A Murder in Time(22)
“Be careful that Mrs. Peters doesn’t catch you in the private rooms. You missed it, but she lectured us nearly an hour on how bleeding old and priceless everything is.”
Kendra stood up, forcing a smile. “I promise to be careful.”
At least here she could tell the truth. She planned to be very careful.
And she wasn’t talking about Mrs. Peters.
More than four hundred guests mingled beneath the blazing chandeliers in the grand ballroom. At another time, Kendra would have enjoyed the experience, watching the crowd that included some of the world’s most famous faces, wearing fashions befitting the early nineteenth century. They almost looked like they could’ve stepped out of the pages of a history book. Almost. If you ignored the tattoos and body piercings—most of which were sported by women.
“Authentic, my ass,” she muttered under her breath.
Her eyes focused on the man across the room.
Sir Jeremy Greene.
His hair gleamed like polished silver in the room’s soft light. His patrician features looked at least a decade younger than his sixty-one years, thanks to a cosmetic surgeon’s careful scalpel, the judicious use of Botox, and the latest collagen fillers. His body, beneath evening attire that vaguely resembled a tuxedo, albeit with knee breeches, was trim and still fairly toned, credit, no doubt, to his membership in one of the most exclusive fitness clubs in London.
As she watched, he lifted the delicate crystal flute to his lips, drinking champagne that probably cost a week’s salary of one of the lowly employees at Greenway International. Once again, Kendra felt the molten rage rise within her. Damn him. He was chatting, smiling, laughing. This man, this monster, who was responsible for so much destruction.
The anger felt good. Cathartic. It rubbed away some of the gnawing anxiety that had been building all day in the pit of her stomach.
It was time.
Kendra drew out the note from her pocket and glanced around. A footman was standing off to the side, observing the guests much as she had been.
Summoning a smile, she walked over to him. “Excuse me,” she began, and was astonished when he flicked her a cold look before turning on his heel and stalking off.
“Asshole,” she muttered under her breath, staring after him. She shook her head and scanned the room again, relieved when she spotted Ian, decked out in a similar wig and royal blue footmen finery, weaving his way through the guests, clutching a tray filled with empty champagne glasses. She intercepted him at the Carrara marble columns near the double doors.
“Ian? Hey.”
His eyes swiveled in her direction, and he grinned. “Cassie. What’re you doing here? I thought lady’s maids were confined upstairs.”
“I’m on a mission.” She called on every ounce of her latent acting ability to infuse her voice with a lightness she was far from feeling. “One of the . . . er, ladies has an interest in a certain gentleman.” She managed a chuckle. “Sir Jeremy Greene. Do you know him?”
“Cassie, everyone in Great Britain knows Sir Jeremy Greene.”
That was probably true. They just didn’t know what he was.
“Well, she wants this note passed to him discreetly—very discreetly, since she happens to be married.”
“Really?” Ian’s eyes gleamed with masculine interest. “Who is she?”
“My lips are sealed, but you’ve probably seen her in the movies.” That seemed ambiguous enough. Kendra didn’t want to name names in case the actress in question happened to be standing next to Sir Jeremy when Ian delivered the note. Better to be vague. “She wants to meet him in the study.”
Ian frowned. “The study? That’s in the old part of the castle, isn’t it? We’re not supposed to go there. I don’t think the toffs are even supposed to go there. It’s been cordoned off.”
“I think privacy is what she’s looking for.”
“Guess it’s none of my business where this lot wants to shag,” he shrugged, reaching for the note. “Let me get a fresh tray of drinks, and I’ll deliver it.”
“Discreetly,” she warned.
He grinned, nodding, and moved away. Kendra waited a moment before making her own exit from the ballroom. She dodged playacting servants rushing up and down the servants’ stairs, and retrieved her purse from the locker room.
Earlier, she’d done a quick reconnaissance of the castle’s rooms, based on her Internet research. She’d selected the study in the oldest part of the castle for two reasons. One, like Ian had said, it was off-limits. Whoever owned or ran the castle (probably England’s National Trust) had roped that section off to discourage guests from traipsing into the area.
And, second, the room boasted a secret passageway.
In truth, that wasn’t uncommon in the older, historic households throughout Great Britain. The country had a long, bloody history filled with political intrigue and religious persecution. Priest holes and secret passageways had come in handy for many of England’s aristocrats. And, if anything went wrong, it might come in handy for her.
Kendra approached the velvet rope that cordoned off the private area, shooting a furtive glance around before ducking under it. Despite her best efforts, her heart began to race as she moved down the corridor.
This far away from the party, the castle was silent. The only noise was the whisper of her skirt and muffled footsteps as she walked the length of the burgundy and brown hall runner. The rug looked old—but then again, so did everything else in the castle. Still, she knew this section was older by centuries. If a castle had a heart, this would be it. These cold stone walls had been silent witnesses to both birth and bloodshed. It was a moody thought for a moody atmosphere. Adding to it were wall sconces, carefully spaced and cleverly designed to look like flickering candles, making shadows leap and dance.