by Sofia Daniel
My room was next to Mr. Burgh’s, which was even larger than mine and decked out in mahogany, brown leather, and varying shades of gray. And on its other side was a lemonade-pink room with a hand-made quilt and identical teddy bears with tartan bowties on the bed.
“Mother,” I whispered.
I turned around in a circle, taking in the framed photos on the walls. There were school portraits, holiday snaps, and posed photos of Mother with her friends—all of which depicted a full and happy life.
My brows furrowed. How could someone who seemed to have had everything end up in prison and married to Billy Hancock?
In the corner of the room stood the type of antique writing bureau I’d seen ladies use to write correspondence in period dramas. I pulled down the worktop, revealing an interior of shelves laden with heavy stock writing paper, fountain pens, and cartridges.
“Posh.” I pushed it back into place and opened a drawer to find letters stacked in piles and wrapped in ribbons.
A quick glance through each pile told me they were from girlfriends and a few from international pen-pals, but it still struck me as odd. Mother was my age at the turn of the millennium, which was hardly the stone age. She could have used Hotmail, Yahoo mail, or even AOL mail. Why in the holy highlands did she need to write letters?
The irregular, jagged writing of one stack caught my eye. Its first letter said,
2 January 2001
Dearest Abigail,
Happy new year! I have not stopped thinking about you since the Christmas ball.
Your father has given his permission for us to marry next year—subject to your consent. What do you think of a white wedding at the chapel? Bishop Liddell will conduct the service, I’m sure.
We must control our passions on the Easter trip to Andorra. The next time we make love, it will be in our marital bed and not on the ski slopes!
Your ever-loving admirer,
Thomas
My throat dried, and I glanced at the date of the letter. Six months before I was conceived. This could be my father, but who the hell was this Thomas person?
11 January 2001
Abigail,
If you persist in slandering me, I will have no other recourse but to call a solicitor. Believe me, I have allies that will ruin both you and your family for spreading lies.
You clearly consented to intimacy at the Christmas ball. If the experience was a disappointment, then I apologize. However, I would advise you to refrain from making unfounded accusations as they have long-reaching repercussions.
Sincerely,
Thomas Neapolitan
My mouth dropped open, and tears stung the back of my eyes. Poor Mother. It looked like Father Neapolitan was both deranged and a rapist. I turned over the letter to see if he had written anything else, but it was blank.
I moved that letter to the bottom of the pile and scanned the next few. They contained mostly drivel about him having friends in high places, being of noble birth, and aspersions on Mother’s sanity. The usual dross unfeeling bastards spouted to hide their guilt.
One missive made me furrow my brow.
17 May 2001
Miss Burgh,
Pursuant to your deplorable conduct with that thug from London, I have no choice but to withdraw my proposal of marriage.
Not only have you have fallen from both my esteem and estimation, but you have sullied my perception of all womankind. Since you persist in besmirching my good name, I will retaliate in kind.
Enclosed are the Christmas and birthday cards you sent me over the years. I expect you to return mine.
Sincerely,
Mr. Thomas Neapolitan Esq.
I shook my head. Someone needed to push this psychopath into a volcano. He was still stalking her even though she’d moved on with her life.
Most of the other letters contained an outpouring of his feelings toward the betrayal of his only friend. Reading between the lines, Mother had been quite popular at school and spared Father Neapolitan attention out of pity.
16 November 2001
Miss Burgh,
How the mighty have fallen. I read about your conviction in the Glasgow Gazette. You are a whore, a liar, and a slanderer several times over, but I never thought you capable of the theft of a precious heirloom.
Now that the papers have published the name of your London thug, I will pursue William Hancock for assault and battery to the extent of the law.
I hope you receive your just punishment from both God and the English judiciary system. May you and your bastard soon-to-be child languish in hell.
Yours in vindication,
Mr. Thomas Neapolitan Esq.
My fingers trembled, and my pulse beat between my ears like a war drum. This letter was after Mother had been thrown in jail. She would never have read this. My throat tightened. This was beyond sick. Father Neapolitan had sent that message to strike at a distraught Mr. and Mrs. Burgh. That wretched, sanctimonious rapist.
Gulping mouthfuls of air, I stared at the jagged words until they blurred. If Billy Hancock was the boy Mother had met on a Glasgow weekend and she had run away to London months later to meet him, did that mean he was my father?
Nausea trickled up the back of my throat. I didn’t want to be related to either of those bastards. I shook off those thoughts and swallowed hard.
After placing the letters back in the drawer, I took a break to eat and shower before opening the one next to it, which held a photo album. This one contained pictures of a young version of Mother with her girlfriends. Most of them were in Glasgow town center, with weedy looking teenaged boys hanging around in the background.
One of the pictures was of Mother and a dark-haired girl standing next to a young Billy Hancock. He stared lazily at the camera with his arms wrapped around the girls and an unlit cigarette hanging from between his lips. My tall, muscular stepfather looked dazzling compared to the dreary schoolboys littering hanging around behind them.
From his designer clothes, mobile phones, and gold chains, he was probably dealing back then.
I shook my head and whispered, “Why?”
The answer was clear. Father Neapolitan had been harassing Mother, and anyone else was a welcome escape. It wouldn’t surprise me if he framed her for stealing something from the academy just to discredit her accusation of rape.
Mother beamed at me from the scrapbook. I didn’t think I had ever seen her looking so happy. If Mother had supposedly slept with the London thug in May, she might have met him in the subsequent Glasgow weekend and conceived me. It looked like my father was Billy Hancock.
My shoulders drooped. If that was true, why didn’t she declare him on my birth certificate?
The doorbell rang, and my heart did a triple backflip. I’d lost the entire afternoon to snooping.
I ran down the stairs and flung the door open, letting in a gust of frosty air. It was dark already, and the outside lights made the knights’ features appear even more chiseled.
My eyes skipped over Kendrick and Orlando and focussed on Maxwell, who stood less proud than the others. In the mere space of twenty-four hours, his bruises darkened to a purplish-blue that appeared nearly black.
Shit.
Knowing that Sammy had done this to him turned my stomach into knots. He was still with my former friend, Nichelle, yet he thought he had the right to pummel anyone who got close to me. Maxwell’s gray eyes met mine, and all the anger and hurt and resentment resurfaced in a rush of boiling blood.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” I placed my hands on my hips.
The bastard lowered his gaze. “I regret what I did.”
“What part?” I snapped. “Spending months scheming to get me jailed or the part where Elizabeth got you arrested, too?”
Kendrick bristled. “Being attacked in prison might be an everyday occurrence for you, but no Deloraine has ever been incarcerated.”
I bared my teeth at the arrogant git and glanced at Orlando, who shrank under my glow
er. “If I’m such a jailbird, what the fuck are you doing on my doorstep?”
Kendrick’s face twisted with annoyance. He was about to say something shitty when Maxwell spoke. “Please, let us in and we’ll explain everything.”
Before I could answer, Orlando stepped forward. “We just want to make things right. May we come in?”
Distant footsteps crunched over the gravel. I peered through the gap between the boys. Gideon strode through the courtyard at a rapid pace. My heart lightened. It would no longer be three against one.
Chapter 11
Gideon shouldered his way through the three larger boys and stepped inside, his dark eyes glittering with the promise of battle. I led them all to the living room and sat them around the dining table. Tiny flames crackled and popped from the dying fire, and I added a couple of logs and some kindling to keep it going.
When I turned away from the hearth, it was to find all eyes on me. Orlando sat at one side of the table between the twins. Gideon drummed his fingers in a seat opposite.
“I thought the board would have expelled you for another bout of lewd conduct.” I fixed my gaze on the battered twin.
“They talked about suspending me again, but Father says I’m not welcome back home,” Maxwell muttered.
My gaze lingered on his school uniform. Clearly, they’d allowed him to return while they’d banished the innocent party. Placing my hand on my heart, I said in my best mocking voice, “Poor you. It must be terrible.”
Gideon cleared his throat. “We’ll listen to a detailed explanation of your misdeeds first, followed by the appropriate apologies, then hear your proposals for restitution.”
“What?” Kendrick snarled.
I pulled back the chair next to Gideon’s and sat. “You don’t think I’m going to trust you after that stunt?”
Orlando frowned. “But that was Elizabeth—”
“No,” I snapped. “She might have arranged the raid but Maxwell swapped places with Kendrick to mess with my head and get me in place for the raid.”
Gideon reached down and placed a leather document holder on the table, looking like he meant business. I preened on his behalf. No-one else could make looking prim and professional so badass.
Maxwell turned his gaze to Mr. Burgh’s cabinet of whiskey bottles, as though he wanted a sip of courage. Instead of looking at me, he dipped his head. “About that. I’m really—”
“Sorry?” I spat with a bitter laugh. “The only parts you regret are being ejected from Elizabeth’s circle of trust, getting arrested, and getting beaten up.”
“That’s not true.”
After extracting a fountain pen and a blank sheet of paper, Gideon placed a restraining hand on my wrist. “When did the deception start?”
When Maxwell dipped his head without replying, we both turned to Kendrick. I already knew the answer. The only time Kendrick had spoken to me voluntarily before this mess had been to negotiate the return of Orlando’s camera.
His lips thinned with distaste. “Max and I swapped places just before Elizabeth announced the information she’d gathered on you to the school. She thought it the perfect opportunity to gain your trust.”
“I thought as much.” Turning to Maxwell, I asked, “Who did I meet that second time at Wank?”
He swallowed. “Me again.”
“You put on the tattoo transfers just for one night?” I asked. “To make me join you and Orlando for a spit roast in the middle of a nightclub?”
Gideon shook his head and placed both palms on the table. “I’m not sure I can advise Lilah to continue these negotiations.”
“You’re not her lawyer,” Kendrick snapped.
Gideon took his time to lean back in his seat, all the while fixing the trio of assholes a withering glare. “No, but I’m the only person in this room who hasn’t either participated in or conducted an elaborate deception against my best friend.”
“You three are so pathetic, it’s dangerous,” I said.
“You were driving everyone crazy.” Orlando spread his arms wide in a helpless gesture. “We needed to do something drastic to take you down a peg or two.”
“And you succeeded.” I pulled myself to my feet, walked around the back of the dining chair and pushed it into the table. “Now, kindly fuck off back to Elizabeth.”
The three wank-stains stared up at me, unmoving. Kendrick through eyes hard enough to break my bones, Orlando with a grim expression that bordered on regret, and Maxwell, through eyes so swollen, I could barely see the gray. In the back of my mind, I wondered when the poor bastard’s wounds would subside enough to allow him to reapply his fake tattoos, piercings, and contact lenses.
I curled my lip. “Why are you still hanging around?”
“We’re not leaving until you listen to us,” said Kendrick.
I clenched my teeth. What was wrong with these boys? It was as if they had no sense of direction without a woman to tell them what to do.
Gideon wrapped a hand around my forearm. “Let’s hear their proposal.” He turned to Orlando, the least disgusting of the trio. “You three know Elizabeth the most. What’s the best way to hurt her?”
They exchanged glances. Kendrick spoke first. “Her father.”
“What about him?” I sat next to Gideon.
“Elizabeth is desperate for his approval, but she finds him cold, distant, and unavailable.”
“Really?” My nose wrinkled with confusion. The archbishop seemed alright to me. Maybe the old man was trying to come to terms with his daughter being a shit. “Do you want to get her disowned?”
“She once said something about a scandal within her family.”
I leaned forward. “What kind?”
“The previous Lord Liddell had at least one bastard child. If one of them were to come forward—”
“You wouldn’t,” said Gideon.
I glanced from Kendrick to Gideon, my brows knitted. “You can’t punish the archbishop for something his father did.”
“The Liddell family rules of succession favor the male line, regardless of legitimacy. As the archbishop was the eldest legitimate son, his position is secure.”
My gaze dropped to the table. I needed to concentrate on this scheme. “But there’s a younger brother. The Deputy Chief Constable.”
“Adopted and not eligible to inherit,” said Kendrick.
I clapped a hand over my mouth. “You’re going to find one of the previous lord’s illegitimate sons and dethrone Elizabeth.”
“Yes, and we know exactly where to look.” Kendrick straightened. “Will you join us?”
A foul taste coated my tongue. I hated Elizabeth and would happily see her humiliated for what she had done to me, but stealing her birthright based on sexist rules of succession was a step too far.
I shook my head. “Do something else.”
“What do you suggest?” Kendrick said with a sneer.
“Something to teach her not to mess with others,” I said. “Don’t bloody steal her title.”
“My father says he’s writing me out of his will,” Maxwell snarled. “Elizabeth deserves the same.”
All thoughts of infiltrating their gang flew into the fireplace. This scheme was so low-down and dirty, it made what Elizabeth did to me seem tame. I shook my head. “Get out.”
Maxwell’s swollen eyes widened. “What?”
“I thought Sammy had beaten some sense into you. But it’s just the same old crap, except this time, you’re turning against your former mistress.”
“Don’t you care that the police dragged you half-naked from your room in full view of half the school?” asked Kendrick.
“The half-naked part was your brother’s doing,” I snapped.
“Gentlemen, and I use the term loosely,” said Gideon, rising to his feet. “You have outstayed your welcome and have sixty seconds to vacate this property before I report you to the headmaster for trespassing.”
I suppressed a smile. Seriously, if I ever went into org
anized crime, I’d do it Godfather-style with Gideon as my consigliere.
Kendrick stood with a huff, muttering something about this being a waste of time. Without a word or a backward glance, he strode out of the door with his back as straight as the broom handle up his ass. Orlando let out a huge sigh, heaved himself off his seat, and trudged behind his best friend.
Maxwell was the only one left sitting.
“What are you waiting for?” I made shooing motions with both hands. “Leave.”
Maxwell stood, walked across the room and paused at the doorway. “Lilah.”
“What?” I folded my arms across my chest.
“I really am sorry for what I did.”
“Which part? Pretending to be your brother? Having sex with me under a false identity? Making sure I was in place for the raid?”
“All of—”
“You didn’t seem apologetic when you gloated at me being mauled by dogs, dragged naked out of bed and arrested.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I was a different person back then. Now, I’m sorry for it all.”
“You’re only sorry because it backfired.”
He didn’t reply, because it was true. Instead, he rose his shoulders. “I thought about you every day—”
“It’s only Monday,” I snarled. “Less than two days since the arrest.”
“Why does everything have to be so difficult with you?”
“Self-preservation.” I walked around the table and gave him a hard shove on the side, making him step back into the hallway.
His distorted features formed a frown. “What?”
“You always have an ulterior motive.” My hand wrapped around his school tie, and I yanked him through the hallway. Once again, he was surprisingly compliant considering his size and strength.
