Before, his body had commanded her, “You’re mine.”
Now, on their wedding night, as he took her skin-to-skin and melted into her, his body told her something else.
He whispered in her ear, “I’m yours.”
The Client’s Instructions
GEN slept, her body curled, as Arthur held her wrapped in his strong arms.
She drifted in the bed’s cool sheets and soft mattress, dozing as the plane soared through the night.
Arthur’s broad chest warmed her back, and occasionally, when he stirred, he pressed his lips to her shoulder before his breathing evened out.
Gen tried not to imagine what might be happening inside her body—two cells fusing to become something new, something of her and of Arthur, something very much wanted.
Arthur stroked her arm. He whispered, “Are you awake?”
“No,” she whispered back.
He followed her arm until he found her hand, and his fingers intertwined with hers. “At the House of Lords, I want you to fight. Fight hard.”
Gen squirmed to roll over under the blankets. She wrapped one leg around his bare legs, feeling his coarse, masculine hair against her skin. “Do you want me to try to win?”
“Yes.” His silvery eyes shone in the moonlight glowing in the long, oval windows.
“Can I tell them that you’re in MI6? Can I call Elizabeth or Bentley to the stand? Can I show them your ID badge?” she whispered loudly, just enough to be heard over the plane’s jet engines roaring outside the dark portholes.
“No. That would compromise people in dangerous situations.”
“Then I can’t win it,” she argued, even though maybe she could, but her chances would be better with corroborating testimony or evidence.
“Try,” Arthur said. “Fight.”
“Are you going to be around afterward?”
“I don’t think there’s any way for me to stay. We’ve had a blessed few days of safety, thanks to The Devilhouse.”
“It was a weird place to hole up.”
“Maybe,” his hand touched her hip, straying a little farther forward toward her stomach, “just maybe—”
They both paused, contemplating.
He said, “—if there were a boy, the earldom would pass to him instead of Christopher.”
“Oh, Arthur. I didn’t mean that. That’s not why I—”
“It doesn’t solve the problem that all of England thinks I’m a traitor, and several very powerful enemies of the UK know that I’m not.”
“Yeah,” Gen said. “That is a problem.”
“But tomorrow—” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Fight.”
The Hugger
ARTHUR was standing in the aisle of the airplane as it rested on the tarmac, holding onto the backs of seats. Under his palms, the soft leather gave as he dug his fingertips in.
Gen walked ahead of him and glanced back as she stepped out of the doorway into the bright English sunshine.
He called to her, “I’ll catch up.”
Casimir and Maxence were standing behind him, and he could feel them staring at his back.
Without turning, he asked, “Are you two coming to the House of Lords today?”
“Of course,” Casimir’s voice said. “We thought you might prefer us there.”
Arthur shrugged. “I might.”
Casimir asked, “Are you going with them, afterwards?”
In the forward part of the plane, early morning sunlight slanted through the wide porthole windows, illuminating the white leather seats and mahogany tables.
Arthur said, “I can’t go with them.”
His duty lay elsewhere, now.
Footsteps paced toward him. From behind him, Casimir said, “I would have bet that you would have gone with them quietly.”
“Things have changed,” Arthur admitted.
A hand grabbed Arthur’s arm to spin him around.
Ah, Casimir was going to try to rough him up, as he had when they were kids and Arthur had been doing something stupid and irresponsible, as usual. Caz was always the serious one, the one who led them back to the one true path.
Arthur steeled himself to suppress certain bits of training that lurked in his depths, ones that surfaced in dire situations. He didn’t want to accidentally hurt Caz. His training hadn’t been to stop someone, like a police officer, or to incapacitate someone, like a British MI5 officer going after a fugitive with information. Arthur’s training was essentially that of an assassin, to kill without hesitation to avoid discovery if the moment called for it.
So if Caz meant to deck him, Arthur needed to block his punch, and that was all.
Instead, when Arthur spun on his heel, Maxence stood blocking the airplane’s aisle, his dark eyes wide open and wild and level with Arthur’s own.
Maxence said, “Arthur, you can’t. You can’t leave her, and you can’t leave us.”
Before Arthur could help himself, because he was a jerk sometimes, he said, “But Pope Fuckitall, surely we’ll meet again in Heaven someday.”
Maxence grabbed Arthur, wrapping his arms around him furiously.
Arthur wasn’t quite sure whether Maxence was hugging him or grappling him or about to throw Arthur to the ground and pummel him.
Arthur held his hands by his shoulders and back. This wasn’t a threat. This wasn’t a threat. He pressed two fingers together, keeping his concentration sharp.
“Don’t,” Maxence said near Arthur’s ear. “Don’t go with them. I know places where none of them could ever find you. I’ll call Pierre for one of our planes, and we’ll fly you somewhere they would never think to look for you. A small bribe will take care of any passport trail, and I know just who to bribe. I’ve been doing this for years, sneaking people around. I can hide you. You can even help me do some good in the world.”
Maxence stood with both his arms cinched around Arthur’s shoulders.
Tentatively, Arthur hugged him back, not sure how Maxence had become the hugger of the group. These roles were important. Arthur was the hugger. Maxence practically climbed walls to get away from him.
One of Maxence’s arms had drooped uncomfortably down Arthur’s back. He shrugged and lifted it, getting Max’s arm up closer to Arthur’s shoulder so that it didn’t feel like such a dead weight.
Arthur said to him, “Whatever happens, Max, if anything happens to me, take care of Gen. If I run, I’ll find you later, and you’d better have her and she’d better be safe. You understand me?”
Maxence nodded, his chin jostling Arthur’s shoulder. “I will. Run, if you have to, and I’ll have her. Come find us.”
Casimir was standing back, his hands shoved in his pockets. “What, don’t I get a charge?”
“You have a wife and a baby on the way,” Arthur said over Maxence’s shoulder. “You have a commitment. You need to do your duty by them.”
Casimir stared at his feet.
Arthur held another arm out. “Come on. You know you want in on this.”
Casimir stared out of one of the windows of the plane for a moment before he strode that last step to wrap his arms around Arthur and Maxence. He said, “Don’t die, you asshole. I swear to God, if we do meet in Heaven, I’ll kill you again.”
Casimir’s arm was heavy over Arthur’s shoulder.
When Arthur had gotten back to Le Rosey after his long vigil with his mother, Casimir and Maxence had been waiting for him, and they had stood like this for what had felt like hours.
It had probably been a few minutes, but to Arthur’s nine-year-old, traumatized mind, it had felt much longer.
Now, their arms were around him again, and he was soothed.
And yet, Arthur longed for Gen.
She was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs on the tarmac, and his heart pined for just a few more minutes with her.
“Come on, you assholes,” Arthur said. “It’s time to go.”
Closing Arguments
GEN
stood behind her table in the House of Lords committee room in the Parliament Building. Her printed notes lay on the dark wood table directly in front of her.
Arthur sat in his chair by her left hand. His job was to look magnificent, noble, and sober in his tailored suit, which he was doing spectacularly. The suit he had borrowed from The Devilhouse fit him well but was just the slightest bit tight through his upper arms, emphasizing his rounded biceps.
Day-umn.
Gen licked her lips and looked away. She had a job to do today.
Arthur had looked at his brother, Christopher, sitting at the other table and frowned.
To Gen’s right, her friend, Rose Pennelegion, held notecards, legal pads, and pens. Her job was to hand Gen exhibits to show the committee and to watch the room for their response to Gen’s arguments.
Lee Fox was on an errand.
Gen prayed that the notorious London traffic would cooperate that morning.
Behind her, in the tiered seats of the small viewing area, sat Octavia Hawkes, David Trent, Leonard Boxster, Violet Devereaux, and all the rest of the senior barristers of Serle’s Court Chambers.
James Knightly sat on the end of one row, smirking.
Turns out that defending a case, especially the infamous Lord Severn’s case, and defending it before a House of Lords committee is a bit of a big deal. Every single one of the senior barristers who were going to decide whether or not to offer Gen tenancy in chambers had shown up to observe the circus of closing arguments.
Gen refused to think about how one, single, solitary word that was not quite perfect would doom her chances for tenancy and cost Arthur his earldom, his mother’s legacy, and Ruckus the dog.
Just one wrong word.
James Knightly would probably laugh out loud when she blew it.
At the end of one of the rows, Casimir and Maxence sat solidly, wearing suits, looking regal.
Baroness Honeycutt, Law Lord and august member of the House of Lords, drew the meeting to order with a sharp word to the gallery about maintaining silence and decorum during the hearing.
Seated beside Baroness Honeycutt was Lady Josceline Bazalgette, the blond, super-lawyer lady whom Gen had schmoozed at the dinner at Spencer House. She had given Gen good advice on a career in the law. Lady Bazalgette smiled at Gen.
Baroness Honeycutt looked down her straight nose from her vantage at the raised head table. “The committee prefers to hear closing arguments from both parties. Mr. Ainsley, you may proceed with your closing argument.”
As the claimant, Christopher’s attorney had the honor of going first.
As the attorney for the defendant, Gen would have the last word.
Orval Ainsley laid out his argument about why the earldom should be stripped away from the man who had lawfully inherited it and given to his younger brother.
His reedy voice echoed slightly in the cavernous room. The ceiling was at least three stories above their heads. Dark paneling rose halfway up the walls, capped by moulding, and huge portraits of illustrious members of the House of Lords loomed on the upper halves of the dark blue plaster.
Gen gritted her teeth at the slander spewing from the other barrister’s face. He kept emphasizing the strippers, the terrorists and populist strongmen, the drinking and carousing. He dwelled on it all. He reveled in it.
Orval was generally known as a dickhead.
He asked for the room to be darkened, and he projected the incriminating pictures of Arthur wining and dining the world’s most evil dictators on the wall above where they all sat. The pictures weren’t the raw images but the purchased newspaper ads, all with the word TREASON! in capital letters splayed across the tops of the pages.
Gen wrote a note on her talking points.
“Treason,” Orval repeated over and over and over. “A drunken degenerate, not satisfied to waste the resources of his earldom, went forth into the world to commit sinful acts and treason.”
Gen curled her hands into angry fists.
Arthur’s hands were clasped on the table. He glanced at the pictures splayed over the wall, but his easy demeanor didn’t change.
The committee members seemed mildly interested. Baroness Honeycutt and Lady Bazalgette exchanged glances several times, a quick flick of their eyes and quirk of their lips.
Gen watched the collusion between them, trying to figure out if that was good for their case or disaster.
Finally, finally, Orval Ainsley ground to a close with some drivel about the Queen’s honor and how the British people shouldn’t suffer such a drunken degenerate—wow, Orval used that phrase too much—to occupy a seat of the Empire.
“In conclusion,” Orval said, concluding yet again, “my client, the renowned physician Mr. Christopher Finch-Hatten, should be granted the Earldom of Severn, all the rights and privileges that are associated with it, all real estate, funds, accounts, and stocks and bonds in the defendant’s possession, plus all livestock and animals owned by the current Earl.”
And there it was. Livestock. Christopher was going after Ruckus under the cover of livestock.
Arthur’s frickin’ dog.
Orval Ainsley continued, “Specifically, a family with young children would be better suited for the ownership of the Jack Russell Terrier, Ruckus, than a single man without a family, living in an apartment in central London, who regularly carouses on the continent without providing for his dog, a dog that is untrained and a danger to society. He has allowed the dog to become a vicious, wild animal that bites visitors to his home. Like its master, the dog needs discipline and stability.”
Gen’s fingernails bit into her palms. Asshole. There was no reason for him to try to take Ruckus away from Arthur except spite.
Orval Ainsley sat down and looked over, smirking, at Gen and her table.
Baroness Honeycutt said, “Ms. Ward, you may proceed.”
Gen placed her hands on the table to steady herself as she stood.
So, everything important in Gen’s life all came down to this one speech.
Gen wiped her sweating palms on her thighs.
Might as well make it memorable.
She spoke loudly and clearly. “Baroness Honeycutt, my lords and ladies of the committee, it’s no longer Ms. Ward. I’m the Countess Severn.”
An actual ripple and collective gasp wove through the committee, Christopher’s counsel, and the gallery of her bosses behind her.
James Knightly snickered above the din.
Gen continued, “And I’m likely expecting the heir to the Earldom of Severn, as we speak.”
Okay, she was overstating her case and possibly expounding on a bit of wishful thinking, but it sure as Hell got everyone’s attention.
“So my learned friend’s—” she meant Orval Ainsley and spun a little snark into her tone, “—characterization of Lord Severn as ‘a single man without a family’ is entirely wrong, as is every other point in his argument.”
That got the gallery muttering.
Gen grinned at all the rabble-rabble-rabble in the gallery behind her and amongst the committee members.
Baroness Honeycutt called out, “That’s quite enough. We will have silence for these hearings, or we will clear this committee room.”
The senior barristers behind Gen hushed as if their voices had been switched off. No barrister wanted to piss off a Law Lord. They might remember.
When Baroness Honeycutt was satisfied with the quiet, she told Gen, “You may proceed.”
Gen said, “As I was saying, m’learned friend’s description of Lord Severn is deeply wrong on all counts. Everything he said is erroneous. It is ill-informed, inaccurate, and false. It is errant nonsense and perilously close to slander. His client’s purchased advertisements in national newspapers are libel and will be proven as such in court at a future date.”
Lady Honeycutt said, “Oh, this will be entertaining. Proceed, counsel.”
Behind Gen, a door clicked.
She glanced back.
Her friend,
Lee Fox, stood inside the door. Her scarlet hair and pasty skin shone in the overhead lights of the committee room. Lee held both her thumbs up and grinned at Gen.
“And indeed,” Gen said, “m’learned friend’s statements are so entirely wrong that even his characterization of Lord Severn’s dog as an untrained and vicious wild animal is completely mistaken. Ruckus, heel.”
The white dog trotted from where he stood with Lee, through the committee room, to Gen, holding his own leash in his mouth.
Lee Fox followed the dog over and sat beside Rose at the defense table. It felt good to have both her girls there.
Gen motioned and told him, “Around in front. Sit.”
The dog trotted around the table to the center of the square formed by the desks and dropped his butt to the floor. He spat his leash on the carpeting and stared solidly at the lords and ladies of the committee, his pink tongue lolling out of his snout.
“Stay.” She raised her head to address the committee. “Legally, Ruckus the dog was a gift from Mr. Maxence Grimaldi and was not purchased with funds from the estate. Thus, Ruckus is sole and separate property, not a part of the earldom in any manner.”
Baroness Honeycutt and Lady Josceline Bazalgette nodded.
Well, good. Arthur might end up destitute and homeless, but at least his dog wouldn’t end up with Christopher.
Of course, MI6 might throw Arthur bodily in the back of a van and murder him, but at least Gen would have the dog.
Gen picked up her notes. “Let’s go through m’learned friend’s arguments point by point and refute them, shall we?”
Baroness Honeycutt leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms over her stylish black suit jacket, and smiled.
Gen remembered the tours of Spencer House that Arthur had given her and the glow on his face as he had spoken about his ancestral home.
She said, “Let us begin. My learned friend—” Heck, yeah, Gen laced it with yet more sarcasm. This was war. “—stated that during my client’s childhood, Lord Severn did not return to Britain for years at a time and stayed only for a few days when he did.”
Rose slapped a few pages into Gen’s waiting hand.
Hard Liquor: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #2 Page 29
