Under a Gilded Moon(83)

The man, Kerry thought with satisfaction, who’d made the pitiable hovels comment.

George’s mother was calling for everyone to sit down. Stipples if not entire swaths of green had found their way onto at least a half-dozen diners.

Leblanc, disgusted, yanked out a watch from his waistcoat pocket and scowled at its face.

Vanderbilt surveyed the chaos of his family wiping at jeweled stomachers and tailed jackets, several of them stalking away from the table. “I will, of course, have everything thoroughly cleaned. And what cannot be cleaned, replaced.”

Apoplectic, Mrs. Smythe appeared in the butler’s pantry. “They said below it was that beast of a creature who’s . . . dear Lord, it’s worse than disaster, is this.” She waved to the nearest footman. “Go ’ed, lad, now. Get the four-legged fur bag downstairs and locked up. All that clobber he’s ruined.”

Stepping into the banquet hall, Kerry cleared her throat. As always, she’d acted on impulse—in this case to give Bergamini more time. But what if that meant the twins would go hungry now because she’d be fired? “I’m so sorry, Mr. Vanderbilt. It’s my—”

But Vanderbilt held up his hand. “It’s my fault, actually. For not properly training my dog.” In the glance that snapped between them, Kerry caught the hint of a smile.

He faced Leblanc. “And you, sir. I can tell you we employed literally hundreds of men from Italy up until a few months ago. They laid the limestone for Biltmore, scored and carved it. I did not, needless to say, know all their names. Since then, most or all of them have returned to their own country. What I can assure you is that there is no one currently employed on my estate by that name.”

Leblanc let his scowl singe the length of the table. “Murder. In New Orleans. And maybe also the one here. So I’ll just be searching your house and stables.”

The guests looked up from their dripping jewels, their ruined gowns and tails.

From the far end of the table, a hesitant voice—hardly more than a whimper. “Uncle George? About the Italian . . .”

Emily Sloane was swaying slightly, her face a ghastly white.

“Yes?”

“That one Italian stablehand of yours. Is that who Mr. Leblanc might mean?”

Kerry watched in horror. Emily Vanderbilt Sloane, who’d been here in the autumn when Marco Bergamini was hired. Who would have known not only that he was here, but also that he’d been connected at least in some minds with the death at the station.

And now, Emily Vanderbilt Sloane, standing straight in her diamonds and turtle-soup-spattered silk, was about to confirm for Leblanc that he’d come to the right place.





Chapter 35

With Nico on his back, Sal bolted through the stable courtyard, lit only by a single lantern on either side of the main doors and the glow of a fresh dusting of snow. He’d counted on the bricks still being clear after he’d shoveled and swept late this afternoon. But now every step marked their path from the main house.

Sal’s feet fought for traction over the slick of the bricks. Nico wrapped both arms around his brother’s neck as if their lives depended on his holding fast—which they did.

No time now to fret over the tracks. No time to ask the best place to hide. No time to tell anyone why they had every reason to run.

He’d thought confessing to Kerry MacGregor could be protection if he and Nico got caught again in a maelstrom of blame. One person, at least, who would stick by them. But now he was cursing himself for not guessing that Leblanc would ram his way into a private estate. Without permission. On Christmas Eve.

Stupido. Cosi dannatamente stupido. How could he have been so damn stupid?

Slipping and sliding and cursing himself as he ran, Sal carried Nico through the stables and out the far double doors toward the woods. With no clear idea where they were going, Sal wanted only right now to put distance between himself and Leblanc. Nico’s survival depended on Sal’s.

Crashing through the thickest parts of the forest, Sal was banking on Leblanc trying to track him on horseback. The more mountain laurel to wind through, the more frozen streams, the more blackberry brambles, the better.

Snow dropped from pine branches as they ran. Nico clung tighter to Sal’s neck, impeding his breath.

Sal would have to think quickly of a place they could hide that wasn’t too far away. Running through ice and snow alone would have been taxing, but with an eight-year-old boy on his back, Sal was already winded, and they were still within sight of Biltmore’s spires.

Nico pressed a frigid cheek against Sal’s neck, and the message was clear: Trust. That Sal would keep them safe and unhurt. That in this next place they’d no longer have to use phony names and fear strangers and wonder who might want the foreigners gone and do whatever it took to drive them away.

Trust, Sal thought with anguish, that had not been earned.

Lungs burning, Sal gripped his little brother’s legs harder at both sides and ran on.





Chapter 36

Kerry stared at Emily Sloane. Prayed she would suddenly lose her voice. Or keel over with a sudden palsy. Anything to keep her from speaking.

The girl stood before the detective. “The one Italian in my uncle George’s employ was in the stables, Mr. Leblanc. But he left yesterday. I saw him myself. Headed, I heard him say, for the train station. To leave town. Though I obviously didn’t follow the man to see him safely on.”