I stifled a snort. Enzo was a self-proclaimed spirit-channeler and clairvoyant, skills that mainly seemed to manifest themselves when deciding which customers he didn’t want to serve. But he’d been the one to deal with the unfortunate toilet incident that morning, so I threw my empty Coke can in the recycling bin and walked out to the main floor.
Dana was standing by the front door, talking to a tall man dressed from head to toe in a Regency costume, like something out ofHamilton. This in itself wasn’t as weird as it sounds—we sometimes got customers coming dressed up as their favorite fictional characters—but this man’s clothes were next level. He was wearing a beautiful navy tailcoat, tight beige trousers, and a white shirt with a high collar and elaborate cravat. He had chocolate-brown hair, worn long so it sat against his collar atthe back, and his muttonchops were clearly real, as opposed to the silly stick-on ones you could buy online. To top it all off, he had chiseled cheekbones and a sharp, angular nose, which he was glaring down at Dana.
“I’m sorry, but as I explained, we’re a café not a taxi office,” she was saying.
“Then pray explain why the wordHackneyis displayed outside if you do not offer hackney carriages? Is this some deliberate and pernicious attempt to confound your customers?”
“It saysHackneybecause that’s the brand of gelato we serve,” Dana said. “Why don’t you call an Uber if you’re in such a hurry?”
“I have never heard of that which you speak. This is insupportable!” The man was speaking so loudly that several customers had stopped talking to listen. “I demand to converse with the proprietor of this establishment.”
I cleared my throat. “The owner’s not here, but can I help?”
The man turned to look at me, and as his gaze met mine, I felt the air being sucked out of my lungs. His eyes were large and dark hazel, and I watched as they widened in something like recognition. I’d never seen him before, but there was something so familiar about his face, so absolutely right, that I suddenly felt a bit dizzy.
“This guy thinks we’re a taxi office,” Dana said flatly.
“That’s OK, I’ll deal with it.”
I walked across the café toward him, not entirely confident that my legs wouldn’t give way and leave me in a heap on the floor.
“How can I help?” My voice came out as a weird, high-pitched squeak, and I winced.
“Madam.” He gave a formal bow. “My sincerest apologies for the untimely disruption, but I am in urgent need of a carriage.”
I swallowed. If this was some role-play thing, then it was veryconvincing. Maybe he was one of those method actors who fully immersed themselves in a role, like that guy who played Kendall inSuccession? Which was all very well (and, if I’m honest, pretty sexy), but he was disturbing our customers, and my colleagues and I needed the tips.
“I’m afraid, as Dana explained, we’re a café. You might have better luck trying the taxi rank around the corner.”
The man furrowed his brow. “Upon my word, I do not comprehend; I have seen no horses on the roads of this wretched place.”
“Are your mates secretly filming this for some TikTok prank?” I asked. “Because this is very funny and everything, but you need to leave now so we can get on with our jobs.”
I turned to walk back to the counter, and then I heard the man’s voice again, quieter this time. “Lord, wake me from this interminable nightmare and return me to Netherfield Park, I pray, for I cannot abide this torment a moment longer.”
Netherfield Park. I turned back to see the man’s face contorted with concern. Oh God, what if this wasn’t some silly stunt? One of Bianca’s aunts worked as a mental health nurse, and she’d told me about patients of hers who had full-blown delusions where they thought they were someone else, like Elvis Presley or Joan of Arc. What if this guy was in the middle of a mental health crisis? He’d started to pace now, moving back and forth across the floor with his hands clasped behind his back. I took a deep breath.
“Can I ask your name?”
He stopped and pulled his shoulders back proudly. “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, at your service.”
My stomach gave an involuntary lurch. Of all the characters in all of fiction for this man to believe he was…
“Do you have any medication on you? Any pills that you might have forgotten to take?”
He scowled. “I assure you that I have an exemplary constitution, madam.”
“And do you know where you live?”
“My estate is Pemberley in Derbyshire.”
OK. “And do you know where you are now?”
The man’s scowl deepened. “A nightmare? I have no sense of where or what this abominable purgatory is, only that I must escape it before I am driven to despair. I feared I should never see a familiar face again, until I happened upon this establishment and came upon you.”
I was about to ask what he meant, and then the penny dropped.My uniform.He must have mistaken me for someone else from Regency England. Wow, he really was deep into this delusion.
“Is there anyone I can call for you?” I asked.
