Under a Gilded Moon(67)

And vaguely . . . what was it?

Lilli realized with a jolt what she was seeing on her friend’s darkened face. And now it was too late to undo the lie she’d let cover the truth.

Disapproval. Thunderous and fierce.

Emily thought she’d uncovered Lilli’s liaison with the Italian, a murder suspect, no less, and—still more disturbing than that—a groom.

Flirtations were one thing, but Lilli Barthélemy always took things almost too far.

And this time, Emily’s face said for her, Lilli had driven the bounds of proper behavior right over the edge.





Chapter 27

Balancing a tray of biscuits and scones, Kerry stopped at the threshold of the breakfast room as George Vanderbilt’s niece stalked away from her friend, the women clearly having argued bitterly over something. The door still only open a crack, Kerry hesitated, unsure whether to pretend she’d not seen.

It was the footman who saved her the trouble of deciding, Moncrief’s brogue spiraling down the grand stairwell. From four stories up, he called, “Where’s the wee American lass of the fells?”

Backtracking hurriedly down the servants’ corridor, running behind the breakfast room and banquet hall, and dropping her tray on a hall table, Kerry raced to the foot of the grand stairwell before anyone might complain of the noise.

Mrs. Smythe appeared on the second-floor landing. “I’ll not be having my staff yelling like a bevvied-up . . .” She deepened the ferocity of her glare upward.

“Like a drunk clan of Scots, she was about to say, did ye see?”

Making way for three painters bumbling past, Mrs. Smythe shook a thick finger up at Moncrief. “As if it isn’t enough, whole regiments of workmen tromping past us all day, the service stairs still a proper mess of sawdust, all these workers and the servants having to use the main staircase with Mr. Vanderbilt and the guests. Only in the colonies would this be allowed.”

Kerry looked up with sympathy. “You’re doing your best to retain standards, Mrs. Smythe.”

“This, and the master’s still being in want of a wife to take charge.” Mrs. Smythe shook her head.

“Aye, but he won’t be for long, God love him.” Moncrief’s Glasgow burr was amplified by the stone.

Mrs. Smythe threw up her hands, then drew a finger over her lips. “Be gone with you, before I ban your ruddy face from the house. And no more shouting!” Her mouth puckered with the effort of finding the right expletive for him. “Scotsman,” she spit at last, and stormed off.

Three floors away, Kerry and the footman exchanged glances that said they both knew Mrs. Smythe’s was the loudest voice of all echoing in the stairwell. Moncrief winked.

George Vanderbilt and Cedric came loping in from outside, the front doors slamming behind them with a force that echoed across the main hall.

John Cabot rose from where he’d apparently been reading in the Winter Garden. Madison Grant appeared at the door that led to the billiard room.

From the breakfast room, Lilli Barthélemy suddenly appeared, hurrying down into the Winter Garden from its far side. She thrust a scrap of paper into her skirt’s waistband.

“Ah.” George Vanderbilt strode toward Kerry, who’d just picked up her tray from the hall table. “Splendid idea to serve tea in the Winter Garden on a wet November day.”

Stepping down into the glass-domed room, Kerry arranged the sterling pieces on a table near the fountain: the tea and cream and sugar beside mounded pastries on the left and buttermilk biscuits on the right—Pierre and Rema drawing their battle lines even on this platter.

Lilli Barthélemy lifted a chocolate croissant from her plate, its fragrance wafting toward Kerry, who, with effort, did not let her eyes drop ravenously to the platter. “Goodness, how I’ll miss Biltmore.”

Lifting his teacup in a kind of toast, Vanderbilt said, “Then you must return to Biltmore, all of you. In the New Year.”

Lilli Barthélemy placed her hand on her chest. “How lovely.”

She moved to admire an etching that hung at eye level. As Kerry swept past, the woman raised her tea almost to her lips and tipped it, tea splashing down her front. Without Kerry’s having touched her.

“Comme c’est triste,” she said, running a hand across the satin.

Vanderbilt was quick to turn. “I’m so sorry. Was there an accident?”

With an excess of graciousness, she smiled at Kerry. “Don’t blame her, please. It could have happened to anyone—an unintentional jostle was all. We’ll just step through here and repair the damage.”

Before Kerry could protest she’d not touched Mr. Vanderbilt’s guest, she was being pulled into the corridor, the door closing behind them.



Lilli Barthélemy plucked the scrap of paper from her waistband. “I wonder if I might ask you about something.”

Kerry took a breath, but didn’t let it out yet. With the breath might come all sorts of words that could end this job, her way of supporting the twins. Her eyes dropped to the woman’s skirts. “Your dress appears as if it will weather the damage I didn’t do to it.”

Lilli Barthélemy raised an eyebrow. “You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you?”

“If by cheeky you mean straightforward.”