There was another stretch of quiet, and then Lane looked across the stale air between them. "I can't do that, Edward."
"Then it's your funeral--"
"My wife is pregnant."
"Again? Congratulations."
"I'm divorcing her."
Edward cocked an eyebrow. "Not the typical response of an expectant father. Especially given how much child support you're going to owe."
"It's not mine."
"Ah, that explains it--"
"She tells me it's Father's."
As their eyes met, Edward went very still. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You heard me. She says she's going to tell Mother. And that she's not leaving Easterly." There was a pause. "Of course, if it turns out there are money problems, then I won't have to worry about our father's bastard living in our family's house. Chantal will go elsewhere and find another wealthy idiot to glom on to."
As an odd pain shot up Edward's forearm, he glanced at his hand. Interesting. It had somehow locked onto the Beefeater bottle with such a strong grip that his knuckles were nearly breaking through his pale skin.
"Is she lying?" he heard himself ask.
"If she'd named anyone other than Father, I would say maybe. But no, I don't think she is."
*
As Samuel T. emerged from the wine cellar and strode off, he found that ignoring the woman he'd just screwed was an issue of survival. Her voice was enough of an energy suck; if he actually focused on her words, he would probably slip into a coma.
"--and then we'll go to the club! Everyone's going to be there, and we can . . ."
Then again, the exhaustion he was battling probably wasn't her. It was more likely the result of putting down his weapons after a decades-long battle.
What he was clear on was that he'd had to fuck someone in there, on that table. It was his way of wiping the slate clean, metaphorically burning the last memory he had of being inside Gin here at this house. And the other sites he'd been with her at, whether they were at his farm, or in hotels internationally, or out in Vail, or up in Michigan? He was going to knock them off, too, until he'd covered up every single recollection with another woman.
"--Memorial Day? Because we could go out to my parents' estate in the Loire Valley, you know, get away . . ."
As the prattling continued, Samuel T. was reminded of why he preferred to sleep with married women. When you had sex with someone who had to worry about a husband? There wasn't this expectation of a relationship.
The stairs back up to ground level couldn't arrive in enough of a hurry. And even though he was ready to take them two at a time just so he could lose the chatterbox behind him, he was enough of a gentleman to stand aside at the bottom and indicate for her to go first.
"Oh, thank you," she said as she hustled up ahead of him.
He was about to follow when he caught a flash of something colorful on the floor.
A pair of stilettoes. Pale, made of satin. Louboutins.
He ripped his head around and searched where he and the woman had come from.
"Samuel T.?" she said from the top. "Are you coming?"
They were Gin's shoes. She was down here. She had come down here . . . to watch?
Well, she certainly hadn't stopped them.
His first impulse was to smile and go on the hunt--but that was a reflex born out of the way they had related for how long?
To remind himself of how things had changed, all he had to do was think of that ring on her finger. That man standing beside her. The news that was soon going to go nationwide.
Funny, he had never cared about all the other men Gin had been with. Whether that came under the eye-for-an-eye exception because he was sleeping with an equal number of other women . . . or whether he had some kind of kink in him that made him want her more knowing she'd fucked and sucked other men . . . or maybe it was something else entirely . . . he didn't know.
One thing that was certain?
Richard Pford was now a source of tremendous jealousy. In fact, it had taken every ounce of Samuel T.'s self-possession not to give that waste of space a glare that left a hole in the back of his skull.
"Samuel T.? Is there something wrong?"
He looked up the stairs. The light coming from behind the woman turned her into nothing but shadow, reducing her to a faceless set of curves with no greater weight than an apparition.
For some reason, he wanted to take Gin's shoes, but he left them behind as he let his ascent answer the lady's question.
Emerging on her level, he cleared his throat. "I'll meet you there."
Her smile drooped. "I thought we would go to the track together."
The track?
Oh, right. It was Derby day.
"I have some business to take care of. I'll see you there."
"Where are you going now?"
The question made him realize that he'd started off toward the kitchen, not the party. "Like I said, business."
"Which box are you in?"
"I'll find you," he called out.
"Promise?"
Walking away, he could feel her staring at him--and he was willing to bet that she was praying to Mary Sue, the Patron Saint of Debutantes, that he turn around, come back over and become the escort that she'd hoped would emerge thanks to that subterranean fucking.
But Samuel T. did not look back nor did he reconsider his exit. And he didn't pay any attention to the host of chefs in Miss Aurora's kitchen.
He wasn't actually aware of anything until he stepped outside.
Closing the mud room's door behind him, he took a breather and leaned back against the hot white-painted panels. Another scorcher of a day, which was not a surprise. Then again, nothing was a shocker in Charlemont when it came to the weather.
If you didn't like the conditions, all you had to do was wait fifteen minutes.
So sleet for Derby would also have been possible.
God, he was tired.
No . . . he felt old--
A throaty growl sounded from over on the left, but it wasn't a sports car. It was an old beater of a truck coming up the service road.
Poor bastard, whoever it was. Staff wasn't allowed to park anywhere near the house on a day like today. Whoever was behind the wheel was volunteering for a proverbial throat punch.
But he had troubles of his own to worry about. Putting his hand in his pocket, he took out his car key; then he stepped off the flat stone and began to head over to where he had tucked his Jag in tight to the house.
He didn't make it far.
Through the windshield of that old truck, he saw a very familiar face. "Lane?"
As the truck stopped by the rear entrance of the business center, he went across. "Lane?" he called out. "You downscaling before Chantal hits us with a response?"
The driver's window went down and the guy made a quick slashing finger across his throat.
Samuel T. glanced around. There was nobody anywhere. Staff were inside or out working the tent and gardens. Guests wouldn't have deigned to come back here where the scrubs might be. And it wasn't like the birds in the trees were going to have an opinion about two humans chatting.
As he came up to the truck, he leaned in. "You really don't need to do this for your divorce--"
He fell silent as he focused on the man sitting beside his newest client.
"Edward?" he croaked.
"How lovely to see you again, Samuel." Except the man didn't look over. His eyes remained fixed on the dashboard ahead of him. "You're looking well, as usual."
As the words were spoken, it was impossible not to take a survey of that face . . . that body.
Dear . . . Lord, the pants were bagging around thighs that were like toothpicks, and the loose jacket hung from shoulders that had all the breadth of a coat hanger.
Edward cleared his throat and reached down to pick a BBC cap off the floorboards. As he put it on his head and drew the bill down low to cover his face, Samuel T. was ashamed of his gawking.
r />
"It's good to see you, Edward," he blurted.
"You didn't," Lane said quietly.
"I'm sorry?"
"You didn't see him." Lane's eyes burned. "Or me. Do you understand, counselor?"
Samuel T. frowned. "What the hell's going on?"
"You don't want to know."
Samuel T. glanced back and forth between the brothers. As a lawyer, he had been involved in a lot of gray areas, both in terms of avoiding them and getting into them with deliberation. He had also learned over time that some information was not worth knowing.
"Understood," he said with an incline of the head.
"Thank you."
Before he stepped away, he forced a smile on his face. "Congratulations on the new addition to your family, by the way."
Lane recoiled. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'm quite sure you wouldn't have chosen Richard Pford as a brother-in-law, but one must adjust when love is in the air."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Samuel T. rolled his eyes, thinking that was just like Gin. "You mean you don't know? Your sister is engaged to Richard Pford. Have a good Derby, gentlemen. Perhaps I'll see you both--"
But of course, not both of them.
"Ah . . . if either of you need me," he amended, "you know exactly where to find me."
Which would be anywhere their sister was not, he thought as he walked off toward his Jag.
THIRTY-FOUR
Perfect time for a break-in.
As Edward got out of the Master Distiller's truck, he pulled the baseball hat down even lower--although if that brim were any further south, he wouldn't be able to blink.
God . . . was he really back here?
Indeed, he was--and he'd forgotten how enormous Easterly was. Even from the servant entrances in the rear, the mansion was almost incomprehensibly large, all the white clapboards and black shutters rising up from the green grass, a screaming statement of the family's long-held stature.
He wanted to vomit.
But after hearing what their father had done with Lane's wife? There was no way he wasn't going to do this.
In the background, he could hear The Derby Brunch in full swing in the garden and knew that this really was the only time to get in and out of the business center with the information his brother needed. With so many guests on site, there was no way their father would be anywhere but under that tent--he was a reprobate, but his manners had never been assailable. Further, all corporate staff had Derby day off, so not even the "underlings" would be at their desks.
The poor bastards might work Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, but this was Kentucky. No one worked on Derby day.
As Lane came around to follow him, he put out his palm. "I go alone."
"I can't let you do that."
"I can afford to get caught. You cannot. Stay here."
He didn't wait for a response, but continued onward, knowing that after nearly forty years of his being the eldest, his words would freeze Lane where he stood.
At the rear entrance to his father's facility, Edward punched in an access code that he'd assigned to a third party contractor five years ago as part of the security upgrade. When the red light turned to green and the lock released, he closed his eyes briefly.
And opened things up.
There was a temptation to brace himself before stepping inside, but he didn't have that luxury, either in terms of energy or time. As the door shut behind him, the outdoor light was cut off, and it was a moment before the dim interior registered to his eyes.
Still the same. Everything. From the thick maroon pile rug with its gold edgings, to the framed articles on the company that hung on the silk-covered walls, to the pattern of open glass doorways leading down toward the central waiting area.
Strange . . . that he assumed just because he was different, this place in which he had spent so many hours would have changed as well.
No alarm went off as he proceeded deeper into the facility because of the code he'd used, and he passed by the formal dining room, the conference rooms that looked like Easterly's parlors, and even more offices that were kitted out with the luxury of a top-tier law firm. As always, the drapes on all the windows were pulled to ensure total privacy, and nothing was left out on any desks, everything locked up tight.
The waiting area was a circular space, the center of which was demarcated with the family crest in the carpet. Prominently placed off to the side, and bracketed by an American flag, a Kentucky Commonwealth flag, and a pair of Bradford Bourbon Company banners, the desk of the receiving secretary was as regal as a crown--and yet that wasn't even close to the seat of power. Beyond all that show, there was glassed-in office where the executive assistant occupied space--and finally, behind that bulldog's desk was a door marked yet again with the family crest in shimmering gold.
His father's office.
Edward glanced over to the line of French doors that opened up into the garden. Thanks to the combination of heavy drapes and triple-paned glass, there was not even a peep heard of the six or seven hundred people out there--and there was absolutely no chance of any guests wandering in here.
Edward shuffled forward to the glass office and entered the same code. When the lock released, he pushed his way in and went around to sit at the computer. He turned no lights on and would have not disturbed the chair behind the desk had his legs been capable of supporting his weight for any length of time.
The computer was running, but locked, and he signed on using a set of shadow credentials he'd given himself when he'd had the company's network expanded and reinforced about three years ago.
In like Flynn, as they said.
But now what?
On the trip to Easterly, he had wondered whether his brain would come back online for any of this. He had worried that the painkillers, or the trauma, had damaged his gray matter in a way that was not material when all one did was drink and sweep up stables--but rather dispositive when one attempted to function at a higher level.
That was not the case.
Although his circumnavigation among the file system of secured documents was slow at first, soon enough, he was moving quickly through the information caches, exporting what was relevant to a dummy account that would appear to be a valid BBC e-mail, but was in fact, out of the network.
Yet another shadow.
And what was best about it all? If anyone looked into the activity, they would trace the destination to the name of his father's bulldog executive assistant--in spite of the fact that she herself knew nothing about the account. But that was the point. Anyone in the company who saw that woman's name on something was going to back away and say nothing.
As he sifted through the financials, he focused exclusively on raw data that had yet to be "scrubbed" by accountants, and though there was a temptation to start to analyze, it was more important that he capture as much as he could--
The lights in the reception room flared to life.
Jerking his head up, he froze.
Shit.
*
Lizzie's phone went off finally just as the first of the guests started to take their leave. And she nearly ignored the vibration, especially as two of the waiters came up to her with a series of demands from a table of twenty-year-olds who were underaged and utterly drunk.
"No," she said as she took the cell out of her back pocket and accepted the call without looking. "They've been cut off for a reason--by their parents. If that bunch of entitled asshats has a problem with the service refusal, tell them to talk to Mommy and Daddy." She put the phone up to her ear. "Yes?"
"It's me."
Lizzie closed her eyes in relief. "Oh, my God, Lane . . . here, let me find somewhere quiet."
"I'm around back. By the garages. Can you come out for a minute?"
"On my way."
Ending the call, she caught Greta's eye across the tent and signaled that she was stepping out for a minute. After the woman nodded, Liz
zie hightailed it down the periphery of the party, jogging behind the buffet tables where uniformed servers cut slices off perfectly roasted wedges of locally raised Angus beef.
A couple of waiters raised their hands to try to get her attention, but she held them off, knowing Greta would be on it.
Entering the house through the door that opened into the kitchen, she ducked her head, trying to look as if she were already on a mission. And she supposed she was. In the far corner, by the pantry, there was another door that opened into the mudroom, and after running by all the spring jackets of the help, she emerged outside by the garages.
She looked around for Lane's Porsche--
"Over here," his voice announced.
Turning, she recoiled as she saw him leaning against a truck that was nearly as old as she was. But then she got with the program, jogging across the cobblestones.
"Now, this is my kind of ride," she said as she came up to him.
Even as he didn't move a muscle, Lane's eyes traveled all over her, as if he were using her presence as a way of grounding himself. "Can I hug you?"
She glanced around, focusing on the windows of the house. "Probably better not to."
"Yeah."
"So . . . what are you doing here? With this F-150?"
"Borrowed it from a friend. I'm trying to keep a low profile. How's the party?"
"Your wife's been giving me the evil eye."
"Ex-wife, remember?"
"Are you . . . are you going to head to the brunch?"
He shook his head. "I'm busy."
Awkward. Pause.
"Are you all right?" she whispered. "How was Edward?"
"Can I stay with you tonight?"
Lizzie shifted her weight back and forth. "Aren't you going to the ball?"
"No."
"Well, then . . . yes, I'd like that." She crossed her arms--and tried not to feel a surging happiness which seemed inappropriate given everything that he was facing. "But I'm worried about you."
"Me, too." He glanced up at his house. "Let me ask you something."
"Anything."
It was a while before he spoke again. "If I decided to leave here . . . would you consider coming with me?"
Lizzie thought about joking it out, referencing Robinson Crusoe, or maybe the Carnival Cruise Lines. But he wasn't laughing in the slightest.
"Is it that bad?" she whispered.
"It's worse."