“And the fox mostly gets away anyway,” added little Tabitha Mountbatten. “But they never put that in the stories.”
Emma turned away. Perhaps it was because she’d been avoiding drinking, the memory of the Turnbull punch too horrible to shake. But the rest of the party felt as though it was happening on the other side of a glass wall.
“Come on, mate.”
A few steps away, at the center of a pink-flushed group, Eddie Spencer was trying to shove Richard toward Antonia Viacelli,lolling by the fire. But Richard shook him off and fled for the far window, where Julia waited.
Eddie downed his glass. “Only trying to help. That man needs a girlfriend.”
Piers stumbled against Eddie, giggling. “Not him. He’s been sticking it into something secret.”
“Sly dog, who?”
Piers let his eyes snag on Julia. Queenly, radiant in crimson satin by the window.
Guy Cavendish whooped. “Oh, good lad. Best call the ambulance, lads. Seems our Rich has a spot of theyellow fever.”
The group screeched like macaques.
Yellow fever.Emma could have ripped out their eyeballs for daring to even look at Julia. Or their stupid, shrieking tongues. And all at once she realized: She was done here.
She looked around: at the boys with red coats and redder faces; the girls shrieking and slapping away errant hands. The bottles knocked over and forgotten, slopping champagne onto the floor. And she couldn’t remember what it had felt like to want all of this so badly. It was empty. The money, the sheen. The jealous eyes following them from party to party. None of it made the people here worth spending time with.
Jasper stumbled across the room.
“You are so gorgeous,” he whispered. Speckles of saliva sprayed her ear. He kissed the rim, a wet wash of tongue on her skin. “And you’re mine. Pretty, pretty Emma.”
Five minutes before, that kiss would have set Emma’s skin tingling. Now it was a blank.
Jasper leaned in again, but before Emma had decided whethershe wanted to duck—and why would she do that, Emma scolded herself, what was wrong with her?—Piers clapped his hands.
“Right, you lot! These are the rules of the Opening Meet,” he announced.
Venetia rolled her eyes. “It’s a pub crawl.”
“Men-hunters!” Piers bellowed over her. “You are one team. Lady-foxes! The second. Between each pub, foxes, you must run. Hunters, you must chase them. That is the hunt. If a fox gets to the next location without being caught, she is safe. But if a hunter spots a fox, he may call all the other hunters to chase her. And then, watch out, foxes! Because the hunters only have to catch one fox to win the round. And”—he waggled his eyebrows—“the winning team gets bought drinks at the next pub.”
“What happens to the fox that gets caught?” ventured one of the girls.
His eyes glittered. “Why don’t you find out?”
A low laugh went around the room.
Emma’s hand itched in Jasper’s hold. She twitched it away. “Jasper, actually I—”
“Oh no.” He pinned her to him. “You can’t leave. Not now.”
Sweat-damp fingers ran down her spine. Wriggling away from him, Emma overbalanced.
“All right there?” Richard asked, with a steadying hand. She wasn’t sure what he saw in her face, but he sighed.
“Emma, I know Jasper’s very excited. But it’s really just a pub crawl. Don’t stay if you don’t want to. People usually lose track after the first stop. I mean, Hugo’s already passed out in the coatroom, so not everyone even makes it out. And you look tired already.”
“Thanks,” she said. “You know what? I really am.”
Impulsively, she leaned into Richard for a one-armed hug. He stiffened, and then a hammy hand closed around her shoulders.
But the group was gathering. The grip on her wrist was Jasper’s, towing her to the street outside.
