When Sterling returned from driving the twins to school, he called Jane into his office, which doubled as the video surveillance room.
“This needs to be a private meeting,” He shut the door and locked it. “I’ve already shown this feed to the rest of the Fins, but you need to see it too.”
Jane sat in a chair facing the bank of small television screens while Sterling lifted the framed map of Virginia off its wall hooks, revealing four more screens.
The screens showed a live, around-the-clock feed of the front driveway, back terrace, lobby, and the hallways leading to the guest rooms. Sterling’s hidden screens focused on less visible areas of the resort.
At the moment, three of the four screens were active, but the action on the last screen had been frozen. Jane immediately recognized the door to the Romance and Roses Suite.
“I don’t think I’m going to like this matinee, am I?” she asked, staring at the blurred shadow of a person standing outside the guest room.
“Probably not,” Sterling said and hit the play button.
The figure came to life. A woman, Jane realized, paced back and forth in a highly agitated state, like a person on the verge of making a serious mistake. “It’s as though she’s gathering her courage,” Jane murmured.
“Butterworth would be impressed by your ability to read her body language,” Sterling said. “Especially since you haven’t had your first lesson with him on the subject yet.”
Jane barely registered the compliment. She was too anxious to see what the pacing figure would do. “I recognize her clothes,” she cried softly. “The white blouse, black skirt, and the bead necklace. It’s Maria Stone, the woman who started the chaos at the end of last night’s auction.”
“That’s correct. Keep watching. By the time the recording is finished, Sinclair will be here to review what he’s learned about Ms. Stone.”
Jane returned her attention to the screen where Maria Stone was raking her hands through her hair, destroying the sleek ponytail she’d worn earlier that night. Jane glanced at the time stamp in the corner of the screen. “It’s just after midnight. What was she doing up so late?”
And then Jane remembered Maria’s obsession with being the first to receive a copy of Rosamund York’s new novel. “Of course. She stayed up reading Eros Steals the Bride.” Jane noticed that Maria’s lips were moving. “She certainly doesn’t seem eager to heap praise on her favorite author. She’s distraught. It’s as though she were holding a one-sided conversation with Rosamund York. Hopefully, Ms. York is fast asleep and has no idea that a fan is coming to pieces outside her door.”
Maria stopped pacing. She balled her hands into fists, shook them at the ceiling, and then abruptly deflated. Her shoulders sagged, her spine slumped, and her hair hung over her face like a dark curtain. Very slowly, she pulled an envelope from the pocket of her slacks. She gazed at it for a long time without moving and then bent down and slid it under Rosamund’s door.
Mission accomplished, she straightened and turned her back to the door. She pushed her hair out of her face, squared her shoulders, and raised her chin defiantly. “It’s like watching a break-up, only the other person in the relationship isn’t present,” Jane said.
“Ms. Rosamund’s publicist delivered the note Ms. Stone slipped under the door to the front desk this morning. Ms. Birch is demanding to be given the identity of the letter writer and insists we post a guard by Ms. York’s door.”
Jane was taken aback. “A guard? This isn’t Buckingham Palace. Is one of the bellhops supposed to stand in the hallway all night?” She shook her head. “Ned is so sweet that he’d probably volunteer, but unless Ms. Stone’s note contains a serious threat . . .” She trailed off, realizing that the possibility was quite likely.
She glanced at the screen in time to see Maria Stone, looking tired and bereft, walk out the camera’s field of view.
Sterling pressed the pause button and handed Jane a folded piece of paper. “I’ll give you a few moments to absorb this bit of prose before I show you the second half of last night’s footage.”
Groaning, Jane unfolded the note and began to read.
To Ms. York,
There are no words to express how deeply offended I am by your new book. You’ve dealt our gender a crippling blow. How could someone who created Venus Dares, a character who openly encourages female equality, have reduced every female character in Eros Steals the Bride to brainless chattel? Eros is just the sort of chauvinistic, self-serving, belittling, and abusive oppressor that women have fought against for centuries. You wrote a contemporary romance, but in Shamus Eros, the man who owns a matchmaking company for millionaire bachelors, you took women back in time by hundreds of years! No modern, independent, freethinking woman should be attracted to someone like Eros, and yet, he seduces the bride, a woman who owns her own law firm, the night before her wedding? I literally felt ill while reading this abomination of a novel.
If you do not make major changes before the book is published, I promise that you’ll regret it. I will devote my every waking hour to ruining you. I’ll leave negative reviews all over cyberspace, write scathing comments on any blog mentioning your name, send letters to the publications promoting the book, and reach out to the women who host the Venus Dares fan websites. I will do everything in my power to prevent women from reading this piece of trash.
So think carefully before you publish something that could cause real harm. Don’t you see how dangerous your message of subservience is? Eros reverses everything you’ve accomplished through Venus Dares. Why would you make our sex so weak? So stupid and desperate? You’ve betrayed us all!
Change it, before it’s too late. Change it, or you’ll be sorry. I won’t stand aside and allow thousands of readers to be influenced by something that should never have been printed in the first place.
You’ve been warned.
A former fan
Jane folded the note and passed it back to Sterling. “This definitely sounds like a threat. The question is, will Ms. Stone act on it over the next few days? We have to assume that Ms. York will ignore Ms. Stone’s over-the-top demands.” She pursed her lips. “Though to be honest, Eros Steals the Bride sounds pretty unappealing.”
“Do you think we can expect more of Ms. York’s fans to become irate?” Sterling asked. “Those advanced reading copies are all over the resort. There are women in almost every chair and sofa with that book in hand. They’re even reading over their breakfast plates.” He flashed a wry grin. “It’s a good thing Mrs. Hubbard can’t see them. She’d be thoroughly insulted.”
Jane pointed at the screen, the lines on her forehead deepening. “Show me the other footage, please.”
Sterling fast-forwarded until the time stamp read 1:12 A.M. He then pushed play and sat back in his chair, hands folded on his lap.
Another figure appeared in front of the Romance and Roses Suite.
“A male visitor this time.” Jane felt a knot form in her belly. “And he’s carrying a liquor bottle.”
“It’s Scotch. The good stuff. Bowman Islay Single Malt, aged twenty-five-years. Costs nearly two hundred dollars a bottle,” Sterling said. “It looks like our friend already guzzled one hundred and seventy-five dollars’ worth.”
Jane didn’t like the sound of that. “Great. A drunken stalker. I’m sure Ms. York would be delighted to receive such a worthy admirer. Oh, brother. Now he’s pacing.” She could feel a headache coming on. “We’ll have to replace the carpet in that hallway by the end of this event.”
The man took swigs of Scotch as he lurched back and forth outside the Romance and Roses Suite. Finally, he stopped and raised his hand. He curled his fingers into a fist, preparing to knock on Rosamund’s door, and then slowly lowered it again. He shook his head as though to dispel a foolish thought and then turned to leave. Jane only caught a glimpse of his face, but she recognized him immediately.
“That’s Nigel Poindexter, a freelance journalist,” Jane told Sterling. “He was friendly to Muffet Cat yesterday evening.” She clucked her tongue. “And I thought Muffet Cat was such a good judge of character.”
“We’ve already identified Mr. Poindexter,” Sterling said. “Mr. Sinclair is digging deeper into his background as we speak. Ms. Stone’s too.”
Jane continued to massage her temples. “Do you have any aspirin?”
Sterling opened a desk drawer and fished out a bottle of Bayer. Smiling, he passed it to her. “Mr. Poindexter could probably use a few right about now.”
“I doubt he’s awake yet,” Jane said sourly.
There was a tap on the door and Sterling leapt to his feet. “That’s probably your great-uncle. He wanted to hear your thoughts on Ms. York’s visitors.”
To be on the safe side, Sterling replaced the map of Virginia before opening the door.
Uncle Aloysius appeared in the threshold, looking every inch the country gentlemen in his tweed suit, loafers, and fishing hat. He wore his beloved hat everywhere, only taking it off in church where he placed it reverently on the pew cushion. There was conjecture among Storyton Hall’s staff that he slept in the hat, but Jane knew this was nonsense. There were several sharp hooks and hand-fashioned flies attached to the worn fabric.
“Good morning, my girl.” Uncle Aloysius planted a kiss on Jane’s forehead. Taking the chair next to hers, he pointed at the map of Virginia. “Such goings on last night, eh? What do you make of it all?”
“The man, a Mr. Nigel Poindexter, may be infatuated with Ms. York,” Jane said. “Maybe he needed a large dose of liquid courage to approach her. Then again . . .” She frowned. “No man could be foolish enough to believe that showing up at a woman’s door at one in the morning would produce a positive outcome.”
Uncle Aloysius grunted. “I should say not.”
There was a tap on the office door. Sinclair entered, said good morning to Jane, and distributed two sheets of paper to those present.
“As you know, we run basic background checks on every guest prior to their arrival,” he said, addressing Jane. “We only probe deeper if someone strikes us as suspicious. On the first sheet, you’ll find several red flags concerning Ms. Stone. The second sheet primarily focuses on Mr. Poindexter’s financial woes.”
Jane scanned the first paragraph on Maria’s list, which painted a sad picture of her childhood.
“She spent half of her childhood in the foster-care system.” Jane glanced at Sinclair. “What happened to her parents?”
“The mother died of a heroine overdose. The father is still alive, but Ms. Stone was removed from his custody shortly after her tenth birthday because he was physically abusive,” Sinclair said solemnly. “He never tried to reconcile with her, and as far as I can tell, no contact was made after Ms. Stone became a ward of the state.”
Jane imagined a small, dark-haired girl cowering in the corner of a room as her father’s long shadow fell over her. “That poor child,” she whispered. “She must have felt scared and alone for so many years. No child should live like that.”
“Keep reading,” Sinclair prompted gently.
As a teenager, Maria had been arrested multiple times. “Vandalism, arson, breaking and entering.” Jane whistled. “Why didn’t these crimes come to light during your routine background check?”
“She was a minor at the time of each arrest. Juvenile records are sealed,” Sinclair explained. “Mr. Sterling had to call in a favor to get this information.”
Jane was about to ask another question when something on Maria’s list caught her eye. “Its says here that she heads a group of millennial feminists called the Matildas. What’s millennial feminism?”
Uncle Aloysius, who’d been silent up to this point, cleared his throat. “I can’t speak to that precise term, but your aunt started her own feminist movement here in Storyton in the early seventies. She campaigned for equal pay for the women in the village, and when Storyton Hall became a resort, she made certain that our employees were given the same wages and benefits, regardless of gender.” He smiled with pride. “We were both determined that none of our staff should be exposed to harassment. More than one fellow was tossed out on his ear for administering unwelcome pinches in the hallway or indecent whispers in the staff elevator.”
Jane nodded in approval and then looked at the paper in her hands. “So what’s the mission of the Matildas?”
Sinclair moved to the computer and pulled up a website. A graphic of Roald Dahl’s child heroine, Matilda, the little girl with magical abilities, appeared onscreen. “Ms. Stone’s group focuses on how the media portrays women. The Matildas oppose racism, objectification, unrealistic body image, harassment, and abuse against women in film, television, social networks, and print media.
“A worthy cause,” Sterling said. “But why is Maria Stone attending this event? I don’t picture the head of a feminist group as a diehard fan of Regency romance novels.”
Jane shot him a censorious look. “That’s just the type of stereotype Ms. Stone would find objectionable.”
Sterling threw out his arms in a show of helplessness. “Am I out of line? Consider the book covers. The women are thin, gorgeous, and partially undressed. More often than not, a burly, half-naked guy has his hands all over her. Every cover implies that the couple is seconds away—”
“From having consensual sex?” Jane asked, amused to see Sterling redden. “Last time I checked, feminists were pro-sex. Their bodies, their choices, right? Besides, the romance genre is replete with strong female characters. Ms. York took that idea of a strong heroine and morphed it into something even more powerful. She created an unconventional protagonist in Venus Dares. A feminist heroine.” She paused. “However, it seems like she penned the antithesis of Venus in Eros.”
Sinclair rubbed his chin in thought. “Venus Dares is powerful because she’s an independent woman of her own means. She still fits the romance formula because she creates happy endings, but she breaks the mold when it comes to Regency-era heroines. Considering Ms. Stone’s childhood history of abuse, it’s no surprise that she connected with this character on such an intimate level. And it’s no wonder she’s so upset by Ms. York’s new book. If women are portrayed as weak and foolish, then I don’t really blame her.”
“The young lady feels betrayed. Betrayed by another woman.” Uncle Aloysius picked up Maria’s letter. “I wouldn’t dismiss the seriousness of this threat.”
Jane looked at him. “Should we ask her to leave Storyton? After all, she’s definitely crossed a line.”
“So she has,” Uncle Aloysius agreed. “However, she’s young. She let her passion overrule her good sense, and I believe she may already regret her actions. Speak with her, Jane. Make it clear that we know what she did and warn her that a second act of indiscretion will not be tolerated. If she seems contrite, let her stay. If not, send her packing.”
With a nod, Jane turned to the second sheet of paper Sinclair had given her. Nigel Poindexter’s list.
Nigel’s red flags weren’t as dramatic as Maria’s. He lived above his means and owed money to a dozen credit card companies. There was also a lien on his Florida home. For a man in his forties, he had no savings and very few possessions.
“And yet, he was drinking that expensive whiskey.” Jane shook her head in dismay. “How can he afford a week at Storyton Hall?”
“His room was pre-paid several months ago,” Sinclair said. “As far as any expenses he incurs this week, I don’t know how he plans to pay for those.”
Sterling pointed at the security camera, which showed a housekeeper pushing a supply cart down a carpeted corridor. “I had a quick word with the second-floor housekeeper and she informed me that Mr. Poindexter brought an entire case of whiskey with him.”
Jane hated to think what his guest room looked like. She imagined empty liquor bottles, dirty tumblers, and spots of spilled whiskey on every surface. In her mind, clothes were tossed unceremoniously on the floor, pages of yesterday’s newspaper were scattered across the carpet, and the bathroom towels were haphazardly draped over the reading lamp and chair.
Some people lose all sense of decorum when they don’t have to clean up after themselves, Jane thought, and was then jerked back to the present by the sound of her name.
“Sorry. I wandered off for a minute.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll speak with both Ms. Birch and Maria Stone after we’re finished. Ms. Birch must be addressed first and I’ll catch up with Ms. Stone as soon as I can. She’ll need a stern warning about behavior, and I’ll have to insist that she keep her distance from Ms. York for the rest of the week. Nigel Poindexter will also need to be cautioned. We can’t have him pacing the hallway outside Ms. York’s room again. Perhaps I can invite him to afternoon tea.”
Uncle Aloysius shook his head. “I’m afraid Mr. Poindexter is booked this afternoon. He’s covering the truffle demonstration for”—he turned to Sinclair—“which magazine was it?”
Sinclair pointed at the list of magazines, blog sites, and small newspapers Nigel worked as a freelancer for, but Jane was no longer listening.
“Heaven help me! I forgot to tell Mrs. Hubbard that I’d invited Tobias Hogg to help with the workshop. She’s so seldom in the limelight that she covets these opportunities, but I thought, what with a room full of women, that Tobias—”
“Are you playing Cupid?” Uncle Aloysius asked, his eyes shining with amusement.
“I hope not,” Sinclair said. “Cupid’s Greek counterpart is Eros. And Eros is stirring up enough trouble as it is.”
After Jane left the office, she couldn’t stop thinking about Eros. Not the plump, winged, cherubic figure favored by Italian Renaissance painters and the designers of Valentine’s Day greeting cards, but the older and less innocent version. The Eros who carried a bow and arrow or a flaming torch and could instill in his unsuspecting victims such an all-consuming desire that they thought of nothing but their obsession.
“Eros robs his victims of freedom of choice,” Jane said to herself as she headed to the ballroom to catch the second half of the author panel, Sugar or Spice: The Flavor of Regency Romance.
Jane decided to watch the event from backstage. She was interested in how other readers would react to Eros Steals the Bride and hoped the moderator, the Fan Guest of Honor, would be able to keep the audience under control.
Apparently, she’d arrived during the short break because the room was filled with animated conversation. The authors had retreated backstage where they sipped ice water and glowered in the general direction of the podium.
“That woman should not be moderating this panel,” Georgia complained to Jane the moment she saw her. “You need to take over. We’re not supposed to field questions from the audience until the end of the panel, but they keep interrupting. Every time Rosamund opens her mouth, it’s to dodge questions about her new book. There are three other authors on this panel and we’d like to discuss our works.” She shot Rosamund a venomous glare and Jane noticed that Barbara Jewel and Ciara Lovelace seemed equally displeased.
At that opportune moment, Mrs. Pratt appeared at Jane’s elbow. “I can help,” she said brightly and turned to the authors. “As a former high school principal, I can handle this crowd. They just need a firm reminder about conference etiquette. Last night’s spectacle during the auction has allowed them to forget, but I’ll be sure to remedy that.”
Jane beamed at Mrs. Pratt. “I can vouch for this lady. Not only is Eugenia Pratt highly capable of the job, but she knows all of your books inside and out.”
This seemed to mollify the authors and, having entrusted Mrs. Pratt with moderating the second half of the panel, they returned to their seats on the dais.
As soon as Mrs. Pratt took the podium, Taylor Birch strode up to Jane and hissed, “Did you find out who sent Ms. York that horrible letter?”
“Yes. We’re handling the matter. I will speak with Ms. York about the subject after the panel.”
Taylor shook her head. “That won’t work. She’s booked all day. She has a lunch interview followed by the truffle workshop. Tell me, and I’ll pass the message along. That’s why I’m here—to make things smoother for Ms. York.”
“I’d still like to speak with Ms. York in person, but please assure her that she won’t be disturbed by the letter writer again.” Jane tried to infuse her tone with confidence.
“That letter was a threat,” Taylor persisted. “Ms. York should press charges. To do that, I need the person’s name.”
Jane hadn’t expected this. “Ms. York has every right to be upset by what happened, but I can assure you that my senior staff and I have things well in hand.” Though Jane knew this wasn’t entirely true, the last thing she wanted was for Taylor to retaliate against Maria or to publicize the entire affair on Facebook. Storyton Hall could lose thousands of potential guests if someone as influential as Rosamund York publically denounced the resort.
Jane scanned the audience in search of Maria Stone and found her sitting at the end of the third row. Jane was shocked by the young woman’s appearance. Her skin was wan, her eyes were dull, and her hair hung in limp strands. Gone was the passion that seemed to light her from the inside out. Gone was the youthful vivacity and vigor. She didn’t fidget or shift in her seat as she had during dinner the night before, but slumped in the chair as though she wanted to fold in on herself, to become so small that she might vanish altogether.
She looks like a mourner at the graveside, Jane thought and then realized that Maria was grieving. In reading Eros Steals the Bride, Maria had lost something precious. She felt betrayed by someone she admired and heartbroken on behalf of her entire gender.
Jane stared at her with a mixture of pity and wariness and then retreated a few steps into the shadowy backstage wing. Her mind shifted back to Eros. Eros had the power to create desire disguised as love, but Jane knew that spurned desire could deeply wound a person.
Suddenly, a snippet of poetry from a book Eloise had given her for Christmas entered her mind. Standing in the dark, watching Maria Stone, Jane whispered,
“‘When love beckons to you follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.’” Jane sighed. “I’m afraid you’ve been wounded, Ms. Stone. And not for the first time either.”
All at once, she had the feeling that she was no longer alone.
“Are you reciting Khalil Gibran?” Landon Lachlan asked from behind her.
Though Jane couldn’t see him clearly in the dim light, she knew Lachlan’s voice well enough. “I’m impressed. I only know a handful of people who’d recognize those lines.”
“I read some of his work during my second tour in Afghanistan,” Lachlan said and then fell silent.
He was so close to Jane that she could feel his breath on her neck. Though puzzled by his sudden appearance, she was too interested in what he was saying to ask what he was doing backstage. She nodded to show that she was listening and waited for him to go on.
“There I was, in no man’s land, reading Gibran,” Lachlan spoke in a near whisper that increased the intimacy of the moment. He smelled pleasantly of wood smoke, fresh air, and apples. “Everything he wrote was the opposite of what I was living. One of our missions went wrong and . . . we lost people. My brothers.” He swallowed hard. “That night, I read this in The Prophet: ‘But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully.’”
“That’s beautiful,” Jane whispered over the sound of laughter from the audience. “But it’s scary too. To deliberately surrender control like that.” She gestured at the romance novelists. “That’s a reoccurring theme in the books these lady authors write. Happiness is only possible when one of the main characters—male or female—surrenders to the other. Their willingness to be vulnerable makes them equals and binds them together.”
When Lachlan didn’t respond, Jane worried that he’d found her remark foolish.
“Ms. Jane.” Grabbing her hand, he enfolded it within his larger one and started to raise it.
Is he going to kiss my hand? Jane thought, too stunned to move.
But Lachlan didn’t kiss her. He lifted her entire arm and used it to direct her attention toward the side of the ballroom. “Look. Someone’s breaking the rules.”
Jane spotted Taylor Birch holding her cell phone in front of her face, her mouth curved into a smug smile.
“Damn it,” Jane muttered angrily. “The girl isn’t going to live to see Valentine’s Day.”