Read Gin and Daggers for Free Online Page B

Semple said. “It’s bloody dull, but I suppose I’ve picked up my love for violence from reading too many of your American books and watching too many of your American productions on the telly.” He looked across the table at Perry, who gave him a condescending smile and pushed his barely touched cup of syllabub away. His wife had done the same moments earlier. Fattening; no poisoning them with desserts. It would have to be a main course, soup, or from the classic decanter.
    I looked down the table at Jason Harris; his usual scowl was on his face. He wore a forest-green corduroy jacket over a black turtleneck. He established eye contact with Jane Portelaine and raised one eyebrow—something I’ve never been able to do—which said to me that he found the dinner boring and would be happy when it ended.
    It ended a half hour later. We retired to the library. Marshall, the butler, stood behind a rolling cart and portioned out after-dinner drinks. I’d just been handed a Cognac when Clayton Perry’s wife came up to me. Her name was Renée. “I’ve been admiring that pendant all evening, Mrs. Fletcher.”
    I lifted the gold pendant to which she was referring, and smiled. “It’s my favorite piece of jewelry, Mrs. Perry. My husband gave it to me.”
    “It’s lovely.”
    “Yes, it’s very special. In fact, he bought it for me when we were in London together a number of years ago. You can imagine that coming back here always has special meaning for me.”
    “Of course. By the way, I’m a big fan of your novels.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Clayton would give his eyeteeth to have you as an author at Perry House.”
    “That’s very flattering, but I’ve been with my present publishers for years now, wouldn’t think of changing unless they committed outright theft of my royalties, or insisted upon multiple four-letter words and interminable car chases and mass murders.”
    We both laughed. “I assure you, Mrs. Fletcher, Clayton would see that nothing like that ever happened to you.”
    “I’m sure he would. He has a fine reputation ...” (I seemed to recall some gossip about Perry House’s being in serious financial trouble, but, of course, didn’t mention that.) “By the way, please call me Jessica for the rest of the weekend.”
    “Yes, and it’s Renée.”
    We all turned in the direction of Marjorie Ainsworth’s voice, which announced she was going to bed. I was amazed at her stamina. She’d been gracious and witty all day and evening. Again, there were those mental lapses that were disquieting, but everyone seemed to accept them as nothing more than periods of fatigue in a brain that had been working at top creative effort for so many years.
    Marjorie’s departure broke up the gathering. Most of us said good night and retired to our respective rooms, leaving Bruce Herbert, Jason Harris, Jane Portelaine, and “Count” Antonio Zara to accept another drink from Marshall, and to settle down on large couches in front of the fireplace, which had recently been stoked by the butler. I walked upstairs with Ona Ainsworth-Zara.
    “It’s been so good to meet you after all these years,” I said.
    “My sister speaks often and well of you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
    “That’s always nice to hear, especially from someone like her. By the way, your husband is a charming man.”
    “He has to be. He has little else.”
    I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. She bade me a curt good night and walked down the hall. I watched her go into her room, then entered mine, closed the door behind me, and prepared for bed. I was tired; I looked at the copy of Gin and Daggers that sat on my night table and wondered whether I would be able to stay awake long enough to read more. I knew I would; it was that compelling, that rich, that much of a page-turner.
    I got into bed, opened the book to where I’d left off, and before starting to read, thought back to my conversation in London with Lucas Darling. He was right; it was