Page 28 of Pride, Prejudice, & Pretense

"Are you a music fan, Fanny?"

"Yes, sure. Why?"

"You might remember that the towers are on the cover of Wilco'sYankee Hotel Foxtrotalbum."

Lizzy did remember. That was why the towers looked familiar, although she had not been able to account for her feeling that she had some not-in-person memory of them. "Are you a Wilco fan?"

He shrugged. "I've listened, mostly on flights. I don't know if I'm a fan of any band. I haven't had much time to invest in music. Lady Catherine believes it makes me a philistine. What about you?"

"I like Wilco, but they aren't my everyday listening. A little dark and heavy. But I listen to music as much as I can. It helps me stop chasing thoughts around, trying to organize them."

"Ah, a librarian's occupational psychosis, I suppose." He grinned and Lizzy laughed.

"I suppose."Or an agent's.

He chuckled at her and then steered the boat around in lazy circles, staying more or less in the same place and taking long looks up at the towers.

Lizzy looked at them but also snuck a glance at the marina level. She spotted Charlie in the distance, standing back among the shadows there. Darcy would likely be unhappy about the boat, but she had correctly assessed that there wasn't much danger. It was too public, and Wickham had definite plans forher. She was surer of that now than before he picked her up, and she had been sure then. She could satisfy none of those plans as he would want if she were dead—or injured.

She tightened her jacket around her.

***

Rook was driving again, and they were on their way to the second architectural site. Wickham had not indicated a destination, merely giving the driver another wave of the hand. After a slow blink, Rook started in that direction.

"Where are we going?"

"A change of pace. Nothing quite so massive and overwhelming, something more…actual size."

"Oh, good. That was impressive but a bit much. Like housing in Valhalla."

He laughed softly. "You're a funny woman, Fanny. I do like a sense of humor. It helps a person cope."

Lizzy agreed. Rook drove on for about twenty-five minutes and turned into a residential neighborhood. Wickham seemed happy enough to sit mostly in silence, looking out the window and occasionally smiling at Lizzy. He made some small talk about the weather and assured her that, although the temperature was dropping, they would be inside for most of the next stop, warm.

She used the silence to consider Wickham after more extended exposure. He was attractive and keenly intelligent. Except for her initial walk to the car, he had remained in control of himself, his expressions, the placement and movement of his gaze. She could feel his desire for her intensifying, but he doled it out slowly, showing it in measured stages, in the one lingering touch, and in his smiles and compliments.

He reminded her of a boy she had dated in high school, a fabledbad boy.In hindsight, he hadn't been all thatbad.Mainly, he had been reckless, a street racer who smoked unfiltered Camels, and his grades were deliberately failing. Lizzy liked that he was her mother's aversion; he made Mrs. Bennet crazy. In retrospect, she had likedthatmore than she likedhim,to be honest. He had been stereotypically rebellious, a latter-day James Dean, gripped by a need to answer to norms other than those of parents and school.

Wickham was no teenage rebel, no bad boy in that sense. He was certainly a man fully grown. For all his beauty and intellect (and he wassmart), his almost unfailingly careful handling of himself and her, there was a looming threat in him, an internal thundercloud, a slow-gathering, dark storm. He was exciting and ominous all at once, the two interpenetrating. His charm was laced with menace. It was present, coercive, and actively operating.Deadly allure. He combined an overshadowing strangeness with low-key but bright gallantry. Both at the party and at Marina City, Lizzy had not missed noticing that every woman's head turned, posture shifted slightly, as Wickham passed.

She tried again to summon up the energy she needed to contend with him. He was more challenging than any of her previous marks, and she was finding it hard to regain the pitch of concentration she had managed at the party. Regaining it was crucial. Wickham was aware,intenselyaware of her, attending to every expression, gesture, and word. Let one be faulty, and he would be done with her; the mission would fail. If she lost her hold on him, she would lose their chance of discovering some information that could ultimately dismantle the Wicker Man.

The next stop on the tour turned out to be the Robie House.

"...Frank Lloyd Wright," Wickham was saying, "not only designed the house, but he created the interiors and selectedthe furniture, lighting, and other elements. It's Wright all over." Just as he had earlier in the day, he rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. "I've always wanted to get inside. Today, although it was closed for some repairs, we will. Lady Catherine made a call."

Rook stopped the car and came around to open the door. As Lizzy got out after Wickham, taking Wickham's proffered hand, she noticed a cavalry-blue Camry parking far down the block.

Wickham led her to the house. "It's Prairie School. See the long, box-like sections that meet in the middle? Wright was echoing a midwestern landscape, the strong exterior horizontal lines. The roof is cantilever and the wood details inside are legendary. And look at those long bands of windows!"

A nicely dressed woman in her late fifties or early sixties met them at the door, checking her clipboard. "Mr. Wickham?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yes. Lady Catherine called."

"Yes, please come inside. I'm busy with other things, but I'll be around if you have questions. Otherwise, feel free to look around.”

They walked slowly through the house, Wickham acting as eager, engaged guide. Lizzy admired the house. The art glass windows particularly captivated her, their subtle filtration of light that somehow blended the external world of the city with the internal world of the house. It was all impressive.

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