Page 43 of Misadventures with a Duke

But right now won’t be one of them.

I vow it as Bastien and I get to the sidewalk on 75th. Drue cuts a quick turn to the left, already starting to weave between parked cars. By the time Logan and his posse regroup enough to shout up the street behind us, she’s dashed between a couple of luxury sedans and guided us beneath a low awning emblazoned with one word.

Fourteen.

The face of the liveried doorman beneath it seems to say If you have to ask, you can’t come in.

We don’t ask.

The stodgy gatekeeper isn’t happy.

“Pardon. Me!”

Drue pivots like an elegant pop star, one eyebrow arched with disdain. “All right, if you insist. You’re excused.”

Super Stodge isn’t amused. “Sunday clients are by appointment only.” He rakes us all with a judging sweep, appearing nauseated once he reaches Bastien’s shirt. Clearly his Broadway Hits mix tape doesn’t contain anything without an overture. “Do you have an appointment?”

Drue’s other brow jogs up. She weaves her head, winding up to tear this guy apart. But no way can we afford that mess right now. I have to think fast.

“How do you do?” I reach for the man’s hand. “My name is Raegan. What’s yours?”

“Errr…Arthur.”

“Beautiful name. So Arthur—can I just call you Art?—the thing is, we had to keep our appointment off the books. Way, way off.” I lean in, wrapping him tighter around my theoretical hook. “Just wouldn’t be good to have the fans swooping in on the duke while he’s trying to get inspiration for the gala.”

The man’s eyes grow as big as Caesar salad plates at Carmine’s. “The gala? As in…”

“What other gala is there?”

Plenty, if he really thinks before answering that—there are three giant society things happening between now and the extravaganza at the Metropolitan Museum of Art—but I’m not ripping any seams out of an opportunity that’s going so well. Arthur’s now fawning, fussing, and welcoming us all the way inside the shop—and just in time. A handful of seconds after the etched glass door closes behind us, Logan leads the charge up the sidewalk outside, toward Madison—and hopefully beyond.

“Madame is upstairs taking some tea and her medications,” Arthur explains as we step into the shop’s main room. “I’ll just dash and wake—errr, inform her—that you’re here.”

After his careful emphasis of the words, my mind fills in the blanks about the not-so-veiled code. I take it as a formidable slice of great karma. If the proprietor is getting as relaxed as Arthur implies, she won’t be so incensed when the duke and his team decide on a fast retreat from her showroom. But on our way through, I grab a business card from the counter and make a mental point to throw a few clients her way in gratitude for the temporary shelter. There are some cool pieces on these racks.

We slip outside on the Madison side of the shop, which stresses me about what to do next. Logan isn’t clueless. All too quickly, he’ll claw at the wool we just threw over his pretty brown eyes and double back. But which way will he look? Or will he split the manpower and go a multitude of directions?

I don’t have to voice any of those thoughts aloud. One look at Drue, and I already know we’re sharing brain cells about it. But she’s quicker about taking action on hers, thank God, already snagging Bastien and me by an elbow apiece. She keeps up the momentum, rushing us across the street and into the small crowd that’s bustling onto the M1 bus.

“My madness comes with a method,” she insists, even as Bastien looks wary about entering the thing. I have to admit, her voice strikes me as too eager and cheery. “Get off at 109th and then cut toward the park. Go past the Duke Ellington statue—say hi for me—on your way to the North Greene.”

“The north huh?” I retort. “What are you talking about? I don’t do woodsy and buggy unless there’s good hooch involved. You know this already.”

She also knows she’s telling us to ride all the way to Central Park’s northern border—and that means sections like the Loch, the Ravine, and the North Woods. In short, the woodsy and buggy parts.

“Not the north green,” she stresses. “The North G-R-E-E-N-E. It’s a hotel. Okay, technically a guest house.”

“Which you know about how and why?”

“Because of the picture I’ve been working on. We’re shooting a lot of complicated scenes out in that part of the park.” She smirks. “Turns out you’re not the only one allergic to nature, and our generators can’t spare enough juice for all the main cast trailers.”

“Seriously?” I counter. “Who all is in this movie?”

She shakes her head like a weary toddler mom. “Bigger discussion than we have minutes for. Anyhow, the studio’s bought out all six rooms of the Greene for at least the next ten days, but nobody’s in it right now because of the production halt due to the coming storm. The big names have escaped for downtown hotels if they don’t already have a place in the city. The rest of us have gone home.”

“Except for you.” I pull her close for a heartfelt hug. “You’re out here running around with your friend, under skies that are about to dump angel tears. And that friend is so damn grateful.”

“Ohhh, no. Not yet.” She steps away. “Be grateful once you get to the Greene. A night or two of lying low there, and then Dick Gorgeous will be yanked away to more interesting leads. Actual break-ins. Grand theft. Dead bodies.” After fishing a pen out of her purse, she turns my hand over and scribbles on it. “Here’s the addy. Just walk in there, put on your Anna Wintour face, and tell them you’re with the crew for Apples and Oranges.”