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.»
Saint Just was appalled. Truly appalled. The sword fight with Lord Hervey had been an inspiration, quite the highlight of the book. «He escapes? He doesn't die?»
«Oh, yeah, he sure does escape. But first Saint Just makes a stab at getting him, by reaching down and pulling on the sheet that's dragging on the floor and—»
«Why on earth would I do any such thing?»
«Not you, the Viscount—and keep your voice down. I'm explaining here. You—he—pulls on the sheet, which only serves to bare Nikki's naked body—we don't see that, but we do hear her shriek—while the camera zooms in on Saint Just, who says something like, 'Ah, well, I'll get him next time,' before he tosses the sheet and his weapon aside, and begins unbuttoning his shirt. Fade to black, the end. So? Ready to vomit yet?»
Saint Just searched his mind for words, something to say that would express what he felt, and came up with, «They can't do that.»
«Oh, yes, they can—or maybe you haven't noticed the steam that's been coming out of my ears for the past hour. Sam's going to write the sequel, a completely new story with the same cast, and if that works, then they'll use the rest of our books to launch a series with interchangeable villains.»
«Lord Hervey is finally apprehended?»
«In the sequel, yes. Sam says so. Villains are a dime a dozen. It's Troy and Nikki they want to hold on to.»
«Good God, why?»
«Who cares? And it's all in my contract, so once I'm done killing Sam—just on general principles because he refuses to believe facts have anything at all to do with good fiction—I'm going to kill Tabby. And then I am going home, whether you go with me or not. I mean, if I want abuse, I can visit my mother. At least then I can go up on the boardwalk and get more chocolate fudge.»