Whisper of Jasmine

He burst out laughing. “So it was all just a bit of sport to you? And I was the trophy?”

“Precisely.” But she was grinning, and Johnny’s expression turned pensive.

“I think you’re out of your depth here, love. I’ll wager you can’t get Evie Merryweather paired off like one of Noah’s animals.”

“How much?”

They were alone, but Johnny was still too much of a gentleman to say the words above a whisper. “Come here and I’ll murmur into your delicate little ear.”

Chapter Two

Across London, Evangeline Merryweather was staring at the invitation and suppressing a groan. Her flatmate, an unpleasant girl named Marjorie, or Margery—Evie had never bothered to learn and cared even less—gave her a repressive look. “I say, some of us are trying to study here.”

Evie sighed and picked up her coat. “I was just leaving.”

“You will catch your death in this weather. And when you come over with a cold, don’t expect me to take care of you,” Marjorie called after her as she left.

“Of course not. You’re only studying to be a nurse,” Evie muttered as her coat caught on the door.

“What did you say?” Marjorie said, her voice sharp with suspicion.

“I said, I would never expect you to,” Evie said with an effort at brightness. She freed her coat and banged the door closed behind her. Marjorie was right. The weather was filthy, bitterly cold and sleeting heavily, but she couldn’t bear another minute cooped up inside. She had agreed to share with Marjorie on the recommendation of a mutual friend—a friend who had been firmly struck from her Christmas card list after the first fortnight of living with Marjorie. Evie had been cheerfully optimistic about her ability to live with a flatmate. She had been bounced around enough of her relatives’ homes to have honed her skills at accommodation. She had lived with adenoidal spinster aunts and religiously fanatical cousins and uncles who gambled. There had been a great-aunt who drank the cooking sherry and even a sort of second cousin who collected hair as a hobby, but nothing had prepared her for the sheer grimness of living with someone wholly lacking in humour.

“I can bear anything as long as I can have a bit of a laugh,” she told herself as she hurried down the street. She walked on, drawing in great deep breaths of the crisp, damp air. She walked all the way to Kensington Gardens and turned in to walk beside the Long Water. She hadn’t intended to go there, but whenever she needed to think, she found herself on the west side of the Serpentine in the leafy glade that sheltered the statue of Peter Pan.

It had appeared overnight on May Day morning of 1912. No warning, no fanfare, just a notice in the Times.

There is a surprise in store for the children who go to Kensington Gardens to feed the ducks in the Serpentine this morning. Down by the little bay on the southwestern side of the tail of the Serpentine, they will find a Mayday gift by Mr. J.M. Barrie, a figure of Peter Pan blowing his pipe on the stump of a tree with fairies and mice and squirrels all around. It is the work of Sir George Frampton, and the bronze figure of the boy who would never grow up is delightfully conceived.

Evie had hurried along to the park that May Day morning, as delighted as any child. Peter Pan was her dearest childhood friend, and watching him fly from the stage of the Duke of York’s theatre was her last truly happy memory, the only one unencumbered by the loss of her parents, the endless moving from place to place, from relation to relation as she was passed around like a hand-me-down garment that was nice enough but didn’t quite fit. Peter Pan was the last time she had fit, and whenever she felt low, her steps always carried her back to the little glade in Kensington Gardens where the boy who wouldn’t grow up waited.

He was alone now. The weather had driven everyone else away from the park, but Evie settled at his feet next to a particularly winsome rabbit. She was sheltered from the worst of the sleet, and the wind had died down a little. If anything, the brisk air invigorated her, and she pulled out Delilah’s invitation to read it over again.

It was written in a firm, dramatic hand. Delilah did everything with flair. The daughter of a divorcée, Delilah had been a glamourous debutante, the most sophisticated of their Season. Evie had been presented by an ancient aunt and had only agreed to go when the aunt had unearthed her own court presentation gown from sixty years before and promised it wouldn’t cost Evie a penny of her meagre earnings. It had kept the peace for a while, which was the only reason Evie let herself be trussed up like a Christmas turkey and thrust into the row of debutantes, plumes nodding gently overhead as they made their way down the queue. She had been placed next to Delilah and had stared openmouthed at the glorious creature with the curious accent and spectacular eyes. Everyone else looked nervous as cats, but Delilah merely glided along, a small smile on her lips as if it were all simply too amusing, and most amusing of all was the girl with the hideously unfashionable dress who made her laugh. Delilah loved nothing better than a good laugh, and by the time they were finished, she had looped her arm through Evie’s and towed her away to lunch at the Savoy. They exchanged pleasantries over the starters, but by the time the entrée was served, Evie had told Delilah her entire life story and when pudding came, she had the uncomfortable feeling she had shared too much.

“Nonsense,” Delilah told her briskly. “If there’s one complaint I have about the English, it’s their coolness. They’re remote as the moon, most of them, and it’s refreshing to find one of you who will actually talk.”

Evie had been reassured and Delilah had promised to take her to all the best parties of the Season. The plan was short-lived. Evie had twisted her ankle in her high-heeled court shoes and had to beg off the first ball, sitting at home with a cold compress on her ankle while everyone else danced the night away. That was the night Delilah met Johnny, and before anyone could blink they had eloped amid a flurry of deliciously scandalised gossip. The Season was over for its most glorious debutante before it had even begun, and Evie put aside her grand hopes and went back to work, chiding herself a little for getting caught up in Delilah’s glamour. They had exchanged letters several times since, but never managed to meet in person. Delilah had been too enthralled with her new husband to spare much time for anything else, and Evie didn’t pursue it. It was simply too lowering to sit with someone who had it all—beauty, style, a sinfully handsome husband who adored her—and have to admit what a bore life had become. For her part, Evie had a series of jobs that didn’t last, and each was more degrading than the last. She had firmly resisted taking on domestic work, but after a disastrous stint as a shopgirl working for Belgravia’s most exclusive florist—one that ended with her breaking the most expensive vase in the shop over the florist’s head—she had taken a post as a governess. She hadn’t lasted until luncheon, and she trudged home in vile weather, saving the bus fare, to find a letter in Delilah’s elegant hand, demanding her attendance at a New Year’s Eve party.

“I’ve nothing to wear,” Evie said mournfully. She knew Delilah’s people had been difficult about the elopement. They had restricted her allowance, and Johnny had little of his own, but even without much money, Delilah would look like a queen. She was one of those tiresome girls who could put on a bedsheet and make it look like—

Evie sat up straight, her mind working furiously. She had five days to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, and she knew just where to go. She patted the little bronze rabbit goodbye and sped off down the path.

* * *

In his moderately comfortable flat in the worst street in the worst square in the best neighbourhood in London, Gabriel Starke smiled at the handwriting on the envelope. Delilah Drummond. Now that was a name to conjure with. He had had a single dance with her at her first debutante ball before he’d made the mistake of introducing her to Johnny. He’d only been dancing with her to kill time until he could hunt down their host and discuss his upcoming expedition to the Himalayas. Expeditions were costly, and the more patrons Gabriel found, the more comfortable his trips. He’d abandoned Delilah for the chance to land a sponsor and by the time he’d come back, she and Johnny were making a scandal of themselves by slipping into the garden for a little tête-à-tête. They’d come back with Johnny still buttoning his shirt and Delilah’s lipstick smudged under his ear, but the disgrace had been blunted when they’d eloped two days later. Gabriel found he hadn’t minded one bit; a benefactor was far more important than a girl, and he had secured all the funds he needed for his attempt to summit Masherbrum. Four months later, he was back in England, unsuccessful but more famous than when he had left, and he hadn’t yet seen the newlyweds. He wasn’t sure why Delilah had invited him, but it occurred to him he hadn’t anyplace better to go on New Year’s Eve. His family were in the country, thank God, and an evening of bachelor delights at his club sounded distinctly unappetising. Delilah would have good food and pretty girls, and enough liquor to take his mind off his troubles.

Just as he made up his mind to go, his telephone rang. He answered it, knowing before he spoke who would be on the line. “I just received an invitation to Delilah’s New Year’s Eve party. Going, old man?”

Gabriel suppressed a smile. Tarquin was almost two decades his senior. “Yes, old man. You?”

“I think so,” Tarquin said slowly. “It might be a very good idea to make an appearance.”

Gabriel cut in. “Hang on, how do you know Delilah? I thought the Marches were too ancient and exclusive a family to mix with Louisiana sugar millionaires.”

Tarquin gave a little sniff, and Gabriel smiled. He knew exactly what gesture accompanied that sniff. Tarquin would be polishing his spectacles, his dark, clever brows knit together. “I don’t. I was invited at the request of Quentin Harkness. He’s a fellow I think you should meet. Whatever your plans were for New Year’s Eve, cancel them. You’re going to Delilah’s.”

Before Gabriel could respond, Tarquin had severed the connection. He sighed and replaced the receiver before pouring himself a small glass of single malt. It was the last of the good whisky, he realised ruefully. Time to turn his hand to earning more money. And that meant going to Delilah’s party, whether he wanted to or not.

Chapter Three

“Hold still before I run you through with a pin,” Evie’s Aunt Dove said severely.

Evie held her breath. “I’m sorry. You’ve been an angel. I’m just wondering if I’ve lost my nerve.”

She darted a glance towards the ancient cheval glass, but Aunt Dove pricked her lightly with a pin.

“Ouch!” Evie sucked her finger, glowering at her aunt.

“I did tell you to hold still,” Aunt Dove countered with deceptive mildness. “And I told you earlier, no peeking until it’s finished.”

Appealing to Aunt Dove to find her a suitable evening dress had been an inspired choice, but Evie had regretted it almost instantly. Dove was the most eccentric of her relatives. She had made a name for herself as a Victorian adventuress—in both senses of the word. She had travelled the world collecting stories and artefacts, and she had made a string of notorious conquests along the way, returning to England only when she was between lovers or patrons.

“Well, we Pomeroy-Finches mightn’t have tuppence to rub together, but we do have style,” Aunt Dove remarked as she tugged Evie into a different position.

“I’m a Merryweather,” Evie reminded her.

Aunt Dove shot her a dark look. “Pomeroy-Finch blood is very strong. It will always out. One of these days you’ll start racing cars or sail a yacht around the world. I have hope for you yet.”

Evie suppressed a sigh.

“I heard that,” Aunt Dove told her. “I blame myself for you, you know. If I’d been around when you were growing up, I might have taken a hand in your education, shown you the world.” She paused to fix another pin. “Of course, most people wouldn’t approve of handing a child over to a well-travelled nymphomaniac with superb dressmaking skills, but then most people lack imagination, I always find. Stand up straight, child! You must have had ballet lessons at some point. Didn’t they teach you about posture?”

Evie stiffened her spine, darting a glance out of the tail of her eye. “I did, but it never seemed to take. I probably ought to have been corseted like you.”

“Corset? Rubbish. Never wore the beastly things. They aren’t healthful,” she said, tacking a sleeve into place. “No, the best training for good posture is a nice, heavy tiara.”