Chapter 5
EMILY
Darcy. Darcy. Darcy.
The walk from the park to the fashionable Circle Hotel is only ten minutes. Yet my mind keeps drifting back to him.
The Darcy-like gentleman who saved my life.
The way he moved with such grace.
Like someone who had never once doubted where he was going. Always strong and in command.
Ready at a moment’s notice to save a damsel in distress.
I try to reconstruct his face but can only retrieve fragments. The strong jaw. The solid fabric of his well-fitting jacket. The brief warmth of his hand before he was gone.
Two doormen in ivory gloves pull open the heavy brass doors of The Circle Hotel in one synchronized motion.
It’s as if they have been waiting for me all along.
Inside, the air is cool and still, carrying the scent of expensive flowers arranged in a tall vase near the entrance.
One of the well-dressed concierges at the desk smiles up at me.
“Ah, Miss Fisher. Mr. Ricci told me to expect you,” he says, coming out from behind the desk to greet me. “I’m Samuels.”
“Nice to meet you. I had a driver who was supposed to bring my bag…”
“It’s already in the apartment. I’ll take you up to Mr. Ricci’s apartment,” Samuels says, guiding me to the elevator.
I’m not used to such service. Even though my great Aunt Jane grew up with money as a young girl, we didn’t live lavishly like this.
“I see The Circle is a hotel. But Mr. Ricci lives here? Owns a room?”
“Owns an apartment. All the Ricci brothers own their own units. It’s not unusual for wealthy individuals to own apartments in a hotel in this city.”
The elevator doors open, and a new middle-aged man in an expensive-looking suit greets me.
Is this my new husband, the nightclub impresario?
Anna called him gorgeous. But he’s older than I imagined. And Anna’s prone to exaggeration.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ricci,” I begin, not knowing what to call my temporary husband.
“I’m Ciro, Mr. Ricci’s manservant,” he says, once the concierge has gone.
He carries himself with the posture of someone who has spent decades being useful and invisible in equal measure.
I can’t quite place the origin of his vague accent.
“I’ve put your suitcase in your room. I would offer you something to eat, but the ceremony begins within the hour.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I say.
The living room opens up around me, all floor-to-ceiling windows in the bright sunlight.
A white leather sofa faces the glass in an inviting way. And the coffee table shines perfectly clear. Not a fingerprint on it.
Nothing in the room looks touched.
“I’ll show you around,” Ciro says.
I follow him as he gives me the grand tour.
The kitchen opens off the living room. All pale stone and brushed steel.
A row of tall chairs lines the island like polite guests waiting to be seated.
“Does anyone eat in this room?”
“This apartment belongs to Lorenzo Ricci alone. He’s usually at the office. But yes, sometimes he’ll have espresso here in the morning.”
I nod.
Ciro leads me down a hallway and opens a door.
“Mr. Ricci’s library.”
The scent hits me before my eyes adjust. I detect a rawhide-like aroma and faint suggestion of tobacco. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line every wall, packed with books whose gold leather spines have gone soft with age.
A brass reading lamp sits on the corner of a wide mahogany desk. Quaint. Like a real 19th-century study.
“It serves as his private study and home office when he isn’t at the club. Mr. Ricci conducts his most confidential business here, so he prefers it remain undisturbed.”
“All those books! Is Mr. Ricci a great reader?”
“You’re best to ask Mr. Ricci,” he says. Then he gracefully steps aside to usher me back into the hall.
I linger in the doorway a moment longer, eyes moving across the shelves with longing. Some authors I recognize, others not.
How wonderful it would be to spend an afternoon here and lose myself in these cherished classics.
I turn my attention back to Ciro.
“This is your bedroom,” he says, opening the door onto a room that feels more like a stage set than a place anyone has ever slept.
The bed is enormous, dressed in white linen so crisp it might never have been touched. Like elsewhere in the apartment, no exterior walls here. Just floor-to-ceiling windows.
“And here is your bathroom,” he says, opening the door onto a room you’d expect to see in a glossy design magazine.
A deep soaking tub sits at the center like a piece of sculpture, the kind you lower yourself into slowly.
Even dramatically, especially if your lover is watching.
The shower is enclosed in seamless glass, large enough for a party if you’re into those kinds of things.
Every surface is white marble veined faintly with grey, cool and unblemished as fresh snow.
When I exit, I spot the half-open door to what looks to be an identical bathroom.
“What’s that? Another bathroom?”
“This was designed as a ‘his and hers’ master suite,” he says. “Two bathrooms, identical.”
Okay, I think to myself. Welcome to the eccentric rich people of Manhattan.
Ciro gestures toward yet another door.
“I’ve put your suitcase in your closet. If you’d like any help changing into your wedding dress, please don’t hesitate to call for me.”
I look inside the closet. It’s enormous. Like a small room of its own.
“I won’t be wearing a wedding dress, but thanks. Tell me this. Where is Mr. Ricci’s bedroom?”
“Again,” Ciro says patiently. “I’ll refer you to Mr. Ricci for an answer. But I assure you, this is the only bedroom in the apartment. I’ll leave you alone now to dress.”
What?! Only one bedroom? Only one bed?
The agreement said nothing about this!
I look at the gigantic bed, bigger and wider than any bed I’ve ever seen.
The sooner I meet this Mr. Ricci and settle this thing, the better.
I open my suitcase and take out my great aunt’s tweed suit.
It’s a genuine Christian Dior creation from the 1940s. Still in one piece, and oddly still fashionable nearly a century later.
Though it does smell of mothballs and her signature Chanel #5 perfume.
I slip it on, then glance at myself in the mirror and nod with satisfaction.
The thick boxy jacket. The hemline dropping below my knees.
It’s all so right.
On so many different levels.
If it’s true this Lorenzo Ricci character thinks of me as a dowdy Bostonian, so be it.
That’s exactly what he’ll get.
Right down to Aunt Jane’s flat shoes, made for her extra-wide feet.
I take time wrapping my auburn hair into an especially severe bun. No one gets to see my hair in all its glory.
Except the man who will become my true husband. Whenever the universe decides he will arrive.
I twist my hair tight, securing it with Aunt Jane’s tarnished gold barrette.
Then I call for Ciro and tell him I’m ready.