Olivia regarded the man’s pinstriped suit and the fedora perched at a jaunty angle over his forehead and stood more firmly in the door’s opening. “I’m afraid she’s not up yet. May I tell her who came by?” Hopefully he’d get her insinuation that it was much too early to be calling on anyone.
He chuckled. “Forgive me for arriving unannounced at this hour. But the matter I wish to discuss couldn’t wait. My name is Darius Reed. And I’d like to—”
“Olivia? Who’s at the door?” Ruth’s voice echoed from the hall behind her.
Olivia’s heart sank. Now she’d never get rid of him. Reluctantly, she opened the door wider. “A man named Mr. Reed. He wants to speak to you about something important. Or so he claims.” She speared the man with the glare she learned from Mamma when dealing with annoying customers.
The stranger only smiled. “Mrs. Bennington? My name is Darius Reed. I’d like to talk to you about . . . your new venture here.”
Olivia’s gaze narrowed. Something about that statement rang false.
Ruth stared at him, sizing him up, then nodded. “Very well, Mr. Reed. Join me for coffee?”
“I’d love to, ma’am.” He removed his hat and stepped inside.
Ruth turned. “Oh, forgive my manners. This is my partner, Miss Olivia Rosetti.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Rosetti.” He gave a slight bow, his eyes twinkling.
Obviously he expected her to be impressed, but she refused to be taken in by false charms. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have something in the oven.” Turning on her heel, she retreated down the hall to the kitchen.
Wisps of black smoke escaped from around the stove’s cast-iron door. No! Their uninvited guest had made her burn the biscuits. Grabbing a tea towel, she opened the door and waved away a wall of smoke, then grabbed the tray and set it on the stovetop with a sigh. All that remained were small blobs of charcoal. Definitely not edible. Everyone would have to settle for toast to go with the now-cold eggs. That and the leftover muffins from yesterday would have to do.
“Can I do anything to help?” A tentative voice came from the doorway.
Olivia swiped a hand across her forehead and looked up to see Margaret standing by the counter. Only eighteen years old, the girl seemed afraid of her own shadow. Olivia had yet to get her to open up about the circumstances that had brought her to Bennington Place, but she was patient. She’d wait until Margaret was ready to talk.
“How are you at making toast?”
The girl smiled. “I can manage without burning it.”
She handed the girl a knife to slice the loaf of bread. “Great. Because this morning I can’t say the same.”
Darius sipped the delicious brew and set his cup aside. “Best coffee I’ve had in ages,” he said to Mrs. Bennington, who was seated on the sofa across from him.
“All thanks to Olivia. She has a secret ingredient I’ve yet to get her to reveal.” The woman chuckled with obvious affection.
“A woman of many talents, I take it. Are you two related?” Darius had been astonished by the beautiful young woman who’d greeted him at the door. So much so that the speech he’d practiced on the way over had flown from his mind. Those big brown eyes under finely arched brows had mesmerized him, as did the upsweep of dark hair that accentuated those high cheekbones, those full lips . . .
Mrs. Bennington’s brows rose. “Do we look like we’re related?”
Heat crept up his neck. How did he answer that without insulting someone? Miss Rosetti definitely favored what he assumed was an Italian heritage, judging by her last name, whereas Mrs. Bennington couldn’t look more British. “It’s possible.”
“True. But no. We’re friends and now business partners.” She calmly set her cup on the coffee table. “What exactly would you like to know about our maternity home?” Her shrewd gaze landed on him without blinking.
“Well, for starters, I wanted to know what made you decide to start such a venture.” He didn’t add at your age, but she seemed intelligent enough to grasp his implication.
“I have my reasons. Personal ones that I need not disclose to you.” Her eyes narrowed. “May I ask what firm you represent? And what interest they have in our facility?”
He could lie. Pretend he was here as a potential investor. But lies didn’t sit well with Darius. If he expected his daughter to tell the truth, how could he do any less? He pulled a business card from his suit pocket. “I’m with Walcott Industries, ma’am. And I’m here to make you a proposition, one that could benefit you greatly and allow you to open two or more such maternity homes.”
The woman’s mouth turned down. “I highly doubt that, Mr. Reed, given the price of real estate in Toronto these days.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s my point. If you moved your operation outside the city limits, you’d get a lot more property for your dollar. You could afford two houses easily with the profits you’d make from selling this place.”
A crash sounded in the hallway. Darius’s gaze swung to the doorway, where Miss Rosetti stared down at a platter of baked goods that were now scattered on the floor.
He jumped up and rushed to assist her.
Miss Rosetti looked past him. “Ruth, you’re not thinking of selling the house, are you?”
The older woman rose. “No, my dear. I most certainly am not.” She shot Darius a glare. “I was just about to inform Mr. Reed of that fact.”
He helped the younger woman scoop up what looked like blueberry muffins and heaped them on the platter, which had fortunately stayed intact.
“Please join us, Miss Rosetti,” he said. “I believe this conversation concerns you as well.” Perhaps she would see the merit of his offer once she learned all the details.
She set the plate on a side table and took a seat next to Mrs. Bennington.
Darius hesitated, gathering his thoughts before crossing the room. “I’m
