The Numbered Corpses (Elysium #4)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Booker's muscles went stiff the moment Frieda's eyes met his. Trinket instinctively took his hand and gave it a squeeze. He gripped it tightly and let out a short breath before plastering on a smile.

"Frieda," he said. "My apologies. It slipped my mind that you were coming over this morning."

With a ridiculously exaggerated pout, the beautiful woman crossed her arms over her chest. "If I were anyone else, I'd worry that I'm easily forgotten." Her gaze traveled to Trinket, expression growing dark. "But I'm guessing you were just distracted by something unimportant."

"My work is not unimportant, Frieda. We've discussed this before," Booker said.

She turned her attention back to him, the smile returned to her lips. "Yes, well, I forgive you for this little oversight. Anyhow, I believe we have lots of catching up to do."

Without waiting for an invitation, she sauntered into the house, lazily swinging a dark red parasol that perfectly matched her plaid walking dress. She looked about the foyer, admiring every wall hanging and piece of furniture.

"You've done well for yourself, Booker," she said as she stopped in front of a gold-plated mirror. She took a moment to adjust her riding hat, brushing her petite fingers along the red and black feathers and fluffing the tulle that hung down her back. "Putting Mr. Patterson's fortune to good use, I see."

Booker cleared his throat. "Could I perhaps persuade you to stay for breakfast?" he asked stiffly, as though he were hoping the answer would be "no."

That coy smile graced Frieda's red lips once more as she glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, now Booker, you know I'm the one who likes to do the persuading. But I suppose just this once I'll let you do the honor."

Again, not bothering to allow either Trinket or Booker to show her inside, she made her way into the parlour and disappeared through the dining-room door. Trinket turned to Booker, eyes wide. He held his hands out in a helpless shrug before letting out a sigh and following after Frieda. Biting her lip, Trinket reluctantly did the same, praying no one would end up poisoned or maimed during this meal.

Trinket nearly crashed into Booker as he stopped short in the doorway.

"Darling, if you're going to attempt to kill me, you might want to try a more creative method," came Frieda's voice from inside the dining room.

Trinket peeked over Booker's shoulder and took a sharp breath. There stood Daphne, staring menacingly at Frieda, kitchen knife in hand.

Frieda gave a throaty laugh and proceeded into the room, seeming unconcerned with Daphne's threat. "My, my, Booker, you have some very brazen help. My maids would never get away with this sort of behavior." She turned to Daphne and flashed a condescending smile. "Though I must say, I admire your efforts."

Hurrying to Daphne's side, Booker grabbed her wrist and gently extricated the knife from her grip. "Daphne is more a friend than a servant. And to be fair, you did drug her the last time you were here, so I think her reaction is warranted."

With a scoff and a shrug, Frieda pulled out a chair and gracefully adjusted her skirts to sit. "Why are people so touchy about being drugged? It's really not the worst thing that could happen."

Trinket narrowed her eyes at the woman and then met Booker's gaze. He flashed her an apologetic smile and turned his attention to Daphne. "My dear, we'll be having an extra guest this morning. I hope it's not too much trouble."

Giving him a withering glare, Daphne snatched her wrist from his hand and stormed through the kitchen door. Booker turned to Trinket, a desperate plea for help written all over his face. Pinching her lips together, she quickly glanced at Frieda. She was busy tracing the intricate patterns of the lace tablecloth. With one last look at Booker, Trinket released a long breath and hurried into the kitchen.