Now Playing on Outworld 5730

by R. T. W. Lipkin

  Chapter 3

  A bloody lady’s maid, Trevelton thought as he strode down the long hallway, carefully ignoring the portraits that were hung on the moiré-covered walls. Impostors, all of them.

  He laughed aloud at that thought, unable to contain himself, Lord Trevelton, maybe the biggest impostor of them all.

  But who was that enticing woman in Lady Patience Barrington’s bedroom? Not that it mattered, since he was in this majestic for only one reason, and he couldn’t let anyone or anything—or any attraction, he added to his mental checklist—distract him or get in his way.

  Yet he wondered why the lithe, chestnut-haired beauty was playing such a downstairs role when she clearly belonged upstairs. And definitely not in Lady Patience Barrington’s bedroom. But in his bedroom.

  Perhaps he could have a chat with that sly schemer Jewel Allman and have the maid reassigned to another role before the rest of the players showed up. That way he could at least amuse himself by taunting her at meals.

  But he shouldn’t be thinking about Jewel Allman or having the lady’s maid reassigned to a better part. No matter how difficult it might be to stop that parade of thoughts and images.

  He trotted down the grand staircase, his long, elegant fingers lightly brushing against the carved railing. Jewel’s really gone all out, he thought as he took in the scene, the huge foyer at the bottom of the staircase, the gessoed walls, the rich blue carpets.

  You’re not in Northumberland anymore, he told himself. Reminded himself. He was Rafe Blackstone, Marquess of Trevelton now. From somewhere in Scotland, he gathered. Well, at least that was in the north, which he knew and loved. He hadn’t attended any of the orientation sessions, so he wasn’t quite sure where the hell this Hollyhock Manor was supposed to be, but perhaps he’d find out eventually.

  Not that it made a damn bit of difference. It didn’t. Only one thing mattered.

  He turned the corner to go into the living room. Heard the mix of murmuring voices and rustling fabrics resonating off the crystal and wood and silks. Marveled at the impressive, convincingly real candlelight.

  She’d fallen right into his arms. I could’ve told her right then.

  What would he have told her? That revenge was more important than love? Or that he’d give it all up just to find out what it was he saw in her iridescent green eyes? To find out what was hidden there. To listen to her deepest longings and to tell her his plans and dreams. To make new plans. With her. To . . .

  “Trevelton!” said an overly jolly voice. “Decided to consort with the masses, I see. Jolly generous of you.”

  Rafe smiled at the overweight man who seemed quite at home in his Regency costume, as though he wore it all the time.

  Perhaps he had done, in preparation for the majestic. People had been known to put Homeric efforts into their preparations—secluding themselves for months, studying the period, getting an accent down right, taking walking, riding, elocution, etiquette, posture, and history lessons by the bucketful.

  Unlike Trevelton, who’d just thrown himself into it. His valet, Etterly, who’d done at least two Regency-period majestics before, would make sure he looked right in the clothes, would help him out with any necessary details, would gently correct his errors, and would tie his cravat for him.

  Lady Patience’s lady’s maid could untie it. Trevelton stared at the blue and white striped fabric covering a nearby chair.

  “Back to earth, Trevelton,” the overweight man, Baron North, said.

  “Not Earth,” Trevelton said, and both men laughed. “Say, North, where can I get one of those?” Trevelton nodded his head at the glass the baron was holding just as a gangly footman arrived with a tray of wineglasses filled with a dark red wine. Trevelton took a glass and drank the wine down in a single gulp, put the empty glass back on the tray, and took another.

  The footman holding the tray stood there, waiting to see if this arrogant fellow would repeat the process, but instead Trevelton sipped slowly at the second glass, so the footman moved on through the increasingly crowded living room.

  “Awful stuff,” Trevelton, taking another sip, said to North.

  “Dreadful,” North agreed, finishing the dregs in his own glass. “But necessary.”

  “Completely,” Trevelton said in agreement.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Lady Patience. Baron North stared hard at his glass, cautiously ignoring Lady Patience’s well-presented bosoms.

  “Lady Patience Barrington?” Trevelton said. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “A bit late, wouldn’t you say?” she said, hoisting her glass to him in a sarcastic toast.

  “Please forgive me,” Trevelton said, “but I did stop by your chamber just now.”

  “A bit early for that, wouldn’t you say?” Lady Patience said.

  “It can’t really be too early for that. Ever,” Trevelton said, giving Lady Patience Barrington his most penetratingly intimate glance.

  Chapter 4

  The flirting had started early. Or perhaps all majestics were like this. Trevelton didn’t know, since this was his first—and most certainly his last. Although he was looking forward to being able to ride horseback through the countryside, something he was unable to do as often as he wanted to in his actual life. That and brandish his sword. Or his pistol. Or a pitchfork or a dull kitchen knife, if it came to that.

  “Lady Patience!” A slight, slim, dark-haired woman in a white gown trimmed with yellow ribbons looped her arm through Lady Patience’s.

  “Vernie!” Lady Patience said. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten here already.”

  “Oh, yesterday. Or was that the day before? I’m so fast to forget,” Vernie Dalston said. “So so so fast. My best quality!”

  “Indeed,” Lady Patience said, looking down onto her friend, who was at least half a foot shorter than she was.

  “And who are these fine gentlemen?” Vernie said.

  Lady Patience glared at Vernie. Jewel Allman probably would’ve slaughtered her for the breach of etiquette, but Jewel wasn’t having dinner upstairs tonight.

  “Oh, silly me,” Vernie said, realizing her error. Someone of no rank at all had to wait for the higher-ranked person to approach her. Even she knew that.

  “Lord Trevelton,” Rafe said, wishing he were still in Lady Patience’s bedchamber, finding out everything he could about Lady Patience’s lady’s maid. She was more interesting to him than anyone in this stuffy living room. Or perhaps anyone at all.

  “Vernie Dalston,” Vernie said.

  Baron North introduced himself to Vernie. The two exchanged promising smiles.

  “Shall we go in to eat?” said an imperious voice from the back of the room. The Duchess of Bedford. She and her unseen duke were the owners of Hollyhock Manor, which, if Trevelton had attended any of the orientation sessions, he would’ve known. Instead, he just guessed, like he was guessing at just about everything. After dinner he’d have to have Etterly tell him who was who . . . and why.

  Especially the who he’d met in Lady Patience’s bedchamber. Most especially. Where was she from? What was she doing playing the role of a lady’s maid? Why was her image haunting him after such a brief encounter?

  But of course he wouldn’t ask Etterly about that last thing.

  Lady Patience took her place beside Trevelton, and he escorted her in to dinner.

  The large dining room was lit by just enough candles that the food could be seen but the flaws of the diners could not.

  The guests sat at one end of the endless table, since most of the expected players wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. The other end of the table was so far from where they were seated that it was almost in another county. Trevelton dearly wished he could be there.

  The innumerable courses of food that Rafe never would’ve eaten, or wanted to eat, at home started then.

  He was seated between Baron North and Vernie Dalston, and wished he could trade seats so the two of them could attend to their ongoing conversation without
his having to keep up subtle repositioning maneuvers so the pair could talk and talk and talk and flirt.

  “It was just simply hellacious getting here,” said Vernie. She put her fork on her plate and moved it around, but ate nothing.

  “I had a very bumpy carriage ride meself,” said North, and Vernie gave him a quizzical look, closed her eyes, exhaled, opened her eyes again, then smiled and finally laughed.

  “Of course,” she said. “That’s exactly what I meant.” She shook out her head of dark curls. “Of course that’s what I meant.” She laughed at herself again.

  Across the table, Lady Patience was ingratiating herself to the duchess, a stunningly beautiful auburn-haired woman. The duke had not appeared on this or any other scene so far and was possibly not at Hollyhock yet.

  A footman cleared the plates and brought out something even more distasteful-looking than the previous course. This was maybe a petrified egg with an adjacent sliver of festering tree bark. Thoroughly sickening.

  Trevelton didn’t even try, as Vernie did, to make it look like he was eating this rot. He’d starve first, and just might, he thought.

  “Cook’s still getting the hang of it,” North said. “I’m sure dinner tomorrow will be much improved.”

  “It’d better be or we’ll all die out here in the hinterlands,” Trevelton said. He itched to throw down his linen napkin on the plate of disgusting something in front of him, get up, and go for a walk around the grounds, which he hadn’t yet seen.

  “He’ll be here tomorrow,” Trevelton overheard the duchess saying to Lady Patience, who was listening to the duchess but looking at Trevelton. He couldn’t believe Lady Patience was actually eating the food in front of her, but she was. As was the duchess. Maybe they’d gotten something different. Something better. Something edible.

  “Up for a game after dinner?” North said.

  “Afraid not, North,” Trevelton said. “Haven’t slept in a day and I’m up early tomorrow.”

  “Oh yes,” Vernie said, smiling, laughing her lighthearted laugh.

  Some people are here to play, Trevelton thought as a footman removed another untouched plate from the table. But Rafe Blackstone, Marquess of Trevelton, had far more serious things in mind.

  Chapter 5

  “God help me,” Cook said. “No one said there wouldn’t be electro here.”

  “Unh, unh, unh,” said Jewel Allman from her place at the head of the servants’ table, the place where Mr. Calvert, the butler, would sit after tonight. But he wasn’t due to arrive until tomorrow, and Jewel was taking this one last opportunity to work with the staff, many of them seemingly untrainable.

  They’d be replaced forthwith if that turned out to be true. Sent back home—at their own expense—or over to another majestic, something they’d be better suited for. That scullery maid, for example, was destined for the thirty-fifth-century bordellos, where she’d fit in very very nicely.

  Jewel knew exactly the part she’d assign her to, and with the hefty pay increase and very appealing fringe benefits, the future pro would be quite happy. Would probably stay for a repeat performance, as many of the girls did, feathering their nests.

  “I thought we didn’t officially start until tomorrow,” Cook said. She wiped her hands on her apron, then put them on her slim hips.

  “You are here now,” Jewel said. “The time for getting this settled was last week or last month, when you were hired.”

  “No one said a word about this,” Cook said. “At all.”

  “Everyone knows there was no electro back then,” said the scullery maid who’d be across the outworld by tomorrow afternoon, decked out in the thirty-fifth century’s finest transparent full-body coverings with her more important features glowing through the fabric.

  “I certainly didn’t know,” said Cook. She looked like she was about to cry. “I’ve never served such a dreadful meal. There’s no way to regulate the heat.”

  “Certainly there is,” said Jewel. “Do you think people back then ate only raw food?”

  “I’ll never get the hang of this,” Cook said. She’d hadn’t worked a Regency-era kitchen before. All her other jobs had been in post-fortieth-century settings. In civilization.

  “Then you’ll be replaced,” Jewel said. “Immediately. I’ll get—”

  “No, no. No. I’ll be all right. I just need another day,” Cook said. What she needed was the job itself. All the other majestics currently running already had cooks, and she couldn’t afford the return fare. It’d take years to repay. Anyway, she had no desire to go home.

  “Breakfast had better be improved,” Jewel said.

  “Yes,” Cook said, defeated. “It will be.”

  There must be some way to get electro into this godforsaken hellhole. Cook looked over at the baseboards and into the corner near the pantry. If only someone had told her. If only. And being in a basement all the time. So dark. Dank. If only she’d asked. The useless windows looking out onto the dirt.

  This place, this Hollyhock Manor, made the twenty-seventh century look good, plague or no plague. They had electro, at least. Not that she would’ve gone there. Startling that people did, really, yet the twenty-seventh-century plague years were inexplicably a popular majestic destination. There was one going on right now, right on this very outworld, although a hemisphere away from Hollyhock.

  “They’re not eating nothing,” said a footman who’d just returned with a tray of uneaten food. “Excepting the duchess. She seems happy as a lark.”

  “God help me,” Cook said.

  “And that Patience lady,” the footman, Johnny, said. “She’s chomping away at it.”

  “Lady Patience,” Jewel said, correcting Johnny for the thousandth time. She couldn’t have that many parts to replace—she’d go mad. Really, this was the most troublesome majestic she’d ever put on, and it had just started. God help her.

  Jewel picked up her fork and put it down again. The dinner was not just hideous and unsavory, it was inedible. And all the best cooks were already employed. In fact, the cook currently complaining two feet away from her was the best cook, which Jewel knew from personal experience.

  The most astounding meal she’d eaten in the last decade had been prepared by the very Stephanie Greco who was obviously girding herself for a few more rounds of God help me. The pastries at that banquet had been exquisite, and Jewel knew that no one baked better bread or made a more savory meat pie.

  Jewel sighed. She’d have someone run electro into the kitchen tonight. It wasn’t as though everything had to be accurate. And the players upstairs who fancied themselves lords and ladies would never know the kitchen wasn’t authentic, if they even knew there wasn’t yet electro in Regency England. And because they’d never be down here in this dungeon of a basement.

  A nice touch would be to chain someone up down here, Jewel thought. In the back, in that soundproofed room in the far corner. The one with the stone walls and no windows.

  Majestic participants always got a charge out of shackling someone, and there was inevitably at least one person, if not several, who would adore being chained to a cold, rough stone wall and maybe whipped a few times. Guilty of some invented crime, naturally. Naked, of course. Or nearly so. Forced to do . . . well, Jewel would think of something.

  But not until a few weeks had passed. When the boredom had settled in and the participants started yearning for the conveniences, entertainments, and occasionally even the occupations, arguments, and intractable problems they’d left behind in order to play out their fantasies in the kind of perfect immersive atmosphere that Jewel Allman was famous for providing.

  Not Lady Patience, though. Not Pamela Hyland herself, the queen of majestics. This was the eighth one that Jewel had done with her, and it seemed that Pamela had an insatiable appetite for pretending to be someone else, somewhere else, somewhen else. Her own luxuriously opulent life on the elite Outworld 75—most people would instantly sell their beloved family into slavery for the chance to
live there for even a couple of weeks—was insufficient to satisfy the woman.

  Pamela had confided in Jewel that she was hoping to finally find a suitable mate, and Regency England seemed the ideal place for such a search. All those balls and manners and things, Pamela’d said. So when Trevelton—the delicious Ephraim Croft—had bought his way in, Jewel was quite hopeful. Quite very extremely hopeful.

  And wouldn’t it be fun to see that dismissive, haughty man’s naked body chained up in the cellar room? Right now, though, Jewel had the electro to arrange for Cook. Majestics might thrive on gossip and excitement, but they ran on food.

  Chapter 6

  One of the, as it turned out, many things about Regency England that Violet Aldrich hadn’t considered when she’d taken this lady’s maid role—when she’d had to take this lady’s maid role—was that it was dreadfully dark outside late at night. And she hadn’t brought a candle or lantern with her to light her way.

  Back in Los Angeles, there was no night, not really. Something was always illuminating the darkness. Although sometimes, as in the case of the late dead liar Booker Holm, making it even darker.

  How had she been so careless and married him? Charm, she supposed. She was a sucker for charm, and Booker had had plenty of it the day they’d met. The week they’d met.

  Eons had passed while Violet had gotten Lady Patience out of her pale blue dress with its even paler blue overlay, her gossamer underpinnings, and her pinned-up hair and into her delicate white nightgown, her redone-five-times-yet-still-inadequate braid, and her large-enough-for-an-orgy carved mahogany bed.

  “Close the drapes . . . What did you say your name was?” Lady Patience lay grandly back on enough pillows to support the heads of a dozen ordinary people.

  “Violet, my lady,” said Violet, her hand on the thick golden tie fastening the drapes to the bedpost.

  “Oh yes. Lettie,” Lady Patience said, not even bothering to look in Violet’s direction. “Lettie, Lettie, Lettie. Now I’ll remember it. Tomorrow morning’s clothes are prepared?” She yawned and stretched like she was playing to the fourth balcony.