musty.
It was obvious that no one had been there for weeks, maybe months. Olivia took off her hat and tossed it on a sheet-draped chair. She and Claire immediately went about yanking the curtains apart and throwing open the windows to admit the fresh mountain air.
“Not to worry,” Olivia assured Claire “We’ll have this place sparkling clean within forty-eight hours.”
Claire nodded and smiled. “And neither of us will so much as pick up a feather duster!”
“Let the servants handle it,” said Olivia in her best impersonation of a high-toned lady of leisure.
They laughed merrily.
When they’d sobered a bit, they explored the mansion, each deciding they’d choose a bedroom. Olivia picked one on the ground floor near the back of the house. They then ventured upstairs. At the top of the curving staircase they opened a set of tall white double doors into a large, opulent suite. A cozy sitting room with a white marble fireplace and covered sofas was open to the raised bedroom, which was reached by climbing three wide white marble steps.
Directly off the bedroom, tall glass-paned doors led onto a balcony overlooking lush gardens.
“The duchess’s suite,” Claire stated the obvious, stepping out onto the balcony, charmed by the total privacy the well-planned garden and tall sheltering trees afforded.
Olivia stepped up beside her. “But the duchess is not here.” She paused, waiting for Claire to respond. Claire remained silent. Olivia ventured, “The suite can be yours until she arrives.”
“Dare I?” Claire asked, eyebrows raised.
“Why not? Who’s to know?” Olivia turned away. “I’ll bring up your valises. Make yourself at home.”
“I believe I will,” Claire said, yanking the covering dust cloth from an upholstered chair, and running her hand over the plush white velvet.
Once their valises had been deposited in their respective rooms, Claire immediately sent Olivia forth to handle the hiring of a small staff of servants, as instructed.
And she set out to explore the picturesque resort.
The carriage moved slowly down traffic-choked, elm-shaded Broadway. Hank Cassidy, seated comfortably in the leather-cushioned back seat, nodded to the laughing, well-dressed people in horse-drawn vehicles parading down the avenue.
It was an afternoon ritual in Saratoga enjoyed by the summer set. They relished showing off their fine equipages. Surreys with fringe around the tops. Basket phaetons with high-stepping, bob-tailed hackneys. Heavy victorias with glittering silver monogrammed harnesses, two men in scarlet livery on their boxes, ladies behind with lacy parasols, sitting in richly upholstered seats.
Ah, it was great to be back in Saratoga.
Hank turned his attention to the pedestrians strolling along the sidewalks in front of the hotels. He paid little attention to the gentlemen in their tailored summer finery. His gaze naturally focused on the ladies in hats with parasols to match their dresses. Colorful dresses with all manner of feminine frills; pleats and ruffles and lace and ribbons and swelling puffed sleeves.
Hank was smiling with pleasure when suddenly he blinked and sat up straighter. A slender young woman stepped out of P. Durkee and Sons Stationers and Books and into the sunlight. Her pale hair blazed like spun gold and her face was as white and flawless as fine porcelain.
It was her!
The woman from the train depot—and she was every bit as breathtakingly beautiful as he’d thought when first he’d spotted her.
“Stop the carriage!” Hank called to the driver and didn’t wait for the man to obey.
He leaped down into the street and narrowly missed being hit by an oncoming four-in-hand. Cursing under his breath, looking anxiously for an opening in the traffic, Hank found himself wedged between the four-in-hand and a big landau filled with laughing people calling out to him.
By the time he managed to get around the landau to the safety of the sidewalk, the golden-haired goddess was gone. Disappointed, Hank looked up the street and down, then dashed into the stationers.
To the clerk behind the counter, he said, “A woman with gold hair was just in here. Do you know where she went? Who she was?”
The clerk shook his head. “She looked at the books, but purchased nothing and—”
“Any idea who she is?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Hank exhaled with frustration. “Which books? Were there any special ones that she—?”
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, there was a book that seemed to catch her fancy,” said the clerk, heading for a shelf near the back. He took down a handsome, leather-bound book, held it up, and announced, “This is it. The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope. It was published just last year and has sold quite well. The lady picked this book up, thumbed slowly though it, then placed it back on the shelf.”
“I’ll take it,” said Hank. “Gift wrap it.”
“Right away, sir,” said the clerk. “I hope you find her.”
“I will.”
The wrapped book under his arm, Hank exited the store. He stood outside for a long moment, carefully scanning both sides of the street.
But she was gone.
He returned to the carriage, jumped inside and settled in for the short ride to his hotel.
The carriage soon reached the five-story United States Hotel with its soaring pillars and Victorian scrollwork and wide, sweeping veranda. On that veranda stood a thousand white wicker rocking chairs, more than half of them filled with hotel guests watching the parade of people on Broadway on this sunny July afternoon.
Hank didn’t disembark in front of the hotel. His carriage drove on and once past the hotel, immediately turned into a side street. It then pulled over to the curb just outside the hotel’s private cottages. The cottages were suites of coveted rooms at the back where the giant hotel was U-shaped. Private verandas looked out on landscaped gardens and big trees and well-tended flower beds.
Such accommodation suited his desire for privacy. Unlike the hotel proper where it was necessary to go through the guest-filled lobby and then into an elevator to reach a room, he could enter the cottage through the outside entrance at any hour of the day or night and be seen by no one.
Hank bounded out of the carriage, stopped and stood for a minute speaking to the driver. He turned and hurried up the steps, unlocked the cottage door, and went inside. The scent of fresh-cut flowers greeted him as he stepped into the marble-floored foyer. He smiled when he saw the many vellum envelopes resting in a silver bowl on a small walnut table. He dropped the book he’d bought onto the table and scooped up the envelopes. He turned and walked into the parlor with its black walnut furniture, lush carpets and thick Brussels lace curtains over the tall windows.
On an end table by a big easy chair, a bottle of fine champagne was cooling in an ice-filled silver bucket along with a note of welcome
