«Some of us wonder, Sterling. Others of us do not,» Alex said as Maggie giggled. «I'm so gratified that you're amused, my dear. While you've been meditating, as you call it, Sterling here has been running amok in the aisles. I think we, in the role of parents, will soon be considering putting him in leading strings.»
«Oh, let him alone,» Maggie said, reaching over to pat Sterling's hand. «You're enjoying yourself?»
Sterling nodded. «I've located all of the emergency exits, and I know that my seat cushion serves as a flotation device, and that I should put on my air mask when it drops down, then place one on my child.»
«You don't have a child, Sterling,» Maggie pointed out.
«True. I'll concede that. But I am prepared.» He held out a small bag. «Pretzel?»
«Thanks, but no. I think we land soon, if I adjusted my watch correctly. Now, Bernie told me Heathrow Airport is a real zoo…»
«With—»
«Figuratively speaking,» Maggie added quickly, before Sterling, always so literal, would ask if they had monkeys and elephants. «So we stick together, find our way to the luggage carousel, look for the limo the production company arranged for us, and get the heck out of there as fast as we can. Then it's a straight shot south to Surrey and Medwine Manor, or so I'm told. Any questions?»
Sterling raised his hand. «Won't we have time to see London at all?»
«Yes, Maggie, it's unseemly to just rush about and not at least take a drive through London. I very much want to see Carleton House again. Such a magnificent grand staircase, and the Prince Regent entertained lavishly.»
«Um, Alex? They tore down Carleton House sometime in the eighteen-twenties. They tore down a lot of places. We're not landing in Regency London. I'm sorry, but except for palaces and Parliament and all that stuff, you won't know this London a whole lot more than you knew Manhattan when you first got there. They've got McDonald's here now.»
Alex was quiet for some moments, then said, «I think we should like to see it, in any case. And, much as you may naysay me, I most especially wish to visit a particular establishment a few steps off Threadneedle Street. As your research is always so very much on the mark and the family has been serving at the pleasure of his majesty since the sixteen hundreds, I am going to assume the shop is still there in one form or another.»
«What kind of shop?»
«One devoted to the best in umbrellas and walking sticks. Very specialized sticks, if you take my meaning. You know I was forced to leave my cane in New York, what with the metal detectors at the airport.»
Maggie sat back in her seat, blew out her breath, recited mentally: Saint Just is Saint Just . «A sword cane. You want another sword cane. Is that really necessary?»
«You'd have me go naked in my homeland?»
«Oh, cut me a break. Whoa!» she said, grabbing the seat arms in a death grip as her stomach lurched. «Damn it, I hate when they do that.»
«Do what, my dear? And may I say, your usually healthy complexion has gone rather white.»
«Do what? You mean you didn't feel that? The pilot's putting on the air brakes—I think that's what they're called—because we're making our descent. I know, in my head, that he's probably dropping us down from a billion miles per hour to a million miles per hour, but it feels like we're stopping. Thirty-five thousand feet up, and the guy's slamming on the brakes like he's trying to avoid a deer in the road. I hate that.»
«Ah, the often too-fertile imagination of the writer. You're your own worst enemy, my dear.» Alex patted her hand. «Close your eyes, Maggie. Meditate. Think good thoughts. We'll be on the ground soon, and shortly after that we'll be at Medwine Manor, where you'll be feted and fawned over as the great talent you are.»
Maggie opened one eye, and glared at him. «Don't patronize me, Alex. I'm not going to get hysterical and start screaming or something.»
«Really? I cannot tell you how gratified I am to hear that. In that case, my dear—lean across me and see the great metropolis of London spread out at our feet. Glorious, isn't it? Like something out of a picture book.»
«Sadist.» Maggie groaned, and slapped her hands over her eyes.
Chapter four
One hand on the golden knob of a sword cane that in style and quality of workmanship greatly resembled the one his fictional self had purchased at the same small shop, Saint Just was a very happy, extremely content man as the limousine rolled out of London and, eventually, into Surrey.
It was raining, nothing out of the ordinary for England, and was rather gray and damp, also not unusual, but nothing could put a damper on Saint Just's enthusiasm. Or on Sterling's.
«Oh, look, Saint Just,» Sterling said now, his head half out of the window he insisted on keeping lowered, the better to take in the scenery. «That marvelous mansion, up there, at the top of the hill. The very picture of your family's estate in Sussex, isn't it?»
Saint Just leaned past Maggie. «Seventeenth century. The pediment is familiar, indeed. The same symmetrical flanking wings, most likely added in the eighteenth century. The unique bell tower. Good God, Sterling, I think you're right. That's Blake House. But here, in Surrey?»
In between them, Maggie slid down on her spine on the leather seat. «Is there a sign anywhere, Sterling? Something with the name of the place on it?»
«I don't—oh, there's an old fingerpost.» Sterling leaned even farther out the window. «It's… I can barely make it out… it's—got it! Peakely Manor. Why?»
Maggie sort of sucked in her cheeks. «Oh, okay. Thanks, Sterling.»
«Maggie?» Saint Just asked quietly. «Is there something you want to tell me?»
«Absolutely not. Nope. Nothing I want to say.» Then she sighed audibly and sat up straight once more. «Okay. I've never been to England until now, right? But you had to have a house, a bunch of houses. Other characters had to have houses. So… so I bought a few books. I think, I'm pretty sure, your Blake House is based on Peakely Manor. I just moved it to Sussex.»
Saint Just was actually finding it difficult to breathe. On one level, he understood what Maggie was telling him. Yet, on another, a more visceral level, he'd just been or-phanedj disenfranchised. Erased. Eliminated. «But… but it's my home. My family home.»
Maggie shook her head. «Oh, cripes. Alex,» she said, putting a hand on his arm as she spoke to him, quietly. «You're fake, remember? Fictional. You've never really been here. You're more real in New York than you've ever been here. I mean, you exist in New York. People see you, talk to you. You're evolving, just as you keep saying, and growing, and becoming more Alex Blakely, less Alexandre Blake, less the Viscount Saint Just. But I agree, this has to be a shock, seeing my imagination up against the real thing. I… I'm sorry.»
She was wrong. Maggie was wrong. He was Saint Just. He would always be Saint Just. His address had changed, that was all. This wasn't his England. His England had long ago disappeared, along with Brummell; and Byron, Shelley, and Keats; Prinney himself… even Carleton House.
The past was the past, and he was very much of the moment. To go back would be to disappear into the pages of Maggie's books. He and Sterling both, living again in the Regency Era, but never again living now . He could not, would not, allow that to happen.
There was no Blake House to return to, no mansion in Grosvenor Square, no hunting box in Scotland.
In a way, this was probably a good thing. He was becoming less fictional by the day. After all, he couldn't go back… not if there was nowhere to return to .
Saint Just took a breath, let it out slowly. «My goodness, Maggie, how you're looking at me. As if I might have an attack of the vapors or fall into a sad decline. I assure you, that is far from the truth. As you say, as I've said, Sterling and I are evolving. Blake House was drafty in the winter, in any case.»
Maggie was quiet for some moments before she spoke again. «You're pissed, right?»
«I am not—upset. I fully understand what you did, why you did it. However, even without home or f
ortune, I remain Saint Just. That, my dear, will never change.»
She saluted. «Yes, sir . Jeez, what a grouch. Sterling? Why aren't you being a grouch?»
Sterling smiled sheepishly. «I don't want to go back,» he said, then blushed. «Sorry, Saint Just, I hate to be disloyal, and all of that, but I really don't. I like Henry, and my motorized scooter, and Socks, and the television machine, and—»
«Yes, Sterling, we get the point,» Saint Just said as the limousine slowed and the driver made the very tight turn between stone pillars. He had turned onto a gravel drive that led downhill rather than up, then finally leveled as the leather seat. «Is there a sign anywhere, Sterling? Something with the name of the place on it?»
Sterling's, mumbling something about driving around to the back door to unload the luggage, then took a moment to inspect the foyer.
«I knocked, but no one came, and when I tried the door it was open,» Maggie told him, wiping raindrops from her face. «Oh, this is big, isn't it?»
Saint Just took inventory of the large foyer, at least forty feet square. An intricate black-and-white marble tile floor shone beneath a soaring ceiling painted to look like a summer sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. A wonderfully broad stone staircase rose slowly from the open hallway, and a gallery stretched around three of the four age-darkened white marble walls that had been carved to include columns and angels and goddesses, or some such romantic nonsense.
That last wall, along the stairs, was dominated by an immense mural stretching from the ground floor up to the top of the first floor, a creation that depicted a goodly number of dancing, frolicking ladies and gentlemen being attended by rosy-cheeked children.
«I can only sigh in relief to see that as you were thumbing through books and building my various estates, you didn't pattern any of them after the interior of this pile. The decor is rather… flamboyant.»
«Yeah, well, I think it's pretty neat,» Maggie said, her head back as she turned in a slow circle, looking at their surroundings. «No wonder they decided to film here. Wow.»
«The place is passable, I agree,» Saint Just said, amazed to find he was feeling more and more comfortable by the moment. Then again, after all, this was his milieu, real or imaginary. «Ah, and I may be wrong, but I do believe our host approaches now. He's not rigged out well enough to be a servant.»
They all watched as a fairly squat man dressed in hunting clothes that had obviously seen their share of hunts came lumbering down the stairs, one hand on the stone railing, his gaze directed at his boots, as if he'd taken a tumble once and planned never to do that again.
Not until he had safely navigated the stairs and stood on the parquet floor did the man raise his head and smile at Maggie. (Saint Just and Sterling could very well have been invisible.)
«Hullo, you beautiful bit,» he said, waggling his bushy white eyebrows. «Welcome to Medwine Manor. I'm Sir Rudy Medwine, and you're gorgeous. Another American actress, I hope. We've already got one, but she's a little starchy. Don't think she likes me. She should. I'm very rich. Mine's the Medwine Marauder, best fishing reel in the world. Knighted for it, I was. Now I'm living the high life. Used to live down the road from this place, in a pokey two-up-two-down, and now all this is mine. You want to know me. Really, you do.»
Maggie opened her mouth, may have said, «Uh…» before Saint Just deftly stepped in front of her and bowed to Sir Rudy. «Sir Rudy, how delighted and, indeed, honored we all are to be numbered among your guests. Please allow me to present to you Miss Maggie Kelly, who, writing as Cleo Dooley, penned the brilliant book that will be filmed here on your marvelous estate. I, for my sins, am Alex Blakely, Miss Kelly's personal assistant, and the gentleman just now waving to you is Sterling Balder, her spiritual advisor. We are all quite happy to make your acquaintance.»
Sir Rudy pointed his finger at Saint Just. «You… you're English. Upper-crust English, at that. Are you all English? I wanted Americans. I distinctly told them I wanted Americans.»
«For what?» Maggie grumbled.
This was certainly going well.
«Miss Kelly is very much the American woman, Sir Rudy,» Saint Just told him, taking the man's arm and lead-ing him back to the staircase. «Sterling and I are English, yes, although it has been years since we've been on this side of the pond.»
«Centuries, even,» Maggie groused, following the two men while Sterling brought up the rear.
The small party climbed the stairs slowly, giving Sir Rudy ample time to catch his breath, but he was huffing and puffing by the time they reached the first floor.
«I think everybody's in there,» the man said, pointing to closed double doors that probably led to the main saloon. «They're not a happy bunch. The rain, you see. It's keeping them indoors. And that scaffolding has to come down before next week, for the filming. Dicey, that. I ordered a joint and pudding for dinner, hoping to cheer them up, but they haven't eaten yet, so be careful none of them tries to take a bite out of you.»
«Charming,» Saint Just said, turning to hold out his arm, indicating that Maggie should proceed, enter the room ahead of him. «Sir Rudy is rather unusual, isn't he?» he asked her quietly as she stopped beside him.
«I like him,» Sterling said, standing on tiptoe, the better to see once Sir Rudy had crossed the wide hallway and pushed open the doors. «No airs and graces about that man. None at all.»
«And I'm a toplofty prude, I imagine?» Saint Just asked him.
He should have known Maggie would answer: «If the high-topped Hessian boot fits, Chauncy,» before giving him a wink and heading into the chandelier-lit expanse of the main saloon.
Left with little else to do, Saint Just followed, to be met by an odd assortment of people, some of whom lounged on green-on-green-striped satin couches, some of whom propped up the enormous marble fireplace mantel, and one who was stretched out on the floor, a long leg behind her ear, most of her backside showing, the rest of her fairly magnificent body covered in a bright-blue leotard.
«Ladies and gentlemen,» Sir Rudy announced in a booming voice. «Here's more of you, come to join the party.»
One of the gentlemen at the fireplace pushed himself away from the mantel and strode towards them, his rather pasty flesh sheened with perspiration, his totally bald head glistening under the light from the chandeliers.
«Must be one of the actors. He looks like a pint-size version of Telly Savalas, except he's more rubbery. I wonder if he's going to offer us a lollipop,» Maggie said out of the corner of her mouth.
«I beg your pardon?»
«An actor, Alex. Played a cop on an old television series. Kojak . My dad was crazy about him. It isn't important.»
«Indeed,» Saint Just said, feeling more and more comfortable in this large room, more and more in his element. And because of the way he felt, he stepped forward, extended his hand to the bald man, gave a slight inclination of his head. «Alex Blakely… and you are… ?»
«Peppin,» the man said in an oddly thin, high voice. An almost childish voice. «Arnaud Peppin, reluctant director of this grand epic, if we can ever start filming. The leads are here, so who are you? Although you already look and sound more English than that idiot over there. He wants an accent coach, like that's going to happen on our budget.»
«Mr. Peppin, of course. How… charming,» Saint Just said with another slight nod and a smile—not having the faintest idea what the man was talking about. Clearly he was going to have to correct that lapse, and quickly. He then repeated the introductions he had begun with Sir Rudy.
By now, all eyes were on the newcomers, except for those of the woman who was still on the carpet, although now she was lying on her side, her head propped in one hand, her other hand sliding caressingly down the side of her breast and onto her hip as she smiled only at Saint Just.
Nothing all that out of the ordinary there. He had been very carefully created to have that effect on women. It was a gift. Occasionally a curse.
Arnaud seemed remarkably unimpr
essed to learn that the author and her entourage had arrived. Saint Just knew this because the man turned his back to him and said, «Relax, people. Joanne will handle this. It's only the writer.»
Saint Just immediately and quite automatically put his right arm straight out to his side, and Maggie's advancing body immediately and very predictably slammed against it.
«Only the writer? Only the writer? Hey, cue ball, let me tell you a—»
«Ms. Dooley! Oh, how thrilled I am to meet you! I heard you were coming. I'm Sam Undercuffler, screenwriter.»
Saint Just lifted his quizzing glass to his eye and inspected Undercuffler as he scurried over to them. The young man was depressingly brown. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown slacks; brown tweed jacket with brown suede patches at the elbows. The barrel of a cheap brown pipe protruded from his jacket pocket. His brown shoes, lace shoes, were badly in need of reheeling and a good polish.
«Oh, so good to meet you, Ms. Dooley—Cleo. May I call you Cleo? I adapted your book for the screen. Well, you probably figured that out, since I said I'm the screenwriter. Oh, would you listen to me? I'm just so excited to finally meet the creator of the brilliant Saint Just Mysteries. The brilliant creator of the brilliant series, I should say. I'm playing with an idea of my own, for my own television se-ries, you understand, but I know you wouldn't want to hear about that. Would you? Please, if there's anything you want, anything you need…»
Saint Just stood amused as Maggie tried to get her hand back from the screenwriter, who was still pumping it with all the enthusiasm of a dairy maid only three churn strokes away from butter. «Two writers. Together. Members of the same literary fraternity. Why, he even looks so much the writer, doesn't he? Isn't this wonderful, Cleo? I imagine you two will have so much to talk about.»
Now, sometimes Maggie said bite me , out loud, so everyone could hear her. But sometimes she could say bite me without actually uttering a word. Her facial expression was more than enough. This was one of those times.
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