The Forgotten Room(24)

Bad enough that she was going out to dinner, alone, with a strange man. But the pile of bills on the table . . . They made her feel cheap.

Lucy’s shoulders stiffened beneath the boxy fabric of her suit. “I couldn’t possibly—”

Mr. Schuyler chucked her under the chin. “You’re doing this for the firm, remember? It’s a business expense. A legitimate business expense,” he added, his lips quirking.

Despite herself, Lucy couldn’t quite help smiling back. She’d had some queries about his expense reports when they’d started working together last week. “You mean like your greens fees?”

“Just like my greens fees,” said Mr. Schuyler solemnly. He pushed the bills toward Lucy. “Don’t make me slip it into your purse.”

This money, Lucy was quite sure, wasn’t coming out of the firm coffers. This was direct from Mr. Schuyler. She knew what her grandmother would say about that. But . . .

“All right,” said Lucy, and, belatedly, “Thank you.”

Averting her eyes, she scooped up the pile of singles. During the day, working together, Mr. Schuyler’s tie askew, his hair rumpled, a mess of papers between them, it was easy to forget the difference in their stations.

But not now, with the detritus of his largesse on the desk between them.

“Righto, then. I’m off.” He whistled an unfamiliar tune as he rooted through his pockets.

“Here.” Lucy scooped up his opera glasses from the desk and handed them to him.

“You’re a treasure, Miss Young.” Mr. Schuyler swirled a white silk scarf around his neck. “What would I do without you?”

“Squint,” Lucy said succinctly.

Mr. Schuyler chuckled. “Touché, my dear. Touché.” He paused with a hand on the doorjamb, the late-afternoon sunlight slanting through the window turning his hair to gold. “By the by, will you do me a small favor? Our little substitution—I haven’t mentioned it to Ravenel. Or Mr. Cromwell. If either of them asks, you will tell them that something madly important came up at the last minute, won’t you?”

Lucy felt the bottom fall out of her stomach. “But I thought— You said you’d arranged—”

Her employer deliberately misunderstood her. “You’re all set at Delmonico’s. You’ll find the reservation in my name. Just tell them to put it on my account.” He grinned. “Or, better yet, on Mr. Cromwell’s. Have a steak for me!”

And before Lucy could protest, he was gone, sauntering down the hallway, his hands in his pockets, a whistle on his lips—and every head in the stenographic pool turning to watch him go.

There were times when Lucy dearly wished that she were the cursing kind. Since she wasn’t, she contented herself with stomping back into Mr. Schuyler’s office and closing the door with a muted but decided click.

Wonderful. Not only was she having dinner with a strange man; she was having dinner with a strange man who was expecting her employer.

On the plus side, thought Lucy, staring tight-lipped at the impeccable countenance of Miss Didi Shippen, it might be a very short dinner.

And she had the office to herself.

The week had been such a blur of work that she hadn’t even had time to think of her own private quest, much less pursue it. Mr. Schuyler might have grumbled, but he had been there, right along with her, from dawn to dusk. He’d even taken his lunch at his desk—sandwiches and coffee from the deli down the block. Lucy had made sure that the man at the deli remembered to leave off the mustard and put two sugars and cream in the coffee, and she’d always brought a piece of something sweet as well, coffee cake or cookies that were hard and flavorless compared to the ones her grandmother made, but which Mr. Schuyler received with exaggerated exclamations of gratitude.

Just as he would for Meg, Lucy reminded herself. He was charming, and he wasn’t quite the dilettante he appeared, but that didn’t change the fact that he was a means to an end, and there wasn’t the least reason she should feel guilty about using him to get to the Pratt files. Not that she did feel guilty.

Or maybe just a little. She could feel those dollar bills burning a hole in her purse. It felt wrong taking money from him.

She knew what her grandmother would say.

Like mother, like daughter.

Enough. Lucy walked briskly to the file cabinet. To anyone watching, there was nothing amiss, nothing at all. Just a secretary working late.

For all her other shortcomings, Meg did keep the files in order, everything sternly alphabetized, not a letter out of place. N . . . O . . . P was all the way down on the bottom of the third rank of cabinets. Lucy had to kneel down on the worn carpet to scrabble through the files. She could feel the wool of the carpet prickling through her stockings, leaving marks on her knees. But there it was, just where it was meant to be. Pratt.

The file was a substantial one. The papers didn’t spill over—Meg had been too well organized for that—but they strained against the cardboard confines.

Lucy resisted the urge to sit back on her haunches and scour through it then and there. That would look odd if Miss Meechum or one of the junior associates were to pop their heads around the door. Instead, she carried it over to the desk, turning it carefully so that the label faced away from the door. One folder looked just like another.

Oh, just the correspondence relating to the Merola contract, she imagined herself saying. Mr. Schuyler wanted me to find the draft language for the third rider.