Devonshire Scream (18 page)

“Drayton,” Haley sang
out, “did you remember to bring in your Russian samovar?” She was standing in the middle of the tea shop, looking around expectantly.

Drayton leaned around the counter. “If you glance to your left, my dear Haley, you'll find that it's sitting right there on the pecan sideboard.”

Haley looked over her shoulder and saw the elaborate silver-and-brass samovar. “Oh. I guess you did remember. Then how about the bouquets?”

“They're in my office,” Theodosia said. “Gerbera daisies and red carnations. You can start bringing them out if you want.”

It was five o'clock in the afternoon and preparations for their Romanov Tea were finally winding down. Haley had been rattling around in the kitchen for the last two hours, cooking beef Stroganoff in creamy mushroom sauce, as well as blinis and borscht. Theodosia had busied herself with decorating the tables, laying out blush-colored linens, and then setting out their Cobalt Net china by Lomonosov.

“You know I borrowed several sets of glass teacups,” Drayton told her.

“Show me,” Theodosia said.

Drayton promptly produced a small glass, and then popped it into a gilded metal holder with a lace design. “We have three dozen of these. Perfect for our Russian tea, yes?”

“And so authentic,” Theodosia said. “Our guests are going to eat this up.”

“Along with the food,” Haley said. “Which really is the whole point.” She looked around at the tables. “So what else?”

“Well, the flowers,” Theodosia said. “And we borrowed some of those little Russian nesting dolls to liven things up.”

“No bronze busts of Lenin or Trotsky?” Haley asked. “No Socialist posters on the walls?”

“Nooo,” Drayton said, picking up a bright-pink box from the counter. “This is more of a czarist tea. Which is why I had the Toulouse Bakery make us a batch of cake and candy Fabergé eggs.”

Haley reached out anxiously. “Ooh, let me see.”

Drayton handed over the box. “Be careful, now. Those little cakes are fragile.”

Haley flipped open the lid and gingerly removed one of the eggs. There were an even dozen pink, blue, and cream-colored eggs inside the box, all decorated with swaths of colored frosting and dots of candy that approximated pearls and gemstones. “These are absolutely precious. So I should just set a couple on each table?”

“That should do it,” Drayton said. “Only let's display them in those enameled Khokhloma bowls we found at Ladybug Gifts down the street. It'll show them off better.”

“Will we be serving Russian caravan tea?” Theodosia asked. “Or have you come up with something else?”

“I'm going to brew the Russian caravan tea in traditional teapots,” Drayton said. “And then we'll serve a black tea spiced with cinnamon and cloves out of the samovar.” He smiled.
“One to appeal to tea purists and one for those with more of a sweet tooth.”

“Which is just about everybody,” Haley said.

Theodosia squinted at Drayton. “Since we're calling this a Romanov Tea, how much are you going to say about the Fabergé egg that's going to be at the Heritage Society?” She'd been turning this question over and over in her mind. She'd nursed the desire to stage a Romanov Tea long before she'd even heard about the Fabergé egg. But now . . . now it seemed like the two were intertwined. So they almost had to mention it.

“When I introduce the menu,” Drayton said, “I'll also talk about the Fabergé egg.”

“But don't dwell on it too much,” Theodosia said. “Because . . . well, you know why.”

•   •   •

Timothy Neville was
one of their first guests to arrive. Looking like a country squire in his dark-green Donegal-pattern tweed jacket, he shook hands with Drayton and said, somewhat nervously, “I've put on extra protection for Saturday night.”

“I'm sure we'll be fine,” Drayton responded.

Theodosia quickly inserted herself into their conversation. “Has the Fabergé egg arrived yet?”

“It showed up in an armored truck about an hour ago,” Timothy told them.

“Then maybe that extra protection should start right now,” Theodosia said.

Timothy focused on her. “Ah, but the egg's not at the Heritage Society.”

“Where is it?” Theodosia asked.

“Locked tightly in a vault,” Timothy said. “A bank vault.”

“Smart idea,” Drayton said.

“Too bad it can't stay there,” Theodosia said as Drayton led Timothy to his table.

Much to Theodosia's surprise, Lionel Rinicker showed up next. And not with Grace Dawson, but with a man she'd never met before.

“I didn't realize you had tickets to our Romanov Tea,” Theodosia said to Rinicker.

“I don't,” Rinicker said. “My friend Robin Westlake bought tickets and invited me along. Have you met Robin, Theodosia?”

“No, I have not.” She shook hands with a middle-aged, balding man with a slightly florid face. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Westlake.”

“We're really looking forward to this tea,” Westlake said with great enthusiasm.

“Glad to hear it. And your seats are right this way,” Theodosia told the two men as she led them to their table. “I think you'll enjoy our food tonight. But I have to warn you, our menu is substantially more robust than just a cream tea or luncheon tea.”

“That's fine with me,” Rinicker said. “I'm a bachelor who rarely cooks, so this is going to be a real treat.”

“How did your segment turn out yesterday at Channel 8?” Theodosia asked as the men settled into their seats.

“Fairly well,” Rinicker said. “But I barely had time to mumble five words and . . . whoosh . . . the time was gone.”

“I guess that's the nature of sound bites these days,” Theodosia told him. “When I worked in marketing, we mostly produced thirty-second TV commercials; now you're lucky if you get to do a ten-second spot.”

That was the last free moment Theodosia had, because their guests began pouring in like crazy. Many were friends from neighboring shops down the block, some were Historic District neighbors and tea regulars, and a few guests were
brand-new to them. Theodosia and Drayton did quick meet and greets as they continued to usher guests to their tables.

When Professor Warren Shepley came in, Theodosia recognized him immediately. He was the guest with the quizzical look, baggy brown jacket with elbow patches, and a leather-bound book tucked under one arm.

“Professor Shepley?” she said.

He gave a slightly startled look. “Yes?” He was fairly short, with a shock of frizzy white hair and horn-rimmed glasses. His complexion was ruddy, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors, and his eyes were a watery blue.

“I'm Theodosia Browning. Welcome to my tea shop.”

A smile touched Shepley's face. “You're the lady who invited me.”

“Because I thought you might enjoy it.” Theodosia knew he'd wonder about his invitation. “And because I thought our Romanov Tea dovetailed with your area of study.” She gripped his hand, studying him. “And because my friend Lois, at the Antiquarian Bookshop next door, said you've been a good customer.”

“Oh,” Shepley said, his puzzlement starting to dissolve. “Okay, then.”

Of course, Delaine showed up, clinging to the arm of Renaldo Gilles, her paramour du jour.

“Theodosia,” Delaine exclaimed. “We're so thrilled to be here. I've been singing your praises sky-high to Renaldo.” She squeezed his arm and fixed him with a starry-eyed gaze. “Haven't I, pumpkin love?”

“Yes, you have, sweet potato,” Gilles murmured in return.

“I told him that you serve some of the finest food in Charleston,” Delaine simpered. “Of course, that's not counting the Peninsula Grill, Beaumont's, Carolina's, and a few other notables.”

“Of course,” Theodosia said, hustling them along. “And I have a reserved table for the two of you right over here.”

“Oh, we get our own special table,” Delaine exclaimed. “How romantic. With flowers and candles and everything.”

“Looks like we've got a full house,” Theodosia said to Drayton as she surveyed the tea room.

Drayton consulted a clipboard. “I can't believe we packed forty-two warm bodies in here. I think it's a new record.”

“Forty. We still have two empty seats.”

“Oh dear, I wonder who hasn't . . . ?”

The door banged open loudly as Sabrina and Luke Andros came charging in.

“Looks like we won't be stuck with two empty places after all,” Theodosia murmured.

“We're so sorry,” Sabrina babbled to them. “We apologize for being late, but we had a last-minute meeting with a client.”

“A prospective yacht buyer?” Theodosia asked as she took Sabrina's coat.

Luke nodded. “That's exactly right. It's a funny thing about wealthy people . . . as soon as they make up their mind they want something, everybody else has to instantly drop what they're doing and tend to their needs.”

“I know the feeling,” Theodosia said.

•   •   •

Once Theodosia and
Drayton had filled everyone's teacups, once the air hummed with conversation and the candles flickered enticingly in the darkened tea shop, Drayton stepped to the center of the room.

“Welcome,” he said, “to our Romanov Tea. Tonight we plan to turn back the clock to the romantic era of the Russian czars and dazzle you with a sampling of excellent food and tea.”

Theodosia stepped forward to join Drayton. “I'm sure you've noticed that you've all been served tea in small glasses set in elegant metal holders. This is the traditional way tea
was served back in that era.” She paused as there were murmurs of approval. “We've also created a traditional Russian feast for you tonight. Our appetizers consist of hot beet borscht and blinis with smoked salmon. We have a chilled potato-and-herring salad for you, and your entrée will be a rich beef Stroganoff. For dessert we'll be serving Russian tea cake cookies as well as a tarte tatin, which is a caramelized apple tart.”

“For those of you who chose our Russian caravan tea,” Drayton said, “I urge you to also try our spiced tea served from a traditional Russian samovar. I think you'll definitely find it to your liking. For, as an old Russian saying goes, ‘Where there is tea, there is paradise.'”

As Drayton's melodic words hung in the flickering light, with the strains of balalaika music playing over the sound system, Haley suddenly appeared carrying an enormous silver tray. Drayton whisked it from her hands, and then he and Theodosia circled the tables to serve their first course.

“This is traditional borscht,” Drayton told the guests. “Served with a cool dollop of sour cream to compliment the soup's heat and zest.”

From that point on, Theodosia and Drayton were frantically busy. Even as they accepted high praise from their guests, they removed dishes, served the blinis and salad course, and then took those dishes away and moved on to the entrée.

“This is a madhouse,” Drayton said when he met up with Theodosia at the counter. “We can barely keep up.”

“We should have asked Miss Dimple to come in and help,” Theodosia said.

“Let's at least get the old girl in here tomorrow night for our Full Monty Tea.”

“You'll get no argument from me,” Theodosia said. “And who was the genius who decided to hold three event teas in one week?”

Drayton pointed a finger at her. “You.”

“Well, you have my permission to smack me upside the head if I ever suggest it again, will you? Because this is downright crazy.”

“Hold that thought,” Drayton said. “While we hurry up and serve dessert.”

Their desserts, Russian tea cakes and tarte tatins, were met with a chorus of praise and compliments. And as forks clinked against china plates, as more steaming tea was sipped and enjoyed, as conversations became ebullient, Drayton stepped in to say a final word.

“In the year 1638,” Drayton said, “a Russian ambassador purchased one hundred and thirty pounds of fine black tea from a Mongol khan. He delivered that tea to Czar Aleksey Mikhaylovich, where it became an instant hit in the royal Russian court. In fact, the czar was so taken by this excellent beverage that he sent the khan one hundred sable skins as a token of his gratitude.” There were murmurs of approval and a spattering of applause. Drayton continued. “In keeping with the spirit of our Romanov Tea, I want to remind you all about the precious Fabergé egg that will be on display at the Heritage Society this coming weekend.”

As Drayton continued speaking, Theodosia began to worry. She worried that Drayton might be hyping the Fabergé egg too much. She worried about Sabrina and Luke Andros, who were sitting right there, listening with rapt attention. Professor Shepley, whom she still wanted to question, also seemed completely agog. But mostly she worried about a repeat performance, of thieves storming the Great Hall and smashing the cases and getting their hands on that precious jeweled egg.