interfering with work
as it did, and I determined to put an end to it.
I telephoned Nigel’s office. “Mr. Mann,
would you mind coming to my office?”
“Not at all, Miss Sebring.”
I was at my desk, chuckling over another
coded message Jefferson had managed to intercept from Sidorov, the
KGB agent, this one using a reference to The Nutcracker ,
when Nigel walked in.
“Thank you for being so prompt.”
“I try not to keep a lady waiting.” And yet
he had. “What can I do for you?”
Take me to bed and make mad, passionate
love to me? “I’m having a small dinner party this Friday
evening, and I wondered if you’d care to attend. If you’re
available, of course.”
“Of course.” His stare was so intense my
nipples tightened and my panties dampened. “I’d be delighted. What
time did you want me?”
“Shall we say around seven-thirty? We’ll
have drinks and hors d’oeuvres. And we’ll dine at eight.”
“I’ll be there.”
* * * *
Father had never seen any point in having me
taught how to cook, and since Mother didn’t cook, she didn’t insist
on it either. After all, once I married, that would be my
housekeeper’s concern.
But I didn’t want to poison Nigel, and so I
borrowed Mrs. Plum, Mother’s cook.
“Are you sure, Portia?” Mother asked when I
told her I’d be dining with Nigel Mann.
“I am.”
She studied my eyes. “Very well. I’ll see
young Henry drives Mrs. Plum into the Capitol on Friday
afternoon.”
“Thank you, Mother.” I was tempted to hug
her, but that wasn’t done.
“You’ll want to discuss your menu with her.”
She pressed the buzzer that would summon a maid, who would be sent
to summon Mrs. Plum.
I could more easily have gone to the
kitchen, but I didn’t even suggest it.
* * * *
“Cornish game hens will be the easiest
thing, Miss Portia,” Mrs. Plum said after she’d arrived and I’d
told her it was to be an intimate dinner for two. “I’ll prepare
everything in advance and leave a list of directions on when to
serve the hens and the side dishes. Hmm. Brussels sprouts, creamed
asparagus, and mashed cauliflower?” But she was looking toward
Mother.
“No, this is Miss Portia’s dinner
party.”
I was startled. Mother had never deferred to
me over anything before. I cleared my throat. “That sounds
ideal.”
“What kind of hors d’oeuvres would you
want?”
“Your tuna pineapple dip is always a big
hit.”
“Are you certain you want that, Portia?”
Mother asked. “It’s served with potato chips.”
“Yes. I don’t want it to be too formal.” But
I didn’t want it too casual either. “And crab salad in puff shells,
and perhaps a cheese fondue?”
“With Jarlsberg and Gruyere? As you wish,
Miss Portia.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Plum. I’ll see you on
Friday. Mother, I must go. Tony has no idea I borrowed his
Cadillac.”
For a moment I thought she’d smile, but she
didn’t. “I am pleased you’re not letting him browbeat you.”
“Not likely. I know where the bodies are
buried.”
“Really, Portia! If anyone heard you, they
would think your brother is a hooligan.”
“I apologize, Mother.” I sighed. What had
possessed me to tease her?
She walked me out to the car. “Drive
carefully.”
“I will. Thank you again.”
She offered her cheek, and the kiss I gave
her was swift and brief.
* * * *
I looked through my record albums, not happy
with what I found. None of them had the one song I was looking
for.
I called my brother Bryan.
“Good evening, Bryan. It’s—”
“Good evening, Portia. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you. And how are you?” I’d
seen him just the other day, but Mother had impressed on us the
necessity of the amenities.
“I’m as fine as I was on Tuesday.” He’d come
to Arlington Hall to speak with Nigel, and really, how could my
brothers think they could get up to something and not have me find
out? For some reason they wanted me to date Nigel Mann. Fortunately
for them,
as it did, and I determined to put an end to it.
I telephoned Nigel’s office. “Mr. Mann,
would you mind coming to my office?”
“Not at all, Miss Sebring.”
I was at my desk, chuckling over another
coded message Jefferson had managed to intercept from Sidorov, the
KGB agent, this one using a reference to The Nutcracker ,
when Nigel walked in.
“Thank you for being so prompt.”
“I try not to keep a lady waiting.” And yet
he had. “What can I do for you?”
Take me to bed and make mad, passionate
love to me? “I’m having a small dinner party this Friday
evening, and I wondered if you’d care to attend. If you’re
available, of course.”
“Of course.” His stare was so intense my
nipples tightened and my panties dampened. “I’d be delighted. What
time did you want me?”
“Shall we say around seven-thirty? We’ll
have drinks and hors d’oeuvres. And we’ll dine at eight.”
“I’ll be there.”
* * * *
Father had never seen any point in having me
taught how to cook, and since Mother didn’t cook, she didn’t insist
on it either. After all, once I married, that would be my
housekeeper’s concern.
But I didn’t want to poison Nigel, and so I
borrowed Mrs. Plum, Mother’s cook.
“Are you sure, Portia?” Mother asked when I
told her I’d be dining with Nigel Mann.
“I am.”
She studied my eyes. “Very well. I’ll see
young Henry drives Mrs. Plum into the Capitol on Friday
afternoon.”
“Thank you, Mother.” I was tempted to hug
her, but that wasn’t done.
“You’ll want to discuss your menu with her.”
She pressed the buzzer that would summon a maid, who would be sent
to summon Mrs. Plum.
I could more easily have gone to the
kitchen, but I didn’t even suggest it.
* * * *
“Cornish game hens will be the easiest
thing, Miss Portia,” Mrs. Plum said after she’d arrived and I’d
told her it was to be an intimate dinner for two. “I’ll prepare
everything in advance and leave a list of directions on when to
serve the hens and the side dishes. Hmm. Brussels sprouts, creamed
asparagus, and mashed cauliflower?” But she was looking toward
Mother.
“No, this is Miss Portia’s dinner
party.”
I was startled. Mother had never deferred to
me over anything before. I cleared my throat. “That sounds
ideal.”
“What kind of hors d’oeuvres would you
want?”
“Your tuna pineapple dip is always a big
hit.”
“Are you certain you want that, Portia?”
Mother asked. “It’s served with potato chips.”
“Yes. I don’t want it to be too formal.” But
I didn’t want it too casual either. “And crab salad in puff shells,
and perhaps a cheese fondue?”
“With Jarlsberg and Gruyere? As you wish,
Miss Portia.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Plum. I’ll see you on
Friday. Mother, I must go. Tony has no idea I borrowed his
Cadillac.”
For a moment I thought she’d smile, but she
didn’t. “I am pleased you’re not letting him browbeat you.”
“Not likely. I know where the bodies are
buried.”
“Really, Portia! If anyone heard you, they
would think your brother is a hooligan.”
“I apologize, Mother.” I sighed. What had
possessed me to tease her?
She walked me out to the car. “Drive
carefully.”
“I will. Thank you again.”
She offered her cheek, and the kiss I gave
her was swift and brief.
* * * *
I looked through my record albums, not happy
with what I found. None of them had the one song I was looking
for.
I called my brother Bryan.
“Good evening, Bryan. It’s—”
“Good evening, Portia. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you. And how are you?” I’d
seen him just the other day, but Mother had impressed on us the
necessity of the amenities.
“I’m as fine as I was on Tuesday.” He’d come
to Arlington Hall to speak with Nigel, and really, how could my
brothers think they could get up to something and not have me find
out? For some reason they wanted me to date Nigel Mann. Fortunately
for them,
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