Read Online Coronets and Steel by Sherwood Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Sherwood Smith
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they’d dry by morning.
I used a towel to wrap my hair into a turban, straightened up the bathroom, and put on the dressing gown. It was roomy; I wrapped the sash firmly around my waist, rolled the sleeves back to my wrists, slipped the comb into one of the huge pockets and my hairclip into the other pocket, then hobbled out.
Madam and her minions were gone. The door to the parlor was open. Alec sat with a teacup in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He, too, wore last night’s clothes.
“Which is my room?” I asked truculently, to cover my embarrassment.
“There.” A nod behind him.
I opened the door to a small, charming bedroom with a high four-poster single bed, a table and chair, and a wardrobe in the corner. The door latched on the inside. I draped my wet clothes over the chair and table and the bedposts, then limped back into the makeshift sitting room and sank into a large upholstered armchair next to the table.
Despite the situation, a sense of well-being suffused me when I discovered a fresh pot of tea waiting.
Alec excused himself, and for a long time I sat back in the deep, comfortable chair with my fingers wrapped around the warm teacup, staring at the window across the room and ignoring the growling of my stomach.
When I finally raised the cup, my lip against the rim, I thought, what if there’s something in it?
Down crashed the cup, and my mood.
That was when Alec reentered the room, damp clean hair swept back from his brow, the rest of him elegant in a pair of charcoal slacks and a white dress shirt.
His eyes were marked with tiredness, his gaze light and cool and alert as he addressed me in that pleasant, curiously familiar tone. “I ordered dinner to be brought up at eight because I thought you’d be a lot longer in the bath than you were. But then, without your usual battery of cosmetics I suppose there isn’t much to do beyond the basics, is there?” He dropped tiredly into the other chair.
“My usual battery of cosmetics?” I repeated. “I’ve never worn makeup, except for dance recitals. You keep doing that. I would like to know who the hell you think I am.”
“And I would like to know if it’s money, fear, or perversity that inspired you to run this game on us. Or is your brother behind it, as I’ve suspected all along?”
“First tell me who my brother is supposed to be, and I’ll tell you if I’ve ever met him,” I retorted. “Seems to me you’re the one running games, all this yap about brothers and makeup. Take the clue bus, Gus! I. Am. Kim. Murray.”
“Aurelia—” he began.
“All right, Aurelia Kim Murray. How did you know that, anyway? I never use it.”
His face tightened, even more skeptical. “You’re enjoying this charade, damn you; do you know what it’s done to my father, to your parents?”
“ My parents, ” I stated, revving up for battle, “are happily at home, waiting for my latest postcard to hear about my wonderful trip to Europe, and they will be furious when they hear what happened to me, and by the way, what did you put in the tea? Is this supposed to be round two?”
A ridge of color touched his refined cheekbones, but he pressed his lips tight, as if holding in his own nuclear-powered comeback.
I went on with exaggerated patience, “I’m beginning to think it’s a waste of time, and what I should contact is not an embassy but the guys with the straitjackets. Look. For the millionth time I am Kim Murray, born and bred in Santa Monica, California—”
“Yes, so it states in that fascinating pile of fiction I found in your valise. What I want to know is where you managed to obtain such a realistic passp—”
“You did thieve my stuff! You thieved it, and you nosed through it! ”
His mouth twisted. “And most interesting I found it.”
“You rat bastard!” I exploded out of my chair, fist aimed straight for that scornful face.
He flung up a hand and caught my wrist.
For those two glorious seconds I’d
I used a towel to wrap my hair into a turban, straightened up the bathroom, and put on the dressing gown. It was roomy; I wrapped the sash firmly around my waist, rolled the sleeves back to my wrists, slipped the comb into one of the huge pockets and my hairclip into the other pocket, then hobbled out.
Madam and her minions were gone. The door to the parlor was open. Alec sat with a teacup in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He, too, wore last night’s clothes.
“Which is my room?” I asked truculently, to cover my embarrassment.
“There.” A nod behind him.
I opened the door to a small, charming bedroom with a high four-poster single bed, a table and chair, and a wardrobe in the corner. The door latched on the inside. I draped my wet clothes over the chair and table and the bedposts, then limped back into the makeshift sitting room and sank into a large upholstered armchair next to the table.
Despite the situation, a sense of well-being suffused me when I discovered a fresh pot of tea waiting.
Alec excused himself, and for a long time I sat back in the deep, comfortable chair with my fingers wrapped around the warm teacup, staring at the window across the room and ignoring the growling of my stomach.
When I finally raised the cup, my lip against the rim, I thought, what if there’s something in it?
Down crashed the cup, and my mood.
That was when Alec reentered the room, damp clean hair swept back from his brow, the rest of him elegant in a pair of charcoal slacks and a white dress shirt.
His eyes were marked with tiredness, his gaze light and cool and alert as he addressed me in that pleasant, curiously familiar tone. “I ordered dinner to be brought up at eight because I thought you’d be a lot longer in the bath than you were. But then, without your usual battery of cosmetics I suppose there isn’t much to do beyond the basics, is there?” He dropped tiredly into the other chair.
“My usual battery of cosmetics?” I repeated. “I’ve never worn makeup, except for dance recitals. You keep doing that. I would like to know who the hell you think I am.”
“And I would like to know if it’s money, fear, or perversity that inspired you to run this game on us. Or is your brother behind it, as I’ve suspected all along?”
“First tell me who my brother is supposed to be, and I’ll tell you if I’ve ever met him,” I retorted. “Seems to me you’re the one running games, all this yap about brothers and makeup. Take the clue bus, Gus! I. Am. Kim. Murray.”
“Aurelia—” he began.
“All right, Aurelia Kim Murray. How did you know that, anyway? I never use it.”
His face tightened, even more skeptical. “You’re enjoying this charade, damn you; do you know what it’s done to my father, to your parents?”
“ My parents, ” I stated, revving up for battle, “are happily at home, waiting for my latest postcard to hear about my wonderful trip to Europe, and they will be furious when they hear what happened to me, and by the way, what did you put in the tea? Is this supposed to be round two?”
A ridge of color touched his refined cheekbones, but he pressed his lips tight, as if holding in his own nuclear-powered comeback.
I went on with exaggerated patience, “I’m beginning to think it’s a waste of time, and what I should contact is not an embassy but the guys with the straitjackets. Look. For the millionth time I am Kim Murray, born and bred in Santa Monica, California—”
“Yes, so it states in that fascinating pile of fiction I found in your valise. What I want to know is where you managed to obtain such a realistic passp—”
“You did thieve my stuff! You thieved it, and you nosed through it! ”
His mouth twisted. “And most interesting I found it.”
“You rat bastard!” I exploded out of my chair, fist aimed straight for that scornful face.
He flung up a hand and caught my wrist.
For those two glorious seconds I’d
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