“Charles!” she called, waving.
Abigail’s cousin stood waiting near a gravel path, one hand resting casually on a walking stick, though Arthur suspected he carried it more for style than necessity. Charles Wescott was, in many ways, everything society admired in a gentleman—amiable, attractive, always well turned-out—but Arthur had never minded him. There was a sincerity to him that felt rare.
Charles greeted them with affable charm, bowing to Eliza with warmth and to Abigail with family ease.
“Well,” Charles said, eyes twinkling, “we do present quite the picture, don’t we? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say we were the toast of the park.”
“Then allow us to give them something worth toasting,” Eliza replied, linking her arm with his.
Arthur turned to Abigail and extended his own arm. She hesitated the barest fraction of a second before taking it, her fingers light upon his sleeve. Together, they fell into step along the main promenade, the rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot mingling with the quiet hum of other strollers passing by.
They made a striking group, Arthur had to admit. Eliza’s laughter floated ahead of them like music, while Charles kept pace beside her with practiced nonchalance. Beside Arthur, Abigail walked with an air of measured elegance, her bonnet framing her face in shadow and light. She wasn’t speaking, but he could feel her presence like a quiet current beside him.
The early crowd in the park noted them with passing glances—enough to ensure their presence would be remarked upon in salons and supper rooms, but not so much as to invite scandal. Their plan was working.
And yet…
Arthur found himself increasingly aware of how easily the pretense had begun to fit. The weight of Abigail’s hand on his arm, the soft cadence of her voice when she occasionally addressed Eliza or Charles, the way her eyes flicked up at him when someone passed too near—it was all seamless. Effortless.
Troublingly so.
He kept his expression fixed in its usual mask of polite reserve, but the sensation stirred beneath the surface—an unwanted flicker of something warm and admiring.
He pushed it away. Focused instead on the mechanics of the plan. Control was the key.
As they passed under a canopy of budding trees, Eliza proposed they stop for refreshments.
“There’s a tea-shop just off Berkeley Square,” she said brightly. “Very fashionable and completely overrun with scandalous gossip. We’ll fit in perfectly.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Charles said, his tone teasing. “Is that the one with the cherry scones and the entirely deaf proprietor?”
“Quite. He hears nothing,” Eliza said, “and somehow still knows everything.”
Abigail glanced toward Arthur, her expression carefully neutral. “Shall we?”
He nodded once. “It would be my pleasure.”
They returned to the carriage in the same pairs, and Arthur once again helped Abigail inside before following. The ride to Berkeley Square was brief, but quieter—Eliza and Charles exchanged light chatter, while Abigail sat beside Arthur in contemplative silence. She wasn’t withdrawn, merely thoughtful. As if reserving her energy for the next act.
The tea-shop was already bustling with activity by the time they arrived, its charming facade nestled between a bookbindery and a milliner’s shop along a quiet stretch of Berkeley Square.
Its windows, lightly fogged from within, bore the faintest tracery of condensation, softening the view of the cheerful scene inside like a wash of watercolor. Above the lintel hung a freshly painted sign—Bramley & Birch Teas and Tinctures—its gold-leaf lettering catching the pale spring light and gleaming like a quiet invitation to step into warmth and civility.
The moment the party crossed the threshold, they were enveloped by the mingled scents of warm bread, orange peel, clove, and the rich, buttery sweetness of freshly baked cakes and sugared confections. There was a faint undertone of furniture wax and lavender soap—a gentle assertion of refinement amidst the domestic bustle. The clink of spoons against china, the low hum of genteel conversation, and the occasional rustle of linen napkins created a soundscape both intimate and delightfully refined. It was the sort of place where fashionable ladies sipped delicately from gold-rimmed cups, where young clerks splurged on cherry tarts to impress sweethearts, and where the ton, always alert for novelty, occasionally deigned to pause for refreshment and subtle reconnaissance.
A server in a crisp white apron led them past polished mahogany tables and neatly arranged chaises to a prominent spot near the large bay windows—precisely as Eliza had intended.
The alcove, flooded with the gauzy, filtered light of a soft spring morning, offered a perfect vantage point. It granted full view of the cobbled street beyond, with its trickle of passing carriages and bonneted pedestrians, while also positioning them in open sight of anyone already seated within the shop.
Visibility, after all, was everything.
Abigail took her seat gracefully, her gloved hands folding in her lap, while Arthur settled beside her with the natural poise of a man who was accustomed to being observed and yet had long since ceased to care about it. Eliza and Charles claimed the opposite side, the former already casting a discerning eye around the room as if mentally cataloguing every patron and their conversational worth.
Menus were distributed—vellum sheets encased in modest leather covers, the ink slightly faded but elegantly lettered in a practiced hand. The list of offerings was both respectable and indulgent. An array of teas; delicate lemon biscuits; currant buns; clotted cream and marmalade; slices of almond cake dusted with sugar so fine it shimmered in the sunlight like powdered silk.
The low murmur of voices curled around them, punctuated by the scrape of chair legs and the delicate chime of silver spoons stirring tea. A child laughed somewhere near the counter, swiftly hushed by a nursemaid. In a far corner, two elderly ladies examined their plates with the gravity of diplomats deciding the fate of nations.
Arthur accepted the menu but gave it only a cursory glance. His attention, was fixed on the woman beside him. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Abigail examined the tea selection with a slight furrow between her brows—a mark of consideration rather than indecision.
