She was shifting around her few clothes in a blur, not really packing, not really thinking about abroad or even going home. Her suitcase was on the bed, but nothing had been placed inside. Stella was carefully folding each item but her mind was elsewhere, flying between Rafe, wanting to be with him, wanting to finish the letter he left her but the escalating panic of discovery and wanting to flee was equally urgent. She could read the letter later. Right now all that mattered was packing . . . getting away, time to think – Brighton would give her that distance to reflect and make decisions.
She didn’t hear the knock and so jumped as if scalded when the door opened and Mrs Boyd appeared.
‘Good grief, Miss Myles. Why didn’t you answer?’
It was a fair enough query but Stella was not in the mood. ‘Why didn’t you take the hint that I clearly don’t wish to be disturbed?’
Mrs Boyd’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘Er . . . forgive me. Are you all right, Miss Myles?’
‘Clearly not.’
‘Can I help?’
‘No, Mrs Boyd. The choice is mine. I just have to reach it.’ Stella didn’t care that the housekeeper looked perplexed. ‘Did you need me for something?’
The housekeeper shook off her confusion. ‘Er, Mrs Ainsworth asked me to give you this.’ She held out a thick manila envelope.
‘What is it?’ It reminded her of the letter in the pillowslip. She’d take it with her and read it well away from Harp’s End.
‘I wasn’t informed of the contents. Only that you’d under-stand.’
‘I see. Thank you, Mrs Boyd.’ She took the envelope.
‘London or Eastbourne?’ the housekeeper wondered.
‘Brighton, actually. Going to London would only make me feel sad, and I really don’t know Eastbourne, whereas I do know my way around Brighton.’
‘Oh . . . er . . .’
‘Something wrong with that choice?’
‘Not at all,’ she said, sounding satisfied.
Stella waited while the housekeeper left her before she opened the package, tipping the contents onto the small desk by the window. A brief, scrawled note in a bold, slanting hand was wrapped around money and a train ticket.
Stella,
I couldn’t wait for your decision. I am leaving for London in half an hour. Enclosed is sufficient funds for a return ticket to anywhere you choose in the south. I am including additional money, which is not taken from your wages. Doug and I feel that this sudden trip is our decision and being forced upon you so we will fund your wardrobe. I’m sure we can lend a trunk.
B.
It ended as abruptly as it began with a large, artistic rendition of the letter ‘B’ with lots of loops drawn firmly in black ink. Stella shifted her glance to the pound notes on the desk, neatly bound in a rubber band, each crisp and new, serial numbers in ascending order.
‘I’ve never carried this much money in my life,’ she murmured in a low state of shock as she stared at the top note with its profile of the King emblazoned strongly in sepia. Stella couldn’t resist and counted. ‘Fifteen,’ she breathed, confirming her expectation. The balance to pay on her parents’ house was thirty-six pounds. It felt vulgar to finger nearly half of the money it would take to own it, with a view to lavishing it on clothes. It was worth four hard-working weeks of her previous job. She dared not imagine its true value, given that she was not to be taxed on this cash. It was too much. Stella hurriedly sifted eight of the notes and tucked them into the pocket of her suitcase. She could surely kit herself out for the role of governess or secretary on a voyage with that amount.
In no time she was dressed for travelling, had grabbed Rafe’s letter and without feeling obliged to let anyone from the family know her whereabouts, she hunted down Mr Potter in the garage.
‘Ah, I’ve been expecting you,’ he said, straightening from where he had been testing the inflation of a back tyre on one of the cars. She hadn’t realised that there was more than one motor car within the family.
‘Expecting me?’
‘Yes, Mrs Boyd warned you would likely need a lift to the station.’
‘Mrs Boyd is certainly thorough.’
‘Ready? You look it.’ He gave a kind smile.
‘Thank you, Mr Potter . . . er, John,’ she added at his raised eyebrow.
‘Can’t be that bad,’ he said, winking. ‘Tomorrow it could be raining.’
Stella dug out a smile. ‘Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
‘Nothing to apologise for, Stella. Here we are,’ he said, opening the door of the gleaming black car. ‘Or would you prefer the front?’ She knew he watched her glance into the back seat and although he couldn’t know she was remembering how her body had aligned itself so easily to Rafe’s during the alarm of Grace’s accident, she felt the guilt all the same. She remembered it as clearly as she could now construct every aspect of his face, his features as vivid in her mind like a design etched deep in glass. And if she were that distracted, perhaps Mr Potter noted their closeness too. She felt nauseous suddenly.
‘Miss Stella?’
‘Er . . . I’m sorry?’
‘Front or back, sweetheart?”
‘Front, thank you, John.’
He nodded and opened the front passenger door. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
She watched him roll down his sleeves, button them, take his jacket from a convenient hook on the outside of the garage, where he also had his hat. He tucked this under his arm and joined her. ‘Should be a nice day for shopping.’
‘Did Mrs Ainsworth tell you?’
‘Yes, indeed. And you must be excited.’
‘I’m not sure what I’m feeling,’ she admitted and had never expressed a truer sentiment. ‘Do you know the times of the trains?’
‘We should be able to get you on the 11.16 and if for any reason you miss that, there’s another seven minutes later. It takes just a minute or two past an hour to get into Brighton if you catch the first; nearly an additional half hour if you take the next.’
They travelled in a comfortable silence for a few minutes.
‘So how are you finding the family, Stella?’
‘Early days,’ she murmured.
‘That’s true. It’s a real pity about Miss Grace.’
‘I have young siblings. They’re always falling down and scraping their knees, or tripping and tearing their clothes. Must be a child’s rite of passage,’ she chuckled, trying to steer him away from talk of Grace.
‘Mr Ainsworth was as white as chalk yesterday.’
She breathed deeply to steady her nerves. ‘Yes, I noticed. He was very worried.’
‘Probably felt responsible, what with you both up on the hillside at the time.’ He glanced at her and her treacherous cheeks felt as though they flushed but she didn’t flinch.
‘What are you saying?’
He lifted a shoulder. ‘Nothing. Just . . . well, tongues wag, Stella. I like you very much and so I’m just giving you advice from an older person who sees how less sympathetic minds work.’
Stella turned to face him fully. ‘What do you mean?’
He gave a small sigh. ‘He’s charming, gallant, kind, and at times rather mysterious, Miss Stella. He would be easy for any lovely young lady such as yourself to fall for.’
Stella gasped.
‘Please don’t upset yourself. I’ve travelled enough with Mr Ainsworth and the fact that he’s my employer aside, I hold a deep, abiding respect for him and his folk.’
‘But . . . ?’ she queried, trying to smooth the jagged edge away from her tone.
‘But he’s . . . well, he’s a wolf.’
She hadn’t expected such a description. ‘Are wolves charming and kind?’
‘The one in Little Red Riding Hood is.’
‘And I’m Little Red Riding Hood, I presume?’
‘I’m just saying you could be. There are sides to him.’
‘But, John, Little Red Riding Hood saw through the disguise to the wolf.’
At this comment he frowned back at her. ‘Yes, yes, that’s right, but . . .’
‘You are not to worry about me. I have Mr Ainsworth’s measure and whatever you believe you should caution me about, there is no need.’
‘He is not how he seems.’
‘Can you speak plainly? No one’s listening and I won’t tell anyone.’
‘Miss Stella, I pick up Mr Ainsworth from London regularly.’
‘And . . . ?’ Her companion squirmed, looking like he wished he’d never begun this conversation. She knew he shouldn’t have and while not happy about it, she was prepared to make him keep squirming. ‘Go on.’
‘I don’t always pick him up from his club.’
She feigned amusement, while feeling suddenly pathetic for allowing herself to be so vulnerable to Rafe’s charm. ‘I’m sure he can do at his club whatever it is he does elsewhere. John, what happened to discretion?’
His cheeks showed spots of high colour. ‘I’m trying to protect you because I like you.’
Stella softened and let him off the hook he was wriggling on. ‘And I am deeply grateful for your concern but I want to assure you that Mr Ainsworth has been nothing but entirely honest with me . . . and because I can tell you care I want you alone to know this, John.’ He blinked, glanced her way and back at the road. ‘I am not falling in love with him,’ she lied, and almost believed it herself.
He let out the breath he’d obviously held. ‘I’m glad to hear that, Miss Stella. He’s a bit of a tomcat when he’s in London and his gentle manner at home is like his shield. Forgive me for speaking out of turn but I think you’re a fine young woman and you remind me of our Lizbeth who would have been your age.’
‘Would have been?’
‘She succumbed to tuberculosis. She was just seventeen when she died in that sanitarium, although I learned she died lying outside in the depths of October when most of us are rugged up.’
Stella took a quiet breath.
‘“Plenty of fresh air, no matter the season and lots of bed rest” was all the doctors kept saying to us. I spent all my wages on buying lots of good meat for them to cook for her because they say protein is important. We were saving for one of those new-fangled sun lamp things when she passed.’ He shook his head in memory. ‘My little girl, she just slipped away from us. We weren’t allowed to see her for fear of the disease spreading. They just told us she was dead via telegram. It felt like the war all over again, when we lost our son.’ He pulled into the station forecourt at Tunbridge Wells.
Stella had barely seen the countryside passing on their journey. ‘Oh, John, I’m so sorry. Was Lizbeth your only daughter?’
‘Only child left. We loved her so much. My Marge couldn’t have any more after those two. Anyway, the day I saw you I was reminded of Lizzie and I guess the father in me felt protective, that’s all.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘You have nothing to worry about. Mr Ainsworth has been so careful and kind with me. As we’re being honest with each other, I find the women in his life far more dangerous.’
He nodded with a look of understanding. ‘Miss Georgina has a streak in her, that’s for sure. I should tell you that she’s in Brighton, Stella. I’d hoped I’d be getting you to Eastbourne as you’re best out of her way right now. She was in a vicious mood this morning.’
‘I noticed.’
‘She talked about you in the car.’
‘John, perhaps you shouldn’t be telling me this, I —’
‘She believes you are having an affair with her father, Stella.’
‘What?’ she squeaked, not very convincing in her aim for indignation.
‘We picked up her friend on the way to Brighton and Miss Georgina is never terribly discreet about what she discusses in the car. I think she presumes we’re all deaf or mute . . . or too frightened to repeat it.’
‘You shouldn’t be repeating it.’
‘Miss Georgina has never been kind to me. But you have in a short time. And I know she is going to make trouble for you and for her parents, by the sounds of what she was saying.’
Despite her desperation to know precisely what he had overhead in that conversation, Stella kept her dignity and remained aloof. ‘John, you must forget whatever Georgina spoke about. If she thought she was safe in being overheard, then we must respect that. I do not feel threatened. I have nothing to hide,’ she said with so much control she could almost believe in the innocence she claimed. ‘Your concern is touching and I know it comes from the right place but you must not worry for me. Thank you for the lift.’
John nodded with acceptance. Stella was able to leave the car, turning to him with a smile she schooled into her expression.
He handed her a newspaper. ‘Don’t buy a new one, I’ve already read it. I will meet the evening train that comes in around seven and another at eight. That should give you enough time. If you come in earlier or later, just ring the house and I’ll drop down.’ He gestured with his chin. ‘You’d better hurry, Miss Stella, here comes the Brighton train.’
She looked over her shoulder for the telltale steam and only now above her scrambling thoughts she heard the huff and squeal of the approaching train. ‘Thank you for the paper,’ was all she could choke out. She tucked it into her bag.
Stella ran to the platform, getting her ticket clipped as she hurried. The look of silent panic would have told others around her she was frantic at the possibility of missing her train. No one could know that she couldn’t care less about getting to Brighton.
She hoped to find a lonely carriage and tuck herself away in a corner by a window to examine the horror of what she’d learned about Georgina, but also to read Rafe’s letter, burning through the fabric of her pocket as if to scald her into action. She couldn’t find a quiet spot and ended up squeezing between two women so didn’t dare take out the letter, imagining their bored gazes settling on Rafe’s words. She had to content herself with staring out of the window. She wanted to examine the situation of Georgina and what she may reveal but she couldn’t bring herself to think on the troubles that potentially lay ahead for her. So Stella let her mind go blank. She found it wandering to the memory of Rafe’s kiss.
‘Connecting at Eridge,’ the ticket inspector interrupted as he moved through her carriage.
The serene scape of open fields helped to distract her and she barely noticed the stops at Crowborough, Buxted and Uckfield that took away some passengers, including her female sentinels, but it had delivered yet more people into her carriage. She’d taken the chance to shift seats next to the window but the carriage was still crowded and she didn’t want to share Rafe’s letter with all their noise. When the train began clattering through the valley of the River Ouse she became acutely aware of the higher pitched chatter of women, the flapping of newspapers and the coughs and snorts of people around her.
‘Oh look, Tommy,’ a mother said opposite her, pointing her son’s attention to the river after they’d left Isfield. ‘Maybe we could get Dad to take you out soon.’
Stella stared absently at the handful of boats and their passengers, mainly fishermen.
‘How will he row with only one arm?’ Tommy said.
‘You can take one of the oars,’ his mother replied, casting a glance Stella’s way but she pretended she hadn’t seen it. ‘The war took your father’s arm but not his love for life, Tommy.’
Stella could feel the woman wanted to catch her attention, perhaps open a conversation, but she didn’t want to be trapped in small talk. She thought about reading Rafe’s letter – itched to do so – but she wanted to be in a quiet space when she did, not surrounded by people coughing, clearing their throats and murmuring around her. As a result her mood darkened further and she reached for John Potter’s newspaper from her bag. Stella deftly opened it up, flicking immediately to page three so she could widen the coverage of the paper and hide behind it. She saw the articles, read the words repeatedly but randomly and absorbed nothing.
What was Georgina planning? How was she hoping to gain the most mileage out of what she thought she knew?
The announcement of Barcombe Mills Station she heard distantly and shifted her weight automatically as one man left and another arrived to sit next to her brandishing a fishing rod. Several other enthusiasts were wrestling with rods and baskets, which captured Tommy’s attention and his mother finally had someone to talk to.
Stella buried herself further behind her newspaper, actually reading the article this time about the man called Adolf Hitler, the Chancellor in Germany recently turned dictator. The article posed several questions about the failure of German democracy, the lack of worth for the German mark, the nation’s huge numbers of unemployed now well past the half-million mark. It spoke of the plight of the poor in that country and simmering bitterness at their loss of territory and colonies as much as Germany’s lack of standing in Europe following the Great War. The article explained the gathering hostility that was gaining momentum within Germany against the war reparations and how the humiliation following the Treaty of Versailles was deeply damaging to a once-proud nation. It quoted the German observer, Gareth Jones, from The Western Mail in Wales who was a regular visitor to Germany, and a journalist respected by Adolf Hitler. Jones was apparently predicting another war on the horizon and the conversation she had overheard between Rafe and Basil took on a new dimension. She desperately wanted to read his letter but just couldn’t face it right now in light of what Mr Potter had said. She was avoiding thinking further about Georgina until she could just calm her anxiety.
Stella looked away from the foreboding in the article to glance out of the window again as the train gathered speed through the rolling chalkland of the South Downs. Surely the world would not go to war again? But if the comments in this story were accurate, then that’s precisely where the little man with the strange moustache in Germany was leading his people. And somehow Rafe was part of this. His childhood friend must know something incriminating about Adolf Hitler or why would London be interested?
‘It’s very troubling, isn’t it?’ the man next to her said, catching her attention.
She hadn’t realised he’d noticed what she’d been reading. Stella nodded, glad now that she hadn’t brought out the letter; he may have read that. ‘I don’t want to believe it.’
He sighed. ‘I don’t think we can put our heads into the sand.’
‘This article is mooting another world war?’ she murmured.
He shrugged. ‘By all accounts, the German dictator is quite the orator and stirring up a lot of resentment and hostility towards the rest of Europe. I don’t think we can count on peace being maintained.’
‘Gosh, that’s ruined my day,’ she lied, knowing it had already been ruined once she discovered Rafe had left Harp’s End. It had got steadily worse since.
Her companion nodded. ‘Our government is well informed, though.’
‘You know that for sure?’
‘I work for the government. This is not how I dress every day.’ He grinned, his iron-grey beard stretching with his smile. He had a pipe tucked into the corner of his mouth but it remained unlit. He must have seen her notice it. ‘My doctor thinks I should stop.’ He tapped his chest. ‘I cough too much for his liking. My wife prefers I continue.’
She frowned. ‘Really?’
‘She knows I become a grouch when I don’t. It was Barbara’s idea that I go through all the motions of getting ready to smoke it and then . . .’ He shrugged.
‘Not light it?’ she offered and he nodded. ‘Clever. How is it going?’
‘Terrible,’ he admitted and they both chuckled softly. ‘You mustn’t worry.’
She glanced back at the page, her thoughts worrying about Rafe more than herself. ‘Britain has barely recovered from the last war.’
He nodded, trying to comfort. ‘I promise you we’re taking steps. We’re making sure we know what the Germans are up to . . . and the Russians.’
‘Taking steps? What do you mean?’
‘I’m not permitted to talk about it and I don’t work in the right section to talk with any authority even if I did. However, I know we’ve got a network of people watching the German situation very closely.’
‘Spies?’
He said nothing but gently tapped his nose.
‘Having spies in Germany surely isn’t enough,’ she whispered.
‘Who said Germany?’ he replied in a cryptic tone. ‘We need to know what’s happening in the Polish corridor, for instance; even as far as the Levant.’
Stella wanted to ask more but the loudspeaker crackled and their approach into Brighton was announced, drowning out any opportunity for further conversation, exacerbated by people moving to gather up their belongings and donning coats again.
As their carriage curled closer to their destination, their height from the viaduct gave far-reaching views over the town of Brighton with sparkling glimpses of the sea. Stella was struck by the heart-stilling notion that if war did occur again, then Rafe would almost certainly be in the thick of it once more, testing the luck that had kept him safe through the last horror. She imagined him signing up to do his duty immediately although it sounded like Basil Peach had already coerced him into clandestine work. Rafe was a born adventurer from the little she knew of him, plus he would be able to escape his problems at home – perhaps he’d see war as a way out?
She hated even thinking upon it. The train began to slow into the station just as she saw one of the new-fangled electric trains pulling out of an adjacent platform.
‘Brighton Station. All change.’
She tuned out to the repeated announcement.
‘Thank you for letting me bore you,’ her elder said, lifting his cap to her. ‘I’m Donald Perks.’
‘You didn’t bore me, Mr Perks. In fact your comments have put me into a contemplative mood,’ she admitted as he held the door open for her to alight onto platform eight.
He sighed. ‘Forgive me, it was not my intention to spoil your day.’
They walked up the platform, side by side. ‘No, not at all but you’ve made me realise there is so much more important going on than shopping for a voyage.’
‘Good grief, how wonderful, a voyage? Where are you off to?’
‘I’m a companion to two children and their family is taking a trip east.’
‘Marvellous. How far east?’
‘Egypt, as I understand it.’
‘Port Said?’ He queried, sounding astonished.
She grinned. ‘Yes. Is it really that shocking? Including the Holy Land, so we’re sailing the Red Sea. Sounds so biblical. Have you been there?’
‘No. I wouldn’t hesitate, though. I envy you.’
‘Don’t, I’d be very happy if it were cancelled, especially now with talk of war.’
‘I shouldn’t have raised it,’ he said, gesturing for her to go first.
Stella handed over her ticket for clipping.
‘If it’s any consolation, the British have driven out the Turks that were occupying it after the Great War. Now we’re more interested in gathering information on what the Germans and Russians are up to in the region.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. You’ve no doubt heard the adage that information is power? Well, Jerusalem is a bit of a focus for us with what is happening in Palestine and the struggles there, but generally the whole region is a target in terms of its strategic importance for shipping, resources, trade routes . . .’
‘So, Britain is spying on what the Germans are up to in the Middle East?’
He gave her a look of horror, a finger to his lips as they emerged, jostling with other passengers into the Brighton terminus forecourt. ‘Spy is a sinister word. No, we’ve had our people overseeing local government but places like Transjordan are now states in their own right. It’s more a case that we keep our ear to the ground for any shifts in the balance of power, especially in terms of Germany and its new power-hungry leader. Those restless nomadic tribes carry information that we find useful. We keep a presence, that’s all.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, Miss —’
‘Myles.’
‘You’ve been a most enjoyable companion.’
She grinned, holding out her hand, which he gently shook once.
‘Safe travels in the Levant.’
‘Thank you, Mr Perks.’
He raised his cap, smiled warmly and strode off down the hill into Brighton. She looked around at the busy forecourt with its mix of horse-drawn cabs moving slowly around the faster, more nimble motorised versions. The older way would be cheaper.
‘Western Road?’ one of the cabbies called, catching her attention and making a soothing sound to his horses. ‘Steady now.’
‘Yes, er, that’s the main shopping district, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed it is, Miss. Tuppence, please. You can alight at the clock tower and turn left into East Street for Hanningtons Department Store.’
She paid her coin and clambered up into the carriage, smiling at the four other passengers.
Her thoughts helplessly roamed back to the potential for war. If Rafe worked in London and was connected with governmental departments – as Basil had alluded – wouldn’t he then be informed on these new developments in Germany? Why would they walk across the Weald of Kent, collecting butterflies and making daisy chains as if the world was safe and wonderful if war was brewing again? Why would Kew Gardens need his help cataloguing plants of the desert if the government was more concerned with cataloguing insurgency or, more to the point, German infiltration? And Rafe, a linguist of some stature, it seemed? Why didn’t he teach his children French, if he was fluent?
Questions bounced around her mind as she barely noticed their rocking motion down the hill.
‘Clock tower!’ she heard the driver say.
‘Oh, that’s me. Excuse me.’ She tiptoed, careful of treading on her fellow passengers’ feet, and a boy riding at the back of the coach hopped down to open the door for her.
‘Thank you, Miss. Enjoy your day.’
She smiled at him. ‘The driver mentioned Hanningtons?’ she said hopefully.
He pointed east. ‘Straight down there and on your right. Can’t miss it, Miss.’
They both smiled at his pun before he hauled himself back onto the carriage and rapped the top. The horses were clicked on and the vehicle lurched away.
Stella could see the promenade from where she stood and the greyish sea in the distance. The day had turned cool and the sun that had delivered a warmish morning was now clouded over. She shivered, pulled her coat collar up higher and skipped across the road, turning left into the broad and busy East Street. People moved in a flowing stream but she was not daunted. Coming from London meant the Brighton streets were far from threatening and despite the gloomy thought of war pervading in her mind, she was intrigued to see this southern department store that she recalled her customers used to talk about.
The large store was easy to find – not just by its commanding four-storey domination of the eastern end of the street with its high Victorian Gothic style. It even wrapped itself around the corner, which she presumed turned from North into fashionable East Street. The store seemed to be like a magnet, luring flocks of people through its doors.
She entered its darker world with muted lighting and noted the columns that dotted the ground floor around the main counters where impeccably dressed staff served their clients in genteel quiet, peppered with soft gales of laughter. It smelled polite and rich, not nearly so colourful as Bourne & Hollingsworth, but Stella was instantly charmed by its faded grandeur. She overheard a pair of women move by her suggesting they take tea, and given that she’d barely touched her breakfast, a pot of tea sounded irresistible. It was past midday but it was still early enough for hours of shopping ahead. She followed the waft of perfume and fur-collared coats of the well-heeled women up the stairs to the tearooms.
‘Just for one, Miss?’ the waitress asked in a long black-skirted uniform.
‘Yes, please. Is there a window table, by any chance?’
The girl smiled. ‘Follow me.’
She was led to a table next to one of the tall windows. ‘I’ll have a pot of black tea with milk, please.’
‘Thank you,’ the girl said, scribbling her note but Stella was already looking away out into East Street where the changeable British weather had indeed changed and umbrellas were being dragged out. Suddenly there was a slow-moving dance of black domes beneath her.
So Rafe could speak Arabic, amongst other languages; it made sense, given Beatrice’s explanation of his childhood this morning. She wondered how Rafe had sold his wife the idea of a tutor in the first place. Maybe it was a status symbol to have a governess in tow, she decided, as she gazed absently while peeling off gloves. She couldn’t wait a moment longer, public place or not; she would read his letter now and hope for some enlightenment.
‘Hello, Stella.’
She swung her head back in disbelief at the voice she knew well and was disappointed in herself for yearning to hear it.
Rafe beamed at her. ‘Glad I found you.’ No words came easily. She stared at his confident smile as he shrugged off his overcoat. ‘Warm in here,’ he said, ignoring her shocked silence. The waitress arrived with Stella’s tea.
‘Shall I take your coat, Sir?’ she offered as she set the pot down. Stella watched him charm the girl as he handed her his coat and hat. ‘And can I get you something?’ The innuendo was there, Stella noted with dismay. How did he do that to so many women . . . including her?
‘A tea would be perfect. Black with lemon, please.’
The waitress cast her a swift glance that Stella was sure said ‘lucky you’ and moved away.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked.
He lifted a shoulder. ‘I had some early business in London and had a driver bring me down to Brighton.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidence.’
He gave a soft smirk that felt like respect when it landed on her. ‘Neither do I.’