“Listen to me, sweetheart.” He went to one knee, and her gray eyes met his. “I have to go downstairs to order our supper. I’ll be only a minute. Will you just stay here and draw for me?”
She bobbed her head absently, her mind fully on her art.
“Shall I order cake or pudding for dessert?”
Her round face beamed her delight. “Cake and pud.”
Laughing, he got to his feet. “Both it is!”
He found his frockcoat, shrugged into it, and shot his cuffs. Then he pocketed the room key, bade her adieu with a promise of, “Only a few minutes.” Then he emerged into the empty hall and locked his daughter in. He jogged down the stairs and faced the receptionist, grinning. “I’d like to order supper sent up to my rooms. Have you a menu for the evening?”
“Yes, milord. One minute while we get it from the dining room.” He waved a hand to summon one of his footmen, and off that man went to fetch it.
The rain pounded like a thousand needles against the windowpanes.
Clive drummed his fingers on the polished marble desktop. Was madame still outside waiting in the rain? “Terrible storm out there.”
“It is, sir. Blew up sudden, like.”
Clive tried for nonchalance. “I noticed that Madame Laurant went out recently.”Whom did she meet?
“Yes, sir, she did.”
“Was someone to call for her? With a carriage, perhaps?”
The fellow sent him a weak smile, his attention reluctantly drawn from his paperwork. “I hope so, sir.”
So do I.“She didn’t want to wait inside for her caller?”
“I guess not, sir. No.” The reception clerk disappeared behind a wall of mail slots.
So much for gossipy hotel staff.
The footman appeared with the menu card, and Clive scanned the list of items. He told the footman to send up a main of roast beef and potatoes, with vanilla cake and chocolate pudding for dessert. Just as he would have handed the menu back across the desk, Madame Laurant scurried in the front door.
Soaked, she muttered nasty little French phrases to herself as she swiped raindrops from her cheeks and lips. She smoothed her wet hair, then held her arms out away from her body and shook the raindrops away like a peeved cat. Her hat, once a perky little thing, sagged limp over her brow. She fumed at it. He heard her and did not suppress his grimace.
At once she saw Clive, blinked, then did a little nod of acknowledgment. She patted her hat. Soaked, it dribbled water down her ears. She dashed the drops away and gave Clive a wide-eyed look that declared she was in control. But then, as she strode to the front desk, her shoes squished water.
“Bon soir, my lord,” she said to Clive, then picked up the receptionist’s bell and rang it.
“The rain drowned your hat,” he offered quite reasonably, folding his hands before him.
“I’ll salvage something from it for a new kite.”
Clive snorted. “Save everything, do you?”
She locked her blue eyes on his, rueful and yet allowing in the humor of her cockeyed hat. “Everything worthwhile.”
He let his own gaze offer his gratitude for what she had saved this morning. His voice rough with appreciation of her, he whispered, “But it’s velvet. Will it fly?”
“If it does not fly, I’ll make it sail.”
Clive chuckled.
The receptionist appeared, a frown on his face from some issue he’d encountered in the back. However, his female guest smiled, clearly not in the mood for reciprocating his bad humor.
“Sir,pardon,” she bade him with a smile. “Is the dining room still serving?”
