulled the first pan of meat pies from the oven. “We should have some very pleased customers.” Daphne nodded at the golden-brown pastries and inhaled the savory aroma. “The pies smell divine.”
Ruth set down the hot pan on the preparation table and went back for another. “You appear very happy today, Miss Dayley.”
“Do I?” Daphne grasped the side of the pie pan with a towel, sliding it over the table to make room for the next.
Ruth paused. She leaned her head back to scrutinize Daphne through the spectacles resting low on her nose. “You’ve been smiling, humming even.” She set down the pan and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Ever since you came in from your morning walk to the bank.”
“I can’t imagine why.” Daphne shrugged and used a spatula to take the warm pastries from the pan and slide them onto a tray. She made certain to keep her face turned downward so her countenance didn’t give away more than it already had.
“Neither can I.” Ruth slid two more pans into the oven, then pulled a ball of pie pastry from the cooler and used a pin to roll it flat. “Not with . . .” She motioned with her chin toward the west wall of the shop.
Daphne’s stomach went hard at the reminder of the construction that was due to begin any day, and a tinge of dread threatened the happy feeling. But she maintained a pleasant expression. “Perhaps it’s the fine weather.” She hadn’t told either Ruth or the woman’s daughter, Mary, about the encounter with the handsome gentleman and his hat.
Typically she would have recounted the meeting with her two employees, and the three would have happily laughed and speculated about the stranger for days. But today, gossip didn’t feel right. Although it would have been a pleasant change from the tension, Daphne just couldn’t bring herself to talk about anything but their daily tasks. Doing more would involve feelings and worry, and she just couldn’t deal with the realities of the situation. If she allowed herself to wallow, she wasn’t certain she’d recover. The reality was so overwhelming that Daphne put it out of her mind completely. When it was time to worry, she’d worry. But until then, she had a business to manage. And an amusing encounter with a handsome gentleman was just the thing to distract her mind.
The bell over the bakery door rang, and Daphne hurried through the doorway from the kitchen.
Mary’s arms were filled with groceries. She stepped around the door and closed it with her hip. Mary was much curvier than
her mother, and her face was soft and rounded where Ruth’s features were sharp and stern. The two women, Ruth and Mary Coombs, had worked in Our Dayley Bread since Daphne was a young girl, and she considered them the perfect team. Ruth kept the kitchen tidy and orderly. Her recipes were exact, and she measured each ingredient carefully. Mary, on the other hand, chatted and laughed with the customers. She cooked with messy abandon, adding a pinch of this and a dash of that, and never kept a record of exactly how her recipes were made, but each baked item came out delicious all the same.
Daphne stepped between the chairs and tables of the dining area and took a bag of flour from under her employee’s arm.
“I noticed the sweet breads were sold.” Mary shifted one of the parcels to her other arm. “So I purchased some berries to make . . .”
“Tarts.” The two said the word at the same time.
“Excellent idea.” Daphne grinned as she hefted the flour onto her hip and started toward the kitchen.
Mary pulled aside a curtain and looked through the front window. “They’re out there, you know.”
“Who is out there?” Daphne lowered the flour sack onto the floor and joined her.
“Builders,” Mary said. “Recognized Bob Simper and his crew.”
Daphne saw movement among the buildings beside the bakery. “Some gentlemen as well,” she said, seeing a few of the men wore coats and top hats.
“Suppose those are the ones with the blunt,” Mary said. “Bankers and what have you. They were signing papers and looking at sheets of plans when I walked past.”
Daphne scowled. “They should find a proper office for their business instead of making such a display.” She picked up the flour and took it into the kitchen, letting it drop onto the floor by the side table. She tugged apart the strings on the top of the sack and scooped out cupsful of flour into a bowl for the tart crust. She worked a bit too forcefully, and a cloud of white puffed over her face and hair.
A Week in Brighton (Timeless Regency Collection Book 13) Page 1
