The Brontë Plot (16 page)

Helen nodded her head slowly as if a secret pact had been formed. She then pushed back her chair to stand. “Let's finish our day. I'm fading and would like to add a few more plaques to our burgeoning Blue Plaque collection.”

After another hour of ambling and chatting, they reached the northeast corner of Russell Square. Lucy had texted Dillon and he stood there waiting beside the car.

“Where to, ladies?”

“Back to the hotel. I think we've done the day proud.” Helen rested her handbag in her lap. “Dillon, what time do you end with us each evening?”

“I don't. I'm at your command twenty-four-seven. Shall I take you on to dinner?”

“Not me, but would you mind taking Lucy? I'd rather not have her out alone, especially her first night in London.”

Lucy chimed in, “I'm perfectly capable. Besides, I'm not leaving you. We can eat in the hotel or, if you're too tired, I'll eat there alone.”

“Nonsense. You have only three days in London and I want you to experience all you can. I need my beauty sleep.” She called back to the front in her own mix of cheer and command. “Dillon, I expect you to take her someplace nice, young man, very nice.”

“Yes, ma'am. I can do that.”

When they pulled into the courtyard, Dillon helped Helen
from the car. She reached both hands out to him and whispered into his ear before continuing into the hotel.

He turned to Lucy. “That is the first time a woman has ever slipped me money.”

“That's so wrong.”

“It is, a little. She just handed me . . .” He slid the bills apart with his fingers. “Plenty, and I know where to spend it. Can you be ready in an hour? We don't have reservations, but we might snag a table early.”

“You don't need to do this.”

“I'd like to if you aren't too tired yourself.”

“Oddly, I'm not.”

“Good. One hour.” Dillon ducked back into the car and drove away.

Chapter 16

L
ucy headed into her room ready to let go of all the currents swirling around her, pull on her vintage fitted floral dress of blue and black splayed upon a bright-white background, and have an evening of fun. She loved that dress—one couldn't be sad while wearing such a happy dress.

She paired it with a thin black cashmere scarf, accented it all with deep red lipstick, and twirled in front of the bathroom's full mirror. She played with her hair and decided to leave it hanging in loose curls down her back—James always liked that. That reminder sent her searching for a hair band to pull it back into her ubiquitous low ponytail.

Too many opinions crowding this bathroom.
With a half-laugh and a huff, Lucy grabbed the brass key off her bedside table and hurried down the steps.

Dillon stood waiting in the lobby. He whistled and she took a curtsy, pleased with the compliment.

“You're early,” she said.

“Traffic was light and I live too far away to change. You'll have to deal with me in my livery here.”

Lucy looked him up and down. He'd removed his black tie and now stood before her as any casual city guy might, dressed in black pants, a matching black sports coat, and a white shirt, slightly rumpled and open at the collar. “You look great.”

“Then let's be off.” He held out his arm in an exaggerated fashion and led her out the door.

“Where's the car?”

“I dropped it back at the garage. We don't need it and I'd rather get it back early. The guys wash them down each night. This way, they can get outta there early. Most of the cars needed for the morning were already back.”

“That's thoughtful of you.”

Dillon brushed off the compliment and waved down at her shoes. “I thought a walk would be good; it's a nice night. But you've been walking all day and you've got heels . . .”

“These are actually very comfortable. Let's not give in yet.” Lucy led the way from the courtyard and stopped on St. James Street. “Which way?”

Dillon pointed to the left. “Up to Piccadilly. We're going to an amazing Indian restaurant up Regent Street. Veeraswamy. I've never been, but clients rave about it. I think Mrs. Carmichael would approve.”

“It sounds like an adventure. I believe she would.”

They walked and talked the half-mile.

Finally Dillon reached for her hand and pulled her up a last flight of stairs to the restaurant's second-floor home. “You've slowed down. I forgot about your jet lag. You shoulda stopped me. It's what? About noon your time?”

“But I've been awake since yesterday.” She glanced down at her phone. “I think I'm going on thirty-five hours now.”

“Give me a couple more, then we'll get you tucked into bed.”

“Sounds good.”

Dillon returned to the lobby a few moments later downcast. “No tables. It's my own fault; I should've at least called.”

“Hang on. There are always tables.”

Lucy walked slowly to the hostess stand and rested both hands on its high edge. “Is there any way you could squeeze us in? It's really important—not your problem, all mine, but if you could?”

The woman, tall and intimidatingly sleek, flashed a straight and humorless smile. “We are booked this evening. I have seating available for ten o'clock tonight for two or tomorrow evening at five.”

Lucy leaned forward. “I'll be gone . . . But I posted on my blog that I was dining and reviewing here tonight. Again not your problem, but it's a popular site in the States, a series on summer travel and culinary highlights. This is my own fault; I'll think of another spot.” She snapped her fingers at Dillon. “What was that other restaurant the Dukes Hotel concierge mentioned . . . You know . . .?”

Dillon stared blankly at her.

The woman huffed. “Wait a moment.”

As she walked away, Dillon touched Lucy's arm and whispered, “She knows you're playing her.”

“Yes, but she's our age, and we know the power of social media. She's not sure what part's a lie and what's the truth, and she's not willing to risk making the wrong call.”

An elderly man came to the stand and studied the computer screen. “I gather we are trying to find a table.”

Lucy stepped around the stand and touched his arm. “We
won't linger. You must have something this early. Something for a romantic dinner? For two?” Her voice softened.

He blinked, peeked at Dillon, then shifted his gaze back to the computer. “I think we can arrange something. Follow me.”

He seated them at a corner window table overlooking Regent Street, darkening in the late evening light. It felt warm and opulent, toned in oranges and golds.

As soon as he walked away, Dillon laughed. “How on earth did you manage that?”

“Not hard, really. Clumsy, yes, but that's part of it too. She questioned the blog but didn't believe it, and he wouldn't have cared. I figured he'd be more swayed by batting my lashes. In the end, you tell them what they want to hear and you often get what you want because that's the most expeditious way to get rid of you.”

Dillon raised his brow.

Why do I look at you and feel this compulsion to get all honest?
Lucy's victory dissolved as she remembered her words to James as if spoken aloud. She opened the menu and concentrated on it, too embarrassed to look at Dillon or around the room. She felt a tap on her hand.

“I asked if you like it?”

Lucy took in the room. “I do. It's beautiful.”

Dillon grinned and returned his attention to his menu.

Lucy surveyed the restaurant. The hostess was already occupied elsewhere and the older man had disappeared. She continued to look around.
Sumptuous.

Dillon sat absorbed by the menu. “What shall we eat?”

Lucy leaned back in her chair. “I like that question. My
boyfriend used to say that. Never what
he
or
I
should eat, but what
we
should, so we could share.”

Dillon laid down the menu. “That'd be Mrs. Carmichael's grandson, I expect.”

“You did not get that from one conversation.”

“If your expressions and posture hadn't made it clear, listening would have. There's a tone . . . Don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about.”

“I do.”

“There you have it. Mrs. Carmichael's grandson. So?”

“We broke up a couple weeks ago.”

“How does it work that
his
grandmother is taking you on a trip?”

“It's a little complicated.” Lucy considered the many layers of complexity. “To summarize, I work in an interior arts gallery and, technically, I'm working as a consultant on a few purchases she wants to make.” She lifted the menu. “So what shall we eat?”

She didn't know if Dillon was satisfied with the answer or not, but he didn't question and simply picked up his menu again. After a few minutes, he looked up. “A couple clients touted the Raj Kachori, and curries are my favorite. After that, I haven't a clue. You?”

“I've eaten very little Indian food.”

With the server's help, they finally settled on Raj Kachori, neither fully understanding its description, the Kerala Prawn Curry, and a lentil dish neither dared to pronounce.

“Did he say ‘filled with goodies'?” Lucy giggled.

“Maybe that's like an Indian version of haggis. I suggest you don't look too closely,” Dillon mock-whispered.

“Oh no . . . My stomach is not up for your sense of humor.”

“It'll be fine. I promise.”

The food arrived with a variety of small ceramic dishes, each filled with nuts, chutneys, spices, cut-and-dried fruits, or other accouterments. The table soon overflowed with tiny bowls of exquisite colors and varied aromas and textures.

“Goodies.” Lucy laughed as she picked over them and took her first bite of the Raj Kachori. “I think it's lobster and fish inside and the chutney's amazing.”

Dillon scooped a spoonful and moaned. “This is killing my favorite pub.”

“An Indian pub?”

“English, but it's got an Indian restaurant out of the back. I'm there like four days a week and now I'm gonna be disappointed.” He scooped out lentils from another dish as he flicked his hand to her. “Hand me your plate and try this.” He glanced at the next table and whispered, “Swipe your naan in it. That's what they're doing.”

Lucy tore a piece of the thin hot bread. She dipped it into the lentils and tucked it into her mouth as some dripped down. She scrambled for her napkin. “So yummy. I may fall asleep soon.”

“Not yet.” Dillon downed another prawn. “I need to go back to this grandson a minute. If my ex-girlfriend went on a trip with my gran, I'd be sore. You break up with a guy; he keeps his own family.”

“One would think. Honestly, I can't explain this one.”

“More secrets? I already know your master plan in the Lake District. What's one more?”

“I can't decide if I should laugh or get nervous.”

Dillon hiked a shoulder. “I'm only curious.”

Lucy watched him. His eyes were hazel and clear and it struck her how much one could see in another's eyes. They shadowed under the strains of lies; they drifted in dreams or peace; they widened in surprise and fear; they darkened in tension; and worst of all, they sharpened in manipulation. She knew that one, had seen it in others and felt it within herself. Dillon's eyes carried nothing beyond open interest and innocent curiosity.

“He broke up with me, but Helen thinks I can help her in a way her family can't right now. And that one I really can't explain other than to say that she and I seem to share some common history.”

“You are a mystery.” Dillon took a sip of water and regarded her over the glass's rim.

“Part of it's Helen's story and not mine, or at this point I'd blab it all.”

Dillon nodded as if accepting the answer. He waited a beat then asked, “Was he
the one
?”

Lucy smirked, but her voice remained light. “You go for the gut.”

“Ah . . .
the one
.” Dillon laid his hands on the table, fingers spread wide on either side of his plate. “I had this girlfriend. We were just dating, but one day she says we're done 'cause she's found
the one
.” He bracketed the word with stiff hands. “Now she's married in Kingston with two kids.”

“Prior to James, I wouldn't have said there was only one. But now . . . He made me better. That's the best description I can give. He challenged me, in a good way, and I respected him.”

Dillon rolled his eyes, making Lucy laugh.

“Cliché, but it's all true. We brought out each other's best and I didn't want to let him, or us, down. It was like a road opened before me and I wasn't alone on it.”

“What happened?”

“I let us down.”

“That's too vague.” Dillon leaned forward.

For a split second Lucy pondered the intrusiveness of Dillon's questions and a sense of relief rather than annoyance filled her. Dillon wanted to know, was curious, and on first assessment, had proven trustworthy. But more to the point, Lucy wanted to talk. And someone was finally listening.

“James is a truthful guy. He's smart and funny, mission-oriented. One of your good guys. It's one of the things I loved about him, but I made some bad decisions along those lines.” Lucy looked back to the hostess. “He caught me in a lie and that was the end of our story.”

“Except it's not the end.”

Lucy faced him again. “He won't come back. I'd hoped, but I can tell now. I know him.”

“Still not the end.”

“Ah . . . You know something that I don't?”

“It's obvious.” Dillon waited a beat. “You're here with his grandmother.”

“She's not playing matchmaker. This trip isn't about anything like that. And I wouldn't want her to. What I did was wrong, and while I wish he'd forgive me, I don't want him manipulated into it. Then it's not real and we'll just break up again. If we're only headed for that, we were better off ending it two weeks ago. Helen knows that.”