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Liquid courage. That was all. What he'd come to do would require a sip or two of brandy, and so he'd had several dozen before leaving the inn. Why he'd brought the small sharp knife he'd stolen from the inn's kitchen, he wasn't sure. Which immortal did he plan to use it on? The one he'd come to threaten or the one he'd come to save? It wouldn't work on either. But this hadn't mattered to him as he left the inn.
Because he was drunk.
Was he more drunk now than when he'd left?
Mustn't be distracted by these senseless calculations. Must instead get the lay of the land so he could avoid a receiving area and the possibility of a guest list.
What mattered now was that he was on the property, and that he had finally stopped crying like a humiliated little boy.
The night before he had walked the perimeter of the estate. Learned its gates and access doors and the various points at which the height of its stone wall varied. He'd assumed she might want to enter in some secret fashion. With him, of course. And so he'd mapped out several ways in.
The service road on which he now stood traveled towards the back of the property. There were fresh tire tracks in the dirt, probably from one of the catering vehicles. Although why it had ventured so far from the house was beyond him. Where had it parked? Next to the pond he'd glimpsed the night before, the one behind the small replica of the Pantheon and its accompaniment of trees? That was a great distance from where it sounded like the party was taking place.
Directly ahead was a small manicured garden. Just beyond it, the main house. This area was positively gloomy with shade at this hour. No wonder they'd chosen to host the party on the western lawn. The stone terrace on this side was also smaller. And through its multi-paned windows, he saw no shadows or movement in the house.
If the doors were unlocked, this would be his way in, for sure.
Victory!
He slipped through them, found himself inside a small sitting room-cum-library. Heard instantly the clop and clatter of servants rushing up from the basement with their silver trays of steaming hors d'oeuvres. This side of the house was almost entirely devoid of guests, and if he lingered here, he would draw attention.
He moved on.
He stepped into the hallway and was almost run down by a tall, tuxedoed man who offered a brusque smile and said, "Party's this way, sir."
Teddy nodded and gave him a dumb smile. The servant continued on, consumed with his business.
He was a footstep away from entering the house's front hallway when he heard a name that stopped him in his tracks.
"Sibyl Parker!" a woman's voice cried.
*
Sibyl froze.
The woman walking towards her now with her arms out in welcome was surely the hostess of this party, and she was greeting the sight of an uninvited guest as if it were a joyous occurrence.
How many scripts had Sibyl prepared and rehearsed for this moment? Now it seemed as if none of them would be necessary.
She managed her best smile.
"You are Sibyl Parker, are you not?" the woman said. She took Sibyl's hands gently in hers. Nothing less than delight in her smile. "There's been an illustration or two of you in the Daily Herald. Do tell me I'm not mistaken or I'll be horribly embarrassed. You are Sibyl Parker, the author?"
"I am, indeed, and you must be the Countess of Rutherford."
"Please. Call me Edith. I'm a great admirer of your books. I must confess I prefer them to actual travel. Oh, of course, you must meet our mysterious Mr. Ramsey!"
"Mr. Ramsey, yes." It left her breathless to say the man's name in such an ordinary exchange. For in her mind, it had taken on connotations almost mythic.
"Do come inside. A glass of wine is waiting for you in the drawing room and then you'll find Mr. Ramsey on the western lawn right outside. What a privilege," Edith said, drawing Sibyl up the front steps with a hand against the small of her back. "What an absolute privilege! If I had my copies of your books here, I would ask you to autograph them. But I'm afraid I'll have to settle for your signature on a napkin, if that's quite all right."
"It's absolutely all right," Sibyl whispered, so relieved by this turn of events she felt near tears. "Whatever you would like, Edith...I am sure it would be absolutely all right. I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality."
"Say nothing of it. Alex, my dear boy. This is Sibyl Parker, the Egyptian novelist. You have your memories of your recent trip to Egypt. I have her delightfully entertaining books. And so it shall remain, as I have no desire to travel to any Egypt that does not resemble the one depicted in her novels."
Her son was youthful and handsome. But there was a sadness to his eyes that seemed to intensify as he studied her.
"I must say, Miss Parker," he whispered, "you do look familiar to me."
