Amberlough(41)

The maitre d’ made to show the newcomer to a table, but the man stopped him and shook his head. He was looking straight at Cordelia, a wolfish half-smile curling the corner of his mouth.

Trouble. She’d have to turn him down fast, before her date got here. Unless …

He produced a thin, glossy billfold from his trouser pocket and tipped the maitre d’ with the casual graciousness of someone used to burning cash. For a brief, hot second she despised him. He said something that made the dour maitre d’ laugh. The way both their eyes flashed in her direction, she knew he’d made some kind of dirty joke.

“Come on over then,” she said softly, cupping her coffee with both hands and raising it to her lips. “Come on over and make me laugh.”

But he didn’t. He watched her all the way as he walked to the bar, then smiled, and turned his back.

*

Cyril didn’t go straight to the woman’s table. He was supposed to be meeting a stranger and taking a liking to her, and that required a little bit of patience. It wouldn’t do to march up and introduce himself like they’d both been sent here for that purpose. So instead, he made a tasteless joke to the maitre d’—Isn’t that the stripper from the Bumble Bee? Looks different with her clothes on—and went to the bar that curved against the western wall of the tearoom. The brass espresso machine hissed steam. Cyril followed the vapor’s progress to the ceiling, watching it dissipate amongst the frescoes of nymphs and half-clad hunters, snag on the antlers of gold stags’ heads and the crystals of the twin chandeliers.

When he looked back down, the woman was watching him, her head tipped quizzically over her coffee cup. A ringlet had escaped from the twist at the nape of her neck. It fell across her shoulder, into her décolletage, so perfectly placed he suspected she had let it free on purpose.

Cyril called the bartender over. “A glass of champagne, for the lady at that table. Green label, the forty-two.”

The bartender inclined her head. “An excellent choice, sir.”

He couldn’t tell if she meant the wine, or the woman.

When he’d come through the door and seen that scarlet hair, he’d wanted so badly to turn around and walk away. She was pretty, yes, and yes, Aristide was right: She’d make the perfect mistress for a hypocritical politician. But she was also Aristide’s colleague, and she’d keep Cyril close to the Bee. She’d cover for him, but she’d keep him within Ari’s orbit.

Champagne dispatched, the bartender brought Cyril a rye and soda dashed with house bitters. A twist of orange peel rested on the rough edge of the ice. He thought of complaining—he liked his drinks clean and simple—but before he could draw the bartender’s attention, a waiter leaned in beside him.

“The lady asks if you’d join her at her table.”

He took his cocktail and strolled between the remnants of the lunch crowd. The woman—he remembered Aristide saying her name, but what was it?—watched his approach with narrow eyes like chips of imperial topaz. He paused beside her and offered his hand.

“Cyril DePaul,” he said. “How’s the plonk?”

She put the tips of her fingers across his palm. “Sublime.” The barest hint of a nasal drone hung around the “i”: the signature sound of Kipler’s Mew. She’d worked hard to leave it behind, and he could tell.

He raised her knuckles to his lips. She didn’t break eye contact, and neither did he.

“Cordelia Lehane,” she said, when he’d straightened. “Go on, bend your knees.”

Cordelia. Yes, that was it.

“Are you lunching late?” he asked, sliding into the chair opposite hers. “Or are you only here for an afternoon tipple?”

“This is breakfast.” Cordelia tapped the side of the champagne coupe. “So far.”

“A late riser. I have to admit, I’m envious.” It was almost too easy to play this part. The words and actions flowed like oil over the top of water, leaving him untouched beneath the veneer of his character.

“I get about as little sleep as you. Nights run late in my line of work.” Cyril raised an eyebrow, and she scoffed. “Please. If I was, you couldn’t afford me.”

He smiled at her grammatical slip-up—she might have climbed out of the Mew, but bits of it clung to her shoes. “You don’t know that.”

“True.” She dragged her gaze up his front, and he could almost feel her fingers catching on the cables of his sweater. “I don’t. What is it you do, Mr. DePaul? Ari didn’t say.”

He fought the urge to look around, make sure no one had heard her use Aristide’s name. “I can’t exactly talk about it.”

“A man of mystery,” she said. “I’m intrigued.”

“Intrigued enough for a second drink?”

“You don’t have to intrigue me for that.”

“Ah, but I’d like to. Even if it isn’t, strictly speaking, necessary.” He waved a waiter over. “Another glass for the lady—actually, leave the bottle. And … oh, hang it. Two of the stuffed lobster tails. And asparagus tips, with white truffle butter.” There was no menu, and if there had been, he wouldn’t have needed it. Bellamy’s was one of Ari’s favorite haunts.

“I was happy with just the fizz,” said Cordelia, as the waiter poured her a second glass.