New Year's Madness: Page 8

“My mother. You?”

  “My parents.” Willa pulled a face, glancing at a stately couple at the far end of the table. Arthur was seated next to the woman, who was carrying on a one-sided conversation with him as he attempted to look interested. Lola smothered a laugh.

  “Don’t you just hate formal dinners?” Willa asked. She’d set down her fork. Lola, however, was feeling daring. She cut off a bite and stuck it in her mouth. It tasted like shrimp. And cream sauce. And cucumber.

  “Hmm.”

  “I’d say that’s quite likely the response that the chef was going for.”

  Lola set down her fork, then picked up the rest of the morsel and popped it in her mouth.

  “I think I like you,” Willa said with another grin.

  “I think I like you, too.”

  They spoke throughout the meal, discussing each course. The fish was moist, which Willa and Lola repeated as much as possible. “This moistness is amazing.” “Such a moist texture.” “It simply is the most moist fish.”

  The roast was rare, the way Lola liked it, but Willa eyed it suspiciously. “Are we very certain it isn’t going to waddle off our plates and make its escape?”

  “Oh no,” Lola assured her. “It would roll away instead.”

  The salad was inspiring. Willa and Lola took turns trying to guess what each vegetable was, and if it was a vegetable.

  “I’m certain this is a pomegranate seed,” Willa said, holding the offending seed between her fingers.

  “I’m certain I have no idea what that is.”

  “You are much better off.”

  Dessert, however, silenced them though for very different reasons. It wasn’t as fanciful as the desserts Lola had found in Paris. It was actually fairly plain, a small, flute cake dotted with raisins and dripping with a custard sauce.

  “Oh, goodness, my favorite,” Willa said with delight.

  “What is it?”

  “Spotted Dick. Very traditional. You must try it.”

  Lola picked up her spoon and did so, somewhat disappointed it wasn’t fancier.

  It was tasty but . . .

  “It could use a splash of rum.”

  “My thoughts exactly!”

  The loud, sultry voice came from behind her. Lola turned to face a young woman who could have walked out of a movie screen. For a moment, Lola thought she had, the woman looked so much like Louise Brooks with her black bobbed hair and heavily kohled eyes with pouty scarlet lips and a white dress bedecked with silver beads.

  “I had to meet you,” the woman said. “Vera Tracy.” She held out her hand. Her nails were painted the same scarlet as her lips, the unpainted ends clipped into perfect half-moons that matched the bottom of each nail in the latest fashion.

  Lola glanced at her own painted nails, much less fashionable, before shaking Vera’s hand. “I’m—”

  “Lola Rose. Yes, I heard.”

  Lola was surprised.

  Vera gestured with a nod to the table behind them. “I had the most fun eavesdropping for the entire meal. And thank goodness for it because if I had to listen to another discussion about the latest vote in Parliament or some such nonsense, I’m sure I would have drowned myself with that moist fish.”

  They all laughed.

  “I’m Willa—”

  “Maitlyn,” Vera finished. “Yes, I know. How is daddy the Earl?”

  Willa smiled wryly. “Still an earl.”

  “Ha, that must rankle.”

  “Only most of the time.”

  “C’mon girls,” Vera said, gesturing with both hands so that her black bangles clattered against one another. “There’s far better places to be than here.”

  Lola cast a glance at her mother, who was deep in conversation with Sir Caldwell. “Let’s make our escape.”

  Willa nodded, but she scooped up one last bite of her dessert.

  Vera led them between the dining tables and around the guests who were also rising in anticipation of the next part of the gala.

  “Explored the hotel yet?” Vera asked.

  “Only the inside of our suite,” Lola admitted.

  “We arrived only in time for dinner,” Willa said.

  “You girls are going to thank me,” Vera called over her shoulder to them. “Just you wait.”

  Lola stepped up to her, her feathers swishing around her legs. “Have you met the wife of the architect?”

  “Who?”

  “I heard she lives on the top floor.”

  “You don’t say?” Vera laughed. “My, what a clever old gal.”

  “Are you speaking of the wife of Monsieur Meunier?” Willa asked.

  “I have no idea. Am I?”

  Willa chuckled. “Yes, you are, if you mean the architect. He was a brilliant madman, at least according to the Earl.”

  “The Earl, your father?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Oh, don’t be so forlorn,” Vera told Willa, looping her arm through hers. They made a pretty picture together. “It can’t be all bad.”

  “Do you have any idea how many proposals of marriage I’ve had in the past year?”

  “Of course I do. It’s in all the rags.”

  Willa got a mischievous look. “That’s because I’m the secret source of their gossip.”

  “Oh, you are a sly little thing, aren’t you?”

  “I haven’t been in London long enough to catch up on my tabloid reading,” Lola told them. “How many proposals?”

  “Three.” Willa frowned. “It’s been a slow year.”

  “Then fortunate for you the new year is fast approaching.” Vera laughed.

  Lola was laughing too hard and not watching where she was going.

  “Excuse me, my dear.” The little old woman caught Lola in a tight grip around her lower arm.

  “Oh, pardon me!” Lola drew back. The little old woman had pinched, pale features with sharp gray eyes and a thin-lined mouth. Her silver hair was pulled up in an old fashioned style, the same as her blue and cream gown. Her shawl, however . . .

  “How lovely!” Lola longed to run the lacy shawl with its fuzzy yarn through her fingers, it looked so incredibly soft.

  The old woman touched the scalloped edge of the lacy shawl. “You like it?” Her question was charged.

  “I adore it! It’s crochet, isn’t it?”

  The woman blinked in surprise. “Indeed.”

  “My grandmama crocheted. And knit. And sewed. And just about everything else.”

  “I suppose you failed to take after her.”

  “No, Ma’am. She made sure I knew how to do all of it.” Lola grinned. “I didn’t appreciate it much at the time, and I know I don’t use the skill much anymore, but it is handy to be able to say, ‘My, isn’t that a lovely crocheted shawl.’”

  A slow smile curved the old woman’s lips. “Aren’t you a surprise.”

  “Lola!” Vera was at the door, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing at her with clattering bangles.

  “Give me a minute!” Lola turned back to the little old woman to apologize for the interruption, but she was gone.

  She sighed and caught up to her new friends, who apparently had made an acquaintance of their own.

  “—and I heard that she’s the owner,” the dapper man was saying. He was leaning against one of the columns separating the dining area from the seating room of The Empire restaurant. He had a cocky smile, his dark hair was slicked back, and he sported a thin mustache a la Douglas Fairbanks. It was obvious he thought himself a twin to the famous actor. It was just as obvious that he was not.

  Still, Lola put on a grin and sidled up to the trio. “Who owns what?” she asked.

  “Brandon, this is Lola,” Vera introduced them.

  “The Regal Rose,” Brandon answered, and for a moment, Lola thought he was trying to flatter her until she recalled the name of the hotel. “The woman living here owns it.”

  “I suppose that would make sense,” Willa said, looking over her plain nails while st
ealing glances at Vera’s. “It would make it easier to move in if you own it. No one is going to wonder why you never leave.”

  “What about the architect?” Lola asked.

  “What architect?” returned Brandon with a brush of his fingers across the thin line of hair above his lip.

  “Her husband.”

  He shrugged. “Never heard of that.”

  Lola quirked her mouth to the side in thought.

  “Well, let’s not stand around here like a gaggle of geese,” Vera said. She grabbed Lola’s hand. “Paradise awaits!”

  Chapter Four

  10:00 p.m.

  The Portage Club, 1st Basement Level

  The Regal Rose Hotel

  Walking into The Portage Club was like coming home. Lola basked in the dim ambiance, the sultry jazz coming from a quintet on stage at the back of the club, and the smell of tobacco, perfume, and gin. The woman singing had a voice like bourbon, smoky and smooth, and with the accompaniment of a horn, piano, bass, and drums, the sound was perfect. Lola swayed in place, hips moving to the easy rhythm, and let the music slide through her.

  “That’s Dot and the Four Grooves,” Brandon told them, pitching his voice low to match the mood in the room.

  “Surely not!” Vera squealed. “I have been dying, absolutely dying, to hear them.” She skittered across the room on the toes of her strappy heels to the stage.

  Brandon chuckled. “That’s a live one.”

  “And she’s hungry,” Willa said seriously. She winked at Lola as Brandon sobered and shifted uncomfortably.

  “Oh, don’t fret, Brandon luv,” Willa told him, patting his arm. “I’m certain she has bigger prey in mind.”

  Lola smothered her laugh as Brandon looked to Willa with a confused expression.

  “Oo,” Lola said, pointing to the side of the room. “Drinks.”

  “Please, allow me,” Brandon swept ahead of them as if clearing a path, which was impossible because there were only around twenty people in a club that could hold at least five times as many.

  Lola glanced at Vera to find her already dancing in front of the stage with a richly dressed man. One of her arms was draped across his shoulder and the other clasped loosely in his hand.

  “I want to dance,” Lola said enviously.

  “I’ll dance with you, darling,” Brandon answered, his hand sliding up her arm. She arched an eyebrow at him in perfect mimicry of her mother. His hand dropped.

  “Perhaps you’ll allow me.”

  Arthur was standing behind her with an amused expression. “Miss Rose?” He held out his hand.

  Lola looked at it, then at him. “I’ve changed my mind. Drinks, everyone?” She led the way to the bar, sidestepping around Brandon. She heard the two men introduce themselves along with Willa. Lola noticed that Willa refrained from stating her full name, no doubt to avoid a fourth proposal before the year was out.

  “Are you enjoying your evening?” Arthur asked her as they crossed toward the bar.

  “I am. Solving a mystery is always a way to enjoy my evening.”

  “A mystery?”

  “The architect’s wife. I’m trying to learn more.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? I happen to enjoy discovering secrets and bringing them out to the light of the day.”

  “Does that mean you can’t keep them yourself?”

  Lola swayed to the music before answering. “You might say that I have a slight problem holding back.”

  “Slight?”

  “More than slight.” She shifted the conversation to him. “How is your mystery coming along?”

  Arthur considered, then made that slight shrug. “I am making progress.”

  “Are you now?”

  He merely nodded before glancing across the room. “Please excuse me.”

  “Sure.” She did not watch him walk away, but it was a very near thing. Instead, she stepped up to the bar.

  “Good evenin’, miss. What be yer pleasure?” The bartender’s accent was as thickly Irish as Lola had heard yet. He had a cocky grin, which seemed to be in vogue lately, and clever, friendly eyes.

  “I’m not entirely sure yet,” Lola answered, leaning against the polished wood of the bar and putting one foot on the brass foot rail, jutting her hip out as only a Texas girl could as the feathers swished around her legs. “What’s your specialty?”

  “The house specialty is The Rose.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  “Tis a simple concoction that don’t seem like much at first taste,” he told her, “but when the flavors open they take o’er the senses.”

  Lola laughed. “Are you a poet of cocktails, Mr. . . ?”

  “McGee. Mickey McGee.”

  “So very Irish of you.”

  He cast a look left and right, then leaned forward. “Me real name is Douglas, but tisn’t the sort to bandy about in a place like this, now is it?”

  “No indeed.”

  “So,” he said as he straightened. “The Rose for you, Miss . . . ?”

  “Rose. Lola Rose.”

  His grin took over. “The Rose fer the Rose.” He began mixing the drink as Willa joined her.

  “Whatever is that?”

  “The Rose.”

  “What is in it?”

  Lola shook her head to admit her ignorance. “But apparently it is a poetic experience.”

  Mickey chuckled. “Tis a blend o’ Vermouth, cherry eau de vie, and red current syrup.”

  “Oo, I must have one as well.”

  “Sure enough, miss.”

  Mickey set Lola’s drink in front of her on a cocktail napkin imprinted with a rose inside of cocktail glass. At first taste, she was in love.

  “I do believe I have a new favorite,” she said to Willa.

  “Do tell.” Vera came up next to them.

  “Finished dancing already?”

  “Oh, you know.” She flipped her hand as if it was readily apparent.

  Lola held out her drink. “You must try this.”

  Vera’s eyes widened with one sip. “Me!” she cried to Mickey. “Me next.”

  “I live but to serve, miss.”

  “I’ll bet you do.” Vera’s tone was saucy, but it slid over Mickey with no affect. Experienced bartender, then. Good for him.

  “Who is that midnight dream of handsomeness?”

  Lola looked in the direction Vera was to see Arthur standing near the wall of the club. He was alone, at least, she thought he was alone. The light was so dim that the shadows took over that side of the room. He did appear to be talking, and she didn’t think him the sort to hold conversations with himself. Not aloud, at least.

  “That’s Sir Caldwell Blythe’s cousin’s son.” Lola smirked.

  Willa and Vera stared at her.

  “Arthur Blythe,” she said, taking pity on them. “We’ve only just met.”

  “That does seem to be the theme of the evening,” Willa observed.

  “I’d like to only just meet him,” Vera purred.

  “Down, kitty.” Willa stroked Vera’s arm.

  “I think you’d find him a bit stuffy,” Lola said. Though she didn’t find him that way at all, so it was best to go back to referring to him as Arthur the cousin’s son. Much less dangerous that way.

  “Who is he talking to?” Willa leaned forward as though the slight lessening of the distance would reveal the secrets that the shadows held.

  “Ah, that’s the grand old lady who lives here,” Mickey said, coming back to refill their drinks.

  Lola focused on him. “Oh? What do you know?”

  “I know that’s the grand old lady who lives here.”

  “It’s strange how some employees completely disregard the possibility of a tip,” Lola observed pointedly.

  Mickey laughed. “Now, no need fer that, Miss Rose. I can’t tell you much else, honest to God. She’s a widow whiling away her final years on this good Earth by living in a hotel.” He shook his head. “The English are an odd sor
t. No offense meant, miss.”

  “Don’t fret yourself,” Lola told him. “I find I’m in complete agreement with you.”

  “Here he comes,” Vera said with an excited shake of her shoulders that set her beads clicking. She smoothed down her dress and flipped the sides of her black bob, but Arthur turned away towards the other end of the bar before he reached them.

  “Well,” Vera huffed. “Be that way, then.”

  “I say, Vera—” the richly dressed man approached them, a gin and tonic in hand. He wasn’t a bad looking sort, but he was a bit older than Lola found enticing.

  Vera didn’t seem to share her opinion. She smiled at him charmingly.

  “Oh, Patrick. Meet my friends.”

  As Vera made introductions, including Brandon, who had returned on the tails of Patrick’s coat, Lola stepped away. She made a slow circle of the room, stealing glances into those shadows. Someone was indeed sitting there.

  She swayed to the song that Dot and the Four Grooves were playing. They truly were wonderful, and if she weren’t so distracted, she’d be finding a dance partner. Not Arthur, no that would never do. Though, she did wonder how well he danced.

  It hardly mattered. She wouldn’t be finding out. And she wouldn’t be finding out how well he kissed, either, because he was never going to discover where she was from.

  As she neared the place where Arthur’s mysterious conversationalist sat, she saw a glimmer of light off of silver hair.

  Oh, it couldn’t be.

  Lola smiled and made straight for the spot.

  “I’d have never taken you for a jazz lover,” Lola said to the little old woman. The woman looked up at her in a way that suggested she was actually looking down on Lola, but Lola didn’t let it upset her. She was on a quest, now.

  “I find that expanding my knowledge of music is enlightening,” the old woman told her.

  Lola sat in the round-back seat next to her, delighting in the way the cushion sank enough to be exquisitely comfortable without threatening to hold her in place when she tried to stand.

  “And what has enlightened you tonight, if I might ask.”

  The old woman grew thoughtful. Lola admired how rosy the woman’s cheeks were now that she was facing her in profile. What she took at first for sharpness had been merely a hooking of her nose and a rather pointed chin.