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“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling a hundred percent today.”
“Maybe you’re catching a cold?” Thank you Charlotte, always looking out for a friend. She winked as Bentifourt inspected me closer.
“You do have some dark circles under your eyes.” Bentifourt leaned forward, squinting. “Can’t have you serving guests if you’re sick.”
“It’s nothing, I’ll rest later today before we serve dinner.”
Diana Redman walked towards the tent wearing black Jackie O glasses. Her face was ruddy, puffy, evidence of tears present. As soon as she sat down next to Paisley, Charlotte offered her a Bellini. Taking the glass, she tipped it back and drained it in one swallow.
Sebastian stood with the men inspecting the guns. This was obviously not new to him; he looked at ease and in control. He picked up a shotgun that had one barrel over another and loaded the weapon expertly. Then he stared down the muzzle and lifted it skyward.
“Pull,” he yelled.
The groundskeeper activated the machine and flying disks shot out at different angles and speeds. In seconds he had fired the weapon twice, the sound loud and violent, and struck both dead center. The shattered remains of the clay pigeons flew in every directions. He repeated the exercise two more times.
The guests clapped a tad too enthusiastically if you asked me. There was a subtle sense of awe when they spoke to him, and about him. The formality in their voices was even more telling. It wasn’t just respect, there was a hint of fear there too.
Paisley screamed and clapped her hands disproportionately louder than everyone else. If she was trying to get his attention, she succeeded. Sebastian narrowed his eyes at her and stalked over to Bentifourt.
“How many drinks has she had?”
“Three already, and no food.”
Sebastian turned and caught my gaze, his eyes glowing with warmth and anticipation. I knew what he was asking. I smiled briefly, afraid that someone might notice, and watched a subtle tenseness leave his shoulders.
“Cut her off,” he murmured in a low voice to Mr. Bentifourt. Mr. Bentifourt responded with a brief nod, and Sebastian returned to the group of men taking turns shooting, none being as proficient as he was.
When Charles Hightower stepped forward for his turn, Sebastian was by his side immediately, instructing him with whispered words of encouragement. Mr. Hightower missed the first couple of shots. Although, undeterred, he ended by striking the last four. Smiling proudly, he pated Sebastian’s cheek, and Sebastian reciprocated with a warm smile. It was sweet to watch the open display of affection between the two men. Clearly, very little of it existed between him and his mother. The pain and resentment between those two ran deep.
After the shooting, everyone sat for a casual lunch. Paisley kept ordering more Bloody Marys, and Mr. Bentifourt kept refilling her glass, pretending there was alcohol in them. Caroline took the seat on Sebastian’s right again and resumed her heavy petting. I almost felt sorry for him. He looked impassive to everyone at the table, but I knew better. To me, he looked like a trapped animal.
“I’m told there are plenty of quail to hunt around here,” said one of the associates to no one in particular.
“My stepbrother has a firm no-kill policy on his estate, John,” Marcus informed him, derision underscoring his words.
“Really?”
Sebastian’s keen power of observation never seemed to fail. He looked sharply in their direction.
“Yes, Sebastian’s famous for finding small injured animals and nursing them back to health when he was a kid. His nickname was Boy Scout––by the time my father married his mother he had moved on to saving larger animals of course.” Marcus buried a sly smirk in his champagne glass.
Sebastian’s jaw pulsed with barely contained anger. “Marcus.” The hard-edged reprimand drew everyone’s attention. At first Marcus stared back defiantly, the tension escalating, but he inevitably submitted to the threatening glare of the larger predator at the table. Sebastian’s cautious gaze darted quickly in my direction, measuring how much of the conversation I had heard.
Nursing small animals? I tried to picture Sebastian as a sweet, little boy with floppy, sandy hair, and tried to reconcile that with the man I knew now. The one heavily armored, locked behind a fortress. I could see only glimpses of that little boy. He hid him well, protecting what was left of him. I wondered what Marcus meant by larger animals and earmarked it for later analysis.
“I never did see the sport in killing a tiny bird that flies badly.” Sebastian’s eyes were hooded, shuttered. The bored aristocrat had come to lunch.
“I didn’t mean to imply. I mean…I don’t really hunt. I was just told…” He reduced the poor man into a stammering idiot with one phrase.
Diana Redman found her voice after two Bellinis and a half a bottle of Haute Brion. “Sugar, you should show everyone your pets later.”
