“Be that as it may, but Holland’s attendance is required as a guest at the table this evening.”
“You can’t make me—” Holland begins, stepping around Chrissy, her colours flying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her cheeks so red.
“In this house, you’ll find I can do what I want.”
Both women’s jaws fall open, and how I manage not to laugh, I’ve no idea. But then Holland’s mouth snaps shut, her eyes narrowing on me.
“Not with me, you can’t.”
Twisting my wrist, I glance down at my watch. “Twelve minutes now,” I utter crisply. Uninterested in the extreme. “Unless that is, you’d like to explain to the local police exactly what happened to the statue of Apollo at the bottom of the main staircase.”
It was a calculated guess that pays off dividends.
This time, Holland’s jaw falls open as Chrissy throws me a shrewd look. A look that’s quickly extinguished as Holland’s head whips around, seeking her reassurance. But there are no flies on Chrissy, as the saying goes. She quickly assesses the situation for what it is before offering Holland nothing more than a helpless shrug. What can I do? It seems to say meekly. But Chrissy has never been meek in her life.
“I . . . that is . . . I don’t have anything suitable to wear,” she spits out. It’s hardly a conciliatory response. More irritated.
I glance wearily at my watch again. “Ten minutes now.”
“Urgh! You are going to regret this,” Holland mutters, swinging around.
“I had better not,” I call after her. “The police station in the village is open twenty-four hours.”
Her only response is the stomp of her feet on the stairs.
“I don’t know what you’re up to,” Chrissy begins, watching me sharply. “But I trust you know.”
I incline my head in a conciliatory manner. It seems better than answering with the truth.
“I expect you’ll come and find me tomorrow to explain what this is all about?”
“I will,” I promise, though I’m not sure how I can explain how I need to have Holland with me, not serving me. There’s nothing wrong with honest labour, and this isn’t about where we each stand in the order of things. This is simply a case of my wanting her to be near me, I think. “But for now,” I add, “I must brave McCain’s wrath by asking him to set another place at the table.”
“Oh, you’ll have him fizzin’ for sure,” she answers with a sudden cackle. “He’ll not be best pleased.”
“No,” I agree. But he’ll do it, or I’ll give him the boot. Right up his skinny arse.
Chrissy wanders off to rally the troops, and I return to the fray and a room of speculative looks. My gaze coasts over Portia’s as though I hadn’t noticed her, seeking McCain, who appears in front of me like a wraith come to life.
“Your grace?” Either he had his ear pressed to the door to the service corridor, or he’s bloody psychic.
“I’d like you to lay another space at the dinner table,” I murmur, without waiting for his response. “Once you’ve done that, dinner may be served.”
“I’ll pass on the glad tidings to Dougal,” he says with a deferential tilt of his head, which is contradicted by his heavily pointed words. And here I was just thinking the man might deserve a pay rise. But he’s not quite fizzin’, though I didn’t expect him to be effervescent in my presence.
I make my way to Isla, who takes my arm with a serene smile.
“You and I,” she says, her expression unchanging as she leaves the group of guests she was attending, “are going to have a very interesting conversation tomorrow.”
“I look forward to it.” The way I see it, we’ll be having several very interesting conversations, beginning with her news.
“Sandy, your superior looks don’t work on me. You seem to forget I’m your big sister.”
“Fifteen minutes doesn’t count.” I force myself to curtail a budding smile, choosing to look at no one but her. Because if I allow myself to glance around the room, I’ll only be looking for one person. One person who had better toe the line tonight.
“Says you,” she answers serenely as McCain announces dinner.
Folding Isla’s hand into the crook of my arm, I lead her to our guest of honour—the director of the much-hoped-for blockbuster—and exchange my sister’s arm for that of his wife. As convention dictates, our guests fall into line behind us as Isla, as hostess, leads us into dinner.
Resisting the urge to seek out Holland, I pull back my companion’s chair, then make my way to the head of the table as McCain takes the opportunity to discreetly reminds me of our guest of honour’s name. A guest of honour who is as unpopular with the butler as I am, though his crime was to make it known he wished to be seated next to me rather than the hostess, as is the custom. As I reach the opposite end of the table, the portly man of around sixty years is already beaming at me. We wait for Isla, as hostess, to take her seat before doing the same. It’s in this minuscule interlude that my heart sinks as I notice one solitary chair is without a guest. But then, it soars as a vision in a pale blush pink glides along the length of the table. Her dress subtly glimmers in the low light, as do her collarbones, bared by the cut of the dress. Though obviously a dress, the outfit looks to be two separate pieces, the top swaying hypnotically in time with the hem as she walks.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters as she passes Isla who, in turn, shoots me a look so arch, I almost bark out a laugh. Amusement doesn’t bubble inside me for very long as I realise the person Holland has been seated next to.
Fucking Griffin.
If that isn’t the devil at play, I don’t know what is. It’s my own fault, I suppose, for not being more specific with McCain.
Finally, Isla lowers herself into her chair, and the evening begins.
“You get your staffing problems under control?”
Perhaps I should consider it fortunate that Mr Horowitz had requested to be placed so close, given how I’d noticed earlier his fondness for the sound of his own voice. It might give me a moment to gather my thoughts. His wife sits opposite him, Matteo next to her, sandwiched between her and Portia, who sits directly to my left.
Portia is used to being left to her own devices but obviously realises something has changed. The Duffys and some others whose names I don’t remember fill the chairs in the middle of the table, along with Griffin and Holland, who I note with some pain, sit with their heads close.
I lift my gaze, my jaw clenched.
I’d like to snap his head from his fucking neck.
But then I notice how Van leans toward my sister. I wonder if she has Mr Horowitz to thank for her sudden discomfort or if Van bribed one of the staff to be seated next to her.
Horowitz’s voice pulls at my attention once more.
“I’m sorry, you were saying?”
“The girl—the server you frogmarched out of the hall from dropping the tray?”
I wouldn’t say frogmarched. Is that what my desperation to kiss her looked like?
“It was a misunderstanding,” I murmur blandly, wondering what on earth would possess him to bring up such a thing, along with how is it possible he doesn’t realise the same girl is sitting at this table, in a dress the colour of summer clouds at sunset? Dark, luxurious hair piled on top of her head, she wears no jewellery but a thin chain at her wrist and the thick silver band at her thumb. A band she twists nervously.