A delivery truck was parked there, the driver carrying boxes into the back room. Guy followed him inside.
The beefy driver had set down two boxes and was on his way to get another. “Customers ’round front,” he advised.
“More of a friend, actually. I can help you carry if you like,” Guy offered.
“Naw. It’s my job.”
Guy decided to leave a note for Hattie. Just the sight of the worktable covered with lace and ribbons bought him back to the night she’d kissed him with such ferocity. He found pencil and paper and jotted his note.
I was here. You were busy. See you tonight same time? I look forward to it.
G.R.
P.S. Would’ve brought you flowers if I’d thought ahead.
“Can I pay you for the delivery?” he asked the chap who’d finished his task and was mopping his brow with a handkerchief.
“It’s on account.”
“A tip for your effort then.” Guy didn’t wait for a response before taking out his wallet.
One last glance at the workroom nearly convinced him to wait for Hattie to take a break. He’d be waiting there, perhaps with a light lunch ready. Would she find the gesture charming or intrusive? Her feelings about separating work from pleasure seemed pretty clear. So he would wait until tonight, and in the meantime, give some serious thought to what sort of work he was fit for.
It was time to commit to something other than entertaining himself. Miss Gardener, for example, had been willing to work toward owning a florist for years if that was what it took. There must be something he could care about that strongly. In the meantime, at least he could support young Rose by investing in her scheme, putting her years ahead of schedule in achieving her goal. The idea made him supremely happy.
Perhaps this might be his skill—helping others achieve their worthwhile goals.
At home, Guy sat in the drawing room, feet up, the Times in hand, except he actually read the paper this time. One of the stories attracted his attention, reminding him of the trampled suffrage sign he and Hattie had seen in the park.
Mrs. Pankhurst and other members of the WSPU were behind bars again after attacking police during a protest rally. Stone throwing and police batons had been involved, but it was difficult to tell which side had started the skirmish that ended in a number of arrests. Guy thought these sorts of confrontations only harmed the cause and frightened off potential recruits. Violence would not aid the suffrage movement. The two extremes needed to sit at a table and find common ground. Someday, he ought to attend one of Pankhurst’s public speeches, since he planned on becoming more involved in matters of importance. What could be more important than a woman’s right for her voice to be heard?
“A courier has arrived with a message for you,” Simmons interrupted his thoughts.
Guy leaped up to seize it. This might be Hattie’s response to his note. But the packet was a large envelope marked to his attention from T. Rumsfield.
Guy sat down to read the news contained within. A brief report detailed the whereabouts of Mr. Randall James and his new bride, Jennifer James nee. Pruett. The couple were living at the James’s family home in Chesterfield. The prodigal son had apparently given up his profligate ways to take a position in his father’s business. Their marriage was clearly consummated, which precluded an annulment.
Guy scanned the information of much less interest to him than the folder labeled, Hortense Gladwell. That slim missive he weighed in his hands, the battle between curiosity and ethics making the paper very heavy indeed.
He should not poke into Hattie’s private matters. She would tell him in her own time. And yet, facts he desperately wanted to know were right there, literally at his fingertips. Hattie need never find out about the investigation. When she finally did reveal her secret history, he would act as if he were hearing it for the first time.
Guy took the report out of the envelope, and began to read.
Chapter Fifteen
For the second time in as many days, Hattie disembarked from a cab in front of Guy’s house. The exterior was as charming as she had thought upon her first view of it. As she strolled the walkway past shrubs and a small fountain, she again imagined coming home to such a haven after a long and busy day.
This place could never be yours, nor can the master of the house be yours. Not for long at any rate. You’d do well to remember that.
“But I may enjoy his company tonight,” Hattie said softly as she rang the doorbell.
Simmons welcomed her inside with his usual joyless demeanor and escorted her to the drawing room. “Mr. Hardy was not expecting you so early. I will apprise him of your arrival.”
After the butler left, Hattie sat for a full second before jumping up to pace around the room. She was too excited and nervous to hold still, having thought of little but Guy all day. When she had found his note on the work-room table, she’d squealed like a little girl and kissed it.
Tonight she was ready to become intimate with him, but first she must talk about her past. If he could accept who she was, the mistakes she’d made, the deal she had agreed to, only then would she be ready to embrace him fully. Maybe their union could not be forever, but she was tired of keeping a barrier around herself, a fortress with a population of one.
Hattie surveyed the very modern style of art on the walls, a collection of carvings decorating the mantel, a Tiffany lampshade with a
