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Thus, sometime later, there we were, Jane, Portia, Christine and me, sipping awful sherry, when Ian prowled in wearing a face like thunder.
“Why did no one invite me to the party?” he drawled, but the joke was underlined with a thick vein of fury.
Still.
That made me smile.
“You might wish to go to the kitchen, Christine,” he suggested. “Dad and Stevenson are right now sacking Brittany. Someone will need to make sure she’s fully packed when she’s kicked out because, if she leaves something behind, she sure as fuck won’t be coming back.”
Christine appeared horrified for a split second before that morphed to anger, and she stormed out, taking her sherry glass with her.
“What’s this?” Lady Jane asked, and I had pulled it together (it was having some time, and I hated to say it, but the sherry helped), but I shivered at her tone.
Now I knew where Ian got it.
Dangerous.
“She was pretending to be asleep, but she hadn’t had time to fully change, and Jack found the wig shoved in a broom closet,” Ian told her.
“The wig?” Jane asked.
“She dressed up like Dorothy Clifton and came in here to frighten Daphne,” Ian said.
“Oh my God! Why would she do something like that?” Portia cried.
Ian looked at her but didn’t answer.
Jane set her glass aside, and with a mask of fury, wordlessly, she left the room.
I didn’t think she was headed to the Cherry Suite.
I thought it was highly likely she had a few things to say after Stevenson sacked Brittany.
Ian turned his attention to me. “You’re moving to the Hawthorn Suite.”
There you go.
Figured.
Twenty-Two
THE BEDROOM
I was pacing.
Ian had gone to do something, telling me he’d be “right back.”
He was not “right back.”
I was in his bedroom.
Alone.
I was okay with that. This was a much more populated wing, and as far as I knew, everyone in the house was awake. Anyway, on the way there (by the way, I didn’t walk there—get this, Ian carried me) I did not fail to note that it seemed like every light in Duncroft had been switched on.
Ian finally stalked in, carrying one of those ice packs with a screw top. It was blue.
“You’re out of bed,” he growled, sounding ferociously pissed.
