William rolls his eyes, but the man doesn’t seem at all offended. “Grayson, that was Monty, Junior Publicist at Fletcher-Wilson, my publisher. This is Miss Edwina Danforth, fellow author, and her friend, Miss Jolene Vaughn. Miss Danforth, Miss Vaughn, this is Grayson Somerton, our host and my former mentor.”
“In poetry?” Jolene asks, her expression alight with interest.
Mr. Somerton frowns. “No, in acting. I hosted many performances here and William was one of our brightest stars.” To William he says, “I was surprised to hear you made a name for yourself on the page rather than the stage.”
William’s throat bobs, then a lopsided grin curves his lips. “What is a blank page if not another kind of stage?”
Mr. Somerton takes a puff from his pipe, giving him a meager smile yet making no further comment. He turns to me and Jolene. “Since this is your first time at Somerton House, allow me to acquaint you. Here, in the foyer, is what we call the music hall. The parlor to the left is set with easels. The study hosts my finest liquor. In the library you’ll find a makeshift stage for spoken-word performances. Upstairs in the south wing, you’ll find rooms dedicated to pottery, painting, pianoforte, harp. In the north wing?—”
“They’re not going to the north wing,” William cuts in.
I glance between William and Mr. Somerton. “Why? What’s in the north wing?”
Mr. Somerton busies himself with his pipe and refuses to meet my gaze.
William looks me straight in the eyes. “Do not go to the north wing. I’m warning you.”
How has he yet to learn? Telling me not to do something is the surest way to get me to do it. I curtsy for Mr. Somerton. “Thank you for being such a gracious host. I look forward to enjoying your lovely home.”
He gives a deep nod and I tug Jolene with me toward a wide curving staircase.
“Where are you going?” William’s tone is edged with warning.
I cast a coy look over my shoulder. “To the north wing, of course.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WILLIAM
It’s not my responsibility to save Edwina from herself. If she seeks the mortification that awaits her in the north wing, that’s her prerogative. Who am I to stop her? Yet even as I think it, my legs twitch, begging me to move, my chest burning with annoyance at every step she takes up the stairs. No sooner than she reaches the landing do I charge after her, abandoning Grayson in the middle of his sentence. Not that I was listening to him anyway.
“Miss Danforth,” I call out, but the crowd of partygoers is denser here, with guests weaving from room to room or chatting idly in the halls. I call her name again, and this time, she pulls up short. She’s probably more startled that I called her by her proper name and not Weenie, but I’m not about to shout the latter in the middle of a house party.
She puts her hands on her hips. “Willy, why are you following me?”
Her question catches me off guard, for it forces me to truly consider the answer. Why the hellamI following her? I can’t convince myself this is an act of sabotage, for what she’ll find in the north wing won’t aid in making progress toward our bet. Not immediately, at least. While I could convince myself this is just another instinct of brotherly protection, something I’d do for my sister, there’s nothing brotherly about my feelings where Edwina is concerned. All she ever does is vex me. She’s a nuisance.
So what is it? The fact that she’s human, and I know humans to be fragile creatures? Their lifespans are short, their bodies prone to ailments I’ll never have to suffer.
The latter strikes a hollow pit in my chest. Yes, I know about human frailty all too well.
Maybe that’s all this is.
I sink back into my role of William the Poet and lower my voice for only her to hear. “I’m giving you one last chance to heed my wisdom, Weenie Poo.”
Her nostrils flare at the newest nickname. “If you wanted me to heed anything, then you wouldn’t have called me that.”
She’s right, but I couldn’t resist. William the Poet loves riling her up. It’s become the highlight of this role.
“Furthermore,” she says, “if you wanted to dampen my curiosity over the north wing, you would have offered to serve as my personal escort. Then I wouldn’t have been even remotely interested.”
“Fine,” I say through my teeth. “I will escort you. Shall we?”
“Such a gentleman,” Jolene says, reminding me of her presence. She’s been standing beside Edwina all the while, her longing gaze locked on me, but I barely noticed her. When Edwina’s around, it’s hard to concentrate on anything else. That’s how annoying she is.
“Your offer is too late,” Edwina says. “I’m still going.”
She turns and starts off down the hall. Jolene glances from her friend to me before asking, “Shall we?”
