The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (9 page)

“Oh, Edward …”

S
amuel
Theodore Lodge III drove his vintage Jaguar convertible down River Road at a measly fifteen or sixteen miles an hour. Traffic was no slower or faster than it ever was, but he was less frustrated than usual at the delay because this morning, he didn’t have to go all the way in to his law office in Charlemont proper. No, today, he was stopping off first to meet one of his clients.

Although to be fair, Lane was more family than anything else.

The big estates up on the hills were to his left, the muddy waters of the Ohio were to his right, and overhead, the milky blue sky promised another hot, humid May day. And as the balmy breeze ruffled through his hair, thanks to the top being down, he turned the local classical music station up so he could hear Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2 better.

On his thigh, he played the left-hand part. On the wheel, he commenced the right.

If he had not been a lawyer, as his father, his uncles, and his grandfather had been or currently were, he would have been a classical pianist. Alas, not his destiny—and not only because of the legal legacy. At best, he was serviceable at the keys, capable of impressing laymen at cocktail parties
and at Christmas, but not talented enough to challenge the professionals.

He glanced at the passenger seat, at an old briefcase that had been used by his great-uncle T. Beaumont Lodge, Jr. Like the car, the thing was a classic from an earlier era, its brown hide well worn, even bare in patches on the handle and the flap with the gold embossed initials. But it had been handmade by a fine Kentucky craftsman, built to last and look good as it aged—and as it had been in his uncle’s time, its belly was full of briefs, notes, and court filings.

Unlike in T. Beaumont’s time, there was also a MacBook Air in there, and a cell phone.

Samuel T. was going to pass the briefcase down to a distant cousin, someday. Perhaps a bit of his love of the piano, as well.

But nothing was going to a child of his own. No, there would be no marriage for him, and no children out of wedlock—not because he was religious, and not because it was something that “Lodges simply don’t do,” although the latter was certainly true.

It was because he was smart enough to know he was incapable of being a father, and he refused to do anything that he did not excel at.

This lifelong tenet was why he was a great trial lawyer. A fantastic womanizer. A highbrow drunkard of the very finest order.

All of which were a ringing endorsement for dad of the year, weren’t they—

“We interrupt this broadcast with breaking news. William Baldwine, sixty-five, the chief executive officer of the Bradford Bourbon Company, is dead of an apparent suicide. Numerous anonymous sources report that the body was found in the Ohio River—”

“Oh …
hell
,” Samuel T. muttered as he reached forward and turned up the tinny radio even further.

The report had more fluff than substance, but the moving parts were all correct as far as Samuel T. knew. Clearly, their efforts to squash the story until they were ready to come forward had failed.

“—follows an accusation against Jonathan Tulane Baldwine of spousal abuse by his estranged wife, Chantal Baldwine, just days ago. Mrs. Baldwine
was admitted to the Bolton Suburban Hospital emergency room with facial bruises and ligature marks around her throat. Initially, she accused her husband of inflicting the injuries. She recanted her story, however, after police refused to charge Mr. Baldwine due to lack of evidence …”

As Samuel T. listened to the rest of the report, he looked up ahead to the tallest hill.

Easterly, the Bradford family’s historic home, was a glorious spectacle at the apex of the rise. Overlooking the Ohio, the mansion was a whitewashed grand dame in the Federal style, with a hundred windows bracketed by glossy black shutters, too many chimneys to count, and an entrance so grand that the Bradfords had made it their company’s logo. Terraces sprawled out in every direction, as did manicured gardens full of specimen flowers and fruit trees, and great magnolias that had dark green leaves and white blossoms as big as a man’s head.

When the mansion had been built, the Bradford money had been new. Now, as with those bank accounts, there was a patina of age to it—but all kings started off as paupers, and all venerable dynasties were nouveau riche once. The term “aristocrat” just measured how far back you had to go to get to the upstarts.

Also depended upon how long you could keep your position going into the future.

At least the Bradfords didn’t have to worry about money.

The many-acred Bradford estate had two entrances. A staff one, which bisected the cutting gardens and vegetable fields and went up to the garages and the rear of the mansion, and a formal, gated path of glory for family and proper guests. He took the latter, the one Lodges had been using for a century, and as he ascended, he glanced at himself in the rearview.

It was good that he had sunglasses on. Sometimes one didn’t need to see one’s own eyes.

Gin would be having breakfast, he thought as he pulled up in front of the house. With her new fiancé.

Getting out, he did a pass-through with a hand to make sure his hair was back where it needed to be and picked up his great-uncle’s briefcase.
His blue and white seersucker suit reordered itself on his body without any prompting, and there was no reason to worry about his bow tie. He’d done it properly before leaving his bedroom suite.

“Good morning!”

Pivoting on his handmade loafer, he raised a hand to the blond woman coming around the side of the house. Lizzie King was pushing a wheelbarrow full of ivy plants and had a glow about her that was the best recommendation for clean living he’d ever seen.

No wonder Lane was in love with her.

“Good morning to you,” Samuel T. said with a slight bow. “I’m here to see your man.”

“He should be here shortly.”

“Ah … do you need help? As a gentleman and a farmer, I feel as though I should offer.”

Lizzie laughed him off and jogged the handles. “Greta and I’ve got this. Thanks.”

“And I’ve got your man,” Samuel T. replied as he lifted his briefcase.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to make Chantal go away—and I’m going to enjoy doing it.”

With another wave, he strode over to the mansion’s entrance. Easterly’s pale stone steps were shallow and broad, and they brought him up to the Corinthian columns around the glossy black door with its lion’s head knocker.

Samuel T. didn’t bother with formalities. He opened the way into a foyer so big one could have bowled in it.

“Sir,” came a British clip. “Are you expected?”

Newark Harris was the most recent in a long line of butlers, this current incarnation trained at Bagshot Park across the pond, or so Samuel T. had heard. The Englishman was very much out of the David Suchet as Hercule Poirot mold, officious, pressed as a fine pair of slacks, and vaguely disapproving of the Americans he served. In his black suit, white shirt, and black tie, he looked like he could have been in place since the house was built.

Alas, that was only appearances. And the man had things to learn.

“Always.”
Samuel T. smiled. “I am always expected here. So if you’ll excuse me, that is all.”

The Englishman’s dark brows shot up, but Samuel T. was already pivoting away. The dining room was to the right, and emanating from it, he could smell a familiar perfume.

He told himself to stay away. But as usual, he could not.

When it came to young, young Virginia Elizabeth Baldwine, soon-to-be-Pford, he never had been able to distance himself for very long.

It was his only character flaw.

Or rather, the only character flaw that concerned him.

Striding across the black-and-white marble, he walked into the long, thin room with the same attitude as he had dismissed the butler. “Well, isn’t this romantic. The affianced enjoying a morning repast together.”

Richard Pford’s head snapped up from his eggs and toast. Gin, meanwhile, showed no reaction—overtly, that was. But Samuel T. smiled at the way her knuckles went white on her coffee cup—and to make things sting more for her, he almost took the pleasure of informing her that her father’s suicide was common knowledge.

She was better at being cruel than he was, however.

And as Richard prattled on about something, all that registered was Gin’s long dark hair falling on her flowered silk blouse, and the Hermès scarf around her neck, and the perfect arrangement of her elegant body on the Chippendale chair. The overall effect was as if she had been posed by a great artist. Then again, say what one would about the woman’s morals, she always looked classy. It was the bone structure. The Bradford superiority. The beauty.

“—invitation soon,” Richard said. “We expect you to attend.”

Samuel T. glanced at the broomstick sitting across from her. “Oh, for your wedding? Or are we talking about her father’s funeral? I get the two confused.”

“Our nuptials.”

“Well, I’m so honored to be on a list that no doubt will be as exclusive as Wikipedia.”

“You
don’t have to come,” Gin said quietly. “I know you’re quite busy.”

He looked at that diamond ring on her finger and thought, yes, she had done well for herself. He certainly wouldn’t have been able to afford a gem of that size, and he was hardly a pauper. Pford’s money was on Bradford levels, though.

So yes, it was a helluva lifeboat she had chosen to jump into. It would have been safer for her to try to swim with the sharks.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Samuel T. murmured. “And I’m sure that daughter of yours is thrilled to finally get a father.”

As Gin blanched, he refused to feel bad. Like so much of Gin’s life, “that daughter,” Amelia, was a mistake, the result of one of her random hook-ups after she’d gone off to college, a living, breathing bad decision that, as far as he understood, she had failed to parent and barely acknowledged.

Why couldn’t he have just hated her? Samuel T. wondered. God knew there was reason enough.

Hatred had never been the problem, however.

“You know,” Samuel T. drawled, “I envy you two so much. Marriage is such a beautiful thing.”

“How is Lane’s divorce going?” Richard said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it.”

“Among other things. You know, one in three marriages end in divorce. But that won’t be you two. True love is so wonderful to see live and in person. You are beacons to us all.”

Richard’s brow lifted. “I didn’t think you were the settling kind.”

“I’m not at the moment. But my dream girl is out there. I just know it.”

That was not a lie. Unfortunately, she was marrying this asshole having breakfast with her—and the term that better fit Gin’s role in Samuel T.’s life was “nightmare.” But he’d meant his RSVP. He would be there when she walked down the aisle with this fool just to remind himself of the reality of their relationship.

As the sound of a powerful car engine percolated through the old-fashioned,
single-paned windows, Samuel T. nodded to the happy couple. “My client’s arrived. I can tell the purr of a Porsche anywhere. It’s like the sound of a woman’s orgasm—something you never forget.”

Turning away, he paused at the archway. “Something for you to work toward with her, Richard. Good luck with that, and call me if you need any instruction. I gave her her first one.”

L
ane pulled up to Easterly in his 911 and parked next to his attorney’s classic maroon Jaguar.

“What a view,” he said as he got out.

Lizzie looked up from the ivy bed she was on her knees in front of. Wiping her brow with her forearm, she smiled. “I just started about five minutes ago. Things will look even better in an hour.”

He walked onto the cropped grass. Off in the distance, he heard the hum of a lawn mower, the chatter of electronic clippers, a low whir from a leaf blower.

“I wasn’t talking about the horticulture.” Bending down, he kissed her on the mouth. “Where is—”

“Guten Morgen
.
”

Lane straightened and hid his grimace. “Greta. How are you?”

As Lizzie’s partner came around the magnolia tree, he braced himself for the German woman’s presence. With her short blond hair, her tortoiseshell glasses, and her no-nonsense attitude, Greta von Schlieber was capable of great feats of gardening—and deep, abiding grudges.

As a string of German came back at him, he was pretty sure she was wishing him a good day in such a way that a piano ended up falling on him.

“I’m going to meet with Samuel T.,” he said to Lizzie.

“Good luck.” Lizzie kissed him again. “I’m here if you need me.”

“I need you—”

Greta’s snort was part quarter horse, part mother hen … part bazooka pointed at his head, and he took the sound as his cue to leave. As much
as this was his family’s house, he wasn’t about to mess with the German—and he couldn’t say that he hadn’t earned her disregard.

But it was also time to start setting the record straight.

“It’s about the divorce,” he muttered to Greta. “My divorce. From Chantal.”