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When I arrive for brunch, I’m greeted at the door by a man in his forties wearing a black apron over formal black and white clothes. “Good morning, Miss Daniels. I’m Morris. I take care of the cooking and upkeep of the house. Oliver tells me you’re a reporter.”
“Yes. It’s nice to meet you. How long have you worked here?”
“Since I was a young man.” He leads me into a formal dining room with a long table and chairs for seven. Two settings are placed, and the scents of bread, bacon, eggs, and other lovely things fill the air. “Unsure of what you might like, I made a variety of options. I hope you’re not vegan.” He sounds generally worried.
“No. I eat everything.”
Oliver steps in through an archway at the far end of the room.
“Wonderful. Enjoy the meal.” Morris grins and leaves through the same entryway Oliver used.
“How was your evening in town?” There’s a hesitation in his voice. He holds the chair at the head of the table out for me.
“Isn’t that your chair?”
“No.”
Once I sit, he lifts the cloche from a plate of eggs Benedict and a silver gravy boat with hollandaise sauce. He extends his hand for my plate.
My stomach growls, and I hand him my dish. “Thank you.”
It’s graceful the way he serves and hands me the sauce. “You’re hungry. I thought you might have gone to Mable’s to gather information about me.”
I have no idea why my cheeks heat over his correct assumption. “I only had coffee and conversation.”
He takes some vegetables, fruit, and nuts. “Then I’m even more surprised you still came.”
“The ladies were not very forthcoming. They only said you were a good man and a monster. They also suggested I ask about Wentworth Pettigrew.” I take a bite of the eggs and close my eyes as the rich flavors of the sauce coat my tongue. “That’s the best hollandaise I’ve ever tasted.”
“Morris will be pleased to hear it.” He eats a grape.
“Are you a vegetarian?”
“No.” His eyes are so captivating I can’t look away. “It’s kind of them to think me a good man. Did you speak with any others?”
Shaking myself out of the trance his good looks have caused, I take a scoop of the fruit and cut myself a piece of the warm brie. Every bit is divine. “Most didn’t want to talk about you. One went on about vampires and demons. I couldn’t get anything to write a story about. Is there a story, Mr. Becket?”
“Oliver.” He eats an almond, then picks up the carafe of coffee and pours some into my cup.
“Thank you, Oliver.” His name feels sensual on my tongue. The coffee is almost as good as Mable’s.
“There are a great many stories about this place. My own goes back twenty-five years. My brothers came here around the same time.”
“And Wentworth Pettigrew?”
His chest rises and falls, and he looks from his plate of nuts and berries to me. “His story goes back much further. Tell me something about you, Britta.”
I lean back. No one ever asks about me. They don’t always want to tell me their stories, but they never care about mine. “What would you like to know?”
“Where were you born?”
“Near Princeton, New Jersey. I lived there until I went to school in Boston.” Bad memories from college always surface before the good.
“University was unpleasant for you?” His voice lowers as if he cares whether I enjoyed my college experience.
“Not all of it. I don’t really like to talk about myself,” I admit.
