Evan swiped the box out of midair, said something decidedly nasty, and retreated to the mantelpiece, where he stood and scowled in fine villain fashion.
Well, that was fun, Saint Just decided. For the most part. What else could he do?
Pouring himself a glass of wine, he debated about approaching Byrd Stockwell and Nikki, but decided against it as the young woman pulled a small pink barbell from beneath the couch and began doing curls while begging Byrd to feel her biceps.
There was something about a woman in ankle-length sprigged muslin lifting weights that destroyed whatever remained of Saint Just's illusion that he was immersed in a true Regency Era evening At Home.
As for Byrd Stockwell? That gentleman didn't interest Saint Just at all, although he might have wished to confer with the man's tailor, had he the time.
Left alone, Saint Just lifted his quizzing glass 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 shelled 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 pronunci-ation, 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 glass, 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 assistance, 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.»