Chapter Four
“T he house has recently been converted,” the estate agent said as he pulled his left cheek up and let his mustache follow like a hairy caterpillar. “The ground floor has been split in two.”
Alfred followed him and inspected the premises carefully. Ninety-one Harley Street was ideal as an office.
“What used to be the morning room could now be an office. The kitchen has been modernized and would be shared.” The agent opened a door to the left of the small entry hall.
Alfred tuned out the words. Most people lied almost as soon as they spoke. He’d trained himself to pay attention to the details and focus on the unspoken. When the estate agent had turned the key in the lock, Alfred listened for the telltale screech of rust. None came.
He’d trailed his hand along the walls and felt that they were warm, which meant that the building was heated and not in foreclosure, thus making a long rental period possible.
“Has anyone let the other half yet?” Alfred asked.
“We have received offers, and the owner is only entertaining the highest bids.”
So that was a no.
“Are those rooms bigger?”
“They are more expensive,” the agent said with gravitas as if he wanted to warn Alfred.
“Can I see them?” He was undeterred. The location was perfect. With the staircase tucked away in the back, the former morning room could be his office. He’d put some chairs in the hall as a waiting room, and he’d have a bed for overnight stays in the former dining room. That left the drawing room as the principal place for consultations.
Each had a functional fireplace and windows facing south, which made for bright rooms. The wood panels and chair rails were shiny as if they’d been recently sanded down and lacquered. Bright green and white striped wallpaper and brass lamps complemented the interiors well. Everything suited Alfred, even the mismatched chairs in the dining room would make satisfactory seats for the waiting room. All he needed was the down payment.
The agent left Alfred alone for a moment and stepped outside. Meanwhile, Alfred walked around the three rooms on the ground floor. He knew instantly where he’d put an exam table, cabinets with linens, and a washbasin. His desk could stand by the window, with two chairs backing against the street view to maintain his patients’ privacy. But as he walked through the building, allowing himself to peek upstairs and dream of the perfect space to build a career, his mind returned to last night.
He’d be at least a few pounds closer to the down payment if he hadn’t encountered stalemate after stalemate with the gorgeous blonde at The Lyon’s Den. Her face had been an enigma. Even after several rounds at the rouge et noir table, he had not figured out her tell. Most players fidgeted if they hid some cards in their coats. Others looked for the longs or shorts on prepared decks. Most women had an expectant glance once they told lies as if they hoped for instant confirmation they’d gotten away with the untruth. But not the girl from last night. Her breathing had remained calm and regular. She spoke with no noticeable hitches, and she’d held herself ramrod straight during the game. If he didn’t think her too young and too pretty, he’d consider her a professional card player. One of the best he’d ever seen.
Alfred smiled at the memory of their brief encounter in the hall. There, she wasn’t as composed. Was her rapid breath possibly a sign of arousal? Could he have been the reason for her nervousness? She’d exchanged glances with the Black Widow’s wolves around the game room as if they were her friends.
She was one of them.
The epiphany struck him like a blow to the head, leaving him reeling with the weight of its impact. She played for the house. It must be true. For what reason could a woman as striking as she have to spend her evening surrounded by men in the gambling hall?
“She must be that good!” he’d mumbled to himself, more in awe of her skill than disappointed in his losses. For Dr. Alfred Stein, stalemates were losses. He was used to winning and felt surprised that losing to a girl didn’t bother him more.
The serviceable, well-worn blue dress had contained her petite frame. She wasn’t rich, that much was obvious. Yet her posture was straight and her manner of speaking elegant. With an air of unfulfilled potential, she seemed destined for more than the gambling tables’ demands could offer. Despite her position, she exuded a quiet grace and unquenchable spirit that made it clear she was meant for more.
No matter what Alfred tried to focus on, his mind circled back to the beautiful Ada who’d nearly ruined the perfect winning streak he’d maintained since university. He should be focused on getting the money for the down payment. That was all he must think about. But how her hair had shone in the dim light and the way her smooth skin pricked with goosebumps when he stopped her in the hall sent a shiver down his back. The pout she’d made when she bit down a sly remark and refused to tell him her last name had been engraved in Alfred’s mind as a constant distraction. She was so beautiful, his thoughts circled back to her over and over again.
Bollocks.
He had to control himself and win enough money for the down payment. With three fireplaces, 91 Harley Street would take at least fifty pounds worth of firewood per year, especially in the room designated for overnight patients. He’d also need money for rent as soon as the lease started. Plus, dark lining for the curtains, to dim the light for patients’ recoveries.
After leaving the Marylebone location of what he hoped would be his future office, Alfred took a walk in Regent’s Park, which was open to the public a few times a week. It was lovely in the spring. He needed some fresh air to clear his mind. “Stop thinking about her,” he chastised himself, again. So close to making his dream a reality, he couldn’t be distracted like a green boy.
And then his heart made a flip and his palms grew sweaty. The gorgeous blond hair and the delicate silhouette from the night before drew his eyes like a mirage. Ada! He didn’t believe in coincidences and walked straight toward her. Despite the thick woolen pelisse, he could make out her alluring figure. He shouldn’t, but he would talk to her. While it was certainly irregular for him, he had no office to occupy or patients to tend to, leaving him with an unaccustomed air of leisure and a gnawing restlessness. He longed to speak to her but didn’t dare. So why did it feel as though approaching the beautiful Ada from The Lyon’s Den was a terminal affair? No matter for he couldn’t possibly pull himself away from her.