She Hates Me Not: A Richer in Love Romance (21 page)

“Sure.  My pleasure.”  She sat down and began rifling through the bags.  “I also bought a burner phone so we can find that missing pendant.  I’ll take a picture of yours and post it on a couple of antiquarian sites.  One of my bookworm buddies out there will know something.”

Charles approached the window.  “Out where?  In the court?”

“Wait.  No.”  Victoria joined him.  “Not outside.  On the internet.  It’s like a giant synthesized world that people move through without actually moving.”

He didn’t pretend to understand.  “If we’re not going outside, then why do I need a change of clothes?”

“Because of what just happened,” she said.  “Claire isn’t the only friend with a key to this place, and if you walk around dressed like Dr. Watson, my friends are going to ask questions.  The Hidden Treasure has been our home base in the city for years.  Besides, we’re both going to want lunch, and I know this great place in Chinatown.  It’s just across the road, so we can walk.  No taxis or Tube – not yet.”

Charles caught himself rubbing his face.  Twice in one morning.  Not a good sign.  He wasn’t given to panic, but the volume of information flung at him in the last hour was more than his already-strained nervous system could tolerate.  If he made a list of unfamiliar words, he’d need a second notebook.

Victoria wrapped her hands around his arm.  “Here.  Sit.”

“I am not a sheepdog,” he muttered.

“Yeah, but you look like you’re about to faint.  If you swoon, I can’t catch you.  You’re too darned big.”

With unexpected strength Victoria steered him to the sofa.  Assertively she pressed him onto its cushions and hovered beside him, her hand braced upon his shoulder.  The bouquet of her perfume commandeered the room’s other scents.

Charles wasn’t sure her closeness helped.  He was trying to regain control, not lose it further.  With as much gentility as he could muster, he removed himself to the sofa’s other end.

“I do not swoon,” he assured her.

Victoria shut her eyes and scrunched her face, like she gave and received her own internal scolding.  “We’re too much for you, aren’t we?”

When the urge to rub his face returned, Charles sat on his hands.  “Perhaps.”

“Okay, I’ll get take-out.”

Weary of asking questions, he gave her the quizzical look.

“Sorry.  I’ll go get the food and bring it back here.  The Brits call it take-away.”

“No.  Thank you, but no.”  Charles stood up and tugged his waistcoat into place.  “I’m behaving like a ninny.  If I’m to remain in this century for a few days, or perhaps longer, then I must move about.  The Romanichal woman said opening the door would yield my greatest discovery.  Clearly your London is it.  What man of my era could fathom such a prospect?  It has been handed to me on a silver platter, and I mean to dine fully on its delights.”

Victoria lunged outward to chuck him on the arm.  “That was so Jane Austen!”

Startled, he leaned away.  “You know her work?”

“She’s one of the most famous authors in the world.  We should watch
Pride & Prejudice
.”

“Watch, and not read?”

“After we find the other pendant,” she added.  “We’ll start a list.”

Charles reached into a pocket and pulled out his notebook.  “That I can do.”

“Write
Pride & Prejudice
at the top.”  She returned to unpacking the clothing she’d purchased.  “Then add
dim sum
so we can cross it off after lunch.”

“Done.”  Before he put the notebook away, Charles included a few notes of his own.

Clayre and Luken.  Solicitor.  Parents death.

Enter net.  The Daily Mail. 
He underlined the last word twice.

Victoria.  Tori.  Tor.  Bossey.  Dreary?

Charles reviewed what he’d written.  Stopping there would not do.

Ruby-lipped. Raven-haired. Beauty, he jotted.

Bold and beguiling.  Like a rare claret.

Chapter Four

S
o far, so good, Tori thought as she watched Charles browse through her books.  They had made it across the road and back to have lunch.  Chinatown wasn’t too overwhelming, and Charles appeared to enjoy the food.

He liked to explore – which made sense for a journalist – and he must be a crusader if he’d been writing about children in workhouses.  Hardly a puff piece.

Even better, he could use a toothbrush.  Tori knew her Jane Austen backward and forward, but no one in those stories ever brushed their teeth.  Thankfully Charles didn’t flinch when she presented him with his new green toothbrush and emphasized that he should not use the purple one which was hers.  The affordability of toothpaste seemed to make his day.

Now down to business, she reminded herself.  They had a missing pendant to find.

The burner phone buzzed and danced against the glass countertop.  Picking it up, Tori read the latest text.  She groaned in annoyance.

“Problem?” Charles asked from across the shop.

“Pervert.”  Tori deleted the text. 

Her other phone chirped.  She held it up before Charles could ask.  “Not a real bird,” she clarified.  As a selfie of Claire filled the background, Tori skimmed its screen.

Used the toothbrush yet?

Charles looked up from his book.  “Something helpful?”

She grinned.  “Another pervert.” 
That is between me and my dentist
, she replied.

With a definitive snap Charles closed the book.  “Are you sure this internet is adequate?”  He strolled to the counter.  “Shouldn’t we be interviewing historical experts in the colleges?”

“It’s the easiest way I know to reach three billion people.”

His jaw dropped.  “How many?”

“Three billion.  Population of the earth is currently seven.”

Charles tilted against the glass case.  “I may have to ask for your chair.”

“Not a problem,” Tori said as she guided him around the counter.  “It’s still considered polite to give up your seat for the elderly.”

Sinking onto the stool, he shot her a flat look.  “You are a comic.”

“And you are rocking the 21
st
-century style.”  She eased back to study him.  “How are the chinos?”

“If you are referring to these trousers, the waist is too low, and I prefer suspenders to a belt.  Otherwise I’m comfortable.  The shirt is adequate, and I approve of the sack coat.”  He fiddled with the pendant strap beneath his white collar.  “Did Mr. Boss not have a waistcoat available for purchase?”

“Mr. Boss did, but it isn’t a good summer look.  I’ve learned how to dress for success.”

“Well, then.  Let us pray we succeed.”

The burner phone rattled again.  As its blue screen brightened, Tori moved closer to Charles and showed him the text.

“Hey, I know this guy.  He’s a raging geek when it comes to symbols.”  She read aloud.  “
Gog and Magog.  Museum of London.  Guardians exhibit.  V&A painting.
”

“Gog and Magog?”  From the inside pocket of his coat, Charles pulled out his notepad and began scribbling.  “They are said to be the eternal guardians of the City of London.  Their wooden representations stand in Guildhall.  Though, I don’t recall seeing a symbol on either of them.  Could their likenesses have been moved to this museum?”

Tori smiled as she watched him write.  “Sounds like it’s time to brave the Tube and find out.”

His enthusiasm waned.  “The subterranean carriages you described during our luncheon?  Their construction is a fledgling scheme in 1854.”

“There are eleven million people living in this London, and I bet at least half of them ride the Underground every day.  That’s not even counting the tourists.”

Charles dropped his notepad onto the counter.  “How many?”

Victoria picked it up and offered it to him.  “I thought you weren’t going to be a ninny.”

One side of his lip lifted.  “I’m not.”  Accepting the notepad, he returned it to his coat.

“Good.”  Tori reached for her purse.  She stashed both phones in its outside pocket.  Leaning over the counter, she plucked her keys from a blown-glass bowl and grabbed the folded yellow paper beneath them.  It didn’t feel like a Never List day, but she had learned to be prepared.  “Everyone freaks out about the Tube at first.  A few rides, and you’ll wonder how you lived without it.”

For Charles it didn’t take a few rides.  By the time they descended the escalator into the neon labyrinth of tiled tunnels, he was enrapt, Tori could see, by the boyish concentration on his face.  More than once Charles stopped to gawk, earning glares from harried locals who could navigate the Underground with both eyes closed.  Finally Tori grabbed his hand and tugged him to one side.

“Let’s get to the platform, and we can stand there.  Okay?”

“I do apologize.”  His astonishment shifted to their entwined fingers.  “Is this customary?”

Tori let go.  “Sorry.  We call it holding hands.  It’s not rude if you know the person well.”

“But you do not know me well.”

Tori looked up at Charles.  The bustling crowd blurred around her, and the tunnel’s hubbub dulled.  Charles stared back, his lip quirking again.  He could tell she was flustered.  He seemed totally composed as he leaned down to be heard over the noise.

“I would be honored to allow it, however.”

Was he coming on to her?  His body language told her no, but his blue eyes said otherwise.  They reminded Victoria of a Cumbrian lake – pristine and refreshing with nothing disguised by their depths.

Sideburns, she told herself.  Concentrate on the sideburns.

“I have 160 reasons why that’s a bad idea,” she replied.

“Of course.”  Formality reclaimed his gaze.  “Please lead the way, Miss Smith.  I promise not to delay us again.”

Exhaling, Tori plunged into the river of passengers flowing northeast on the Piccadilly Line.  She assumed Charles could keep up.  With his height he wouldn’t lose sight of her, and there was always a delay between trains.

On the platform Victoria pushed past the people who ground to a halt right inside the tunnel.  Every Tube stop had its sweet spot where the train compartments were most likely to be least occupied.  Tourists clogged the entry points.  Lazy locals didn’t help.  Usually the sweet spot was the farthest distance from the busiest entrance, and after nine years of using the London Underground, Tori had, through trial and error, determined the prime location on most platforms.

Positioning herself where the passengers thinned, Tori checked to see if Charles kept up.  With soft apologies he wove his way toward her.  His posture and appearance were a sharp contrast to the slumping, underdressed masses.  When he fell in beside her, he clasped his hands at his back.

Tori felt like she had to say something.  “Do you still have your ticket?”

Charles fished the printed pink card from the pocket of his chinos.

“You’ll need it when we leave,” she told him.  “When the train arrives, wait for the other people to disembark, but then hop on as fast as you can.  These things only sit for a minute.”

He offered a compliant nod.

Crossing her arms, Tori read the elevated sign that listed train arrival times.  One minute.  Reliably the light appeared at the tunnel’s far end.  As the train rattled past, brakes squealing while it slowed, its breeze whipped Tori’s hair, and she held down her short dress to avoid giving Charles his first Marilyn Monroe moment.

The compartment in front of them was nearly empty.  Pleased they would have it almost completely to themselves, Tori climbed on as soon as the doors swooshed open.  She motioned for Charles to veer right, and they snagged two seats at the end of an unoccupied row.  After they were settled, Tori couldn’t help fist-pumping the air.

“Are we all supposed to do that?” Charles asked.

She laughed.  “No, that’s just my thing.  We’re on here for three stops, then we change lines at King’s Cross.”

When he didn’t reply, Tori glanced over.  She’d seen him flinch when the train rushed into the tunnel.  She watched him squint as the wind gusted, then balk at the number and size of the cars.  Now his lips were pursed as he surveyed their surroundings.  He was amazed – but not afraid.

“Hey, Charles.”  She tilted toward him so she could whisper.  “Relax.”

Just then the train accelerated with a lurch, and Charles was thrown against her.  After absorbing the brunt of his weight, Tori insisted she was fine before he could ask.

“No need to apologize,” she said.  “Just hang onto those armrests and try to look like you’ve done this before.”

His face blanked.  “Am I attracting attention?”

Tori peered to her left.  Two women at the other end of the car were tittering to each other behind cupped hands as they peeked intermittently at Charles.  They weren’t bothered by his odd reactions.  They were primed and ready to flirt.

“Yes, but not the unwanted kind.  You’ve got two hotties at nine o’clock, and they’re digging your new look.  Get rid of those sideburns, and your dance card will fill up fast.”

His baffled reaction bordered on epic.  “Firstly, men do not carry dance cards.  Secondly, what are sideburns?”

Tori fumbled for an explanation.  “Um, maybe you call them whiskers?  They’re very 1854.”

“For someone who does not care to know me well, you comment as if you already do.”

“Just a little constructive criticism,” she teased.  When the car stopped at Covent Garden, she rested a hand on Charles’ wrist and was pleased to see the hotties leave the train.  “We’re staying on.”

“So you said.”  His eyes fell to where she touched him.  “Two more stops.”

“Sorry.”  She removed her hand.  “I told you I was bossy.”

“Today it would seem advantageous.  I could not manage this without you.”

When his Cumbrian lake gaze locked onto hers, Tori felt herself flush.  This would be a lot easier if Charles weren’t so darned charming.  Deep down she hoped it wasn’t an act.  Victorians were known for their impeccable manners – and the subtext they used to reveal their true feelings.  But if Charles had subtext, she’d need a microscope to find it.

They disembarked at Barbican Station.  As they walked down Aldersgate, Tori let Charles set the pace, and it took them a while to reach the discreet escalator that led to the museum’s elevated entrance.

After a guard searched her bag, Tori marched to the information desk with Charles dawdling behind.  At this rate she’d never get him past the gift shop.  By the time he caught up, she had purchased two tickets for the exhibition and grabbed them both a map.

This time Tori resisted the urge to reach for his hand.  Instead she stood patiently, one arm hugging her purse, while Charles examined the entrance to the first-floor galleries.  His hands crept up to rub his cheeks.  His eyes narrowed, and he scowled.

Startled by his expression, Tori moved into his path.  “What’s wrong, Charles?”

“I don’t reckon I should see anything that has not happened.  For me,” he clarified.

His response was so soft, Victoria had to lean upward to hear him over the drone of schoolchildren and tourists.  “You mean nothing after 1854?”

“It is the sensible conclusion.”

Solemnly Tori nodded.  She and her friends often joked about owning a crystal ball that told the future – lottery numbers and football scores and who would win the next big election.  But if faced with the chance to view her world’s fate, she might not want to know either.  The bombing of London.  Two world wars.  All the stock market crashes and terrorist attacks.  Even Jack the Ripper was still a stranger to Charles.

Staring up at him, Tori admired his resolve.  Lots of men would want to cash in on the world’s misfortunes, and as a journalist Charles could probably use the money.  She doubted the pay was any better in the 1800s.

“We’ll stay on track,” she promised.  “Straight to the Guardians of London exhibit, and straight back out.”

Unfolding the map, she located the exhibit to the right, not far past the main entrance.  They only had to pass by prehistoric London.  Nothing dangerous there.

The exhibit was temporary, its entrance overstated.  It played off the recent popularity of superhero movies with a yellow comic book font and famous Londoners drawn in anime style.  Clever, Tori thought, but also chancy.  Her favorite marketing prof had drilled a mantra into her brain – never create an expectation that you can’t fulfill.