“Believe me, all the people coming to this gala have made their share of mistakes too.” Ruth tipped up her chin. “Repeat after me: They are no better than me.”
“They are no better than me,” Olivia whispered.
“With a little more conviction, please.”
Olivia’s lips twitched. “They are no better than me.” Her voice came out louder this time.
“That’s more like it.” Ruth gave her a quick squeeze. “If you get in over your head with anyone, make an excuse to come and find me. I promise you will get through this, and it will be worth it when the donations start flooding in.”
Olivia gave a reluctant nod and took a last look at herself. If only she could believe Ruth’s claim, then maybe the nerves pinching her abdomen would subside long enough for her to draw a full breath.
Darius tugged at his overly tight bow tie as he entered the posh lobby of the Royal York Hotel. There were a thousand things he’d rather be doing tonight than attending this fundraiser. Even plucking chicken feathers for his mother sounded more fun than mingling with a bunch of rich socialites.
From time to time, his job required that he attend these types of events, and every time he had to grit his teeth and remind himself that it was only one unpleasant aspect of his career. In truth, Darius didn’t really want to fit in with people who were more concerned with appearances than with establishing honest relationships.
The one thing that made this evening almost bearable was the fact that Miss Rosetti might be in attendance. Something about the woman aroused his curiosity. Her obvious youth seemed at odds with her serious demeanor as well as the world of pain that had radiated from her eyes. Yet there was a simplicity to her he’d found charming. She’d been wearing a plain skirt and blouse when they met, her dark hair in a tidy braid down her back. Even without a hint of cosmetics to enhance her features, her riveting brown eyes and heart-shaped face had captured his attention.
That she intrigued him took him by surprise, since she was the exact opposite of Meredith Cheeseman, the woman he’d been dating for several weeks now. What that said about him he didn’t care to examine.
“Darius, there you are.” Mr. Walcott crossed the carpeted lobby toward him, looking very polished in his black tuxedo. “I’d begun to think you weren’t coming.”
Darius shrugged off his unsettling thoughts to focus on the task at hand. “I’m here.” Begrudgingly. He pasted on a smile. “Shall we get this over with?”
Mr. Walcott frowned, taking the cigar from between his lips. “Try to show a bit more enthusiasm, and remember what’s at stake here. We need to warn off as many investors as possible.” He led Darius to the wide staircase and started up, a trail of smoke drifting after him. “For the life of me, I don’t understand how Mrs. Bennington expects to make money on this enterprise.”
“I don’t believe making a profit is her principal aim.”
“Then that’s her first mistake. One we will take full advantage of.” He steered Darius toward the open conference room doors. “Who would want to invest in a business that doesn’t intend to make a profit?”
“A philanthropist?” Darius peered inside the room, dismayed to see so many people milling about. He’d thought it might be a small affair.
Mr. Walcott ignored Darius’s remark and headed inside. “Good thing there’s a crowd,” he said. “We won’t be as visible. The less obvious we are, the better, if you get my drift.”
“I understand. Subtlety is my middle name.”
Walcott snorted, then blew out a smoke ring. “Ah, I see my first target. A. J. Worthington. You start on the other side of the room, and we’ll meet up later to compare notes.”
Once his boss had left his side, Darius blew out a relieved breath. Overbearing was almost an understatement when it came to Vincent Walcott. Darius preferred to handle matters with less bluster and more finesse.
He moved into the crowd, the strains of a three-person orchestra barely audible over the hum of conversation. Nodding to people as he went, he scanned the guests for any familiar faces. None, however, stood out. When he stopped at the bar to order a glass of ginger ale, someone slapped him on the shoulder.
“Mr. Reed, I didn’t expect to see you here.” Frederick Conboy, the mayor of Toronto, squeezed in beside him at the counter and ordered a scotch and soda.
Darius had only met the man once. The fact that he remembered Darius’s name was more than impressive.
Conboy tugged his striped vest. “Are you here on business, or is this a personal invite?”
Darius calculated his response. What better opportunity could he have to feel out the mayor about the unseemliness of the Bennington project? This man’s disapproval could potentially render the whole venture null and void.
“Business, sir. My employer is very much opposed to this maternity home. He feels it would be a hindrance to the commerce in the area.”
“I never thought of it as a hindrance.” The mayor studied him. “Though it did cross my mind that the enterprise might be a little out of place in that area of town.” He accepted the drink from the bartender and threw a few bills into the tip jar. “Mrs. Bennington argued that it was an ideal location with the right visibility for the women who would require their services.”
“But what type of people will the facility attract?” Darius leaned toward him. “And will it undermine the neighboring businesses?”
The mayor pursed his lips. “You make a good point. I haven’t made up my mind whether to endorse the home or not. I’ll have to consider the businesses directly involved and get the owners’ opinions on the matter.” He clapped Darius’s shoulder again. “Nice talking to you, Mr. Reed. Enjoy
