“Mr. Till,” he said, addressing the chief caterer. A cultured British accent betrayed his roots. “Why are your people using the main stairs?”

Mr. Till murmured an apology that she didn’t bother to hear. Instead she watched carefully as Pennyworth placed a glass of fresh water on a tray beside an assortment of covered plates and dishes. The butler glanced around the kitchen.

“Where’s Mrs. Bolton?”

Briskly the maid stepped forward.

“She’s at the bar, sir,” she said. “Can I help?”

He sighed, as though not entirely happy with the situation, but handed her the tray and an old-fashioned brass key.

“The east drawing room,” he instructed. “Unlock the door, place the tray on the table, lock the door again.” He paused for emphasis. “Nothing more.”

She nodded meekly, keeping her head down, and accepted the key.

Slipping out of the kitchen before anything could go awry, she made her way through the gigantic mansion toward the east wing. Austere white walls and heavy draperies gave the house a cold, unwelcoming feel. The hubbub of the party gradually died away as she left the celebration behind. She couldn’t help noticing the valuable antiques, tapestries, and paintings gracing the halls, as well as how hushed and lifeless the place seemed. Less like a home than a museum.

A large oak door barred the entrance to the wing. She tried the key, and the door swung open before her, revealing a richly appointed drawing room that was probably twice the size of her crummy apartment back in Old Town. Hand-turned mahogany furniture had begun life as trees in the Wayne plantations in Belize, she knew. Pricy china, vases, and other knick-knacks adorned the mantle of a large unlit fireplace. Despite its opulence, the room was dimly lit and quiet as a tomb.

Not exactly the Playboy Mansion, she noted. All this tired old money—just going to waste.

She glanced around, but didn’t see anybody, not even the famously reclusive master of the house. Placing the tray down on a polished walnut table, she did not exit the chamber as instructed. Instead her eyes locked on an inner door at the other side of the room. It had conveniently been left ajar.

She grinned mischievously.

How perfect was that?

CHAPTER THREE

“I’m sorry, Miss Tate, but I’ve tried. He won’t see you.”

Alfred lingered in the hallway to converse with the stylish younger woman who had attempted to enlist his assistance. Miranda Tate—a member of the board of directors of Wayne Enterprises—was probably the most attractive business executive Alfred had encountered in his many decades of service. Lustrous dark hair framed a classically beautiful face. Striking gray-blue eyes shone with intelligence and determination.

“It’s important, Mr. Pennyworth,” she insisted. Her voice held a faint accent that, despite his extensive travels throughout Europe and elsewhere, he couldn’t quite place.

“Mr. Wayne is as determined to ignore important things as trivial ones,” he replied wryly.