by Jagger, Kait
Kayla went to join her band members, who were warming up in the music room, and Luna carried on into the portrait gallery, empty save for staff setting up the bar under the watchful eye of Ashley Eccles, newly minted catering team leader and Luna’s personal protégé. ‘All set?’ she asked, sidling up next to the young man, feeling proud of how professional he looked in his new black suit.
‘All set, Miss Gregory,’ he nodded, and Luna had to smile at his insistence on addressing her formally. He made her feel old. Old but… authoritative. She liked Ashley Eccles.
No rapprochement.
The words rose unbidden into her mind and Luna tensed slightly, thinking of Stefan and what he would say if he knew what she had planned for this evening, what she’d already done. But he wasn’t due back from Dubai until tomorrow. Just as well he attributed her rather fulsome assurances that she didn’t mind him missing the party to the fact that today was Valentine’s Day, which she had made clear she did not wish to celebrate.
Luna looked toward the monolithic black wall that marked the entrance to the exhibit, upon which was emblazoned a massive negative image of Robert’s opening line to Margery in the first of his letters: Thou hast pierc’t my heart. Through the darkened doorway at the centre of the wall, a small video image of a flickering candle beckoned visitors in. Mika’s idea.
Luna had insisted that no expense be spared on the exhibit itself, which married theatre to state-of-the-art technology, with just enough tradition to please Arborage purists. The exhibit also marked a clear departure from her predecessor’s reign, Luna having decided after long deliberations with Roland and her finance team to charge a supplemental entry fee on top of the house and garden ticket price.
Privately, Luna was plagued with doubt about the decision, which she’d presented to Stefan as an opportunity to enhance the value of Arborage’s tourist proposition. She well remembered Lady Wellstone’s negative views on bolt-on charges, however, which she referred to disparagingly as ‘strangling the golden goose’. Luna wanted very badly to prove the Marchioness wrong, and by extension to demonstrate her worth to Stefan.
Ironic, then, that the evening’s success relied on help from the unlikeliest of sources, sources of which he would definitely not approve, who arrived in the portrait gallery on Mika’s arms at that exact moment.
Dressed entirely in black and, on Mika’s instruction, professionally styled, Helen Wellstone-Waverley looked every inch the daughter of the manor wearing the huge emerald ring that had been passed down through generations of Wellstone women up to and including her mother. It suited Helen better than Augusta, to Luna’s mind, its ornate setting and stonking great emerald more at home on a larger, stronger hand. Robert’s second gift to Margery, meanwhile, a matching emerald and diamond crucifix, found its perfect backdrop on the flawless bosom of Mika’s other companion, Isabelle Wellstone. Like her sister, Isabelle was wearing black, though her form-fitting strapless gown was a far cry from Helen’s more demure long-sleeved dress.
What had begun as an impulsive gesture from Luna to Helen in the garden a few weeks earlier had evolved, or maybe the more appropriate word was snowballed, into a covert campaign to enlist aid from her and her younger sister, Luna even going so far as to phone Isabelle herself. And… well, it was, ahem, possible that she may have implied that it was Stefan who’d requested his cousins’ help. The end result was that the Wellstone sisters had become the cornerstone of tonight’s coup de théâtre, the canvas upon which Robert’s most extravagant gifts to Margery would be displayed.
Sensing that neither Isabelle nor Helen would welcome a direct compliment from her, Luna locked eyes with Mika and said, ‘You’ve outdone yourself. These two are all everyone will be talking about, after tonight.’ Then said to them, ‘Our man is waiting for you inside the exhibit.’ Upon which Isabelle promptly grasped Helen’s hand and pulled her through the darkened entrance.
‘Our man’ was Mika’s final contribution to the night’s success, a journalist friend who freelanced for a society magazine that specialised in royal christenings, society weddings and celebrity mansion tours. The magazine had agreed to publish a five-page spread on tonight’s event and, even better, to feature the Wellstone sisters on its cover.
A PR coup which Luna sincerely hoped would justify the fact that she had told Stefan nothing about her plans.
Chapter Twelve
At what exact point that night did Luna realise that yet another Arborage party had spun out of her control? Looking back, there were so many choices…
1. When Isabelle handed her an empty champagne glass.
The first part of the evening went reassuringly smoothly. Guests arrived in an initial trickle followed by a mad rush, but Arborage’s events machine swung into faultless action, allowing Luna to focus on greeting the five current and two prospective board members in attendance. As Kayla’s support band played background music, catering staff glided through the crowd with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
Even Helen was making an effort. In a marked departure from previous estate events, where she’d shown little desire to play the hostess, tonight she made a point of joining Luna to chat with the board members and later circulated in the room with husband Mark, her right hand carefully entwined around his arm to showcase the emerald ring.
The presence of a magazine reporter and photographer changed the tenor of the event, of course, with guests eagerly lining up to be interviewed and snapped at the entrance to the exhibit. It also wrought a dramatic change on Isabelle, who fluttered around the reporter like a hummingbird to a flower, gesturing picturesquely, posing for photographs with long-suffering boyfriend Tarquin, and giving a guided tour of her many ancestors whose portraits lined the gallery walls.
‘Of course, our family’s history is at the heart of everything we do here at Arborage,’ Luna overheard Isabelle sweetly informing the reporter. ‘I’m particularly proud of this exhibit, which I insisted had to be open in time for Valentine’s Day.’ Luna glanced at Isabelle just in time to see her place an earnest, manicured hand on her chest, finger skimming the emeralds in the crucifix.
‘I take it you do not remember this insisting,’ came a quiet murmur next to Luna’s ear; Mika, looking mischievous and rather suave in his tuxedo.
‘I do not,’ Luna replied sotto voce. ‘But I’m not complaining.’ She smiled wryly. ‘She’s much better at this sort of thing than me.’ Mika cocked a quizzical white-blonde eyebrow at her and she elaborated, ‘Isabelle, the Marchioness, Stefan… they have the Wellstone gift. Charisma, I guess you’d say.’
‘And you don’t.’ Not a question, per se, but Mika’s customary blank look seemed loaded, displeased somehow. Luna opened her mouth to reply but at that moment Isabelle swanned toward them with journalist in tow.
‘Here’s someone who can help,’ she said saccharinely, tilting her head at Luna in the manner of one who is trying and failing to remember an employee’s name. ‘She’ll be able to tell you how much was spent on the exhibit, what’s in it, all those little details…’ Isabelle’s eyes wandered across the room to where the photographer was taking shots of a gaggle of attractive females. Without further ado, she started in their direction, pausing only long enough to hold her empty champagne glass out to Luna.
Who took it, too surprised to do anything else.
And endured a stare of ferocious blankness from Mika.
And answered the journalist’s questions.
And began to ponder the possibility that Isabelle had outflanked her yet again.
2. When the helicopter landed outside.
A few minutes later Kayla came capering over, mobile in hand, looking very pleased with herself. ‘Having fun, missis?’ Luna asked absently.
‘Too bloody right I am,’ Kaya averred. ‘Legit, I could get used to all this poshness. I also…’ she paused dramatically, ‘…have a little Valentine’s Day sur
prise for you.’
‘Really?’ Luna eyed her suspiciously. ‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘I know, my presence is your present.’ Kayla clacked her fire-engine-red nails together and smiled mysteriously. ‘Trust me, babe, you’re going to love this surprise.’
As if on cue, the stained-glass panes in the gallery ceiling began to chime, then rattle. Partygoers standing at the edge of the gallery pointed excitedly toward the French doors overlooking the Queen Charlotte lawn, where a helicopter, of all things, was coming in for a landing.
Someone opened one of the French doors and immediately guests surged out of the doors into the frigid night air, where the floodlit grass rippled and waved under the helicopter blades. An ominous tattoo began to play in Luna’s chest and she kept her feet firmly rooted to the gallery floor until Kayla placed a firm hand on her back and propelled her outside.
Just visible inside the helicopter’s cockpit, a darkened figure unbuckled and exchanged a few words with the pilot. Then the cockpit door opened and, to a collective round of applause from the waiting crowd, the Marquess of Lionsbridge stepped down, immaculate in his tuxedo and white scarf, crouching his way clear of the still-rotating blades.
‘It’s like I’m your fairy godmother, right?’ Kayla shouted in Luna’s ear, to which Luna replied through gritted teeth, ‘You really shouldn’t have.’ Behind them, a delirious squeal went up and Isabelle burst through the crowd onto the lawn, running toward Stefan as cameras and phones recorded her every step. She threw her arms around his neck and, after a millisecond of surprise and a quick scan of the crowd so excoriating Luna physically shrank backwards, he returned his cousin’s embrace stiffly and offered her his arm.
Continuing her backward retreat, Luna bumped into Tarquin, whose eyes were also locked on this scene. Over the fading whine of the helicopter engine, he remarked under his breath, ‘It appears that you and I have common cause, Selkie.’
And then Stefan was coming their way, abruptly handing Isabelle over to Tarquin and grasping Luna around the waist, drawing her to him. Luna’s eyes widened in silent supplication as she stuttered, ‘I-I wasn’t expecting you home till tomorrow.’
‘Apparently not,’ Stefan replied, and kissed her, hard.
3. When Alex Parker snickered.
To his credit, Stefan had his full poker face on by the time they re-entered the gallery, though Luna swore she heard him stifle an oath when he spotted Helen. Keeping his hand firmly on her waist, he nodded to Mark and said jovially, with a little thread of deadpan thrown in for Luna’s benefit, ‘Helen, what a delight to see you.’
True to form, Helen’s response was stilted to the point of mulishness: ‘Luna said she needed help, and Bella and I want to play our part.’ Jesus wept, Luna groaned inwardly, could she not even try to meet him halfway? Not that it mattered. Those fingers hard upon the curve of her waist, that smile of his, a little too perfect in its brilliance, those were all for Luna. I will play the gracious host for now, he was saying, but later, flicka, later…
It was bloody unfair, she thought to herself after Stefan had gone to greet the trustees and she’d hunted down a glass of champagne. All this hard graft, planning, working her fingers to the bone, and it had all blown up in her face. Instead of presenting Stefan with a fait accompli, with Helen and Isabelle’s photo gracing newsstands across the country and crowds of tourists flooding into Arborage as a result, she was going to spend tonight in the proverbial doghouse, with ‘splainin’ to do, as Nancy would say, when her irascible Swede finally managed to get her alone.
Well… fuck it, Luna thought to herself; time to start drinking. Polishing off her champagne in three swift gulps, she collared a passing waiter and placed her empty on his tray, grabbing another.
Deciding to track Roland down before the alcohol took hold, she found him giving a tour to fifteen or so guests inside the darkened interior of the exhibit. He was standing in front of the exhibit’s pièce de résistance, Margery’s mahogany four-poster bed from the Dower House. Subtly lit, draped in a damask brocade bedspread and matching curtains, it struck just the right note of intimacy. Behind it, another quote was emblazoned on the wall: I shal’t tether thee to me, my Falcon.
‘Robert’s letters leave no doubt,’ Roland was saying convivially, ‘that his relationship with Margery was highly sexually charged.’ Ah, Luna smiled, Roland White’s special, post-watershed tour, always good value. ‘The letters include a dizzying level of detail regarding Margery’s body,’ he went on, ‘his favourite parts of it, what he wanted to do to it.’ A few titters from his audience and Roland himself giggled slightly, taking a sip of his drink. Luna frowned as the ever-present Alex, standing beside his mentor, produced a bottle of champagne and topped up Roland’s glass, then his own. Bristling internally, she made a mental note to speak to Roland about this later.
‘It’s also my belief that Robert’s pet name for Margery, “my Falcon”, had sexual connotations,’ Roland said. ‘He compares her skill at eviscerating his enemies in court to that of a bird of prey, and implies that this rapaciousness extends to the bedroom as well.’
At that moment, Luna perceived a presence behind her, then, a heat unfurling into her naked back, and Roland’s voice was briefly subsumed by the rushing of blood in her ears. Quelling a frisson of anticipation, she reached up to tuck an errant strand of hair into her chignon, her elbow grazing Stefan’s muscular shoulder, the bell at her wrist jingling.
‘Robert’s third and final gift to her, for example,’ Roland said, pointing directly at Luna. ‘An in-joke between them, to be sure, but one reeking with innuendo.’ As every eye in the room looked her way, Luna froze like a deer in the headlamps, her hand hovering next to her ear. ‘Robert writes about it with sh—’ Roland hesitated, then enunciated carefully, ‘—salacious intent.’ Oh God, Luna panicked, he’s slurring his words, just how drunk is he? ‘He refers to tethering Margery, hooding her in the manner of a hunting falcon. I’d be very surprised if the bracelets didn’t play a part in this.’
Alex snickered loudly. ‘So, sex toys you mean. Bondage gear.’
‘Indeed,’ Roland said, taking another sip of champagne. ‘A mark of his dominance and her submission.’
Fuck me, Luna despaired. A scorching sensation spread from her cheeks to her ears, the girl who never blushed burning bright red as she imagined the sight she and the six-foot-three man towering possessively behind her must make.
‘We have chosen the wrong woman to wear them tonight, then,’ came a clipped voice from the back of the room. ‘For Luna Gregory bows to no man.’
A loud burst of laughter arose from Roland’s audience, effectively obliterating the moment of excruciating tension. Roland moved on to other, non-sex-related topics and Luna angled her head toward the man standing in the shadows, her eyes shining with gratitude.
Mika Salonen, her hero.
4. During the final dance of the evening.
‘What are you two doing here?’ Luna whispered, mounting a set of narrow stone steps to the hidden room that overlooked the gallery. Tilly and Megan, both dressed in nightgowns and robes, were leaning over a parapet concealed behind a metal grille, raptly taking in the action below.
‘We’re watching Mika dance!’ Tilly chirped, and held out her hand to Luna.
So Luna stood between them for a while, gazing down at the band as it struck up an Elbow number. As her musicians played an extended overture, Kayla sipped from a glass of water and surreptitiously held up two fingers to the lapel of her blue jacket, which caused Mika to leap into action from the sidelines, speeding to Caitlin’s side, asking her to dance. Megan and Tilly burst into a fit of giggles and Luna shushed them, trying not to laugh herself.
‘Dance step two, the tango,’ she said. ‘He’s doing very well, don’t you think?’
Tilly looked up at Luna, frowning thoughtfully. ‘We haven’t seen you dance yet.’
Luna sipped from her third glass of champagne. ‘I’ll make you a deal. I’ll dance with the man of your choice if the two of you promise to go to bed straight after.’
The girls exchanged speculative looks. ‘Cousin Stefan?’ Megan suggested.
Suppressing a grimace, Luna shook her head. She was in no mood to start ‘splainin’ yet. ‘Try again.’
Exactly thirty seconds later, she strode across the gallery toward her designated target, who spotted her coming and did a double-take, then drew himself erect, enquiring drolly, ‘Has our time finally come, my sea fairy?’
‘So, Selkie,’ Tarquin drawled moments later as Kayla sang Guy Garvey’s sinuous opening lyrics conjuring the lure of his lover’s eyes, ‘how does it feel to be the usurper sitting on Isabelle’s throne?’
‘Is that what I am?’ Luna sighed.
Tarquin had the good grace to wince. ‘In her view only,’ he clarified. Pulling Luna to a dramatic stop at the edge of the dance floor, he twirled her in his arms, changing positions. ‘I’ve attempted to discourage Bella’s tendresse for your betrothed purely on the basis of consanguinity,’ he continued long-sufferingly. ‘But sadly she remains unconvinced.’
Luna pursed her lips to conceal a smile. Tarquin had been born in the wrong era, she thought to herself. She could just picture him dressed in a frock coat, trading quips with Oscar Wilde. And, she had to admit, he danced a surprisingly competent tango. The object of his affection, meanwhile, was dancing nearby with a considerably less competent Mark Waverley. Noticing that Bella’s cat’s eyes were trained on them, Luna felt a strange recklessness rise up within herself, born of three glasses of champagne and a night’s worth of good intentions up in smoke.
