I shuddered in disgust as Casimir guided us out onto the terrace that wrapped around the back of the manor. He slowed when we reached an empty corner of the veranda.
“What the fuck was that?” I demanded.
“He deserved worse than I gave him,” Casimir spat. His chest continued to rise and fall, more from anger than exertion.
His eyes found mine, dipping to my wrist where Monty had grabbed me. I’d probably have a few bruises.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I bit out. “Monty’s a bastard, but you didn’t need to break his finger to prove a point.”
Casimir smiled crookedly at that, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.
“Like I said, he deserved worse. If you’d like, I’d be happy to go back inside and break the rest of his useless fingers.”
“No, no,” I said quickly. “We’ve had enough barbarism for one evening.”
“I might break them anyway,” he muttered.
Already, I felt exhausted, and the clock hadn’t even struck midnight. To change the subject, I asked, “Are you going to tell me what’s so special about this necklace you stole?”
As he reached into his pocket to retrieve the velvet box, a group of girls came stumbling onto the veranda. One of them was eyeing Casimir with interest.
“Not here,” he replied in a clipped tone. “Let’s find somewhere more private to talk.”
17
After snatching a glass of blood-red wine from a tray, I followed Casimir out of the veranda, down a narrow passageway that led to a cozy mahogany study. The room was unfortunately already occupied by a group of stoned-looking Ouverham boys sharing a pipe filled with some strong-smelling herb.
“Out,” Casimir commanded as soon as we entered.
All five of them froze, gazes fixed warily on Casimir, taking in his severe expression, the promise of violence brewing just beneath the surface. Without further prompting, they gathered up their paraphernalia and dispersed with mumbled apologies. I fought the smile that tugged at the corners of my mouth and plopped down onto a large tan settee positioned directly before a small library replete with beautifully bound leather books. Beneath the settee lay a soft, snowy-white rug so fine that I wondered grimly about the poor beast whose life was sacrificed in exchange for its lovely pelt.
“You’re in a mood,” I observed.
The cloying scent of smoke from the pipe still lingered in the air between us. Casimir remained standing, glowering around the study.
“Are you still moping about Monty?” I asked, annoyed. If anyone should be angry about Monty, it was me.
His expression was stony. “What did he say to you?”
“Nothing,” I replied too quickly.
“You can’t lie to me, Farrow,” he warned. “I saw the look on your face.”
I averted my gaze, refusing to give him the chance to apprehend the truth. Monty’s taunting words still pounded like a relentless hammer against my skull. But Casimir didn’t push; he just waited with that infuriatingly patient expression.
I set my untouched glass of wine on the table and sighed. “Fine! He invited me to come up to his estate this summer. He wanted me to go sailing on his stupid yacht.”
Casimir waited for the rest, his body still.
I hesitated. “He… he said that no one would have to know. I—” My throat constricted, cutting off the rest of the sentence, but the expression on Casimir’s face told me he understood the gist. Face flaming with shame, I turned away.
You’ll open your legs for Sinclair, but not for me?
It could be our little secret.
Casimir walked over to the desk and procured a half-empty bottle of expensive-looking scotch from a drawer. He poured two generous measures of the amber liquid and handed one to me. I tossed it back, shuddering at the bitter taste.