Hot and Steamy (34 page)

Christopher turned to her. The firelight glowed on her perfectly sculpted, copper face, glittering along its graceful curves. Her blue, porcelain eyes shone, and the ribbon of her lips reflected the love of her creator.

He reached out and took her hand. Hinged, metallic fingers intertwined.

Climbing to his feet, Christopher took Ellie in his arms. He looked into her eyes and raised a hand to her lovely cheek. The gentle whir of the reason engine's discs purred beneath his palm, and Ellie inclined her head, ever so slightly.

“You'll stay with me?” Christopher asked.

“Of course, Christopher,” Ellie answered.

Together, hand in hand, they disappeared into the darkness.

J
ohnny flopped onto the blue leather chaise, gingerly holding a flannel ice pack to the left side of his face. The cool flannel formed to the cuts expertly stitched by Tom, his multitomaton butler.

“I should have just thrown him out.” Johnny spoke to the bust of Molière peering down from his perch on ornate bookcase. Rolling his good eye away from the smirking marble face, Johnny glared at the white mock ribs of the blue ship keel ceiling. “Sure old man, you'd find humor in this situation, but Syd is going to kill me.” He closed his eyes. “Like I said, I should have just thrown Cheeky out instead of punching him for wagging his pow.”

There was a soft scrape of the heavy mahogany door on the plush Karabagh rug, followed by the gentle hiss of well oiled joints moving. “The dirigibles carrying our guests are now visible. The ground crew is in heliographic communication with them. Lady Espear is in the lead and shall be landing in a quarter of an hour. Will you go out and greet her?” Tom's expressive brass eyebrows moved fluidly; he'd never been able to keep them as noncommittal as the rest of his copper countenance.

Johnny dropped the ice pack onto the silver butler's tray next to him. Looking out the door to his library table covered in material only twenty-four hours ago he'd been anxious to share with Sydney, he screwed up his face in disgust.

“Dammit, Tom! Why am I such a shortsighted sod?” Johnny stood and stomped over to the window that looked over his estate. He slammed a button on the wall with his palm. The linen shades dropped, diffusing the light. No one could see in without pressing their face to the glass.

“Sir, what you did was a chivalrous act—defending the honor of Lady Sydney from the disparagements of Sir Cheekbalm. I understand from your other guests you gave him a chance to retract such unpleasant innuendoes, but the man didn't take your gracious offer.” Tom picked up the ice pack and emptied it into a champagne cooler. He lifted the lid to the ice bucket, picked up large chunks of ice, and crushed them to snow allowing it to fall into the pack.

“Thanks for your unwavering support, Tom. I should have only thrown him out and not let it get to fisticuffs.” Johnny angrily shoved his desk chair out of the way as he watched the landing field from the window. “No, I won't meet her out there. I think it best she get the shock in private before we explain it to the guests. Show her here.” He took the refreshed pack and collapsed on the chaise. “I am NOT letting her know what vile gossip a drunkard spewed about her. I'll just have to skirt the truth as best I can and deal with my appearance rather than the cause of it.”

“Very well, sir, I shall convey her directly from the landing green.” Tom exited with a quiet whirl of cogs punctuated by the click of the door.

The dirigibles circled the estate in large lazy ovals awaiting their turn to land on the south terrace. Lady Sydney Espear was the first to disembark.

“Good morning, Tom!” Sydney approached the butler in wide confident strides. “Where's Mr. Johnny?”

Tom's brass eyebrows lifted with a soft swish. “Mr. Johnny would like to speak to you in his office while I tend to our guests.” He proffered his arm to escort her up the broad stairs and deftly guided her across the terrace and into the library. One brass eye clicked in a conspiratorial wink before he departed into the wisteria shade of the terrace once again.

“So that's it.” Lady Sydney sighed heavily, pulled off her ostrich leather gloves, and slapped them across her palm before grasping the door to Johnny's private office. Her eyes landed on the knife-carrying friar panel in the door. “You men and your drinking . . . even when in the service of God!”

As she entered, ready to bluster at Johnny for getting into his cups, her words were cut short upon seeing his face. It was framed by the familiar parenthesis of black hair, but the left side was swollen. It bore multihued bruises and stitched cuts. He raised a flannel bag in apologetic greeting.

“Syd, I'm so sorry. I've been trying to ice it to keep it to a minimum.” He shrugged. “I'm not sure it's working.”

Tossing her gloves onto the sofa, Sydney rushed to sit on the ottoman next to him. “Johnny, what happened?” She proffered her hand to his cheek, but he waved her away, taking her slender hand in his.

“Let's just say I fell while playing cards last night and leave it at that.” He squeezed her hand before letting it go. “I'm sorry this happened just as you bring society to my door. I was on the verge of being acceptable again due to your efforts.”

“It seems I'm doing the job of Sisyphus.” She leaned back, removing her wide brimmed hat. After sticking the gray pearl tipped hat pin into it, she tossed it onto the sofa next to her gloves. “So was anyone else injured in this fall?”

“Lord Cheekbalm sends his sincere regrets that he will be unable to attend.” Johnny did his distinctive head tilt and grinned, flashing his gold teeth.

“Oh Johnny, if you weren't such an excellent investigative partner I'd not try to reform you.” She heaved herself up from the ottoman. “I'm glad you didn't attempt to greet the guests looking like this.” She removed her ostrich leather coat and tossed it onto her hat without noticing it crushed the black egret feathers. Her traveling suit was the usual dark heather gray to match her eyes.

“I'm so grateful for your attempts at reformation and pledge to be a better pernor of your efforts.”

He put the compress back to his face. “You look lovely today. Perhaps your radiance shall make my deficiencies less noticeable.”

“At least you're contrite. But flattery won't get you out this mess; we need to offer something more plausible than a fall.” Sydney walked over to the long window facing the landing green. “The guests are busy being shown to their suites, and that will distract them for now. So tell me, was Cheeky's fall worse than yours?”

“I certainly hope so, considering he's got thirty years on me. Syd, as I said I deeply regret this and will do anything you say to make amends and improve the situation.”

Her heels clicked on the Italian tile as she paced off the edge of the carpet. “What started all this?”

“I'd really rather not say. It's offensive to even think about. Let's just move forward from this unfortunate lapse, shall we?”

Taking his seat behind the large desk she pulled out a sheet of paper, then drew the pen from its inkwell. “Very well, either you had a misadventure exploring or a riding mishap; which shall it be?” The nib began making soft scratching sounds on the paper as she wrote.

“I like the misadventure. I'll inform Tom and we'll go from there.” He went to the brass call plate behind his desk and pushed the butler call. “What are you writing?”

“Your apology note to Cheeky.” Sydney said without looking up. “You will copy it into your own hand and have it delivered to him. He's to understand that you regret the events that led to his unfortunate riding accident and extend him an open invitation to enjoy the hospitality of the Plebeman estate once he is well.”

“I won't do that. He's no longer welcome here or anywhere that I have a say.” Johnny tossed the ice pack onto the desk with a clatter. “He deserved what was dealt to him and a great deal more in my opinion.”

Sydney rolled back in the large desk chair. “You just promised full cooperation and then refuse the second thing I request.”

“Look, Syd, I did a wrong thing for a right reason.” The door to the office opened and Tom entered. “I won't say what went on because I—I just won't.” He looked away from her piercing gaze. “I'll tell my guests I was injured performing a preliminary investigation of the Bell Witch. I'll be charming, sober, and restrained—the perfect host reentering society. I'll write Cheeky offering best wishes on his healing from his riding accident, but I'll warn him not to forget that horses will buck under ungracious masters.” Johnny turned and looked at his beautiful best friend. “I will not extend an invitation to that rude, barbaric churl of a man. I'm yours to mold except in apologizing to Cheeky. That's the only limitation, really.”

Tom's head turned in several jerky movements while his brass eyebrows raised then settled into his normal expression. “I too am here to serve and make this fete as enjoyable as possible for all.”

Sydney sighed and shoved the pen back into the well. “Then injury from misadventure it is. You shall pen a letter to Cheeky letting him know discreetly and extending my regret that he's unable to attend because of his unfortunate encounter with an ass.” She looked curtly at Johnny.

“Very well put. I couldn't have said it better myself.” Johnny smiled roguishly.

“You will not drink beyond what is socially expected during this week. You will turn into your room at an early but polite hour. You will not call Mr. Pickney Pinky. He detests that! You will reenter society repentant and gracious. I require it because doing so will facilitate connections to improve our investigations. Once those who hold esoteric objects trust you to not pawn them or lose them in a bet then they will share them with us to study.” She strode to the door with purpose. “I will show myself to my room. Tom, see that Johnny is presentable and on the loggia at three for tea.”

“Yes m'am!” both replied as she made her exit.

That evening Johnny tugged at his waistcoat and longed for a good Irish whiskey as Mrs. Pompenroy prattled on about how wonderful it was he'd finally grown up. The side of his mouth was becoming raw from biting it to keep from offering what was truly on his mind at the asinine comments he'd endured since tea on the loggia.

The only respite from the tedium had been when it was time to change clothes. The selections had been left to Tom. He now stood in a cutaway jacket made of the same black gabardine as his trousers. The shawl lapels and the detail down the trouser leg were black matte satin. The V faced waist coat and all too snug small bow tie were an ivory blend of silk and linen. He flexed his toes against the point of new black oxfords and pondered what pointy-toed fool designed the damn things. To top off his total discomfort, his hair was pomaded heavily to keep it from falling forward as it was prone to do. He pulled at his diamond cufflinks to keep them from poking his wrists. When he'd voice a complaint about any of this Tom would play the recording of Sydney's voice saying, “Tom, see that Johnny is presentable.”

He watched Sydney descend the main stairs on Dr. Chickering's arm. The crowd followed her as she glided with the dashing doctor onto the temporary dance floor that had been installed in the winter garden. He selected a cup of punch from the tray of a passing footman. The music started as the lights dimmed, allowing the full moon's light to stream in the octagonal dome over the dance floor. Johnny pursed his lips noting that Chickering's hand was too low on Sydney's waist. Her midnight blue gown glimmered in the light—tones of blue with twinkles of sliver thread. She expertly managed her train to make it appear she was effortlessly floating in the man's arms.

“They do make a handsome couple.” Anson Wet-more had sauntered over to Johnny's left. “Everyone on the dance floor will imagine themselves looking so fine.”

“Eh, she can make any bloke look good.” Johnny sipped his punch and made a face at the sticky sweetness of it.

“That's true,” Anson said. The Jamaican shipping magnet looked dapper in his white tie with the dark red embroidered waist coat. “Speaking of looking good, you look like a miscreant lapdog groomed within an inch of his life.”

“That's how I feel.” Johnny motioned over a footman and returned the punch cup. “My head is pounding and my stomach is unsettled from all the polite crap I've been choking down.”

“Surely she understands you were defending her honor. The man was disgusting. Anyone who knows Sydney knows she's a fine lady.” Anson turned to face his friend, “She treats everyone with the best of manners, except those zombies she got with that Phoenix feather flame thrower you made.” He smiled, his white teeth sparkling, “Whew, I'll never forget her covered in mud wearing my brother's old riding suit while torching those poor buffers.”

“Even in men's clothes and covered in swamp muck she can cut a striking figure. You should have seen her using the stake gun in Transylvania catching vampires on the wing. That woman is one hell of a shot.”