The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (33 page)

“You’re free.”

“By a baptism of torture in that jungle.” He cursed. “But as you know … I can’t bear to see my brother in pain. You and I suffer from a similar weakness when it comes to Lane, just for different reasons.”

“No, it’s the same reason. Love is love. It is that simple.”

It
was a while before he could look at her. “My life is ruined, you know. Everything that I’d planned … it’s all gone.”

“You will create a new path. And as for this?” She indicated all around herself. “Don’t save what doesn’t need saving.”

“Lane will not recover from your loss.”

“He is stronger than you know, and he has his Lizzie.”

“The love of a good woman.” Edward took another drink of the tea. “Did that sound as bitter as I think it did?”

“You don’t have to be no hero anymore, Edward. Let this take its proper course, and trust that the outcome is pre-determined and as it should be. But I do expect you to take care of your brother. In that, you shall not fail me.”

“I thought you said I don’t have to be a hero.”

“Don’t sass me. You know the difference.”

“Well, I will say that your faith has never failed to astound me.”

“And your self-determination has worked out so well?”

Edward toasted her. “Touché.”

“How did you find out?” Miss Aurora asked after a moment. “How did you know?”

“I have my ways, ma’am. I may be down, as they say, but I’m not out.” He frowned and looked around. “Wait a minute, where did that old clock go? The one that used to be on the icebox you had before this place was renovated?”

“The one that clicked?”

“Remember that sound?” They both laughed. “I hated it.”

“Me, too. But I’m getting it fixed right now. It broke a while ago, and I miss it. It’s funny how you can be lost without something you despise.”

He nursed his iced tea until it was gone. “That is not the case with my father.”

Miss Aurora smoothed the edges of her apron. “I don’t think there are many that miss him. Things happen for a reason.”

Edward got up and took his empty glass over to the sink. Putting it down, he looked out the window. The garages were across the way, and then
to the left, extending out from the house, the business center was a wing bigger than most good-sized mansions.

“Edward, you let this go. What will be, will be.”

Probably good advice, but that wasn’t in his nature. Or at least, it had never been before.

And it looked like some parts of his old self weren’t dead yet.

A
s
Sutton’s limousine came up to Easterly’s main gates and stopped, she frowned and leaned forward to address her driver.

“I guess we go right up?”

“Yes, ma’am, I think so. The way is open.”

Usually, for large affairs such as William Baldwine’s visitation, the Bradfords ran a system of buses up and down the hill with invitees leaving their cars off to be valet’d on the flats. But there were no uniformed parkers. No boxy, twelve-seater vehicles on the ascend or descend. Nobody else pulling in.

But at least the press was nowhere to be found. Undoubtedly, those vultures had been camping out from the moment the story had broken. Clearly, though, they had been shooed away in deference to a property owner’s right to use their own grass as a parking lot.

“I can’t believe no one is here,” she murmured.

Oh, wait, Samuel Theodore Lodge was behind her in his convertible.

She put her window down and leaned out. “Samuel T.?”

He waved. “Why, Miss Smythe. How do you do?”

Samuel T. was a fashion plate as always, a straw boater with a blue-and-maroon
band on his head, aviators shading his eyes, the seersucker suit and bow tie making it look like he was going to the track or had already been.

“All the better for seeing you,” she replied. “Where is everyone? Is this the right time?”

“As far as I know.”

They stared at each other for a moment, asking and answering questions for themselves about the front-page story.

Then Samuel T. said, “Lead the way and I’ll follow.”

Sutton eased back into her Mercedes and nodded. “Let’s go up.”

The limousine started forward, and Sutton rubbed her palms together. They were a little sweaty, and she gave in to the impulse to take a compact out of her purse and check her lipstick. Her hair.

Stop it, she told herself.

As they came around the turn at the top, Easterly was revealed in all its majesty. Funny, even though she had just been to the estate for the Bradfords’ Derby Brunch, she was still impressed. No wonder they put the great white house on their bourbon bottles. It looked like the King of America, if there had been one, lived there.

“Would you like me to wait?” the driver asked.

“That would be lovely. Thank you—no, don’t get out. I’ll open my own door.”

As Don squirmed behind the wheel, she did the duty herself and smiled at Samuel T. and his vintage Jaguar. “Nice car you’ve got there, Solicitor.”

Samuel T. cut his engine and pulled his emergency brake. “I’m rather fond of her. Most consistent woman I’ve had in my life short of my dearest mother.”

“Well, you better put the top up.” She nodded to the thickening cloud cover overhead. “Storms are coming.”

“I thought they were kidding.”

Sutton shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

The man got out and secured the car’s little fabric cover with a couple of tugs and then a clip on each side of the windshield. Then he put the windows up and came around to her, dropping a kiss on her cheek.

“By
the way,” he intoned, “you look very well, Madam President—or shall I say CEO. Congratulations on the promotion.”

“Thank you. I’m getting up to speed.” She linked her arm through his as he offered her his elbow. “And you? How’s business?”

“Thriving. There are always people getting into trouble in this town, which is the good news and the bad news.”

Approaching the mansion’s open door, she wondered if Edward would be inside. Surely he wouldn’t miss his own father’s visitation?

Not that she was here to see him.

“Reverend Nyce,” she said as she entered. “How are you—Max! Is that you?”

The two men were standing close together, and Max broke away from what seemed to be a tense conversation with obvious relief. “Sutton, it’s good to see you.”

Boy, had he changed. That beard was a thing. And were those tattoos showing underneath his battered jacket?

Then again, he’d always been the wild one.

Samuel T. stepped up and did his greeting, hands being shaken, pleasantries exchanged … and then the reverend looked back at Max.

“I think you and I are clear on this, aren’t we?” The Reverend Nyce paused for effect. And then he smiled at her. “And you and I have a meeting later next week.”

“That’s right. I’m looking forward to it.”

After the reverend took his leave, there was more conversation between her and Samuel T. and Maxwell—during which she tried not to be obvious as she searched the empty rooms. Where was everyone? The visitation ran until seven. The house should be filled to overflowing.

Looking around the archway into the parlor, she nearly gasped. “Is that Mrs. Bradford? Sitting by Lane?”

“Or what’s left of her,” Max said tightly.

Sutton excused herself and entered the beautifully appointed room—and as soon as Edward’s mother saw her, the woman smiled and reached out. “Sutton. Darling one.”

So
frail, yet still so regal and elegant, Sutton thought as she bent down and kissed a powdered cheek.

“Come, sit and chat with me,” Edward’s mother insisted.

Sutton smiled at Lane as she lowered herself onto the silk cushions. “You’re looking well, Mrs. Bradford.”

“Thank you, darling. Tell me, are you married yet?”

From out of nowhere, a strange sort of heat went through her—and Sutton glanced across the way. Edward had come into the periphery of the parlor from the study, his eyes locking on her as he leaned against the doorway for support.

Sutton cleared her throat and tried to remember what she had been asked. “No, ma’am. I’m not married.”

“Oh, how can that be? A nice young lady such as yourself. You should be having children soon before it’s too late.”

Actually, I’m a little busy running a multi-billion-dollar corporation at the moment. But thank you kindly for the advice.

“And how are you, Mrs. Bradford?”

“Oh, I am very well, thank you. Edward is taking good care of me, aren’t you?”

As Mrs. Bradford indicated Lane with her heavily diamond’ed hand, the man nodded and smiled as if he had been going with the misnomer for a while. Covering her surprise, Sutton glanced across the room to that archway again.

The real Edward wasn’t looking very Edward at all, at least not by the standard that Mrs. Bradford clearly recalled of her oldest son.

For some reason, the discrepancy made Sutton tear up.

“I’m sure he’s doing a fine job of seeing to you,” she said hoarsely. “Edward always knows how to handle everything.”

L
adies were supposed to wear panty hose beneath their skirts.

As Gin sat on the edge of the pool in the back garden, she moved her bare feet in lazy circles through the warm water—and was glad she never wore hose. Or slips. Or gloves.

Although
the latter two were passé now. Well, arguably the L’eggs stuff was, too, what with Spanx having come along—although women like her mother certainly wouldn’t ever go out without nylons.

She wasn’t her mother, however. Names notwithstanding.

And yes, it was hot here on the tiled edge, no wind reaching this part of the garden thanks to the high brick wall that encircled the geometric layout of flower beds and pathways. Birds chirped from the blooming fruit trees, and up above, on the currents of what appeared to be a gathering storm, a hawk sailed around, no doubt looking for a spot of dinner.

Amelia was at Chesterfield Markum’s house … or so Mr. Harris had informed Gin prior to the visitation. And that was fine enough. There was no one here to see, really, and Field and Amelia had been friends since they had been in diapers. Nothing romantic or sexual there.

A professor. God, Gin found the expulsion debacle at once wholly believable and totally inconceivable. Then again, she didn’t really know her daughter very well at all—which was probably the why of the liaison, wasn’t it. Or maybe she gave herself and her absenteeism too much credit: her own parents might not have been big players in her life day to day, but she’d had Miss Aurora.

And yet look at how well she had turned out.

Feeling faint, Gin removed her cropped jacket, but left her Hermès scarf in place. She was of half a mind to jump in the pool with her clothes on—and in an earlier incarnation of her rebellious self, she would have. Now, she simply didn’t have the energy. Besides … no audience—

“So is the wedding off or just the reception?”

Gin closed her eyes briefly at the sound of that too familiar voice. “Samuel T. I thought you weren’t coming.”

As his footsteps approached from behind her, she refused to look at him or welcome him.

“How could I not pay respects to your family,” he drawled. “Oh, were you speaking of your nuptials?”

There was a
shhhhcht
sound and then she caught the fragrant scent of tobacco.

“Still
with the Cubans,” she muttered as she focused on her feet moving around in the aquamarine water.

“So which is it? The e-mail you sent a mere half hour ago was not specific. It also had two spelling mistakes in it. Do you need me to show you where spell-check is in Outlook?”

“I’m marrying him. But there won’t be a reception.” She waved a hand over her shoulder, indicating the house. “As you see, people have a rather dim view of us at the moment. What’s the saying? Oh, how the mighty have fallen?”

“Ah. Well, I’m sure you’ll find a way to repurpose the funds. Perhaps into some clothes? A little bauble to match your ring—oh, no, that’s Richard’s job, isn’t it, and he’s certainly starting off on the right foot. How much does that sparkler weigh? A pound? Three?”

“Do fuck off, Samuel.”

When he didn’t say anything, she twisted around. He hadn’t left, though. Quite the contrary, he was standing over her, his brows down under his aviators, a straw boater in one of his hands, that cigar in the other.

“What?” she snapped as all he did was continue to stare at her.

He indicated her with the cigar. “What’s that on your arm?” Turning back to the water, she shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s a bruise.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

Next thing she knew, he crouched down beside her and took her wrist in his grip.

“Let go of me!”

“That’s a bruise. What the hell, Gin?”

She yanked herself free and put her jacket back on. “I had a little too much to drink. I bumped into something.”

“Did you. Then why does it look like a man’s handprint?”

“You’re seeing things. It was a doorway.”

“Bullshit.” He pulled her around to him and then looked lower than her face. “What’s under the scarf, Gin.”