by J. R. Ward
Devil's Cut is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (c) 2017 by Love Conquers All, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Hardback ISBN 9780451475305
Ebook ISBN 9780698193055
randomhousebooks.com
Cover image: Glen Allison/The Image Bank/Getty Images v4.1
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Note from the Author
Dramatis Personae
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By J. R. Ward
About the Author
Note from the Author
It has been such a privilege to write about my adopted home state, its proud history of bourbon making, and these wonderful, complicated, and sometimes broken people who live and work at Easterly. This series was born of my old-school love for the television show Dynasty, fueled by my deep reverence for Kentucky, and directed by my fascination for how people and families evolve through stressful times.
As a New Englander who was transplanted from one Commonwealth to another, I had a hard adjustment in the beginning. Now, well over a decade later, I can truly say that I can't imagine living anywhere else but here. The NCAA basketball tournament is happening right now, for example, and I have a huge TV set up in the foyer with six sofas and coffee tables arranged around it. The entire house is dismantled, and yesterday, a big crowd of friends was screaming and yelling at the games (there was also a boxing match in the basement during one halftime that resulted in a busted lip as well as Ping-Pong grudge matches that were nearly as bloody as the boxing). This kind of devotion to a college sport would have been unthinkable before I moved here--and what a joy, and sorrow!, it is to me (my beloved Cardinals did not advance).
The making of bourbon requires time and temperature. After the nascent alcohol is put into the charred barrels, it is stored in uninsulated conditions in the rackhouses and left to interact with the caramelized sugars of the oak over the heat and the cold of the seasons. This dance, and the alchemy that ensues, is what gives bourbon its beautiful color, and is part of how it gets that special taste. I have often thought the process is analogous to the way places, people, and the various eras in our lives affect us, tempering our core characteristics, emphasizing certain traits, bringing forth our strengths--or highlighting our weaknesses.
My two favorite terms of art from what I have learned about bourbon making and its traditions are "the angels' share" and "the devil's cut." Roughly speaking, about fifty-three gallons of "white dog" are put into each barrel, but at the end of the aging process, much less than that actually comes out. This loss can be upward of two percent per year and happens due to evaporation, "the angels' share," but also absorption into the oak of the barrel, "the devil's cut." What this means is that, if you age a bourbon for, say, ten years, you may get around forty-three gallons out the other side, and the longer it stays in there, the less you have on the far side. For example, some of the oldest Pappy van Winkle, which is aged for twenty-three years, yields only fourteen gallons of bourbon at the end of its rackhouse days.
The angels' share is a romantic-sounding term; the devil's cut something more sinister, although that is really because of the "d" word. In both cases, they refer to the environment owning a piece of that which is within it. In my situation, when I came down here, I never expected to like Kentucky, and I certainly wasn't interested in being influenced one way or the other by anything about it. Now? If, God forbid, I ever had to return to life in Boston? I would most certainly leave a piece of my soul in the land of the Bluegrass.
And you know, that seems only fair, given all the good that has come to me here, and all the wonderful people I have met and things I have enjoyed.
But, again, I have no intention of going anywhere else, anytime soon, God willing.
I have absolutely loved writing these three books, and I thank you for taking some time from your life to have a stroll in through Easterly's grand front door and a walk around her beautiful, complicated rooms. I'm so grateful I got to do this series!
Oh, and Go, Cards!
--J. R. Ward
Dramatis Personae
Virginia Elizabeth Bradford Baldwine, also known as Little V.E.: Widow of William Baldwine, mother of Edward, Max, Lane, and Gin Baldwine, and a direct descendant of Elijah Bradford, the originator of Bradford bourbon. A recluse with a chemical dependency on prescription pills, there are many reasons for her addiction, some of which threaten the very fabric of the family.
William Wyatt Baldwine: Deceased husband of Little V.E. and father, with her, of Edward, Max, Lane, and Gin Baldwine. Also father of a son by the family's now deceased controller, Rosalinda Freeland. Also the father of an unborn child by his son Lane's soon-to-be ex-wife, Chantal. Chief executive officer of the Bradford Bourbon Company when he was alive. A man of low moral standards, great aspirations, and few scruples, whose body was recently found on the far side of the Falls of the Ohio.
Edward Westfork Bradford Baldwine: Eldest son of Little V.E. and William Baldwine. Formally the heir apparent to the mantle of the Bradford Bourbon Company. Now a shadow of his previous self, the result of a tragic kidnapping and torture engineered by his own father. Edward has turned his back on his family and retired to the Red & Black Stables.
Maxwell Prentiss Baldwine: Second-eldest son of Little V.E. and William Baldwine. Black sheep of the family, who has been away from Easterly, the historic Bradford estate in Charlemont, Kentucky, for years. Sexy, scandalous, and rebellious, his return to the fold is problematic for a number of people in, and outside of, the family.
Jonathan Tulane Baldwine, known as "Lane": Youngest son of Little V.E. and William Baldwine. Reformed playboy and consummate poker player, he is in the throes of a divorce from his first wife. With the family's fortunes in turmoil, and embezzlement rife at the Bradford Bourbon Company, he has been forced into the rol
e of family leader and must rely now more than ever on his one true love, Lizzie King.
Virginia Elizabeth Baldwine Pford, known as "Gin": Youngest offspring and only daughter of Little V.E. and William Baldwine. Previously a rebellious contrarian who thrived on attention, she has been the bane of her family's existence, especially after having had a child out of wedlock and barely graduating from college. She has just married Richard Pford IV, the heir to a liquor distributing company and fortune.
Amelia Franklin Baldwine: Gin's daughter with Gin's one true love, Samuel T. Lodge--although neither Samuel T. nor Amelia is aware of his parentage. Previously a student at Hotchkiss, she is returning to Charlemont to continue her schooling close to her family.
Lizzie King: Horticulturist who has worked at Easterly for nearly a decade and has kept its gardens nationally renowned showcases of rare specimen plants and flowers. Now engaged to her love, Lane, she is fully committed to him and their relationship--however, she is not into his family's drama.
Samuel Theodore Lodge III: Attorney, sexy Southern gentleman, stylish dresser, and pedigreed, privileged bad boy, he is the only man who has ever gotten through to Gin. He has no idea that Amelia is his daughter.
Sutton Endicott Smythe: Newly elected CEO of the Sutton Distillery Corporation, Bradford Bourbon Company's biggest rival in the marketplace. In love with Edward for years, she has excelled professionally, but stagnated in her personal life--in large measure because no one compares to Edward.
Shelby Landis: Daughter of Jeb, a thoroughbred racing legend who mentored Edward when it came to horses. A hardworking, strong woman, she takes care of Edward--even when he doesn't want her to.
Miss Aurora Toms: Easterly's head chef for decades, capable of serving up soul food or Cordon Bleu cooking with a strong hand and a warm heart. Suffering from terminal cancer. Maternal force in the lives of Lane, Edward, Max, and Gin, and the true moral compass for the children.
Edwin "Mack" MacAllan: Master Distiller of the Bradford Bourbon Company. Cultivating a new strain of yeast, he is racing against time and limited resources to keep the stills running. Has recently met the love of his life, but is worried about the future of the BBC.
Chantal Blair Stowe Baldwine: Lane's soon-to-be ex-wife. Pregnant with William Baldwine's illegitimate child. A beauty queen with all the depth of a saucer, she is threatening to expose the paternity of her unborn baby as a way to get more money from Lane in the divorce proceedings.
Rosalinda Freeland: Former controller for the Bradford Family Estate. Committed suicide in her office in the mansion by taking hemlock. Mother to Randolph Damion Freeland, eighteen, whose father was William Baldwine.
Easterly, the Bradford Family Estate, Charlemont, Kentucky
There was someone trespassing down in the garden.
In the lazy, hazy Southern night, beneath the flower-tasseled fruit trees, and between the saucer-sized tea roses and the squads of trimmed boxwood hedges, a figure was inside the ivy'd walls, moving over the brick paths, heading for the back of the mansion like a stalker.
Jonathan Tulane Baldwine squinted and leaned closer into his bedroom window. Whoever it was...they were in a crouch and sticking to the shadows, and the efficiency with which they chose their way suggested they knew what they were doing and where they were going. Then again, it wasn't that hard to find a twenty-thousand-square-foot white birthday cake of a house in the dark.
Turning away from the wavy old glass, he looked to his bed. Lizzie King, the love of his life, was deeply asleep in the pillows, her blond hair gleaming in the moonlight, her tanned shoulder peeking out from the silk sheets.
Funny, these moments of clarity, he thought while he pulled on a pair of boxer shorts. As he considered who it might be, and came up with nothing good, he realized without a doubt that he would kill to protect his woman. Even though she could take care of herself, and he felt like he was relying on her now more than ever...if anybody tried to hurt her?
He would put them in a grave faster than his next heartbeat.
With that resolve, he went silently across the Oriental rug to an antique bureau that had been in his family since it had been made in the 1800s. His gun was in the top drawer on the left, under the rolls of finely woven socks he wore with his tuxedos. The nine millimeter was compact, but it had a laser sight, and it was fully loaded.
He disengaged the safety.
Letting himself out into a hall that was long as a city street and appointed with all the grace and formality of the corridors in the White House, he kept the weapon down by his thigh. Easterly had twenty or so family and guest bedroom suites under its prodigious roof, and as he passed by doors, he counted who was inside--or should have been: His younger sister, Gin, although not her new husband, Richard, who was away for business; Amelia, Gin's sixteen-year-old daughter, who had yet to go back to Hotchkiss for finals; Jeff Stern, Lane's old college roommate and newly appointed CEO of the Bradford Bourbon Company. And then of course, Lane and Gin's mother, Little Virginia Elizabeth.
It was possible that any of them could be down there for a two a.m. stroll. Well, except for his mother. In the last three years, Little V.E. hadn't been out of her room for anything other than his father's visitation mere days ago--and even though that occasion had warranted the effort, seeing her dressed and on the first floor had been a shock.
So it was unlikely it was her.
And as for staff? The butler had quit and none of the maids stayed overnight--well, and the maids had all been let go anyway.
No one else should have been on the property.
Halfway down the hall, he walked through the second-story sitting area and paused at the head of the formal staircase.
The security alarm was not going off down below...but he hadn't put the system on when he and Lizzie had gotten home from the hospital.
Dumb.
Hell, had he even bothered to lock the thousand or so doors on the lower level? He couldn't remember. It had been nearly midnight and his brain had been a mess, images of Miss Aurora in that ICU bed tangling him in knots. Dear Lord...that African-American woman was more his mother than the neo-Daisy Buchanan who had birthed him--and the idea that the cancer was taking Miss Aurora away from him organ by organ was enough to make him violent.
Descending the grand stairs, which were right out of Tara's playbook, he bottomed out on the entry foyer's black and white marble floor. There were no lights on, and he stopped again and listened. As with all old houses, Easterly talked when people moved through its rooms, its beams and boards, hinges and handles, conversing with whoever walked around.
Nothing.
Pity. Kentucky law provided a homesteader defense if you killed a trespasser in your house--so if he was going to shoot somebody tonight, he'd prefer to do it inside rather than out. That way, he wouldn't have to drag the body through some doorway and arrange things so it looked like the sonofabitch had been breaking in.
Continuing on, Lane went through the shadowy rooms in the public part of the house, the antiques and old paintings making him feel like a security guard checking a museum after hours. Windows and French doors were all around, bracketed by great swaths of vintage Fortuny, but with the lights off throughout the first floor, he was as much a ghost as whoever in that garden was.
In the rear of the mansion, he went to one of the doors and stared out across the flagstone terrace, searching through the wrought-iron loungers, chairs, and glass-topped tables, seeking that which did not belong or was in motion. Nothing. Not around the slate skirt of the house, at least.
Somewhere out in the greenery, however, a person was stalking his family.
Turning the brass handle, he gently opened the door halfway and leaned out, the mid-May night embracing him with warm, heavy air that was fragrant as a bouquet. He looked left. Looked right. The gas lanterns that ran down the back of the mansion threw flickering light, but the peachy pools of illumination did not carry far.
Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the d
arkness as he exited and carefully shut things up behind himself.
As with all homes of its stature, the great Federal manse had extensive formal gardens sprawling around it, the various layouts and planting zones forming landscapes as unique and distinct as different zip codes in a city. The unifying element? Elegance at every turn, whether it was the Roman statuary striking poses in the midst of miniature hedge patterns, or fountains that sprinkled crystal clear water into koi ponds, or the pool house's wisteria-covered arbor.
This was Mother Nature subjected to the will of man, the flora cultivated and nitpicked and maintained with the precision one would use to decorate an interior room. And for the first time in his life, he thought of the cost to keep it all going, the man-hours, the plant material, the constant mowing and weeding and pruning, the worrying over those two-hundred-year-old brick walls and walks, the cleaning of the swimming pool.
Craziness. The kind of expense that only the super rich could afford--and the Bradford family was no longer in that stratosphere.
Thank you, Father, you sonofabitch.
Refocusing on his mission, Lane put his back against the house and became a deer hunter in a stand. He didn't move. Barely breathed. Stayed quiet as he waited for his target to present itself.
Was it Max? he wondered.
His parents' loveless marriage had produced four children--a shock, considering his mother and father had rarely, if ever, been in the same room together even before she had taken to her bed three years ago. But there was Edward, the golden eldest son, who had been hated by their sire; Max, the black sheep; Lane, who had turned being a playboy into an art form--at least until he'd been smart enough to settle down with the right woman; and finally Gin, the promiscuous rule thwarter.
