High Heels And Homicide Part 7

Left alone, Saint Just lifted his quizzing gla.s.s 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 sh.e.l.led 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 p.r.o.nunciation, 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 gla.s.s, 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, feels 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 a.s.sistance, 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.

"An amusing toy," Evan said with his best Lord Hervey sneer. "But in more talented hands, a formidable weapon. Give it over, and allow a real man to show you how it's done."

Saint Just knew himself to be mean, but if Evan Pottinger wished to sacrifice himself as a target to ease a bit of the tension he felt, Saint Just wasn't going to naysay him. "How very droll. My lord Hervey, am I to consider your words a challenge? Or do you attempt only to amuse me?"

"Not a challenge. An insult, pretty boy, and an opportunity to employ this thing with the expertise it deserves."

"Really? And how do you propose to do that, my lord Hervey? Hold the thing in both hands, then insult me to death?"

Byrd, whether sensing a fight or hoping to avoid one, retreated to Nikki's side once more, to watch from a distance.

"Hoo-boy, an old-fashioned p.i.s.sing contest. Just what this night needed. You know, this is where I've always wanted to be able to twitch my nose and be somewhere else," Maggie said, sighing. "Somebody says something dangerously stupid, and all I want is out of here. Alex, cool it, please. And Evan, old sport? Zip it. Trust me in this, you don't want to go there."

Evan shot Maggie a hard look. "I do not recall applying for your advice, madam. Oblige me, if you will, and shut...up."

"And now, good sir, you have pa.s.sed beyond the pale, even though you've just parroted one of Hervey's best lines from Maggie's book. However, that said, surely you can't believe I will stand by while you verbally attack the lady," Saint Just drawled, his pulses thrumming quite enjoyably, which Maggie had to know, for she had given him both his love of adventure and his appreciation for the ridiculous. And his cool, measured temper.

Evan struck a pose that Saint Just nearly suggested could use some more practice in front of the pier gla.s.s. "Show me a lady in this room, and I'll promise not to insult her. But I don't see any."

"Oh, brother," Maggie said, sinking into the chair behind her. "Here we go. Don't say you weren't warned."

"Maggie?" Saint Just said, holding out his now-sheathed sword cane. "If you would be so kind as to take possession of this for me, as our own aspiring Viscount has just returned with what I believe are the imitations."

"Props," Maggie managed, grabbing the sword cane she'd told Saint Just, at least twice, she never wanted to see again, let alone touch, after his last use of such a contraption as a weapon. "They're called props. Are you two really going to fight?"

"Not at all, my dear," Saint Just said, his gaze never leaving Evan Pottinger's face. "I promised Troy a lesson, but I am not averse to giving one to Evan here, as well. I'm magnanimous that way."

Evan grabbed one of the sword canes from Troy and uncovered the ersatz blade. "We'll see who gives whom a lesson! En garde, you swine!"

Saint Just, careful to hide his amus.e.m.e.nt, stepped back a pace, then turned himself in a full circle, so that when he confronted Evan again it was with the tip of his unsheathed ersatz sword stick, which just happened to now rest an inch from Evan's Adam's apple.

"Wanna see that again, Lord Hervey?" Maggie asked, bouncing in her chair.

"Maggie," Saint Just said, quietly maintaining his pose. "It's not polite to gloat. But you could applaud if the spirit so moves you."

"Oh, splendid, Saint Just!" Sterling called out as he and Perry Posko clapped. "Sterling, did you see that?"

"I certainly did, Sterling," Perry replied, still clapping.

"So cute! Tweedledum and Tweedledee come to England. Right down to their matching yellow waistcoats," Maggie said, but also quietly.

"Now we've got two Sterlings? Who's on first?" Bernie asked, leaning over the back of the chair to ask Maggie her question. "And, after you tell me that, explain to me again why you haven't jumped Alex's bones by now."

Saint Just, who'd heard the comments of both women, ignored both. Except for a small smile. He was, after all, at least for the past few months, human.

"You cheated!" Evan accused, pointing a shaking finger at Saint Just before he threw down both pieces of the sword cane rather like a child about to launch a tantrum.

"And you, Lord Hervey, are dead," Saint Just said, neatly sliding the blade back into the cane he still held. "At least, theoretically. Lessons, dear Lord Hervey, Viscount Saint Just, begin at ten tomorrow, in Sir Rudy's study."

"Yeah. Be there or be square," Maggie said, getting to her feet. "G.o.d, that was fun. Better than television."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Troy said, frowning. "You said Vee-count. Isn't it Viss-count? Aren't I the Viss-count? I don't like that. Vee-count? That can't be right. Arnaud! Arnaud!"

Maggie went on tiptoe, to whisper in Saint Just's ear. "As exits go, I don't think you're going to be able to top this one, Alex. I'm betting we can get a flight out of here by tomorrow afternoon. You game?"

"I'm beginning to see the wisdom of the suggestion, yes. But-"

"But you don't want to give up s...o...b..z. I know. Besides, I still have to kill Sam. I just saw the last scene, Alex. Remember the duel on the roof? Gone. All gone. Insurance squawked at it as too dangerous and threatened to pull coverage if Troy was put on the roof. Evan, I'm guessing, is more expendable, but I'm not the one who's going to tell him that."

"So, where will the duel take place?"

Maggie grinned, one of those close-mouthed grins that boded no good, Saint Just was sure. "Oh, you're going to love this. In Marianne's bedroom, so our Nikki can be in the scene, sitting up in bed, sheets drawn up almost completely over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as she shrieks at appropriate moments and gets her face time. That's big, Alex. She's got to get a minimum of five close-ups or they're in violation of her contract."

"You're fashioning this charade out of whole cloth simply to depress me, aren't you?"

"No. Oh, no. I'm not fibbing. Fight, fight, Nikki screams, close-up, fight, fight, fight, Nikki yells, 'No! Don't kill him!' Fight, fight, fight. Saint Just and Lord Hervey go chin to chin with the swords crossed between them and curse at each other-standard stupid swordfight shot. Close-up, close-up, push away, fight, fight. Etcetera. Then Lord Hervey grabs Nikki, who almost but not quite loses the sheet, and holds her as a shield as he backs toward the door."

Saint Just was appalled. Truly appalled. The sword fight with Lord Hervey had been an inspiration, quite the highlight of the book. "He escapes? He doesn't die?"

"Oh, yeah, he sure does escape. But first Saint Just makes a stab at getting him, by reaching down and pulling on the sheet that's dragging on the floor and-"

"Why on earth would I do any such thing?"

"Not you, the Viscount-and keep your voice down. I'm explaining here. You-he-pulls on the sheet, which only serves to bare Nikki's naked body-we don't see that, but we do hear her shriek-while the camera zooms in on Saint Just, who says something like, 'Ah, well, I'll get him next time,' before he tosses the sheet and his weapon aside, and begins unb.u.t.toning his shirt. Fade to black, the end. So? Ready to vomit yet?"

Saint Just searched his mind for words, something to say that would express what he felt, and came up with, "They can't do that."

"Oh, yes, they can-or maybe you haven't noticed the steam that's been coming out of my ears for the past hour. Sam's going to write the sequel, a completely new story with the same cast, and if that works, then they'll use the rest of our books to launch a series with interchangeable villains."

"Lord Hervey is finally apprehended?"

"In the sequel, yes. Sam says so. Villains are a dime a dozen. It's Troy and Nikki they want to hold on to."

"Good G.o.d, why?"

"Who cares? And it's all in my contract, so once I'm done killing Sam-just on general principles because he refuses to believe facts have anything at all to do with good fiction-I'm going to kill Tabby. And then I am going home, whether you go with me or not. I mean, if I want abuse, I can visit my mother. At least then I can go up on the boardwalk and get more chocolate fudge."

Chapter Seven.

Maggie sat at the ancient dressing table and giggled as she remembered the end of last night's more-than-a-little-bit-weird evening.

After the fiasco with Evan Pottinger, Alex had suggested that those remaining in the room indulge in a game of forfeits, a Regency Era amus.e.m.e.nt.

He'd described forfeits as a game in which a player needs to give up some small personal possession after breaking one of the silly rules-and the rules definitely were silly-and then had to perform some stupid stunt in order to retrieve the item.

"Oh, kind of like strip poker," Nikki had said. "I like that game, except I always lose." Then she'd looked at Byrd Stockwell and winked. "Always."

"And on that note, I'm out of here," Bernie had declared, lifting Sir Rudy's hand off her knee, kissing him on the cheek, and then leaving the room while the man was still blushing.

Joanne had come back for a while, but stomped out again after Sir Rudy told her that Nikki and Byrd had left the room together a half hour earlier, and Tabby and Clarence the valet had never shown up again, come to think of it.

Sir Rudy's Little House of Pickups, that's what Medwine Manor was, except that Maggie had, as usual, spent the night alone.

Not that she cared. She didn't care. Really. Not at all. So what if she had to write love scenes from memory. No biggie. Life did not revolve around s.e.x.

She made a face at her reflection. "It doesn't spin too darn fast around abstinence, either," she told herself, putting down her hairbrush and getting to her feet.

She walked over to the window to pull back the heavy drapes and look out at...rain. Is that all it did in England? Rain?

Remembering Sterling's interest in the scaffolding, she pressed her forehead against the cold gla.s.s and tried to see what he had seen. She saw wet metal scaffolding and wet boards. Nothing to write home about, that was for sure. And beyond the scaffolding, all she saw was water. Lots of water.

"The driveway's gone," she said out loud. "For crying out loud, the driveway's gone! How are we supposed to get out of here?"

She was gearing herself up for a major meltdown-which was so unlike her-when someone knocked at her door.

"Maggie? You in there?"

"Undercuffler," she gritted out from between clenched teeth in her best Jerry Seinfeld imitation of "h.e.l.lo-o-o, Newman." "Good. Now I can kill him."

She opened the door, and the writer just stood there, waiting for her to invite him in. Which she might have done, if it weren't for the thick manila envelope he was clutching to his chest. "I said, no."