High Heels and Homicide by Kasey Michaels Page B

shot south to Surrey and Medwine Manor, or so I’m told. Any questions?”
    Sterling raised his hand. “Won’t we have time to see London at all?”
    â€œYes, Maggie, it’s unseemly to just rush about and not at least take a drive through London. I very much want to see Carleton House again. Such a magnificent grand staircase, and the Prince Regent entertained lavishly.”
    â€œUm, Alex? They tore down Carleton House sometime in the eighteen-twenties. They tore down a lot of places. We’re not landing in Regency London. I’m sorry, but except for palaces and Parliament and all that stuff, you won’t know this London a whole lot more than you knew Manhattan when you first got there. They’ve got McDonald’s here now.”
    Alex was quiet for some moments, then said, “I think we should like to see it, in any case. And, much as you may naysay me, I most especially wish to visit a particular establishment a few steps off Threadneedle Street. As your research is always so very much on the mark and the family has been serving at the pleasure of his majesty since the sixteen hundreds, I am going to assume the shop is still there in one form or another.”
    â€œWhat kind of shop?”
    â€œOne devoted to the best in umbrellas and walking sticks. Very specialized sticks, if you take my meaning. You know I was forced to leave my cane in New York, what with the metal detectors at the airport.”
    Maggie sat back in her seat, blew out her breath, recited mentally: Saint Just is Saint Just . “A sword cane. You want another sword cane. Is that really necessary?”
    â€œYou’d have me go naked in my homeland?”
    â€œOh, cut me a break. Whoa!” she said, grabbing the seat arms in a death grip as her stomach lurched. “Damn it, I hate when they do that.”
    â€œDo what, my dear? And may I say, your usually healthy complexion has gone rather white.”
    â€œDo what? You mean you didn’t feel that? The pilot’s putting on the air brakes—I think that’s what they’re called—because we’re making our descent. I know, in my head, that he’s probably dropping us down from a billion miles per hour to a million miles per hour, but it feels like we’re stopping. Thirty-five thousand feet up, and the guy’s slamming on the brakes like he’s trying to avoid a deer in the road. I hate that.”
    â€œAh, the often too-fertile imagination of the writer. You’re your own worst enemy, my dear.” Alex patted her hand. “Close your eyes, Maggie. Meditate. Think good thoughts. We’ll be on the ground soon, and shortly after that we’ll be at Medwine Manor, where you’ll be feted and fawned over as the great talent you are.”
    Maggie opened one eye, and glared at him. “Don’t patronize me, Alex. I’m not going to get hysterical and start screaming or something.”
    â€œReally? I cannot tell you how gratified I am to hear that. In that case, my dear—lean across me and see the great metropolis of London spread out at our feet. Glorious, isn’t it? Like something out of a picture book.”
    â€œSadist.” Maggie groaned, and slapped her hands over her eyes.

Chapter Four
    O ne hand on the golden knob of a sword cane that in style and quality of workmanship greatly resembled the one his fictional self had purchased at the same small shop, Saint Just was a very happy, extremely content man as the limousine rolled out of London and, eventually, into Surrey.
    It was raining, nothing out of the ordinary for England, and was rather gray and damp, also not unusual, but nothing could put a damper on Saint Just’s enthusiasm. Or on Sterling’s.
    â€œOh, look, Saint Just,” Sterling said now, his head half out of the window he insisted on keeping lowered, the better to take in the scenery. “That marvelous mansion, up there, at the top of the