Secrets Of A Wallflower. Amanda McCabe
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worried that William Blakely seemed to slip too much into her memories of the ball, always getting in the way of everything else! The dratted man. How had he come to be so—so distracting?
The crowd surged forward and Diana went with them as they flowed towards Trafalgar Square. The Ladies’ Weekly offices were there, and she felt her excitement flutter even higher as she glimpsed the stone tower of its office building. Everyone around her seemed intent on their own errands, all black suits and tailored dresses, leather cases and intent expressions.
The difference between that workaday crowd and the people at the Waverton ball was amazing. Diana felt at the same moment out of place and exactly where she belonged. It was most strange.
She rushed around the corner and nearly bumped into a man hurrying in the opposite direction. His bowler hat tumbled to the pavement.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ she cried and bent to retrieve the hat before it could roll into the street. He reached for it at the same time and they almost knocked each other to the ground. Diana’s own hat tilted over her eyes.
Flustered and embarrassed, she pushed it back and glanced up at the man, who was laughing. To her shock, she saw it was William Blakely, looking not at all dignified and solemn now. His hair, rumpled by the loss of his hat, waved over his brow in an unruly dark comma and she glimpsed a dimple—a dimple!—in his cheek as he laughed even harder.
‘Sir William,’ she gasped. ‘What a surprise. I do beg your pardon. Again.’
‘Good day, Miss Martin,’ he said, his laughter fading to a wry smile. ‘You are looking quite well this morning.’ He took her arm and helped her up, gently brushing the dust from her sleeve. She felt her cheeks turn warm under his gaze, his touch.
‘It was quite a lovely party last night,’ she said, feeling rather silly. A lovely party? After she had run into this man in the most ridiculous circumstances now—twice? ‘In the end.’
‘You’re up quite early. I see dancing ’til dawn couldn’t tire you.’ He gave her a teasing smile and there was that dimple again.
Diana laughed. She just couldn’t help it. ‘Well, I admit I do have an early appointment. I really should be on my way.’
‘Let me escort you, then.’
Escort her? Then she really never would think clearly at her interview! ‘That is kind, but I’m sure you must be getting to your own work.’ Then a terrible thought suddenly struck her, making some of the smiling glow fade. Maybe he was not on his way to work. Maybe he had a meeting, an assignation, with someone like Lady Smythe-Tomas.
His smile turned quizzical, as if he sensed her thoughts. ‘Indeed I should, but I’m glad to be delayed in such a delightful way. It gives me a chance to return this.’ He reached into his coat pocket and took out a small book.
‘My notebook!’ Diana cried. So that was where it had been. Had he found it when she dropped her reticule in the library? Had he read it? Even the silly gossipy bits? How ridiculous he must think her, then.
‘You seemed to have misplaced it last night. I meant to give it to Alexandra, but I’m afraid she was rather distracted by the Prince and Princess’s arrival. I’m glad I could return it to its rightful owner so quickly.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ she said again. Diana quickly replaced it in her valise. ‘I did wonder where it went.’
‘I shouldn’t keep you any longer. If you won’t let me escort you, perhaps I could give you a cup of tea after your errand? There’s a rather nice little teashop around the corner from here. To make up in small part for knocking you to the ground.’
Diana peeked up at him from beneath the brim of her hat, curious and excited and unsure all at the same time. She knew she shouldn’t, that her confused feelings towards him made him rather dangerous at such a moment in her life. But she found herself smiling and saying, ‘That sounds most pleasant. Thank you.’
After all, it was a day to be daring, to leap before she looked. What was a cup of tea after a job interview? A cup of tea with Sir William Blakely. After a job interview. Two things she would never have thought she could ever do.
He smiled, though there was no dimple that time. Diana felt a pang of disappointment. ‘Excellent, Miss Martin. Here is my card. My office is just on the next street, you can see it from here,’ he said, indicating a quiet, discreet Georgian mansion, all elegant red brick and white stone, plain except for the bright flag above the doorway. ‘Just call on the receptionist in the hall when you’ve finished your errand.’
‘I will.’
His gaze flickered behind her, a small frown creasing his brow. ‘Is your maid with you?’
‘I...’ Diana made herself laugh. A maid would have been in the way at the magazine—and would run right back to her parents with the tale before she could decide how to frame it all. She hadn’t been thinking of what would happen if she met an acquaintance, especially not Sir William. ‘No, not today. It is nearly the twentieth century, Sir William! We must step into the modern era some time.’
He smiled wryly and placed his hat back on his head. Diana rather missed his glossy dark hair, that wonderful air of informality. ‘Indeed. Good luck on your errand, Miss Martin. I do hope to see you later.’
She nodded and he tipped his hat as he took his leave. She watched him walk towards his office, his stride strong and confident though not at all showy.
What a strange man, she thought. So hard to read. Strange, and—and quite wonderful, too. A puzzle. And she did like puzzles.
But she couldn’t worry about Sir William at the moment. She had a task to complete, one she had been waiting to do for ever, it seemed. She squared her shoulders and marched ahead, clutching her valise in both hands, trying not to knock anyone else down in her path.
She did wonder, though, if he had read the notebook. If so, what had he thought? She wavered between wanting his advice on her work and being rather blush-faced to think he had seen her scribbles. Did he think her frivolous for such detailed descriptions of gowns and party arrangements? Maybe he wouldn’t, if he knew what she was really doing with them.
The offices of Ladies’ Weekly was on the third floor of a rather nondescript but solid building, in a corner tower. She made her way past rows of young women at typewriters and stacks of papers and photos waiting to be made into articles. The click of the typewriters blended with shouts and cries, and the warm air smelled of newsprint and coffee. It was unlike anything Diana had ever seen before, entirely different from the flower-scented hush of her parents’ house, and it was utterly thrilling.
She was led to a small corner office, where a bewhiskered, harried-looking man sat behind a cluttered desk, dictating to an equally harried-looking lady in spectacles and a pink-striped shirtwaist.
‘Ah, so this is the Paris girl!’ the man shouted. ‘Not before time, I’ll say. Come in, come in.’
‘I...’ Confused, Diana glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I thought my appointment was at ten?’
The woman chuckled. ‘You are quite punctual, Miss Martin. He means on time for Paris. Our last correspondent there decided to get married instead of going to the Exposition and has rather left us in the lurch. We need a replacement right away.’
‘You’re not engaged, are you?’ he barked.
‘I—no,’ Diana murmured, thinking of Lord Thursby. And of Sir William.
‘It would mean you would be in charge of the coverage rather than assisting,’ the woman said. ‘We do have such a small staff. I hope that would not be a problem?’
Diana swallowed hard. She had never written professionally before, but she had wanted this so much for so long. Surely she could do it. ‘Of course not.’
‘The Lady and the Mail are already there, curse them,’ the