With Love from London(6)

When a jazz band began to play, I felt light and floaty. I made up stories in my mind about why Roger had been detained. His mother had been ill, and he went to check in on her. An important business meeting had run late. He’d stopped to help a stranded motorist. One day, I told myself, years from now, we’d lovingly recount the unfortunate story of our first date to family and friends, laughing about Roger’s late entrance and how he’d spent the next month making it up to me.

But while my fictional version was charming, and forgivable, his real-life entrance a few moments later was not. The dining room erupted in a chorus of whispers as he walked in—with a woman on each of his arms.

“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?”