Page 19 of The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year
“That’s not my name.”
“—are youjealous?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Maggie tried to laugh but the only sound she heard was a cane pounding against the library floor and Eleanor commanding, “Come on.” She was heading their direction—shoulders thrown back. Eyes sharp. She was the Eleanor they’d first met and not the sad, tired woman by the windows when she said, “You’ve got people to meet.”
The first stop was Eleanor’s nephew.
“Rupert Price. Lovely to meet you.”
Rupert Price did not, in fact, think it was lovely to meet them. Maggie saw it in the way he wouldn’t meet their gazes or shake their hands and didn’t even bother to hide his contempt at sharing his family holiday with riffraff—which was a bold stance for a man wearing a sweater with Santa Claus on it.
“Why are you here?” he asked pointedly the moment Eleanor turned away.
“Excuse me?” Maggie asked.
“How do you know my aunt?” There was an edge to his voice, like at any moment he was going to shout “Intruder!” and call for the guards.
“Oh, we...” Maggie started but an arm fell, heavy and warm, around her shoulders.
“We’re writers.” Ethan took a slow sip of his drink and Rupert tensed in the way slightly insecure men always tense when faced with that much Ethan. “Eleanor invited us.”
“So she’s inviting strangers to Christmas now?” Rupert said, almost to himself. Like he couldn’t decide if that was very good or very bad, but one thing was certain: he hadn’t been expecting it.
“Oh, you must be our Americans!” A woman wearing a sweaterthat featured Mrs. Claus appeared at Rupert’s side. She had a baby on her hip and a wide smile on her face. “I’m Kitty. Rupert’s wife.” She bounced the baby and pointed to the two little boys and one girl playing (and screaming) twenty feet away, all of them in sweaters with tiny elves. “And these are ours.”
“I can tell!” Maggie was honestly delighted.
“Oh, and this is Nanny Davis. Can you believe she was Rupert’s nanny when he was a boy?”
Ethan looked at the woman who was approximately five hundred years old and sleeping peacefully by the fire. “You don’t say...”
“Oh yes. I couldn’t do it without her. These kids run me...” Kitty’s gaze drifted over Ethan’s shoulder. “RJ! Eli! Eloise!” Kitty called to the children playing at the other end of the room. “Rupert, will you go check on them, please?” she asked her husband, who didn’t go check on anyone. He just took a long swig of his drink and tried not to stand next to Ethan, who was taller. And broader. And who was smiling at Kitty in a way her husband probably never had and for a moment Kitty just stood there, blinking until—
“Mine!” a little boy shouted and took off running through the crowded room with—
“That’s not a real sword, is it? Rupert? Rupert!” Kitty asked and Rupert drained his cocktail just as Ethan spun to pull the very real, very sharp sword from the hands of the very small child who was running past, screaming at the top of his lungs.
Next up was—
“Dr. Charles,” the man said, gripping Maggie’s hand. He was the kind of man caught perpetually in between. Neither old nor young, handsome nor ugly. Probably nice but perfectly nondescript. He seemed as confused about why he was there as Maggie felt, but he also seemed to have made his peace with it, judging by the way he reached for a tray of shrimp puffs.
“Friend of the family, eh? I used to work with Kitty. Best nurse I ever saw, but then she left to be a mum. Rupert invited me. Say,” he called to a passing Cece,“got any more of these?” He pointed to the empty tray and Cece gave a tired nod but kept walking.
David and Victoria Claymore, the Duke and Duchess of Stratford, were unamused. Perpetually. They looked likeHorse and Houndmagazine had become sentient and started to speak. Maggie waited for the inevitable discussion of horses. And also hounds. But they just stood silently, drinks gripped tightly in their pale hands. The duke had a vacant smile on his face, but the duchess was looking at Maggie like she might be something a dermatologist was going to have to burn off.
“So you’re Rupert’s sister?” Maggie tried. She even pointed to Rupert in his Santa sweater as if his sister might need a reminder.
“Yes?” The duchess made it sound like she wasn’t so sure. But just then, one of the kids pulled a ceremonial dagger off the shelves and Kitty yelled, “Eloise! No! Eloise, come back here and give Auntie Eleanor a kiss. Eloise!” and the duchess looked like she might be considering changing her answer.
But something had just occurred to Maggie. “Oh my gosh! You’re the Duchess of Stratford, and your aunt is the Duchess of Death!” Maggie thought that was an extremely fun and excellent point, but the duke simply looked at her, confused and a little dim.
“Death is not an actual title in the peerage,” he said. Then he and his wife turned and walked away like they would rather be literally anywhere but there.
The lawyer was a young man named—
“Fredrick Banes III, nice to meet you. But I’m Freddy to my friends.” He was in his late twenties and had a crisp, British accent that called to mind boarding schools and polo matches and names that were spelled Chumbledown but were pronouncedRandolph.
