“Which is just about everybody,” Haley said.
Theodosia squinted at Drayton. “Since we’re calling this a Romanov Tea, how much are you going to say about the Fabergé egg that’s going to be at the Heritage Society?” She’d been turning this question over and over in her mind. She’d nursed the desire to stage a Romanov Tea long before she’d even heard about the Fabergé egg. But now . . . now it seemed like the two were intertwined. So they almost had to mention it.
“When I introduce the menu,” Drayton said, “I’ll also talk about the Fabergé egg.”
“But don’t dwell on it too much,” Theodosia said. “Because . . . well, you know why.”
? ? ?
Timothy Neville was one of their first guests to arrive. Looking like a country squire in his dark-green Donegal-pattern tweed jacket, he shook hands with Drayton and said, somewhat nervously, “I’ve put on extra protection for Saturday night.”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Drayton responded.
Theodosia quickly inserted herself into their conversation. “Has the Fabergé egg arrived yet?”
“It showed up in an armored truck about an hour ago,” Timothy told them.
“Then maybe that extra protection should start right now,” Theodosia said.
Timothy focused on her. “Ah, but the egg’s not at the Heritage Society.”
“Where is it?” Theodosia asked.
“Locked tightly in a vault,” Timothy said. “A bank vault.”
“Smart idea,” Drayton said.
“Too bad it can’t stay there,” Theodosia said as Drayton led Timothy to his table.
Much to Theodosia’s surprise, Lionel Rinicker showed up next. And not with Grace Dawson, but with a man she’d never met before.
“I didn’t realize you had tickets to our Romanov Tea,” Theodosia said to Rinicker.
“I don’t,” Rinicker said. “My friend Robin Westlake bought tickets and invited me along. Have you met Robin, Theodosia?”
“No, I have not.” She shook hands with a middle-aged, balding man with a slightly florid face. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Westlake.”
“We’re really looking forward to this tea,” Westlake said with great enthusiasm.
“Glad to hear it. And your seats are right this way,” Theodosia told the two men as she led them to their table. “I think you’ll enjoy our food tonight. But I have to warn you, our menu is substantially more robust than just a cream tea or luncheon tea.”
“That’s fine with me,” Rinicker said. “I’m a bachelor who rarely cooks, so this is going to be a real treat.”
“How did your segment turn out yesterday at Channel 8?” Theodosia asked as the men settled into their seats.
“Fairly well,” Rinicker said. “But I barely had time to mumble five words and . . . whoosh . . . the time was gone.”
“I guess that’s the nature of sound bites these days,” Theodosia told him. “When I worked in marketing, we mostly produced thirty-second TV commercials; now you’re lucky if you get to do a ten-second spot.”
That was the last free moment Theodosia had, because their guests began pouring in like crazy. Many were friends from neighboring shops down the block, some were Historic District neighbors and tea regulars, and a few guests were brand-new to them. Theodosia and Drayton did quick meet and greets as they continued to usher guests to their tables.
When Professor Warren Shepley came in, Theodosia recognized him immediately. He was the guest with the quizzical look, baggy brown jacket with elbow patches, and a leather-bound book tucked under one arm.
“Professor Shepley?” she said.
He gave a slightly startled look. “Yes?” He was fairly short, with a shock of frizzy white hair and horn-rimmed glasses. His complexion was ruddy, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors, and his eyes were a watery blue.
“I’m Theodosia Browning. Welcome to my tea shop.”
A smile touched Shepley’s face. “You’re the lady who invited me.”
“Because I thought you might enjoy it.” Theodosia knew he’d wonder about his invitation. “And because I thought our Romanov Tea dovetailed with your area of study.” She gripped his hand, studying him. “And because my friend Lois, at the Antiquarian Bookshop next door, said you’ve been a good customer.”
“Oh,” Shepley said, his puzzlement starting to dissolve. “Okay, then.”
Of course, Delaine showed up, clinging to the arm of Renaldo Gilles, her paramour du jour.
“Theodosia,” Delaine exclaimed. “We’re so thrilled to be here. I’ve been singing your praises sky-high to Renaldo.” She squeezed his arm and fixed him with a starry-eyed gaze. “Haven’t I, pumpkin love?”
“Yes, you have, sweet potato,” Gilles murmured in return.
“I told him that you serve some of the finest food in Charleston,” Delaine simpered. “Of course, that’s not counting the Peninsula Grill, Beaumont’s, Carolina’s, and a few other notables.”