Lucy concentrated on shuffling the documents on the desk into a neat pile. “But, surely, with everything that needs to be done—”
“Merola can wait a day.” Mr. Schuyler plucked the pile out of her hands and held the papers just out of her reach. “You did forget, didn’t you? Don’t try to lie to me. Your cheeks tell all.”
“I—” Lucy made a grab for the papers, but he dropped them onto the blotter with a decisive thunk. “We’ve had so much to do.”
And it was true. They’d both been working every hour God gave them, at the office before Miss Meechum, there long after the janitor made the rounds of the hall, his mop bumping gently against the woodwork. Mr. Schuyler might play at being a dilettante, but when the situation demanded—and it had demanded—he had buckled down with the sort of fierce concentration that Lucy had once imagined that he would accord only a tennis match or an act at the opera.
And it was the opera tonight, wasn’t it? In the scrum of work, of papers to be typed and retyped, every clause a crisis, every comma crucial, Lucy had forgotten about Mr. Schuyler’s engagement to see Tosca with his stepmother.
And her own with Mr. John Ravenel, the art dealer from South Carolina.
Or was it North Carolina? Lucy couldn’t remember. She’d never been as far south as Jersey.
Mr. Schuyler grinned at her. With mock seriousness, he said, “Don’t deny me my moment of triumph.” His eyes meeting hers, he added softly, “It’s a relief to know that you aren’t entirely perfect.”
“Far from it,” said Lucy repressively, putting the lid on the treacherous flutters his words made her feel. Mr. Schuyler flirted as easily as he breathed. It was a habit with him. And she’d be a fool to assume otherwise. “I’m just as fallible as anyone else.”
A secretary didn’t fall for her employer. Her engaged employer, Lucy reminded herself.
Mr. Schuyler didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. “The reservation is for eight, which means you have plenty of time to don your gay apparel.” Reaching into one of the desk drawers, he dropped a pile of bills on the desk. “That should cover your cab fare.”
Bad enough that she was going out to dinner, alone, with a strange man. But the pile of bills on the table . . . They made her feel cheap.
Lucy’s shoulders stiffened beneath the boxy fabric of her suit. “I couldn’t possibly—”
Mr. Schuyler chucked her under the chin. “You’re doing this for the firm, remember? It’s a business expense. A legitimate business expense,” he added, his lips quirking.
Despite herself, Lucy couldn’t quite help smiling back. She’d had some queries about his expense reports when they’d started working together last week. “You mean like your greens fees?”
“Just like my greens fees,” said Mr. Schuyler solemnly. He pushed the bills toward Lucy. “Don’t make me slip it into your purse.”
This money, Lucy was quite sure, wasn’t coming out of the firm coffers. This was direct from Mr. Schuyler. She knew what her grandmother would say about that. But . . .
“All right,” said Lucy, and, belatedly, “Thank you.”
Averting her eyes, she scooped up the pile of singles. During the day, working together, Mr. Schuyler’s tie askew, his hair rumpled, a mess of papers between them, it was easy to forget the difference in their stations.
But not now, with the detritus of his largesse on the desk between them.
“Righto, then. I’m off.” He whistled an unfamiliar tune as he rooted through his pockets.
“Here.” Lucy scooped up his opera glasses from the desk and handed them to him.
“You’re a treasure, Miss Young.” Mr. Schuyler swirled a white silk scarf around his neck. “What would I do without you?”
“Squint,” Lucy said succinctly.
Mr. Schuyler chuckled. “Touché, my dear. Touché.” He paused with a hand on the doorjamb, the late-afternoon sunlight slanting through the window turning his hair to gold. “By the by, will you do me a small favor? Our little substitution—I haven’t mentioned it to Ravenel. Or Mr. Cromwell. If either of them asks, you will tell them that something madly important came up at the last minute, won’t you?”
Lucy felt the bottom fall out of her stomach. “But I thought— You said you’d arranged—”
Her employer deliberately misunderstood her. “You’re all set at Delmonico’s. You’ll find the reservation in my name. Just tell them to put it on my account.” He grinned. “Or, better yet, on Mr. Cromwell’s. Have a steak for me!”
And before Lucy could protest, he was gone, sauntering down the hallway, his hands in his pockets, a whistle on his lips—and every head in the stenographic pool turning to watch him go.
There were times when Lucy dearly wished that she were the cursing kind. Since she wasn’t, she contented herself with stomping back into Mr. Schuyler’s office and closing the door with a muted but decided click.
Wonderful. Not only was she having dinner with a strange man; she was having dinner with a strange man who was expecting her employer.