Page 24 of Undercover with the Heiress
At these gatherings, she had learnt the essential manners of being a lady in a way that no governess could teach. She’d learnt how to hold a false smile and how to deliver a quip with a sincere expression. How to file a criticism away for another day, and how to shift a conversation on behalf of another when words touched a delicate memory. Finishing school had given her manners. The Aster’s dining room had taught her how to wield them as both a shield and a weapon.
The Aster fronted a wide boulevard opposite the sprawling parklands. In a flip on the general order of things, guests entered through a small, discreet foyer on a quiet side street, rather than through attention-seeking front doors. This way, Father said, he could more easily control things—keep the path free of mess and manure, tend to the trees so that they always looked healthy, ensure his own lighting was both warm and welcoming. Other places trumpeted their guests as an extension of the advertising. Aster made them feel like they were special, more like a family member returned home.
The dining room to the left of the entrance shone with mid-afternoon light from the arched windows which ran along the wall facing the main thoroughfare. Guests loitered in here, ordered a second pot of tea, or in the evenings, brandy. Lunches extended into the afternoon. They watched the world go byand made comment on those they could see from behind the refuge of ivy and roses which framed each window. This was a place where they could see andnotbe seen, unless they chose otherwise.
Rosanna moved to the arched entrance in front of the dining room, and patrons turned in her direction. Conversations shifted to whispers. A few people threw covert glances in her direction, then huddled into discussion. She had chosen her dress with care in the hopes of emanating the same image of status and fashionable elegance that she’d crafted since she’d entered society, but now she wavered in her decision. Perhaps the red velvet bows over black and white gingham were too much for the wife of a clerk, even one who was the daughter of a successful businessman. Perhaps she should have chosen something simpler and more in line with who she had become. But who had she become? And who was she going to be?
‘Use it.’
Rosanna startled and shot a quick side glance at Phineas, who had sidled up beside her. ‘Where did you get a waiter’s uniform from? How did you find a waistcoat with the hotel crest—’
‘Not important.’ Dressed in the simple black and white uniform, his hair combed slick, and one hand crooked behind his back, almost everything about Phineas’s stance and appearance mirrored that of a member of the Aster waitstaff. Only his eyes betrayed him as he scanned the room as if searching for something instead of merely observing.
‘Someone will recognise you,’ she whispered.
‘No one in this room looks beyond the waistcoat.’ Phineas gestured with a movement that could have formed part of a general conversation between an employee and their senior. ‘The whispers, the rumours. They are curious about you. Use it to your advantage.’ Phineas nodded at a table by the central window on the opposite side of the room. ‘In Edinburgh, MrRedgrave had a finger in every untoward contract that went bad. Men at clubs complain about him constantly, but those he targets lack both the courage and the funds to challenge him. The woman claiming to be Mrs Redgrave is having tea with Miss Summers, who is new to town. They are awaiting Mrs Vincent. What do you know about her?’
‘Miss Summers? Nothing. But Mrs Vincent has been staying with us for years, although the Mr Vincent that she dines with each day is not her husband but his brother. Her husband passed away three years ago. The staff are always gossiping. They say they rarely make up his bed.’
Phineas nudged her with his elbow. ‘They have secrets. Give them breathing space from the fear of making a slip. Your own circumstances will be a welcome distraction.’
‘Miss Hempel? I mean, Mrs…’
Rosanna extended her hand towards the newcomer. ‘Mrs Babbage. Good afternoon, Mrs Vincent.’
‘It all happened so fast! We barely had time to catch the fortunate groom’s name,’ Mrs Vincent replied.
A twist of anxiety sparked in her stomach. Gossip. She had become fodder for gossip.
‘Use it,’ Phineas muttered.
Use her embarrassment? Her humiliation? The abrupt alteration in her life’s trajectory? She wanted to growl at him like he did at her most mornings. But instead of his patronising scowl, she found him regarding her with a slight curve to his lips that could have been the beginning of a smile, with the hint of a dimple on his cheek. Could she turn the middling opinion of others to her advantage, like he seemed to think she could?
Rosanna turned to Mrs Vincent. ‘Given that we live beside one another, once we decided, there was no reason to wait.’
‘Not even for the banns to be read?’
‘I’m sure you felt the same about your own dear husband, may he rest in peace.’ Rosanna pinned her sweetest smile to her lips. ‘You must miss him terribly. Is that why you’ve come to town? In memory of past pleasures?’
Mrs Vincent’s stare narrowed, and she glanced at Rosanna’s waistline, as if searching for some hint of a scandalous explanation. Her curiosity unsatisfied, she turned to the dining room. ‘Would you join us for tea? We’d love to hear your story of impatient love.’
Rosanna looked at Phineas, bemused.
He winked. ‘Allow me to seat you,’ he said.
With a deceptive glint in his eye, Phineas led the way across the dining room to a circular table with room for six. It was currently hosting two ladies, one holding a champagne flute, the other sipping a cup of tea. Phineas pulled out the chair beside the woman who claimed to be Mrs Redgrave, and once Rosanna had settled, she leant back so that he could flick a serviette across her lap. Starch and soap, the familiar scent of the hotel laundry, invaded her next breath, along with the slightest tinge of his sweat and sternness. Leaving the seat beside her vacant, he moved to the next place and pulled out the chair for Mrs Vincent. Mrs Redgrave—or the dark-haired beauty claiming to be her—tapped at her glass, then sniggered. Phineas took a bottle of champagne from a stand and began to fill Mrs Redgrave’s glass, but before he could finish, she swiped it from the table. A few drops spilled and slid down the stem to land on the cloth, unnoticed by Mrs Redgrave, who took an energetic sip.
‘Do you know Miss Summers?’ Mrs Redgrave asked in a coarse whisper. ‘She’s tremendous fun, although she doesn’t look it.’
‘You are telling stories again, Mrs Redgrave.’ Miss Summers blushed and twisted her cup on its saucer. She glanced at Rosanna, her blue-grey eyes holding Rosanna’s for the briefest moment before she looked back to her tea. ‘We have not met, butI have heard of you. Congratulations on your nuptials. You must be so happy to be married.’
Mrs Redgrave leant back as Phineas poured her another glass. ‘Tell us all about your new husband. How are you finding married life?’
Phineas attended to her champagne flute next. He tilted it to the perfect angle, then began to pour. His mouth twitched the smallest bit before settling back into a thin, expressionless line.
‘My husband is so grumpy,’ she said as she lifted her glass from the table. ‘He cares entirely too much about small things like dirt from shoes or if I am using the same knife for jam and then marmalade. From day to day, I never quite know who he might be.’
He placed the bottle into the stand, gave an unacknowledged bow, and moved away. At the next table, he caught a napkin before it dropped to the floor. The guest thanked him, and he nodded in acknowledgement.
