The dinner dishes had been cleared and servers were making the rounds with trays of dessert and silver servers of coffee. The lights came on over the dais signaling the speeches were about to begin.
"Well," Napoleon said rising from the table, as if on cue. "It's been lovely, but Carolyn and I need to get going." The withering look from Mr. Waverly had him back in his seat like an unruly primary form student. It was apparent they'd all be here for the duration.
"I'm just going to go powder my nose," Moira said getting up from her chair. "Get me a piece of that chocolate cheesecake, and a cup of tea if they have any."
Illya grasped her wrist pulling her close and whispered into her ear, "I'd appreciate you not drumming up business on my dime." Her eyes flashed with something between amusement and anger and she attempted to twist her arm free; when he saw the bruise on her arm from where the pimp had grabbed her earlier and released her.
"Sorry," he whispered.
"I swear, he just can't bear for us to be apart," she said with a laugh, then leaned down and gave him a lingering kiss. "That should hold you till I get back, darlin'—and don't forget my cheesecake.
It appeared the opening speaker had never heard the concept that less is more and had been rambling on for almost ten minutes. Illya excused himself and headed to the bar. It was becoming painfully clear Moira had flown the coop. Perhaps paying her in advance hadn't been a wise move? He weighed the option of just disappearing himself. While he dreaded returning to the table and having to explain her absence, he dreaded Mr. Waverly's reprobation more.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to introduce a very special guest. May I present the Special Attaché to the United Nations from the World Health Organization, the recently appointed Dean of the School of Public Health at my Alma Mater Fordham University, the Associate Director of ShelterHouse International, and, as some of us found out last night, one heck of an Irish fiddle player, Doctor Moira Murtagh."
The thunderous applause as she walked onto the dais was interrupted by the sound of Kuryakin's glass crashing on the polished marble floor. Suddenly every eye in the ballroom was on him.
"Well," she said, breaking the excruciating silence. "You know your man there's no Irishman. No self-respecting Irishman would waste a drink like that—but then again, he's drinking that Russian swill so I guess t'wasn't like it was a proper drink. Let's fix him up with some good Irish whisky and get him back to his table.
"Ah, I'm having a bit o craic on with ya all, that's my boyfriend who made himself a three-hundred-dollar donation to ShelterHouse earlier this evening, she blew him a stage kiss. Let's give him a big round of applause here—and don't be nibblin' on my cheesecake there, luv.
"Okay, now I've given you all a bit of a laugh—but here's something that isn't humorous. Last year over thirty thousand young people under the age of eighteen went missing in the United States—close to one million worldwide. It's estimated as many as one half of those reported missing are being lured with promises of a better life only to be trafficked in the sex trades."
She paused for a moment. "Eighteen years ago, I was almost one of those young people. By the grace of God, Father Andrew Farrell, the founder of ShelterHouse found me and my brother Patrick on the streets of Dublin and got us a place to live, and schooling, and hope for a future.
"In partnership with the Archdiocese of New York, we've opened the first of three planned ShelterHouse facilities here in New York City. But we need so much more. With the money raised tonight from your generous donations, ShelterHouse-New York will have the resources needed to target these young runaways—before the pimps, drug dealers, and predators target them."
Kuryakin reseated himself at the table just in time to wave off the server who was attempting to clear Moira's cake from the table and drank his double vodka in two large gulps. What in the hell had just happened?