Hattie Glover’s Millinery

offered Hattie a nod and a grateful smile before leaving.
The man lifted an eyebrow. “The young lady is feeling better?”
“Somewhat.” Hattie frowned as she thought of the favor she’d agreed to do on Miss Pruett’s behalf.
“What’s the matter? Maybe I can be of help.”
“I would not betray the young lady’s confidence.”
“Of course not, but perhaps I might recommend someone without knowing the facts. I assume the girl is in trouble…” He rested a hand on his stomach and raised his eyebrows.
“Not that sort of trouble.” And how upsetting that Hardy immediately knew a person who resolved such “trouble.”
“I do not mean either to offend or to judge. I’m merely offering knowledge for Miss Pruett to use as she likes. Is this delicate matter something that might require a detective? I know a trustworthy fellow.”
“It seems you know a lot of men who solve problems.”
“I’ll give you his information.” He held out his hand for the pen.
Hattie reluctantly gave him both pen and paper, then watched Hardy scribble a name and address.
“If there is anything I may help you with regarding your young friend, do let me know.” He flipped the paper and wrote again. “And here is my address for delivering the hat. I’ll present it to Lady Cromwell myself.”
So that was the mystery woman. Of course Hattie knew who Lady Anne Cromwell was. The woman was of the highest echelon of society and renowned for her beauty and for having affairs with younger men since the death of her extremely wealthy husband.
Hattie accepted the paper. “Thank you, Mr. Hardy. I appreciate your circumspection about Miss Pruett.”
“You may count on my silence. I’m happy if I can help.”
He started to walk away—stopped—turned back and opened his mouth—snapped it shut and shook his head—then headed toward the door. If he left this time, Hattie knew she would likely never see him again. She teetered on that razor’s edge between “shouldn’t” and “should” before taking a plunge.
“Mr. Hardy.”
He whipped around so quickly he nearly lost his balance.
She suppressed a smile at the comical sight. “I believe I could do with a bite after all.”
Hardy’s white teeth dazzled. The sparkle in his eyes flashed like facets of a polished sapphire. “Very well then, Mrs. Glover, allow me to take you to lunch.”
The restaurant to which he escorted her was a workingman’s pub filled with mostly men but some women too, having a drink and a meal before or after their shift. Hattie felt overdressed and Guy Hardy certainly was, but other than a few appraising glances, no one paid them much attention.
“This place has better food than some of the finest restaurants in the city. The thickest ham sandwiches in London.” He held out a chair at a table for two and Hattie took her seat.
The server brought two beers without asking. “Usual, Mr. Hardy?”
“Yes, please, Max.” He looked at Hattie. “That is, if you like ham sandwiches.”
“Sounds simply divine,” she drawled. “You must come here often to know the waiter by name,” she added after he’d left.
“Often enough. This place is all my own. I can shake off the pretensions of society for a while and spend time around people with no affectations.”
She felt pleased he’d brought her to his private spot. But perhaps he said that to all his lady friends. Relaxing into her creaky chair, she tried to think of a topic of conversation.
“Where are you from originally?” Hardy asked. “I detect somewhere other than London in your speech.”
Hattie would not give her place of origin even though she had changed her name. It would be fairly easy for someone to learn her history. “I moved to London some years ago and shortly after opened my hat shop.”
“After the death of your husband.”
“Mm.” She gave a noncommittal murmur and sipped her beer. She only drank an occasional glass of wine or cherry cordial. This strong brew made her wrinkle her nose at first, but it quenched her thirst with its satisfying bitterness.
Hattie searched for something to ask that would stop him from quizzing her about her life. “You mentioned boxing when we spoke yesterday. Is that a sport you’re interested in?”
“Mostly for the exercise. I keep in shape at my club, but I’m not all that interested in watching matches. I also enjoy fencing and tennis with my friend Will Carmody, when I can drag the fellow away from his library. And about once a month or so, I row with my old crew.”
Hattie could imagine how fit the man was underneath his well-tailored suit. “Tell me what you like about each sport.” That should fill the time until their food arrived.
Hardy spoke at length about his sports interests, pointing out that fencing, boxing, and waltzing were not so different. “Although one requires more brute force, all three depend on balance and are a dance.”
Hattie was happy to listen to him talk about subjects of interest to him. His enthusiasm was infectious and boyishly charming. What a handful he must have been as a child, full of too much energy and forging into whatever seized his imagination. She imagined this man’s passionate attention focused on a woman, exploring her body and knowing just the right places to touch. Simply watching his hands fluidly underscore his words made her flesh prickle.
His eyes sparkled as he mimed a boxing stance, fists curled then exploding into punches. “You see it is all about the control of energy, and, of course, timing.” Now he pretended to hold a dance partner in his arms and he swayed with that invisible woman. “Do you dance, Mrs. Glover?”
Her mind immediately relived a particular night, a man’s hand clasping hers, his other at the small of her back, press­ing…press­ing…draw­ing her close. She slammed the door shut on that memory, which had somehow evolved into Guy Hardy in the role of dance partner. “No. Not for years. I’m afraid dancing does not suit me.”
Hardy shrugged. “Perhaps you might enjoy tennis. It is an active sport that requires much