Bernie was quiet for some moments, then said, «A helicopter. We can call for a helicopter rescue. I've seen those on TV.»
«I don't think so, no. According to Sir Rudy, this hap-pens all the time. Nobody's coming to the rescue. We just wait until the rain stops and the water goes down. Besides, I can't really see you in a harness, being pulled up over the rooftops, can you?»
«Not sober, no. I'm starving. Feed a cold, right?»
«Oh, I forgot. I brought us lunch, but I left everything on a table in the hall. Hang on, I'll go get it.»
«No big hurry. I'm just dying here.»
«Right,» Maggie said, heading for the hall, only to quickly close the door when she saw Byrd Stockwell and Nikki Campion standing in the open doorway across the way, lost in a lip-lock.
«What's wrong? Is the flood up here now? Are we going to drown? Tell me, Maggie. I can take it.»
«Shhh,» Maggie said, heading back to the bed. «I'll get the sandwiches in a minute. First… you're never going to believe this one…»
Chapter eight
It was amazing to Saint Just how, in such a very short space of time, he could become so bored with his Regency costume (tailoring was an art, one that obviously had not extended to whatever cow-handed buffoon had fashioned this coat).
He was equally disenchanted with the company (most of whom would cheerfuly murder each other for an extra moment on film), Medwine Manor (cold, drafty, soon to be dark), and England in November (for no particular reason save that there was no television machine and he was certain to miss the New York Giants on Monday Night Football) .
Already unclasping the crudely fashioned, prefabricated neck cloth with one hand while unbuttoning his waistcoat with the other, Saint Just stopped dead just inside Sterling's bedchamber and stared at his friend and compatriot. «What are you doing?»
Sterling, who had pulled up his shirt, exposing his bare belly, quickly pulled down his shirt and smiled at Saint Just. «I'm not sure. Remember yesterday? When you were all talking about Maggie's latest manuscript?»
«And you were admiring the scaffolding? Yes, I recall the moment. What of it?»
«Well, everyone kept talking about what was wrong with Maggie's book, and somebody—I forget who—said the story had you contemplating your navel for several hundred pages. And I've been wondering exactly what that meant, and why anyone would want to, because I've been looking at mine for ten minutes now and—and now you're laughing at me, aren't you?»
«Never, Sterling,» Saint Just said, keeping a straight face only with difficulty. «I believe what was meant was that Maggie wrote me as examining my life—who I am, what I am, where I'm going, where I've been.»
«Why would anybody want to do that?» Sterling asked. «A person could discover things about himself best left alone, and all of that.»
«Very true, my friend. You look nearly incomplete, Sterling. Where's the other Sterling?»
«Perry. He's really Perry. He's only pretending to be me. And he's having a small lie-down in his room, if you must know. He thought he saw Uncle Willis, but it turned out to be nothing more than another suit of armor we found in the attics. The lightning flashed and lit it up, and Sterling— that is, Perry—screamed like a young girl, then backed up and fell over a small chest. Landed square on his rump. He's taking a restorative rest, but then we'll be off again. We have an entire other wing of the attics to search.»
«Are you quite convinced there is a ghost, Sterling? In any case, it will be coming on to dark soon, so I'd rather you and your friend weren't stumbling about in the attics.»
Sterling nodded sagely. «In case Uncle Willis shows up.»
Saint Just smiled. «Exactly. And now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I'd like to retire to my own room, to bathe with what may be left of the hot water and attend to my toilette, then return these costumes to Marylou. Yours, too, Sterling. I think we've had enough of playacting.»
«You're returning the costumes? But why? I thought these clothes suited you down to the ground.»
«If the tailoring were better, perhaps. But possibly even not then. I wouldn't wish for Maggie to hear me, but modern clothing is immeasurably more comfortable. And, of course, everyone else will look the fool once I'm in my own impeccable wardrobe again.»
«Except Byrd Stockwell. He cuts a rather dashing figure, don't you think?»
«The robin? I can't say as I'd really noticed,» Saint Just said, avoiding Sterling's gaze. Because in truth, Byrd Stock-well annoyed him most thoroughly, even if he didn't want to believe the man's wardrobe and bearing had anything to do with that dislike. There was just something vaguely false about the man, and Saint Just knew he would feel more comfortable if the man wasn't in Armani while he was stuck in pantaloons and neck cloths, as if numbered with the actors.
Once refreshed and clad in black slacks and matching shirt, Saint Just went on the hunt for Maggie, who had been conspicuous only by her absence after telling him that Bernie was feeling poorly and that Tabby was still among the missing. As Dennis Lloyd also had not been seen since breakfast, this had come as no great surprise.
The cast had dispersed after a cold luncheon of meat and cheese, as Sir Rudy had suggested they all consider bringing blankets and pillows to the main saloon and prepare to spend the night sharing body heat—a suggestion that had been met with considerable derision and a snort or two from Evan Pottinger, who had said he'd much rather suffer hypothermia in his own room, thank you very much.
What a jolly gathering, one to which Saint Just would be more than happy to wave his farewells the moment the rain stopped, which it showed no signs of doing.
In the meantime, however, he would have liked a word or three with Sam Undercuffler, to take the fellow to task about his appalling lack of manners, and to point out to him that such boorish behavior toward Maggie would not be countenanced in the future. In other words, Saint Just planned to scare the clod spitless, which would serve to help him pass an enjoyable quarter hour.
But Sam Undercuffler hadn't been seen in the past several hours, not even appearing for supper, which had consisted of unhappy people… and more cold meat and cheese.
Indeed, most everyone seemed to have decided to give supper a skip, as most of the guests of Medwine Manor had bolted themselves in their rooms for the duration… doing Lord only knew what with Lord only knew whom.
Saint Just was only interested in Maggie.
So, after checking the empty study, the equally empty morning room, the likewise deserted main saloon, Saint Just climbed the stairs again, carrying a lovely silver candelabra that suited his mood as well as the architecture, and prepared to knock on Maggie's bedchamber door.
He heard music coming from under the door, which stilled his hand as he was about to knock. Music? But there was no electricity. Ah! Of course! Maggie's battery-powered CD player. Maggie could no more exist without music than she could breathe without air. And, when she wanted the world gone, she just turned the music louder.
Today, the music was blaring. Oh, dear.
Opening the door slowly, Saint Just smiled as, with the aid of several branches of candles lit around the room, he saw Maggie dancing to one of her favorite songs, Linda Eder's «Never Dance.»
She moved gracefully to the story within the song, of that night in Rio and the man she would never forget. Arms high above her head, Maggie's body told its own story as the pulsing beat throbbed through the room. Somehow happy, somehow sad. Never dance… never kiss… never love. And yet… feel the passion… the heat of desire. Just to dance again.