Chapter Twenty-Four
Jack took the stairs. The orchestra was beginning to play Schubert.
He paused at the fountain, feeling the slightest bit of mist hit the skin at his wrists.
It helped to take the heat off, and he took a glass of water from a passing tray, but it was more of a prop. He sipped it to have something to do.
What had he even been hoping would happen up there in the closet?
As if his and Cora’s history wasn’t tangled and thorny enough.
The last thing he needed to do was add another layer of complication.
But he could still smell the scent of honeysuckle.
The feel of her waist beneath his hands.
How fiercely he had wanted to pull her to him and kiss her lips, her neck. …
He took another sip of water, forcing his mind to the task at hand.
He had several jobs to do tonight, and he couldn’t be caught in this strange, disorienting fog.
He ordered a cupcake for himself, and, in a moment of optimism, for Florence.
The icing was whipped and airy, and the taste of strawberry bloomed in his mouth.
Exactly at the strike of nine, she appeared. Florence was dressed in a tartan kilt and tie, with a calfskin sporran slung around her hips. She nodded at him across the room and tellingly drained her martini glass in one slug.
“You look lovely,” he said, approaching her. “Mary, Queen of Scots?” he guessed.
“I’m J. M. Barrie,” she said. “And your flattery will get you nowhere.”
“Will this, then?” He offered her a flute of champagne and the cupcake. He was immensely grateful to her—for giving him a tour or for providing an effective distraction from Cora, he wasn’t sure which.
Florence raised the cupcake to her nose, sniffed, and then took a bite. “It’s like the seventh circle of hell in here.”
“The cupcake, though.…” Jack said.
She acquiesced. “The cupcake is divine. A cloud constructed of strawberry. I wish I could live in it.”
“If anyone could figure out how to do such a thing.…”
They leaned back against the wall of nasturtiums, observing the party in comfortable silence.
“Why did Truman want a separate ballroom set apart from the main house?” Jack asked. “It seems like a lot of trouble.”
She harrumphed. “Why does Truman do anything?” she asked. “It was beautiful, and it creates drama. There’s an indoor pool beneath us; did you know that? With the added bonus that it made my life more difficult.”
He smiled, crumpling his napkin in his fist. It was then that he noticed the eagle on it, emblazoned in gold.
“Shall we start in the main house, then?” he asked.
She took another flute of champagne from a passing tray and adjusted her sporran. “I’ll lead the way.”
Clementine loved the way the toga slipped around her golden legs like poured cream.
She ordered a Clementine, her signature drink—gin, lemon juice, orange blossom, and local honey—and by the time she’d finished it, she felt a pleasant buzz.
The lights had dimmed, the alcohol had set in.
She moved through the leafy aisles, smelling the verdant ferns, feeling their waxy fronds beneath her fingers.
Beau sauntered toward her as the orchestra music swelled. He was dressed as King Arthur, his chest swathed in a mesh of chain, his skin golden from their day riding in the sun. He had told her all about his childhood during their ride. How he’d wanted to be a concert pianist, or a sea captain.
“I heard that Albert Boyle is looking to cast his new musical soon,” Beau murmured suggestively, sipping his drink, in a voice just loud enough for only her to hear.
She turned toward him, interested. “Can you sing and dance, Beaumont?”
Beau arched his eyebrows with a look of mock offense, and she laughed.
She’d enjoyed the ride with him that afternoon, unexpectedly alone on the vistas.
She’d told him about growing up in Florida; her mother’s endless disapproval; and how her older brother had taught her how to play the fiddle.
She couldn’t help but notice the way his hair caught the sunlight, his laugh quick and full.
“Shall we show Mr. Boyle what he could have?” she asked now.
He led her to the very center of the ballroom and made a show of clearing his throat and offering her his hand.
The orchestra conductor peered over the balcony at them, baton raised.
The room seemed to dim further in the storm, and she noticed how Beau smelled so different than Truman. Cloves, and cinnamon.
She took Beau’s offered hand and felt the chemistry crackling through her body like lightning. He whispered “Not to make you nervous, but Albert’s watching.”
“I hope you’re as good as you think, then,” she said. As if her body wasn’t practically trembling to be near him.
“You’ll have to let me know,” he murmured, and the orchestra shifted into a ballroom waltz for them.
He took her around the waist, his large hand making her feel impossibly light, and looked deep into her eyes.
She couldn’t tell whether he was merely selling the part for Albert, or whether it was real.
“You’re not half bad,” he said, sending her out for a twirl.
She felt her toga sway when he dipped her, and she leaned into it, showing the white expanse of her throat.
She loved dancing; but the more fascinated Truman became with his political career, the more photographers he began to invite to the parties.
Which meant they were forced to stay apart, never quite touching.
Not a hint of impropriety. She was vaguely aware that a small crowd was forming along the edge of the ferns, crowning them in a circle.
She did not let herself look up at Truman, but she could imagine him standing with arms crossed.
Watching; a carefully masked expression on his face.
The way Beau was dancing with her, he either truly didn’t know she was with Truman or he didn’t care.
It emboldened her. His hand grazed her stomach when he twirled her, and at his touch her insides felt as though she were falling from a great height.
She had never been able to be with Truman the way she wanted.
Never in public like this. Or with anyone else, either.
For a moment, she let herself go.
The orchestra played along, leading them into a song that was buoyant and peppy.
They seamlessly transitioned to a tap dance.
Clementine did it in her heels, flashing some leg as she mirrored Beau’s lead and did the Charleston.
She kept in perfect step with him, laughing at the cheers that sounded, the eruption of thunderous clapping.
They turned and faced the crowd, bowing together, her chest heaving from breathless exertion.
The bulbs flashed again as she reached out and coyly straightened the crown on his head, and he looked like he could eat her.
When she finally turned to face him, Truman was staring at her across the room.
Albert was laughing, clapping him obnoxiously on the arm.
She could sense the flare of his emotions in the heated expression on his face, the telltale clench in his jaw.
She had only ever seen him that way after being with Mabel.
The thought gave her immense satisfaction.
She forced herself to walk away from Beau so as not to prolong the moment, her heart thundering in her chest. Wondering if, in Truman’s eyes, she had just gone too far.
Wondering if, in her own, she even cared.
Cora set up a tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries in the upstairs bedroom. Being with Jack had set her feeling off-balance. She felt like she was fifteen again, awkward and unsure. Wanting something she could never, ever have.
Her body still felt flushed and aching with longing.
She hadn’t fully realized how much she actually wanted to trust someone.
Enough to be vulnerable and to show them the very depths of herself.
She had no partner in work, no partner in life.
Instead, she was always alone, outsmarting people, deceiving them.
Keeping them at arm’s length. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to become a private investigator merely to try to reset the balance of her life, but because it allowed her to pretend to be anyone but herself.
She hadn’t anticipated how little relief it would be, playing a role when no one in the world knew who she truly was.
She pulled a ring of keys from her pocket. Then she closed the door behind her and turned into the hallway.
A sudden burst of cheering and clapping set her leaning over the stone railing to observe.
Clementine and Beau were dancing together, and Clem’s toga was slit so that when Beau twirled her, it unfolded in a sensuous fan, then back to embrace her thighs.
Cora stole a glimpse at Truman’s face. He looked irritated, a flush creeping up from his toga.
Albert was slapping him on the back, laughing, which only seemed to incense Truman more.
For a man who usually hid his emotions, this was a stunning admission.
Her hopes were beginning to revive again. Tonight would work. She would call Mabel triumphant.
She turned at the soft sound of footsteps just behind her.
“You’ve got to stop sneaking up on—” she started to say, but the words died on her lips when the man stepped forward. It wasn’t Jack, in his white wig and velvet suitcoat.
It was Albert Boyle.
A slight chill hit her veins. She glanced across the open expanse of the dance floor to the other side of the balcony, where the orchestra was playing too far away to be of help.
The rest of the party was downstairs, taking to the dance floor.
No one seemed to notice her and Albert in the shadows. She swallowed.
“Can I help you, Mr. Boyle?” she asked. She took a step backward and slipped the blade of the key between two of her fingers.
“Where is he?” Albert asked. He was smiling—pleasant, even—but she could smell the alcohol on his breath.