Chapter Eighteen #2
Disappointed, Rose shook her head, but Henry said, “Thank you,” and accepted one. As the server retreated, he bit into it—and then his eyes widened. He gave a cough and spit it out into his hand.
Rose clapped her hand over her mouth in shock, and she darted a quick look around to see if anyone had seen him. No one was looking their way.
“What are you doing?” she demanded in an undertone. She hadn’t known him to be so crass.
“The fish is nearly raw!” he hissed back in outrage. “Everyone will be ill!” He looked down at his cupped hand, appalled.
Rose laughed. She grabbed a tissue out of her purse and scooped up the half-eaten appetizer. Glancing around, she didn’t see a trash can, so she tossed the trash in her purse for the time being. Then she surreptitiously took out a packet of hand wipes and cleaned off his hand.
He frowned. “You should not have to clean up such a disgusting mess.”
Smiling, she waved off his concern. “I know you can’t stand to be dirty. Anyway, I don’t blame you. Rare tuna gives me the ick, too.”
“Are you saying they serve it that way on purpose?”
“Yeah, people like it, and it’s too fresh to make them sick.” She shrugged. “I’d rather have a hot dog any day.”
He recoiled. “You eat dogs?”
“No! I’ll explain later. How are you going to create a diversion?”
“With the appearance of a very famous guest. I know how people behave when a distinguished person arrives at a ball.” He looked slightly smug. “In fact, I have often been that distinguished person.”
Rose squinted at him. “Okay, but who?”
“No one. It’s going to be a ruse.” While she tried to understand that, he scanned the room again. “Still no sign of our host?”
Rose peered around, too, and then spotted Reuter. “He’s outside,” she murmured, pointing at the glass doors that led to the back terrace. She was breathing a little too quickly, from nervousness. At least the billionaire or billionaire-adjacent guy was engrossed in conversation with another man.
“Perfect. Follow my lead.” Henry strode back the way they’d come, and she hurried to keep up with him. He came to a sudden stop in the middle of the crowded foyer.
“Oh my Goddess!” he said in a baritone voice, loud enough to carry over the music and the crowd. He pointed out the front window. “She’s here!”
As the chatter and laughter abruptly stopped, two things flashed through Rose’s mind.
First, it was hilarious to hear Henry say, Oh my Goddess!
Second, nobody would ever believe this.
But as dozens of guests swiveled their heads in Henry’s direction, she realized she might be wrong about that second thing. In any case, there was no way to walk it back. She had to help sell it.
She clutched Henry’s arm and practically screamed, “That’s her car! Ahhh!” She bounced up and down, staring out the window. “I can’t believe she came!”
It was working. At least a couple dozen guests rushed back into the foyer. A woman came up to Rose, demanding, “Who is it?”
Henry interjected, nonsensically, “Yes, it’s her!”
The woman’s friend declared, “I’m livestreaming this!” She took out her phone and advanced toward the door.
More guests flooded the front hall. Rose heard one of them say the name of a very famous pop star, while another mentioned a media mogul with Chicago roots. The guests pushed past her and Henry toward the window.
Henry grabbed Rose’s hand and pulled her back into the rapidly emptying paneled room. The two guards didn’t seem to take notice of them as they abandoned their post. Whether they intended to keep an eye on the crowd or nab an autograph, they both drifted toward the foyer.
Yes!
Rose knew they only had a couple of moments, but it was all they needed. Henry took her hand in a firm grip and speed-walked toward the pocket doors. He slid one open, and after they darted through, he closed it silently behind them.
“Can I help you?” a male voice challenged them.
Rose jumped like a startled cat.
She looked up to see not Reuter, thank Goddess, but a man wearing a black apron over a white chef’s coat and black pants. As he approached them, a dozen cooks in the cavernous white kitchen looked up from their bowls, pans, and trays.
Oh no. Of course the kitchen would be busy. Why hadn’t they planned what to say?
“Mr. Reuter wishes me to inform you that his guest of honor is here,” Henry said, with a snap of authority in his voice that sent a spiral of excitement through Rose’s belly. He swept the kitchen and the staff with a haughty glance. “She will be taken on a tour of the house.”
“Okay,” the man said, wiping his hands on his apron. “Uh, who is it, again?”
“The one you were briefed about,” Henry said without missing a beat. For once, his talent for grouchiness was really coming in handy. He turned to Rose. “Let us make sure they are ready on the back terrace.”
Back terrace? Oh. There was another door on the other side of the kitchen. No one had to know they were going to sneak up the stairs.
Henry marched to the other end of the kitchen and she followed him, probably not quite matching his dignified bearing, though she tried.
Once Henry had shut the door behind them, Rose whispered, “You’re brilliant.” She remembered what Henry had said about boxing. “Was that a feint? Did we just do a feint?”
His dark eyes kindled with warmth. “I believe we did.”
Her heart hammered in her chest as they trotted up the stairs. At the top, she whispered, “Hang on.” She hiked up her dress to reach the signal jammer strapped to her thigh, feeling suddenly like a Bond girl. She clicked it and then straightened.
“Make a left, and then it’s the first on the right,” Henry muttered. They peeked into the guest bedroom, with gray walls and a grayish-plum comforter on the bed.
“That’s it,” Rose whispered. “It’s behind the nightstand.”
They went inside and Henry closed the door behind them.
In tandem, they moved to the nightstand, lifted it, and moved it back, because it would make more noise to push it across the floor.
Rose couldn’t help but notice that they worked together very well.
But that was probably just a coincidence, right?
Henry crouched in front of the painted wooden panel that looked like all the others surrounding the bottom half of the walls in the room. As Rose bent over him, he dragged his fingers along the wainscoting.
“Yes,” he murmured and swung the panel open.
It revealed an empty compartment. Henry felt around it, knocking on a couple of the sides, then swung the panel shut.
“Shit,” Rose whispered. Henry straightened and beckoned for her to help him move the nightstand back.
“Perhaps there is more than one secret compartment in this room,” he said in a low tone. “Let us check.”
He took one side of the room and she took the other. Several minutes later, they met in the middle, straightened, and looked at each other.
Henry went to the door and peered out, up and down the hallway. She was now feeling less like a character in a Bond movie and more like one from Scooby-Doo. Henry gestured for her to join him back in the hall, and once she did, she shut off the signal jammer.
She whispered, “It could be anywhere,” adding mentally, We’ll never find it. And she wasn’t even sure she wanted to.
But then she got an idea. “Remember what Jason said about people keeping their prized possessions close?”
“His bedroom,” Henry said. “According to the blueprint, it’s on this floor, on the westernmost side.”
As they headed that way, Rose peeked into the rooms that they passed: a personal arcade filled with vintage video games and pinball machines, just as Ryan had said; a bathroom with a marble floor and a chandelier; and another bedroom.
They went up the second flight of stairs, Rose looking wildly around them for any security guards. She activated the jammer again, and Henry opened the door.
“Boom,” Rose whispered.
Four huge columns surrounded the bed. On one side hung a round gilded mirror, maybe six feet in diameter, and on the other, a painting of a ship in another ornate, gleaming frame. A sofa and two chairs in a separate sitting area overlooked the garden.
“Panels,” Henry whispered, pointing to the lower third of the walls. “Let’s look.”
But this search for extra secret compartments was just as pointless as the first, leaving Rose feeling stupid and sweaty, one of her least favorite combinations.
“I hate this game,” she said.
Henry appeared undeterred. “Try the closet,” he said, pointing.
It was a room, really. As Henry upturned the mattress to look beneath and examined whether the mirror or the painting concealed a safe, Rose opened drawer after drawer of neatly folded T-shirts, boxer shorts, socks, and sweaters.
“Oh, astrolabe, where are you?” she singsonged under her breath.
Her phone in her crossbody purse vibrated. She wanted to ignore it, but what if it was Jason with important information? She unzipped the purse—then paused.
It wasn’t her phone. It was the moonstone in its little satin bag. And it wasn’t actually vibrating. It was just sending out some kind of energy she could feel. She wanted to find the astrolabe as soon as possible and try to use it…
Or maybe take it. After all, what were the odds that she’d get the spell to return Henry right on the first try?
Besides, it’s ours, a voice in her head insisted.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.