Wayne Manor Party, Sunday 18th March

Bruce's eyebrow quirked with curiosity as Ashely Fontaine waxed sorrowful poetic expressions about her husband's abduction. They were painstakingly crafted, but unfortunately for her, they were also clearly fake. Her fury against Isley was far more potent and tangible than her grief for her partner Gerald, although Bruce's interest was piqued more by the fact that she was directing the finger of blame at Isley herself. Particularly since Dante then stated that he had also received a ransom call threatening the flame-haired vixen's death if he uttered a single word about the situation. Inhaling deeply and feigning an expression of distress that belied the emotionless analytical mind that raced behind it, the Wayne heir released his hold on the elder woman and leaned back somewhat, once again scooping up his champagne flute and clutching it tightly to project an image of concern. In truth, he felt nothing but a twinge of morbid inquisitiveness and a lingering determination to pierce the veil of mystery that continued to pervade the extravagantly wealthy pair before him. He allowed his shoulders to slump a little in a display of disappointment before casting an apparently panicked glance about the room. The majority of the other guests had shuffled into the majestic dining hall, but the few that had remained had their eyes unashamedly fixated on the newest spectacle.

"Oh my," he said softly. "All this has ruined the party for me."

"Stay here with Mr. Wayne. I need to make some calls," Dante said, moving off.

This time, Bruce made no effort to block his exit. Even if he had wanted to, it would have looked strange and stretched the realms of social possibility to do so when the other man's girlfriend was at stake. He merely nodded dazedly as the businessman slipped past him and then returned his attention to Fontaine, who was - to her credit - keeping up her playing of the grieving near-widow part extremely well. She had managed to squeeze out some rather believable tears and her cheeks were flushed a vibrant red, and her watery gaze had sunk to the floor. Bruce resisted the urge to sigh in frustration at the performance and instead reached out to pat the woman consolingly on the arm. He didn't intend to remain with her, however; he needed to get up to his bedroom and play back the camera footage to see what had happened to Isley and Gerald Fontaine. And he couldn't do that surreptitiously with a damsel in distress draped across his arm. He scanned the room quickly, honed in on the impolite socialite that had interrupted him earlier, and beckoned her forward. Eager to get onto the scene, she all but sprinted towards him, clutching her glass of red wine as though it was a trophy as she sidled up to him and paused expectantly. She was barely holding back an excitable grin; her appetite for gossip and drama was apaprently insatiable, so she was the perfect candidate to keep Ashley occupied while he began his own investigation.

"Angela, look after Mrs. Fontaine would you? I have some things to attend to," he said softly, before turning back to Ashley herself. "Don't worry. I'm sure this horrible situation will be sorted out soon; I think it's best left to you and Mr. Dante now, but if you need my help, don't hesitate to call." Nodding briskly, he swivelled on his heels and practically charged towards the stairs. It was time to check those cameras.

<<Exit: Bruce>>

"Oh my," Bruce said softly. "All this has ruined the party for me."

Benedict's lips curled slightly in disdain before he could stop himself and he was glad he'd already begun turning away, his expression hidden. As he turned, his gaze swept again across the sumptuous luxury in which the billionaire playboy lived and he felt again the surge of anger pulse through his blood.

Thankfully, Wayne made no attempt to restrain him and he was able to make his departure without doing violence to anyone. In fact, the only delay he suffered was striding out through the front doors and pausing in surprise at the sight of his car waiting at the bottom of the steps. In a further display of eerie efficiency, Wayne's butler appeared a moment later at his elbow bearing not just the keys but his and Ivy's coats as well.

"Thank you, Alfred," Benedict said, pulling the name from where it had been stored in his capacious memory. Servants could usually be bought or otherwise turned against their masters, but after a moment of appraisal he abandoned any plans for that here. This was a man, he thought, loyal unto death.

"Good luck, Mr. Dante," the butler said, returning Benedict's gaze with a bland, imperturbable expression.

Taking the keys, Benedict draped the coats over one arm and turned away. As he moved swiftly down the long sweep of stairs, he could feel those inscrutable eyes on his back and wondered at an inexplicable twinge of unease.