He made another call, adopting a slight upper-class British accent. “Dash, my friend, how good it is to hear your voice!” He could feel the man on the other end of the line cringe.
Donatore’s bonhomie was irresistible and unnecessary. Dashiell Pondichury, the ninth Duke of Lancature, had been in Enzo’s pocket since that bacchanal four years ago. Not only was he Donatore’s spiritual slave, he was terrified that his master would reveal the truth about what had happened to his three wives.
Dash had brought his first wife to a party at the castle four years ago. Enzo’s parties were notorious; once they really got going, people lost control. They also lost other things: feet, hands. Heads. Dashiell had had a wonderful time; his first wife had not, alas. She lost her head and that was that. Didn’t stop her husband from bringing his second and third wives to Enzo’s galas in subsequent years.
Now Dashiell was worried sick that Enzo would reveal what he thought was buried out in his vineyard to the authorities. Dashiell needn’t have been so concerned; his wives were fully resuscitated, “alive”, and back in service at the castle. They made great whores. Indestructible. Dash should have worried about running into the three of them getting sued for bigamy! But he didn’t know they were up and passing for alive.
“I need to you check on someone for me. His name is,” the words burned Enzo’s tongue. No, his whole mouth and throat, “Leroy Watches Jr. He’s attempting to crash noble society in London. A pretender of the worst sort. I need you to destroy him …
“Of course not physically, Dash. I never do that. What happened to your wives was an accident. Stop blubbering, Dashiell, no one will ever know. Listen to me: I want you to shadow Mr. Watches and ruin him socially. You can do that, can’t you?” Enzo grimaced while Dashiell groveled on the other end of the phone. Will Duane and his little errand boy, Leroy Watches Jr., would find out what he had in mind soon enough.
“Yes, my man, I knew you could.”
12
A Family Dinner
Leroy stepped out of his car. The mansion loomed above him, five stories of pale stone. The entrance was a little half-circle canopy sticking out from the building with a few steps leading to it. Columns stood on each side of the steps. Other grand houses crowded up on each side. A shallow crescent, the road curved out of sight behind him.
Black iron fences ran along the sidewalk. The barely noticeable gate and steps to the basement were for the servants. He knew that from his favorite TV show. That program had prepared him for his jaunt on the high side better than anything he learned anywhere.
A butler opened the door. “Leroy Watches Jr.” he said and placed his calling card on a tray the butler extended. The butler nodded, peeking out the door at Leroy’s car. Will had set him up with a Bentley for the night, along with his chauffeur.
A guy in black livery helped him remove his overcoat and sleek top hat. The butler appraised his apparel with the slightest movement of his eyes. They registered approval. Leroy let some air out of his lungs. He hadn’t been aware that he was holding his breath.
Leroy found himself in a three-story entry. His breathing stopped all the way for an instant. The hall was exactly like that of the London town house in Hermitage Estate, the season when World War I was on the horizon, but no one had been drafted. The marble floors, paintings of dead ancestors, tables, flowers; all of it could have been the program. The walls were even painted a shiny dark red.
The butler led him into a vast, high-ceilinged room with marble columns and carved wood-paneled walls. He looked up. The paintings up there were as big as the screen on the old drive-in on the Rez. PBS did not prepare him for the impact of actually being in that room. Scattered around on elegant chairs and divans were women in silk gauze and velvet, sparkling with jewels. They held their perfectly coifed heads just so. The men wore clothes identical to his, down to the black patent shoes. Voices were cultured murmurs; barely audible titters, all amused and interested.
He and his new valet almost had come to blows over this dinner. He did not need what Tom preached: the gospel of correct formal dress. When he walked the living room, Leroy saw that Tom was right. Leroy was set up properly: he wore a black tie and tuxedo, the junior players in the men’s formal wear team. A white tie and tailcoat were the first string, but too formal for tonight.
His tuxedo was made of smooth black wool. The jacket’s shawl collar was covered with subtly shining silk sateen that matched the stripes down the outside of his pants. Under his jacket, his black vest had the same silk sateen shawl collar. The shirt was painfully white; the collar, more painfully tight and high.
He was like every man in the room except for one thing: the color of his skin. No one had as much color as the olive complexion of an Italian.
He took a deep breath. So what? His life had been like that from the moment he toddled off of his family’s ranch. Leroy stepped into the charade. Some part of him decided to pretend he was an actor in Hermitage Estate. It worked: no one noticed, including him.
Lord Ballentyne greeted him, smiling, hands outstretched. All heads went up at his entrance. Slowly, though. Heads pivoted to face him, looking above the doorway as though something amazing had materialized over his head. No one stared at him.
“How do you do, Your Grace,” he said to Her Grace Violetta, Lord Ballentyne’s wife. “How do you do, Your Lordship,” And on and on, around the room.
The bristling Dowager Duchess was Lady Catherine, Dowager Duchess of Raddenbery and Cloudfill, the mother of his hostess. She sat in an alcove by herself, glowering. A silver-topped cane was propped against her knee. Lord Ballentyne led him to her, walking on the balls of his feet as though he was as afraid of his mother-in-law as anyone.
Leroy got it the instant he saw her: she was in extreme pain. Arthritis in both hands and down her spine. Her Grace glared at him from her seat, holding a crystal sherry glass in one clawed hand. She was in pain and grieving. Her husband had died not long before. The sherry was to numb the pain.
“Your Lordship, could you stand where you are for a moment?” And block the view from inquisitive eyes. Leroy gracefully lowered himself in the seat next to the older woman and took her free hand, smiling into her eyes. “I’m Leroy Watches, Your Grace. I’m so pleased to meet you.”
He let healing energy run into her full on. He’d have an instant to do this. “I was so sorry to hear about His Grace.” The scowling dreadnaught that had terrorized the nobility blinked twice. Tears filled her eyes, spilled over her lower lids, and rolled down her cheeks.
“That’s kind of you, young man. Most people don’t mention it.”
“They’re afraid of hurting you, Your Grace.”
“Is that why? I thought they didn’t care.” Her stiff upper lip extended down her spine into her hands.
“They care very much. How do your hands feel now?” He leaned back, hoping that everyone in the room wasn’t staring.
Her eyes widened. She dabbed at them with a lace hankie. “Why, they feel fine. What did you do?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Jus’ somethin’ I do. My daddy has the arthritis real bad, or he did ‘til I treated it.”
“You can heal it?” She’d stopped dabbing and stared at him with wonder.
“Yes. May take a couple of sessions.”
“Good heavens, young man.” That’s when the full force of her grief hit her. Her mouth opened, chin dropping and quivering. “Oh, dear. I think I’m going to …”
“You need to be quiet now, but not alone. Are you here with anyone?”
“I have my maid, but she’s useless.”
“You may be surprised by her. She may turn out to be just the person you need, if you let her get close.” Leroy surveyed the room. Everyone was staring at them in their polite fashion, but no one moved to comfort her. He wondered if they would have helped her had her Dowager Grace collapsed on the floor screaming.
On the other side of the room, he saw a group of younger people. A pretty, sad teenage
girl with flyaway blond hair, a boy a few years younger who looked like a knock off of Lord Ballentyne.
And her. She would have stopped him dead wherever he was. Powder-blue eyes. Skin milkier than the palest rose petal, and so fine he could see her blue veins pulsing in her temples. Her hair was light brown, nougat colored, like the inside of a Milky Way bar. It curled in waves on each side of her face, ending at her chin. She was an angel. Her eyes were fixed on Her Grace, brows contracted. She shot across the room.
“Grandmamma, are you all right?” she ran to Her Grace, who was crying as openly as anyone in that group ever had.
“No, dear, I’m not all right. I need a bit of privacy and a lie-down.”
“Arabella, take Mother to one of the spare rooms. Doctor will be here in a moment …” Lord Ballentyne said.
“No doctor. She don’t need a doctor. She needs her family.”
“And you, young man. I need you. Please don’t leave. I must spend more time with you.” The no-longer-bristling old lady clutched at Leroy’s hands.
“I won’t, Your Grace. I’ll be here as long as you need me. I promise.”
Arabella braced herself to help her grandmother stand. She didn’t need to.
“Oh, my. I got up. Just like that.” The old lady’s eyes widened again. “Oh, my. My back doesn’t hurt.” And more tears came. “Arabella, help me. I can’t be seen like this.”
“Leroy, that was my daughter, Lady Arabella,” his Lordship said to the angel’s retreating back. “Sweetest child ever born.” Yes, she was.
The pounding of his heart and the way his own eyes followed the young noblewoman disturbed Leroy. Cass was his soul mate. He was biding his time and learning until they could be together. Why was he so captivated by the young aristocrat?
Arabella had disappeared into the entry hall with her grandmother on her arm. Her dress was pale blue silk, straight and wispy. It hid her figure, while revealing it. Not a thing flashy about her, just beauty and quality.
He went into dinner, hoping he’d remember his silverware and dishes. Doug had been wrong about formal dinners. He said they were eight courses, with a ninth option. This one had twelve courses. He had a Your Ladyship on one side and a Your Grace on the other. He chatted with them, avoiding the topics that Sir Glathering had instructed him were forbidden in polite society.
Sir Glathering had been definite about what to say and not say at dinner: “Whatever you do, don’t talk about politics, religion, or money. Sex is a gray area, as long as you’re extremely discrete. Assignations have been arranged over dinner.” Leroy had looked bewildered at that word. “You know, sexual liaisons.” He was still bewildered. “You know, getting it on with whomever you’re seated next to.” Leroy had blushed and Sir Glathering had continued, “Do not ever talk about work. As in physical labor. No one ever works.”
That left: hunting. His people’s customs, as long at his morays didn’t forbid it. And what he knew about Will Duane. Leroy wouldn’t talk about that, or Cass, or how he happened to be there.
Fortunately, he had been seated across from the younger people. The boy’s face glowed. He was younger than Leroy had thought, eleven or twelve. “I’m Allie Paxton, Lord of Craexton. I’m His Lordship’s son. My Christian name is Alexander.” The names these aristocrats had.
They weren’t as bad as Native names, though. Leroy had his American name, Leroy Watches Jr. He had his Indian names that everyone on the reservation called him. Then he had the name that Grandfather gave him, that just the two of them used, and his private name, known only to him and the Great One.
This boy was Alexander Paxton, currently the Lord of Craexton, some minor estate the family owned. He’d be the Lord of Ballentyne and Crayton and whatever other estates the family held when his father passed.
“How do you do,” Leroy replied perfectly.
“I’m very well, thank you. I say, I hope you don’t mind, but I heard you rode in a rodeo.” He looked thrilled. A bright, excited youngster in a tuxedo in his family’s manor hall. No, that would be the country house. This was just the city house. “I would love to ride in a rodeo, but my father …” He shrugged hopelessly.
“Your father’s right. You could get busted up for good in rodeo. Stick with polo.”
“Do you play polo?”
“No, I never have. I’d like to. I’ve seen pictures of polo, and those are some great horses and riders.”
“Could you play polo with us?”
“If I’m invited, I’d love to.” Leroy didn’t realize the effect his voice had on people. He was big, and his voice rumbled in his chest like a fine, stand-up bass. Conversations around them stopped.
“I’m sure my father can arrange something. You must come to the country and play.” That was from the very unhappy teenage girl. Her hair was white-blond, silky and looked like it was wafting in the breeze, even without a breeze. She wore a pale lavender silk dress and long pearls.
“Nothing ever happens around here,” she sulked. “You playing would be interesting.” He thought she was alluding to his race, but she clarified what she meant. “Americans never come here. I am Lady Clarissa. I’m Allie and Arabella’s cousin.”
“Excuse me,” Lady Arabella took one of the two empty chairs next to kids. She spoke to Leroy. “Grandmamma is ever so much better, Mr. Watches. She thanks you profusely. I left her with her maid. She hopes you’ll stay the night so that you can speak with her in the morning.” Blue eyes. Powder-blue, like they were painted on. He couldn’t breathe.
“Um. Sure. I think that my valet packed my things.”
“Oh, good! Do you shoot arrows?” Allie was adorable. He was enthusiastic, not cheeky. “I’ve never met an Indian before. Maybe you don’t practice archery anymore.”
“I hunt with a bow. I like bow-hunting very much.”
“Oh, good. We can practice archery in the basement tomorrow morning.” The boy’s brows furrowed. “You aren’t a regular Indian, are you?”
“I’m one kind of Indian. Native Americans mixed with African Americans pretty often in the old days. And now. My mom was half white and half Indian. My dad is like me. I’m all mixed up.”
“But you’re an Indian?”
“Yes, by tribal law, and my dad’s got Indian blood too.”
“Do you shoot arrows and go hunting and camping?”
“Yes. We do on our reservation. And we go to other Nations’ lands and hunt there. But we only kill what we can use ourselves.” Leroy smiled and nodded.
“Do you have secret ceremonies?” That was Allie.
“And magic powers?” said Clarissa. The room was silent, listening.
“Well, if we had secret ceremonies, I couldn’t tell you about them. As for magic powers, the only thing I can do is heal people an’ help them if they’re sad. I’ve done that since I was little.” The kids’ eyebrows were bouncing up and down. Questions looked like they wanted to burst from them. “If that’s magic, then I have powers. But I can only do it to help people. I can’t do it for money.”
“So you can’t be a doctor? Though you could in England, where medicine is socialized,” Clarissa’s questions had an edge, fruit of her unhappiness.
“Allie! Clarissa! Let Mr. Watches eat his dinner.” Arabella reined them in.
They were on course nine or ten. He was not really interested in dinner anymore. “No, I can’t …”
There was a stir at the entrance to the dining room. All heads turned as a tall man with reddish blond hair bounded into the room, beaming.
“Dashiell!” Lord Ballentyne jumped to his feet. “You made it after all.”
Dashiell grasped his Lordship’s hand. “So sorry, old chap. Worst thing in the world is being late for dinner, but it was this or nothing. The airports were jammed.”
“So glad you made it. Come, we saved you a place.” Ballentyne led Dashiell to the one empty seat at the table, next to Lady Arabella. “You know my daughter Arabella, of course.”
Dashiell nodded
, then turned and faced Leroy, who was seated directly across the table. His face was unreadable, except for his eyes. The devil had walked in the door. Leroy rocked back in his seat. Everything Grandfather had told him about evil flamed in his mind: “Evil will never look the way you think it should. It will come when you are not prepared. It will hide from the eyes and minds of others. They will not see it or believe it is bad. They will defend it rather than you. And most of all, my grandson, remember that evil wants to destroy you. It wants to kill you and keep your soul for its own.”
Lord Ballentyne introduced the newcomer to Leroy. “This is Dashiell Pondichury, the ninth Duke of Lancature, and our old family friend. We managed to persuade him to leave his vineyard in Spain to join us.”
The word “Spain” caused Leroy to shudder.
“How do you do, Your Grace,” Leroy spoke clearly and carefully. He couldn’t remember if he was supposed to rise greeting a Duke, but it didn’t matter. His Grace was being seated.
“I can have the staff bring …” Ballentyne was tending to Dashiell’s dinner.
“Have Fulton make me up a plate. No fuss. I’m terribly late.” He looked up and down the table, pseudo-abashed. All eyes, smiling eyes, were on Dashiell now.
Once the table settled down, Dashiell turned his attention to Leroy. Very intelligent eyes, a slate blue, knowing everything in the ways of the world, glittered across from him. The man was there to kill him, or if not, ruin his chances.
“What a great surprise to find an Indian in London. I thought the only Indians over here were those in the old Wild West shows. Not too healthy a place for them. Daresay, any that escaped from the shows died of the damp.” Dashiell smiled, spreading his words to those seated beside them. “Hope you last, old fellow.” He hoped Leroy died very soon.
Only Dashiell and Leroy seemed to realize a battle was being mounted.
“Oh. We Watches have a habit of lasting, Your Grace. We’re hard to kill.”
In Love by Christmas: A Paranormal Romance Page 10