Page 122 of Better Love Next Time
After accepting a few more greetings and nods, Anthony leaned in. “We can hardly see the chancel from here.”
“Exactly.”
“You don’t like children?”
A complete sham his friend was. Anthony disliked children to the point he had considered it an insult to be referred to as a child when he had been a child.
Miss Dixley in her best grey gown and cap welcomed the audience, provided a brief introduction of the afternoon’s events, and thanked everyone for their support.
“Especially,” she said, “Mr. and Mrs. Andrew St. Clair. Without their gracious support we would not have the pleasure of hearing our children’s voices raised in joyous celebration of the coming of our Lord and Savior.”
The singing, surprisingly in tune, began with a somber rendition ofHark the Herald Angels Sing. Julian noted it on the program to occupy his time as he did if he was ever unlucky to attend the theater or opera without suitable distractions. An obsession, wherein he looked at the program more than the stage, ticking off each act or song, and counting down to the end.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anthony raise his quizzing glass and then slant into Julian’s shoulder. “Switch places with me.”
Julian obliged. It made no difference that he was now staring at the back of a woman’s flowered hat. He returned to the program and counted eight more songs remaining.
“Who is she?” Anthony asked. “The woman singing.”
“Miss Dixley. A pious prig. Avoid her at all costs.”
“I know her.”
Julian shook his head. “No you don’t.” If he recalled, the final song of the pageant was longer than the rest.
“I do know her,” Anthony said. “I never forget a voice.” Julian turned in time to see Anthony frown. “That woman is a pious prig if I’ve got a small cock.”
“Christ. We’re in a church,” Julian said under his breath. But Anthony hadn’t heard him. He’d come off the back of the pew and was staring hard at Dixley. “Are you serious? How do you know her?”
“She tried to kill me.”
“What?!” Fortunately, Julian’s outburst was in the midst of a crescendo.
“Remember the red-headed temptress? The one Caxton sent to the club to reclaim his heraldic flag?”
“The one who almost unmanned you and Fitzwilliam?”
“Mm-hmm. After an astonishing feat of fellatio, I’ll add.” Anthony dropped his quizzing glass, catching it by its ribbon and tucking it to his waistcoat. “Whatever her name, she’s dangerous. Rumor has it she took out Sully Camden after he killed that revenue officer, Captain Watkins.”
This was too ridiculous to entertain. But Julian entertained. “She’s an assassin?”
“The question is, why is she here?”
“She was living in my home up until ten days ago.”
“And you’re still alive,” Anthony said, “so she must be spying.”
Julian squinted down the nave to the sanctuary steps where Dixley conducted the children. Her prayer book dangled from her waist. “This is a joke, isn’t it? You’re good.”
“Ask Fitzwilliam. He remembers her.”
Julian shoved from the pew. Shrugging into his greatcoat, he slipped outside to the portico and went back to reviewing theprogram. Seven more songs. Just seven and then he’d be free to leave. Ah yes, free to host a family Christmas party that he had no business hosting. The only parties he had ever managed involved high stakes and high-flyers.
Julian slapped the program to his thigh. Dixley a spy? An assassin?
Anthony slid out the door with a cigar and lit it on a votive he’d stolen from within the church. “If your Miss Dixley wouldn’t have tried to take Fitzwilliam and me on together, she would have been successful in her lethal endeavor. A case of professional hubris, I think.”
“Or efficiency,” Julian said. Yes, he could almost see Althea Dixley as an assassin. It was in that direct stare of hers.
