High Heels and Homicide (10 page)

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 pronunciation, 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.”

“Épées,” 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.”

Saint Just knew himself to be mean, but if Evan Pottinger wished to sacrifice himself as a target to ease a bit of the tension he felt, Saint Just wasn't going to naysay him. “How very droll. My lord Hervey, am I to consider your words a challenge? Or do you attempt only to amuse me?”

“Not a challenge. An insult, pretty boy, and an opportunity to employ this thing with the expertise it deserves.”

“Really? And how do you propose to do that, my lord Hervey? Hold the
thing
in both hands, then insult me to death?”

Byrd, whether sensing a fight or hoping to avoid one, retreated to Nikki's side once more, to watch from a distance.

“Hoo-boy, an old-fashioned pissing contest. Just what this night needed. You know, this is where I've always wanted to be able to twitch my nose and be somewhere else,” Maggie said, sighing. “Somebody says something dangerously stupid, and all I want is
out of here
. Alex, cool it, please. And Evan, old sport? Zip it. Trust me in this, you don't want to go there.”

Evan shot Maggie a hard look. “I do not recall applying for your advice, madam. Oblige me, if you will, and shut…up.”

“And now, good sir, you have passed beyond the pale, even though you've just parroted one of Hervey's best lines from Maggie's book. However, that said, surely you can't believe I will stand by while you verbally attack the lady,” Saint Just drawled, his pulses thrumming quite enjoyably, which Maggie had to know, for she had given him both his love of adventure and his appreciation for the ridiculous. And his cool, measured temper.

Evan struck a pose that Saint Just nearly suggested could use some more practice in front of the pier glass. “Show me a lady in this room, and I'll promise not to insult her. But I don't see any.”

“Oh, brother,” Maggie said, sinking into the chair behind her. “Here we go. Don't say you weren't warned.”

“Maggie?” Saint Just said, holding out his now-sheathed sword cane. “If you would be so kind as to take possession of this for me, as our own aspiring Viscount has just returned with what I believe are the imitations.”

“Props,” Maggie managed, grabbing the sword cane she'd told Saint Just, at least twice, she never wanted to see again, let alone touch, after his last use of such a contraption as a weapon. “They're called props. Are you two really going to fight?”

“Not at all, my dear,” Saint Just said, his gaze never leaving Evan Pottinger's face. “I promised Troy a lesson, but I am not averse to giving one to Evan here, as well. I'm magnanimous that way.”

Evan grabbed one of the sword canes from Troy and uncovered the ersatz blade. “We'll see who gives whom a lesson!
En garde
, you swine!”

Saint Just, careful to hide his amusement, stepped back a pace, then turned himself in a full circle, so that when he confronted Evan again it was with the tip of his unsheathed ersatz sword stick, which just happened to now rest an inch from Evan's Adam's apple.

“Wanna see that again,
Lord Hervey
?” Maggie asked, bouncing in her chair.

“Maggie,” Saint Just said, quietly maintaining his pose. “It's not polite to gloat. But you could applaud if the spirit so moves you.”

“Oh, splendid, Saint Just!” Sterling called out as he and Perry Posko clapped. “Sterling, did you see that?”

“I certainly did, Sterling,” Perry replied, still clapping.

“So cute! Tweedledum and Tweedledee come to England. Right down to their matching yellow waistcoats,” Maggie said, but also quietly.

“Now we've got two Sterlings? Who's on first?” Bernie asked, leaning over the back of the chair to ask Maggie her question. “And, after you tell me that, explain to me again why you haven't jumped Alex's bones by now.”

Saint Just, who'd heard the comments of both women, ignored both. Except for a small smile. He was, after all, at least for the past few months,
human
.

“You cheated!” Evan accused, pointing a shaking finger at Saint Just before he threw down both pieces of the sword cane rather like a child about to launch a tantrum.

“And you, Lord Hervey, are dead,” Saint Just said, neatly sliding the blade back into the cane he still held. “At least, theoretically. Lessons, dear Lord Hervey, Viscount Saint Just, begin at ten tomorrow, in Sir Rudy's study.”

“Yeah. Be there or be square,” Maggie said, getting to her feet. “God, that was fun. Better than television.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Troy said, frowning. “You said
Vee-count
. Isn't it
Viss-count
? Aren't I the
Viss-count
? I don't like that.
Vee-count
? That can't be right. Arnaud! Arnaud!”

Maggie went on tiptoe, to whisper in Saint Just's ear. “As exits go, I don't think you're going to be able to top this one, Alex. I'm betting we can get a flight out of here by tomorrow afternoon. You game?”

“I'm beginning to see the wisdom of the suggestion, yes. But—”

“But you don't want to give up showbiz. I know. Besides, I still have to kill Sam. I just saw the last scene, Alex. Remember the duel on the roof? Gone. All gone. Insurance squawked at it as too dangerous and threatened to pull coverage if Troy was put on the roof. Evan, I'm guessing, is more expendable, but I'm not the one who's going to tell him that.”

“So, where will the duel take place?”

Maggie grinned, one of those close-mouthed grins that boded no good, Saint Just was sure. “Oh, you're going to love this. In Marianne's bedroom, so our Nikki can be in the scene, sitting up in bed, sheets drawn up
almost
completely over her breasts as she shrieks at appropriate moments and gets her face time. That's big, Alex. She's got to get a minimum of five close-ups or they're in violation of her contract.”

“You're fashioning this charade out of whole cloth simply to depress me, aren't you?”

“No. Oh, no. I'm not fibbing. Fight, fight, Nikki screams, close-up, fight, fight, fight, Nikki yells, ‘No! Don't kill him!' Fight, fight, fight. Saint Just and Lord Hervey go chin to chin with the swords crossed between them and curse at each other—standard stupid swordfight shot. Close-up, close-up, push away, fight, fight. Etcetera. Then Lord Hervey grabs Nikki, who almost but not quite loses the sheet, and holds her as a shield as he backs toward the door.”