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So we had gotten invited to this mega-party to be someone’s babysitter. Grand. I sighed.
“This whole evening is a waste of my time and patience. I should have burned the invitation, and I do not plan on playing babysitter.” He curled an arm around me and tugged me against his hip. “You wouldn’t mind if I was a broke payroll clerk for some cheap ski resort, would you?”
I smiled and tapped him on the cheek with my opera-gloved hand. “I’d kiss you, but lipstick.”
The party was at a palatial estate on Long Island. Upon our arrival, an overly-grave butler in a tailcoat took our coats and murmured to us the direction of the party, and gestured with a gloved hand. I slid my arm through Sterling’s elbow and we walked out of the azure-tiled foyer, and through a tangled network of grand hallways. The way was not marked more than the wrong way was clearly marked by blue velvet ropes blocking off other hallways. Why couldn’t there be a guide so guests didn’t end up where they shouldn’t be? Cordoning off sections of the house made me feel like an unwelcome tourist.
Eventually the hallways opened up onto a large, marble balcony and the sounds of a party drifted up from below. The floor split, and a tongue of marble steps dipped down into a glittery ballroom. Complete with red carpet. Two butlers in tailcoats stood stiffly at the mouth of the stairs.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. An entrance? We were making an entrance? This was more than a few flights above the parties I’d been to to date.
I balked at the top of the stairs, needing a moment to take in the gleaming crystal, the decor, the humans chatting below us, draped in silk and crepe and satins and jewels. It was like something out of a movie.
Sterling pulled me after him, and I clutched his arm in a death-grip, praying I didn’t fall down the stairs as an assortment of eyes turned to look at us as we descended into the main room.
The Painting held miniature court with people admiring it and fussing over it like a newborn child. I half expected someone to lean over and pinch the canvas. I remembered myself—I was the art lover, of course—so I pulled Sterling over to it right away. He pretended to be interested while I pointed out The Painting’s qualities. Then we turned away from it so other party goers could fawn appropriately.
Every man was dressed in an impeccable black tuxedo, the only difference being the lapels or the studs or if they had gone for a waistcoat or cummerbund and other tiny little details. Absolutely everything was impeccable, fitted flawlessly, and each man wore it like they had been born in a tux.
Which most of them probably had.
All the women were in demure, subdued shades, and all our dresses similarly modest and without much ornamentation. I scanned the room, searching for a color more bright than my demure mauve and antique gold, and spotted a glint of white somewhere in the dark sea. At least someone else had been a bit daring.
The party spilled out onto a huge stone patio that further opened up onto magnificent illuminated gardens and fountains. One side of the marble room was occupied by the quintet preparing their instruments. On the other, a bar and elegant buffet of hors d’oeuvres. Waiters drifted around bearing champagne flutes on silver trays. Cye had given me a quick tutorial on caviar and truffles so I’d appreciate our wedding gifts more, and I instantly spotted the outrageously expensive caviar on offer in copious quantities, the perfectly shaped fruits, the little truffles and chocolates and treats.
I had been to funerals more festive than this.
“This way.” Sterling caught the scent he’d been looking for and pulled me through the dark ocean towards the white spot.
“Sterling,” my father-in-law’s big voice said as his face broke out in a grin.
Garrett grabbed Sterling’s hand in his and shook it, then clapped his son around the shoulder with the arm bearing the champagne flute. He didn’t spill a drop.
Cerys smiled at her son and hugged him tightly for a few extra seconds. She pulled back with her hand still over his shoulder, then released him. Around her neck was a wide choker of emeralds and diamonds in concentric geometric squares, and she had matching drop earrings and jewels in her upswept hair. She had been the bright glint I’d spotted: she wore a spectacular white dress decked in silvery sequins and beads that carelessly hugged every curve, plunged low across her breasts, and the whole thing probably weighed fifty pounds and was secured by a single loop around her neck that left her shoulders, upper back, a curve of her ribs, and a sliver of side-boob exposed.
Because Cerys Mortcombe. That’s why.
Sterling lifted two champagne flutes off a passing tray and handed me one.
Garrett clapped Sterling between his shoulder blades. “Moving up in the world. Now we’re at the same parties.”
Sterling’s lips pressed into a minor smile. “Run faster, old man. Your lead is closing.”
“Oh, is it. Nine figures yet?”
“Old news.”
Garrett laughed and tipped his champagne flute towards Sterling. “Let me know when you’re approaching ten and I might look over my shoulder. Any updates on what you were hunting in my portfolio? The last update I got from you was that you got double-crossed.”
Cerys’ expression was somewhere between ice sculpture and I told you so.
Sterling paused before downing his champagne. “I believe so. Winter’s pulling some strings to confirm. If it’s true, we have a very, very serious problem. As in, you and I have the same problem. Double-cross may or may not be related.”
“How is it both of us?” Now the tension resurfaced as Garrett’s face hardened.
Sterling gestured with his champagne. “Because we both buy greenspace in remote areas and have the same last name.”
Garrett snarled. “Goddamnit. Goddamnit! It’s more of this Clare bullshit, isn’t it?”
