“Of course, Violet,” Saybrook said as he deftly moved her off the dance floor and onto the terrace.
Violet sat down on one of the wrought iron benches, and Saybrook went back inside to get her something to drink.
Violet watched the dancers as they moved across the floor, as they bowed and curtsied and swayed and swirled. She was almost dizzy. Probably from the dancing, from the corset, from the excitement of leaving tomorrow.
The yellow-eyed man she’d run away from was now doing to Lady Katherine precisely what he’d done to Violet, only Lady Katherine seemed to be enjoying it, or at least it looked that way from out on the terrace. He must be one of the Brixton players, Violet thought.
“Violet,” Saybrook said, startling her. Had she fallen asleep? Or into a trance?
“Lord Saybrook, thank you,” Violet said, taking the glass of lemonade from him. He’d also brought her a plate with delicate meringues on it, the very ones that Rosie had decorated so beautifully.
Lady Patience, holding her own glass of lemonade, came out onto the terrace just then, and Lord Saybrook excused himself.
Chapter 117
“You’re a very handsome woman,” Clive Idrest said to Lady Katherine. She was actually Vivienne York, who owned one of the most successful machinery businesses in this half of the galaxy. She could be useful at some point. A contact worth pursuing.
“Thank you, kind sir,” said Lady Katherine. She was loving the attention this tall, sinuous stranger was giving her. Far more satisfying than the enticing yet haughty indifference that Lord Trevelton regularly showed her. And this man was holding her. She leaned in closer.
“Thank you for honoring me with this dance,” Clive said. He had yet to spot Marguerite, yet she must be here. She was the duchess of something-or-other and this was supposed to be her manor.
“May I ask your name, kind sir?” Lady Katherine said.
“May I ask yours?”
“Lady Katherine Moore,” Lady Katherine said as she glimpsed Lord Trevelton in the ballroom’s doorway. Was that a jeweled pin on his cravat? The candlelight was glinting off something, but she couldn’t tell what.
Clive handily turned her around and held her tighter. Thalia Rivers was smiling at him from across the room, but he planned to be in bed with his wife tonight, not with Thalia Rivers, so-called Lady Katherine Moore, or any other woman.
Although perhaps he’d take Lady Katherine outside for a few minutes. Marguerite still hadn’t appeared and Clive needed to expel some of the anticipatory thrill, since tonight would require all his focus and concentration.
“Lord Hollingsworth,” Clive said. He moved closer to Lady Katherine. “Please call me Frederick. I hate all this ceremony.”
Lady Katherine laughed, and Clive decided that he would take her out past the terrace, out of the view of everyone. She seemed willing enough, not that that really mattered to him. And it had been a while since he’d been with such a tall, stately woman, a woman whose eyes he could look directly into without having to bend his neck too far.
“Frederick,” Lady Katherine said, smiling and pushing herself ever closer to him.
She forgot about Lord Trevelton, who was in the far corner of the ballroom having a conversation with Baron North, easily the most unenticing person at the entire majestic. Unlike the scintillating Lord Hollingsworth, whose topaz eyes seem to be inviting her to a place she’d never dared to imagine.
There was something so reassuring about being held by a man with such self-confidence, by a man who seemed truly interested in her. Unlike Trevelton, who seemed not only not interested in her, but not interested in anything at all. Whatever she’d seen in him dissipated into the twirling masses dancing around her and her wonderful dance partner.
And when Frederick pulled her close and licked the small hollow behind her left ear, Lady Katherine nearly swooned with the pleasure of it all—the beautiful Hollyhock Manor, done up like she’d not seen it the entire time she’d been there, the uplifting, rousing music from the live orchestra, the flashes of color from all the ball gowns as they moved and changed places around the room, and now this wonderful stranger who’d taken quite an interest in her.
“Shall we go out to the terrace for some fresh air?” Clive said to her. He’d developed the perfect mental image of what he and Vivienne York would be doing together, probably behind a hedge, although he would’ve enjoyed an audience and perhaps she would as well.
“Oh yes, Frederick,” Lady Katherine said through a sigh. Clive knew the sigh might not be for him. He himself had been sighing quite frequently since he’d gotten to 5730. The air just wasn’t enough to survive on.
He’d be relieved once this was all over and he and Marguerite and their child were away from 5730, from the drought-ravaged Outworld 75, and from ever having to attend another ridiculous majestic. Although Clive had rather enjoyed the twenty-seventh century and could easily attend another plague majestic. Maybe after their son had grown up a bit, and he could join him while Marguerite waited at home for her two men.
Clive put his arm around Lady Katherine’s waist and led her out to the west terrace. There were people sitting on the benches on the east terrace, and he wanted to make sure Lady Katherine didn’t get distracted or drawn into a conversation with a friend.
“Lord Trevelton,” Lady Katherine said as they passed by the pale, dark-haired man who was talking to the uncomfortable-seeming fat fellow.
But whoever Lord Trevelton was, he ignored Lady Katherine and seemed also to be ignoring the fat man who was talking to him.
Clive licked behind Lady Katherine’s ear again as they stepped out onto the terrace, and she pressed herself against his side, letting him know that whatever he wanted, it was his.
He knew that already. He’d always known it.
Chapter 118
Lord Saybrook threaded his way through the crowd, most of them people he didn’t know. Not that he knew anyone at Hollyhock all that well—he’d successfully avoided most of them the entire time he’d been here, instead occupying his time hunting, fishing, and riding—but many of the masked faces were totally unfamiliar to him.
The tall, lithe man dancing now with Lady Katherine, for example, although there was something familiar about him.
Wyatt hadn’t seen most of the Brixton crowd, even though he’d been over there for a dinner a few weeks earlier. And he thought how relieved Ephraim must be that Lady Katherine was flirting with someone else, since lately she’d developed a bad habit of latching on to Trev at every opportunity.
As he left the ballroom and walked out the front door of Hollyhock Manor, Wyatt nodded at Ephraim, who was trapped in a conversation with the dull Baron North.
You could still hear the music out front, and it made the night seem almost enchanted, which under other circumstances, Wyatt might’ve thought it was.
If he’d been with Charlotte, for example, who had a way of making nearly everything seem enchanted, even the most mundane occurrence or comment. Or the most blatant betrayal.
Wyatt reminded himself that everything about Charlotte Churchill was a ruse. Whatever her game had been, she’d played it well, crushing the hearts of two sincere men and destroying their friendship.
If that had been her aim, she’d been quite successful, although his friendship with Eph seemed to be on the mend. Yet it would never be as pure as the bond they’d had at the Acres, and Wyatt cursed Charlotte—and himself—for that.
The full moons lit Wyatt’s way to the back of the manor house. He’d walked there almost without thinking, yet his body was taking him where his soul directed. He waited next to the servants’ entrance and lit a cigar that Nicholas had given him after he’d returned.
Wyatt puffed on the cigar for a moment, basked in the heady aroma and rich flavor, and thought it was a good evening, this last evening at Hollyhock. He’d be home soon, back in the sway of everyday life, arguing with his father, trying to make things work out for Nicholas’s business, weari
ng his own clothes, living his own life, and being left alone.
The rear entrance door opened and a dream emerged, one where your heart was whole again, where hope obliterated despair, where all worlds were as beautiful as the one in front of you.
She brushed against him.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, my lord,” Rosie said. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Surely you must have smelled me,” Lord Saybrook said, brandishing his cigar.
“I’m so caught up in everything, I’m afraid my senses aren’t working as they might,” Rosie said. “My lord.”
“Would you like one?” Wyatt indicated the cigar.
“Maybe just a taste, my lord,” Rosie said. “I’ve never tried it.”
Wyatt handed Rosie the cigar and she took a delicate puff, letting the smoke rest in her mouth before exhaling it.
“It’s delicious, my lord,” Rosie said.
“Wyatt,” Lord Saybrook said.
“Yes, my lord,” Rosie said.
Wyatt took another puff of the cigar and the two of them watched the smoke as it left his mouth and formed a small cloud in front of them.
“I was hoping to see you at the ball,” he said.
“No, my lord—”
“Wyatt.”
“Wyatt, sir,” Rosie said. “The servants aren’t invited. And I have too much to do—”
“Violet’s there,” Wyatt said. “I just danced with her.”
“Keep Lord Trevelton away from her,” Rosie said.
“I’m afraid I have no control over what Ephraim does,” Wyatt said. “Is Rosie your real name?”
“Rose Beach, my lord,” she said.
“Wyatt,” he said. “Wyatt Conroy.”
“He’s no good for her, and she’s leaving tomorrow,” Rosie said.
“So am I,” Wyatt said.
“I’m sorry to hear that, my . . . Wyatt.”
“So is he, Rose Beach,” Wyatt said. “I was hoping to be able to talk with you just once before I left, so I’m glad to’ve found you here.”
“He’ll be on the same transport with Violet?”
“I believe so, Miss Beach. There isn’t another, is there?”
“No. There isn’t.”
“I wasn’t expecting an entire orchestra,” said Wyatt.
“Nor was I. Mrs. Allman really went all out,” Rosie said.
Wyatt and Rosie stood there, at the servants’ entrance, the heady moonlight casting its dreams around them as the syzygy neared.
“Listen,” Wyatt said.
“A waltz,” Rosie said.
“Is this dance taken?” Wyatt said.
Rosie laughed. “None of them are, my lord.”
“Wyatt,” he reminded her.
“Wyatt,” she said very softly.
He bowed to her and she bowed back, the typical greeting on her home outworld, the faraway momentarily invisible 212. Then he held out his hand, and she placed hers in it.
With sincere grandeur, he walked her past the building’s rear entrance and out into the small yard before the kitchen gardens. The orchestra was more audible here, and it was as though it were playing just for them.
Chapter 119
Eli Calvert found Allene Dickens’s body on his way back from Brixton. He’d ridden over there when Cook realized she had no more chocolate left for the hot drinks she was planning for after midnight and had had a mild panic. Although Cook had had several other mild panics over the last three days and perhaps some severe ones as well.
“The hot chocolate’s on the menu,” Cook said, “and everyone’s expecting it. Imagine—and this is the only way I can serve it. I’d wanted to decorate the small cakes with chocolate, but Mrs. Allman forbade me. Period inappropriate. You know how she can be. And how would she know?”
Johnny immediately offered to go, but he was needed upstairs, and Calvert realized he himself could accomplish the entire errand in less than twenty minutes, going over on horseback.
The cook at Brixton had been very accommodating—she knew Cook well—and Calvert packed the chocolate in his inside coat pocket, mounted the gray mare he always rode, and was on his way back to Hollyhock when he spotted something shiny in the hedgerow between the two estates.
Ordinarily, he wouldn’t’ve taken this route, but Cook had been working nonstop for two days and she had to have the chocolate, and he wanted to get it to her as quickly as he could. The aroma of the chocolate was intoxicating, even emanating from the package inside his coat, and Eli thought of the lovely chocolate cake that Laine had made for their daughter’s third birthday party and how the candles wouldn’t stop burning.
“Whoa,” he said, pulling up on the reins. Riding horseback was a definite benefit of this majestic, Eli thought, and filed that away for the future. Maybe he’d stay in Regency England and play this same part for the next few decades. He was already used to the role, and despite its minor drawbacks, he enjoyed it and was good at it.
Calvert got down from the horse, gently laid the reins across the hedge, and made his way carefully through the unmown grass.
Eli was quite used to the darkness in this lit-by-candles era, and the bright moonlight helped. After he’d walked a few paces, he saw Allene Dickens’s body, the river of blood by her head, and the shaft of the arrow, which nearly glowed under the three full moons.
Bending down to check her pulse, Eli almost laughed at himself. As if this corpse would have a pulse, which she didn’t. He knew the moment he touched her that she’d been dead for a while, since her skin was cold and her limbs stiff.
“Allene,” Calvert said. “What were you doing out here? How did this happen?”
He was still touching her wrist, and he stopped himself from the tears that were threatening to fall. He didn’t know Allene Dickens at all, but the suddenness of her death, the instant understanding that it could have been prevented, and the never-fading memory of his wife and daughter fused themselves in his heart.
Letting go of Allene’s wrist, he checked his inside pocket to make sure the chocolate was still there, got back on the gray, and galloped back to Hollyhock Manor. Should he get Dr. Hoffstead to come out to the scene? Would Hoffstead be sober enough at this time of the evening to be of any help?
And, more to the point, someone had killed Allene Dickens. That much was clear. She could hardly have pierced herself in the neck with an arrow, and Calvert couldn’t imagine such a perfect shot, in exactly the right place, having landed there by accident.
Who were the authorities on 5730? Were there any? And what would Jewel Allman’s reaction be? Because now, perhaps everything had fallen apart beyond repair, despite Eli’s plan to invite shorter-term players to Hollyhock.
Now there’d been a murder committed on their grounds. Who would possibly want to come to a majestic that was the site of such horror?
Halfway across the field, a more relevant thought arose in Calvert’s mind. Who would want to kill Allene Dickens? She was a paid performer, a lady’s maid. She wasn’t one of the well-to-do players, she never, as far as Eli knew, socialized with anyone, she’d kept completely to herself, and she’d been innocuous. Nearly invisible, he thought.
Had her very invisibility been a factor in her death? Had someone thought they could get away with murdering a person who was essentially a nonentity?
This was Calvert’s first majestic, so he didn’t know the motivations of many of the players. He’d initially assumed that the players were attending to have a long vacation of sorts, or maybe to fulfill their desires to be someone else for a while, to have a break from their everyday lives.
But from what he’d observed with the duke and duchess, and with Trevelton and Saybrook’s duel, it had quickly become obvious to him that majestics, or at least this particular majestic, were more than mere recreational pastimes.
But arguments, love affairs, and duels were one thing. Murder was something else entirely.
Calvert returned the gray to the stables, where the stable bo
y, Charles, took the reins and assured the distracted Calvert that he’d take care of the horse, who seemed ready to gallop another few miles had she been asked to.
Running to the manor house, Calver carefully cradled the bag of chocolate inside his coat, which he pulled tight around him.
It had gotten colder, although Allene Dickens wouldn’t notice.
Chapter 120
“You dance quite well,” Rosie said to Wyatt. The waltz music had stopped, but a reel had started up, and the couple continued, out on the flat expanse of lawn near the kitchen garden.
Rosie had forgotten what she’d come out back to do, but she’d better remember it soon, she thought as she looked up into Wyatt’s dark brown eyes.
“I took classes,” he said, smiling and turning around with his partner.
“You’re a good student,” Rosie said.
She and Samantha had taken classes as well, but Samantha had always resisted. Rosie had had to force her to come with her. Instead, she should’ve been directing Samantha to opportunities on other outworlds, ones where the rush flu would never rise up and destroy so many lives.
“For the wedding,” Wyatt said. He lifted Rosie very slightly and whirled her around.
“Oh,” Rosie said, as the burgeoning thrill deflated before its climax. For the wedding. She didn’t know he was married.
“It never happened, Miss Beach,” Wyatt said.
“Oh,” Rosie said. “I’m sorry,” she said, just in case that was the thing to say. Imagine, about to be getting married to Wyatt Conroy and then it didn’t happen. She must be devastated, Rosie thought.
The music stopped, the reel over, and another song didn’t begin. Wyatt was still holding Rosie, as though they would be moving again in a moment.
“You look very stylish this evening. I mean, more than usual. If I may say so,” Rosie said.
Saybrook was usually in muddied boots, a shirt that hadn’t been changed for days, certainly no cravat, and his hair a mess. But tonight he was in a proper suit, cleaned up, like a real Regency-era gentleman, she thought. If what passed for one now had any historical accuracy, which maybe it didn’t.
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