CHAPTER1
Elliot
“…and we’ve put you in your favorite rooms, my lord,” the butler announces, flinging open the doors for me.
“Very good.”
“Dr. Dubois and Mr. Jaeger request your company for dinner, my lord,” Carlton continues, “but suggest you may enjoy some respite before then. I’ve taken the liberty of drawing you a bath—”
“Excellent.” I can smell the fragrant oils wafting from theen suitebathroom, my preferred scents of sandalwood and spice.
“And of course, my lord—”
“Of course,” I agree, nodding at the most important addition to the room: the baby grand silent piano I specifically requested, so I can continue composing while I’m here without keeping the house awake at all hours. Provision of that silent piano was one of my conditions for attending this year, as I have a fast-approaching deadline. But I know without needing to check that it will be perfectly tuned, just waiting for my fingers—and, of course, waiting for the Muse to arrive.
Idolike visiting Zee and Niklaus. It’s the little things. The things that you don’t get even in the best hotels, not doneright, at any rate.
“I have personally unpacked your belongings, my lord. However,” Carlton says, and I turn to stare at him.Howeveris not a word I’ve heard often in this household. Carlton wears a deeply apologetic expression. “I’m afraid the young man assigned to your service for the weekend has not yet arrived in the household. I would be delighted to assist you if—”
“No, no,” I sigh. “I’ll do for myself tonight. That will be all.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Once Carlton has left me, I remove my clothes and slide into the warm—very warm, but not scalding, just the perfect temperature—scented waters of the enormous claw-footed tub in the bathroom, and give another sigh. This time, however, it’s contentment.
The flight from England was tedious; no airline is capable, these days, of providing adequate service. The champagne was lukewarm, the food inedible, and my personal requests poorly fulfilled. At least I know that while I’m here, Niklaus will ensure I’m cared for properly. I can relax while I’m here.
Relax until my meeting with those Hollywood types, in any case.
I squeeze my eyes shut and settle into a more comfortable position in the tub, but as usually happens these days when I close my eyes, Arden Hall floats into my thoughts. Not just my childhood home, but my family’s ancestral seat—and in very real danger of passing out of the family’s possession in the near future. There are relatively few privately-owned estates throughout Britain these days, and over the last few years, I’ve learned why.
My chest contracts painfully as the secondary purpose for my visit pulls at my thoughts: a last-ditch attempt to retain Arden Hall. In the past, my holidays here in Los Angeles have been mere getaways, a chance to indulge my Dominant side, even pretend to be someone else, if only for a week or two. The Halloween masquerade ball has always been a highlight of my year, even after…
But I willnotthink about that.
Many months ago, when I overcame my pride enough to ask for help, Niklaus attached me to a Hollywood agent, who in turn attached me to compose a theme song for a new film. Worse, actually—a theme song for a new tentpole blockbuster science fiction franchise.
I know the words—Niklaus has repeated them often enough—but I’m not entirely sure what theymean. It took me a long time to admit I needed this job at all, and it was only the size of the advance that convinced me in the end.
But I need the money if I’m to save Arden Hall, and the livelihoods of all those who depend on it for work.
My bath is no longer so peaceful. I scrub off the grime of travel, dry down, and then go back into the bedroom to put on my robe, the one with my family crest embroidered over the pocket. It always seems so gauche at home, but when in Rome…
The masquerade is always about costume. Costume and mystery and pleasure, though I’ll be working throughout my stay. Usually I arrive only a week or two before Halloween. This year, I’ve come halfway through September. I hoped the change of scenery would spark my creative muse.
The theme song is nowhere near complete. Nowhere nearbegun. And time is running out.
I should dress and take a turn about the gardens; it’s the best way to combat jet lag. But instead, I lie down on the bed—just for a moment—and close my eyes.
Just for a moment.
* * *
I’m woken by a repetitive tapping on the door, getting louder and louder and breaking into my fog of sleep. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying there, but my limbs are heavy, and I haven’t felt this relaxed for a long time.
Maybe years.
“Come,” I call hoarsely, as the tapping starts up again. I have my eyes closed still, but with great effort I crack them open, although raising my head from the pillow is out of the question.
