Part 19
He had removed his overcoat and wore the same charcoal suit, now with a radio clipped at his waist. His black gloves remained on. When he saw Mara, his controlled expression broke for the first time.
“What happened?”
“Your security turned me away.”
“I instructed them—”
“They had no record.”
Sloane looked at the guard.
“She came through the south path,” the guard said. “No perimeter breach alarm.”
“The maintenance bridge,” Mara said.
Sloane’s eyes dropped to her feet, then to the ruined dress. “You crossed the creek?”
“Over it.”
“In this storm?”
“There was a bridge.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
Mara took the brooch from her bag, still wrapped. “I’m here. Take it.”
Sloane did not extend his hands.
“My mother said Graham Vale had to see it.”
“Yes.”
“Then give it to him.”
“She told me to admit you.”
“She didn’t say I had to walk into a ballroom looking like this.”
“No,” Sloane said. “I expect she assumed I would do my job properly.”
The rebuke was directed at himself, not her.
He looked through the glass doors toward the interior. “The simplest route to Mr. Vale’s private study is blocked by catering equipment. The west corridor is being used for photographs. We can go through the lower gallery and enter behind the orchestra.”
“No.”
“It will avoid most guests.”
“Most?”
“Not all.”
Mara folded her arms beneath the security jacket. “I’ll wait here. Bring him.”
Sloane shook his head. “He is being toasted by two hundred people. If I remove him now without explanation, Ms. Harrow will follow.”
“And if I enter, two hundred people will stare.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t seem better.”
“It is not better. It is faster.”
Mara looked through the windows.
Inside, the estate glowed with the warmth of another world. Guests in dark suits and luminous gowns held champagne beneath painted ceilings. Servers moved in clean lines. Every surface reflected light.
She imagined her wet footprints crossing the polished floor.
“I can’t,” she said.
Sloane lowered his voice. “You crossed half the state because your mother asked you to.”
“That was before my shoes came apart.”
“Ms. Ellison.”
“Do not make this sound noble.”
“I was not going to.”
The guard looked away to hide a small smile.
Sloane stepped closer. Rain gathered on his silvering hair. “You are under no obligation to protect this household from embarrassment. We failed to meet you. We failed to prepare Mr. Vale. We failed to make sure you arrived safely. Those failures are ours.”
Mara’s grip tightened around the wrapped brooch.
“And if he says he doesn’t know her?”
“Then I will take you wherever you wish to go.”
“If he accuses me of stealing it?”
“I will tell him what I witnessed twenty-five years ago.”
“You said you didn’t know what happened.”
“I know she left Bellweather carrying nothing but a canvas bag. I know Mrs. Vale stood on the west stairs holding this handkerchief.”
Mara stared at him.
Sloane looked at the ivory cloth visible between her muddy fingers.
“You saw it?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say that at my house?”
“Because I was not certain until now.”
“You knew the embroidery.”
“I suspected.”
“What else do you know?”
His face became still again, but the stillness was no longer professional. It was grief held behind discipline.
“Not enough,” he said.
The toast inside ended. Applause moved through the estate like sudden rain on a roof.
Sloane glanced toward the doors. “We have very little time before dinner service begins.”
Mara took off the guard’s jacket and returned it.
“Thank you,” she said.
The guard nodded.
Sloane opened the terrace door.
Warm air touched Mara’s face.
The lower gallery was lined with portraits of men and women who seemed to share the same high forehead and unsmiling mouth. Sloane led quickly but did not rush her. Her bare feet left damp marks on the stone.
A server carrying a stack of plates stopped when he saw them. Sloane said, “Continue,” and the man continued.
They passed an open service room crowded with staff. Someone turned off a blender. Conversations died one by one.
Mara looked straight ahead.
The mud on her dress had begun to dry at the edges. Her damp auburn hair clung to her neck. Each step left a print.
At the end of the gallery, Sloane paused beside a mirrored door.
“Beyond this is the musicians’ passage,” he said. “It enters the ballroom through the north bronze doors.”
“You said behind the orchestra.”
“The other passage has been blocked.”
“Of course it has.”
“I am sorry.”
“You have said that.”
“Not enough.”
Mara shifted the bag on her shoulder. “Who sent the clipping?”
“I still don’t know.”
“Do you think they wanted me here?”
“Yes.”
“Why not identify themselves?”
“They may fear Mr. Vale. Or Ms. Harrow. Or what the brooch represents.”
“What does it represent?”
Sloane looked at the wrapped oval in her hand.
“You should ask Graham.”
The music beyond the door changed. Strings softened beneath the murmur of voices.
Sloane touched his radio. “Are the north doors clear?”
A voice answered, “Opening for dinner transition.”
He looked at Mara. “Once we enter, do not hand the brooch to anyone except Mr. Vale.”
“Not even you?”
“Especially not me.”
That frightened her more than everything else.
Sloane pushed open the mirrored door.
They entered a narrow passage behind velvet curtains. Musicians sat beyond the fabric, adjusting bows and turning pages beneath small lights. Mara could smell rosin, perfume, and roasted meat.
At the far end stood two massive bronze doors, already opening inward.
The ballroom appeared between them.
Gold leaf climbed the moldings. Crystal chandeliers hung above a marble floor veined in gray. Round tables filled the room beneath arrangements of white roses and winter branches. Along the far wall, tall windows reflected the entire gathering back upon itself.
Mara stopped.
May you like
Guests nearest the entrance noticed her first.
A woman in blue lowered her glass. A man beside her turned. Their attention spread outward in widening circles until conversations faltered across the ballroom.
