Madame Bellamy’s was on the swell end of Baldwin, too refined for catcalling. When Cordelia let her wrap slide down so she could sun her bare shoulders, she didn’t get any whistles, but she did catch a few passersby smiling at her from beneath the brims of their hats.
The front of the place was decorated with wrought iron in fancy spirals and flowers. Tiny colored panes made up the windows, above and below two larger, plainer stretches of glass printed with “Tea” and “Coffee.” Between the curlicue letters, Cordelia saw the bent heads of diners, and black-jacketed waitstaff drifting from table to table.
Cordelia had never been to Bellamy’s—couldn’t afford it, for queen’s sake. But she’d chatted up enough of the punters to walk and talk like a swell. No one would realize where she came from if she didn’t want ’em to.
“Ma’am.” The maitre d’ gave her a courteous half bow. “Do you have a reservation?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Cordelia, holding her voice carefully even. “Will that be any trouble?
The maitre d’ maintained a mask of bland indifference. “No trouble at all.”
He led her to a table near the center of the room. A waiter took her order and returned with coffee. Oh, she liked this. She liked it very much. As she was stirring cream and sugar into her cup, she heard the distant chime of the bell hanging above Bellamy’s door and looked up, wondering how she was supposed to know Ari’s friend if she saw him, or if he was supposed to come to her.
The man who entered was a pinch shorter than average, but he had charm enough it made up for the extra inches. Turned out in a white tennis sweater and pleated flannel trousers rolled at the ankle, he was a little too dressed down for the scene, but he looked at his ease. The maitre d’, who she would’ve pegged as a starched proper, gave him zero grief about his rags. If Cordelia knew anything, that meant money.
The maitre d’ made to show the newcomer to a table, but the man stopped him and shook his head. He was looking straight at Cordelia, a wolfish half-smile curling the corner of his mouth.
Trouble. She’d have to turn him down fast, before her date got here. Unless …
He produced a thin, glossy billfold from his trouser pocket and tipped the maitre d’ with the casual graciousness of someone used to burning cash. For a brief, hot second she despised him. He said something that made the dour maitre d’ laugh. The way both their eyes flashed in her direction, she knew he’d made some kind of dirty joke.
“Come on over then,” she said softly, cupping her coffee with both hands and raising it to her lips. “Come on over and make me laugh.”
But he didn’t. He watched her all the way as he walked to the bar, then smiled, and turned his back.
*
Cyril didn’t go straight to the woman’s table. He was supposed to be meeting a stranger and taking a liking to her, and that required a little bit of patience. It wouldn’t do to march up and introduce himself like they’d both been sent here for that purpose. So instead, he made a tasteless joke to the maitre d’—Isn’t that the stripper from the Bumble Bee? Looks different with her clothes on—and went to the bar that curved against the western wall of the tearoom. The brass espresso machine hissed steam. Cyril followed the vapor’s progress to the ceiling, watching it dissipate amongst the frescoes of nymphs and half-clad hunters, snag on the antlers of gold stags’ heads and the crystals of the twin chandeliers.
When he looked back down, the woman was watching him, her head tipped quizzically over her coffee cup. A ringlet had escaped from the twist at the nape of her neck. It fell across her shoulder, into her décolletage, so perfectly placed he suspected she had let it free on purpose.
Cyril called the bartender over. “A glass of champagne, for the lady at that table. Green label, the forty-two.”
The bartender inclined her head. “An excellent choice, sir.”
He couldn’t tell if she meant the wine, or the woman.
When he’d come through the door and seen that scarlet hair, he’d wanted so badly to turn around and walk away. She was pretty, yes, and yes, Aristide was right: She’d make the perfect mistress for a hypocritical politician. But she was also Aristide’s colleague, and she’d keep Cyril close to the Bee. She’d cover for him, but she’d keep him within Ari’s orbit.
Champagne dispatched, the bartender brought Cyril a rye and soda dashed with house bitters. A twist of orange peel rested on the rough edge of the ice. He thought of complaining—he liked his drinks clean and simple—but before he could draw the bartender’s attention, a waiter leaned in beside him.
“The lady asks if you’d join her at her table.”
He took his cocktail and strolled between the remnants of the lunch crowd. The woman—he remembered Aristide saying her name, but what was it?—watched his approach with narrow eyes like chips of imperial topaz. He paused beside her and offered his hand.
“Cyril DePaul,” he said. “How’s the plonk?”