Dammit, he was late. After eight o’clock and Darien’s bash scheduled to begin at nine. Spraggue knotted his tie and checked his reflection in the mirror. Not that any of Darien’s carefully chosen society guests would deign to arrive on time. Where in hell was that cab? He dialed Hurley’s phone number, slammed the receiver down after ten rings. He stood immobile, hand on the phone, his shirt a glistening white contrast to his elegant black trousers. He ran swiftly through a mental checklist. The caterers: that was taken care of. Rachel had been near hysterics at the thought of Pierce decked out in her waiter’s livery. But Pierce had been amenable. He’d be a credit to Rachel’s steadily growing reputation for great pastry and prompt service. Aunt Mary had been bubbly, eager to get off the phone and dress for the party, but worried about Georgina’s reluctance to attend. Mary, at least, would keep her head and follow instructions. Or exceed them. Karen. She’d sounded odd on the phone, rebellious and remote.
