“I’m sorry,” Roger said, disregarding me as he turned to a nearby waiter. He was close enough that I could smell a waft of booze on his breath. “Why is my table occupied?”
I cleared my throat nervously. It was all so inconceivable. Had he not asked me on a date tonight? “Roger, it’s Eloise,” I said meekly, hoping this was all a simple mistake he could easily explain away. “Don’t you remember?”
“Who is she?” the woman on his left asked, sizing me up with a long look of displeasure.
“Your cousin from the country?” the other woman said with a giggle.
My cheeks burned. “I’m Eloise Wilkins,” I said. “His date.” My embarrassment soon morphed into rage. “Roger,” I continued, sitting up in my chair. “Surely you remember sending your car to get me earlier?”
Both women looked up at him with pouty eyes as he expertly extricated himself from the two sets of arms entangled in his. “Why yes, of course,” he began. “Eloise. You’ll have to forgive me. I ran into some…old friends.”
I stood, reaching for my purse as my napkin fell to the floor. Millie had been right, if only I’d listened to her. “Don’t let me keep you,” I said. “You three clearly have a lot of catching up to do.”
Everyone was watching. And why wouldn’t they be? A circus show with three women in the ring was better than anything on the telly—and it was all happening right before their eyes. This was Roger Williams at his finest. A jewel for the gossip columns. There was even a poor girl from East London! (Cue the laughter.)
That’s when it hit me—a sudden and intense urge to run. My eyes darted right, then left, until I located the nearest exit. I couldn’t bear the idea of making the walk of shame through the enormous dining room to the main entrance, so I chose the nearby French doors that appeared to lead to an adjoining balcony. With any luck, there’d be a staircase that led out of here.
I darted ahead, making a beeline for the exit, but then the heel of my left shoe caught on the carpet and I lunged forward, colliding with a waiter carrying a tray of plated entrées under polished silver domes, sending steaks and their garnishes flying through the air.
With a broccoli floret in my hair and béarnaise sauce smeared on my sleeve, I burst through the double doors and onto the balcony. To my great disappointment, there was no staircase, no exit. I was, in a word, trapped.
The cold air settled on my skin and I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself as I leaned against the railing and gazed up at the night sky. I was a fool for thinking I could fit into this world.
I sank to the ground, tucking my dress over my knees for warmth—unladylike, but I didn’t care. But a few minutes later, when the balcony door creaked open, I stood up quickly. I had company. Cigar smoke clouded his face and top hat.
“My dear, what on earth are you doing out here? It’s cold enough to snow!” he exclaimed, the smoke parting to reveal his tall frame and distinguished face. He was older than me, perhaps by ten years or more. “Where’s your coat? You’ll freeze to death.”
I nodded as I steadied myself. “I…just needed some fresh air.”
The man eyed me curiously, his mouth forming a slow smile. “Or could it be that you’re hiding from someone?”
I sighed, eyeing the béarnaise sauce on my sleeve. “Obviously you saw what…happened in there.” I turned away from his gaze. “Please, sir, just leave me alone. I’ve already endured enough for one night.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, but if you don’t come inside soon, you’ll die of exposure.” I shivered, which is when he suddenly slipped off his tuxedo jacket, draping the exquisitely cut garment over my shoulders, its fabric still warm from his body.
“Thank you,” I said, straightening the collar so it covered my neck as it released the aroma of pine and some other familiar yet elusive note.
“So, you really didn’t see the…debacle in there?”
As he shook his head, there was something disarming about his expression, so I began to relay the series of unfortunate events that led me to the balcony. I pointed to my sleeve with a sigh. “And for the record, this is béarnaise sauce.”
He laughed, but not in a mocking way. “Well, you wear it quite well.”
“It’s all the fashion these days,” I replied, bolstered by his kind eyes.
He cocked his head to the right curiously, as if trying to place me. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. I can assure you that if I had, I would not have forgotten you.” His voice was deep, and he spoke with a disarming confidence. “Wait,” he said, as if struck by a memory. “Were you here last weekend for that ridiculous soirée that the old viscount hosted?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. The lie flew out of my mouth with such speed, I was stunned by my own brazenness.
“That speech he gave!” he said. “Could it have been any longer?”
“Or any duller?” I added, trudging deeper into my deception.
He smiled. “Why have we never met? You’re…different than most of the women here.”
My cheeks flushed.
“I meant that as a compliment, Miss…”
“Wilkins. Eloise Wilkins.”
“Miss Eloise Wilkins,” he said, taking another puff from his neglected cigar as he glanced through the window to the dining room. “The women in there are—well, how do I put this delicately?” He paused, then nodded. “They’re rather…forgettable—all the same, down to their gloved hands.”
At first, I assumed his words were a veiled commentary on my own gloveless hands, but the thought vanished when he reached for my hand and kissed my bare wrist ceremoniously. “How do you do?”
“Well, I’ll admit, I’ve had better evenings….” I withdrew my hand and tucked my arms back inside the warmth of his jacket.
“Tell me,” he continued, smiling, “has your family been members here for a very long time?”
I nodded tentatively. “My father was a…very private man. He…kept his name and his business interests far from the public eye. After he passed…it all went into a…trust for my mother and me.”
“Sounds like a smart chap,” he said, “and an admirable one.”
If only he knew how far from the truth that was.
“Well, look at us, standing in the cold outside the stuffiest club in London where it apparently has taken us a lifetime to meet.”
“And what brings you here this evening?” I asked, attempting to deflect his attention from my past.
He grinned at me curiously, rubbing his chiseled jawline. “Your turn to sum me up, I see?
“Maybe,” I said, playing along.
He shrugged. “The answer is simple. My father made a name for himself in the car business, and membership was a necessity.” He sighs. “And to your question, why am I here? Simple: I’m a good son.”
“What do you mean, exactly?”
“Well, Miss Wilkins, you see, when you’re the eldest son, and you’ve just turned thirty-four, as I have, without a marriage prospect on the horizon, your family, naturally, becomes obsessed with finding you a wife.” He took a puff of his cigar. “Tonight is my sister’s latest, and worst, attempt.”