"Yes, Sterling, we get the point," Saint Just said as the limousine slowed and the driver made the very tight turn between stone pillars. He had turned onto a gravel drive that led downhill rather than up, then finally leveled as the trees disappeared behind them and a parklike setting opened before them, a bubbling stream nearly encircling the large cut-stone manor house at the center of everything.

The dividing gla.s.s slid down soundlessly and the driver announced: "Medwine Manor, everyone. You just stay dry in the back while I fetch brollies for you. This is a fierce mist."

"Mist?" Maggie said as rain drummed on the roof of the limousine. "This mist starts looking anything more like a deluge and I'm going to ask you two to begin building an ark."

"Oh, Maggie, but I'm afraid Saint Just and I don't know how to-oh. I see. Never mind."

Saint Just smiled at his good friend, deliberately shaking off any lingering melancholy. After all, he had proven in these past months that he was nothing if not adaptable. "Have no fear, Maggie. I shall carry you over the threshold, if necessary."

"It won't be," Maggie said, avoiding his gaze, as well as his offered hand once he'd stepped out of the limousine. "There's a porch-portico. I'll make a run for it."

Saint Just and Sterling followed, taking advantage of the umbrellas the driver offered, stopping just below the curved stone steps to admire the facade of the three-story building.

"Not quite up to what we've been used to, is it, Saint Just? A bit ragged about the edges, and all of that."

"And yet, obviously being improved upon. Notice the scaffolding to your left, Sterling, in front of the west wing."

"Are you two coming, or what?"

"I do believe Maggie thinks we're lagging behind, Sterling," Saint Just said, motioning for his friend to precede him up the steps, to where Maggie waited in the open doorway.

He handed the umbrella to the driver, who also took Sterling's, mumbling something about driving around to the back door to unload the luggage, then took a moment to inspect the foyer.

"I knocked, but no one came, and when I tried the door it was open," Maggie told him, wiping raindrops from her face. "Oh, this is big, isn't it?"

Saint Just took inventory of the large foyer, at least forty feet square. An intricate black-and-white marble tile floor shone beneath a soaring ceiling painted to look like a summer sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. A wonderfully broad stone staircase rose slowly from the open hallway, and a gallery stretched around three of the four age-darkened white marble walls that had been carved to include columns and angels and G.o.ddesses, or some such romantic nonsense.

That last wall, along the stairs, was dominated by an immense mural stretching from the ground floor up to the top of the first floor, a creation that depicted a goodly number of dancing, frolicking ladies and gentlemen being attended by rosy-cheeked children.

"I can only sigh in relief to see that as you were thumbing through books and building my various estates, you didn't pattern any of them after the interior of this pile. The decor is rather...flamboyant."

"Yeah, well, I think it's pretty neat," Maggie said, her head back as she turned in a slow circle, looking at their surroundings. "No wonder they decided to film here. Wow."

"The place is pa.s.sable, I agree," Saint Just said, amazed to find he was feeling more and more comfortable by the moment. Then again, after all, this was his milieu, real or imaginary. "Ah, and I may be wrong, but I do believe our host approaches now. He's not rigged out well enough to be a servant."

They all watched as a fairly squat man dressed in hunting clothes that had obviously seen their share of hunts came lumbering down the stairs, one hand on the stone railing, his gaze directed at his boots, as if he'd taken a tumble once and planned never to do that again.

Not until he had safely navigated the stairs and stood on the parquet floor did the man raise his head and smile at Maggie. (Saint Just and Sterling could very well have been invisible.) "Hullo, you beautiful bit," he said, waggling his bushy white eyebrows. "Welcome to Medwine Manor. I'm Sir Rudy Medwine, and you're gorgeous. Another American actress, I hope. We've already got one, but she's a little starchy. Don't think she likes me. She should. I'm very rich. Mine's the Medwine Marauder, best fishing reel in the world. Knighted for it, I was. Now I'm living the high life. Used to live down the road from this place, in a pokey two-up-two-down, and now all this is mine. You want to know me. Really, you do."

Maggie opened her mouth, may have said, "Uh..." before Saint Just deftly stepped in front of her and bowed to Sir Rudy. "Sir Rudy, how delighted and, indeed, honored we all are to be numbered among your guests. Please allow me to present to you Miss Maggie Kelly, who, writing as Cleo Dooley, penned the brilliant book that will be filmed here on your marvelous estate. I, for my sins, am Alex Blakely, Miss Kelly's personal a.s.sistant, and the gentleman just now waving to you is Sterling Balder, her spiritual advisor. We are all quite happy to make your acquaintance."

Sir Rudy pointed his finger at Saint Just. "You...you're English. Upper-crust English, at that. Are you all English? I wanted Americans. I distinctly told them I wanted Americans."

"For what?" Maggie grumbled.

This was certainly going well.

"Miss Kelly is very much the American woman, Sir Rudy," Saint Just told him, taking the man's arm and leading him back to the staircase. "Sterling and I are English, yes, although it has been years since we've been on this side of the pond."

"Centuries, even," Maggie groused, following the two men while Sterling brought up the rear.

The small party climbed the stairs slowly, giving Sir Rudy ample time to catch his breath, but he was huffing and puffing by the time they reached the first floor.

"I think everybody's in there," the man said, pointing to closed double doors that probably led to the main saloon. "They're not a happy bunch. The rain, you see. It's keeping them indoors. And that scaffolding has to come down before next week, for the filming. Dicey, that. I ordered a joint and pudding for dinner, hoping to cheer them up, but they haven't eaten yet, so be careful none of them tries to take a bite out of you."

"Charming," Saint Just said, turning to hold out his arm, indicating that Maggie should proceed, enter the room ahead of him. "Sir Rudy is rather unusual, isn't he?" he asked her quietly as she stopped beside him.

"I like him," Sterling said, standing on tiptoe, the better to see once Sir Rudy had crossed the wide hallway and pushed open the doors. "No airs and graces about that man. None at all."

"And I'm a toplofty prude, I imagine?" Saint Just asked him.

He should have known Maggie would answer: "If the high-topped Hessian boot fits, Chauncy," before giving him a wink and heading into the chandelier-lit expanse of the main saloon.

Left with little else to do, Saint Just followed, to be met by an odd a.s.sortment of people, some of whom lounged on green-on-green-striped satin couches, some of whom propped up the enormous marble fireplace mantel, and one who was stretched out on the floor, a long leg behind her ear, most of her backside showing, the rest of her fairly magnificent body covered in a bright-blue leotard.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Sir Rudy announced in a booming voice. "Here's more of you, come to join the party."

One of the gentlemen at the fireplace pushed himself away from the mantel and strode towards them, his rather pasty flesh sheened with perspiration, his totally bald head glistening under the light from the chandeliers.

"Must be one of the actors. He looks like a pint-size version of Telly Savalas, except he's more rubbery. I wonder if he's going to offer us a lollipop," Maggie said out of the corner of her mouth.

"I beg your pardon?"

"An actor, Alex. Played a cop on an old television series. Kojak. My dad was crazy about him. It isn't important."

"Indeed," Saint Just said, feeling more and more comfortable in this large room, more and more in his element. And because of the way he felt, he stepped forward, extended his hand to the bald man, gave a slight inclination of his head. "Alex Blakely...and you are...?"

"Peppin," the man said in an oddly thin, high voice. An almost childish voice. "Arnaud Peppin, reluctant director of this grand epic, if we can ever start filming. The leads are here, so who are you? Although you already look and sound more English than that idiot over there. He wants an accent coach, like that's going to happen on our budget."

"Mr. Peppin, of course. How...charming," Saint Just said with another slight nod and a smile-not having the faintest idea what the man was talking about. Clearly he was going to have to correct that lapse, and quickly. He then repeated the introductions he had begun with Sir Rudy.

By now, all eyes were on the newcomers, except for those of the woman who was still on the carpet, although now she was lying on her side, her head propped in one hand, her other hand sliding caressingly down the side of her breast and onto her hip as she smiled only at Saint Just.

Nothing all that out of the ordinary there. He had been very carefully created to have that effect on women. It was a gift. Occasionally a curse.

Arnaud seemed remarkably unimpressed to learn that the author and her entourage had arrived. Saint Just knew this because the man turned his back to him and said, "Relax, people. Joanne will handle this. It's only the writer."

Saint Just immediately and quite automatically put his right arm straight out to his side, and Maggie's advancing body immediately and very predictably slammed against it.

"Only the writer? Only the writer? Hey, cue ball, let me tell you a-"

"Ms. Dooley! Oh, how thrilled I am to meet you! I heard you were coming. I'm Sam Undercuffler, screenwriter."

Saint Just lifted his quizzing gla.s.s to his eye and inspected Undercuffler as he scurried over to them. The young man was depressingly brown. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown slacks; brown tweed jacket with brown suede patches at the elbows. The barrel of a cheap brown pipe protruded from his jacket pocket. His brown shoes, lace shoes, were badly in need of reheeling and a good polish.

"Oh, so good to meet you, Ms. Dooley-Cleo. May I call you Cleo? I adapted your book for the screen. Well, you probably figured that out, since I said I'm the screenwriter. Oh, would you listen to me? I'm just so excited to finally meet the creator of the brilliant Saint Just Mysteries. The brilliant creator of the brilliant series, I should say. I'm playing with an idea of my own, for my own television series, you understand, but I know you wouldn't want to hear about that. Would you? Please, if there's anything you want, anything you need..."

Saint Just stood amused as Maggie tried to get her hand back from the screenwriter, who was still pumping it with all the enthusiasm of a dairy maid only three churn strokes away from b.u.t.ter. "Two writers. Together. Members of the same literary fraternity. Why, he even looks so much the writer, doesn't he? Isn't this wonderful, Cleo? I imagine you two will have so much to talk about."

Now, sometimes Maggie said bite me, out loud, so everyone could hear her. But sometimes she could say bite me without actually uttering a word. Her facial expression was more than enough. This was one of those times.

Still, when she did speak, it was to say h.e.l.lo to Sam Undercuffler, smile politely, ask him to please call her Maggie, and agree that it was wonderful that two writers could be here, each with their own hand in the creation, as it were.

Poor girl. That had to have been painful.

"Well, come on, come on, there's lots more to meet," Sir Rudy said from behind them, actually giving Sterling a little push so that he stumbled farther into the room.

"I'll take care of this, Sir Rudy. Thanks anyway," Arnaud said, then clapped his hands. "Okay, people, listen up. It's introduction time. Raise your hand when I call out your name, and let's get this over with. I've got things to do."

"And yet again...charming," Saint Just said quietly.

"Yeah," Maggie agreed. "I feel so warm and fuzzy...so wanted."

"Okay...right. Here we go," Arnaud continued, either slightly deaf or just not caring what anyone else might say; Saint Just was fairly certain it was the latter. "You met the writer. Sam, back up, you're blocking my view. Okay, over there. The tall guy who looks like an English valet? He's our English valet, Clarence. Real name, Dennis Lloyd. Raise your hand, Dennis."

The man bowed, and Sterling waved to him.

"Next up, Sterling Balder."

"Hullo?" Sterling said, his arm still raised in midwave.

"I don't think he means you, Sterling," Maggie said, squeezing his hand.

"That's me! Over here on the couch! Perry Posko, otherwise known as Sterling Balder."

Saint Just looked at the actor, then at his own Sterling Balder. They were very nearly a match, from their likewise thinning hair to their spectacles, to their pudgy waistlines, to the open, trusting grins on their faces.

"Good casting," Maggie said. "Clarence and Sterling both. That's encouraging, right?"

"I imagine so," Saint Just said, leaning closer to her. "I do have a few reservations about the gentleman in front of the mantel. Is he wearing makeup?"

"Tanning booth. Bet you," Maggie said, then shut up when Arnuad pointed to a rather tall, definitely dark gentleman who seemed to be studiously ignoring everyone.

"Evan? Over here, Evan. That's Evan Pottinger, our Lord Hervey. The villain, but you know that."

Saint Just bowed yet again. "Delighted, I a.s.sure you."

"Completely and totally unimpressed, I a.s.sure you," Pottinger drawled, then turned his back on everyone.

"Method actor," Arnaud said. "He's getting into the role. Everybody thinks they're De Niro. Evan wants to wear the costumes and everything. Wants everyone in costume. Pain in my a.s.s, that's what he really is."

"How very droll," Saint Just drawled as well, amused, and certainly not ready to reveal that he had no idea what a method actor was. "I believe I should like to see that."

"Well, you won't. Period costumes cost a fortune, and we're only renting them from the company that supplied Sense and Sensibility. I'm not going to have anyone dribbling gravy all over them."

"Ah, my good sir, a true gentleman would never dribble."

"Too bad, gorgeous. Because I could lick it all up for you," the leotard-clad beauty said from the floor, so that Saint Just had no recourse but to look at her, watch as, catlike, she uncurled herself and stood up. "Hi. I'm Nikki Campion, and I'm the love interest. Just call me Nikki."

"That would be my honor, Nikki," Saint Just said, fairly certain that if Miss Campion were to hold out her hand and he was to bow over it, kiss it, his life expectancy could most probably be measured in the minutes it would take for Maggie to get him alone and kill him.

So wasn't he lucky that Miss Campion didn't hold out her hand? She merely pressed herself up against him, went up on tiptoe, and kissed him on his left ear. "If you screw as good as you look, see me later," she breathed into that ear, then turned and walked away in a manner that left no doubt that she felt every male in the room watched her every step.

Sir Rudy made a sort of whimpering sound in his throat, turned on his heels, and quit the room.

Saint Just looked at Maggie-not that he, the perfect hero, was actually afraid of the woman-and was surprised to see her looking at him in some sympathy.

"I'd be pretty disgusted by having to watch that, and hear it-the woman obviously doesn't know how to whisper-except it wasn't your fault. And because we're down to the last man, that one very tanned and blond man has to be playing Saint Just. You want to call that nice Miss Browning with the tinkling-bells laugh and ask her to book us on the next plane home? I can't believe you want to stick around to watch surfer dude over there in action as you."

Saint Just would have blanched if he was the sort who blanched. He turned his attention to the man awkwardly lounging at the mantel just as the fellow made some sort of flourishing motion and then went to rest one elbow on the mantel, missed, and nearly came to grief before righting himself.

"I have to work with this," Arnaud said, shaking his head, as obviously he'd also seen the actor's clumsiness. "Troy? Give us a wave, why don't you, and try not to kill yourself when you do it. People, meet Troy Barlow, our Viscount Saint Just. Our blond beachboy turned dark-haired, sophisticated sleuth. Does Hollywood know casting or what?"

Sterling nearly danced in place. "I know him! That's Brick. Brick Lord. He's in one of my favorite soap operas. He's Dyson's identical twin brother, and Brittany thinks Dyson's the father of her unborn child, but it's really Brick who-oh, my!"

"I play both parts, yes," Troy said, advancing only as far as the couches, where, as Saint Just manfully stifled a wince, he sat down with all the grace of a lobster navigating an escalator. "You thought Brick and Dyson were really twins? You hear that, Nikki? I'm a working actor. A craftsman. While you're humping transmission repairs. Now do you understand why my name comes first on the credits?"

Nikki looked at Arnaud, pouted. "You told me last night that you'd fix that, Arnie."

"That'll teach you to screw short, bald men," a female voice said, behind Saint Just. "Like he's in charge of credit placement? I am, sweetheart. And don't bother shaking that silicone at me because I don't think you're that hot."

Saint Just stepped to one side to allow a slim woman as tall as Bernice Toland-James-as thin as Bernice, as red-headed as Bernice, presenting as powerful a presence as Bernice-to push past everyone, to pose directly beneath the main chandelier. "Joanne Pertuccelli here. In charge of production. Who the h.e.l.l are you people?"

"Oh, no, not again. I'm getting bored," Maggie said in her marvelously mulish way that so endeared her to Saint Just. "Is anyone else going to crawl out of the woodwork or are you it? Because this is the last time I want to hear, 'Oh, it's only the writer.'"

"You're Cleo Dooley? Name looks pretty decent above the t.i.tle. Good use of Os." Joanne frowned, fingering the large silver stopwatch that hung around her neck on a long, black, braided band. "You don't look like a writer."

"Yeah. I get a lot of that one, too," Maggie said as Sterling, a man who learned from experience, prudently stepped behind Saint Just. "Thanks heaps, Joanne. I take it you're also in charge of public relations? I mean, I was hoping for a welcome like that after a long flight and the rain and everything. Thanks so much. Really."

"I think that's probably sufficient, Maggie," Saint Just warned quietly, taking her arm and leading her across the wide expanse of faded Aubusson carpet, toward the drinks table, where Evan the Villain was already in residence, still studiously glowering and ignoring everyone.

"Touchy," Joanne called after them. "Hey, nice a.s.s, handsome."

"Is she talking to-"

"No, Sterling, I believe not, so you can spare your blushes," Saint Just said as Maggie, always put in a good mood by the so-innocent Sterling, grinned. "Besides, as gentlemen, we'll ignore the lady's lapse into crudity."

A nervous giggle caught Saint Just's attention, and a moment later, a gum-chewing young lady with hair too blonde to be genuine pushed herself out of a chair in the farthest corner of the room. "Hi, I'm Marylou Keppel. I heard the introductions, before, but Arnaud always forgets me, unless he needs something. I'm the gofer."

"I...I beg your pardon?"

"You know. If somebody needs something? Gofer it, Marylou. Go-find it, Marylou. Go-get it, Marylou. Gofer. Oh, I stand in sometimes, I prompt. Tight budget on this one. But mostly? Mostly I'm a gofer."

"How...how wonderful for you, I'm sure," Saint Just said blankly. "Maggie? Isn't that wonderful for Miss Keppel?"

"You're dying here, aren't you, Alex?" Maggie asked, then laughed. "But, hey, you wanted to come."

"Excuse me," Joanne Pertuccelli said from behind Saint Just. "I still don't know who you two are. Who authorized you to be here?"