Still, when she did speak, it was to say hello to Sam Undercuffler, smile politely, ask him to please call her Maggie, and agree that it was wonderful that two writers could be here, each with their own hand in the creation, as it were.
Poor girl. That had to have been painful.
«Well, come on, come on, there's lots more to meet,» Sir Rudy said from behind them, actually giving Sterling a little push so that he stumbled farther into the room.
«I'll take care of this, Sir Rudy. Thanks anyway,» Arnaud said, then clapped his hands. «Okay, people, listen up. It's introduction time. Raise your hand when I call out your name, and let's get this over with. I've got things to do.»
«And yet again… charming,» Saint Just said quietly.
«Yeah,» Maggie agreed. «I feel so warm and fuzzy… so wanted.»
«Okay… right. Here we go,» Arnaud continued, either slightly deaf or just not caring what anyone else might say; Saint Just was fairly certain it was the latter. «You met the writer. Sam, back up, you're blocking my view. Okay, over there. The tall guy who looks like an English valet? He's our English valet, Clarence. Real name, Dennis Lloyd. Raise your hand, Dennis.»
The man bowed, and Sterling waved to him.
«Next up, Sterling Balder.»
«Hullo?» Sterling said, his arm still raised in midwave.
«I don't think he means you, Sterling,» Maggie said, squeezing his hand.
«That's me! Over here on the couch! Perry Posko, otherwise known as Sterling Balder.»
Saint Just looked at the actor, then at his own Sterling Balder. They were very nearly a match, from their likewise thinning hair to their spectacles, to their pudgy waistlines, to the open, trusting grins on their faces.
«Good casting,» Maggie said. «Clarence and Sterling both. That's encouraging, right?»
«I imagine so,» Saint Just said, leaning closer to her. «I do have a few reservations about the gentleman in front of the mantel. Is he wearing makeup?»
«Tanning booth. Bet you,» Maggie said, then shut up when Arnuad pointed to a rather tall, definitely dark gentleman who seemed to be studiously ignoring everyone.
«Evan? Over here, Evan. That's Evan Pottinger, our Lord Hervey. The villain, but you know that.»
Saint Just bowed yet again. «Delighted, I assure you.»
«Completely and totally unimpressed, I assure you, » Pottinger drawled, then turned his back on everyone.
«Method actor,» Arnaud said. «He's getting into the role. Everybody thinks they're De Niro. Evan wants to wear the costumes and everything. Wants everyone in costume. Pain in my ass, that's what he really is.»
«How very droll,» Saint Just drawled as well, amused, and certainly not ready to reveal that he had no idea what a method actor was. «I believe I should like to see that.»
«Well, you won't. Period costumes cost a fortune, and we're only renting them from the company that supplied Sense and Sensibility . I'm not going to have anyone dribbling gravy all over them.»
«Ah, my good sir, a true gentleman would never dribble.»
«Too bad, gorgeous. Because I could lick it all up for you,» the leotard-clad beauty said from the floor, so that Saint Just had no recourse but to look at her, watch as, catlike, she uncurled herself and stood up. «Hi. I'm Nikki Campion, and I'm the love interest. Just call me Nikki.»
«That would be my honor, Nikki,» Saint Just said, fairly certain that if Miss Campion were to hold out her hand and he was to bow over it, kiss it, his life expectancy could most probably be measured in the minutes it would take for Maggie to get him alone and kill him.
So wasn't he lucky that Miss Campion didn't hold out her hand? She merely pressed herself up against him, went up on tiptoe, and kissed him on his left ear. «If you screw as good as you look, see me later,» she breathed into that ear, then turned and walked away in a manner that left no doubt that she felt every male in the room watched her every step.
Sir Rudy made a sort of whimpering sound in his throat, turned on his heels, and quit the room.
Saint Just looked at Maggie—not that he, the perfect hero, was actually afraid of the woman—and was surprised to see her looking at him in some sympathy.
«I'd be pretty disgusted by having to watch that, and hear it—the woman obviously doesn't know how to whisper—except it wasn't your fault. And because we're down to the last man, that one very tanned and blond man has to be playing Saint Just. You want to call that nice Miss Browning with the tinkling-bells laugh and ask her to book us on the next plane home? I can't believe you want to stick around to watch surfer dude over there in action as you.»
Saint Just would have blanched if he was the sort who blanched. He turned his attention to the man awkwardly lounging at the mantel just as the fellow made some sort of flourishing motion and then went to rest one elbow on the mantel, missed, and nearly came to grief before righting himself.
«I have to work with this,» Arnaud said, shaking his head, as obviously he'd also seen the actor's clumsiness. «Troy? Give us a wave, why don't you, and try not to kill yourself when you do it. People, meet Troy Barlow, our Viscount Saint Just. Our blond beachboy turned dark-haired, sophisticated sleuth. Does Hollywood know casting or what?»
Sterling nearly danced in place. «I know him! That's Brick. Brick Lord. He's in one of my favorite soap operas. He's Dyson's identical twin brother, and Brittany thinks Dyson's the father of her unborn child, but it's really Brick who—oh, my!»
«I play both parts, yes,» Troy said, advancing only as far as the couches, where, as Saint Just manfully stifled a wince, he sat down with all the grace of a lobster navigating an escalator. «You thought Brick and Dyson were really twins? You hear that, Nikki? I'm a working actor. A craftsman. While you're humping transmission repairs. Now do you understand why my name comes first on the credits?»
Nikki looked at Arnaud, pouted. «You told me last night that you'd fix that, Arnie.»
«That'll teach you to screw short, bald men,» a female voice said, behind Saint Just. «Like he's in charge of credit placement? I am, sweetheart. And don't bother shaking that silicone at me because I don't think you're that hot.»
Saint Just stepped to one side to allow a slim woman as tall as Bernice Toland-James—as thin as Bernice, as redheaded as Bernice, presenting as powerful a presence as Bernice—to push past everyone, to pose directly beneath the main chandelier. «Joanne Pertuccelli here. In charge of production. Who the hell are you people?»
«Oh, no, not again. I'm getting bored,» Maggie said in her marvelously mulish way that so endeared her to Saint Just. «Is anyone else going to crawl out of the woodwork or are you it? Because this is the last time I want to hear, 'Oh, it's only the writer.'»
«You're Cleo Dooley? Name looks pretty decent above the title. Good use of Os.» Joanne frowned, fingering the large silver stopwatch that hung around her neck on a long, black, braided band. «You don't look like a writer.»
«Yeah. I get a lot of that one, too,» Maggie said as Sterling, a man who learned from experience, prudently stepped behind Saint Just. «Thanks heaps, Joanne. I take it you're also in charge of public relations? I mean, I was hoping for a welcome like that after a long flight and the rain and everything. Thanks so much. Really.»
«I think that's probably sufficient, Maggie,» Saint Just warned quietly, taking her arm and leading her across the wide expanse of faded Aubusson carpet, toward the drinks table, where Evan the Villain was already in residence, still studiously glowering and ignoring everyone.
«Touchy,» Joanne called after them. «Hey, nice ass, handsome.»
«Is she talking to—»
«No, Sterling, I believe not, so you can spare your blushes,» Saint Just said as Maggie, always put in a good mood by the so-innocent Sterling, grinned. «Besides, as gentlemen, we'll ignore the lady's lapse into crudity.»
A nervous giggle caught Saint Just's attention, and a moment later, a gum-chewing young lady with hair too blonde to be genuine pushed
herself out of a chair in the farthest corner of the room. «Hi, I'm Marylou Keppel. I heard the introductions, before, but Arnaud always forgets me, unless he needs something. I'm the gofer.»
«I… I beg your pardon?»
«You know. If somebody needs something? Gofer it, Marylou. Go-find it, Marylou. Go-get it, Marylou. Gofer. Oh, I stand in sometimes, I prompt. Tight budget on this one. But mostly? Mostly I'm a gofer.»
«How… how wonderful for you, I'm sure,» Saint Just said blankly. «Maggie? Isn't that wonderful for Miss Keppel?»
«You're dying here, aren't you, Alex?» Maggie asked, then laughed. «But, hey, you wanted to come.»
«Excuse me,» Joanne Pertuccelli said from behind Saint Just. «I still don't know who you two are. Who authorized you to be here?»
Maggie covered her mouth with her hand, pretended to cough as she said, «Time to turn on the charm, big boy.»
As if he had to be told.
«Ah, Miss Pertuccelli, a thousand pardons,» Saint Just said, bowing to the woman, taking her hand—a litte awkward, having to reach for the thing—and raising it to within an inch of his lips. «You see before you Miss Dooley's inspiration, immodest as that is to say. Her distant English relation. I am Alex Blakely, on whom the Viscount is patterned, and with me is my dear friend and compatriot, Sterling Balder. We… we travel everywhere with Miss Dooley.»
«Really?» Joanne said, obviously not impressed, which was, in fact, quite lowering to the perfect hero, the irresistible-to-women perfect hero. He consoled himself with the sure knowledge that her heart must be otherwise engaged, making all other men invisible to her. «Just so you know, you're not included in her expense account.
Arnaud? Hey—Arnie! This weather is costing us big money. What are you going to do about all this damn rain?»
Arnaud stayed where he was, his back to the woman. «What do you want me to do with it? Wave my hands at the sky and yell 'cut'?»
«I think I like him, even with his 'only the writer' crack,» Maggie said. «Marylou? Is showing me to the nearest bathroom outside your job description?»
«Heck, no, that's fine. This way. And there's piles of bedrooms. I know who's in each one, so we can sniff out three more for you guys, okay? The rooms are big, but the plumbing sucks.»
As Joanne, Marylou, and Maggie walked away, Perry Posko moved across the room so quickly, and slid to a halt so sharply, that he nearly left skid marks. «You're Sterling Balder? Really? Oh! Oh! And he's right—we even look alike! Why didn't I see that? Oh, this is great. This is terrific. Can I watch you? Can I follow you around? I mean, I want to be Sterling Balder. I want to eat, drink, breathe the character. I want to be you!»
«Well, um… well, you can't,» Sterling said, then looked at Saint Just. «Can he? I mean, I'm Sterling Balder. I've always been Sterling Balder. I don't want to be anybody else—why does he want to be me? Is that allowed?»
«Oh. Oh, no, no,» Perry said quickly. «Not identity theft or anything like that. Gosh, I wouldn't want you to think that. Nothing strange, nothing kooky. But this part is a real break for me. If the first movie goes over, I'm set for the next five, six years. There's already talk of a series, you know. It's not like I'm ever going to be anything but a character actor, not looking like this. Um… no offense. I just want to get it right, and I know you could help me. Will you help me?»
«Saint Just?»
«Go, Sterling. Enjoy yourself. Teach Perry here to be you. There cannot be too many good-hearted gentlemen in the world. You already possess your own fan club on the Internet. Perhaps Perry can bring that good heart of yours to an entire new audience.»
«Well,» Sterling said, blushing, shuffling his feet. «I suppose we could… we could talk.»
«There you go, Sterling. I'll be here, praying Sir Rudy keeps a tolerable cellar as I sample his wine. Oh, and while you two are talking? Perhaps you can toddle after Maggie and Miss Keppel, and find out which bedchambers have been alloted to us. I feel the need to change out of my dirt before the dinner gong goes. There's a good fellow.»
Perry pointed a finger at Saint Just. «Oh, you're good . Just the way you stand, just the way you said that—the accent, the way you almost threw away the line, yet at the same time it was so clear you expect to be obeyed. Troy should be watching you, taking notes.»
«Really,» Saint Just said, chancing a look at the man who would portray him, to see Troy Barlow chewing on a handful of nuts, his mouth open, before he wiped his salt-greasy hand on his trousers. This… this buffoon was going to play the Viscount Saint Just? «I do believe it's possible you're on to something there, Perry. Thank you.»
Chapter five
Maggie heard the knock on the door and let the drapery slide back into place, blocking out the depressing view from her bedchamber window. Ugly scaffolding and rain. Rain and more rain.
She crossed to the door and pulled it open, then turned and headed for one of the pair of wingback chairs on either side of the unfortunately cold fireplace. «Do you believe this, Alex?» she asked as she settled into the chair. «This place is like something out of a book. Only it's the before picture in a remodeling book. You don't want to see the plumbing. Oh—we're sharing a bathroom, all three of us, even though we've each got our own room. Marylou said this wing hasn't been touched since the forties. She said the nineteen-forties, but I'm betting on the eighteen-forties. And we have to make up our own beds, since all the maids went home early because of the rain. Do you know it's been raining for a week?»
«I appear to be learning quite a lot since entering this room. The state of your mood being uppermost, of course.»
«Sorry.» She stood up again, hugging herself, rubbing her hands against her upper arms. «I'm cold, Alex. Do you know how to make a fire?»
Alex eyed the wood piled inside the fireplace. «I most certainly do. You yank on the bellpull over there, tell whomever comes to serve you that you desire the fire lit, and voila .»
«Not funny. I already told you, everybody's gone home. Go look out that window, Alex. The road we drove in on? The creek, stream, whatever you want to call it, is nearly flooding it.»
«And that I do know, my dear. Before I could make good my escape from the main saloon, dear Arnaud emptied his budget of woes on me. The rain, the mud, the damp, the food, the plumbing, his filming schedule. Do you recall, Maggie, that nearly half our story takes place out-of-doors? I hadn't realized I was such a devotee of nature.»
Maggie, who had sunk to her knees in front of the fireplace and was staring at the wood, hoping for some spontaneous combustion, sat back on her heels and looked up at Alex. «You're too happy. Why are you so happy? Or doesn't it bother you, that only the writer baloney?»
«As I'm the creation, not the lowly writer, I believe I can contain my outrage, at least long enough to remind you that we measure ourselves by our own yardsticks, not by the opinions of others.» Alex reached past her, lifting the lid of a small brass box. «Ah, I could be wrong, but this little pile could be called kindling. And matches as well. Aren't we the lucky ones. If you'll excuse me?»
«Be my guest, knock yourself out.» Maggie stood up, backed up, watched as Alex stuck some small bits of wood beneath the logs, then struck a long match against the stone hearth. «On/y the writer . And opinions do matter, Alex. Do you know how sick I am of hearing that line?»
«I believe I do, yes. But do go on.»
«I will go on. The only reason that motley crew downstairs is even here is because I wrote the damn book.»
«Damning your own work?»
«Don't get cute. You know what I mean. Without writers? There'd be no books, no magazines, no movies, no television.»
«No commercials.»
«Yes! Even commercials. Do you think they write themselves? 'When shifting gears, think Boffo.' Oh, yeah, I've seen Miss Boobs in those commercials. Somebody had to write those words. Somebody with very little talent, but still.»
The flames small but growing, Alex stood up, brushed his han
ds together. «About Miss Boobs, as you so rudely referred to her. How can I put this? Are—»
«Are they real? Oh, yeah. Sure. And I'm William Shakespeare.»
«Oh. Pity. But do continue, my dear. I believe I interrupted you in midrant.»
«I'm not ranting. I was saying that writers are underappreciated.»
«Absolutely. I couldn't agree more.»
«And underpaid. Grossly underpaid.»
«Again, absolutely.»
«And we're going home tomorrow.»
«Absolutely not.»
«It's raining and miserable and—hey. You were agreeing with me here. What do you mean by 'Absolutely not'?»
Alex motioned for Maggie to seat herself once more, then sat down across from her. Smiled that to-die-for smile that affected its creator as much as she hoped it would affect her loyal readers, damn it.
«Arnaud—Mr. Peppin, that is, although actors and their ilk seem to be such informal creatures, so that we're all on a first-name basis. To continue—Arnaud and I had a mu-tually advantageous chat downstairs. He got to vent his spleen on matters of his general unhappiness, and I was most happily able to take some of the burden from his shoulders.»
Alex polished his quizzing glass against the sleeve of his sweater. «I'm amenable that way.»
Maggie knew his tricks. She'd invented his tricks. When Alex fiddled with his quizzing glass, he was either trying to deflect somebody's attention or he was just the slightest bit uncomfortable with whatever it was he had to say. Not that anyone else in the world would ever know that. «What… did you… do?»
«Volunteered my services, of course. Sterling's and mine both. And without thought of monetary remuneration, which seemed to please both Mr. Arnaud Peppin and Miss Pertuccelli all hollow. Ah-ah, don't pout. It's true. As of now, Sterling and I will be coaching our television-movie counterparts in, shall we say, the manly graces. Indeed, even Mr. Pottinger has come aboard, once Arnaud agreed to the extremely reasonable proposition that Mr. Barlow and Mr. Posko would feel more at home in their roles if they were to be allowed to accustom themselves to the proper wardrobe of two well-dressed Regency gentlemen.»
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