«That one, my dear, I can answer. He wishes to rub elbows with American actresses. Daresay, more than his elbows. He's quite put out that Nikki isn't living up to expectations. I believe the man was expecting, indeed, looking quite forward to, nightly orgies.»
«Disgusting,» Maggie said, sucking on her inhaler.
«I quite agree. Put it away. That contraption is no more than a bad habit now, you know.»
«And this bothers you how?»
«I'm not quite sure,» Saint Just admitted. «Perhaps I am perplexed over how a woman of such strong will in other matters could be so weak when it comes to this nicotine addiction of yours.»
«Ha. A lot you know. I don't even have a cartridge in this thing.»
Saint Just struck a questioning pose, one hand to his mouth. «And yet you're holding it, using it? Why?»
«I don't know, okay. You've got your cane, you've got your quizzing glass. I've got my unloaded nicotine inhaler. We've all got crutches, Alex. You saw Joanne with her stopwatch. Keeps it around her neck, is always touching it, fingering it. Bernie's always got a glass, even now that she's not hitting the hard stuff anymore. Tabby fusses with her scarves—she'd feel naked without her scarves.»
«Hmmm. We are a pitiful bunch, aren't we? In fact, Sterling seems the most normal of us all, which you will admit is rather mind-blowing.»
«Sterling is pure of heart,» Maggie told him. «He's real. He doesn't need anything artificial, doesn't need to hide behind anything or use it to deflect others. He has no personal agenda. Sterling's—what is he doing over there?»
Saint Just looked across the room to where Sterling stood with Perry Posko, the two of them sitting down in unison, then standing up, then sitting down again.
«I think that's self-explanatory. Sterling's teaching the man how to sit. As we are all aware, you can tell a gentleman by the way he splits his coattails as he takes his seat. Look over there, Maggie, at our lamentable Viscount as he poses with our villain. Evan, for all his other sins, still appears pristine. But our Viscount? His coattails are sadly crushed and pleated, the result of the man's propensity to both slouch and to simply drop himself into his seat. The man has a lot in common with the good left-tenant , except that Wendell, bless him, also has a brain.»
«But you're going to work with Troy, right? Because I agree with you. That guy is no more the Viscount Saint Just than Sir Rudy of the fishing reel is Prince Charles.»
«I've made a beginning, yes, while you and the scribe had your heads together. And I've discovered something. The man is a monkey, but one with what he calls a photographic memory. Which, alas, explains how he's come to learn a string of rather unfortunate cant he found listed somewhere on the Internet. And which he repeats at the drop of a hat.»
«I don't understand.»
«I know, neither did I. His lordship—I'm to address him as his lordship whenever he's in costume, you understand—took it into his head to do his own research for the character, and that research began and ended with this list. So far, I've been called a knotty-pated flapdragon, a rough-hewn moldwarp, and—oh, yes, my personal favorite—an unmuzzled, guts-griping rampallion. He reported happily that he's memorized three entire pages of this sort of drivel, and he's quite proud of himself.»
«But… but those are Shakespearean insults, aren't they? I'm pretty sure I've seen that list online. Sort of mix-and-match insults, Will Shakespeare style. He's in the wrong freaking era.»
«Yes, but reciting the words, according to his lordship, has helped to refine his accent. Although I have already prevailed upon him to refrain from dropping his Hs like some Cockney.»
«Really?»
«No. Not really. Not even close. For the most part, our dear Viscount sounds like a chimney sweep. We begin our lessons in earnest tomorrow, at which time I fear I may just have to choke the man, although not with one of these wretched neck cloths. They're ready-fashioned, you understand, and fasten with Velcro. I'm nearly too ashamed to wear mine. Oh, dear,» he added, lifting his quizzing glass to his eye as he noticed another bit of intrigue taking place near the drinks table. «Excuse me, my dear. I believe I'm needed.»
Maggie followed after him as he approached Dennis Lloyd and Evan Pottinger, who were at that moment glaring at each other. Dennis, clad as Clarence, the Saint Just valet, in rather badly fitted burgundy-and-gold livery, stood in a most belligerent posture, one definitely unbecoming to a valet.
Evan, looking dangerous in unremitting black, his expression equally dark, seemed faintly amused even while poised to strike. Very much the villainous Lord Hervey.
There were moments when Saint Just could almost believe the magic of moviemaking had opened the pages of Maggie's book and let everyone out for their moment upon the stage. Then again, there was Troy Barlow. The fellow certainly helped Saint Just remember that reality and fiction were miles and miles apart.
«Gentlemen?» Saint Just said, stepping between the two men. «Clarence? Lord Hervey? Is something amiss?»
«Step aside, fool,» Evan bit out imperiously—really rather good, clearly a man immersed in his role, which is what being a method actor, Saint Just had learned from Arnaud, was all about. «I demand this man be sacked. I ordered him to pour me a drink, and he refused. I'll not suffer insubordination from a mere servant.»
«Why, you miserable excuse for a thespian,» Dennis countered, and Saint Just put his palm against the older man's chest, holding him back from the fray. «Who do you think you are? Servant? I'm not your bloody servant. That's it! I'm getting out of this ridiculous costume, and you can all just go hang if you think I'm going to play this stupid game. Americans! You're all insane!»
Saint Just watched the Englishman storm off, then cocked an eyebrow as Tabby quickly excused herself from Bernie and trotted after him into the hall. Then he turned his attention back to Evan. «Taking this playacting business just a step too far, perhaps, my lord Hervey? I do believe you've insulted the man.»
«And I do believe you and I have nothing to say to each other. I'm not your student ,» Evan said, looking down his nose at Saint Just… which meant he had to raise his chin a good three inches. Still, what the man didn't possess in height, he most certainly made up for in his show of villainous arrogance. «Now, out of my way. I'm through with you.»
Saint Just stepped back two paces and bowed. «I look forward to your untimely end, your lordship,» he said cheerfully. «Something to do with a fall from the rooftop and landing on the spines of an iron gate, I believe? Messy business.»
«A lot you know. That's being rewritten,» Evan said, and now it was time for Saint Just to put out his hand and hold Maggie in place.
«Whatdoyoumeanrewritten?» Maggie asked, all in one breath. «That's the big ending. Saint Just and Hervey dueling on the ramparts, Hervey lunging, Saint Just neatly sidestepping, Hervey going down. Do you know how long it took to choreograph that scene in my head? Sam? Sam!? Where is he? I'll kill him!» And she was off, in search of the screenwriter.
«Writers,» Evan said, taking out his snuff box. «A curse and an abomination.» He tapped the lid of the box twice, then frowned when it didn't open, dropping out of character to say, «Cheap junk.»
«Not necessarily. Sir Rudy was kind enough to supply snuff boxes from a not-at-all-shabby collection I discovered displayed in his study,» Saint Just said, taking the box from the man. «Observe, if you will, and learn.»
He then balanced the box on the back of his bent left wrist and tapped the box twice, upon which the lid opened. He withdrew a lace-edged white linen square from his waistcoat (his own fine Irish linen, in point of fact), then neatly pantomimed, complete with flourish, taking a small pinch, lifting it to his nostril, and sniffing delicately. «I'd now sneeze, but I am not a playactor, so I'll refrain. Here you go, old fellow—catch.»