The Shadow at Cavendish
Mabel rested her light hand on the firm, stone-like forearm beside her and lowered her head.
“Thank you, Baron de Rocheret.”
She had barely settled into the seat in the back row when Carlyle followed her in. The pair of gazes piercing her from behind prickled like nettles.
The edge of his sleeve brushed the bare skin of her gloved hand. A faint shiver danced across her flesh.
Her gaze fell on the walking stick propped against his thigh at an angle. The brass handle was carved with savage precision into the snarling face of a wolf, teeth bared in a perfect snarl.
Somehow it suited him.
“Cavendish Hotel.”
Carlyle gave the order to the driver at once.
Mildred could not contain her curiosity.
“Forgive me, but does Baron de Rocheret also stay at the Cavendish?”
Mabel instantly understood the veiled meaning in the question.
Mildred had spent hours warning everyone that the impoverished young nobles who frequented the Cavendish were beneath notice and must not be spoken to. And yet here she was, staying there herself.
Carlyle turned his head halfway.
“I am at the Ritz in Piccadilly, madam.”
“Oh…!”
Mildred’s face brightened as though the sun had risen behind her eyes.
The Ritz had opened barely twenty years ago and was already the most exclusive hotel of the season, a haven for European royalty and American magnates.
“Yet how did you know we were at the Cavendish…?”
Mabel turned at once, offering the excuse with practiced grace.
“When we danced the waltz earlier, you asked, and I told you then.”
“Oh…”
Mildred nodded, her voice warming.
“We were so flustered when the limousine left first by mistake. Your generous kindness was a great relief.”
“It is nothing.”
“And yet… perhaps you would be so kind as to spare me an hour or two on the afternoon of tomorrow or the day after? Before we return to New York, my friend Mabel and I would like to offer you tea in return.”
Mildred nudged Walter discreetly with her elbow. He coughed twice, then joined in.
“Hmph. Having received such a generous invitation, we owe it to you to repay the favor.”
The blatant scheming sent heat to Mabel’s ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, cheeks burning as she stole a sideways glance at Carlyle.
The smile he wore was deep and blue, mocking in its depth. Her face blazed.
Mabel turned her head sharply toward the window.
He would refuse, of course. The social season was in full swing; his time would be precious.
Yet Carlyle accepted the invitation without hesitation.
“The day after tomorrow would suit me well. Thank you, Lady Darlington.”
Mabel’s shoulders trembled. She let out a tiny, strangled breath, swallowing the dry lump in her throat. Her heart fluttered as though she had ridden too fast on a carousel.
Whether it was good or terrible that she would see him again, she could not tell.
She was even confused about her own feelings.
The Cavendish’s suite was thick with the scent of flowers. Bouquets and chocolate and costly gifts arrived in endless streams for Miss Darlington.
On the table stood a tall pyramid of gifts to be returned and thank-you cards. Mildred had ordered that everything except the chocolates and flowers be refused.
Mabel shook her head in disbelief.
Diamond brooches or sapphire bracelets sent by gentlemen who had barely danced with her for a minute—did they have two brains in their heads?
Mildred was busy sorting through an avalanche of invitations. Opera and theater tickets, invitations to the Royal Ascot, even invitations to country houses.
She clicked her tongue in frustration.
“If only we had stayed a week longer.”
London’s social season stretched from luncheon to dawn; a woman might be expected to attend up to five events in a single day.
Already weary, Mabel looked forward with longing to the day she would return to New York on Wednesday.
She rubbed her wrist absently, swallowed another sigh, and began composing the polite refusal letters in turn.
“Mabel, we should go down now. Baron de Rocheret will be arriving soon.”
The knight who had driven them to the hotel the day before had earned high marks from Mildred for his kindness.
Precisely at three o’clock they descended to the garden. Six tables were arranged in a circle around a great oak.
Carlyle in his navy linen blazer and boater hat stepped forward the moment they took their seats. A uniformed footman followed, bearing a huge bouquet and a box of chocolates.
Mildred and Walter greeted him with open delight.
“Thank you for the invitation.”
“It is an honor to be received by you, Baron de Rocheret!”
The footman offered the gifts. Mildred feigned astonishment.
“You needn’t have gone to so much trouble… Those purple irises are exquisite. Don’t you agree, Mabel?”
Mildred steered the conversation toward her friend.
“They are lovely.”
Mabel answered automatically.
Even the flowers—irises, her favorite—looked less beautiful today.
Mabel kept her eyes lowered, then, on the sly, lifted them to steal a glance at the man opposite.
The late-afternoon sunlight flooding the garden made his eyes narrow and his brow crease.
The elegant Savile Row suit, the porcelain teacup held with aristocratic grace—the perfect picture of a gentleman. Yet something alien and uncanny clung to him.
Mabel tilted her head, puzzled.
Her gaze returned to the walking stick propped against his thigh.
The wolf’s carved face was a savage, brutal snarl.
Her spine prickled with cold.
“Your English is truly excellent, Baron de Rocheret.”
“My mother was American.”
“Oh…!”
Mildred’s dream since girlhood had been to marry into a noble European family. Yet the daughters they desired were the American Dollar Princesses, brides who brought mountains of dowry. She herself, the daughter of a country parson, had been resigned to the second son of the Darlington house.
Carlyle’s mother had been an heiress to a great fortune; even with his family’s fall in the war, the explanation for his continuing wealth was clear.
“Forgive me, but your mother’s name…?”
“You would not remember it. She comes from Savannah.”
“Ah, so your mother is a Southern belle.”
He smiled with bitter humor.
“…she was.”
The past tense sent Mildred’s mind racing. She changed the subject swiftly.
“Do you visit America often?”
“Since the war I have been moving between New York and Paris. I run a small trading company. New York is… home now.”
Carlyle’s gaze suddenly shifted to Mabel. She took a sip of tea, pretending to listen while her shoulders trembled.
“Good heavens! Mr. Darlington is the New York customs collector.”
His eyes moved to Walter. The two men exchanged cards and launched into a long, tedious discussion about tariffs and union labor at the docks.
Because of the lazy sunlight, Mabel had to bite back a yawn and broke into a sweat.
Like a child forced to sit through the adults’ tea party, she occupied the chair alone, eating only scones. No one spoke to her.
Carlyle showed far more interest in Walter’s conversation than in her, despite having invited her.
Perhaps he really was thinking of the woman called Iris.
Mabel smiled bitterly, head bowed. The scones had been too many; her chest felt tight.
“Walter, you mustn’t monopolize Baron de Rocheret.”
Mildred gave the remark a gentle nudge. Walter coughed, drew out a cigar, and answered.
She seized the moment to ask again.
“When will you return to New York?”
“I will stop in Scotland for a few days and return next week.”
Mildred’s eyes slid meaningfully from Mabel to Carlyle.
“We are to hold Mabel’s formal debutante ball in mid-August. Would you accept an invitation?”
Mabel waited, breath held, for his reply.
“I would be honored to attend.”
“And the address?”
“Seventy-nine Fifth Avenue.”
At that instant the three Darlington eyes turned at once to him.
Everyone on Fifth Avenue knew that a French-château-style mansion had been completed on Seventy-ninth Street only a few weeks earlier. Rumors spoke of its mysterious owner, but no one knew the truth.
Not until now.