Week Two (plus)

Danny arrived back home, wearing last night's clothes and feeling very satisfied with life, just as a big white van blazoned with the Seguemont coat-of-arms pulled up to his curb; he let the carters into his apartment to haul off his luggage, and handed over the big garment bag he'd brought back from Poppy's as well.

Amongst the hoarded treasures in the SoMa warehouse complex in which Poppy lived, worked, and stored antiques for future use in his decorating business, they'd found a fabulous Russian Hussar's uniform in scarlet and black with fur edging and pounds of gold braid; it was a little tight on Danny, and he would roast in the wool and sable if the night of the party was warm, but he looked incredibly dashing in the tunic and pelisse with over-the-knee boots and frogged black breeches.  With a Venetian mask of black boiled leather and black faceted beads, he would be a sensation at the ball.

He wasn't quite sure what to do with the next two hours; on an ordinary Friday, he would be getting ready to go to the gym at ten-thirty, but he didn't have time to go and come back by noon, and he didn't want to explain to friends why he was there instead of on his way to Palm Springs... if his plans hadn't changed, he'd already be in the air enjoying some second-rate champagne and warm chocolate-chip cookies.  He thought about taking a nap, since he hadn't slept much the night before, but he knew his housekeeper was going to be there soon (she always came right after he'd left for the gym and was finished before he returned), and he couldn't sleep with someone banging around his apartment.

With nothing better to do, he showered one more time and got dressed in something comfortable but classy—off-white khakis and a salmon silk sweater over a white dress shirt with caramel kidskin  loafers—that would be appropriate for the two-plus-hour drive to the Château, then sat down at his computer to play games and answer emails while he waited.

"Oh, Señor Van!" Mrs. Flores exclaimed when she came through the front door at eleven on the dot, "Why you here?"

"My plans changed, Señora," Danny smiled at his tiny wizened cleaning lady, noting that she'd had her thick coarse black hair cut short since he'd last seen her in person, several weeks ago, "Instead of a weekend in Palm Springs, I'll be spending the whole week up in Napa."

"You won't need cleaning, then?" she cocked her head at him, with an expression he couldn't quite read... was she anxious for some time off, or worried about losing income?

"Unless you want to take some time off," Danny covered both bases, "you can do some bigger messy projects while I'm gone.  I know the curtains could use a good shaking and brushing, and the silver always wants polishing."

"Ah, bueno," she smiled delightedly, "I take two days off to visit my sister, then I come back and take the curtains down to the cleaners; and the rugs, so I can wax the floors.  I want to wash out your fireplace, too, it's getting black outside.  And air out your books."

"Get some new dust-sheets from the hardware store, if you're going to do all that," Danny told her, amazed at her ambition, "Charge them to my account.  I'll be out of your way in an hour, just pretend I'm not here."

"Si, si," the old lady nodded, then went bustling off to the kitchen; she'd apparently taken him at his word and was pretending she was alone, playing salsa music at fairly high volume and singing along in her cracked tuneless voice as she washed the few dishes in Danny's sink.

An hour later, Danny was right on the verge of getting bored, having caught up with all his online games and answered every email in his in-box and even written a few new ones; but then he heard the peculiar non-noise of Valerien's car pulling up in front of his house: the old Rolls-Royce was meticulously maintained, its engine whisper-quiet, so the only sound it made was a silky hum and the tires churning against the pavement. He started shutting down his computer and was ready to go when the doorbell went off.

"Adiós, Señora Flores," Danny called out as he left the apartment.

"Hasta luego, Señor Van," she called back from deep in the back of the flat, "Buen viaje!"

Danny skipped down the stairs and greeted Valerien's chauffeur, Grenier, a short but delightfully handsome dark-eyed young man in a deep burgundy formal uniform; he held the door to the back of the gleaming chocolate-and-cream 1957 Silver Cloud, and Danny slid into the camel-velvet upholstered interior next to Valerien, who was reading a thick and imposing-looking contract.  The Baron gave him a distant "hello" and a fleeting peck on the cheek without taking his eyes off the papers.

Rather than be annoyed at such an offhand greeting, Danny felt honored that Valerien was comfortable enough with him to be seen working outside of his office, a sight which few of his friends ever witnessed.  He helped himself to a cup of coffee from the beautiful little Limoges service in the rear cabinet and watched the City slide past the untinted windows of the old limousine, enjoying the reactions of delight and awe that the gorgeous car inspired in passersby.

"How was your dinner with Poppy?" Valerien finally asked, signing the last page of his document with a flourish and snapping the folder shut, shortly after crossing the Golden Gate Bridge.

"Very nice," Danny laughed, surprised by the sudden movement and sound, "We had steaks at Henry's Eight.  You know, I am becoming a big fan of sweet-potato fries."

"Really?  What are they?" Valerien was not a devotee of American cuisine, and in fact seldom ate anything that didn't come with a Michelin rating.

"French fries," Danny explained, "Pommes frites, you know.  Except made with sweet potatoes, or yams, instead of white potatoes. And if they're fried with butter, they are the utter bomb!"

"That sounds odd, but now that you mention food, I forgot about lunch," Valerien reached for the little gold speaker that hung beside him on the wall of the car, which connected him to his chauffeur on the other side of the closed partition, "Grenier, I forgot I was supposed to take Mr. Vandervere to lunch on the way.  Stop at the first likely-looking restaurant."

"There's a Cheesecake Factory in Corte Madera," Danny shouted helpfully toward the speaker.

"Cheesecake?" Valerien looked at him in horror, "Factory?"

"It's not really a factory, it's a very nice restaurant.  And they have more than just cheesecake," Danny explained, "They have good food and really cute waiters.  You'll like it, I promise."

"Cheesecake Factory in Corte Madera, then, Grenier," the Baron sighed into the speaker and hung it back up on the wall, "The places you take me, Danny Vandervere."

"Their shepherd's pie is fantastic!  And iced green tea with mint," Danny was almost salivating.  Though a connoisseur of fine dining, Danny also had a streak of populist tastes, and was always trying to get his food-snob friends to try chain restaurants.

"'Utter bomb'... where do you get these expressions?" Valerien wondered after a few moments' silence.

"Television, mostly," Danny laughed, "'Da bomb' is a hip-hop expression that was big in the 90s when I was in grade-school."

"Let me know when it reaches the Oxford English Dictionary, then I'll allow it," Valerien scolded him, but with a smile to show he was only kidding, then peered out the window with a frown, "What the... this looks like a shopping center parking lot!  Where are we?"

"At a shopping center, silly," Danny laughed at his friend as the car pulled up in front of the restaurant, "We can do a little shopping after lunch, if you like.  There are two department stores and some very nice shops here.  Honestly, Val, don't you ever get out of the car between the bridge and the Château?"

"Of course not," Valerien stepped out of the Rolls and took in the restaurant's glittering postmodern facade dubiously, "Why would I?"

"You miss a lot of life, tucked up in your little haute monde shell," Danny flung an arm around Valerien's waist and pulled him inside, "What's the point of living if you don't try everything at least once?"

"You're going to make me eat a hamburger, aren't you," Valerien narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Oh, hamburgers are advanced magic, you're not ready for that, yet," Danny winked and stepped up to the hostesses' desk, "Two for lunch, please."

Valerien ended up being pleasantly surprised by the menu and the wine list, and they shared a very enjoyable lunch under the care of their button-cute waiter.  Though the young aristocrat remained leery of the setting, and tasted everything as if he was afraid it was poisoned, he was fascinated by the other diners, as well as the giant television over the bar showing a soccer game...he seemed oddly enchanted by eating someplace where he didn't recognize anybody.

After a postprandial stroll through the shopping center, where Danny found a number of things to buy and which Valerien insisted on buying for him, they got back in the car and resumed their journey north.  They chatted lazily along the way, not saying much but enjoying the relaxation of not having to say much.  In due course the Rolls pulled off a narrow country road through a pair of huge wrought-iron gates into the Château de Seguemont grounds.

Many people think that the Château was transported to California from France, stone-by-stone in the time-honored American Tycoon manner.  But the original medieval Château de Seguemont still stands above its accustomed valley in Champagne; the new Château was built fresh in 1938 from local stone, designed by a Hollywood architect to capture the fairy-tale romance of a French château while excluding the varied discomforts and inconveniences of a real 12th-century fortress, and then filled up with the 18th-century fixtures and furniture brought over from France by the last Comte, Valerien's great-grandfather.

One gets a glimpse of the south facade of the castle across the valley shortly after entering the gates, a great cliff of pale beige stone with octagonal corner towers and a square central tower rising up like sentinels from a vast terraced garden, a picture-postcard view suitable for wine-bottle labels; but one plunges immediately into a dense oak forest after this brief view, and remains surrounded by trees, with occasional glimpses of deer and white marble follies, as the road skirts the eastern edge of the valley to approach the castle from the northeast; the shorter yet more complex north side of the castle suddenly leaps into view as the forest abruptly disappears, surrounded by high walls and outbuildings covered in flowering vines.

Driving up a causeway to a real working drawbridge and through a portcullised watchtower gate, the car entered the broad courtyard in front of the castle, where two footmen in pink and buff satin 18th-century livery emerged from the bronze-bound front doors to receive the Baron and his guest; once they'd been handed out, the limousine rolled away to disappear through another archway into the garage court.

"Take this to the study and fax the signature page to my office," Valerien said to one of the footmen, speaking French as he always did at home, handing over the contract he'd signed earlier as he strode through the echoing stone hall, "And then have someone take it back to the City.  Is my grandmother down yet?"

"No, monsieur, Madame la comtesse has not come down," the young man answered formally, bowing his white-wigged head in deference while walking sideways alongside Valerien, a feat of agility that Danny had to admire, "Madame la comtesse asked us to inform monsieur le baron that tea will be served in the glass-house."

"Very good, thank you," Valerien responded without looking at the man, "I'm going up to my rooms.  Please escort Mr. Vandervere to whatever room he's been assigned.  I'll see you at tea, Danny."

"Monsieur Vandervere is in the Clock Room," the second footman chimed in, "Would monsieur care to take the elevator, or the stairs?"

"The Clock Room?" Valerien stopped in his tracks and looked at the footman, "That's practically a garret! Are there no more rooms on the third floor?"

"Oh, is that the room at the top of the square tower?  Over the big clock?" Danny enthused.

"The house must be awfully full, or else Grandmère is punishing you for my last-minute invitation," Valerien frowned as the footmen exchanged nervous glances.

"I've always wanted to stay in that room, Val," Danny assured his friend, "Seriously!  The view is absolutely breathtaking!"

"But you'll be so far away," Valerien pouted, "And your coffee will arrive stone cold in the morning. Not to mention the noise of the clock."

"I like the clock noise," Danny shrugged, "It's like a metronome, it'll put me to sleep."

"You're like a puppy," Valerien laughed and kissed his friend, "All right, if you don't mind, go ahead and climb up into the bell-tower like Quasimodo.  I'm still going to have a word with the major-domo, I don't like the idea of twenty bedrooms being in use.  How big is this ghastly party, anyway?"

Valerien disappeared through a door leading into the service portions of the castle, the first footman went off in the other direction with the contract, and Danny followed the remaining footman up a grand marble staircase... and then up a slightly-less-grand carpeted staircase, then down a circuit of corridors to a not-at-all-grand wooden staircase, then another circuit of corridors to a stone spiral staircase in a turret, and finally into the big rectangular aerie at the tippy-top of the castle that was to be his for the next ten days.

"Please do not bring me coffee in the morning," Danny said to the footman as he went and opened the tall French window onto the little balcony over the clock, "I don't want you climbing all those stairs just for me."

"It will be my pleasure to bring anything monsieur wishes," the footman protested in French, bowing low and backing out the door, then grinned and added in English, "These stairs will give my glutes a good workout."

Danny laughed and turned his attention to the view, which was truly spectacular: he could see all the way across the valley and over the tops of the trees in the forest along the high ground, across the neighboring valleys with wineries dotted here and there, mountain ridges framing the east and west, and the barest glittering glimpse of the city of Napa at the horizon.

Taking a deep breath and saying a little pagan prayer to himself, he leaned forward on the balcony rail to take a daring peek at the stone terrace some hundred feet below, then quickly scuttled back into the safety of the room.  He was terrified of heights, but also loved to face his fears whenever a controlled environment presented itself, thrilling at his own fear and the adrenaline it brought up.

He explored the room, opening drawers and walking into the big closet to see where the servants had put his things; satisfied with the arrangements, he went into the large old-fashioned bathroom and peeped through the little round window at the northern woods across the roofs of the Château, used the toilet and washed his hands, then went back out into the bedroom and flopped down on the big four-poster bed to simply enjoy The Room at the Top, as he'd decided to call it in his interior monologues.

Being at the top of the tower, the room had sloping walls starting above the bleached wood wainscoting, and the tall south-facing French window was set in a dormer.  The room had no fireplace, but it never really got cold, so Danny didn't miss it; the furniture was all pale Louis XVI in distressed whitewash and faded gilt, the wallpaper was a lovely cocoa and cream toile de jouy, with a faded brown Aubusson reproduction carpet and smooth linen bedding, upholstery, and curtains the color of café au lait. There were two large paintings, a porcelain-skinned Icarus by a student of Ingres tumbling out of a cloudy blue sky as his wings slowly unraveled, and a contemporary copy of Le Brun's la Chute des anges rebelles (rather questionable themes for a high tower room), as well as several free-standing mirrors of varied sizes arranged to reflect the light around the room.

"Jesus Christ on a cracker, how tall is this fucking tower?" came an irritated voice in the spiral stairwell outside Danny's door.

"Marquesa?" Danny called out, rising from the bed in surprise.

"Rapunzel!" Marquesa cried out breathlessly as he burst through the door, took two steps into the room and then collapsed elegantly on a chaise longue to catch his breath, "I swear I passed a lost Sherpa on the last landing."

Marquesa was beautifully dressed for the country in a classic silk tweed Chanel suit in shades of pink and brown, the narrow jacket trimmed in self-fringe and the slim skirt just meeting the tops of tall glossy brown boots, with three graduated strands of large pearls with a starburst platinum clasp around his slender throat and the usual two huge diamond solitaires on his long French-tipped fingers—one cushion-cut white flanked by pink pear-shapes and the other an incredibly rare Asscher-cut blue; his gorgeous flame-auburn hair tumbled around his shoulders in rich spiraling curls, and his exquisite screen-goddess face was artfully painted to look completely bare of paint, except for the gloss of vermillion lipstick on his small severe mouth and the thick black fringe of false eyelashes over his wide glittering periwinkle eyes.

His long whip-thin body was draped bonelessly across the chaise, but Danny knew that whip-strong muscles tensed constantly under the stately couture, and that the graceful pose was very carefully contrived and maintained by a man who was at all times in complete control of his body... he wasn't in the least bit winded, he was only pretending to be, as it was the preferred way to play the scene at hand.

That control was one of the things that Danny loved about him: nobody saw Marquesa Willard-Wilkes doing anything that Marquesa Willard-Wilkes did not want them to see, no surprise could ruffle his incredible poise, no emotion marred the pristine surfaces he'd created as an armor against the world.  Danny was incapable of such cool, being emotionally transparent and endlessly vulnerable, so he found Marquesa's icy reserve exotic and fascinating.

"The least you could do is offer me a drink after that endless climb," Marquesa suggested sharply, snapping Danny out of his trance of silent worship.

"Water, white crème de menthe, or vodka?" Danny asked, sniffing at the cut-crystal decanters standing on a silver tray on one of the commodes.

"Vodka, of course, darling.  Valerien is in an absolute froth that you've been shoved away up here," Marquesa reached out and took the glass, shooting the two fingers of vodka in a single swallow, "But even I have been elbowed out of my accustomed second-floor rooms for the sake of grander personages than myself.  I'm in one of the dormer rooms on the third floor, facing the front.  I have a glorious view of the garage court and the chapel roof."

"And the woods, of course," Danny pointed out, taking back the glass and returning it to the tray.

"And no dressing-room," Marquesa arched an eyebrow in disdain, "But since the house is packed to the rafters, I guess I can't really complain.  At least Danvers is lodged in the house and not out over the garages. But he's doubled up with Henri.  Not that he minds, of course."

Danvers is Marquesa's manservant, a combination butler and lady's maid, a multitalented real-life Jeeves who looks like a real-life Siegfried, all chiseled jaw and warrior physique, without whom Marquesa could not function for more than a few hours; Henri is Valerien's valet, a tiny adorable monkey of a man (all of Valerien's personal servants are smaller than him), and he and Danvers have been physically but not romantically involved for years.

"Who's in the Lilac Room?"  Danny wondered, trying and failing to imagine someone grander than Marquesa; only a guest of the highest caliber would occupy the spacious octagon at the southeast corner of the castle, named for the lilacs embroidered on the hangings and upholstery, carved into the silver-gilt paneling, and painted on the Limoges ornaments.

"An Italian opera singer," Marquesa rose from the chaise in a fluid motion and spent a moment smoothing his clothes into place, "Donna Somebody."

"Opera singer?  I thought it was all nobility this week.  Is Donna her name or her title?"

"Do I care?" Marquesa laughed, "All I know is she did me out of my room, for which I shall have to exact some mild revenge.  Come on, let's go downstairs.  I hear tea is being served in the glass-house.  Do you ever find it odd that someone as French as the Comtesse holds a tradition so English as afternoon tea?"

"I'm pretty sure the French have tea, as well," Danny followed Marquesa into the spiral stair, "One has to do something between lunch and dinner, after all."

"French children have le goûter at four; adults have tea parties after five, but it's not a daily occurrence.  I asked Danvers."

"And Danvers would know," Danny smirked.

"As far as I can tell, he does know everything.  Or else he has a direct uplink to Wikipedia embedded in his brain."

Marquesa and Danny made their way down to the first floor, then took a turn through the long dining room and then the octagonal morning-room, through a little gallery and then into the vast tropical lushness of the glass-house, a conservatory that could pass for an arboretum, with a vine-drenched stone back wall, an interminable row of tall arched French windows opening onto a broad terrace, and an elaborately vaulted glass ceiling.

They were the first to arrive, and the major-domo was standing at the door to announce their names as they made their way through the dense foliage to the rotunda at the center of the glass-house; the Comtesse rose from her great wicker throne beside a big round stone table covered with flowers and tea-things,  raining kisses and apologies on them.

"I do hope you're comfortable in your rooms," the Comtesse was solicitous, clutching her tiny jeweled hands to her ample pearl-draped bosom, her pretty Fragonard face a caricature of regret; the old lady was dressed in a long flowing chiffon tea-gown hand-painted with watercolor roses, her snow-white hair piled up high and teased and sculpted into an impressive coiffure, "I'm desolated I had to give your usual accommodations to others.  Danny, cheri, is the Clock Room to your liking? I can move you to the Pink Room next to Marquesa, but it's so feminine and only has twin beds, and you're so tall."

"Please don't concern yourself, Madame," Danny bowed and kissed the lady's hand gallantly, "I absolutely adore my room.  The view is incredible, it's like being up in a hot-air balloon...but much more comfortable."

"Then I insist you take over that room, Marquesa," the Comtesse took his hand in both of hers, "I know the closets in the Mauve Room are inadequate for your needs, you can set the Pink Room up as your dressing-room.  My brother did the same just below you."

"Thank you so much, Comtesse!" Marquesa kissed the lady's cheek (as an old friend of the family, he was allowed to call her by her Christian name, Liliane, but he didn't like to), "My manservant was having some difficulty with the trunks, I'm sure he'll be delighted to spread out a bit."

"Lord Edward Fairbourne," the major-domo's voice boomed from the door, "Lady Emily Fairbourne."

Danny turned to see the new arrivals: a very attractive man, not especially handsome but somehow correct-looking with his smooth chestnut hair and elegant oval face, neither young nor old but with an extraordinary air of sophistication, dressed in perfect country tweeds of heathered brown but exuding the cosmopolitan glamour of Mayfair as if he were wearing a tuxedo. The young lady on his arm was exquisitely beautiful with the same glossy auburn hair and oval face, with a much more dramatic bone-structure and a blooming strawberries-and-cream complexion; she was dressed as an Edwardian schoolboy in a glen plaid waistcoat and knickers, a white shirt with a burgundy ascot, long argyle socks and polished brown brogues.

Introductions were made and the newcomers served tea and sandwiches, and the next booming announcement came out of the foliage, "Monsieur le Vicomte de Saint-Neve."

This was quite clearly the Comtesse's brother, as he looked exactly like her but thinner and with slightly less elaborately waved hair; he was foppishly dressed in a natty gray suit with a pink pinstripe, a plump pink-and-silver tie with a matching silk handkerchief spilling out of his top pocket, small glittering rings on both hands, and sharply pointed gray kid shoes.  His step was mincing, his hands fluttery, his face tightly tucked and lifted, and his mouth pursed—a classic stereotypical old queen.  The only way you could tell the man was actually straight was that he didn't give Danny a second glance but practically drooled on Lady Emily, kissing her hand wetly and waggling his plucked eyebrows like a classic stereotypical French roué.

By this time everyone was chattering, mostly in French though Marquesa only spoke English (he understood French but could not bring himself to say anything in that language for fear of mangling the accent). As Danny usually did in groups, he retreated into himself to watch people and listen to their conversations; hovering a little bit behind Marquesa and nibbling at a plate of petits-fours, he took the opportunity to study Lady Emily and wonder if she might be a suitable mate for Valerien.

Her boyishness was certainly a point in her favor, her trim but not willowy figure, her short wavy hair, her straightforward sky-blue eyes would appeal to someone who is not generally attracted to women;  and judging from her conversation, she was extraordinarily fond of riding and hunting, two of Valerien's favored pastimes, and was quite athletic. But Danny couldn't quite imagine her made up and dressed up, draped in jewels and furs at the opera or a charity gala.  Though Valerien loved the country, he was really more of a city-boy at heart, and Lady Emily did not look very City.

Her brother certainly did look City, though... Danny could easily imagine Valerien with Lord Edward, and could even more easily imagine himself with Lord Edward.  It was difficult to gauge his sexuality, though—such smooth urbanity in an American would be suspect, but the English are so much more difficult to pin down.  Danny would have to figure it out the old-fashioned way: make a pass at him and see what happened.

"Monsieur le Comte Lucien de Vallevers," the major-domo's voice boomed out again, "Mademoiselle la Comtesse Marie-Helene de Vallevers."

The couple matching those mouthfuls came sauntering through the greenery, a terribly stylish pair of tall, slender, languid creatures with sad chocolate-brown eyes and straight gleaming chocolate-brown hair, dressed almost alike in varied shades of brown: Lucien, who appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen, was elegantly draped in a rough-knit dark brown sweater and baggy tan herringbone slacks; Marie-Helene, some five years older than her brother, wore a tailored dark-brown skirt and a full-sleeved tan satin blouse with a half-dozen tortoiseshell-link necklaces draped across her bosom.

The Vallevers siblings melted seamlessly into the group and smoothly joined conversations in progress, all gentle smiles and free-flowing suavité.  Danny could very easily see Valerien married to the young Comtesse, her style was so much like his own, her chic so impeccable but as unpronounced as the last letter of her name; she had the kind of slow cygnine beauty that one can stare at for hours.  Unfortunately, she was a couple of inches taller than Valerien, and that might be a problem: though Valerien was medium-sized rather than short at five-foot-eight, and had palled around with the six-foot Marquesa for almost half his life, he was a little sensitive about his height, and made sure that everyone who worked directly for him—his valet, his chauffeur, his secretary, etc.—were especially petit.

Lucien was a treat to the eyes, as well, lithe and somewhat epicene, with a certain fawnish vulnerability about him that was immediately appealing: his voice was like velvet, surprisingly deep and resonant for such a graceful wand of a boy; and the way he pushed his hair back from his ear with his ring-finger made Danny want to carry him upstairs and do lewd things to him.

"You're slavering," Marquesa whispered to him with a little jab in the ribs.

"Dibs on the French boy," Danny replied.

"Straight," Marquesa warned.

"How do you know?" Danny wondered, disappointed.

"I asked him," Marquesa turned to face him, "The direct approach is best."

"Be sure to ask Lord Edward, too.  I can't tell."

"Straight," Marquesa decided after giving the man a long speculative look, "But possibly bendable."

"Hmmm, sounds like a challenge.  What do you think of the ladies?"

"They dress extremely well, but other than that I can't tell much.  Let's see them at dinner."

"Mr. and Mrs. Richard Allenwhite," the major-domo interrupted them with his announcement.

"Richard is here!" Danny gasped, turning to Marquesa, "And Cordelia!  Did you know?"

"Of course," Marquesa shrugged, but Danny could not help but notice his face tighten just a fraction of a millimeter, "He's Valerien's first-cousin, of course he'd come for a family gathering."

"You're OK with being cooped up with your lover's wife for ten days?" Danny was dubious.

"You know, I like Cordelia," Marquesa busied himself with a bunch of white grapes from the table, "And it's not like we're in competition for Richard's affections.  We both know where we stand, on secure and equal footing."

"I don't think I could be so cool," Danny turned to look at the man, seething with emotion...he wanted to like Richard the way Marquesa liked Cordelia, but his feelings were as close to real vivid hatred as he'd ever been in his life, and despite a lot of self-lecturing, he was still uncomfortable around him.

It was hard to hate Richard Allenwhite: he was so eminently likeable, with his sleek golden Arrow Collar Man looks, his easy attentive charm, his unfailing generosity.  But he held Marquesa's love, and Danny craved that love like a dying man craves air and water, and so Richard had to be regarded as an enemy...even if he did fill out a sweater and khakis better than a forty-five-year-old man had any right to.

Danny had met Cordelia Allenwhite a few times, though only at huge social functions and never in such intimate quarters as a house-party.  She is the polar opposite of Marquesa, blonde and voluptuous and vivacious, with laughing aquamarine eyes and a pert little giggle; but she does not lack gravity, she simply renders her playfulness elegant through the peculiar alchemy of her personality and her breeding.  She was dressed that afternoon in a crisp low-cut blue linen shirt-dress with Jean Schlumberger wildflowers in gold and enamel at her throat and wrists, Forties-style taupe heels, and a fresh white rose in her hair.

Watching her and Marquesa chatting politely as if they were members of the same club instead of lovers of the same man, Danny marveled at their sangfroid in such a soap-opera-cliche situation.  As Marquesa had told him, it's not polyamory that's tacky, it's cheating... so long as all parties agree and all behavior is honest, there is no need for melodrama. If Marquesa eyed Cordelia's gorgeously displayed bosom askance, or if Cordelia felt that Marquesa's jewelry was better than hers, they did not let such trifles mar their serenity.

"Monsieur le Comte de Seguemont, Monsieur le Baron Valerien de Seguemont," came the next announcement, followed by Valerien and his grandfather sauntering into the rotunda, still deep in a conversation which, if one judged by the faintly furtive tone they used, concerned money and business.

Danny always thought the old Comte was a funny-looking man: he wasn't ugly per se, but there was something comical about his face that made one smile; it was dominated by a really long and truly Gallic nose, under which grew an elaborate and old-fashioned silver-gray mustache with upturned ends that dwarfed his small mouth and drew attention from his rather weak chin.  His watery gray eyes were also small and almost hidden beneath immense gray eyebrows, and his silver hair was pomaded back from his high forehead in marceled waves.  He dressed his long loose frame in dull three-piece suits that had been unfashionable when he was a young man and had not come into vogue since, with tiny-patterned neckties and highly starched collars, a watch-chain across his waistcoat and a sprig of lavender in his buttonhole. 

One would never guess that the exquisitely pretty Valerien was in any way related to the lanky old man, dressed in clothes as anachronistic as his grandfather's but nevertheless elegant and even jaunty, a blue jacket with white piping and white flannel trousers, light tan loafers and a crisp white shirt, a red-and-white ascot around his neck and a matching necktie around his waist instead of a belt.

"My dear young Daniel, how well you look," the Comte greeted Danny with handshake and then proceeded to run his other hand over the boy's arm and waist possessively, coming to rest at the base of Danny's spine.

"You're looking quite spry yourself, Monsieur," Danny answered back with a little bit of coquettishness in his voice; he wasn't sure if the Comte's touches were sexually motivated or just habitually flirtatious; and though he had no compunction about going to bed with old men (he actually enjoyed it), he felt very deeply that screwing his recent ex-boyfriend-now-friend's grandfather would be beyond the pale of acceptable behavior; but flirting back just came naturally to him.

"Wine for breakfast, my boy," the Comte winked, "It's the secret of long life.  I turned eighty last year and I've never been sick once."

"Donna Bianca di Montedeo," the next announcement echoed through the glass-ceilinged space, heralding the appearance of a young woman so absolutely stunning that the room actually fell quiet for a moment when she emerged from the greenery.

Her eyes grabbed you at once, huge and liquid black, almond-shaped like a Byzantine empress in a mosaic, flashing a dark fire everywhere she looked; then one noticed her face, angular and feline, with an exquisitely carved scarlet mouth and the whitest skin Danny had ever seen on a live person; her hair was jet black and worn in a simple chin-length bob that waved gently about her face; her figure was angular as well, perfectly proportioned and dressed in a simple tight black silk dress with an ivory taffeta shawl collar, wearing business-like black heels and carrying an egg-shaped snakeskin clutch.  Her only jewelry was a large black and white cameo on a satin ribbon.

"Oh, my God, she's fabulous," Marquesa hissed... and his tone was not one of mere admiration, it was the sound of a serious competitor sensing a truly worthy opponent.  Danny could almost hear wheels turning in Marquesa's head as he mentally reviewed the wardrobe he'd brought, testing its fabulousness against the sheer style displayed by Donna Bianca.

The young woman ("lady" seems too dainty an expression for such a fierce creature) strode into the rotunda like a diva taking the stage, greeted her hostess with immense theatrical charm, smiled brilliantly as she was introduced to the rest of the party, and then devoted her attention to the food.

"She's so...so..." Valerien said, his eyes wide with wonder as he watched Donna Bianca examine a plate of cheese suspiciously before dismissing it in favor of some salted cantaloup.  The Baron looked a little flustered, drawn and repelled by the charismatic woman at the same time.  But after a moment he shook himself and turned to discuss a possible hunt in the Seguemont woods with Lord Edward, who was a keen horseman but not much of a shot (by his own admission).

"You notice she's the only one here who came in alone?" Marquesa was still studying Donna Bianca, "We all arrived in pairs, but she came on solo."

"Didn't you say she sang opera?" Danny turned his attention to woman in question, "I've never heard of her, but she does act like a professional."

"I have to find out.  I'm going to talk to her.  Coming?"

"I'll let you have her," Danny grinned, "I'd just distract the conversation by fawning on her and telling her how fabulous she is."

"You do fawn awfully well, darling," Marquesa kissed him lightly on the cheek and then stalked off after his prey, launching into the interrogation with an admiring comment on the cameo at her throat.
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