Chapter 5 The Plan
THE PLAN
“What can I get you to drink, Miss Dupree?” Fitzgibbons asked after Battle led me to a seat, I sank down into it, and Fitzgibbons had retrieved my bag and returned it to me.
“Please call me Vivienne, or Viv, or Vivi,” I invited.
He smiled. “What can I get you to drink, Miss Vivienne?”
I guessed that would have to work.
“Amaretto sour, if you have it?”
“We have everything,” he murmured and stepped away.
When he did, I took the opportunity to look around the room.
Unlike the blue salon (but a lot like the warm woods, leather furniture and bookcases filled with books of the study), this parlor eschewed any creamy creams or light colors and was done in tones of plum.
It was also the smallest room I’d been in, it trended toward the vintage side of the modern/antique aesthetic the rest of the place had going on, and it had a lot of seating.
Primarily, two Regency armchairs (four in all, a coupling at each end) upholstered in a mulberry shade flanking two Duncan Phyfe sofas upholstered in raisin were arranged around an oblong, cherrywood coffee table.
Battle had deposited me in a chair.
Prudence and Chastity took a sofa.
Temperance sat dead center of the other sofa.
Which meant, when Battle returned from working with Fitzgibbons at the drinks cabinet, he gave me my beverage and sat in the chair beside me.
He could have forced himself next to Temperance, it wouldn’t have been tough, there was plenty of room, or he could have settled in one of the two chairs opposite me. They weren’t that far away.
But nooooooo.
He sat beside me.
Maybe it was because Bartholomew had settled on his belly between our two seats.
But I didn’t think so.
“I’ll go ask Cook how dinner is progressing,” Fitzgibbons said while exiting the room.
“Thank you, Fitzy,” Temperance called after him.
Prudence clapped her hands, and everyone looked to her.
But she was looking at me. “Did you two sort everything?”
“It’s all good,” I assured her.
“Told you Battie would be a pushover when it came down to it,” Prudence replied.
I wouldn’t call him a pushover, but I didn’t share that.
I said, “Your dress is freaking amazing.”
When I finished uttering those words, her whole body froze, not to mention, the air in the room went static, though I felt some pretty extreme heat flowing from Battle toward me.
But…
Oh my God.
Did I somehow put my foot in it?
“I didn’t mean—” I began.
Prudence spoke over me. “You really think so?”
I was confused.
“Well, of course. Don’t you like it?” I tried a smile. “I mean, you’re wearing it.”
“I love it,” she said like it was an admission.
“You should. It’s fabulous,” I stated.
“It’s weird,” she replied before adding, “I have weird taste.”
What Battle shared earlier about Prudence being bullied came to me, my anger at learning this refreshed, and it drove me to speak.
“I don’t know what weird is,” I returned. “I’m sure some could say Vivienne Westwood is weird, but there are few with any true knowledge of fashion who would agree. The same with Alexander McQueen, God rest his soul. John Galliano. Jean-Paul Gaultier. Would you call any of them weird?”
“Well, no.” Another admission from Prudence.
“And one could say that the costume designers who dress Sarah Jessica Parker put her in some pretty extreme getups, but she pulls them off, because they might be extreme, but they’re awesome. Do you like Sex in the City?”
“I haven’t watched it, but I know what you mean,” Prudence said.
I took a sip of my drink then brandished it while concluding, “Therefore, weird is in the eye of the judgy, bitchy, fashion-ignorant beholder, wouldn’t you agree?”
A small smile played at her lips. “Yes, I’d agree.”
“But also, it takes some courage to like what you like and not worry about what other people think about it. Though, mostly, if they have something to say, it’s probably because they’re jealous they don’t have the guts to be who they are and let that show, not giving a stitch what others might think, which takes some seriously strong ovaries to pull off, something you do effortlessly. Am I wrong?”
“I-I don’t think so, no,” Prudence stammered.
“I’m not,” I affirmed and looked around the room, but avoided Battle when I did so, and not only because of the question I asked. “So we can all agree Prudence’s dress is fantastic?”
“I already told her that, but she never listens to me,” Temperance said.
“I told you that too,” Chastity whisper-spoke directly to Prudence.
“You’re my sisters. You’re supposed to say nice things to me,” Prudence replied.
“Not true,” I stated. “A real sister, blood or otherwise, will lay it out for you. What she won’t do is say something that would make you feel you have to hide your light under a bushel.
What you wear might not be their tastes, but does that mean, since what they’re wearing isn’t yours, you don’t like what they’re wearing? ”
“They always look lovely,” Prudence asserted.
“And I’m sure, so do you,” I returned. “At least, that’s what I’ve noticed about you.”
“Thanks, Vivi,” Prudence said shyly.
Glances were being exchanged, so I chanced one at Battle to see he wasn’t participating in this.
He seemed deep in the study of what appeared to be a G&T.
He only looked up when Chastity unusually took the reins of the conversation, and her whisper was slightly louder when she lifted what appeared to be a daiquiri and announced, “I think now we should toast our guest and officially welcome her to our home.”
“Hear, hear!” Prudence exclaimed, lifting what appeared to be an old fashioned.
Temperance just tilted her glass to me.
Battle did the same, but then he took his sip with his eyes aimed over the rim right at me, a move that was seriously damned sexy, and he knew it.
Instead of throwing my drink at him, I said to the room, “Thank you. I’m really looking forward to my visit with all of you.”
“And we are going to have so much fun,” Prudence decreed.
Well, she and I probably were.
The rest…we’d see.
Everyone sipped.
“Battie, before you and Vivienne made your dramatic appearance,” Temperance changed the subject in a manner I was coming to realize she was wont to utilize, “Prudence was discussing the attics with us.”
“Mm?” Battle hummed, a sound that was like a physical touch to me, and seriously…
Why couldn’t the man have sat across the coffee table, damn it?
“She thinks, while Vivienne is here, we might want to tackle that project,” Temperance went on. “And by ‘we,’ I wish it to be clear, I do not mean me.”
I was about to get fidgety, because if the attics were a mess and I was helping change that status, I wouldn’t be able to have my nose in Talyn family papers.
“Not to be presumptuous or anything,” Prudence said quickly to me.
“Just that, you know a lot about history. Even fabrics, fixtures and furnishings. You describe them so perfectly in your books.” She turned her attention to Battle.
“I’m sure there are many things of worth up there that we’ll never use.
But, sitting up there, collecting dust, it’s not doing anyone any good.
” She came back to me. “So I thought you could have a glance at it, not go through it or tidy it or anything. That’ll be my job. But just to confirm I’m right.”
“And if you’re right?” I asked.
“Then you can help me figure out what’s next,” she answered. “An auctioneer or a curator of a museum or something.”
“That is, if you’ll let us sell it, Battie,” Chastity whisper-added.
“I’d put the lot on the curb for anyone driving by to take what they wanted if it was my choice,” Battle said into his glass before taking a drink.
“Oh no, Battie!” Prudence chirped. “Not if we can make money for our charities, or for The Fund, or donate pieces a museum might want.”
Battle turned to his sister and said in a loving tone I’d not heard before, and was uncertain whether I wished I still hadn’t, or wanted to hear it for a lifetime.
“In other words, sweetheart, whatever you want to do, do it.”
Prudence clapped again as she jumped in her seat. “Thanks, Battie.”
“Just to reiterate, I will, of course,” Temperance began while flourishing a nearly empty martini glass that had three fat olives on a silver pick rolling around in it, “be nowhere near this escapade involving junk, dust mites, and more than likely, mice.”
“We can’t live in a house with cats and have mice, Tempie,” Chastity whisper-contradicted.
Temperance graced her youngest sister with a sly smile. “I’m not taking chances, dear.”
Prudence and Chastity’s attention went to the door at this point, so we all looked that way to see Fitzgibbons standing in it.
“Cook says dinner is ready when you are,” he announced.
“Drink up, I’m famished,” Temperance ordered as she sucked back the tail end of her martini and put the glass on the coffee table.
“You can take yours with,” Prudence told me.
“Thanks,” I replied, rising from my seat.
I made note of where Bartholomew was and scanned for any errant felines before I turned and witnessed, what seemed crazily, the three Talyn sisters rushing to the door.
Of course, Temperance did it while sashaying, but she was still rushing.
Boy, they must be hungry.
Then again, I was the only one who went for seconds on the scones.
This meant two unfortunate things occurred next.
One, Battle offered me his arm (likely not wanting me tripped or to swoon again), and so I wouldn’t appear ungracious, I was forced to take it.
And two happened when we walked next door, to a dining room papered in gold damask with cream wainscotting and a large, oval, luscious African mahogany table dressed in a stunning candelabra, the candles flickering, more beautiful but unique floral arrangements, and five place settings of crystal, fine china and silver cutlery cuddled at one end.
This wasn’t what was unfortunate.