«The who? Oh, wait a minute. You mean Byrd. Ha! And I thought you hadn't noticed. Jealous, Alex?»
«Of precisely what, my dear? The man is a hopeless poseur.»
Maggie pushed slightly against him. Once, twice. «You're jealous. Jealous, jealous. Because he's gorgeous. In an asexual sort of way. I imagine, though, that he's the kind that would appeal to both sexes. Bernie's already asked me if I had an idea as to which way he swings.»
«I beg your pardon?» Saint Just asked, cocking one eyebrow. «And I say that with the fervent hope that you and I can both pretend that neither of us knows to precisely what Bernice referred.»
«Don't worry. She only said that because he isn't paying her any attention. Not that he's shying away from Boffo girl. Want to bet where she spends the night?»
«I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that one at all. Why this fascination, though, may I ask?»
Maggie shrugged. «I don't know. Sir Rudy said there's no television because Arnaud made the workmen take down the antennas or dishes or whatever because of the outside shots, and I don't feel like reading. I can't work because somebody talked me into leaving my laptop in New York. So, this is by way of entertainment.»
«You're easily amused. No television machines? Ah, now we really are being thrown back in time, aren't we? I know, let's have a real Regency evening, shall we? Tabby can play the piano, and Sterling can sing for us.»
«Let me see, how can I say this? Okay—no . We are not having a sing-along. How about cards? We could play cards.»
«Or another game,» Saint Just said, watching as Joanne shot visual daggers at Byrd Stockwell's back. Odd, that. Was she afraid he'd ask to be put on this thing called an expense account? «Let's the two of us figure out why our keeper of the expenses is so put out with the nephew, shall we? The looks she's been sending in his direction all evening are enough to curl the man's toes in his tasseled shoes. Have they met before tonight, do you suppose?»
Maggie watched as Joanne, with one last searing look at Byrd, who was busily romancing a very willing Nikki, grabbed up her notebook and all but flounced out of the room. «Maybe. I don't know. How long has everyone else been here? No, wait, that doesn't matter. Sir Rudy introduced Byrd to everyone. He wouldn't have done that if Byrd had been here before tonight. And Sir Rudy doesn't seem to be very happy he's here now, if you ask me. Anyway, Joanne's boring. What else have you got?»
«Not a whacking great deal, I'm afraid. I rather enjoy Sir Rudy. Now, he has previously met Joanne, in London, I believe, which is how we all got to be here rather than in California. He offered his estate at no charge, and Joanne jumped at it. The woman does seem to enjoy pinching pennies for her employer.»
«So that's how they got to be shooting the film here? I didn't know that. And Sir Rudy offered this place for free? Why?»
«That one, my dear, I can answer. He wishes to rub elbows with American actresses. Daresay, more than his elbows. He's quite put out that Nikki isn't living up to expectations. I believe the man was expecting, indeed, looking quite forward to, nightly orgies.»
«Disgusting,» Maggie said, sucking on her inhaler.
«I quite agree. Put it away. That contraption is no more than a bad habit now, you know.»
«And this bothers you how?»
«I'm not quite sure,» Saint Just admitted. «Perhaps I am perplexed over how a woman of such strong will in other matters could be so weak when it comes to this nicotine addiction of yours.»
«Ha. A lot you know. I don't even have a cartridge in this thing.»
Saint Just struck a questioning pose, one hand to his mouth. «And yet you're holding it, using it? Why?»
«I don't know, okay. You've got your cane, you've got your quizzing glass. I've got my unloaded nicotine inhaler. We've all got crutches, Alex. You saw Joanne with her stopwatch. Keeps it around her neck, is always touching it, fingering it. Bernie's always got a glass, even now that she's not hitting the hard stuff anymore. Tabby fusses with her scarves—she'd feel naked without her scarves.»
«Hmmm. We are a pitiful bunch, aren't we? In fact, Sterling seems the most normal of us all, which you will admit is rather mind-blowing.»
«Sterling is pure of heart,» Maggie told him. «He's real. He doesn't need anything artificial, doesn't need to hide behind anything or use it to deflect others. He has no personal agenda. Sterling's—what is he doing over there?»
Saint Just looked across the room to where Sterling stood with Perry Posko, the two of them sitting down in unison, then standing up, then sitting down again.
«I think that's self-explanatory. Sterling's teaching the man how to sit. As we are all aware, you can tell a gentleman by the way he splits his coattails as he takes his seat. Look over there, Maggie, at our lamentable Viscount as he poses with our villain. Evan, for all his other sins, still appears pristine. But our Viscount? His coattails are sadly crushed and pleated, the result of the man's propensity to both slouch and to simply drop himself into his seat. The man has a lot in common with the good left-tenant , except that Wendell, bless him, also has a brain.»
«But you're going to work with Troy, right? Because I agree with you. That guy is no more the Viscount Saint Just than Sir Rudy of the fishing reel is Prince Charles.»
«I've made a beginning, yes, while you and the scribe had your heads together. And I've discovered something. The man is a monkey, but one with what he calls a photographic memory. Which, alas, explains how he's come to learn a string of rather unfortunate cant he found listed somewhere on the Internet. And which he repeats at the drop of a hat.»
«I don't understand.»
«I know, neither did I. His lordship—I'm to address him as his lordship whenever he's in costume, you understand—took it into his head to do his own research for the character, and that research began and ended with this list. So far, I've been called a knotty-pated flapdragon, a rough-hewn moldwarp, and—oh, yes, my personal favorite—an unmuzzled, guts-griping rampallion. He reported happily that he's memorized three entire pages of this sort of drivel, and he's quite proud of himself.»
«But… but those are Shakespearean insults, aren't they? I'm pretty sure I've seen that list online. Sort of mix-and-match insults, Will Shakespeare style. He's in the wrong freaking era.»
«Yes, but reciting the words, according to his lordship, has helped to refine his accent. Although I have already prevailed upon him to refrain from dropping his Hs like some Cockney.»
«Really?»
«No. Not really. Not even close. For the most part, our dear Viscount sounds like a chimney sweep. We begin our lessons in earnest tomorrow, at which time I fear I may just have to choke the man, although not with one of these wretched neck cloths. They're ready-fashioned, you understand, and fasten with Velcro. I'm nearly too ashamed to wear mine. Oh, dear,» he added, lifting his quizzing glass to his eye as he noticed another bit of intrigue taking place near the drinks table. «Excuse me, my dear. I believe I'm needed.»
Maggie followed after him as he approached Dennis Lloyd and Evan Pottinger, who were at that moment glaring at each other. Dennis, clad as Clarence, the Saint Just valet, in rather badly fitted burgundy-and-gold livery, stood in a most belligerent posture, one definitely unbecoming to a valet.
Evan, looking dangerous in unremitting black, his expression equally dark, seemed faintly amused even while poised to strike. Very much the villainous Lord Hervey.
There were moments when Saint Just could almost believe the magic of moviemaking had opened the pages of Maggie's book and let everyone out for their moment upon the stage. Then again, there was Troy Barlow. The fellow certainly helped Saint Just remember that reality and fiction were miles and miles apart.
«Gentlemen?» Saint Just said, stepping between the two men. «Clarence? Lord Hervey? Is something amiss?»
«Step aside, fool,» Evan bit out imperiously—really rather good, clearly a man immersed in his role, which is what being a method actor, Saint Just had learned from Arna
ud, was all about. «I demand this man be sacked. I ordered him to pour me a drink, and he refused. I'll not suffer insubordination from a mere servant.»
«Why, you miserable excuse for a thespian,» Dennis countered, and Saint Just put his palm against the older man's chest, holding him back from the fray. «Who do you think you are? Servant? I'm not your bloody servant. That's it! I'm getting out of this ridiculous costume, and you can all just go hang if you think I'm going to play this stupid game. Americans! You're all insane!»
Saint Just watched the Englishman storm off, then cocked an eyebrow as Tabby quickly excused herself from Bernie and trotted after him into the hall. Then he turned his attention back to Evan. «Taking this playacting business just a step too far, perhaps, my lord Hervey? I do believe you've insulted the man.»
«And I do believe you and I have nothing to say to each other. I'm not your student ,» Evan said, looking down his nose at Saint Just… which meant he had to raise his chin a good three inches. Still, what the man didn't possess in height, he most certainly made up for in his show of villainous arrogance. «Now, out of my way. I'm through with you.»
Saint Just stepped back two paces and bowed. «I look forward to your untimely end, your lordship,» he said cheerfully. «Something to do with a fall from the rooftop and landing on the spines of an iron gate, I believe? Messy business.»
«A lot you know. That's being rewritten,» Evan said, and now it was time for Saint Just to put out his hand and hold Maggie in place.
«Whatdoyoumeanrewritten?» Maggie asked, all in one breath. «That's the big ending. Saint Just and Hervey dueling on the ramparts, Hervey lunging, Saint Just neatly sidestepping, Hervey going down. Do you know how long it took to choreograph that scene in my head? Sam? Sam!? Where is he? I'll kill him!» And she was off, in search of the screenwriter.
«Writers,» Evan said, taking out his snuff box. «A curse and an abomination.» He tapped the lid of the box twice, then frowned when it didn't open, dropping out of character to say, «Cheap junk.»
«Not necessarily. Sir Rudy was kind enough to supply snuff boxes from a not-at-all-shabby collection I discovered displayed in his study,» Saint Just said, taking the box from the man. «Observe, if you will, and learn.»
He then balanced the box on the back of his bent left wrist and tapped the box twice, upon which the lid opened. He withdrew a lace-edged white linen square from his waistcoat (his own fine Irish linen, in point of fact), then neatly pantomimed, complete with flourish, taking a small pinch, lifting it to his nostril, and sniffing delicately. «I'd now sneeze, but I am not a playactor, so I'll refrain. Here you go, old fellow—catch.»
Evan swiped the box out of midair, said something decidedly nasty, and retreated to the mantelpiece, where he stood and scowled in fine villain fashion.
Well, that was fun, Saint Just decided. For the most part. What else could he do?
Pouring himself a glass of wine, he debated about approaching Byrd Stockwell and Nikki, but decided against it as the young woman pulled a small pink barbell from beneath the couch and began doing curls while begging Byrd to feel her biceps.
There was something about a woman in ankle-length sprigged muslin lifting weights that destroyed whatever remained of Saint Just's illusion that he was immersed in a true Regency Era evening At Home.
As for Byrd Stockwell? That gentleman didn't interest Saint Just at all, although he might have wished to confer with the man's tailor, had he the time.
Left alone, Saint Just lifted his quizzing glass to his eye and surveyed the room and the remainder of its occupants, his gaze alighting on Maggie.
She and Sam were seated at a table in one of the corners, Maggie furiously paging through the blue pages of the script. He'd leave her to it.
Shifting his gaze yet again, he saw that Sterling and Perry were now practicing bows, which left nothing much for Saint Just to do save approach Troy Barlow, attempting to not see that the idiot was tossing shelled peanuts into the air and trying to catch them in his mouth.
«My lord?» Saint Just said, even if it made his jaws ache. «Are you perhaps ready for another lesson?»
Troy leapt to his feet as a peanut hit the floor and bounced away. «Tiptop! Ready-o! I'll be a gleeking jack-a-nape if I'm not!»
«A-hum. Yes,» Saint Just said, squelching a sigh. «Do you think, marvelous as all of that is—and your pronunci-ation, your accent, are improving veritably by leaps and bounds—that we can dispense with the self-taught for the nonce?»
«Huh?»
«Cool the slang,» Saint Just said, taking the man's arm and leading him over to the fireplace now that Evan had abandoned that post in order to take up another in front of the pier glass, watching himself as he struck various poses.
«Still not good enough?» Troy asked, clearly crestfallen.
«No, sadly, not quite. You are not, good sir, a scamp from the bowels of Piccadilly. You are Alexandre Blake, the Viscount Saint Just. The epitome of good taste, fashion, and breeding. Um… and perhaps you might not wish to wipe your greasy fingers on your pantaloons? Arnaud, I am convinced, would not approve.»
«Wouldn't want to upset the cue ball.» Troy looked down at his fingers, grinned, and lifted his hand to wipe the grease and salt on his neck cloth. «Better?»
«Not measurably, no,» Saint Just said, aware that it would take more than a few days to turn this sow's ear into anything even vaguely resembling a silk purse. «Perhaps it would be a better use of our time if we were to go over the script, concentrating on the scenes in which you appear?»
«Oh, yeah, right. I know just the one. Arnaud wouldn't swing for more than two sessions with Ignatz, and he's only a stuntman, not a fence man.»
Saint Just attempted to decipher this. «A fencing master?»
«Yeah. That. I've got this scene with Evan—Lord Hervey—where we fence each other. It's the very last scene.»
«I remember,» Saint Just said, stroking his chin as he envisioned Troy Barlow on the Medwine Manor roof, nimbly dancing about on the parapets. No, the vision wouldn't form. What did form in his mind were recent memories of Troy: his nearly coming to grief as he attempted to lean a casual elbow on the mantelpiece, missing five out of six peanuts he tried to toss into his mouth.
Then there was Evan's remark that the scene had been changed. Saint Just wanted to know how it had been changed. After all, what Maggie knew, he also should know. «I would say we cannot begin too soon. There are a pair of quite good foils in Sir Rudy's study. Shall we adjourn?»
«You really can do it? Fence? Oh, boy, did Arnaud ever get a bargain with you. Free for nothing, right? Hey, you know what?» Troy said as he followed after Saint Just, who had the sinking sensation that he was off on a fruitless exercise.
«I imagine I don't. Tell me.»
«Well, I was just thinking. If you're really good, you could double for me in that scene, just the shots from the back, when I'm supposed to be winning. You'd need a blond wig, but we've got one. You know, in case I have a bad hair day? We could just jam that down on your head, and from a distance? It could work. Because Evan's been practicing with a coach, and I just know he's going to try to make me look like a jerk.»
«A man with low expectations,» Saint Just said, pausing as Maggie called his name. «I would think he'd be aspiring to run you through, at the very least.»
«Oh, he can't do that. They're not real, you understand. The swords.»
«Epees,» Saint Just said, his sympathies suddenly very much with Maggie, who had been wise enough to foretell the fiasco that was becoming more and more apparent when it came to translating the brilliance of Saint Just to the small screen. «And what do you mean, they're not real?»
«They're fake. You know. I mean, like I'd let Evan come at me with a real sword? As if! So, you know, I think maybe we should ask Marylou where the fake ones are and use those. In case you're really good at it. Besides, I just remembered. The sword I use is inside my cane. You have to see it. Looks like a cane, feel
s like a cane, but there's really a sword inside.»
«Sword stick,» Saint Just said, but his heart wasn't in the correction. «I happen to have one of my own, as a matter of fact,» he said, inclining his head toward his cane, which was, at that moment, resting against the arm of a chair.
«No. You've got one? A real one. Let me see,» Troy said, already heading for the cane.
Nearly succeeding in remaining graceful, Saint Just beat him to it, taking up the cane and giving the handle a neat twist before extracting the thin blade with a theatrical flourish meant mostly to keep the sharp thing above his head, out of Troy's avid reach.
«You can't do that, Alex,» Maggie said from behind him, her tone amused. «They'll just send for another actor. And next time, he may be a redhead. Who burps.»
Saint Just lowered the weapon. «May I be of some assistance, Maggie, or have you only toddled over here to watch as I reach the end of my own rope and dangle here by my fingernails? Unless I'm wrong, and you and Sam are getting along swimmingly?»
«You don't want to know. That way, when they discover the body, no one will blame me.»
«That bad, hmmm?» Saint Just said, then looked at Troy. «You're still here? Go fetch your toy sword cane, why don't you.»
«And have you use a real one? Do I look nuts to you?»
Maggie coughed into her hand, warning Saint Just to be silent, which was probably prudent of her, for he was beginning to feel himself fraying about the usually sharp edges of his composure.
«I know. I'll get Evan's, and we'll practice with props at both ends,» Troy said, grinning madly, as if suddenly struck by inspiration. «And then I'll cut you to ribbons, thou reeky, sheep-biting pumpion!» Then he clomped off in his Hessians, looking much like he was on his way through a stable yard and had just stepped in something.
«Oh, good grief,» Saint Just said, lowering the stick. «The man is beyond useless.»
«And you've become the center of attention, in case you haven't noticed,» Maggie pointed out just as Evan Pottinger and Byrd Stockwell approached, both of them eyeing the sword stick.
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