Page 59 of Hazard a Guest
“So this is about your father?”
“No!”
And so on.
They had made it through teatime and Joe showing Freddy the delights of the conservatory with only minimal further outbursts.
“A … a Portuguese? What do you call a fellow from Portugal, anyhow?” one moment, then the next, “Will they even be married in English?!”
Joe suspected this was just a blow to Freddy’s sense of permanence, the way his own return from the very country under scrutiny had been, and so he’d attempted to point out, every time it was brought up, that Freddy himself would experience very little change from the marriage itself.
He wasn’t sure if it soothed Freddy, exactly, but it did, eventually, shut him up.
“So,” he said once he’d gotten past it, “Ember?”
And Joe had sighed, because that was worse.
“Is this how the Blackcove event always plays out, even without all the indigestion?” he’d asked in one of Freddy’s merciful pockets of silence. “Everyone just sleeps, eats, and gambles?”
“Depends on the weather,” Freddy had answered, sedated in this moment by the glass view over the grounds from the conservatory and several openly admiring glances at the sculpture of the first Lord Penrose. “Sometimes there will be walks of the area, a trip down to the famous smuggling cove, a hunt or two. I mostly do the things you listed. What’s the point of anything else, after all?”
“Freddy.”
And he’d gotten a full, toothed grin that still managed to somehow be sad.
Mercifully, for at least the one last night, there was no formal dinner before the games. Dinner proper would resume tomorrow, they were told repeatedly while being offered a “walking plate” and access to the foyer and ballroom ahead of the festivities.
It was far, far preferable.
“What do you think happened to him?” Freddy muttered, nodding toward a slender, mustachioed gentleman with a vibrant bruise coloring almost half of his face. “Looks like he got kicked by a horse.”
Joe shrugged, admittedly curious as well, and allowed Freddy to unravel into a thousand theories, studying each of the other guests for hints of violence.
What did surprise him was when Freddy found it.
“Beck,” he said with scandalized delight. “Look at his hand!”
Indeed, the patterns of scarring on Thaddeus Beck’s very large hand appeared to have a new bloom of recent damage, a bright streak of red cradled in an aura of bruising at his knuckles.
“Hm,” said Joe.
“That’s all?!” said Freddy, clearly exasperated. “Butwhy?!”
“Evening, lads!” came the sparkling voice of Ember Donnelly at precisely the right moment to end Freddy’s theatrics.
Tonight she wore midnight blue, a sparkle in her eyes that told Joe it had been a deliberate choice, a reminder of those dyed stays she hid under her clothes. He felt his face heat at the memory of it. She had Hannah Lazarus with her, still looking very much the prey animal amongst these predators.
The unfortunate tendency to dress debutantes in all white only made the girl glow more like a target on a shooting range, the steel notary seal gripped firmly between her pale hands.
“Evening,” said Freddy distractedly. “Beck punched a man!”
“Freddy!” Joe sighed.
“Did he really?” said Ember.
“Oh, no!” gasped Hannah. “Is Mr. Beck all right?”
The three of them all turned in confused fascination toward Hannah.
