by J. R. Ward
It would not do for others to feel anything, either--at least when it came to him and his disinheritence. His relationship with his father, such as it had been, was the business only of the pair of them. Edward didn't want to nurse the sympathy of others; his brother and sister needed to be as phlegmatic as he was.
A year ago, he thought.
Wonder why the change in the will had been made. Or perhaps he had never been provided for, the earlier incarnations not including him, either.
"--now to the individual bequests." At this point, Babcock cleared his throat. "I would note that there was a significant bequest in the will to Ms. Rosalinda Freeland, who has since deceased. The house that she resided in, at three-oh-seven-two Cerise Circle in Rolling Meadows, was in fact owned outright by Mr. Baldwine, and it was his wish that the property be deeded free and clear over to her. However, in the event she predeceased him, which in fact happened, a further provision was made in this instrument that this residence, along with the sum of ten million dollars, be gifted to her son, Randolph Damion Freeland. Said assets to be placed in a trust to his benefit until he is thirty years of age, with myself or my designee serving as trustee."
Silence.
The cricket kind.
Ah, so this was why you didn't want my mother down here, Edward thought to himself.
Samuel T. crossed his arms over his chest. "Well."
And that fairly much covered it, even as no one else said anything. It was clear, however, that Lane's soon-to-be-ex-wife wasn't the only woman William had impregnated out of wedlock.
Perhaps there were other sons or daughters in the world, too.
Although, truly, the answer to that didn't matter to Edward any more than any kind of inheritance did. He had come here for a different reason than the will. It merely had to look as though he had arrived for the same meeting everyone else had gathered for.
He had a necessary to dispose of, as his grandmother would have said.
TWENTY-THREE
As Mr. Jefferson ran through long paragraphs of legalese, Gin wasn't focused on the will reading or, really, the fact that Edward had been cut out. Her only prevalent thought was that Amelia was home . . . and Samuel T., as he sat over there, on that sofa, representing Lane's interest in a professional capacity . . . was under the same roof as his own daughter.
Neither of them knew it, of course.
And that was on Gin.
She tried not to imagine the pair of them sitting side by side. Tried not to see, as she recalled them both with a specificity that burned her memory, the common features, the similar movements, that narrowing of the eye when they were concentrating. She also especially deflected the fact that two of them hid their formidable intelligence behind a laconic sociability . . . like it was something they didn't want to get too showy about.
"And that concludes the salient provisions." Mr. Jefferson removed his reading glasses. "I would like to take this opportunity to answer any questions. The will is in probate at the moment, and a tallying of assets is beginning."
There was a silence. And then Lane spoke up. "I believe you have said it all. I'll see you out. Samuel T., join us?"
Gin ducked her head and only then let her eyes follow Samuel T. as he got to his feet and went to open the double doors for his client and his client's father's executor. He didn't glance back at her. Hadn't greeted her or stared at her.
But this was business.
One thing you could always count on with Samuel T., no matter how wild and crazy he could be after hours, was that as soon as he put his lawyer hat on, he was unshakable.
She literally didn't exist. Any more than anyone else who did not affect his client's interests did.
And ordinarily, this arguably appropriate compartmentalization irked her and made her want to get in his face and demand notice. Knowing that Amelia was somewhere in the mansion cured her of any such immaturity, however.
With them in such close vicinity, it was impossible to ignore the implications of her lack of disclosure. She was a criminal, stealing them of years that were their due, robbing them of knowledge that was their right. And for the first time, she felt a guilt that was so finely edged, she was sure she was bleeding internally.
But the idea of coming out with it all? That was a mountain insurmountable from where she stood now, the distance, the height, the rocky territory that all those missing days and nights, and events small and large, added up to, too far to travel.
Yes, she thought. This was why she caused the drama, this was the root of her escapades. If one created cymbals crashing directly in front of one's face . . . one could hear nothing of anything else. Especially one's conscience.
Her conscience.
"How are you?"
Jerking to attention, she looked up at her brother Edward, and had to blink through tears to properly see him.
"No, no, none of that," he said stiffly.
Just as well he thought he was the cause. "But of course." She wiped her eyes. "Edward . . . you are . . ."
Not looking well, she thought as she let go of her own problems.
And God, to see him hunched and thin, so different from the head of the family that she had forever pictured him as, was a recalibration she did not wish to make. It was so strange. In the ways that mattered, it was easier to lose her father than the incarnation of her brother that had always been.
"I'm well," he filled in when she failed to complete the sentence. "And you?"
Falling apart, she thought to herself. I am our family's fortunes, crumbling first in private . . . and then for all to see.
"I am well." She batted her hand about. "Listen to us. We sound like our parents."
She rose out of the chair and embraced him, and couldn't hold her wince in as she felt bones and not much else. He gave her an awkward pat before he stepped back.
"I understand there are congratulations in order." He bowed stiffly. "I will try to make the wedding. When is it?"
"Ah . . . Friday. No, Saturday. I . . . don't know. We're getting married at the courthouse on Friday, though. I'm not sure about a reception."
Abruptly, it was the last thing that held any interest for her.
"Friday." He nodded. "Well, best wishes to you and your fiance."
With that, he hobbled out, and she nearly jumped ahead of him and demanded that he tell her what he really thought: Her true brother Edward would never have been so phlegmatic about Richard. Edward had had to do business with Pford Distributors for years and had never been impressed with the man.
And if the old Edward had known what happened behind closed doors?
He would have been murderous.
But he had evolved into a different place, even as she seemed determined to remain on her path. Neither was an improvement, was it.
Left in the room alone, Gin sat back down and stayed where she was, a strange paralysis overtaking her body. Meanwhile, the various voices and footfalls drifted off. And then outside on the lawn in the sunshine, not far from where that gruesome discovery had been made in the ivy bed, the two lawyers and her brother fell into a clutch of conversation.
She stared at Samuel T. through the bubbly glass of the old-fashioned window. His face never seemed to change. It was as chiseled and perfectly formed as ever, his hair just a little on the long side and brushed straight back. His body, long and lean, carried that handmade suit like a hanger, the folds of fabric, the sleeves, the cuffs on the pant legs, falling exactly as the tailor meant them to.
She thought of him in the wine cellar in the basement, fucking that girl on the table at the Derby Brunch. Gin had been down there crying when he had snuck away and taken the woman in a fashion that had made the bimbo sound like a porn star.
Going by the history of Gin's relationship with Samuel T., it was just one more in a long line of nasty tit for tats . . . that had started at their first kiss when she'd been fourteen and culminated in Amelia.
The problem was, though, when they stopped the
fighting, the conflict, the pebble-in-the-shoe, thumb-tack-in-the-heel imitations, he could be . . .
Just the most amazing, incredible, dynamic, alive man she had ever known.
And in the past, she would have said that her marriage wouldn't have stopped them from being together. Theirs had always been a love affair that was like a bad intersection with no traffic light, crashes time and time again, sparks, the scent of gasoline, burned-up, tangled metal and rubber everywhere. They were safety glass busted into a spider's web of cracks, air bags deployed, tires popped and sagged.
But the rush just before the impact? There was nothing like it in the world, especially not to a bored, under-utilized, Southern belle like her--and it had never mattered if one or the other of them had been with anyone else. Girlfriends, boyfriends, serious lovers, booty calls. The constant for both of them had been the other one.
She had seen the look on his face when he'd learned of her engagement, however. He had never looked at her like that before, and that expression was what she saw as she lay awake at night--
"Helluva diamond he got you."
She jerked her head up. Samuel T. was leaning against the archway, arms crossed over his chest, lids low on his eyes, mouth tight as if he resented the fact that she was still in the room.
Gin tucked the ring out of sight and cleared her throat. "Couldn't stay away, Solicitor?"
As taunts went, it was a failure. The flat delivery just killed the dig completely.
"Don't be flattered," he said as he came in and headed for the sofa. "I left my briefcase. I'm not coming to see you."
She braced herself for that old familiar surge of anger--looked forward to it, in fact, if only for its familiarity. The corrosive grind in her gut did not bubble up, however, rather like a dinner guest who rudely failed to show and thusly disappointed their hostess. Samuel T., on the other hand, was playing by their old rules, poking, prodding, with an edge that seemed ever sharper.
"Please don't come to the wedding reception," she said abruptly.
He straightened with that old, inherited case of his great-uncle's in his hand. "Oh, but I'm so looking forward to watching you with your true love. I plan on taking inspiration from your amorous example."
"There's no reason for you to come."
"Oh, we differ on that--"
"What happened? Is it over with?"
Amelia burst into the archway, all sixteen-year-old energy in that body and with that sense of style that were not particularly teenaged-looking anymore . . . and those features that seemed to be more and more those of her father's.
Oh, God, Gin thought with a jolt of pain.
"Oh, hello," Samuel T. said to the girl in a bored tone. "I'll let your mother fill you in on the particulars. She's feeling ever so chatty. Looking forward to seeing you in a few days, Gin. In your white dress."
When he just sauntered away, without giving Amelia much of a glance or any thought at all, Gin got to her feet and started marching after him before she could stop herself.
"Mother," the girl demanded as she passed by. "What happened?"
"It's none of your business. You are not a beneficiary. Now, if you'll excuse me."
Amelia said something disrespectful, but Gin was focused on getting to Samuel T. before he sped off in that Jaguar.
"Samuel T.," Gin hissed as her heels clipped over the foyer's marble floor. "Samuel!"
She followed him out the front door just in time to see her father's executor drive off in a big black Mercedes and Lane walk around the back of the house.
"Samuel!"
"Yes," he said without stopping or looking back.
"You don't have to be rude."
At his convertible, Samuel T. got behind the wheel, put his briefcase in the empty seat and stared up at her. "This coming from you?"
"She's a child--"
"Wait, this is about Amelia?"
"Of course it is! You walked by her as if she didn't exist."
Samuel T. shook his head like something was rattling in his skull. "Let me get this straight. You are upset because I failed to acknowledge the kid you had with another man?"
Oh. God. "She's innocent in all this."
"Innocent? FYI, that was the reading of her grandfather's will in there, not a criminal proceeding. Guilt or the relative lack thereof is not relevant."
"You ignored her."
"You know . . ." He tapped his forefinger in her direction. "From what I understand, you're the last person who should be accusing anyone of ignoring that girl."
"How dare you."
Samuel T. stared out over the long, undulating hood of the Jaguar. "Gin, I don't have time for this. I have to go talk to your brother's wife's attorney right now--and that, unlike your little stamping display of--"
"You just can't stand anyone telling you you're not God."
"No, I think I can't stand you, actually. The God thing is a side issue."
He didn't wait for any further commentary from her. He started the engine, pumped the gas a couple of times to make sure it caught, and then he was off, following the path the executor had forged down the hill, away from Easterly.
Gin watched him go. Inside of herself, she was screaming.
About Amelia. About Samuel T. About Richard.
Mostly . . . about herself and all of the mistakes she had made. And the sadness that came with knowing that at the ripe old age of thirty-three, there was not enough time left in her life to right the wrongs she had wrought.
*
Lane went around to the back, hoping to catch Edward before he took off. Undoubtedly, his brother had come up the staff way because there had been news crews parked at the front gate since the suicide story had broken. And also, undoubtedly, Edward was in a hurry to leave considering what the will had read.
There were no words adequate for what their father had done: Cutting his firstborn out of an inheritance was at once totally in character for William, and yet a cruel surprise as well.
A final fuck you that could not be countered, the dead carrying a trump card into their grave.
So Lane wanted to . . . say something . . . or check in or . . . he had no idea. What he was clear on was that Edward would no doubt not be interested in anything he had to say, but on occasion, you just had to try--in the hopes that the other person, in a quiet moment of reflection, might remember that you had made the effort even if it was awkward.
There was no Red & Black truck in the short line up of cars by the business center, but Lane did find an old Toyota parked next to the red Mercedes he'd given Miss Aurora. Had to be what Edward had come in, but his brother wasn't behind the wheel, wasn't limping in its direction. Wasn't anywhere to be found, actually.
Ducking in the rear door to the kitchen, Lane found Miss Aurora at the stove. "Have you seen Edward?"
"Is he here?" she asked as she turned around from her pot. "You tell him to come see me if he's here."
"I don't know where he is."
Lane made a quick survey around the first floor and then paused at the stairs. There was no reason for his brother to bother with the effort of going up to the bedrooms.
"Where are you?" he said to himself.
Heading out into the gardens, he went across to the business center. All of the French doors were locked on the side that faced the flowers, and he had to go further around to the rear entrance with its coded lock.
As soon as he was inside, he knew he'd found Edward: There were overhead lights on again--so his brother must have turned the electricity back on.
"Edward?"
Lane walked down the carpeted hall, glancing into empty offices. His phone had been blowing up with calls from the board chair, each one of the pissed-off senior vice presidents, and even the corporate lawyer. But not one of them had dared come to Easterly, and that told him he had something on them. And even if that bunch of suits was busy disappearing evidence from downtown headquarters? It didn't matter. Jeff might dislike him at the moment, but that a
nal retentive numbers cruncher had saved files of everything that had been in the network before the whistle had gotten blown.
So any changes were just as incriminating as the malfeasance that had required a cover-up.
As Lane proceeded to his father's office, he was aware his heart was pounding and that his mind had retreated behind a wall of brace-yourself.
Rather as someone who was ready for a bomb to go off might take cover behind cement.
"Edward?"
He slowed as he got to the anteroom before his father's office. "Edward . . . ?"
William Baldwine's door was shut, and Lane couldn't remember whether he had been the one to close it when they'd done the evac the day before. As he reached for the knob, he had no idea what he was going to find on the other side.
And he wasn't sure he wanted to see it.
He pushed the panels wide. "Edward--"
The office was dark, and when he hit the light switch on the wall, no one was there. "Where the hell are--"
When he turned around, Edward was right behind him. "Looking for me?"
Lane barked out a curse and grabbed the front of his own chest. "What are you doing here?"
"Visiting my old haunts."
Lane looked for things in his brother's hands, pockets, behind Edward's back. "Seriously. What are you doing?"
"Where is senior management?"
"Down at HQ in smaller offices."
"You fired them?"
"I told them just to get out first." He measured his brother's face. "Or they were going to jail."
Edward smiled. "Are you going to run the company yourself?"
"No."
There was a pause. "What's your plan, then?"
"All I wanted to do was get them out of here."
"And you think that's going to stop the financial bleed?"
"Father is dead. I think that's what will stop it. But until I know that for sure, I'm not taking chances."
Edward nodded. "Well, you're not wrong. Not at all. But you may want to think about who is going to be in charge now that he's dead."
"Any chance you're looking for a job?"
"I have one. I'm an alcoholic now."
Lane stared over his brother's shoulder, out into the empty reception area. "Edward. I have to know something, and it's just you and me here, okay?"
"Actually, this entire place is bugged. Cameras hidden, microphones tucked away. There is nothing secret under this roof, so be careful what you ask."
