Hard Liquor: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #2

by Blair Babylon

  She didn’t.

  Arthur said, “So if you aren’t horribly embarrassed by my presence—”

  Gen laughed.

  “—we can descend the staircase together, looking dignified and thoroughly respectable, before we seek out the four members of the House of Lords committee and schmooze them.”

  Gen was laughing at him. “Oh, all right. Anything for the cause.”

  They waited in line with maybe a dozen other people all dressed up in tuxedoes and ball gowns.

  At the head of the line, just before the staircase, a man waited for them. He wore a suit, just a nice suit, and was quite a bit shorter than Arthur.

  When they reached the man, Arthur handed him a card. Gen glanced at it. Arthur’s neat, block writing filled the small piece of paper. He had been a good, prepared Boy Scout that day.

  Gen stood at the top of the stairs, holding Arthur’s elbow and taking a gander at the steps to judge them so she could descend properly. Falling down the stairs arse over tits wouldn’t be dignified or thoroughly respectable at all.

  The shorter guy beside Arthur sucked in a deep breath. His voice boomed across the lobby of the Louvre, startling Gen a little. “His Lordship Arthur Finch-Hatten, the Earl of Severn, and—”

  Gen expected her own lowly, commoner name to be read next. Whatevs.

  “—Her Grace Genevieve Ward, the Duchess of Dover and Landsdown, QC.”

  Gen choked, trying not to guffaw.

  As they floated down the stairs, she snorted and asked, “Gave me a promotion, did you?”

  He shrugged, “No one listens to these things. You should have heard some of the pranks we pulled when we were lads. When we were in school, Maxence was escorting Friederike von Hannover to a wedding or something, and he had them introduced as, ‘Lord Ben Dover, the Baron of Boggy Bottom, and the Countess Dixie Normous of Great Tosson.’”

  Gen cracked up behind her hand. It was hard to imagine solemn Maxence pulling such a stupid prank. “Oh, my God, no.”

  “She still talks about it. They’re great friends.”

  “I can’t believe that he made some poor man say that out loud.”

  “Teenagers are evil beasts.”

  “Y’all certainly had more money than sense.”

  “Yes, rather so.”

  Lord Richard Fane, the Earl of Devon

  LORD Richard Fane, the Earl of Devon, was standing near the huge glass bowls of shrimp and ice and other hors d’oeuvres when Maxence Grimaldi, the son of an old friend of his, approached him.

  Maxence was dressed in a black tuxedo with no honors or sashes, so he evidently hadn’t given up his pretensions of the priesthood yet, the poor sod. Well, the boy would learn soon enough.

  “Hello, Richard!” Maxence called over the crowd, swimming his way through the press of humanity toward him. “I’d like you to meet two very good friends of mine, Genevieve Ward and Arthur Finch-Hatten.”

  Richard shook hands all around. Maxence had always been a good lad, a little high-spirited, but good-hearted. He probably had decent friends, Richard hoped.

  This Arthur was tall and good-looking, seemed polite. The girl, Gen, was absolutely gorgeous, and she seemed one of their sort, refined. He liked that.

  Maxence held the new chap’s shoulder and chirped, “Arthur has a bit of a matter coming before the House of Lords committee that you sit on. I’d appreciate it if you’d hear him out.”

  Richard sipped his drink and settled in. Maxence’s father had been an absolute gentleman, and Richard would keep an open mind for his son in honor of their long friendship.

  In the end, it seemed like a very logical case of primogeniture. Richard wasn’t sure why it was even being tried, but he assured them of his vote.

  Such traditions must be maintained, or else chaos would reign.

  The Baroness Hazel Honeycutt

  THE Baroness Hazel Honeycutt, a life peer in the House of Lords as a Law Lord and Vice-President of the football club Arsenal, was sipping gin and bitters at the bar with a couple of friends when she saw Casimir van Amsberg shuffling through the crowd toward her.

  This could turn out to be a pleasant evening after all. She smiled at him. He was only a few decades younger than herself, and they’d had pleasant dalliances whenever they’d met at these social events. It had been a few years since she’d last seen him, but what of it?

  A woman was trailing behind him, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and voluptuous in a blue Marchesa couture gown and nice jewelry.

  Good taste, there.

  Well, even the most dedicated of manwhores eventually met their matches. How tragic. She’d enjoyed Cash immensely.

  “Casimir!” she greeted him. “It’s been ages.”

  “Indeed.” Casimir seized her offered hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles, probably for old times’ sake. That was polite of him. He turned to introduce the girl. “May I present Genevieve Ward, of Serle’s Court Barristers.”

  A barrister, then? Hazel prided herself on giving Casimir a taste for the finer things in life, including intelligent women. She could certainly be content with that. “A pleasure to meet you, darling.”

  Casimir introduced another fellow who had walked up with him, “And this is Arthur Finch-Hatten, a friend of mine from school.”

  “How do you do,” Hazel said, shaking the new arrival’s hand. Finch-Hatten was tall, about as tall as Casimir, which had made for some interesting mountain climbing. His eyes were absolutely entrancing, a silvery shade of blue that made her think of steel and spirits, which was an apt comparison.

  If Casimir was off the market with this Genevieve girl, perhaps this new gentleman would be an interesting diversion.

  Finch-Hatten said, “How do you do.”

  Casimir added, “Genevieve will argue Arthur’s case in front of your House of Lords committee next week.”

  Ah, and the plot thickened. Hazel prompted him, “Do tell.”

  As Genevieve and Arthur Finch-Hatten laid out their case, Hazel watched the way they interacted, little touches and magnetisms between them.

  They were the couple, not the girl and Casimir.

  Well, wasn’t that interesting?

  Hazel listened to their very obvious case for a few more minutes until she asked Genevieve, the barrister, “Why has this case even been brought before any court or committee? It seems specious.”

  “It is,” Gen said, “or it would be, if Arthur’s brother hadn’t built his case on character assassination.”

  “And that has stuck because?”

  “Well, Arthur’s been a bit of a rake,” the girl admitted.

  “Pish.” Hazel waved the insipid argument out of the air like stale smoke. “If our indiscretions disqualified us from our inheritances, the House of Lords would have been empty for generations.”

  Tatiana Butorin of No Noble House Whatsoever

  ARTHUR stood at the bar over to the side, sipping a strong vodka tonic and watching the crowd.

  Crowds can tell you a lot if you can read them.

  The crowd eddied and swirled around the lower lobby of the Louvre museum, as expected. The grand, spiral staircase that people descended after their presentation soared to the glass pyramid and night sky far above.

  Wedding guests congregated around the open bars and the tables where the more illustrious members were sitting, paying their dues and being recognized. A white cake that looked inspired by a spun-sugar Gothic cathedral stood far over to one side. Round tables formed rows around the lobby and crowded the balconies above.

  A string quartet played music that Arthur probably should know but didn’t.

  A couple were making a small commotion as they moved through the crowd, someone unexpected, someone exciting or nefarious. He would keep an eye on that and decide whether they were important.

  Arthur knew dozens of people here, perhaps hundreds. Some had greeted him whole-heartedly. Some others had caught his eye and turned away, lest they be linked socially or by certain o
thers who were doubtlessly watching.

  The crowd here held much of the world’s wealth, though quietly.

  Gatherings like this always drew watchers. He idly wondered who else was there and watching.

  A woman leaned against the bar beside him. Arthur waited a beat before he turned to see who it was.

  The slim brunette woman smiled at him.

  A chill ran down Arthur’s spine.

  He grinned and spread his arms. “Tatiana! It’s been ages! How are you?”

  Tatiana Butorin smiled a cold grimace that didn’t reach her eyes at all. She fluffed her brown curls. “So nice to see you, Arthur. You don’t visit us for months.”

  Her English was unusually bad, but she spoke several other languages fluently and without an accent. “It’s been a trying time at home in London. My brother is suing me for the earldom because I am a drunken degenerate.”

  “But you are my favorite drunken degenerate. Was your brother at Le Rosey?” she asked, meaning the boarding school that they had attended most of their childhoods.

  “No, Christopher was educated in England.”

  “I always liked you, Arthur. We could do something about this brother of yours.”

  As much as Arthur would enjoy ending Christopher’s meddling, handing his brother over to the assassins of a Russian bratva, or mafia, was significantly farther than he was willing to go. “He’s not a concern, just a nuisance. Thank you, anyway.”

  “If you change mind,” she said, “you know how to call me.”

  He certainly did. “Thank you, again. It’s nice to have friends looking after you.”

  “And nice to have friends like you, Arthur. Say, I would like introduction to friend of yours, Donovan Hamnet. He is here tonight, I think.”

  Donovan Hamnet was the heir to an English dukedom and very senior in the British ministry that regulated the oil industry in the North Sea. “I saw him at the bar, earlier. Let’s see if we can find him, shall we?” He offered her his elbow.

  Tatiana slid her hand under Arthur’s elbow, a cool, smooth motion like a snake coiling around his arm. “That would be lovely, Arthur. It is good favor. I knew I could count on you. Hot chocolate is thicker than water, da?”

  Another reference to the Le Rosey boarding school. Tatiana was laying the loyalty on thick that evening.

  “Pleased to be of service,” Arthur said. He dropped his voice and murmured near her ear, “You’ll refer to him as ‘your lordship’ or “my lord.’ He’s very proper about these things.”

  “Oh, you Englishmen and your titles. Russia is better. I am Mrs. Tatiana Butorin of No Noble House Whatsoever.”

  Arthur laughed. “Of course, you are.”

  Tatiana Butorin was a Pakhan, a Godfather, so to speak, of the Moscow-based Russian mafia organization, the Solntsevskaya Bratva. She wielded far more power than any English nobleman. Her brother Dima had been the Pakhan before her, but when he had died, she had consolidated power in a breathtakingly violent spasm. Some people thought that Tatiana’s husband was the real mastermind, but they were wrong. He enforced Tatiana’s commands.

  Tatiana winked at Arthur. The effect should have been impish if he didn’t know that her mercurial temper could flare at any moment about anything. She said, “And we keep it that way, don’t we, Arthur?”

  “As you wish. Let’s go meet Donovan Hamnet.”

  “After that, I heard Maxence Grimaldi is here, too. I remember him from school. It’s so nice that he wants to be a priest. I get his blessing.”

  “He hasn’t been ordained yet.”

  “We real Russians are devout Christians, even though we are Russian Orthodox, of course, not Roman Catholic. Only Communists were atheists, and we are not Communists.”

  No, the Russian bratvas practiced a most brutal form of Ayn Rand-style capitalism where the strong consolidated their power by ransacking the weak or poor for as much as they could take. The bratvas surely weren’t anywhere near the left, socialist side of the political spectrum with its pity for the poor. “I know how very pious you are.”

  “I so impressed with Maxence. I want his blessing even if he not a priest yet.”

  “I’m sure he’d be happy to see you again. Ah, here’s Donovan Hamnet.”

  Arthur would include this meeting of the head of a Russian bratva with one of Britain’s most influential regulators in his report for his masters that he would write tomorrow.

  Any time Russian oligarchs met with members of Her Majesty’s government, it was cause for concern, and doubly so if it concerned oil.

  Lord Ewan Caine, the Baron of Dillington

  LORD Ewan Caine, the Baron of Dillington and a life peer in the House of Lords for his distinguished service as CEO of the international banking firm Huntington, was shoving canapés in his mouth from a large, terraced banquet.

  He hadn’t had more than a few grams of carbohydrate for months.

  The crackers and pastries melted into sugar in his mouth. The glucose hit his bloodstream in a rush, and his head floated in the quiet music from the string quartet.

  He gobbled another cracker, one topped with a slice of salmon, hoping that the protein from the fish would delay the inevitable blood sugar crash.

  The crisp pastry underneath it shattered in his mouth, and he washed it down with champagne so sweet that he groaned. His doctor had also forbidden alcohol, and just one glass of champagne had set off this bubbly-fueled carb binge.

  Beside him, someone cleared their throat.

  He looked up, his head swimming in the air. “Yes?”

  “Ewan,” a beautiful brunette said, smiling at him.

  Her face shimmered and cleared in his vision, and he recognized Christine Grimaldi, always a vision of delight. He gently took her hand and tried to neither stumble nor spray crumbs at her. “Christine, my darling. What a lovely wedding this is, isn’t it?”

  “I think it’s lovely.”

  “Will I be attending one for you, soon?”

  She laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so. Married to the violin and all that. Say, a friend of mine is having a spot of trouble in the House of Lords. Would you be so kind as to hear him out?”

  Two people joined her, and Ewan worked hard to focus his eyes. The man seemed a few decades or so younger than himself, a big guy, pale eyes.

  The tall Amazon of a woman, however, was curved in all the right places.

  The sugar spun in Ewan’s head, and he nearly giggled at her perfection.

  Ewan might listen to her for an hour or so, just out of politeness, of course. He glanced around for his lady wife, but she seemed to be off talking to some friends around the bar.

  Christine introduced Genevieve Ward and Arthur Finch-Hatten, Lord Severn. Ewan settled in to cozy up to his new friends as Ms. Grimaldi floated off to discuss something with someone. “So what is this spot of trouble, hmmm?”

  The woman, Genevieve, said, “It’s almost nothing that we should need to discuss, but Arthur’s younger brother is suing him for his inheritance.”

  “Appalling.” Ewan had heard of the case and Lord Severn. He moved closer to Ms. Ward’s zaftig magnificence.

  Her lovely brown eyes widened. “It is. I’m shocked that we even have to defend it and that it’s gone as far as the House of Lords Committee for Privileges.”

  “Why, I’m on that committee,” Ewan said, picking up his cue.

  She leaned toward him just a bit, her scrumptious cleavage just a bit more on display. “And we’ll be arguing in front of your committee sometime soon. I’d appreciate it if you could read our brief with an open mind.”

  The man, Finch-Hatten, tugged on Genevieve Ward’s arm trying to pull her back from where she stood nearly bosom to nose with Ewan, who was positively entranced with her.

  Finch-Hatten tried to pull her away again.

  Miss Genevieve Ward shot Finch-Hatten a glare that would have peeled paint.

  Ewan decided right then that he liked her. Feisty women were his favorites, even i
f they were taken. Flirting with her right in front of Finch-Hatten—who was taller, younger, better-looking, and richer than Ewan—was particularly flattering to his carb-stoned ego. He knew that he was being manipulated, but he didn’t have to hate it.

  Ewan said to Miss Ward, “My dear, I will follow you anywhere. You can count on my vote in this matter.”

  Wulfram von Hannover and Ms. Rae Stone

  “YOU didn’t need to do that,” Arthur muttered, handing Gen another glass of white wine at the bar over on the side of the packed wedding reception.

  Gen chuckled at his scowl. “I’ve played the Trollop Card plenty of times at work. Octavia taught me everything I know.”

  His voice dropped lower. “We’ll get the votes we need without such theatrics. It’s unseemly.”

  “I think you didn’t like me flirting with him,” she said, glancing around the crowded ballroom to identify their next target.

  “I didn’t,” Arthur growled. He looped his arm around her waist and pulled her tightly against his chest. He wrapped her free arm around his waist, too, and she clung to him, squeezing. He said, “I didn’t like it at all.”

  A deep, male voice from behind them said, “Severn!”

  Gen twisted in Arthur’s arms, careful with her wine glass and her elbow in the packed room.

  Another tall, tall man was standing there. He was blond, and even in the dim light, Gen could see that his eyes were a deep sapphire blue.

  Gen just bet that he was another mutant-alien-guy from that boarding school again.

  The auburn-haired woman holding onto his arm was right around Gen’s height, plus or minus a bit depending on their shoes, and they stared straight into each other’s eyes. Her blue dress was about the color of the guy’s eyes, and her jewelry was magnificent, right down to the glittering tiara she wore in her hair.

  Seriously, a tiara. Gen should have made Arthur and Graham find her a tiara in that mess of jewelry.