Chapter 16: Dinner Theatre

June, 1989

So the day after my visit to Quills, Daffyd Llewellyn showed up during breakfast at our townhouse gate with a book for me. The book, a first English edition of Dumas' The Three Musketeers, was an expensive way to get by the police and extra security put on the house since the fiasco of my birthday dinner at The Waterside Inn. Llewellyn, apparently, called Lars the second the sun set in Germany the night before and what his ... Employer? Master? I was not entirely sure what the relationship was at that time. Whatever it was, Lars must have scared the bookseller near to witless because he was incoherently babbling in Welsh-accented English with the occasional sentences in full-blown Welsh thrown in for good measure.

Eoin gave the panic-stricken Welshman a long, measuring look and then led us from the dining room to his office, walking straight to his liquor cabinet and pouring a double measure of Scotch. He then pressed the glass into the protesting hand of Llewellyn and pushed him into a chair, ordering him to drink first and then talk. Tremblingly, the vulturine bookseller gulped down a mouthful of the expensive liquor, his eyes lighting up as the taste hit his tongue.

"Oh, my Lord Spencer! That's fine stuff to be wasting on me in my state," he wheezed, the liquor's fire temporarily burning his vocal chords. He gulped down the rest at a more sedate pace, savoring it, before setting the glass on Eoin's desk with an apologetic and tense smile. "I apologize, but Herr Lars was rather ... discomfited when I called last night. The book, by the way, was his idea and is a gift for Miss Spencer-Killdare."

His voice was back to its usual haughty English elitist accent tinged with his own unctuousness, all traces of his fit and slide back to Wales gone. "Interesting trick with the accent. How long did it take you to learn that?" I asked as Ambrose eyed him warily.

He smiled and shrugged. "A long time. I am not quite the actor you are, apparently. Herr Lars tells me you are much more than you seem and you almost speak like a native of Chelsea after only a year," he noted slyly, making me glare at him. He hastily held up his hands, the clever look disappearing. "Apologies, Miss Spencer-Killdare. I have a tendency to poke at things better left alone, especially when I learn they are not what they seem. Herr Lars made hints and gave me information that led me to speculate with educated guesses. It has made me in turns hysterically terrified and academically curious."

Eoin and I looked at each other and then turned similar glares on the Welshman. "What did Lars have to say about the subject of my inquiry? That was the point of you contacting him, if you recall," I retorted sarcastically.

That sobered him, sending a shudder through him. "He knows of and was not pleased to hear the name of the gentleman about whom you inquired. He ordered me to plead with you to stay away from both this man and the island of Eire," Llewellyn replied in a voice vibrating with his desire to make sure I understood and heeded the advice. "He warns that both are deadly beyond reckoning and that you should consider yourself lucky the gentleman has decided to only play with you. Few are so lucky."

Then his expressive face shut down and we could tell it was an effort for him to hold his emotions in without any of them making it to his face. His eyes, however, gave him away. He was afraid of something more.

"Um," he mumbled reluctantly, fearful eyes beginning to flit around the office as if looking for an exit other than the lone door next to which Ambrose was stationed in all his badass glory, the fact that he did not like Daffyd Llewellyn plain on his forbidding face. The nervousness of our meeting in his shop was back in full measure.

"What?" I snapped irritably, knowing he was still holding something back and I did not want to put up with the panicky ticks he displayed yesterday. What he told us so far was basically nothing. No answers to the questions I asked him at Quills were forthcoming.

"He said you would not like it but that the information you requested cannot be relayed by telephone," he dithered, his hand fluttering in his lap, eyes still looking for escape routes. "He said too many people in his world already do not trust him, so he is therefore monitored by friends and foes alike. As such is the case ... er, he wanted me to inform you that he is going to be in London on business in three days' time. He requests a private dinner with Miss Spencer-Killdare, Lord Spencer, and anyone else they feel is both trustworthy and not connected in any way to certain religious groups. He said you would know what that means."

Eoin and I shared another look and I saw his gaze flick over to Ambrose before asking, "And did Herr Lars suggest a location for this private dinner meeting?"

"Er, he suggested a private dining room at his hotel," Llewellyn replied cautiously. "He told me to assure you that he would bring a personal chef to treat you to as fine a meal as you would get at The Waterside Inn."

"I take it you told him about our little dining incident there the other night?" I asked gratingly.

He shook his head spastically, dislodging his graying comb-over attempt to hide his incipient baldness. "I did not have to, he already knew," his voice going a little shaky again. "That was what had him so discomfited, Miss Spencer-Killdare. That, and I got the feeling he had expected to hear from you much sooner than he apparently did."

I shot a look filled with exasperation at Eoin. "I knew I should have killed him when I had the chances!" I muttered with a half-serious tone. "That chauvinist seems to think I need a man, preferably him, to guard my every move and keep the world at bay! This despite the fact that he helped get rid of the evidence that I am quite capable of guarding myself and facing what the world has to throw at me!"

"Try to keep in mind that he is a product of a less enlightened time and culture," Eoin reminded me with amusement plain on his face and a twinkle in his eyes hinting at suppressed hilarity. Something I seem to provide menfolk everywhere. A glance over my shoulder showed Ambrose hastily wiping a wide grin off his face and the exact same twinkle in his usually hard eyes. Eoin turned back to Llewellyn, inquiring without committing, "And where will Herr Lars be staying while in London?"

"The Gracewood, my lord."

That figured. The Gracewood Lords was an almost obscenely grand hotel with stunning architecture overlooking the Thames River and had stood on that location (or near it) for at least a couple of centuries. Serving as the favorite hotel for members of the House of Lords in times past, it was now one of the best (and most expensive) hotels in London, the place visiting dignitaries, business moguls, celebrities, and sports stars stayed. Rumor was that the staff at The Gracewood could and would get a guest anything they asked for, so long as the guest's pockets were deep enough to afford it.

Besides being a luxury hotel for the wealthy, The Gracewood also had scores of conference rooms, banquet halls, and private dining rooms guests could reserve for their use while in London for their business. At a price, of course.

Eoin looked at me with an inquiringly raised brow and I rolled my eyes with resignation, sighed wearily, and gave a brief nod in answer. His lips twitched as he turned back to Llewellyn. "Call Herr Lars tonight and ask how many will be in his party. Before you begin your objections, recall we were nearly ambushed the other night and our security detail will not allow us to simply walk into a private meeting without knowing what kind of security they will need to muster."

The bookseller's vulturine face turned to look at Ambrose out of the corner of his eye before he swallowed convulsively, nodding reluctantly. "Er, should he ask, however, how big a party would your security people be comfortable with?"

"Ambrose?"

Ambrose grimaced. "I suppose I cannot talk the two of you out of this?" he asked plaintively. He inhaled deeply, slowly letting the breath out. "The Gracewood is public and has fairly good security due to the high-profile guests they regularly host. Those private meeting rooms, however, are just that: private. No security or cameras are in those rooms for the privacy of the guests and their business dealings. As a matter of fact, they even go to the trouble of sweeping those rooms for surveillance devices, much to the displeasure of MI5. That being said, any more than ten in each of our parties becomes a problem in my mind, especially since The Gracewood frowns on weapons for anyone but their security and the security of their highest and most important guests. I know the head of security, so he will let us in armed, but he will not like it."

"So no more than ten?" Eoin repeated for clarity. When Ambrose nodded, Eoin turned to Llewellyn. "Make sure you call Herr Lars and get confirmation of no more than ten in his party, and that includes the chef and himself. If we show up with our ten and there are eleven or twelve already there, Alice is more than likely to even out the numbers herself."

Daffyd Llewellyn turned confused eyes on me, looking my impeccably dressed, slimly built form up and down before practicing his eloquence with, "Huh?"

My eyes went cold and from within my maroon silk button-up shirt covering the white silk blouse I was wearing I drew one of the knives my father gave me before my first trip to London. Looking at Llewellyn, I gave him a shark's smile, all teeth and no humor anywhere on my face.

"Wh-who are you?" he asked timorously once more, eyes wide with fear.

"Someone with whom you should not trifle," was my stiff reply. Something swimming behind his eyes made me add, "And someone about whom it would be unhealthy to tell tales. This business of ours concerns nobody else besides Herr Lars. Should we discover you talking out of school on us, it will be a race to see who gets to carve out that busy tongue of yours, Lars or me."

Eoin was quick to hide his grin and chide me. "Alice, that is no way to treat a guest," he said gaily. "I am quite sure Mr. Llewellyn will be the very soul of discretion."

"Y-yes, yes, soul of discretion," Daffyd babbled. "I-I will keep Herr Lars' and your secrets. I pride myself on keeping my customers' confidentiality. With your leave, my lord, I will leave you and your n-niece to your day. I have things to attend to at-at-at my shop!"

We heard from Mr. Llewellyn once again the next morning at breakfast, this time in the form of a telephone call. It was quite terse and he did not even wait to speak with Eoin. The maid who answered the phone told us, "Some right sod what 'ad a bit o' Wales to 'im says to be lettin' m'lord know 'tis fine, ' whatever that bit o' nonsense is meanin' to ya, m'lord."

That touched off a lively debate between Ambrose and Eoin over whether the other seven people we took could be told the whole truth about who and what we were meeting and the special security concerns that might raise. Ambrose was loath to take men into a situation where they could get blindsided. Eoin countered by saying that they could simply alert the security team that the men in the party they were meeting were all former SAS and CIA covert action specialists who were suspected of using strength- and mood-enhancing drugs. That way if anything went awry, they could blame the training and the drugs for any unusual abilities or strength they might encounter or witness.

Ambrose gave Eoin a long look before asking, "You aren't giving on this one, are you?"

The nobleman gave him an apologetic smile and shook his head. "The fewer who know the truth, the safer they all are. I have surmised from everything I have learned that mere mortals fare badly with too much knowledge about those things that go bump in the night," he told his friend and comrade. "Besides, it would also mean exposing Alice's secrets to people who do not need to know. I hated having to tell the staff here and at the country estate something more than our cover story for her. The men will already wonder why we bring a thirteen year old girl to a business dinner. If things go sideways, they will also see her do things that will need explaining and not telling them lies or truths to begin with will make storytelling later on a lot easier.

"Which reminds me, Alice, please do everything within your abilities to control your temper that evening," he pleaded desperately, eyes boring into mine with the power of his longing for this to go as normally as possible. "We are aiming for an incident-free business dinner with gentlemen from Germany. Most of them will be waiting outside with our security, so only one or two of our people will actually see and hear the dinner conversation. I am actually hoping that if things end cordially, and some of the legends are true, that Herr Lars might be prevailed upon to take care of the memories of those who see or hear too much."

Given that most of the security was really for me, I found it hard to complain. Besides, we were still being followed, semi-unobtrusively, by MI5 agents. They missed my trip to Quills because they were not expecting us to duck out the back of the café. They did not miss Daffyd Llewellyn's visit and he let us known how he felt about that. We got a half-irate, half-panicked call later that afternoon telling us that MI5 and Scotland Yard both had undercover agents drift through his shop that day. Paranoid and unwilling to let those in positions of authority know with whom (or what) he dealt, he was forced to burn or relocate a sizable number of sensitive items thanks to us. He hung up with a request that we (meaning me) bugger off and never darken his door again!

This time I really was going to kill that fanged freak! was the thought that kept coursing through my head.

The night of our private dinner was a Friday and I found myself looking at an elegant stranger staring back at me through a carven, gilt frame. That stranger was dressed in a curve-hugging, floor-length black dress of shimmering silk with matching two-inch heels. Her figure, a shock to me, was lithely gorgeous and would not have been a surprise to a ballerina. Grandmother and Lady Ancen ("call me Elizabeth, my dear," though I would not) descended upon me when they learned of our dinner engagement at The Gracewood. I was subjected to six hours of hairdressers and manicurists and cosmeticians and dressmakers, resulting in the stranger staring gape-mouthed at me from the Victorian-era gilt mirror in my room. The dress aside, my usual hacked-off-just-past-the-shoulders hair style had been trimmed and fussed with until my straight, dyed-blonde locks had wave to them and looked carelessly wind-blown in a glamorously sexy way. My nails had been trimmed, buffed, and painted a glossy, fire engine red and a minimal, though professionally applied, amount of make-up highlighted what the middle-aged English lady at the salon called my "obviously elfin Irish" features. What was normally cute had been turned into something closer to what my cousin Anika would heartily approve of had she seen me.

"I do not bloody fucking believe this," I whispered to the stranger. I even sounded like Eoin's daughter Janine now! Somebody was going to die for this! My vote was for the fanged freak who invited us to dinner at a place that was, I was gravely informed before my involuntary transformation, strictly black tie and evening gown. "I really do not fucking believe this!"

A giggle tittered behind me and I saw a greatly amused Hestia, dressed in what could only be called bodyguard chic (black skirt suit and white shirt with sensible shoes for standing around or running) leaning in the doorway behind the stranger, gazing at me incredulously. "And what, might I ask, is so funny?" I demanded, my ire overflowing.

Hestia smiled in a motherly fashion. "My dear child, if this were one of those American cartoons, you would have steam shooting out of your ears and that beautifully coifed hair would be aflame!" she exclaimed, her giggle escaping her control again. "You look elegant, beautiful, and attractive and yet I see murder in those lovely, agate green eyes of yours."

I decided to ignore the silly flattery and demanded, "Why, pray tell, are you here? You are not to be subjected to this nonsense tonight. You are too close to 'certain religious groups' that Llewellyn mentioned."

She grimaced, her pretty features now sharing my irritation. "I, for my various sins, have been tasked to accompany your grandmother and Lady Ancen to a small gathering for Conservative Party Members of the Lords and their surrogates. Lady Ancen is going in her own right and Eoin has asked his mother to attend for him since he obviously cannot be there tonight," my tutor and trainer explained wryly. "And since Eoin wants to insure I am a good girl and stay away, I get to be part of the security detail for the ladies at an event that will be overflowing with security."

That made me feel a little better. Spiteful and not very much better, but a little.

Hiding weapons, I was finding, took inventiveness and a certain amount of discomfort when not dressing like a middle class American tomboy. The fancier the outfit, the more difficult it became. In such a figure-hugging dress, it was almost impossible, especially if preserving the very expensive outfit was a priority. Since the neckline was practically a turtleneck, sheathing my slender neck in sensuously soft black silk, I was able to snake a small, thin knife down my back, the hilt of which bulged out the material slightly but was hidden by my hair. I also had a small knife and a collapsible asp in the black sequined purse that went with the dress, hidden among the hair brush, wallet, lipstick, mascara, and make-up touch-up kit Lady Ancen bought me with the protest-squashing, "You will need it if you do not wish to look affright when something smears in the course of the evening." I was girly enough not to want to look like a clown if I did smear something. Beyond those three weapons I was never going to get to in a surprise attack, I had only a single slim poniard strapped to my right calf, nearly at my knee. It was a little slow to get to in a hurry, but it was quicker than the others, which were all more for situations where I had time to think about weapon choices rather than a pull-something-and-stick-it-in-someone-or-something situation.

The fact that I even worried about weapons should tell you how much of a disaster I was expecting this to be. Added to that was the thought of how easily we were caught unprepared at The Waterside Inn. Herr Lars Johannes Dieter Magnus seemed to like me and not want to see me dead, but I was basing that on his actions and words of a year ago.

After Hestia left me with an encouraging smile, I looked the stranger in the face and told her, "You are dithering!"

She made a face back at me, responding, "Arrgh! I know, I know, I know!" I grabbed the purse (gods above and below, a bloody purse!) and stalked out of my room to go find Eoin.

That Eoin was handsome was a given. However, when he actually tried ... damn! He looked the part of an international diplomat in the finely tailored tuxedo and mirror-finish black shoes. I found him in his office with a similarly dressed, though somehow sinister-looking, Ambrose. They each had a glass in their hands, though I knew from experience that Ambrose's was straight Coke and Eoin was sipping an amber whiskey. Paul, almost overlooked among the dapper and dangerous pair, was handsome in his tux but somehow looked as uncomfortable as I felt simply standing by the desk, hands stuffed in his pockets. All of them turned similar looks on me as I entered. Part surprised, part proud, and part incredulous, the looks were both flattering and insulting at the same time and amused the hell out of me for some reason. Added to the tension I was already feeling, giggle fits ensued.

The three males frowned in unison. "What is so funny?" the chorus of deep voices demanded with mock severity.

Flapping my hands at them uselessly, I let the giggles have their way with me, well aware that they were now the amused ones. When the first tear streaked down my face, I knew I would have to use that kit Lady Ancen got me sooner than she could have imagined. I grabbed a tissue and dabbed my face as I found control once more. My mascara and eye-liner had run and my cheeks would need to be re-blushed, but other than that, I was ready to go.

"Sorry," I said as I fixed my war paint, "it's the stress. I guess I am not really looking forward to this and if I did not think I needed the information Lars has, I would be all for telling the arrogant, fanged freak to go jog in Hyde Park at noon."

Eoin's brow rose at that. "Something I should know about before we go?"

I snapped the kit closed with an irritated click. "I was more than a little unhappy at the changes puberty brought on, and is still bringing on, especially the inconvenient ones," I growled, eyes avoiding all three males. "Lars, to the contrary, seems to want to speed them up. I get the uncomfortable feeling he would really like this to be a private dinner for two, not twenty."

I looked up to see shock on Paul's and Eoin's faces and amusement on Ambrose's. "Or at least that was the kind of thing he intimated to me in the past," I added blandly, a smile tugging at my painted lips.

Eoin shook himself, suddenly frowning, and had Ambrose run through the security details one more time before we all trooped out to the waiting Rolls Royce limousine. The drive from the Chelsea townhouse to The Gracewood Lords was a quick one. It was late, almost nine-thirty at night and the sun had set not too long ago, the horizon still glowing a little from the sleeping star. Eoin, Ambrose, Paul, and I rode in the limo and the other six security men who would go in with us were split between two black Land Rovers. I learned after our scare at The Waterside Inn that those vehicles were used not only for their ruggedness and occupancy capacity but because it was real easy to hide after-market upgrades like hidden weapons and survival gear caches and structural redundancies like reinforced roof, doors, and undercarriage. Six of the men in the Rovers would come in with us while the driver of each plus their "navigators" would remain behind as a sort of "get us the fuck out of here!" back-up. The fact that any of us thought we would need back-up at The Gracewood showed that paranoia reigned supreme! But my motto has always been, "Just because you are paranoid does not mean they aren't out to get you!" And given my life to that point, I think I needed a new word for it besides "paranoia" because they have always been out to get me and paranoia seems to imply an unreasonableness to it all.

The Gracewood Lords, as I believe I mentioned, is lavishly beautiful. The façade is largely Italian marble with granite, limestone, and fieldstone accents. The scores of windows fronting the edifice were all elaborately decorated with carven statuary, gargoyles mostly but dragons, knights, faeries, and bowmen could also be found if you looked for them. A columned portico and the overhanging, glass encased dining deck in the hotel's restaurant formed a sort of carport beneath which those arriving drove up to the red carpeted walk leading to the four stairs ascending to the large double doors. Stationed at either side of the silver-accented, golden double doors were black, silver, and gold liveried doormen. Valets greeted each vehicle to arrive, ushering out the guests with grand ceremony. A maitre d' greeted each guest and arranged for their baggage to be taken inside by a small legion of bellhops zipping to and fro around the silver-haired gentleman, all of them liveried as well.

When our small convoy drove up to the carport, our security guys jumped out before anyone could open their doors for them, making them all pause for a second, half in fright, half in shocked surprise. When they saw nobody had jumped out of the limo, a braver valet cautiously approached and opened the door. Eoin stepped out and reached a hand out for me. Left foot first so that my knife would not show, I stepped out next to Eoin, who kept my hand and gallantly wrapped it around his arm. We headed for the doors at a stately pace without making sure Paul and Ambrose were following, ignoring the maitre d' as we passed.

The doormen snapped to attention and bowed their heads to us even as they opened the doors for us. Once inside, I saw that the same lavish attention to detail paid to the outside was use in here, too. It was all marble flooring and columns, glowing aged hardwoods, satin hangings and accents that told you that The Gracewood Lords had been here long enough to not care how old it was. It was historically elegant and screamed wealth. Despite being made largely out of stone, The Gracewood had a warm, comfy atmosphere and an older gentleman in a silk suit approached Eoin as we made our way across the black, silver, and gold rug covering much of the lobby floor.

"My Lord Spencer, we are honored to have you this evening. I am Deputy Manager Henry Johnson," he gushed appropriately, though I was on the look-out for the signs I missed at The Waterside Inn. He had a very stiff upper lip, English butler vibe about him and his manner was as stiff as his English accent. "I seem to have been kept out of the information loop concerning your evening with us. How may The Gracewood Lords serve you this evening?"

Eoin smiled at the man, stopping. "This is my niece, Alice Spencer-Killdare, and my associates Ambrose Devlin and Paul MacDonald, Henry," he said by way of introduction. The man bowed his head gravely to us before turning his eyes back to Eoin. "We are to meet a business associate from West Germany for a private dinner this evening. His name is Herr Lars Magnus."

"Ah yes, Herr Lars did indeed reserve one of the private dining rooms and kitchen for this evening," Henry said, eyes registering the connection. "If you would follow me, Mr. Magnus and his party have already arrived in the dining room and his chef began preparing your meal about an hour ago, so he should be ready to serve you soon."

The deputy manager led us across the lobby and into a recessed doorway that I had not seen from the front door. The door led down a long, dimly lit hall to another set of silver-accented gold doors. Guarding those doors were two large men in black suits who should have had neon "Badass" signs flashing above them.

"This is Lord Spencer and his party," Mr. Johnson told them slowly, as if they did not speak English well. "Mr. Magnus has been awaiting their arrival."

The two men looked at each other and were about to turn and open the doors when they flew open, almost braining the two of them. Silhouetted in the doorway was a familiar form dressed in a white tuxedo with a black silk shirt and tie and mirror-shined, black leather shoes. His pale face split into a warm smile when he saw me and I slid my arm out of Eoin's, just in case I needed it.

"Ah, Eoin, my friend! Come, and bring the lovely Alice and your friends," Lars said grandly, his smooth voice washing out into the hallway nearly accent-free. He shook Henry's hand, the sound of folded money changing hands audible. "And thank you for bringing my guests, Henry."

Lars ushered us all, his guards included, into the dining room and firmly closed and locked the double doors. Turning, he watched us settle in to the usual jockeying that happens when two groups of armed men face off. Then those sapphire blue eyes settled on my agate green eyes and he grinned.

"If I had known it would be a year before I heard from you, Ale-ah, Alice, I would have had my wit-ah, techie put a tracker on that card I gave you," he said heartily, waving his men to stand down. He glanced at our security men and then Ambrose and Paul. "Ah, the formidable Ambrose Devlin. The honor is mine at this meeting. And my associates in Australia have impressive things to say about you, too, Mr. MacDonald.

"And Lord Spencer, so nice to have the pleasure of your company again. It has been far too long. Shall we dispense with the guards and sit?" he asked of Eoin, a cocky black brow raised inquiringly. "My chef tells me the first course will be ready when we are and that the dinner is on schedule."

Eoin looked at the other men in the room with his own cocked brow. "No introductions on your side of the room, Herr Lars?"

The vampire smiled and shook his head. "Alas, my dinner companion is female and has chosen to be fashionably late. While I could do without her company, I was forced to bring her. She is, how would you say, my keeper? My master in West Berlin does not allow me out of the country any more without someone to make sure I do not get into trouble," he said with aplomb. "These others are just here to insure our safety until we part company."

I did a quick head count and there were only seven guards with Lars, the chef made his party nine. I frowned. "Who, or should I say what, is your dinner companion?" I demanded suspiciously.

His smile turned into a grin. "I am glad to see that they may try to cram you into the mold of a silly English lady but you are still the tough little warrior I first met," he deflected happily, his eyes much more serious than the grin and tone indicated. "Lorelei is one of my kin, though somewhat younger than myself. She has the ear of my master and therefore his trust. However, she also owes me and so she will keep our little visit to herself unless she feels I am threatening him. And nothing we do this evening will threaten him. In fact, I may be rewarded if this all goes the way I hope. Since what is coming is inevitable, I am simply trying to steer things so that we might all come out of this with advantages for the future. So come, my little Kämpfer, sit. Let the guards go about their duties so that we might enjoy some small part of this evening before we must speak of business."