by Jen Turano
“While I would truly enjoy discussing why we’re currently in a position to be done for in the first place,” Permilia began, “we’re far from being out of danger.”
As if to testify that was exactly the case, the doorknob took that moment to begin rattling.
“Too right you are,” Mrs. Davenport said. “May I dare hope that you have some sort of plan to see us safely away from here?”
Looking around the room, Permilia headed for a pair of thick brocade drapes that had been pulled closed, flinging them open a second later. Pressing her nose to the glass, she released a sigh before she turned and caught Mrs. Davenport’s eye. “I’m afraid, seeing as how we are on the second floor, that we’d be falling to our certain deaths on those artfully placed boulders right below if we try to make an escape out the window.”
“There’s no handy tree we can use?”
“I’m fairly sure those handy trees young ladies constantly seem to have handy are only available in the pages of novels, Mrs. Davenport. From here there is not a single tree to be seen, and since there’s no bed in this room, we don’t even have linens to use to make a rope and climb out of here.”
Mrs. Davenport shook her head. “Which is truly unfortunate, as bed linens have aided me more than a few times over the years when I’ve gotten in a few . . . pickles.”
“And while I’m fairly certain those pickles would make for some fascinating stories, I’m afraid now is not the time. Although”—Permilia nodded to the stuffed reticule Mrs. Davenport was clinging to in a most telling way—“perhaps now, as I search for another way out of here, would be the perfect time for you to . . . return to their proper places whatever the contents may be of your bag.”
To Permilia’s surprise, Mrs. Davenport, instead of looking even the slightest bit guilty, sent a rather knowing smile Permilia’s way. “I would be more than happy to do just that as soon as you disclose to me what you have residing in your muff.”
A determined rattling of the door saved Permilia any response to that concerning statement. “Maybe the prudent option at this particular moment is to agree to save the sharing of our respective mysteries for a more appropriate time.”
“I thought you might say something like that,” Mrs. Davenport said a touch smugly before she moved into motion, hustled to the opposite side of the room, and then pulled open another set of drapes, but drapes that were not concealing a window.
Instead, a large rectangular box set into the wall met Permilia’s gaze, a sight that had her striding across the room to get a closer look.
“Is that a . . . dumbwaiter?” she asked, glancing to Mrs. Davenport.
“It is.”
“How did you know that was here?”
Mrs. Davenport blinked innocent eyes back at her. “Sheer luck, I would imagine.”
“I highly doubt that, but . . .” Permilia moved to the dumbwaiter, flipped open the latch, shoved the dumbwaiter’s door up, and found herself, thankfully, looking at a remarkably large space, quite larger than she’d been expecting to find.
“I imagine Mr. Vanderbilt had that made overly large in order to accommodate all of the treasures he likes to inspect in the room adjacent to this one,” Mrs. Davenport said with yet another blink of innocent eyes. “And isn’t it oh-so-fortunate that someone left the dumbwaiter available on this floor because . . . well, that would have been tricky if we’d have had to climb down those ropes instead of hopping into the storage compartment.”
“I’m going to simply agree with you that it’s a fortunate circumstance indeed to find this dumbwaiter ready and waiting for us, because”—Permilia shuddered—“the alternative to that is rather frightening to consider, especially since I have the distinct feeling you had something to do with the dumbwaiter being so readily available. But enough about that. In you go, Mrs. Davenport.”
Pretending not to see the additional batting of innocent lashes coming from Mrs. Davenport, Permilia practically shoved the woman into the dumbwaiter, following her a second later.
It was not a comfortable fit, but before she had a chance to rearrange herself, the door burst open and a gentleman fell into the room.
She reached and pulled the door down, barely managing to squeeze her foot into the space she now occupied before the door shut completely, realizing a second later that she’d somehow managed to leave one of her shoes behind.
Knowing it was completely ridiculous to bemoan the loss of a shoe, even if it was a one-of-a-kind piece, Permilia pushed aside the urge to reopen the door and grab up her shoe, knowing her time would be better spent figuring out how to get the dumbwaiter to move.
“I found a lever here,” Mrs. Davenport said, and before Permilia could do more than draw in a quick breath, they were falling.
Chapter
Nine
Having truly never considered that she might breathe her last breath while stuffed into a dumbwaiter, Permilia closed her eyes and saw her entire life pass before her, a life that she certainly hadn’t enjoyed as much as she should the past few years.
Whispering a brief prayer, not asking for help but more along the lines of asking for forgiveness for not enjoying the life she’d been given of late, she stopped mid-prayer when she realized the dumbwaiter was not plummeting downward, but was instead inching along inch by creaking inch.
“I think Mr. Vanderbilt might need to consider investing in a good can of oil,” Mrs. Davenport said right as they came to a shuddering halt and the door opened with a loud squeak.
Permilia couldn’t actually say who was more surprised—the staff member dressed in maroon Vanderbilt livery who was gawking back at her once the door was fully open, or her as she realized they’d been deposited in a far corner of the kitchen—not exactly a place one wanted to be deposited in the midst of a ball, and especially not a place one wanted to be deposited in when one was trying to be . . . discreet.
“Ah, I knew that would be a most thrilling adventure,” Mrs. Davenport exclaimed. “Although I’m not certain I should have taken darling Willie’s dare to try out his dumbwaiter in such a way.” She released a delightful laugh. “Would you be a dear, my good man, and help us out of here? I daresay we weren’t expecting to be so cramped on our wild ride in Willie’s delightful dumbwaiter.”
The man peered back at them with one brow raised. “Mr. Vanderbilt encouraged you to get in the dumbwaiter as if it were a steam elevator?”
“You don’t honestly believe that two ladies would have come up with such a harebrained idea on their own, do you?” Mrs. Davenport returned.
The man extended them a short bow. “An excellent point.”
Accepting the hand the man extended to her, even though she was longing to set him straight on his obviously archaic views regarding women, Permilia climbed out of the dumbwaiter, shook out her skirts, and pretended not to notice that her white snow-queen costume was looking a little worse for wear, what with all the creases and dust on it.
Stepping out of the way in order to allow Mrs. Davenport room to climb out of the dumbwaiter, Permilia listed to the right, remembering in an instant that she was now in possession of only one of her shoes.
“Are you quite all right, miss?” the Vanderbilt servant asked.
“I’m fine. I simply seem to have misplaced my shoe.”
Bending forward, he poked his head in the dumbwaiter. “I’m afraid there’s no shoe in here. Would you care for me to send someone to look for it?”
“There’s no need for that,” Mrs. Davenport said before Permilia could respond. “I’m sure Willie saw the missing shoe and is holding it for us, so . . . if you’ll excuse us, we’ll simply be on our way.”
“Mr. Vanderbilt is currently in the gymnasium with Mrs. Vanderbilt, because dinner began being served thirty minutes ago.”
Mrs. Davenport let out an honest-to-goodness giggle. “Of course he is. How silly of me to have forgotten that he told us to join him in the gymnasium after our ride.” Taking hold of Permilia’s arm, she n
odded to the man even as she prodded Permilia into motion. “Thank you so much for your assistance, sir. I’ll be certain to mention it to Mr. Vanderbilt, but if you’ll excuse us, I’m rather famished.”
Permilia soon found herself limping at a rapid rate of speed through the kitchen and then up to the third floor using a servant’s staircase that Mrs. Davenport suggested in case the villains were en route to intercept them. She tugged Mrs. Davenport to a stop when they stepped into the hallway.
“We can’t show up for dinner looking like this. We’re a mess.”
Mrs. Davenport looked her over with a remarkably sharp brown eye. “Indeed we are, or at least you are, so . . . to the retiring room.”
By the time they’d gotten themselves in order, another five minutes had passed. Two of those minutes had been spent with Permilia forcefully trying to remove her tiara—which Mrs. Davenport had insisted on polishing up with her sleeve—from Mrs. Davenport’s rather strong grip. Walking on feet that no longer sported any shoes at all—her one remaining shoe stuffed into the muff—Permilia took hold of the woman’s arm and they quit the retiring room.
“You need to stop looking guilty,” Mrs. Davenport whispered before she began smiling, looking for all intents and purposes as if they were simply two ladies who were returning from a trip to the retiring room, not a care in the world, and certainly not two ladies who’d just overheard a plot revolving around . . . murder.
“Forgive me, but I’m apparently not as familiar as you are with how to react after experiencing what I believe was a most dastardly situation,” Permilia said out of the corner of her mouth, turning them toward the gymnasium, where the dinner was being served.
“Given the manner in which you’ve been lurking around the edges of ballrooms for what must be going on two years now, dear, I’m not certain you should be throwing such a judgmental attitude my way.”
“You’ve noticed my lurking?”
“And have applauded it,” Mrs. Davenport returned. “I readily admit, though, that I have yet to figure out what you’re up to, but don’t fret because . . . I will.”
“It’s nothing of an illegal nature.”
“That’s what we all say, dear, but enough about that. Smile at the ready and again, look innocent.” With that piece of less than helpful advice, Mrs. Davenport tightened the grip she had on Permilia’s arm and sailed into the gymnasium.
“I do hope we haven’t missed too many courses” was all Mrs. Davenport said before she released Permilia’s arm and tottered off, dodging Vanderbilt servers who were brandishing silver trays filled with all manner of delicacies.
“How in the world can she eat at a time like this?” Permilia asked no one in particular, earning an arch of a brow from a lady dressed in a delightful gown of gold silk, one cut in the style of a courtier. Sending the lady a nod, Permilia hurried farther into the gymnasium, amazed to discover that while everyone had been dancing in the ballroom on the first floor, an entire meal had been laid out in the room she’d almost been squashed by a pillar in. Hundreds of round tables were placed about the room, those tables now filled with twelve hundred guests, all of whom seemed to be enjoying a most excellent meal. Shaking her head at the money spent to accomplish such a feat, Permilia continued forward, knowing her first order of business was to find Asher and warn him of his impending doom.
Walking as casually as she could around the tables, she finally spotted Asher, along with his dinner companion, Miss Claudia Lukemeyer. Stopping briefly to collect her thoughts, because she certainly couldn’t just blurt out the upsetting idea that someone wanted Asher dead, Permilia squared her shoulders. Glancing at the other guests dining at Asher’s table, she blinked when she recognized the people who’d chosen to sit with him.
To Asher’s left was Miss Lukemeyer, but to Asher’s right . . . Well, Permilia had no idea why her stepmother had chosen to sit in that particular seat. Then, sitting directly next to Ida was Lucy, then Mr. Eugene Slater, and then . . . a rather telling empty chair, one that had more than likely been saved for her.
To Permilia’s eye, it was obvious that Lucy was not bothered in the least by the idea she’d stolen Permilia’s dinner companion, especially since she was smiling quite charmingly at Mr. Slater, batting her lashes in a far too flirtatious way, although that flirtatiousness certainly didn’t seem to be bothering the gentleman who’d been claiming only a short time ago that he’d been utterly bewitched by Permilia.
The only conclusion Permilia was capable of making about that unfortunate circumstance was that Mr. Slater was apparently a gentleman who could be bewitched at the drop of a hat—or a flutter of a lash, as the case seemed to be. Oddly enough, a rather unexpected sense of relief flowed through her. That relief was brought about no doubt by the idea that before she’d been placed in a situation where her head might have very well been turned by Mr. Slater’s glib tongue, she’d uncovered Mr. Slater’s fickle nature.
Fickleness in a gentleman was not becoming in the least. Permilia’s gaze flicked to Lucy, who certainly didn’t appear as if she took any type of issue with the gentleman who’d joined her for dinner, especially since she was gazing back at the man with clear adoration in her eyes.
Switching her attention to Ida, Permilia discovered that her stepmother, on the other hand, seemed to be taking great issue with the attention Mr. Slater was sending her daughter. However, since that gentleman was keeping his gaze firmly on Lucy, he was not privy to the glares currently being sent his way from Ida. Those glares, if the gentleman had bothered to notice, would have certainly had him leaning away from Lucy instead of moving closer to her, inch by careful inch.
“Permilia, there you are. Everyone was becoming so worried.”
Looking around, Permilia found Asher already on his feet and moving toward her.
“Where have you been?” he asked, reaching her side and taking hold of her arm, guiding her toward the empty seat at the table.
“Yes, where have you been?” Mr. Slater asked, rising to his feet as well.
Waving Mr. Slater back into his seat, Permilia summoned up what she hoped would pass for an innocent smile. “I do apologize for being so inexcusably tardy, but I ran into Mrs. Davenport, and she needed a bit of . . . assistance, and I’m afraid that assistance took longer than I anticipated.”
“What type of assistance would Mrs. Davenport need from you?” Ida demanded. She looked down. “And where are your shoes?”
Permilia patted the muff. “One of them is safely secure in here, but the other one . . . Well, I’m afraid it might be gone forever.”
“I told you wearing shoes made out of glass beads was not a wise decision,” Lucy said.
“And once again, you’ve been proven quite right.” Permilia turned to catch Asher’s eye as he stood directly behind her, apparently waiting to assist her into her chair. “It’s imperative that I speak with you as soon as possible.”
“You’re speaking to him now, Miss Griswold,” Miss Lukemeyer pointed out with a touch of a snip to her tone.
“So I am, but what I need to tell him is a matter of great delicacy, so if all of you would excuse us for just a moment, we’ll be back before the next course is served.”
“Permilia, a lady does not make off with another lady’s dinner companion, nor does one bring up matters of a delicate nature between courses,” Ida said.
“I do apologize, Stepmother, but I fear I have no choice but to abandon my manners because this is a matter of life and death.”
Silence settled over the table until Asher cleared his throat.
“Whose death?”
“Yours.”
Chapter
Ten
For a split second, Asher had absolutely no idea how to respond to Permilia’s announcement. But then, when he noticed that her eyes were uncommonly wide, quite as if she was in the midst of imparting some type of silent message to him, he finally realized exactly what she was expecting.
Tipping his head back, he let ou
t the heartiest laugh he was capable of, making certain to add a few honest-to-goodness guffaws in for good measure.
His last guffaw ended on an abrupt note, though, when he happened to catch sight of the expression now residing on Permilia’s face. She was not looking back at him as if he were the most brilliant gentleman she’d ever met, but instead as if he’d taken complete leave of his senses.
Leaning in toward her, he lowered his voice. “Too hearty of a response?”
Permilia took a telling step away from him. “If you’ll recall, I just disclosed news that may very well concern your imminent death. I would have to say that unless you’re the type of gentleman who laughs in the face of danger, yes, that was too hearty of a response, not to mention peculiar.”
Tilting his head, Asher frowned. “It’s hardly fair to call me peculiar, Permilia, when you just made one of the most outlandish claims I’ve ever heard in order to explain away the true reason behind why you were tardy for dinner. What nonsensical tale will you come up with next when additional questions are posed concerning how you managed to break a shoe?”
A second later, when she moved up to him and kicked his shin, Asher was exceedingly thankful she had broken a shoe.
Taken completely aback by the kick, he narrowed his eyes. “I’m sure I have no idea why you just did that—particularly since I’ve been trying to assist you.”
“How, pray tell, would laughing at me be considered assistance?”
“I thought that’s what you wanted me to do, especially after you requested my laughter earlier this evening when you wanted to convince your stepmother that I found you to be quite amusing.”
“What was that?” Ida asked, rising to her feet, which had Mr. Slater rising to his feet as well.