“Excellent. Let’s do this.” We exited the hallway which opened up to a central landing where a massive ornate wooden staircase wound down to the main floor below.
The Museum of Literature was housed in a Georgian Revival mansion on the upper eastside of Manhattan. Formerly the private residence of Thomas Stewart, a wealthy industrialist who had amassed a fortune in the steel industry, the home had been left to his beloved wife, Mabel. An avid reader and book lover, Mabel Stewart had bequeathed the property to a private foundation with specific instructions to create the Museum of Literature, a place where books were to be displayed and preserved like rare paintings for years to come.
Bri and I fell into step behind Sarah as she glided down the staircase. A crowd had already gathered below. The women sparkled in jeweled tones of emerald, ruby, and sapphire, while the men complemented the ladies in crisp black-and-white tuxedos.
The large reception room had also been transformed. Swaths of ecru tulle were draped from the ceiling and over the walls while twinkling lights sparkled from several large potted Ficus trees strategically placed around the room. Vintage valentines decorated every surface in an abundance of lacy hearts and cupids.
Waiters moved through the guests—trays loaded with complimentary beverages while a string quartet played in the corner. The piece sounded as if it could have been heard at Fitzwilliam Darcy’s Pemberley. Perfect.
I glanced around the room, utterly dazzled. A waiter came by with his tray and I gratefully took a flute of champagne.
Bri did the same and then leaned close to whisper, “Don’t forget... aim high. Find a man who you think is out of your league and chat him up. Who knows? Maybe you’ll meet the one tonight.”
She tapped her glass to mine as if she hadn’t just said the craziest thing I’d ever heard. Again, the prince falling in love with the poor plain girl was a fairy tale for a reason. That sort of relationship was too unbalanced. It would never work. I mean, it was one thing to talk in theory about going for a man who seemed too good looking, too smart, and too successful. It was another to actually do it. And to do it here? Sure, as if Valentine’s Day and being single wasn’t already the stuff of nightmares.
Chapter Two
“Two o’clock,” Bri said. “That’s your target.”
I took a sip from my glass and surreptitiously glanced at the crowd in front of us and slightly to the right. We’d been circling the room, pausing to chat with various guests for the past hour. My feet hurt, the pins holding my hair in place were digging into my scalp, my cheeks ached from forcing myself to smile, and I was fuzzy-headed from the champagne. Aiming high was exhausting.
“Which one...oh,” I said. With tousled tawny hair, a square jaw, a broad grin, and a twinkle in his eye, the guy was so obviously for Bri and not me. I mean, I appreciated that my best friend thought we were in the same league, that’s the very definition of sisterly love, but we very clearly weren’t. I didn’t laugh, because when Bri makes up her mind about something, she can be as stubborn as a mustard stain. Instead, I went for diplomacy—sort of.
“He’s not really my type,” I said. I wrinkled my nose. “Too many teeth.”
“What?” Bri’s head snapped in my direction. “He has a terrific smile.”
“And he’s too tall,” I said. “I’d get a crick in my neck looking up at him.”
“He is not,” she insisted. “He just seems tall from across the room.”
“Also, he’s very chatty,” I said. The handsome man was telling a story with great enthusiasm and hand gestures to his companion, Miles Lowenstein, who was the head of the museum’s special collections.
Tall with a poof of white hair that stood up at odd angles, Miles towered over everyone, his severe black suit rather like that of an undertaker. I thought it spoke well of Bri’s target, that it didn’t seem to bother him. In fact, he grinned in the face of Miles’s stern countenance, which I found truly impressive as I’d worked with Miles for years and he still unnerved me.
“The man does seem friendly, but you need that,” Bri insisted.
“Do I, do I really?” I asked.
“Yes.” Bri didn’t take her eyes off him and I wasn’t even sure she was answering my question. Interesting. Her voice became breathy when she added, “Seriously, Molls, he’s perfect.”
“But not for me,” I said. She finally looked at me. I gestured at her and then at him and then back.
“Oh.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Let’s go meet him.”
We worked our way through the crowd. Thankfully, our target stayed with Miles, who facilitated the introductions.
“Tristan Somers, I’d like to introduce you to Briana Cho and Molly Graham, two of the museum’s finest,” Miles said. His tone was bland as if he was reading off a notecard.
“Miles, we have to go.” Olive Prendergast appeared beside Miles as if she’d sprung fully formed out of his shadow.
Bri let out a small yelp.
The only person more terrifying than Miles was Olive. Also tall and thin, she wore a black trench coat over a white dress shirt, black slacks, and combat boots. It went without saying that Olive did not dress up in period costume for the gala. She was not what one would call a joiner. Her features were sharp, she never smiled, and one of her eyebrows had a scar running through it, slicing it in half. Her thick mane of dark hair swept halfway down her back, and she looked as if she’d be equally as comfortable in a bar fight as she would on a catwalk. That sort of self-assurance was just not normal.
Olive was in charge of the special collection entitled Books of Dubious Origin, aka BODO. No one had ever explained to me what that meant. Her office was in the same wing as Miles’s, which was inaccessible to anyone but those with clearance—which I did not have.
“I leave you in their capable hands,” Miles said to Tristan. With that he turned on his heel and he and Olive left the gala as silently as two wraiths. I shivered.
“A pleasure, ladies,” Tristan said. His accent was delightfully British and when he bowed low over our hands, I actually felt a little flustered. I noted Bri was having a hard time meeting his gaze. A faint blush colored her cheeks. Well, then.
“The pleasure is ours,” I said. It’s so much easier talking to a man when there is absolutely no chance of anything happening between you. I glanced at Bri out of the corner of my eye. My flirty outgoing friend seemed dumbstruck. Huh. “How did you come to attend our Austen gala, Mr. Somers?”
“Please call me Tristan,” he said. “I’m an old friend of the Whitmores.”
“Who own the largest collection of Austen works in Britain,” a voice said from beside me. I turned to find Phillip Carter, Bri’s boss, standing there.
“Just so,” Tristan said. “Good to see you, Phillip.”
“And you as well,” Phillip said. “This exhibit would be sadly lacking without the Whitmore’s contribution.”
I knew this since I’d been unboxing items from Whitmore Estate for weeks. Having read all of the paperwork attached to the collection, I was familiar with the family from Bath. If I wasn’t mistaken, they were members of the aristocracy, putting Mr. Somers even farther out of my league but not Bri’s. I could absolutely see her moving in such elevated circles.