As I straighten my tie, the small bell rings. I walk to the brass pipe and lift her note.
Thanks yes, riding with you has always been memorable.
I shake my head. The strumpet is trouble. Reading on, I squint and look down.
How short would Sir like the meal?
I have no idea what she has in mind, but I like her style.
Short short. And I trust your judgement.
As I check myself in the mirror, I know the pre-dinner drink will burn another hour. The bell rings again, and I sigh. “Dear God, woman.”
I lift and read her note.
You will have the duck. She the fish. Do not change your mind!
I pause, wondering what in hell she is planning. “God help us,” I say before checking my best family cufflinks.
“At least it should be good.”
The overly glammed-upheiress and I sit at opposite ends of the ridiculously long family dinner table, used for dinner parties in the day.
After suggesting we have a less formal dinner at a smaller table, Elizabeth told me to “not act like all the other peasants.”
She said it in jest but said it all the same.
Samantha and I double-blinked as she said it and looked at each other, unseen. She was lowering soup, and I was lowering my expectations of fun.
Course one, the soup, is horrific.
The taste is divine, as with all things Samantha touches, but the blue-blooded witch rambles on about her cousin.
The weasel had inherited some island in Europe. He had then drunk himself into the ground and been thrown in jail. Cocaine-related charges, without a doubt.
I had met him, and he was a complete prick. Best he rots in hell in the Euro-clink!
“Comfort makes one weak,” I mumble, low.
“Sorry, dear?” the thin-lipped rake says down the table.
“Nothing, dear,” I say, wiping my mouth.
As Samantha collects my soup dish, she snort-laughs. I whip her butt with my white starched napkin to keep her in check. I do, however, hit the poor girl on the butt harder than I intended. She gasps, and I mouth, “Sorry.”
As she heads off unseen, the vacuous heiress plays with her liquid soup. She is likely calculating calories, and I rub a temple. “Kill me now.”
I suspected the sassy Samantha would have wreaked havoc by now, but so far, she has been tame.
Five minutes later, she takes Elizabeth’s half-eaten soup and leaves her with a stunning-looking fish meal.
The spoilt tramp does not thank Samantha, who returns with duck á l'orange for me.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Samantha keeps her head low, and then she gives me a look.
My stomach tightens in anticipation, and that is when I know. Know it is game on.
