Dear Miss Darcy (The UK Edition) Read online

  "Miss Darcy." Christopher Stanley's lips curled into a smile that seemed almost charming. It must be the atmosphere that made her think such things after this afternoon's encounter.

  "I was ... if you'll release me, I have a phone call to make," she answered, coldly. He released her arms and gestured towards the lobby.

  "Be my guest," he said. She slipped past him quickly.

  "Who is your dining companion tonight?" he called after her.

  She hesitated, reproaching herself for this pause on the threshold of escape. Why on earth would you answer his question? Shifting her weight impatiently, she wished for a magical excuse that would let her vanish and reappear at home.

  "I was intending to meet someone, but they had an urgent reason to cancel," she answered, turning to face him lest he assume she was eager to flee. "I was going to call a friend to meet me here instead."

  Liar, liar, she mentally chided herself. It would have been better to tell him she changed her mind about dining altogether. Then she could hail a cab and figure out a way to rescue Henry from his predicament at the bar.

  "In one of those extraordinary coincidences, my date has cancelled for the evening also." He studied her intently, with a little smile which Miss Darcy couldn't quite fathom. "Suppose we combine our tables for the evening. That way your friend isn't forced into a last-minute dash–and I'm not forced to dine alone."

  "Well, I ... I haven't really ... I don't think ..." Every sentence she began trailed off on its own. She faltered, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched her bag as if it contained her nerves. "That would be perfectly fine with me," she continued.

  How had those words escaped from her mouth? Her eyes widened slightly at the realisation of what she'd just agreed to, as if volunteering to fling herself into the London Zoo's lion pen for dinner.

  "Then allow me," he said, offering her his arm. Her story about the phone call would never do as an escape. With a weak smile, she allowed him to escort her into the main dining room.

  Mr. Stanley's regular table at Rosing's was a semi-circular booth of crushed red velvet and a marble table. As Miss Darcy slid into her seat, she was afforded a very uncomfortable view of Henry alone at the bar.

  A shot of pity stabbed through her. Whatever made her think her secret was worth the torture of a good friend stood up at a swanky bar? Henry, whose lovelorn status was no secret to every member of the Morning Post staff.

  Almost reflexively, she pictured his shock if she had been the one sitting at the bar with the pink rose. What would he think if he found out she was the client of a dating agency? Even if he were sympathetic to her secret, it was doubtful if he would respect her romantic opinions ever again.

  "Are you quite all right?" The sound of Stanley's voice jerked her back to the present.

  "Perfectly," she answered. "Perhaps you've never had your mind on your work so intently, Mr. Stanley, but I'm afraid an advice columnist sees material virtually everywhere they look." She flipped open the menu the waiter placed in front of her.

  "They see the opportunity to share their opinion at every occasion also," he answered.

  A saccharin little smile from Miss Darcy was all that met these words. To her surprise, a short laugh escaped his throat.

  "There, I did it again," he said. "Bringing up our feud when we're supposed to be making pleasant conversation." His menu was open to the most expensive items; she couldn't help but notice how casually he glanced over prices that rivalled her flat's weekly rent.

  "Do you like shrimp?" he asked.

  "Love them," she answered, forcing a pleasant smile. Over his shoulder, she could see Henry picking through the bowl of nuts forlornly. No doubt in search of cashews, of which he kept a full can stashed on his mail trolley at all times.

  "I’ll be back in a moment," she said. "I really must make a phone call." Rising from the table, she made her way towards the entrance. Glancing back to make sure Stanley wasn't watching, she ducked behind one of the velvet-draped partitions.

  She pulled a pad from her purse and scribbled a note on it. Apologies from your date– she was detained tonight and won't be able to make it. Doing her best to disguise her handwriting, she made certain Henry wouldn't be able to recognise the writer. She folded it in half and flagged down a passing waiter.

  "Give this to the gentleman in the tan suit at the bar," she whispered. "Tell him it's a telephone message from the person he's meeting." She dug a few notes from her purse and pressed them into the waiter's palm along with the message.

  "I assume you do not wish to be pointed out to the gentleman?" asked the waiter, glancing in Henry's direction. She shook her head.

  "Just say it's a telephone message, please." Closing her eyes, she listened to the sound of his soft tread dying away on the carpet. Five minutes should do it–maybe ten–before she could safely return to her seat. By then, Henry would surely go home. Tomorrow they would see each other at the office and everything would be the same as always.

  Except for her guilt over leaving a good friend stranded on a blind date, all for the sake of keeping a secret from her closest friends. Perhaps even the general horror of being stuck with her current dinner partner wasn’t punishment enough for this sin.

  Stanley was scrolling through his text messages when she returned to the table. The bar was empty now, except for a middle-aged couple with martinis. With a sigh of relief, she slid into her seat.

  "That was quick," Stanley said. He turned his cell phone off as he flipped it closed. "Office place emergency? Or do you not experience those in the columnist's world?"

  "More often than businessmen would realise, actually," she answered, opening her menu again. "Would you recommend the fettuccine? Or is the chef's shell pasta a better choice?"

  He snorted. "You shall never give me an advantage, eh? Always the evil businessman who only thinks he's more successful than most of the world."

  "Are you?" she asked. "More successful than most of the world, I mean."

  "I would say so," he answered. "I built a company out of nothing, Miss Darcy; mere ideas that I made possible in a cellar workshop, which now employs almost five thousand people in a growing global empire. Within two years, those thousands will be millions."

  "No doubt pasting color covers on plastic DVD sleeves," she answered. "Or is it CD-ROM? I'm never sure which technology actually creates games and multimedia platforms."

  The waiter reappeared with a bottle of wine, no doubt selected during her absence since the likes of Mr. Stanley would assume she had no opinion on the subject. It's terribly un-chic of you in this modern age to order drinks without your date present, sir.

  A fishy stare was directed at her by the waiter as he poured a second glass. It was the same one who had taken Henry the message–his eyes flickered in the direction of Stanley, then back at her as if assessing the situation. She dropped her eyes guiltily, all too aware what he was thinking of her as she sat across from one of London's most famous romantic players.

  "Have you decided, Mr. Stanley?" he asked, placing the bottle on the table. Miss Darcy avoided his glance, seeking refuge in her menu again.

  "Shrimp-stuffed lobster rolls for an appetizer," Stanley began, "for two, if you please." Taken by surprise, Miss Darcy blushed. He needn't feel obligated to buy any part of her dinner; she would make that clear before the bill arrived.

  "Grilled salmon with polenta for the main course, please," he continued.

  "And for madam?" The waiter's eye rolled in Olivia's direction.

  "A Caesar salad, lightly dressed," she answered, meekly. Something mercifully quick to keep this evening short. He collected their menus and glided silently away.

  Stanley took a deep breath. "Well, this is pleasant," he said. "We have had nothing this evening to talk about except how much we loathe each other."

  "I never said I loathed you," she answered, defensively. "Just that I don't like your manners." She took a sip of the wine between statements, allowing the vinta
ge to roll over her tongue, a taste far more expensive than the bottle at home in her refrigerator.

  He raised one eyebrow. "You sneered at my work," he replied, pointedly. "Although I have no doubt that the world of love columns does a greater global good than any number of technology jobs."

  "And how well do you think the world would function without romantic love?” she answered. The words were meant playfully, but Stanley's jaw hardened slightly in response.

  "Love isn't the all-powerful force we all assume," he answered. "No one should know that better than you, given the drivel that undoubtedly comes through the mail to request your advice."

  "A compliment wrapped in an insult. Tell me, are you this charming with all your dining companions?" she asked. "Or is it simply my presence that makes you lash out at newspapers and their employees?"

  "I think you're sufficiently aware that there is no love lost between me and the press," he said, glancing around as if he expected a photographer to descend on them in response to the words. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. "That's what makes life so difficult for someone like me, Miss Darcy. Everyone watches your every move. All the time."

  "How awful," she whispered back. But there was nothing of the seriousness in her tone that was evident in his own.

  A brief smile flickered across his face. "Try it sometime. If your manuscript is published, perhaps you'll feel differently."

  Astonishment swept across her face. How did he know about her book?

  "I believe we were talking of 'is' and not 'if', Mr. Stanley," she replied, trying to gather her composure again. "Perhaps we should talk of something else altogether. Relationships, for instance?"

  "That's rather a low blow," he said. "In response to your question, I'm perfectly happy with my current lifestyle. I see no need for improving on a good thing."

  "I suppose everyone is entitled to an opinion on what's good and what isn't," Miss Darcy shot back. "Including the young ladies who have been scorned by a playboy's lack of interest."

  "Whoever said I wasn't interested in them?" he asked. "Or do you think it's possible that a certain amount of bitterness could lead to exaggerated stories about past relationships?"

  "I think bitterness can drive people to do lots of things," she answered. "Including pretend that their callous relationship mistakes were just in their partner's imagination."

  "If one's career credibility is based on opinions formed by one side of a story in one short letter, then one is bound to feel threatened by a second version."

  She sucked her breath in at these words. "The second version? Thus far, I think everything you've done or said has confirmed your former girlfriend's allegations."

  She met his gaze without flinching. His response was silence, a stony expression on his face. Already she could see the muscles working beneath his loosened tie, the skin tightening over his angular cheekbones.

  "I think we're disappointing your fellow diners," she said, softly. "They're used to seeing far more activity at this table than two people just talking." She glanced around at the several curious diners looking on from surrounding tables.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a booming voice beside their table.

  "Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise?" The jovial tones belonged to a portly man in a tuxedo, who surveyed Stanley with a smile. "You said you had dinner reservations, but I had rather thought you meant someplace dark and private for entertaining a young lady."

  Stanley twisted his lips to resemble a smile. "This is Andrew Turk, a business associate of mine," he explained. "Andrew, this is Miss Darcy. My dinner partner for the evening."

  Turk's grin widened. "Not the Miss Darcy, is it? The columnist the tabloids are ragging you about?" He nudged Stanley's arm. "She's quite a looker, you player. Way to win over the competition, eh?"

  "Not at all, Andrew." Miss Darcy detected a twinge of embarrassment in Stanley's voice.

  "So is this newspaper thing all a publicity ruse to make up for little-miss-whoever finally departing?" asked Turk. "Or is Miss Darcy here just the catch of the day?"

  That was far, far enough. Olivia scrambled to her feet and collected her bag.

  "I'm afraid I'm just leaving, Mr. Turk," she answered. "A business emergency I'm afraid–why don't you stay and dine with Mr. Stanley so he won't be alone?" She wrinkled her nose in a patronizing smile to Stanley.

  "Miss Darcy, wait–" her dinner partner began. She shouldered her purse and shook Mr. Turk's hand.

  "A pleasure meeting both of you," she said. Turning, she marched towards the exit as Turk's oily voice boomed through the dining room behind her.

  " –and that's some coincidence, the two of you turning up here at the same time."

  *****

  The soft pink glow of her reading lamp illuminated the cold chicken chow mein in Miss Darcy's takeaway box. Her chopsticks picked their way through a box of sticky rice and vegetables, searching for something green in the midst of honey, a wholesome bite to wipe away the grimy recollection of Henry's loneliness and Mr. Stanley's indifference.

  The only possible way it could have been worse was if her friend had discovered the truth. That confident, successful Miss Darcy was as hopeless at love as her clients–and then where would she be? Out of a job, probably, if word somehow leaked that the Post's love columnist couldn't get a second date on her own.

  She tossed the paper carton into the trash. Folding her knees, she rested her forehead against the soft cotton of her drawstring pyjamas. Suddenly, tonight's events seemed far too heavy to bear, even after a glass or two of wine.

  She could have ruined her career. She could have jeopardised her friendship with Henry. She could have ended up labelled the latest "conquest" for the odious playboy Christopher Stanley. It seemed suddenly as if her secret were a giant anvil hanging over her head, waiting to crush her at any moment.

  Propping her chin on her knees, she stared at Lizzie Bennet's placid smile in the portrait. If only there were some way to really be Lizzie Bennet. To have a smile and charm that could conquer even England's proudest gentleman.

  Blasted heritage! It would be far less burdensome to be descended from Henry the Eighth. After all, no one would expect a great love story to emerge from a man who chopped off his wife's head at will.

  Chapter Eight

  Dear Readers: as many of you know, I was recently contacted by the unfortunate subject of "Confused in Cottingley", who continues to deny any wrongdoing in the relationship. Sadly, this individual has gone so far as to attempt to BRIBE me to apologise for my advice to Cottingley and to cease publishing any articles on the subject of the "hapless romantics" of the world, based on this particular case.

  But will his plan work? Never! I will continue offering my advice to Cottingley and others who feel rejected by thoughtless individuals–beginning with a new weekly feature each Wednesday in my usual Post column. This feature will share romantic lessons learned from a close analysis of Cottingley's romance and other tragic tales of love's indifference ...

  The second letter arrived the next afternoon, bearing the same letterhead as the first cease-and-desist from Christopher Stanley. This time the wording was significantly harsher. A virtual command instead of a polite suggestion.

  Olivia tossed it into the trash, along with an empty paper cup and bakery wrapper. The rude demands of said Mr. Stanley would have no effect on her anymore.

  "You're wanted, Miss Darcy." The words were delivered in grim tones by Collins's assistant editor. Without bothering to reply, Olivia pushed back from her desk and made her way towards his office.

  Collins was reading over the morning edition, his feet propped on the corner of his desk. Oily prints were visible across the upper corners of the pages.

  He grunted as she approached. Lowering the paper, he surveyed her leeringly for several moments of silence.

  "You still want to go through with this?" He folded the paper to her column and tossed it in front of her on the desk.
“That is, do you think you can control a situation of this magnitude? This is big stuff, Miss Darcy– compared to the usual drivel you pass off. Different crisis every day, blokes wishing their mum liked their bit of stuff ...”

  "I can handle it," she answered. "He hasn't any right to stop me and his letters are hardly frightening."

  There was a moist snort from Collins's open mouth. "So you think," he answered.

  "Don’t you like it?" she asked. "I assume it's suitably nasty for your taste; plenty of celebrity appeal since everyone thinks they know who Cottingley's former boyfriend is."

  "I won't deny the appeal factor," he answered. "And the risk is all yours–since you know that we publishers are limited as to the protection we offer writers who go rogue with their columns. Remember Hartshall Elliot?" His leer vanished as his lips tightened around the base of a cigar, the forbidden habit he indulged in freely within the walls of his office.

  Elliot was used as a reminder of last resort, since the cocky columnist’s career began dwindling just a year after his tangle with Miss Darcy.

  “Tough circumstances, no?” Collins murmured. “But then, you would never take it to the point of no return. I hope.”

  She knew this was his way of informing her the line was drawn in the sand. After all, Collins only supported sensation as long as his own career remained untouched and the Post’s reputation unquestionable. As for her career–well, that was another matter.

  "I can take care of myself, thank you very much," she answered. "If that's all, then I have a stack of letters awaiting my attention.

  His response was a curt nod from behind a curtain of smoke. He tossed a novelty lighter shaped like a parrot into the desk drawer. As she exited, the assistant editor gave her a weak smile of sympathy from behind a stack of paperwork.

  "I think he expects me to bury the paper in scandal," Olivia complained, cradling a pint behind her hands. The dim atmosphere of the pub known as Northanger Alley was punctuated by boorish shouts from the local crowd with its nightly round at the dartboard.