CHAPTER TEN
The sound of the orchestra grew loud as Fraser and Ilsa Lund exited the long hall and entered the foyer. He glanced longingly at the mens room as they passed. He didn't need to use it, but it was the one place where Mrs. Harrington couldn't follow. He dismissed the thought as unworthy of a Mountie.
Ilsa stopped short of the ballroom entrance. She extended her hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Constable."
He squeezed her hand, gently. "The pleasure was mine, Miss Lund," he said, his customary reserve in place. He left her there and stepped into the ballroom. As he looked about for Ray, he heard a loud voice behind him.
"Ilsa!" a man cried. "Where have you been!" He slurred the words. Fraser saw it was the blond German, Emil Strasser. "Why were you with the Mountie?!" He grabbed her arm. She resisted his pull and he tightened his grip, digging his fingers into her flesh.
"Emil!" she gasped. "You're hurting me!" She was struggling in earnest as he pulled her toward him.
"Tell me!"
Then, Fraser was there. He grasped Strasser's right elbow firmly, exerting pressure on the ulnar nerve until he swore and released Ilsa. As she stumbled backward, Fraser grabbed her with his free hand, steadying her before she fell. Now, Fraser with both hands full, was wide open. Strasser drew his left arm back. Before he could take the swing, Ray yanked the collar of his dinner jacket down from behind, pinioning his arms. He pulled the trapped elbows backward until the inebriated man stopped struggling.
"Schweinhund," he snarled, over his shoulder. "Let me go!"
"Play nice," Ray said into his ear as he frog-marched him to the window alcove down the hall. Fraser and Ilsa followed. So far, no other guests had seen the altercation, though a waiter with a tray of champagne glasses gave them a curious glance and a wide berth.
"Are you alright, Miss Lund?" Fraser asked.
"Yes," she said, rubbing her arm. Strasser struggled, cursing in German. Ray held him easily, looking inquiringly at Fraser and appreciatively at Ilsa.
"Stop, Emil! You embarrass yourself!" she snapped. Strasser froze, but fixed Fraser with a malevolent glare.
"Please, release him," she asked Ray. He hesitated, then let go.
Strasser whirled, hitching his jacket in place. He trembled with outrage, then let loose a torrent of German. Ray didn't understand the language, but he got the drift. The woman responded in the same tongue, clearly trying to calm him down. It was starting to get loud. At that moment, two men rushed up.
"Emil, what is all this fuss? Emil?" the taller one said. His tone was placating, his accent French. Ray remembered the crier's announcement. Renault of the French Consulate. A handsome, debonair man a few years older than Ray. And his companion was the former paramour of Inspector Thatcher and current inhabitant of a very stylish tuxedo, Miguel Ugarte.
"The Mountie was with Ilsa!" Strasser spluttered.
"Emil, my friend!" Renault said, smiling all around. "This is a social occasion and everyone is having such a good time. Let us be pleasant." Ray found himself returning his smile, in spite of the circumstances.
Ugarte, too, tried to soothe him. "Yes, Emil. Please. Do not make the scene." Ray still wanted to ask where he bought his tux, but supposed that now was not the time.
But Strasser would not be soothed. "But, Miguel," he whined. "He was with Ilsa!"
Renault gripped Strasser's shoulder with his left hand, like a big brother might with a younger sibling, all the while smiling that smile. "Emil, please." He squeezed. Hard. Strasser shut up. Ray noted the long angry-looking scratch on the back of Renault's hand. He glanced at Fraser and saw that he saw it too.
"I am sorry, Ilsa, gentlemen. He is a little worse for the drink," Ugarte said. Ray was peering at the muscular man with interest, in light of Thatcher's revelation. Now, that he was up close, he could see the birthmark for himself. Ugarte, noticing his scrutiny, raised a supercilious eyebrow.
"Nice jacket," Ray said, lamely.
Renault extended his hand to Fraser. "Louis Renault, at your service." It seemed to Ray that he held on to Fraser's hand a good deal longer than was usual, before finally releasing it. From the carefully neutral look on his face, it seemed Benny thought so, too. What the hell, the guy was French. At least, he hadn't kissed him on both cheeks.
"Benton Fraser," he replied, his voice as bland as his expression.
His eyes twinkled. "But, of course I know your name! I congratulate you, m'sieu. One hears a great deal about Benton Fraser in Chicago."
"Uh ... thank you," he stammered. "But, the media exaggerated – "
In the exchange of pleasantries, nobody had been paying attention to the drunk. Without warning, Strasser darted around Renault and lunged. He grabbed the red tunic in his fists, slamming Fraser against the wall. "Why were you with her?! Tell me!" he snarled in Fraser's face, his breath reeking of alcohol.
"Emil!" Ilsa cried, aghast.
As Ray and Ugarte pulled him off, Renault slapped him hard. Once. Twice. Strasser, shocked, stared at him, then stopped struggling. Ray glanced at Fraser. He was upright, straightening his tunic. He gave Ray a reassuring nod. Ray let go of the German.
"Constable." Ilsa looked at him with pleading eyes. "He has not been well."
Ray had to agree with her there. Strasser looked sick, empty. Like a deflated balloon. But, he took a deep breath, stood straighter, and let it out. He raised his head.
"Your pardon, sir," he said to Fraser, just barely meeting his eyes.
"Accepted, sir," he replied, with dignity.
"Ah, there," Renault said, soothingly. "It is all over. Peace is once again restored to the Diplomacy Ball." He laid the same hand he had slapped him with on Strasser's shoulder. "Je suis desolee, mon ami," he said, gently. Strasser nodded and shifted his feet.
"Miguel? I think perhaps Emil needs a bit of fresh air." On cue, Ugarte led the now pliant Strasser down the hall. Ugarte kept a hand on his arm, but it looked to Ray like all the wind had gone out of Strasser's sails.
He turned back as Renault said, "Thank you, gentlemen." He grimaced. "Emil has not been himself, lately. Has he, Ilsa?" She nodded her agreement as she rubbed her arm. "You understand, of course," he said to Ray, one man of the world to another, as he brought an imaginary cup to his lips and tossed it back.
"Hey, no problem." Ray smiled, ruefully. "Been there myself." The guy was an adroit diplomat, transmuting Ray's anger at a drunken lout to philosophical empathy for the human condition. All in the space of five seconds.
Renault turned the thousand-watt smile on Fraser. "Perhaps, we can continue our conversation at another time and another place, m'sieu. I must see to my friend just now."
"Uh ... y-yes, of course."
Renault bowed politely, and turned to follow Ugarte and Strasser. As he passed Fraser, he laid a hand on his arm and leaned in. "I will call you. Dinner next week." It was not a question. Before Fraser could respond, Renault was gone.
Ray wondered if his naive friend had recognized that invitation for what it really was or whether they'd have to have a talk about when the birds and the bees played for the other team. But, his pink ears revealed that Benny wasn't entirely clueless. Ray gave him a pitying glance. Full frontal assault by Tuppy Harrington, and now, Louis Renault advancing from the rear.
In the quiet that followed his departure, Ilsa said, "I too apologize for Emil. Louis is correct. He has not been himself, lately." To Ray, she added, "Thank you, sir, for your assistance."
Fraser, color still high, said, "Miss Ilsa Lund, allow me to introduce Ray Vecchio. A guest of my Consulate." He turned to Ray. "Miss Lund is with the Swedish Consulate."
She extended her hand. Ray brought it to his lips. He couldn't let her think the French had cornered the market on suave.
"My pleasure, Miss Lund," he said, smoothly.
She was charmed by his courtly gesture and reckless grin. "Vecchio? Like the Venetian bridge?"
Ray said, surprised, "The Pont Vecchio, yeah. My family is originally from Venice." He added, "But, I was born here. In Chicago."
"The City of the Big Shoulders," she said, warmly, "meets the City of Canals. Beautiful places, both."
Ray nodded. "Have you been?"
"Oh, yes. I lived in Venice when I was a child. And you?"
He shook his head. "Someday."
"What about you, Constable?"
Ray snorted. He couldn't help it. Benny had never been south of the 49th Parallel until he'd come to Chicago last year.
"Not outside of a book, Miss Lund," Fraser said, with a sour glance at Ray.
She smiled at them. "You must go. There is so much that is beautiful in the Old World," she said. "But," she said, looking past Ray to where Emil and friends were huddled in the lobby, "at this moment, I must confess that I prefer the New."
Ray jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Friend of yours?" he asked, wryly.
She nodded. "And my colleague," she replied. "We served on many diplomatic missions." She made a face. "But, I am afraid you will have the wrong impression of Emil. Despite appearances, he is quite a skilled diplomat. The drinking ... it started three months ago." She shook her head, sadly. "Things have been ... difficult ... for him."
Ray looked askance, but politely kept his skepticism to himself. He frowned as he saw movement behind Fraser. "Heads up, Benny. On your six," he muttered, just as the orchestra launched into a new song. A polka.
Fraser froze. Only his eyes moved, trying to see behind him without moving his head.
"There you are, Benton!" Tuppy Harrington gushed over his shoulder. "I've been looking all over for you!"
Before Fraser could respond, Ray stepped up. "Wow! Is this my lucky night!"
Tuppy looked at him as if he had materialized out of thin air. Ray couldn't tell if she was surprised that Fraser wasn't alone, as she always looked surprised. But, he imagined she had tunnel vision where the Mountie was concerned.
"Oh?" she said, cooly. "How so, sir?"
Ray grinned. "Miss Lund here had just accepted Fraser's invitation for the next dance. Isn't that right, Miss Lund?"
Without skipping a beat, Ilsa said, "Yes. Shall we, Constable?" She linked her arm with Fraser's. He hesitated, looking like a deer in the headlights.
Tuppy's eyes narrowed, looking suspiciously between them. Ray laid on the charm. "That leaves one lovely lady available. As I said, my lucky night." He bowed, unctuously. "May I have the honor, Mrs. Harrington?"
It worked. "Well, yes, I suppose. Of course, Mr ...?" she said, flattered.
"Vecchio. Like the bridge." He offered her his arm. She took it and they walked to the dance floor. Ray glanced over his shoulder to see an expression of infinite gratitude on Fraser's face and sympathetic amusement on Ilsa Lund's. He grinned. An attractive lady with a sense of humor, and quick on the uptake. His favorite kind.
Fraser was apologetic. "Miss Lund, you don't have to – "
She patted his arm. "We do not want to make a liar out of your friend, now. Do we?"
"No," he said, gratefully. They stepped to the dance floor. He silently counted ana one- ana two - ana three, then took her in his arms and whirled her out on to the floor. The polka was the liveliest dance of the evening and he found little breath or opportunity to carry on conversation. She was a wonderful partner and he found himself relaxing into the music for the first time this evening. Especially, since he didn't have to fight to keep her from grinding herself against him. When the music ended, they found themselves in the center of the dance floor, a bit breathless.
As they applauded the band, he said, "Thank you kindly, Miss Lund."
"No," she said, placing her hand on his arm. "I am grateful." She smiled. "I did not want to attend tonight. But, thanks to you and your friend, I am beginning to think I may make it through the evening."
He looked at her, quizzically. But then, Mrs. Harrington was at his elbow, Ray right behind her.
"Benton," she said, imperiously, holding out her arms.
Fraser bowed to Ilsa. He squared his shoulders and dutifully took Mrs. Harrington in his arms as the orchestra played a slower tune.
Ray said to Ilsa. "May I, Miss Lund?"
"Yes, Mr. Vecchio. I'd be honored."
"Call me Ray," he said, as he took her in his arms.
"If you will call me Ilsa."
"Deal."
They fit easily together. She was tall, five ten or so, reaching a spot just below his nose. They moved in tandem to the music. She was a great dancer, Ray thought, light on her feet, quick to respond to his cues.
After a while, she said, "That was a noble thing you did for your friend."
"Nah," he said, modestly. "Just giving the poor guy a break."
She frowned in disapproval. "It was noble ... even if you did tell Tuppy that falsehood. Really, Ray, with that honest face of yours, she never stood a chance. Even I believed it." She shook her head, dolefully. "Shame on you."
"Uh ... well ... I ..." Ray stammered.
She said, with a straight face, "Tell me, have you ever considered a career in diplomacy?"
He laughed, delighted. As if on cue, Fraser and Tuppy Harrington whirled by. Say what you will about Tuppy, she was an excellent dancer. Ray had enjoyed the polka. But, unlike Fraser, he hadn't had to defend his virtue. It may not have been obvious to the rest of the room, but Ray could tell the Mountie was working hard to keep their hostess at a discreet distance.
"Ours is not to reason why ..." he muttered. He gave his friend an encouraging nod as they passed.
Ilsa noticed. "He is a good man," she ventured.
"The best." He gave her an impudent grin. "Between Tuppy and Renault, I hope he survives the evening."
She laughed. Ray liked her laugh. "Louis thinks life is too short to play games. If he finds a man attractive – or a woman, for that matter – he will make it known." She noticed Ray's surprise and explained. "Louis has no conviction, one way or the other." She added, impishly, "You might say he ... blows with the wind."
"So, to speak," he said, chuckling.
She looked over his shoulder as Fraser and Tuppy danced by. "But, Louis isn't as persistent as Tuppy. With him, Constable Fraser would have to make the next move."
"That'll be the day," Ray muttered. At her mystified look, he explained, "Not gonna happen, Ilsa. Fraser is as straight as an arrow." On reflection, he added, "Straighter."
"Yes, I know," she murmured, as if thinking aloud. "Still, anyone would be tempted to try." She saw the look of dismay on Ray's face. "But what a fool I am. Talking about another man while we are dancing. A faux pas, as Louis would say." She looked up at him through her lashes. "Ooooh. I have done it again."
Ray laughed, enchanted by her sense of humor. "Forget about it."
She changed the subject. "Are you a mounted policeman, too, Ray?"
"No." Then added, "I'm in maple syrup." He regretted the lie, but there was no help for it.
"How sweet for you," she said, with a twinkle.
He gestured with his head to where Emil leaned against a column, watching them.
Renault and Ugarte were close, keeping a weather eye on him.
"Teaches you how to handle saps," he said, his tone wry.
"Or sticky situations?" she asked, arching one brow.
"That, too," he said, grinning.
Their conversation was as free-flowing and easy as the dancing. Born in Oslo, she was the diplomatic equivalent of an army brat. Her father, consul for the Swedish government, had been posted all over Europe. He had met her mother, an opera singer, in Rome. Her older brother was now a tenor with La Scala; Ilsa had followed her father into the diplomatic corps. She was now in her eleventh year of service, the last two stationed, on and off, in Chicago. She loved the city, especially its deep-dish pizza, jazz, and baseball. When Ray apologized for the Cubs, she demurred. "I like the underdog," she explained. "They have nowhere to go, but up."
Fraser and Tuppy passed by. "They say you should not believe everything you read in the newspaper," Ilsa said, watching them. "Tell me, did he really save that woman?"
"Yeah," Ray said, sincerely. "He's a real hero. Rescues stray cats from trees all the time."
"According to him, the press exaggerated the incident."
"He's Canadian," Ray explained, shrugging. "For Fraser, it's all in the line of duty." He peered over her shoulder. His friend was trying to steer Tuppy away from the terrace, and she kept trying to lead him back to it. "Like now," he said, sourly.
Ilsa followed his gaze. "You think Tuppy Harrington is above and beyond the call?"
"Yeah, I do."
"What about you, Ray?" He looked a question at her. "Are you doing your duty tonight?"
He pulled her closer. "I'm not Canadian," he said, softly.
"Ray." She pulled back so she could look into his eyes. "I'm flattered ... but ..."
He loosened his grip, backpedaling mentally, if not physically. Man, he had really misread the situation here! She had just been asking about Fraser. "Hey, uh ... no ... er ... problem." To his chagrin, he was stammering. "Sorry. My mistake." He wished fervently that the song would end. Like now. Like right now. He held her awkwardly as the band played on.
"No, Ray," she said, hastily. "It's not you. " She drew a deep breath, held it, then said, "It's me." She looked away. "I ... I ... lost – "
Whatever she was going to say was drowned out in a deafening fanfare from the orchestra. The dancers on the floor, the waitstaff, and the rest of the guests stopped in their tracks and faced the band.
Thank you, God, Ray thought, as he released her and turned toward the stage.