There's No Place Like Rhodes (Book 2)

Arcadia for Experts

Still half asleep, Arthur stretched across the bed, seeking Charlotte for comfort. Last night, her hair and skin had still smelled of home: of a smoky fireplace, the surrounding wilderness and the fragrant spring flowers she'd been bringing in the house since they'd begun their bloom. All of which reassured him that this displacement in Chicago wasn't nothing permanent.

Except now, when he reached over to pull her against him, she weren't there. He opened his eyes and rubbed them to clear the bleariness. He was alone in bed and, by the stillness in the air, the rest of the room.

Damn it. He wished she'd stop disappearing like that.

Arthur rolled on his back, staring at the ceiling and fighting the urge to leap out of bed in a panic. He shouldn't have a reason to worry. They were staying in a home she'd grown up in. She'd said she would be going down early to breakfast with her mother. She couldn't get into much trouble with any of that.

He covered his eyes with an arm and tried to fall back to sleep, but it weren't taking. Logic did nothing to dispel his instinct. He didn't have a good feeling for it and gave up on sleep.

Sneaking rays of light slipped into the darkened room from the sides of the covered window. He got out of bed and opened the drapes, only to be struck in the face by the blinding sun.

"Jesus."

Arthur winced, turning his face from the brightness. When his eyesight cleared from the glare, he saw the street below and immediately noticed how it was too alive to be early morning. He checked the clock on the mantel above the fireplace and couldn't believe the little hand's placement after the one.

How the hell had he slept through the whole morning and into the afternoon?

Arthur went into action, shoving on trousers and a shirt. He was lifting one suspender over his shoulder when he remembered today was the one day he was supposed be mindful of what he wore. He'd need to put on the new outfit Charlotte and Karen had insisted he bring for the day of the wedding party.

Arthur undid the buttons he'd already finished and slipped off the rest of his preferred clothing. He dug in the wardrobe for the ensemble he was supposed to don. He'd chosen a black suit and white tie, which had been the least offensive of the options he'd been given.

The last thing Arthur reached for was his black leather hat, but he hesitated a moment, hand hovering over it. It would make him stand out among the other guests, surely, but he'd feel more in his skin with it on. With a decisive grunt, he snatched it from the dresser and planted it firmly on his head.

Dressed to the nines now, he only felt a fool instead of looking it too as he traipsed through the house like he belonged.

Holy shit, Karen had commented last night about everything in the home, from the artwork on the walls to the glittering chandeliers hanging overhead and the finely threaded rugs covering every floor. Her assessment ain't been wrong yet.

Arthur weren't ignorant of how the wealthy lived. He'd been in rich homes, not always by invite. But, besides Bronte's and the mayor's mansions, the rest of them had been country homes. Some of them just as large, sure, but in the Dorsch house, the money flaunting was more obvious. He'd bet even the servants here had more to their names than him.

When he got downstairs, it seemed the party had started without him. Folk were standing around chatting. Clark was playing host by himself, an army of crisply garbed servants at his back.

"The festivities are taking place on the lawn," Clark informed everyone. "Follow the hall to the patio. Food and drinks will be served all day at your pleasure. This evening shall be reserved for music and dance."