His words were too much for her to digest, especially in the middle of a boring workweek and while doing a mundane task like ironing. Alfie Clarkson, the heir of Wellingford Hall, was inviting her on a date. To the Savoy! He might as well have been King Edward, inviting her on a trip to the moon.
“Hello? Eve? Are you there?”
Her surprise came out as a burst of laughter. “Sorry. You caught me off guard. The Savoy is very posh, isn’t it? Are you trying to impress me?”
“Oh yes. Very much so. Will you come? I realize you don’t know me very well, but I’m certain Audrey will provide a character reference.”
Eve laughed again. She was certain Audrey would be appalled and would do whatever she could to stop them. Eve longed to accept his invitation. If the mere sound of his upper-crust voice on the tinny phone sent a shiver through her, what would spending an entire evening with him be like? Yes, she very much wanted to go. But could she pull it off—faking fancy manners, pretending to be a wealthy socialite? What would she wear? The nicest dress Eve had was the one she wore to church every Sunday. The Savoy was intimidating all on its own, let alone for a formal event. She tried to picture Alfie Clarkson walking up the crumbling boardinghouse steps in his tuxedo to collect her and couldn’t. She needed to charm him into falling in love with her before he learned the truth about her—because she would surely give herself away the moment she tried to hobnob with the aristocrats at the Savoy.
Eve threaded the telephone cord through the stair rails and sat down on one of the steps to steady herself. “I don’t need a character reference, Mr. Clarkson. I’m perfectly happy to accept your invitation.”
“Wonderful!”
“But since we’re practically strangers, I think we should have tea together first and take a stroll in the park so we can get to know each other a little better before our big night at the Savoy.” She winced, aware that she had just asked Alfie Clarkson on a date. The chatter in the lounge had stopped. Eve pictured the other girls straining to hear, gasping at the mention of the Savoy—and at her audacity for suggesting a date for tea. They all knew she didn’t have a steady bloke. Eve held her breath, releasing it only after she heard Alfie chuckle on the other end.
“I must say, Eve Dawson, you are a marvelously mysterious woman. Now I want to meet you more than ever. Where do you suggest we have tea? And when?”
“How about Sunday at three in Piccadilly Circus? We can meet beneath the statue of Eros.” Would he be shocked by her boldness in meeting beneath the god of love?
“Done,” he said. “Sunday at three. Au revoir.”
Eve could barely concentrate on the vicar’s sermon on Sunday, her mind a swirling, churning mixture of excitement and fear. Dating Alfie Clarkson was the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to move up in the world. It might be the only step up she would ever get.
The winter day turned out to be cold yet sunny, perfect for strolling London’s streets. Alfie stood waiting beneath the statue of Eros when Eve emerged from the Piccadilly Circus Underground station. If only the winged god would fire an arrow and make Alfie fall madly in love with her. He stood out from the common crowd, dressed in expensive tweeds and fine leather shoes, but he wore them with casual indifference, as only the privileged class could. He smiled as he greeted Eve, swooping off his hat and bowing to kiss the back of her hand as if she were a princess.
“Even more beautiful than I remembered,” he said, bringing a surge of warmth to her cheeks. “Shall we go? There’s a tea shop right around the corner.” He resettled his hat on his thick amber hair and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. They started walking.
Eve struggled to think of something witty and charming to say, but every thought fled from her mind, replaced by the thrilling awareness of Alfie Clarkson. Imagine, Eve Dawson, a common serving girl from the village, stepping out for tea with the young master of Wellingford Hall.
“How long have you known my sister?” he asked.
“Since we were twelve. Our mothers have known each other for years. But you don’t want to talk about them, do you?”
“Fair enough. What shall we talk about?”
“Well, I’m very curious about something. You must know dozens of girls who would love to go with you to the Savoy. Why did you choose me?”
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, grinning as he gazed down at her. “To tell you the truth it was because of your freckles.”
“Oh no!” Her hand flew to her face as if she might feel them sticking out. “Do they show? Do I need to powder my nose again?”