It didn’t matter. In costume or out, from front or behind, he’d recognize Jack, and Ellery was very glad he’d had a heads-up about Jack being present because running into him unprepared would have been a jolt.
If they had still been on friendly terms, Ellery would have whistled—those fawn breeches did wonderful things for Jack’s muscular thighs and long legs—but the situation being what it was, he settled for a quiet, “Ahoy there.”
Jack glanced his way, did a double take. “Ahoy.” He smiled, his teeth very white against his sober black mask. “Wow. You look…” His blue-green gaze flicked to Julian, took in the younger man’s possessive grip of Ellery’s arm, and something infinitesimal changed in his expression. He said politely, “How are you, Julian?”
“Hi, Chief.” Julian was beaming. “I’m great now that the guest of honor has arrived.”
Ellery blinked. Guest of honor was a little over-the-top, but Julian seemed to be a very enthusiastic person.
“Guest of honor?” Jack murmured. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”
“There’s so much you don’t realize,” Ellery said. It was kind of silly, but satisfying in the moment. Between the icehouse and the rebuffed kiss, he was struggling with his feelings for Jack.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. His smile was much cooler this time. “I see. Well, enjoy your evening, boys.” He raised his barely touched champagne glass in salute, and moved away.
Boys. Ellery had to curb his irritation. Jack was thirty-eight, not sixty-eight. He muttered, “Funny. Even in pirate’s clothing he looks like a cop.”
“Like an exciseman,” Julian joked. He added, “I used to have such a thing for him.”
“You’re kidding.” Julian seemed prone to crushes. It was endearing, though he did seem young for his age. Assuming he was as old as Ellery was guessing. Hopefully, he was as old as Ellery was guessing.
“No.” Julian grinned at whatever he thought he read in Ellery’s expression. “I know. But there’s something about that mix of hard-ass law enforcement and twinkly eyes.”
“Twinkly eyes?” Ellery had never thought Jack’s eyes particularly twinkly. They did crinkle at the corners when he smiled, that was true. And there was that crease in his cheek when he grinned. Not quite a dimple, but close. He’d give Julian that.
Unnervingly, Julian seemed to read his mind. “Yeah. And that grin. That boyish grin like he’s sharing a private joke with you. That used to get me right here.” Julian flattened his fist against his chest.
“Hm.” Ellery was afraid to ask, but he felt compelled. “Did you two have a…a…?”
“Me and Police Chief Carson?” Julian laughed. “No way. He’s straighter than a…a…”
Funny how hard-ass, twinkly eyed Jack could drive normally articulate men to incoherence.
“Yardarm?” Ellery suggested. “Ramrod? The red-hot poker jammed up his—”
Julian laughed, squeezed his arm affectionately. “You don’t have to be jealous of Chief Carson. I got over that a long time ago.” He glanced back at the terrace. “I didn’t think. Did you want to dance?”
Ellery grimaced. “Not really.”
Julian looked disappointed. “No?”
“I hate to admit it, but these boots are killing my feet.”
Julian ogled Ellery’s knee-high, black leather corsair boots.
“Those boots are seriously sexy. But maybe you should take them off. You have to save your feet for the ghost hunt. It’s the best part of the night.”
“If I take them off, I’ll never get them on again.”
Julian chuckled. He was a guy who laughed a lot. That was nice, right? Ellery was typically light-hearted himself.
Speaking of laughing a lot. A few feet away, Brett Ainsley was half-seated on a Louis XV Rococo giltwood console with a woman precariously balanced on his lap. They were both laughing loudly, so loudly that their voices carried over the music and the other guests. Ellery expected to see the console tip over any moment.
“Who’s that?” Ellery asked.
“That’s Brett,” Julian said darkly. “My mother’s so-called husband.”
So-called husband? Ouch. No love lost there. Ellery was every bit as fond of his stepdad as he’d been of his father, but then George wasn’t a drunken, womanizing lout. It wouldn’t be easy watching your stepfather be so disrespectful to your mother.
“I meant the lady with him.”
Julian muttered, “That’s no lady; that’s Klementina Harwood.”
“Ah,” said Ellery. He had no clue who that was. In fact, it was amazing to him that these Buck Island “elite” were largely unknown to him. Maybe because they were only on the island three months out of the year?
Ms. Harwood seemed to be channeling Elizabethan courtesan. She wore red velvet and pearls—more pearls than red velvet—which she swung in a little loop like a stripper preparing to saunter onstage. Her ridiculously ornate black wig was starting to slip as Brett nuzzled behind her ear. She shrieked with laughter and cried, “You’re so bad.”
“Come on,” Julian muttered. “Let’s go find someplace we can talk.”
Ellery was in favor of that, but it was kind of like trying to swim against the current. Every few steps they were stopped by someone wanting to talk—usually with Julian—which meant Julian had to introduce Ellery, and then Ellery had to explain who he was and how it was no one had ever heard of him. Did none of these people read or attend the local theater or even subscribe to the Scuttlebutt Weekly?
The tall and stately eighteenth-century grandfather clock chimed the hours as they had more glasses of champagne, more hors d’oeuvres, more increasingly pointless conversations as their fellow guests became more and more inebriated, and eventually they ran into the lady of the manor.
Julian beamed. “Ellery, have you met my mother, Marguerite Bloodworth-Ainsley?”
“Yes, darling. We met earlier.” Marguerite was smiling at Ellery. “Are you having a nice time, Ellery?”
“I’m having a great time,” Ellery said truthfully. “It’s a great party.”
“I’m so glad. You own the bookstore in town, don’t you?”
“Yes. The Crow’s Nest.”
“I used to go there when I was a girl. Your aunt was such an interesting woman. I remember the shop had all those wonderful old paintings of the sea.”
“They’re still there. Sadly, I never got to meet my Great-great-great-aunt Eudora.”
“She was an original.” Marguerite smiled again. “I wish I had more time to read. There’s nothing more comforting than curling up with a good whodunit in front of the fire. Julian tells me you’ve done wonders to restore the shop.”
“We’re getting there,” Ellery said.
“I’m sure you are. And, of course, you’re the author of last month’s wonderful play.”
Ellery nearly choked on his champagne. He caught Marguerite’s cool, silvery gaze, and though she never batted an eyelash, he felt as though she’d winked at him. As though she understood his feelings entirely, and both sympathized and was amused.