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Sunday, June 22, 2025

Welcome back to our new serial story, The Dance of Discord.  Isn’t it wonderful when serendipity comes along?  Recently, fellow author D. L. Finn released a new collection of her poetry.  When I saw it, in addition to a lovely book I saw “three things” to drive an episode of this serial.

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What are the things?  They are Gratitude, no fairy tale, and just her poetry.   All of the previous episodes can be found in the category listing for The Dance of Discord.  If that doesn’t show on your screen, this link should work: https://teagansbooks.com/category/dance-of-discord/

 I have two notes about this installment:  I’ve been making these chapters very short, but to move the story along this is longer than usual.  Also, here’s a cliffhanger warning! It’s ages since I’ve thrown you a real cliffhanger.  Now to the new episode.

Dance of Discord

10: A Visit

Milo Quick was deep in thought.  I wanted to dig up whatever was bothering him.  He was so lost in his own musings that he barely noticed when I darted up the stairs so that I could block his path and force him to look at me.  I managed an annoyed sound, which finally brought him back to the present.  I soon realized what a mistake I had made.  I was dancing to his tune.

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“Felina!  Lawsy, I’m glad you reminded me.  There’s no better way to put the baron off guard than to keep up the appearance that I’m only a supercilious eccentric.  My dear duchess, I know you don’t enjoy going out and about, but I very much need you to come with me.  That will go a long way toward making it seem like a proper society visit to the Belgian diplomat, rather than me simply walking in and questioning him,” he began and I took two steps backward.

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“Even though you don’t particularly like it, that gold embroidered Bolero jacked that Uncle Elgin had made for you… especially with that wonderful, rich gold chain decorating its back, would be very impressive,” he added almost pleadingly, and I took another two steps backward almost stepping on Gideon.

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Where had the butler come from?  The man wan is remarkably catlike — it’s one of his best qualities, I thought admiringly.

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“Sir, you missed breakfast.  There are warm muffins and clotted cream.  A favorite of yours and of the Duchess,” Gideon entreated with a pointed glance at me.

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My gratitude for his distraction from Milo’s unpleasant suggestion may have been out of proportion.  However, I managed to ignore the significant look the butler gave Milo.  My housemate, fortunately saw the better part of valor and agreed to the creamy goodness while Gideon prepared our wardrobe.

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A short while later, Milo and I were at the Belgian embassy.  Enno, the personal secretary, cleared his throat undecidedly and formally presented us to Baron Rogier Dessain, using my full name and title.  The Belgian ambassador received us with such a surprised uplift of his dark brows that it caused his monocle to drop.  He caught the lens with a practiced hand.

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“Duchess Gattone and I have come to inquire after the welfare of Miss Zola Jouret,” Milo informed him matter-of-factly.  “I hope she can forgive my manners.  Somehow, I didn’t get to say goodbye and thank her for attending the ball.”

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The baron’s gaze kept drifting to me although, Milo’s words seemed to surprise him.  His eyes widened briefly, but he covered it quickly.  The muscles in the diplomat’s face stiffened as he became annoyed.  I was sure Milo had picked up on those minute facial expressions, but he pretended not to notice.  The young agent continued in the frivolously pitched voice that he used for his “undercover” tasks.

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“I hear that you are Miss Zola Jouret’s sponsor here in Washington?  That you look after her and vouch for her?” Milo asked and the baron’s eyes tightened as he, evasively diplomatic, considered the question from every point of view.

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“I suppose that I could be regarded as such, Monsieur Quick,” he finally admitted in a terse voice.  “Although, I fail to see the trend of your questioning.  Mademoiselle Jouret is worthy of my protection in every way.  If you mean to slight her honor—”

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“Oh no, no, Lord Dessain.  Pardon me for not being very well spoken,” Milo cut him off, then briefly looked at me and chuckled.  “Isn’t that right, Dutchess?  But, just hypothetically, if Miss Jouret was a revolveress and shot a man… and let’s say he was about to join the choir invisible, would you feel justified in withdrawing your… how did you phrase it so eloquently… your protection?”

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“Schievelavabo!  Have you lost your senses, Monsieur Quick?” the ambassador sputtered.  “Such an absurd allegation would impel me to offer her every assistance.”

I shied away at the volume and hostility of the baron’s tone.  Milo put a comforting hand on my back, his fingers twisted in the expensive gold chain that decorated the back of the Bolero jacket, as if he would prevent me running away.  The gesture was absent — he kept his eyes pinned to the diplomat’s face.  Milo nodded in an unconcerned way, as if they were discussing the weather.

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“And, Lord Dessain, what if it was no fairytale — if it was proved to your satisfaction that she did shoot him?” he went on evenly, however the ambassador’s lips were drawn together in a tight line.

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“And whom, pray tell Monsieur Quick, are we supposing that Mademoiselle Jouret shot?” he inquired frigidly, having mastered his temper.

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“Sakes alive, no one in particular.  Just hypothetically.  Just suppose that she had shot anybody.  Maybe me, or say Señor Gómez, the Argentinian ambassador?”

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“I will not answer a question so ridiculous!” the baron cried, temper flaring again although Milo looked oblivious.

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“Hypothetically again, we could speculate a little further,” Milo insisted pleasantly.  “Let’s just assume that you knew the lady had shot someone… oh maybe your secretary for instance, or maybe Mr. Gómez.  In your diplomatic position you could protect her from the consequences.  Would you?”

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Sitting with his elbows on his knees, Milo idly twisted a signet ring that Lord Elgin had given him.  The diplomat’s unease became more apparent, and his searching eyes found Milo’s face blankly inscrutable.

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“I’m not asserting that Miss Jouret is a dangerous person.  You are her sponsor.  Is she, in every way, worthy of your protection?” Milo pressed.

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“Yes,” the baron proclaimed flatly.  “Whether it was her good name in question, or something inconsequential, such as a hobby… just her poetry.”

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“Is it true, then, that the letter of introduction she brought to you is from a person whose status is high enough to insure Miss Jouret’s position?”

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“Yes,” Baron Dessain murmured after swallowing hard.  “That person’s position is of the highest order.”

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I was relieved when we left the volatile baron.  Admittedly, Milo had needled him shamelessly, but still… I didn’t like being around his temper.  At that point, all I wanted was to be home, to hide myself in a dark room.  However, Milo said we had one more stop to make.  The driver stopped outside a heavily ornamented Beaux-Arts style residence in the Kalorama neighborhood.

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“A gentleman and a… umm… a gentleman is waiting for you, Madam,” I heard the servant announced after allowing us inside. “His card is here on the—”

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“Very good.  I was expecting him,” a woman’s voice interrupted.  “Where did you put him?”

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“In the morning room, Madam,” came the butler’s rather nervous reply, which was followed by the soft sound of the lady’s slippers in the hallway.

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“I apologize that I kept you waiting—” she began.  “Oh!  I beg your pardon,” she added in a tone of surprise when she saw us.

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“No apologies necessary, Miss Jouret.  I am Mr. Quick of the Secret Service,” he politely stood and informed her.  “Although I gather you were expecting someone else.  I gave my card to the servant…”

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Briefly, her amber eyes widened in astonishment.  Then a sort of shadow flowed across the lady’s face.  She smiled graciously and motioned for Milo to sit again.

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“This is quite a different meeting from the one I had expected, isn’t it?” Miss Jouret murmured.

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Her scarlet rouged lips curved tauntingly, as the shadow passed from her eyes.  She sat down with her slim white hands idle in her lap.  Her elegance could not fully hide the steely determination and keen mind within.  She was clearly a force to be reckon with.  Her brows arched, silently questioning.

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Milo’s back was to me.  I noticed a barely perceptible shift in his shoulders that told me he had tired of the type of game he had played with Baron Rogier Dessain.

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Miss Jouret, I am not mistaken in assuming that you are a secret agent of the Belgian government, am I?” he queried without preamble.

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“No,” she responded simply, matter-of-factly, and her smile did not falter, but that vague shadow returned and darkened her eyes.

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“Please go on,” she prompted Milo.

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“The Argentine diplomat, Señor Gómez was shot at the ball last evening,” Milo stated.

Miss Jouret murmured soft sounds of astonishment.  She shook her head, as if in wonder and remarked that she had left the ball early because she had fainted on the dancefloor.  By Milo’s reaction, she might as well have said nothing.

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“Mademoiselle, did you, or did you not, shoot him?”

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The exchange appeared quite casual on both of their parts.  Her countenance didn’t alter, but she gave an involuntary breath.  I thought it was a sigh of relief.

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“Why ever would you come to me with such a question?” she asked in return.

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“My apologies, but I asked a question,” Milo interjected steadily.  “Did you, or did you not, shoot Mr. Gomez?”

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“Of course I did not shoot the man,” she replied, and her voice showed no emotion beyond a trace of impatience.  “Why would you ask me this?” she repeated.

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Milo echoed her question calmly.  His seemingly listless eyes were fixed on her face in a way that I knew meant he was looking beyond the surface.

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“Well,” he leaned back in his chair and began.  “I ask because immediately after the shooting you ran down the hall, holding a revolver in your hand.  Then you ran down the steps into the kitchen, and out through the back door.  Once outside, you got into a motorcar that seemed to be waiting for you.  Eyewitnesses have attested to the fact.”

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The lady stood abruptly.  Her arms flailed in a helpless little gesture.  Then she moved to the window where she stood for a long time with her hands clasped behind her back.

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“Also,” Milo continued mercilessly.  “If you are not the one who shot the Argentine diplomat, then who did?” he asked into another long pause.  “I honestly do want to believe you, Miss Jouret,” he added.

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When she turned to face him, there was no small amount of defiance in her attitude.

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“Yes, I know who shot Señor Alejandro Gómez,” she said slowly.  “However, I won’t tell you.”

“Miss Jouret, please understand that with such an answer you assume equal guilt with the person who actually did the shooting.  I would be compelled to regard you as an accomplice,” Milo explained as his questioning took a different line.  “At least explain how the revolver came into your possession.”

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“Oh, that.  I… I picked up the gun when I saw it in the hallway,” she replied vaguely.

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“Understand me ma’am… I want to believe you—” Milo repeated with a trace of frustration in his voice.

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“You may believe me, Mr. Quick.  I picked up the revolver in the hallway.  I saw it lying there and picked it up,” she began reasonably.  “I had heard what I assumed was a violent attack.  I saw a gun with which I might defend myself, just laying there on the floor.  Fearing for my safety, I took the gun.

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“Then why did you run out of the house and away?  If you did not shoot the ambassador, they why did you need to escape — carrying the revolver?  Why did you take the revolver?” he demanded.

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Quietly she bowed her head and went silent.

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“I see only two possibilities,” he went on undeterred.  “First, that despite your denial, you shot him.”

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“I did not!” the words burst from her lips.

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“Or second, you recognized the revolver, and took it to protect the man or the woman, who fired the shot.  For the time being, I will assume that is what actually happened.  Now, where is the revolver?”

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I heard a slight noise from the adjoining room.  Was it the sound of a draft?  Or had it been a person’s breath?

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End Episode 10

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 Thanks for reading. Stay tuned for the next installment of Dance of Discord. Friendly comments are welcome.  Hugs!

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Of course, here’s the obligatory shameless self-promotion.

A Peril in the Vines

Universal Purchase Links

A Peril in the Vines

e-book:  relinks.me/B0DS4G7RSD

Paperback:  relinks.me/B0DS69GJDV

A Medium’s Peril full series link: relinks.me/B0CG2SXX24

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This is a work of fiction.  Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2025 by Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene

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