Page 49 of Cross My Heart
“And I’m none of the above,” I agree.
She looks at me thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that just yet. You know, Saint never brings dates to these things.”
“I’m surprised he ever shows up,” I say, watching him mingle. It may look effortless to an outsider, but I can already tell from the stiff line of his shoulders, he’s hating every minute of it.
“Oh, Saint likes to act the rebel, but he knows what’s expected of him. We all do,” Imogen says, with a faint twist in her voice that makes me wonder what else is going on with her. “So, how are you enjoying meeting everyone?” she asks, smoothly changing the subject.
“It’s… interesting,” I reply, still on guard. Imogen seems like the ultimate society princess, polished and sophisticated, and I’m bracing myself for some dismissive comments to make it clear that I don't belong.
But, surprisingly, she grins. “It’s OK, I know we seem like a bunch of rich assholes. And most of us are—me included.” Imogen laughs. “But I’ll say one thing about Cyrus and Juniper Lancaster, they know how to hire a good party planner.”
“It is a gorgeous event,” I agree, looking around.
“Why, thank you.”
I pause, “Wait, you planned it?”
Imogen nods. “I have an event company,” she says. “Tea parties, birthday bashes, the occasional wedding, when I can bring myself to deal with all the Bridezilla drama. And no, I’m not planning Annabelle and Max’s big day,” she adds, “You couldn’t pay me to touch that explosion of ego and tears.”
I smile, relaxing. “What’s the story there?” I ask, curious for more information. I haven’t seen Max yet, but I’ve spotted Annabelle across the lawn, wearing a hot-pink headpiece with feathers sprouting from the brim.
“Well, Annabelle’s a few years younger than us,” Imogen explains, plucking us martinis from a server without pausing for breath. “So she’s adored Max forever. Her family, the deWessops, goes way back, too. A very old, aristocratic family. Her aunt was rumored to be one of the Princes’ bit on the side.”
“Which Prince?” I ask, loving the gossip.
“My lips are sealed. But I will say, there’s a deWessops offspring out there who’s losing his hair very early,” Imogen says, with a wink, and I laugh.
“What other scandals are going on?”
“Well…” Imogen draws me closer and begins to point out people in the crowd as we sample desserts from the spread. The artist having a secret fling with the tech mogul’s new wife… The man who just inherited a massive fortune from his aristocratic parents, despite having the same flaming red hair as his ‘father’s’ business partner…. The mousy daughter of an Earl who just shocked everyone by eloping with her riding instructor. It’s like a soap opera. “Oh, and you know about the Ambroses, don’t you?” Imogen asks.
The name is familiar. “Saint’s friend, Hugh?”
She nods. “His father, Lionel, is a bigwig politician, running to be leader of the party. When he wins the ballot of members next month, he’ll become the new Prime Minister—without even needing to compete in a general election. You’ve got to love the British system of government,” she adds, rolling her eyes.
“Don’t you mean,ifhe wins?” I ask. Imogen smirks.
“Lionel and Cyrus Lancaster are thick as thieves. With the Lancaster Media empire behind him, there’s no way he’s going to lose. I mean, look,” she points out a tall, friendly-looking man with Hugh’s tow hair and broad smile, shaking hands and posing for photos. “It’s no coincidence that it was a Lancaster paper that published the exclusive about the old PM’s groping habit. They brought him down so Lionel could move up and take the top spot.”
Watching Lionel Ambrose circulate, I can’t help feeling a little bit in awe of the powerful people in attendance. It’s like being at a party with the President of the United States. And maybe a few congressmen and celebrities, too.
“Have you met Saint’s parents?” Imogen asks, nibbling on a cookie.
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“That might be for the best,” Imogen says, giving a wince.
“Why?”
“No reason.” Imogen says quickly, but her smile looks more forced. There’s something she’s not saying, but I decide not to push it. I need to focus on my own mystery. With that in mind, I look pointedly around.
“Is there a bathroom for us regular civilians to use?”
She laughs. “Just head inside, there are a dozen to choose from.”
“True luxury!”
I head back towards the house. Inside, it’s just as impressive, with huge, grand hallways, polished marble floors, and ancient antiques around every corner, like something out of a BBC period show. I wander through the rooms, taking it all in. Wren would have loved this place, I know.Pride & Prejudicewas her comfort watch, and every holiday like clockwork we’d settle in to admire the costumes and scenery.