by J. R. Ward
For the first time in Easterly's history, the property and house were carrying a mortgage. Fortunately, it was with a family friend, not a bank--but Sutton Smythe was going to want her money and interest. And what about repairs? Gary was right. Something was always needing to be fixed, and if that "thing" was the roof? The electrical systems? The over-two-hundred-year-old foundation?
It was going to be a long, long time before those kinds of things were coverable: Not only had his mother's primary trust been drained, but the Bradford Bourbon Company was running at an over hundred-million-dollar deficit--even after Lane had paid off the fifty million his father had borrowed from Prospect Trust.
Over a hundred million dollars. Plus the depletion of his mother's trust.
It was a staggering deficit, and all thanks to his father's off-balance-sheet financing of a crap ton of businesses that had two things in common: One, they were all in William Baldwine's name; and two, they didn't just under-perform, they either tanked...or didn't even exist.
Lane was still working to get to the bottom of it all.
On that note, he decided to pay attention as Gary went up to the lantern, took a screwdriver out of the back pocket of his overalls, and began working around the base of the fixture.
"Do you need some light?" Lane asked.
"Plenty out here."
"You must eat your carrots." Leaning up against Easterly's clapboards, Lane rubbed his face. "It's dark as the inside of a skull."
"I can manage."
As Gary eased the heavy glass and brass casing away from its base, Lane straightened. "You want me to hold that?"
"Nah, you'll probably drop it."
Lane had to laugh. "Is my incompetence so obvious?"
"Ya got other skills."
"That better be true."
With a curse, Lane stared across the flower beds to the darkened expanse of the business center. The conversion of what had originally been the stables had been done back when money had been no object, and as a result, the architecture was so perfectly blended that it was hard to tell where the antique stopped and the modern began. Under that slate roof? Behind that lineup of French doors, each of which had been handmade to match the original ones on the mansion? There were enough offices for the BBC's CEO and senior management team, plus assistants, a full catering kitchen and also formal dining and conference rooms.
The full corporate headquarters were technically downtown, but for the last three years, all decision making had been done right across the garden.
William had maintained the relocation was required so that he could support his wife, who had taken to her bed and was ailing. The truth, however--which hadn't come out until about two weeks ago--was that the man needed privacy for his embezzlement. That self-contained facility, with its limited staff and very extensive security measures, had allowed him the isolation to do what he needed to for the misappropriations to remain under wraps.
It was the perfect ruse to protect himself from prying eyes. And the perfect plan, at least in the short term, for diverting BBC assets into William's own name and control.
Too bad the bastard had been horrible at business: Abandoned mines in South Africa, bad hotels out west, failed communications and technology endeavors. William's money had been a curse, it seemed, on any investment opportunity and Lane was still trying to get clarity on exactly how many failed entities were out there--
"How's Miss Aurora doing?" Gary asked as he shoved his fingers into the arteries of the lantern and then followed up with the screwdriver. "She any better?"
Ah, yes, something else Lane didn't want to think about.
"No, I'm afraid she is not."
"She gonna die?"
For the past few days, whenever anyone asked him that question, he always answered with optimism. Out here in the dark with Gary, he spoke what he believed was the truth. "Yes, I think so."
The head groundsman cleared his throat. Twice. "She's a good woman."
"I'll tell her you said that."
"You do that, boy."
"You could go see her, you know?"
"Nope. Can't."
And that was that. Then again, Gary McAdams came from the old school, before people talked about what was bothering them. He and Miss Aurora had both been working for the Bradford family since they were teenagers, and neither of them had married or had any children of their own. The estate was their home, and the staff and family on the land and in the house was their community.
Not that he would speak of any of that.
Still, the man's sorrow was as tangible as his reserve, and not for the first time, Lane recognized and respected the dignity in that taciturn nature.
"I'm glad you're staying on," Lane heard himself say. Although he might as well have talked about Miss Aurora's funeral arrangements for all this was going to go over well. "And I'll continue to pay your--"
"I think the valve here is clogged. I'ma come back in the morning and work on it. But least now it won't leak so it's not no fire hazard."
As Gary picked the lantern casing up and muscled it back into place, Lane found himself with a lump in his throat. For so many years, the estate had seemed to magically function on its own. Just as he'd never worried about how much it cost to keep the gardens going, he'd never considered the prices of the food or liquor for all the parties, or the insurance on all the cars, antiques, and other assets, or the heat, electrical, and water bills. He had gallivanted through his life, floating on the surface in the golden sunshine of wealth, while below him, people were toiling at minimum wage, squeaking by, just to keep up the standard he enjoyed.
The idea that Gary McAdams was staying put without a thought of whether or not he'd get a check each week made Lane feel about as tall as the sole of a shoe.
"Okay, so that's what we got."
The older man stepped back and returned his screwdriver to whatever pocket it had come out of.
"You, ah..." Lane grabbed ahold of his own shoulder and squeezed at the knot there. "You always keep one of those on you?"
"One-a what? M' Phillips head?"
"Yeah."
"Why wouldn't I?"
Well, there was that. "Good point--"
In the corner of Lane's eye, a flash of something moving caught his attention. "Wait, what is that?"
"Nothing," Gary said. "Whatchu think you saw?"
"There was something white over there." Lane pointed with the gun's laser sight across to the terrace that faced the river, the one where cocktails had always been served at sunset. "There was...I could have sworn that I saw someone there in a white dress...."
He let his words drift off, aware that he sounded crazy.
"You think you seen a ghost or sumthin'?" Gary asked.
The groundsman didn't seem particularly perturbed. Then again, you could probably drop a car on his foot and he'd just take out his screwdriver and remove the damn thing piece by piece.
Lane walked over and looked around the corner of the house. Nothing was on the terrace that shouldn't have been there, yet he continued all the way to the edge and the drop-off down the mountain. It was a helluva view, he had to admit, the Ohio River off in the distance, easing its way to Charlemont's financial district. Against the dark horizon, the twinkling, unevenly spaced lights of the skyscrapers made him think of bubbles rising in champagne glasses, and the scant, isolated cars and semis on the interlocking highways were a testament to Midwestern bedtimes.
Leaning out over the wall, he checked the old stairway that snaked down the great rock embankment. Easterly had been built upon the crown of the highest hill in the city, and the mansion's footprint had been so large that the plot of land had had to be shored up with backfilled earth held in place by cement and stone. When the leaves were out, as they were now in May, you couldn't appreciate just how precarious the house was on its lofty perch, the thickly leafed branches hiding the truth. In the winter, however, when it was cold and the trees were bare, the dangerous free fall was s
o clear, it was a rare vertigo that was not triggered.
Nobody was scooting down the steps. And nobody could have gotten through the padlocked gate down at the bottom.
Turning back to the mansion, Lane got worried he was seeing things. He'd much rather it just be a case of his ancestors returning to haunt their former home than some form of insanity setting in.
And, dear Lord, if that was your data screen? Things really were in the crapper.
"Thanks, Gary," he said as he re-approached the groundsman.
"What fer. Just doing my job." The guy took off his hat and repositioned it in exactly the same place on his head. "You go get yourself some rest, there. You look tired."
"Good advice. Very good advice."
Not that he had much hope of sleeping.
"And ya should keep something in mind."
"What's that?"
"God don't give ya more than you can handle. That ain't mean it's gonna be fun, but I guarantee ya that He knows you better'n you do yourself."
"I hope that's right."
The handyman shrugged and turned away. "Don't matter whether you hope or not. It's true. You'll see."
The interrogation room Edward was let into was the same one that he'd been in earlier in the day, when he'd met and fired his public defender. And as with the common area and his cell, the furniture was stainless steel and bolted down, the table and four chairs hard and cold and going nowhere.
He picked the seat facing the door, and as he eased his broken body down, he didn't bother holding the groan in. That was one nice thing about being around Ramsey. Mitch had seen him in even worse states so there was no need to hide anything.
"Are you going to tell me who it is?" He prayed it wasn't Lane. His little brother was the last person he wanted to see, even though he loved the guy. "Or are you going to make me guess?"
"Wait here."
"As if I'm going anywhere?"
The deputy backed out and there was a clank as the door was locked. Left to himself, Edward linked his hands loosely and put them on the tabletop. The air-conditioning was more intense here, the cold air falling like snow, silent and chilly, from the vent over his head. The lower temperature did not mean it was fresh, however. The stuff still smelled of institution, that unique bouquet of metal, astringent, and body odor.
Please, not Lane, he thought.
His little brother was his Achilles' heel, and he was concerned that Lane was going to spoil everything. Back when they had been growing up, Edward had always been in control--well, except for when Maxwell acted out, and no one was ever in control of that, not even Max. But Edward had always been the voice of authority and reason, and it had been from out of that venerable tradition that he had instructed Lane to accept the reality that their father's death had come about by Edward's own hand and no one else's.
And that Lane now had to take care of everyone.
After all, their mother was in no condition to deal with anything more stressful than getting her hair set and brushed out before her head returned to its silk-covered pillow. And Gin was going to struggle enough with downgrading from private jets to commercial business class. And Max? Not a chance. That vagabond was more likely to leave town on the back of some stranger's truck than man up and make the hard decisions that were coming soon.
But if this wasn't Lane, who could it be? Not the psychiatrist Edward had blown off earlier in the clinic. Not a priest for last rites, because although he felt like death, he wasn't dying. Certainly not anyone at the Red & Black Stables--Moe Brown could run that place with his eyes closed.
Who--
From the recesses of his mind, the image of a tall brunette woman with classically beautiful features and the elegance of European royalty emerged and took over.
Sutton...he thought. Would she come to see him?
Sutton Smythe was both his perfect match--and, when he'd been at the Bradford Bourbon Company, also his biggest business rival as the heir to the Sutton Distillery Corporation. Not only had they grown up together in Charlemont, but after they'd returned to work in their families' businesses, they had seen each other at charity galas, private parties, and as they sat on various boards. They had never been officially together, never dated, never merged their lives in any way--although there had been years of attraction and, most recently, twice when they had made love.
It was right out of Shakespeare, the two of them. Star-crossed lovers following different destinies.
But he loved her. With what little he had to give to anybody.
Just before he had made his confession to the police, he had told Sutton there was no future for them. It had killed him to hurt her as he had, but she must have seen his arrest on the news by now--so maybe this was her, coming to give him hell. After all, Sutton was the sort who would demand to know the why's and the where's and the how's, and she'd be well aware that Ramsey could get her in after hours in order to reduce the risk of the ever-hungry media finding out she was coming to see him--
There was a clank as the door was unlocked, and for a split second, Edward's heart pounded so hard he got dizzy.
With a jerky shift, he covered his wrist with his hand, even though his sleeve was down--and then the heavy panel swung open. As Ramsey came in, there was no seeing around his huge shoulders and chest, and Edward pushed his palms into the table and tried to stand--
"Oh, no," he muttered as he let himself fall back down. "No."
Ramsey stepped aside and indicated the way forward--and the young woman who followed his direction was like a pony walking past a Clydesdale. Shelby Landis was barely five feet tall, and between the no-makeup and that blond hair pulled back in a rubber band, she looked barely legal to drive.
"I'll leave you two alone," Ramsey murmured as he started to shut them in together.
"Please do not," Edward said.
"I've turned the monitoring equipment off."
"I want to go back to my cell!" Edward yelled as the door was closed and re-locked.
Shelby stayed where she'd stopped, just inside the room. Her head and eyes were down, and her arms tucked in around her chest, her T-shirt and her blue jeans clean but almost as old as she was. The only expensive thing she had on were her steeled-toed leather barn boots. Other than that, a Target sales rack was a step up from her wardrobe. Then again, when you spent your life working around thoroughbreds, particularly the stallions, you learned that everything you wore was going to need nightly washing, and your feet were among your most vulnerable points thanks to all those shod hooves.
"What." Edward tried to move backward in his chair, but the damn thing offered about as much flexibility and comfort as a cement block. "Well?"
Shelby's voice was as soft as her work-honed body was not. "I just was wantin' to see if you was okay."
"I'm fine. It's like Christmas every day in here. Now, if you will excuse me--"
"Neb cut his face open yesterday. In the middle o' that storm. I couldn't get the hood on him fast enough."
In the silence that followed, Edward thought back to just a week or so before, when Shelby had showed up on the doorstep of the Red & Black's caretaker cottage where he'd been staying. She'd had nothing to her name but an old truck and a directive from her dead father to find a job from one Edward Baldwine. The former had been nothing special, just four tires and a rusted-out shell. The latter had been a debt that Edward had had to honor: Everything he knew about horses, he'd learned from her ornery, brilliant, alcoholic father. And what do you know...everything Shelby had learned about ornery, alcoholic men had certainly given her a leg up in dealing with Edward.
"My stallion is an idiot," he muttered. Then again, so was its owner. "Moe and you get the vet out?"
"Fifteen stitches. I'm padding the stall. The whole thing. He always been like this?"
"A hothead with a temper, who alternates between arrogance and panic? Especially when he can injure himself? Yes, and it's gotten worse with age."
On that note, maybe he a
nd his stallion could get adjoining cells in here. He'd certainly appreciate the company, and the perennial spring thunderstorms were harder to hear in the middle of this concrete jail building.
"Them new foals all doin' well," Shelby murmured. "They love the meadows. Moe and I are rotating 'em pasture to pasture."
He thought of his stable manager. Such a good guy, real salt of the earth Kentucky horseman. "How's Moe?"
"Good."
"How's Moe's boy?"
"Good."
As a blush hit her cheeks, Edward was so glad he'd pushed her in the direction of that kid, Joey, and away from himself. Just because you were used to dealing with a problem didn't mean you needed to sleep with it, and for a short while there, Shelby had teetered on falling into him, no doubt because the chaos was familiar.
And in turn, he had tottered on falling into her, because suffering hated solitude.
When they both went quiet, he was tempted to wait out the real reason she had come to see him. However, in spite of the fact that he had nothing to do but time, he couldn't stand the inefficiency.
"You didn't drive all the way down here in the middle of the night to talk about the farm. Why don't you just out with it."
Shelby's eyes lifted to the ceiling, and the fact that she seemed to be praying to God did not fill him with happy anticipation. Maybe this was about money? The breeding farm, which had been started by his great-great-grandfather, had been the last place Edward had expected to end his career, not just a step down but a slip, fall, hit-your-head-and-pass-out from the lofty CEO-ship of the Bradford Bourbon Company. Yet what had been just a rich man's hobby to his ancestors had turned out to be a salvation for him--and he'd thought that he'd left the enterprise in the good books.
"Now hold on," he said, "if this is about cash flow, we were just beginning to show a profit. And there was enough money in the operating account--"
"I'm sorry?"
"Cash. In the operating account. I left fifty thousand in there at least. And we've got no debt, and the sales of the yearlings--"
"What are you talking about?"
As they looked at each other in confusion, he cursed. "So you're not here because the bank account has run dry?"
"No."
That should have been a relief. It wasn't.
Shelby cleared her throat. And then those eyes of hers locked on his. "I want to know why you lied to the police."