Gen looked at Orval. “The Bar Council is going to be working overtime on this case, looking to see where impropriety ends and espionage against Britain begins.”
Yeah, it was a threat. Gen the wet-behind-the-ears pupil barrister was threatening the senior Queen’s Counsel barrister.
It was awesome.
Orval was leaning forward, his elbows on the table and his eyebrows furrowed. He said to Christopher, very slowly, as if draft horses were dragging the words out of him, “Your case was built on Arthur’s unsuitability and that he was destroying the estate. It depends on what the committee believes.”
Christopher raised his head and looked around and behind Gen.
She didn’t dare turn around. Doing so would look like she didn’t trust the committee to be on her side. She stood with her arms braced on the table and glared at Christopher.
After a minute of Christopher swiveling his head around like a hyperactive ostrich with those disgusting snaky necks of theirs, Gen asked him, “Well? What’s it going to be? Are you going to end this charade here, or are we going to have the committee vote on it? We only need a simple majority. Do you want to see that published in the newspapers? How about that you lost the lawsuit to the guy you accused of being a traitor and then you were arrested for treason?”
Christopher looked back to Gen. He looked around the room, his light gray eyes flicking to the committee members, his lawyer who wouldn’t return his gaze, and his brother, the British spy he had exposed.
Christopher blurted, “I concede. I withdraw the case.”
Gen slapped the table, stood up, and strode back over to the defense table.
Behind her, Orval stood and reiterated the withdrawal for the official record.
Baroness Honeycutt announced, “I remind everyone that politically sensitive topics were discussed here today. Discussing them further might be considered treason since it would endanger a government employee and possible clandestine sources. Any discussion of this case in public will be dealt with harshly. Since the lawsuit is withdrawn, this committee meeting for the House of Lords is adjourned.”
The committee stood to leave. Someone opened the doors to the corridor, and the audience that had been watching from the gallery rushed back inside the room, asking what the hell had happened.
Christopher and Orval bolted for the doors to get out.
Lee and Rose rose from their seats and began sweeping the papers into stacks.
Gen walked over to Arthur while the crowd was fighting to get back inside. “Are you all right?”
“Scraped raw,” Arthur said, his face entirely devoid of emotion. “I hope no one dies.”
Gen grabbed his hand, but the crowd reached them.
The senior barristers of Serle’s Court, led by Octavia, shoved Gen away from the defense table and surrounded her.
Octavia ended up right in front of Gen. “What happened? Did they vote in here?”
“The claimant withdrew the case,” Gen said. “We won by default, or by not losing, or something.”
A roar erupted all around her, punctuated by a very unrefined rise of their fists into the air.
“Now, now,” Gen admonished them. “This isn’t a football game versus Germany. Let’s keep it British.”
They all laughed, everyone except James Knightly, whose scowl looked tremendously pissed.
Between their heads and over their shoulders, Gen saw that Casimir, Maxence, and a bunch of black suits had surrounded Arthur, who had scooped up Ruckus. The white pooch was sitting on Arthur’s arm like a toddler, his paws hanging onto Arthur’s shoulder.
They began to break a path toward the door.
She yelled, “Arthur!”
He met her eyes, his gaze solemn, and he said something to some of the men around him.
Three of the black-clad men broke away from Arthur, shoved through the crowd to Gen, and yanked her away from her friends.
Arthur was already out the door at that point, hustling with the others. Gen and her security men trotted, trying to catch up to them, but Gen’s high heels encumbered her when she tried to stretch her legs.
Down the hallway and through the doors, they hurried. Gen looked for Arthur on the bustling sidewalk drenched in bright springtime sunlight. Her eyes watered from the glare off the windshields of the cars passing on the street and the shining windows of the monumental Palace of Westminster.
Farther down the sidewalk, Arthur was standing with Casimir, Maxence, and the black-suited throng as black SUVs screeched to a stop in front of them. One of the guys with Gen took her arm and tugged her toward them.
In the other direction, a white van pulled up to the curb. A thin, older man—Bentley from that first party all those months ago—stepped out and spoke to Christopher Finch-Hatten who stood there with his attorney.
“Wait!” she told the guy with her. “Christopher can’t go with him.”
They reached Arthur’s group. Arthur chucked Ruckus into the SUV and held his hand out to Gen to help her in.
“That’s Bentley,” she told Arthur, her voice rising in panic. “They’re taking Christopher. They’re putting him in a white van.”
“It’s been arranged,” Arthur told her, handing her into the van where Maxence was waiting to help her inside. “He won’t be hurt. I have firm assurances that he and his family will be taken somewhere safe and secure, then given new identities and resettled. He exposed some very powerful people to scorn and ridicule, Gen. He isn’t safe. Quite honestly, I’m surprised that he survived this long.”
“But he’ll be okay?” she pleaded.
Arthur nodded. “They can ask the ultimate sacrifice of a person in their employ, someone who has committed their entire life to them, but not of a private citizen. Christopher and his family will be relocated.”
“And you trust them?” Gen asked him. “After all this, you trust them?”
They looked back to where Christopher was climbing into the white van.
“There’s no other choice.” Arthur intertwined his fingers with hers. He leaned toward her and whispered, “I love you.”
She leaned closer to his shoulder. Even through all the madness, the soft scent of his cologne—cinnamon and clean wood and sunshine and faint, warm musk—drifted from his clean shirt. “I love you, too.”
Arthur lowered his head near her ear. “I didn’t marry you to make a good impression on the committee or the tabloids. It wasn’t part of a ruse. You know that, don’t you?”
Gen smacked him on the shoulder. “Of course, dumbass.”
He chuckled. “Well, that’s good. Get in the car.”
“What are you going to do?” Gen settled herself in the middle of the SUV’s rear seat beside Maxence and grabbed for the hanging seat belt. “You can’t go with Bentley and them, not after all this.”
Arthur landed beside her and reached for his seat belt. “I don’t know what I shall do.”
Ruckus tucked himself between Arthur’s feet and panted, looking up at Gen.
“Casimir.” Maxence leaned forward, looking at his phone screen. “It’s on for tonight.”
Casimir twisted himself around from the middle seat. He asked Maxence, “She said yes?”
“She’s got a soft spot for priests.”
Casimir snorted. “For a particular wannabe priest, maybe.” He turned further to look at Arthur. “There’s a reception at the Netherlands’ embassy tonight. Would you care to be reintroduced to society?”
Arthur stared at him. “Someone will try to kill me as soon as I walk in.”
“We’ve figured it all out. You go home, clean up, and act properly British tonight. You’re the Earl of Givesnofucks who beat the rap—”
Gen snorted. “God, Casimir. You’re such a surfer dude.”
He ignored her. “—and kept your earldom because England’s primogeniture rules are antiquated and inherently unjust. You’re not a spy. You’re a drunken degenerate and waste of oxygen, just as you’ve always been. You
’re one of us again.”
Triumphant Homecoming
AFTER consideration, Gen and Arthur decided that the most secure location for them was Arthur’s London penthouse apartment.
The security there had been installed primarily by the Government Communications Headquarters, GCHQ, Arthur’s other masters in Gloucestershire. As the computer spies for Britain, their electronic security measures were probably better than MI6’s countermeasures.
The elevator rose from the echoing garage to the penthouse. Arthur held her hand.
In his other arm, he held Ruckus, the dog hanging over his forearm with all four paws dangling. The pooch panted happily, his pink tongue lolling out of his snout.
When the doors parted, his staff was lined up in the small foyer, their expressions rigidly British, a row of people in black trousers and white shirts.
Ruckus scooted into the penthouse to the front windows that overlooked Hyde Park and began bouncing in front of them.
Recognition rippled down the row as each person changed from stoic to shocked.
Gen announced, “We won the case. Sorry, folks. You’ve got to put up with this guy for another fifty years.”
The staff rushed them.
They surrounded Gen and Arthur, cheering and reaching for them.
Pippa hugged Gen around her shoulders and laughed. “I knew you’d do it!”
That was kind of gratifying. Gen hugged Pippa back.
Mr. Royston Fothergill shook Arthur’s hand while bent almost in half, offering his hearty congratulations in a choked voice while tears dripped off the end of his nose.
Arthur smiled at Gen above the mob. “We have another announcement to make.”
The staff quieted, but they were all smiling.
“We married,” Arthur said. “Gen is now Countess Severn.”
That started the riot all over again.
After some questions, Arthur shrugged. “Yes, I suppose we will have to do it all over again at Spencer House in a month or so. You’re right, of course. It’s only proper.”
Pippa grinned at them and walked over to let Ruckus out into his yard high above the London skyline.
An Introduction to Society
ARTHUR tucked his elbow to his side, keeping Gen close as they walked through the Embassy Gardens complex to the Dutch embassy for the reception. On both sides of the elevated sidewalk, a cultivated ravine fell away, stocked with carefully selected trees and pruned shrubbery.
Gen looked up at the night sky. “What the living hell is that?”
Arthur didn’t need to look at the skypool, a clear bridge of water stretched between the tops of two skyscraping apartment buildings to know what she was referring to. At night, the pool was lit and glowed teal. “It is folly at its finest.”
“I would say so,” she said, her darling Texas accent drawing out her words. “Are there people swimming up there?”
“That is its purpose.”
“How ostentatious.”
“Now you sound thoroughly British.”
The Dutch Embassy had been so much more convenient when it had been located near Hyde Park. When Caz had visited London, Arthur had popped over there to visit him.
Many embassies were moving from the Knightsbridge area near Arthur’s penthouse to Embassy Gardens and the Nine Elms district, including the Americans and the Dutch, which made sense financially.
The fact that those new embassies and apartments were practically down the street from MI6’s headquarters at Vauxhall made it that much easier to keep tabs on diplomats and the intelligence officers pretending to be “cultural attachés.”
Gen whispered to Arthur, “What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know,” he sighed, “but from the way Max and Caz were snickering during the drive over, I can’t imagine it’s going to go well for me.”
“If they were laughing, they can’t have lined up your assassination,” she said.
“Probably not,” he agreed.
He hated how dangerous this was. Even with Caz’s security troops flanking them and whatever Max’s plan was, Arthur was now a known spy who had gathered intelligence on the world’s most powerful and ruthless criminal oligarchs. They didn’t like that sort of thing.
Neither did opposing intelligence agencies.
Even MI6, just down the street, may have betrayed him with the intent of killing him.
There was nowhere he could hide.
And Gen was walking beside him.
He wished that he had been able to prevail upon her to stay in his flat, but there was no arguing with that Texan woman once she had set her mind on something, as she would say.
It was one of the things he loved best about her.
That, and seeing her sitting naked at his feet.
And the feel of her long, curvy legs and ass.
He shook off the thoughts that naturally followed such observations. He was about to enter a formal reception at the Dutch embassy. He shouldn’t be sporting a stiffie when he walked in.
They walked through the double doors flanked by Casimir’s Dutch security team. They were muttering into their lapel mics and pushing their earpieces deeper into their ears, which Arthur found amateurish. They seemed otherwise capable. He didn’t speak Dutch, so he wasn’t sure exactly what they were saying.
As they entered the main doors into the glass-enclosed lobby where the reception was being held, a wave of silence rode over the crowd inside. People watched them out of the corners of their eyes, waiting to see if other people would greet them or whether they should duck and cover when the carnage began.
Casimir and Maxence swept up to them.
Caz approached with his hand held out and a huge smile on his face. “Arthur! Welcome!”
Their security men closed ranks, allowing the two men into their bubble.
Caz hissed at them, “Back off. People need to see.” He pumped Arthur’s hand and then turned to kiss Gen on both cheeks and let Max shake Arthur’s hand.
Max was grinning hard, his black curls waving as he laughed with Casimir about something that wasn’t particularly funny. Arthur appreciated the effort, though.
Maxence turned and held out his hand. “Arthur, look who else is here to greet you.”
The slim brunette woman smiled icily at him. “Arthur, is nice to see you again so soon.”
Tatiana Butorin, head of a Russian mafia organization, the Solntsevskaya Bratva, approached Arthur, her hips swinging as she walked. The lights glaring down from the ceiling sparkled on her silver dress that reminded Arthur of iridescent fish scales.
Arthur shoved Gen behind himself and leaned backward.
From behind him, Gen said, “Hey!”
Tatiana kissed him on both cheeks.
Her greeting didn’t quite seem like one of those Judas kisses where he would be summarily executed afterward.
Tatiana whispered to him, “You have been naughty boy, yes? I hope you not tell anyone my secrets, but I think you don’t.” She turned. “Come, Arthur my friend. I want to introduce you to more of my friends.”
Arthur quickly introduced Gen to Tatiana, who exclaimed over the new Countess Severn until Gen looked mollified that Tatiana wasn’t trying to steal Arthur in a romantic way.
Arthur whispered to Gen, “Stay close to Casimir or Maxence. If anything happens, go with them. I’ll find you.”
“Are you serious?” she whispered, but Tatiana was already tugging him into the crowd of black tuxedos and glittering ball gowns.
Arthur strolled after Tatiana, who proceeded to introduce him to her Russian, Latvian, Ukrainian, Turkish, Egyptian, Chinese, and American friends.
After each introduction, the man or woman to whom Arthur had been introduced was hesitantly formal until Tatiana said something else to them.
Arthur’s Russian was very good, so he understood what she said to one of the Russians, which was the equivalent of, “He has connections to many families and organizations through the boarding school w
e attended and to the noble families in the UK. He introduced me to Donovan Hamnet at Pierre Grimaldi’s wedding. He can be very useful. It’s okay to talk to him. He’s one of us.”
Every time she said that last part—Arthur heard Donovan Hamnet’s name in half a dozen Slavic dialects that night and then the rest—the person brightened and shook Arthur’s hand with more vigor.
In an hour, every major player of foreign crime syndicates in the room believed that Arthur had been photographed with so many of their compadres because he had useful contacts and was “one of them.”
Tatiana Butorin had put Arthur back in business, at least as far as his usefulness to his MI6 masters was concerned.
As they headed back toward where Gen waited with Casimir and Maxence near the bar, Arthur touched her shoulder and breathed, “Thank you.”
She winked at him, sending a chill down his spine. “Chocolate is thicker than water, da?”
“Da,” he agreed.
“You not tell any of my secrets, do you?”
“As you said, chocolate is thicker than water.”
Tatiana said, “I knew I could count on you.”
Arthur was a British spy. He could lie so well that even a Russian mobster who had known him since first standard couldn’t detect it, but the Union Jack was literally engraved in his skin.
Tatiana left Arthur at the bar, sidled sideways, and slipped her hand through Maxence’s elbow.
Max finished sipping his drink before he turned his head to look at her. He ran one finger thoughtfully under Tatiana’s jawline, lifted her chin to look in his dark eyes, and smiled at her.
Tatiana’s lips parted, and for a fraction of a second, the brown eyes of the Pakhan of the Solntsevskaya Bratva held a flicker of fear.
Arthur was a British spy, so he didn’t allow his jaw to drop all the way to the floor.
Casimir turned to Max. “You’ll stay with the ladies during phase two of the plan, right?”
“Right,” Max said, though he didn’t look away from Tatiana, who was still watching Maxence as if mesmerized. She was breathing a little too deeply, a little too quickly.
Hard Liquor: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #2 Page 32
