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I steered Beryl away. Olivia’s father was dull and not particularly bright, but his birthright as the male heir of the Swanson fortune meant that he was deferred to so sycophantically that he had no idea how uninteresting and stupid he really was. All these people who bowed and behaved as if the sun shone out of his ass were happy to go along with the illusion of his greatness because it kept their importance in the scheme of things secure.
We were drifting toward the tall, mullioned windows when a familiar voice said, ‘Hello. So glad you could make it.’
We turned around to face Olivia. She was wearing a velvet black dress with a high neckline and black lace sleeves. Her glossy hair was up in some sort of chignon that made me imagine taking it down and twisting it around my fist as I rammed into her.
‘Hi,’ Beryl grinned.
‘I see you’ve met Daddy,’ she said softly, her silvery eyes straying from me to Beryl.
‘Yes. He seems…very nice,’ Beryl said.
Olivia’s expression said that she did not believe Beryl thought any such thing, but all she said was, ‘I’d like you both to meet my siblings.’
First was her sister, Lady Daphne.
She had inherited her mother’s beautiful eyes and she had very good skin. Otherwise she was, unfortunately, the spitting image of her father. She was only nineteen, but incredibly, she had already cultivated the critical, calculating hauteur of a dowager. Her voice was a sarcastic, assessing drawl and her cold gaze dismissed and traveled away from us even as she said, ‘How do you do?’
An awkward silence ensued as soon as the introductions were done. Olivia quickly herded us away and introduced us to a sleek man standing next to a painting of a dour ancestor, his eyes glazed with boredom. He was wearing a double-breasted, navy wool pinstripe suit, the pocket square, stuffed not folded, and the tie a different pattern but still working together perfectly. The tie knot was a gentleman’s knot, small, tight, four-in-hand with a dimple. Obviously a polo playing, champagne guzzling city boy.
Beryl said something quietly in Olivia’s ear and both ladies excused themselves. I presumed they were on their way to the powder room. My eyes nearly swiveled around to turn and watch her go.
‘So you’re the hypnotist?’ Jacobi Gough Swanson drawled, eyeing me curiously over the rim of his champagne glass.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Mummy seems to think you’re rather wonderful.’
‘It’s not certain that will be her deathbed opinion yet.’
‘I have no doubt you’ll do very well,’ he said suavely, but some quickly hidden expression in his eyes made me wonder if Olivia had a secret enemy in him.
‘I don’t suppose you hunt?’ he asked.
‘As a matter of fact, I do.’ But not foxes, I added in my head.
His lips twitched unpleasantly. ‘Good. You can join us tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, but we’ll be leaving right after breakfast.’
‘Perhaps next time.’
‘Sure, why not.’
‘So what’s it like being a hypnotist?’ There was a smug chuckle in his voice.
‘Not much different from selling hundred-year Mexican government bonds denominated in euros, or ten-year Swiss bonds at negative yields, I suppose,’ I said quietly.
His eyes narrowed. I had just pulled his superiority rug out from under his feet.
‘Does that mean it’s not going well with Olivia?’ he asked coldly.
I looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Olivia’s case is complicated. Not that I am at liberty to discuss it with you.’
He appeared suddenly amused. ‘Is that code for my sister’s bonkers?’
So he was jealous of his stepsister. ‘No. It could be code for don’t believe all you are told.’
He widened his eyes sarcastically. ‘What fun! A mystery.’
