She pulled the door open, surprised when he followed her in silence. The maître d’ showed them to a table. Calista noticed that the café host was careful not to acknowledge any connection to the stranger.
She picked up a menu and hid her face behind it while trying to think how a normal, sane woman would act in this circumstance. Flattered? Annoyed? Shocked? She’d set the gauge at eighty percent annoyed and fifteen percent inconvenienced. She might as well leave five percent available for flattered, just in case she found a weakness to exploit in him.
Calista perused the listings of soups and beef cuts before remembering that she’d already committed to chicken salad. At least she hadn’t previously expressed a preference for dessert. That would allow her some choice. She lowered the menu as the waiter approached and turned to her fuming companion for their order.
“I’m not buying anything,” he said. “Only the lady will be eating.”
“Yes, sir. And what will she be having?” Every stitch of the waiter’s uniform was perfection, showing that the management here let no detail go unchallenged.
This rube hadn’t been to many fine dining establishments, because he should’ve known that the gentleman always ordered for the lady. He squirmed in his seat as Calista and the waiter both stared at him. “How would I know what she wants to eat?” he said.
Calista cleared her throat. “I’ll have the chicken salad plate and an iced tea, please. That’s all for now.”
The waiter smiled in sympathy as he took the menus and carried her order to the kitchen. Calista folded her hands in her lap. The situation wasn’t a total loss. If she was searching for unusual activity that might point to criminality, she’d certainly found it. This man might be the first string to unravel in the mystery. It was up to her to do some picking if she wanted to find a loose end.
“We haven’t been properly introduced,” she said. “My name is Calista York.”
He grunted. His eyes never stopped roving the room. “Matthew Cook.”
“You’ve already had dinner, Mr. Cook?” She spread her napkin on her lap and tipped her face up to look at him.
“No, but I’m not going to eat right now. Not while I’m working.”
“What exactly is your purpose at the House of Lords?”
“That depends on you.” His gaze landed sharply on hers.
She chuckled lightly, but beneath the table she gripped the side of her chair. “I don’t understand how my actions could influence your job.” Taking stock of the ladies next to them, Calista decided they were respectable, wealthy, and unconcerned with the implications of where they were. More than likely, they had just concluded their charity meeting and were coming to eat. The fact that this establishment profited off the exploitation of girls didn’t seem to bother them in the least. God forgive them. And Calista had to pretend to be just like them.
“You aren’t here for the chicken salad,” Mr. Cook said.
“What other possible reason could I have for sitting down to dinner?” she asked, wondering why he had to be so insightful.
“I don’t know, and that’s why I’m keeping an eye on you.”
Prying her fingers off her chair, she touched the dark curls that had been caught in an upsweep. Since her eyelashes shared the same abundance as her hair, she performed a copious amount of fluttering as she lowered her eyes to her plate. He was demanding an explanation.
“It seems you are correct,” she said at last. “I have another purpose for being here. I’m looking for employment, and I thought this place might need my services.”
He flopped back in his chair as if the distance gave him a better view of her. “Exactly what kind of services do you offer?”
She wouldn’t disappear like Lila. Robert Pinkerton knew where she was and expected her to check in regularly. She had the security of the Pinkerton Agency behind her. And if they failed, the entire Kentworth family would come to her aid. But she still felt chilled by his tone.
“I’m a designer,” she said, surprised, as always, how easy it was to slip into character once she determined it was necessary. “I’ve heard that the rooms upstairs are in need of updating, and I’d like to offer my services.”
If she’d thought he looked stern before, his face was a thundercloud now. “What exactly do you know about what goes on upstairs?”
“I’m no prude, I assure you. But my interest is in providing for myself, not in passing judgment on anyone.” A bigger lie she’d never told. Calista was intensely judging all the customers in the café as a trio of ladies walked into the building and toward the staircase in the back. If it weren’t for the addition of rouge and ostrich-plumed hats, they wouldn’t have looked any different from the society ladies at the next table. Calista searched each face, looking for the missing girl, but found nothing.
Mr. Cook’s demeanor toward her had changed. He didn’t look as threatening—just sad. He took his hat from the table. “I misjudged the situation,” he said. “You aren’t who I thought you were.”
Why was he disappointed? And how dare he make her feel guilty? His own conscience had to be as black as coal. “Who exactly were you looking for?” she asked.
“Someone I could help.” He stood, pulled his hat low over his sorrowful eyes, and strode away, leaving Calista unsettled and wary.
two
It had seemed so simple back home in Pine Gap. Matthew Cook had heard the call of God since he was young. It wasn’t until he was fifteen and watched his uncle waste away from a poisoned liver that his calling had taken a specific bent. It was then that he discovered where he wanted to serve.
Matthew stopped at the corner and marveled at the busy street as he waited to cross. Main Street was as wide as the
