Break Me: Smith and Belle (Royals Saga Book 12)

by Geneva Lee

  “I will see to it.”

  I found Georgia leaning against the wall, staring around her.

  “Forget I was coming?” she asked.

  “We’ve had some excitement here.” That was a gross understatement, but she would know soon enough.

  The last time I’d seen her, she’d been dressed for her part as Clara Cambridge’s personal security. Today, in a black leather jacket and skin-tight dark denim jeans, she looked more like her old self right down to her knee high black boots.

  “Have you ever heard the term nouveau riche?” she asked as I led her up the stairs toward my office.

  “It cost less than our place in Holland Park,” I said evenly. “Remind me where you’re spending your time these days.”

  “I don’t actually live in a castle.”

  “Trust me, this place is no castle.” A hellscape would be a more apt description.

  “What the hell is going on here, Price?” Georgia demanded as soon as we were in my study. She begrudgingly took a chair on the other side of my desk.

  Instead of joining her, I unearthed a bottle of Scotch from behind a stack of boxes. I found two tumblers from the offices I’d kept in London before marrying Belle. They were filled with dust, so I wiped them out with my shirtsleeve.

  “You sure know how to treat a guest,” Georgia said dryly as she watched me with a smirk.

  “Getting soft on me?” I asked her. “Accustomed to your meals being delivered on silver platters at the palace?”

  “A girl has to have standards.” She accepted the Scotch despite her commentary. “You look like a man that needs this drink. That’s never a good thing.”

  “You’re here with information,” I reminded her, taking the seat across from her and staring into my own glass of amber liquid. “You tell me if I need this drink.”

  “What was going on out there?” Georgia asked.

  I knew better than to think I would get her to talk before I came clean myself. Georgia wasn’t the type of person who needed to spill a secret. She could hold on to one forever. I might have asked her to look into Thornham’s history, but that didn’t mean she would do me the courtesy of sharing what she found. Especially not if she felt as though she could use it as currency. It was how she operated. It was how we operated. Transactionally.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “You have a full bottle of Scotch. We have time for a long story.” Georgia might be abrasive, but I’d known her longer than any one else in my life. More than that, I’d grown to trust her.

  I filled her in on the last few weeks worth of events, leading slowly to what had happened this morning. Georgia said nothing as I spoke, but her eyes narrowed as I finished my story and she sat down her glass, looking unnerved. I’d never seen her so obviously rattled.

  “You can see what I’m up against.”

  “Maybe I am getting soft,” she muttered. Georgia had changed since she’d gone to work for Alexander. It had been subtle at first. Sometimes, she still clung to seeing herself as the woman she’d been four years ago. She’d have to come to grips with how much she changed on her own terms. I wasn’t about to force her to confront that. Still, it wasn’t like her to look so worried. “You’ve got to do something about this, Price.”

  “I have a call in to the doctor. He’s going to stop by the house. Maybe there’s different medication she can go on,” I continued before downing the rest of my drink. “Honestly, I’m not sure where to start. Distract me. Tell me what you found in the file.”

  “That’s just it,” she said slowly like I’d asked her to put her hands where I could see them. “What I found in the file isn’t going to make you feel better.”

  At least, I wasn’t surprised to hear that. “What did you find?”

  “The bones are from the seventies, which means that it likely has to do with a local missing person’s case.”

  “There was more than one person down there,’ I said gruffly. The small skull floated to mind, and I shut my eyes against the image.

  “There was,” she confirmed grimly. “An entire family, in fact. The Thorns. Did you look into the history of this house before you bought it?”

  “I know it was vacant forever. It just sat on the market.”

  “But that’s not true. How did you hear about this house? It was vacant for years, kept up by a preservationist trust, but it wasn’t for sale,” she said. “It’s almost like someone wanted it to stay empty.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I stood to pour myself another Scotch. “We were told that the final member of the Thorns had passed and the house went on the market.”

  “Smith,” Georgia said with the delicacy of someone defusing a bomb, “the house was never on the market.”

  “That’s odd, considering I bought it,” I said in a flat voice even as my heart pounded against my chest. “Our estate agent told us about it.”

  “You need to reach out and find out how they knew about it,” Georgia said forcefully, her expression growing even grimmer. “I can’t help thinking someone wanted you in this house.”

  “Now you sound like him,” I murmured. I didn’t have to tell her who I was referring to. We both knew I was speaking of Alexander. “Do you honestly think there was some conspiracy to get me into this house?”

  “It’s not paranoia if they’re really after you,” she said with a bemused smile that didn’t match her worried eyes. “Maybe someone planned for you to come here.”

  “Who? I’m not a royal. Hammond is dead. There’s not a single one of our old associates around who will care what happens to me going forward.”

  “Then why did you run away from London? Because you thought if you severed ties with the royal family, you’d be left alone?” she guessed.

  I stared at her for a moment. It had occurred to me that that might be what this was about. But I couldn’t see a reason why any of them would want to come after me. Yes, I had helped Alexander. But for the most part, our relationship had been mercenary. I’d helped him for the sake of my own wife, so she wouldn’t lose her best friend. In doing so, Alexander and I had gotten along more in the past year than before, but I hardly qualified as one of his close friends or confidants. I said as much to Georgia.

  She laughed. “What lies are you telling yourself? You were there with us,” she reminded me. “You actively worked against MI-18.”

  “And what good would it do for them to come after me? I’ve cut ties, as you said. I doubt they have time for revenge.”

  “Maybe not,” Georgia said, shrugging her leather clad shoulders. “But it can’t be a coincidence that you wound up buying this house. Not with what’s happening now. Smith, you should sit down.”

  It wasn’t like Georgia to be so dramatic, so I did as she asked. Leaning back in my leather seat, I cupped my Scotch like a security blanket. “What happened to the family that lived here before?”

  “No one knew until they found those bones,” she said quietly. “They think it’s them. They’re the right age. They’re trying to secure some type of DNA match now.”

  “The whole family?” I asked, recalling the pile of mixed skeletons we had discovered in the cellar. The memory of musty earth filled my mouth and nostrils. I took a drink to wash it away. “How on earth did they wind up buried in my basement?”

  “Almost the whole family.” Georgia hesitated.

  “Just tell me,” I spit out. I couldn’t stand more mysteries or secrets. We had come here to start over, and somehow managed to find ourselves in the midst of another mystery.

  “There were reports over the years,” she began. “People swore they saw Miranda Thorne near the village or in the city.”

  “Miranda Thorne?”

  Georgia took a deep breath. “The mother.”

  “People always think they’re seeing ghosts,” I said swiftly.

  “That’s just it. Smith, there were no bones that matched her age or her description.” Georgia glared at me as if daring me to i
nterrupt her again. “And then there’s the stories.”

  We’d heard a few whisperings about Thornham since our arrival, but I’d ignored it. Now I wished I hadn’t. “Village superstitions.”

  “Maybe,” she agreed. “I would have said the same thing until you told me about Belle. The stories were that the mother went crazy. She kept claiming to hear voices. She would disappear for hours, sometimes days, and return with no explanation as to where she had been. Her husband even convinced her to see the village doctor. They were concerned she was having some type of psychotic break. She was being treated for a mental disorder.”

  “And?” I prompted, a pit had hollowed itself in my stomach. I didn’t want to know the answer, but I had to face it.

  “And then they disappeared.” Georgia swallowed a long swig of Scotch. “All of them. Vanished. The staff arrived for the day, and they were all gone. No note. No indication of where they were. The local police searched for them. They even reached out to Scotland Yard. No one ever found anything, except people who claimed to see the mother throughout the years.”

  “People claim to see the Loch Ness monster, too.” But as much as I tried to deny the story having any relevance to my own, I couldn’t. A mother slowly going crazy. A family trying to help her. That was Thornham’s legacy. Was the same thing happening to Belle? I shook my head. “It’s a coincidence.”

  “It might be,” Georgia said. “But are you willing to risk your family to make a point?”

  “What do you want me to do?” I looked to her, the question genuine. “Because I’m out of ideas, Georgia. I’m doing the best I can, and it’s not enough. Every time I think things are getting back to normal, it gets worse.”

  “Maybe you should come back to London,” she suggested. “Get her away from here.”

  “What if that’s not the problem? Then I’ll just be trading issues here for more issues there. I don’t have an army to protect my family.”

  “All you have to do is ask and he’ll help you,” Georgia murmured.

  I shook my head bitterly. The more entangled we stayed with Alexander, the worse it would be. I couldn’t see any reason for MI-18 to come after me now. Maybe they weren’t above revenge, but getting back in bed with the Royals would only draw more attention to us. We needed to figure out what was going on here. Whatever was happening to Belle was going on in her own mind. I refused to believe that I was living in a haunted house. Being part of a political conspiracy seemed almost as unlikely since all my enemies were dead. “I can handle things.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Georgia said, heaving a heavy sigh that seemed to suggest she was used to having conversations with stubborn men. “Mind if I stick around anyway, though?”

  It was actually a relief to have her ask. I might not agree with her theories— I suspected she’d been hanging around Alexander too long— but I trusted her. She would protect my family, and I needed the help.

  “If you don’t mind sharing the guesthouse,” I told her. “I’ve asked Jane to come down and help out.”

  “That’s a good idea.” She nodded sagely. “Belle needs something to anchor her to the past.”

  I forced a smile and tried not to see the statement as an insult. I wanted to be the anchor tethering Belle to this life. I didn’t want to have to ask for help. But I couldn’t deny that I’d failed to be what she needed. I couldn’t deny that she was still in danger, and I had not been able to do anything about it. I couldn’t pretend I had this situation under control.

  “I’m going to talk to some of the people who think they’ve seen Miranda over the years,” Georgia told me. “And I’m going to try to find the old staff.”

  “Georgia, it was over forty years ago,” I told her.

  “Forty years for them. You’re living it now,” she pointed out.

  As much as I wanted to argue with her, I couldn’t deny that she was right.

  5

  Belle

  I dragged myself out of bed the next morning. I’d taken one of my sleeping pills at Smith’s not-so-gentle request, and it was well past nine when I managed to gather my energy and face the day. I slipped on the velvet dressing gown Smith had given me for Christmas—sapphire blue to match my eyes, he’d said—and made my way down the spiral staircase. I’d been drinking that dreadful herbal tea for weeks. This morning I needed a proper cup of something stout and British. Passing the sitting room, movement caught my attention. I turned to stare at a mysterious pile of blankets. It stirred and I let out a little shriek. Georgia shot up, glaring, still half-asleep. Her ink-black hair was piled on top of her head in a wild bun. The blankets slipped to reveal a set of round, brown nipples. I turned away, shielding my eyes.

  “Morning,” she called grumpily.

  “Georgia— “I said through gritted teeth as Smith came skidding into the foyer, fully dressed in a wool sweater and jeans “—it’s nice to see so much of you.”

  “Maybe not that much of you,” Smith said dryly, casting an exasperated look her way.

  Georgia stretched her arms over her head and yawned, putting even more of her ample breasts on display. “Did I forget to warn you that I sleep in the nude?”

  Smith shook his head and guided me away. “Sorry about that.”

  “I was going for some tea to get going, but I’m awake now.” I shot him a frustrated smile that was more grim than greeting.

  “I think you could still use a cuppa.” He navigated us towards the kitchen, taking my hand in his.

  “What is she doing here?” I asked.

  At least three possible excuses seemed to pass over his face judging from the way his eyes narrowed then softened, his mouth opened then closed, and his nervous glance in my direction. “I forgot to tell you she was coming. She called yesterday, but…“

  “You got distracted,” I said flatly.

  “Honestly, I forgot myself until she arrived last night. I’m sorry that you found out that way.”

  “Every woman loves finding a beautiful, naked sociopath in their house in the morning.” I moved away from him, rifling through the cabinet and pulling out various tea tins. I popped the lids off each until the floral, astringent scent of Assam hit my nostrils. I shoved the others back inside.

  Smith turned on the hob and placed the freshly-filled kettle on it. “I wouldn’t call her a sociopath exactly.”

  “That’s the hill you’re going to die on?” I asked as I searched for a teapot. I’d become too reliant on Mrs. Winters the last few weeks, so much so that I barely knew my own kitchen.

  He found it first and placed it on a silver breakfast tray along with a gold-rimmed cup and saucer. Smith didn’t say anything as I shifted my attention toward the fridge.

  “Let me,” he said when I turned with butter and marmalade in my hands.

  I watched as my husband toasted a slice of bread, waiting for him to fill me in on the details of our unexpected guest. Instead, he focused on making my toast with the intensity of a Michelin-starred chef. He still hadn’t spoken when the kettle whistled. I picked it up off the hob using a kitchen towel and poured the boiling water into my waiting teapot. The team bloomed in the steaming water, releasing the promising smell of comfort, but today it only turned my stomach.

  “How long is she going to be here?” I demanded as I placed the pot on the tray. It was bad enough that I’d had witnesses to my mental breakdown. Now we were adding another. Georgia Kincaid was far from my favorite person. Plus, there was the fact that she had other people she should be worrying about. “What about Clara? She should be with her. She needs actual protection.”

  My best friend had people actively working to hurt her, and they nearly had earlier this year. I was just going crazy. It didn’t matter whether I had a bodyguard if the threat was my own mind.

  He put the plate of toast on the tray and turned to finally face me.

  “She’s going to help me look into some things. She’s not here to be your babysitter.” Smith placed his hands on my shoul
ders, angling his head so that I was forced to meet his green eyes. It was hard to look into them and see the love there. I didn’t understand how he could still feel that way after what I’d done.

  “What kind of things?” I added suspiciously.

  “The incident in London at your baby shower. We shouldn’t just forget that happened.” The lie slipped so smoothly from his lips that if I didn’t know my husband as well as I did, I might have believed him.

  I was being handled. I could sense it. I didn’t have to ask why, but I hated that he couldn’t be honest with me. I shrugged out of his grip, tossing a glib remark instead of calling him on the lie. “I probably sent it to myself. Did you consider that? I mean, who knows how long I’ve been a mental case.”

  “Beautiful.” His tone shifted to a deep baritone, rich with warning. It sent goosebumps rippling over my skin. “No one is allowed to talk about my wife that way, even her.”

  “Truth hurts, Price.” I picked up the tray and walked out of the kitchen. I wasn’t sticking around for him to feed me more placating words.

  Smith was up to something. There was a time that I might have pressed him on the matter, but now? I no longer trusted myself. How could he trust me? I’d made up my mind to do as he asked me, which meant making a place for Georgia in my home—like it or not.

  One benefit of adding more guests to Thornham was that it gave me something to do. We hadn’t spent much time worried about the guest house on our new property, because we hadn’t foreseen needing it. Now that Nora had moved in full-time to help with Penny, and Edward was staying, we didn’t have space in the main house for the new additions.

  I was less keen on having my Aunt Jane come to stay. She’d stopped by the hospital when Penny was born, cooing in baby talk and enjoying herself. It had been a lovely visit. That was before the crying started. I had barely talked to her since then. Aunt Jane, being the saint she was, must have assumed that I was simply busy with being a new mum. I’d meant to invite her for Christmas, or even call her, for that matter. Instead, like I’d done with everyone else, I’d taken to ignoring her. I didn’t want anyone to know how much I was struggling. It had been hard enough when Edward showed up. Smith had made the call to her, and I didn’t have the courage to ask him what he’d told her. Whatever it was, she’d dropped her New Year’s plans and told us she would be here tomorrow.