by Dean James
Before anyone could respond to him, Luke and Adele de Montfort arrived, and Millbank stepped aside to allow them entrance to the pavilion. The siblings sported extravagant, richly colored garments suitable for the most important of state occasions, making the rest of us feel sadly underdressed.
“Good evening, everyone,” Luke said, echoed by his sister.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Totsye said, dipping into a curtsey. Lady Prunella stared at him, open-mouthed. He did cut an imposing figure, not to say a very handsome one. Lady P was ever one to appreciate a handsome man, and evidently she had not laid eyes on the would-be king before now.
Giles watched his mother in amusement, then before the pause could grow more awkward, he stepped forward to introduce her to the duke and his sister.
Lady Prunella, the complete snob, could not resist a duke, even a make-believe one, and simpered accordingly as Luke clasped her hand. Her curtsey was so deep she almost went on down to the ground, but Luke held on to her hand as she righted herself, blushing mightily.
Millbank had waited impatiently until the social niceties were observed. Now he pushed himself forward. “What were you saying as I arrived, Lady Prunella?”
“You common little man,” she said, all thoughts of flirting with the duke pushed out her head by her anger, “how dare you spoil the area around my home with your vulgar commercial enterprise. It’s bad enough having hundreds of people capering about, attracting all sorts of undesirable elements, but the thought of a business in my back garden! It’s insupportable.”
Millbank had taken a step backward, as if to shield himself from Lady Prunella’s verbal assault, but he found his voice again. “Now just a bloody minute!”
Luke de Montfort stepped between them, his face dark with anger. “Millbank, I cannot believe you lied to me. You told me your scheme had the complete approval of the landowners here. God’s blood, man, why did you lie to me?”
“My, my, what a dramatic little gathering this is.” The cool amusement in the newcomer’s voice startled everyone. Tristan Lovelace, dressed in the black robes of a Benedictine monk, strode forward into the pavilion. Though he had not had himself tonsured to complete the effect, Tris made an imposing figure as a monk.
Several voices rose at once, and the resulting din made my head ache. Lady Prunella was screeching at Millbank, and Luke added his voice to her complaints. Millbank, beleaguered on two sides, tried to compensate by raising his voice to drown out both of theirs. Adele de Montfort clutched her brother’s arm, babbling away, as if she feared he would strike someone. Indeed, he did appear angry enough to do violence to someone.
I looked at Tris, a question in my eyes. He nodded and held up three fingers. On the count of three, we thundered in unison. “Quiet!”
Our combined voices were so loud I swear the table rattled, but we achieved the desired effect. The quarreling ceased.
“That’s better,” I said. “None of you will solve anything by this screaming at one another. Either you all sit down to dinner and behave in a civilized fashion, or take it elsewhere.” I took turns glaring at Millbank, de Montfort and Lady Prunella. Even Luke quailed slightly at the scowl on my face.
Totsye stepped forward and in a quivering voice asked everyone to be seated. Wonder of wonders, no one left. All the combatants meekly found their places and sat down. Totsye dithered about the table, pouring mead for everyone. She held a cup up at an angle, then tilted the pitcher to fill the cup. She called out for someone named Adelisa as she worked her way around the table, but there was no response.
“Where can that girl be?” Having finished pouring the mead, Totsye went to the door of the pavilion and peered out “Well, drat the girl, she’s disappeared.”
“Who could blame her?” Tris said to me in an undertone. “She probably heard all the yelling and decided she wanted nothing to do with this farce.”
I nodded to Tris but got up from my place next to him and went to Totsye, standing indecisively in the opening of the tent.
“We shall have to serve ourselves,” Totsye said, turning to me with a frown. “That girl! I suppose she was frightened.”
“No doubt” I said, “but it’s no matter. We’re perfectly capable of serving ourselves. Where is the food?”
“The dratted girl was supposed to deliver it with the help of a couple of men, but they’re nowhere in sight.” She wrung her hands. “Oh, dear, what shall we do?”
I was just about to offer to go in search of the missing food, when a scream from behind us startled us both.
Adele de Montfort was on her feet, staring down in horror at her brother, writhing on the ground. “Luke! Oh my God, somebody help him!”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dean James, a seventh-generation Mississippian, is a librarian and Edgar-nominated author of over twenty works of fiction and nonfiction. His nonfiction has won both the Agatha Award and the prestigious Macavity Award. Writing as Miranda James, he is the New York Times bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks series, featuring librarian Charlie Harris and his trusty rescue cat Diesel. He is also the author of The Trailer Park Mysteries, writing as Jimmie Ruth Evans and the Bridge Club Mysteries, writing as Honor Hartman. As Dean James, he’s authored The Deep South Mystery Series and The Simon Kirby-Jones Mysteries. He lives in Houston, Texas, with two cats and thousands of books.
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