Part 11 (1/2)
Alex retraced his steps, cupping her chin in his hand.
His gaze was hot, intense, mind-melting. She was beginning to feel some real pity for the imaginary ladies she threw in his path in their books. Her books. She really had to stop even mentally referring to them as their books. ”Why, I'm thinking of you, of course. Of you, my dear. As always, only of you.”
”Yeah, well, don't,” she told him, backing away, figuring she'd get closer to sanity the farther she got from him. ”I mean, not all the time. I mean, I can take care of ... not that I'm not happy that you'd care enough to ... that is-oh, go take care of Sterling.”
Alex bowed, most elegantly. ”Certainly, my dear. Your wish, as I believe it is said, is my command, and I remain, as always, your obedient servant.”
”Yeah, right. As it is also said-and pigs fly.”
Chapter Thirteen.
Saint Just spent the better part of an hour on the phone, but by the time he'd finished he felt fairly well pleased with himself that Sterling would now be able to report for duty at nine the next morning and Saint Just would have no qualms about allowing the good-hearted man out and about with his chimney of silver.
Santas for Silver.
He didn't like the name, and he'd cared less for the entire idea when, at Sterling's request, he'd called the local headquarters to report Sterling's unfortunate incident. Not a single question was asked about how Sterling had fared in the attack, all the questions having to do with the costume, the chimney, the lost bell and, most definitely, the silver.
This seeming lack of compa.s.sion for one of their unpaid volunteers smacked to Saint Just of ingrat.i.tude, at the very least, and coldheartedness at the most. Quite an unusual thing in a charitable organization, one would think.
Saint Just did not consider himself to be naive. In the course of The Case of the Lingering Lightskirt, he and Maggie had explored a considerable portion of the Regency London underworld, including more than a few unsavory denizens of Piccadilly, many of whom were experts in the way of manufactured infirmities, artfully applied running sores, and other such unpleasant artifices meant to goad the unwary to part with a few coppers.
Or a few pieces of silver.
During the course of his literary adventures, he'd learned that appearances very often were not the only criteria by which one should judge others, that much had been made clear as his character had found it necessary to wade through cruel pimps, depraved women selling their own children, clever liars, in order to get to the truth and solve the case.
In this particular case, it had been Maggie who had looked up Santas for Silver on the Internet and declared the organization to be aboveboard.
But, then, Maggie was so adorably innocent and trusting at times. Saint Just would much rather follow his own instincts when it came to ferreting out possible miscreants, and in this case, his instincts told him that Sterling's sacrifice of his body in order to protect a few pieces of silver meant for the underprivileged should have been met with more compa.s.sion by one Mr. Joshua Goodfellow.
Joshua Goodfellow? It was as if the man had been named especially so that he could elicit goodwill.
All of which took Saint Just back to his laptop computer and, within moments, to the Web site of Santas for Silver. Ignoring the heart-tugging photos and glowing testimonials, Saint Just concentrated on names, and was disappointed in the lack of them. Other than Joshua Goodfellow himself, there were only three: Roberta Astley, Maryjane Rucker, and Marjorie McDermont. All women.
And, at times, women could be naive ... or as bad or worse than men.
Saint Just closed his laptop and retrieved his topcoat and scarf from the closet, his sword cane from the elephant foot umbrella stand. Lastly, he picked up the bag containing Sterling's ruined costume and told his friend he was on his way to return the thing and obtain another-yes, a size forty-two short, if one was available, and most definitely, a new bell. He had more than an hour before Lieutenant Wendell and the others were slated to convene in Maggie's condo. Just enough time to do a bit of sleuthing.
”Maggie?” he called out as he used his key to enter her condo.
She appeared a few moments later, her hair still wet from her shower, her slim body wrapped in a thick white terry cloth robe. She looked delicious, but he was a man on a mission. Truly, the sacrifices one must make for one's friends ...
”I'm glad you're here,” Maggie told him, drawing the lapels of the robe more closely over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s-a move Saint Just could have pointed out did nothing but concentrate his mind on those same b.r.e.a.s.t.s as he had last seen them. ”Let's talk about the rat, shall we? My rat?”
”Certainly, my dear, although I am on my way to procure a new costume for Sterling,” he said, holding up the paper bag. ”What is it you wish to know?”
”I don't know,” she said, sitting down on one of the couches and drawing her knees up and under the bathrobe. ”Let's start at the beginning. When did I get it? How did you know I got it? Was Socks in on it? I'll bet he was. Oh, and did it ever occur to you-to either of you-that you were tampering with the United States mail?”
Saint Just set the paper bag on the credenza beside the door and leaned on his sword cane. ”Let's see, which question should I answer first?”
”Take them in any order you want, buster-just tell me what you know I want to know.”
”Very well, and you look quite fetching, I feel it necessary for me to say. Soft and rosy from your bath, and with your skin gleaming, inviting. That scent-I so identify it with you, my dear.”
”It's only baby oil,” Maggie muttered, tugging the hem of the robe lower. ”And don't change the subject.”
”Yes, I sense that you won't be derailed,” Saint Just said, smiling. ”Very well, the truth. I received a phone call from Socks on my cell while we were in England, telling me of the package and its accompanying odor that had led him to open the thing, whereupon he discovered the rat. Your rat. Directing him to keep the evidence intact, I then personally inspected it the moment we returned-”
”In the bas.e.m.e.nt. That's why you were in the bas.e.m.e.nt,” Maggie said, pointing an accusing finger at him. ”I knew you'd never do physical work if you could find a way out of it. So the rat was there when I came downstairs? I was right there, wasn't I? And you still didn't show it to me?”
”Alas, the poor mammal wasn't quite fit for polite company by that time,” Saint Just told her, ”but I was able to rescue the poem that accompanied the thing.”
”You did? Where is it? I want to see it. Steve needs to have it.”
”And he will, I a.s.sure you, when he arrives. Now, if there is nothing else?”
”Oh, there's a lot else, Alex. For starters, you've got to get it through your head that I'm a woman of the twenty-first century, and you are a man of the nineteenth. An arrogant man of the nineteenth. But you're here now, in the twenty-first century, and I'm not one of your innocent debutantes who need protection. I pull my own weight. You don't protect me. I want ... I want to be seen as capable of taking care of myself.”
”Certainly, my dear. By whom?”
”By whom? By me. I want ... I want to believe in myself, okay?”
”At which point I will no longer be necessary?”
”No! Cripes, Alex, I didn't mean it that way. I love it that you ... that you care. But don't hide things from me-not when they concern me. Are we clear now?”
”We are, most definitely. Please accept my most sincere apologies for not informing you that some demented creature, possibly with homicidal tendencies, sent you an odiferous, decomposing rat that, clearly, I should have presented for your personal inspection the moment we returned from the airport rather than to dispose of the thing and then watch carefully over you to see if the rat was a genuine threat or just a malicious prank, and all in the mistaken notion that a man is placed on this earth to protect his woman.”
”Hoo-boy. You're p.i.s.sed,” Maggie said, making a face. ”I knew you'd be p.i.s.sed. I mean, you can take the boy out of the Regency, but you can't take the Regency out of the boy-or something like that. Okay, Alex, I forgive you. Your heart was in the right place. But Steve may not be so charitable when we tell him what you did, you know? Have you thought about that?”
”I have. Indeed, J.P. has a.s.sured me that I could not have known how potentially serious the rat and poem were and, now that I'm more than willing to cooperate-now that I have more information-there's really nothing the good left-tenant can do about it. In other words, my lawyer does not think you will be forced to post bail for this sorry creature, as I believe is the term.”
”You know, Alex, that was my free lifetime legal advice you were using. But I'm glad to hear it. J.P. is a good lawyer. Or she was, before Bruce McCrae showed up. Was that sickening, or what?”
”I have no fears for J.P. She was momentarily dazzled. Only time will tell if her emotions are truly involved. And now, as everyone is gathering here in less than an hour, I really should be on my way.”
”So you're really going to let Sterling go back out on the streets?”
Saint Just opened his mouth to tell Maggie, well, to tell her not very much, actually, but he quickly reconsidered. ”For the moment, yes, I am, although not without George and Vernon by his side.”
”I still don't think that's going to work, Alex. Sure, George is gorgeous, but Snake-Vernon-has criminal element written all over him, poor thing. He'll chase away contributors. Especially the moms and kids.”
”Yes, you mentioned that earlier, but I believe I've come up with a workable solution. George and Vernon are to be Santa's elves. Mary Louise has agreed to outfit them appropriately and have them here tomorrow morning, to escort Sterling to his a.s.signed corner, where they will caper and cavort and in general behave as Santa's merry elves-all the while keeping a close eye out for potential trouble.”
Halfway through his explanation, Maggie fell back against the couch, clutching her stomach as she laughed out loud. ”Will they have feathers in their caps and ... and pointy shoes with bells on them? Caper and cavort? Oh, G.o.d, Alex-that's hysterical!”