Perfect Scoundrels

by Ally Carter

  Kat glanced at the foursome. The woman was too thin—her face too tight. Kat was about to ask what was wrong with her when the girl shrugged and said, “Hazel’s baby girl thought she’d be a movie star, but instead she married some struggling producer who did nothing but try to get his wife to bankroll movies.” She sighed. “She hadn’t seen her mother in six years, but she’s here now.”

  They walked through the foyer, and Kat’s guide jerked her head in the direction of a short man standing on the bottom step.

  “Ezekiel Hale,” the girl whispered. “He’s part of the European branch; tells everyone he races Formula One cars, but really he’s just a gambler. A bad one.”

  There was a distant cousin who had bought (and lost) a sheep ranch in Australia, a son-in-law who had served time for crimes no one ever mentioned (insider trading), and a son who had shamed everyone by choosing Cambridge over Oxford.

  By Kat’s count, there were five branches, six divorces, and nine pending lawsuits.

  Uncle Joseph didn’t speak to Cousin Isabel. Great-great-uncle George’s descendants adamantly refused to be in the same room as the children of Aunt Margaret. And everyone thought Alfonzo Hale (a cousin whose mother was an Italian heiress) really needed to get a new toupee.

  “And I thought my family was crazy,” Kat whispered.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Kat squeezed against the wall to let a woman pass (Georgette, granddaughter of George). “How do you know all this?”

  “Maybe I’m a spy.”

  Kat smiled but didn’t reply, so the girl shrugged. “Let’s just say, if you’re young enough and female enough, you wouldn’t believe what people will say around you.”

  “Yeah. I think I would,” Kat said just as they returned to the room where the tour had begun.

  The people still ate and drank and clamored on about things like dividends and capital reinvestment, and something about the day felt off—almost like Hazel’s Monet was not the only forgery in the room.

  “Nobody seems…sad,” Kat finally realized.

  “Oh, they aren’t sad. They’re freaked.”

  “Why?”

  “Hazel was a nice old lady, don’t get me wrong, but word at the dessert tray is that the company isn’t doing so hot.”

  “It’s not?” Kat asked.

  “We’ll find Scooter; he’ll know all the gossip.”

  “Who’s Scooter?” Kat said just as the girl stopped. And pointed.

  “He is.”

  Kat followed her stare.

  And whispered, “Hale.”

  Hale stood alone in the crowded room, gazing up at the painting that hung above the fireplace. Kat remembered the look in his eyes when she’d told him it was a fake, the way he had come alive. She tried to compare the boy in the Superman pajamas to the young man in the dark suit, but whatever spark had been lit the night they’d met had gone out. She tried not to think that his rightful owners had somehow tracked him down and stolen him back.

  “Hey, Scoot.”

  The redheaded girl stepped toward him.

  “Nat!”

  Hale smiled and threw his arms around her, and it was like he didn’t notice Kat at all. And maybe he didn’t, because he just asked the other girl, “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think?” she challenged. “Dad told me about Hazel.”

  “But…I thought you were in Switzerland.”

  Kat watched the girl tilt her head and choose her words. “Switzerland didn’t exactly work out. Neither did France. Or Norway.”

  “Three schools?” Hale asked.

  “Well, technically, five schools—three countries.”

  “Impressive,” Hale said with a nod, and Kat honestly thought he meant it.

  The girl reached to straighten Hale’s tie. “It’s good to see you, Scoot.”

  “You too,” Hale told her, and Kat didn’t know what to make of this girl who was calling him Scoot and straightening his tie and making him smile.

  “Sorry! I’m so rude,” the girl said. “I have to introduce you to my new friend, Kat. Kat is—”

  “Oh, I know who Kat is,” he said.

  Kat just whispered, “Scooter?”

  “So you two do know each other.” Natalie crossed her arms and eyed Kat with new interest.

  “Natalie’s an old friend,” Hale explained. “And, Nat, Kat is…”

  “New,” Kat said. “I guess I’m the new friend.”

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” he told her.

  “Surprise,” Kat tried, but Hale didn’t look amused. “So, how do you two know each other?” she asked.

  “My dad’s the family lawyer,” Natalie explained. “Before him, my grandfather was the family lawyer. And before him…well…you get the picture. So I was kind of always around. Scooter here took pity on me, made friends with the help. He always was the family rebel.” She intertwined her arm into his and pulled him closer.

  “You say rebel. They say massive disappointment.…”

  “You know, I was just thinking about the time with the good china and—”

  “Aunt Olivia’s Pekingese,” Hale said, then broke into laughter. Natalie joined in. And Kat kept on standing there watching, utterly on the outside of the joke.

  “So, Natalie,” Kat said, “are you back in the States for good?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Natalie shrugged and changed the subject. “What about you two? How’d you meet?”

  Kat couldn’t help herself. She glanced at the painting above the fireplace, but Hale seemed immune to nostalgia.

  “Oh, you know,” he said. “Around.”

  “Cool.” Natalie shifted on her heels. Then her eyes locked on a point over Hale’s shoulder as a voice rang out. “Scooter!”

  “And that’s my cue,” Natalie said, her eyes wide. “Scoot, I’ll see you around. Kat, it’s been rad.” The girl turned and disappeared into the mourners and out into the garden, before Kat even had a chance to say good-bye.

  “Scooter, there you are.” A woman was pushing her way through the crowd and toward Hale. She flicked a piece of lint off of his shoulder and told him, “You’re as bad as Marianne. Where is she, by the way?”

  “I imagine she’s taking the afternoon off.” Hale’s voice was cold. “To mourn.”

  If the woman had noticed Hale’s pointed tone, she didn’t show it. Instead, she shifted her attention off of Hale and his nonexistent lint and onto the girl beside him. She looked at Kat’s hair, her dress, her shoes, all within a span of a second, deftly taking in everything about her.

  “Scooter…” the woman said, drawing out the word, “aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  “Hello,” Kat said, extending her hand. “I’m Hale’s—”

  “Friend,” Hale said. “A friend of mine. From Knightsbury.”

  “Oh. How nice.” But the woman didn’t sound like she thought it was nice. She kept eyeing Kat, looking her up and down. “Where do you call home, dear?”

  “Oh.” Kat looked nervously at Hale.

  “Kat was raised in Europe,” he told the woman. “But she lives here now.”

  “I see,” the woman said. “And how do you find Knightsbury?”

  “It’s better than Colgan,” Kat said, knowing that all good lies have their roots in the truth.

  “That’s what Scooter says.” The woman looked at Hale. “Scooter, your father needs us in the study. It’s almost time. Say good-bye to your friend.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Hale said, and the woman walked away. He watched her go, and seemed utterly lost in thought until Kat slapped his arm.

  “Mother?” Kat gasped. “That was your mother!”

  He took her arm and whispered, “You’ve got to go, Kat.”

  “I just got here. I thought that I should…you know…be here for you.”

  “They’re going to read the will.”

  “They do that at the memorial service?”

  “When control of Hale
Industries hangs in the balance they do. The business is…complicated.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t want to be here when all these vultures start circling.” He looked out at the people in the room—at his family. “Go on, Kat. I’ll be fine,” Hale said, but something in his words rang false to Kat; she wondered exactly who he was trying to con.

  “It sounds like your grandmother was an amazing woman, Hale.” She thought about Silas Foster and Hazel’s fake Monet. “I wish I’d known her. I’m sure everyone just really wants to say good-bye. Hale”—she took his hand—“it’s not about the money.”

  Then for the first time Kat could remember, Hale looked at her like she was a fool.

  “It’s always about the money.”

  Even before he moved, Kat could feel him slipping away. “Why didn’t you tell me she was sick, Hale? I could have—”

  “What, Kat?” Hale snapped, then lowered his voice. “What could we have done? Stolen something? Conned someone? Trust me, there was nothing anyone could do. She didn’t even want to live anymore.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “Of course it’s true. The doctors said she could have recovered, but she had a Do Not Resuscitate order. She could have hung on for years, but she wanted to…leave.”

  “Hey, Scooter,” Natalie said, reappearing. “Dad told me to find you. They’re getting ready to start.”

  “Okay,” Hale said. “Thanks again for coming, Kat,” he told her.

  “Hale,” Kat said, stopping him. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  She meant it. She really did. But watching him walk away, Kat felt like maybe she was the person who had lost something. Hale was always well groomed and well dressed, but that day his hair was parted just so. His cuff links bore the family crest. He didn’t look like the Hale who helped himself to heaping bowls of soup in Uncle Eddie’s kitchen. He looked like the Hale who belonged to that room, that house.

  Natalie draped her arm through his when they walked.

  That girl.

  For the first time, Kat truly understood why gates and guards had to stand between his world and hers. Never before had she regretted breaking her way into someplace she didn’t belong.

  “Did he just run off with that redhead?” Gabrielle said, sidling up to Kat and taking a big bite of shrimp. “And answer to the name of Scooter?”

  “Come on, Gabs. It’s time for us to leave.”

  The woods seemed different on the long walk back to the car, and Kat couldn’t shake the feeling that she was forgetting something. Then she stopped and looked at the house.

  Someone.

  “Hello, miss.”

  Kat couldn’t help but smile when she saw the uniformed man who stood at attention beside a long black limousine.

  “Marcus!” Kat cried. “I haven’t seen you since—”

  “I was very sorry about Buenos Aires. It was most unfortunate timing.” He looked at Gabrielle, tipped his hat. “Miss Gabrielle, it’s nice to see you. If you don’t mind, I have a favor to ask.”

  “Anything,” Gabrielle said.

  “Well, I was wondering if I could perhaps drive your cousin back to the city myself.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Marcus,” Kat said. “I know it’s probably a difficult time for you.”

  “Please,” Marcus said, reaching for the limo’s rear door. “It would be a relief to do something.”

  Kat understood. For a girl who was used to adrenaline and fear, there was no feeling in the world she hated more than being helpless, so she asked her cousin, “Gab, you mind?”

  “Oh, please.” Gabrielle rolled her eyes, then looked at Marcus. “You can have her.”

  A second later, her cousin was climbing into her car and driving away without as much as a tire mark to prove she’d been there at all. Uncle Eddie would have been incredibly proud.

  “If you will, miss…” Kat turned to see Marcus holding open the limo door. For a second, Kat considered sitting in the front, but Marcus was a man for whom tradition and decorum mattered. And so Kat slid into the backseat without another word.

  Sitting on the soft leather, Kat couldn’t help but wonder how many hours she’d spent staring at the back of the valet’s head. He was always there. Never far from Hale’s side. And then Kat knew what had been missing from the big house.

  “I didn’t see you inside, Marcus.”

  “Yes. I wasn’t able to attend, but I was hoping to see you.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes,” he said, but didn’t offer anything more.

  “Did you know Hale’s grandmother well?”

  “I did. She was a great, great woman.”

  “Was Hale close to her?”

  Marcus nodded. “He was.”

  “I didn’t know.” Kat stared out the window. “He never mentioned her to me. Why doesn’t he talk about her?”

  “The things that are the most precious to us are sometimes the most secret.”

  Kat nodded and considered the thought. Her family was loud and cranky, a force of nature, moving around the globe like a storm. Hale’s family was quiet and fractured, their issues simmering under the surface like a sleeping volcano.

  “Marcus,” she said, bolting upright when the car steered off the main road and onto a narrow path. “Marcus, I don’t think this goes to the highway.”

  “No, miss. It doesn’t.”

  Marcus wasn’t forgetful. He wasn’t the sort of man to make mistakes, and so whatever had brought them to that narrow, winding lane, Kat knew it was absolutely not an error.

  “We’re not going to Brooklyn, are we, Marcus?”

  “No, miss.” He gripped the wheel and kept on driving. “We aren’t.”

  They didn’t go far. By Kat’s estimation they weren’t more than a half a mile from the main road when the car stopped. She could still see the smoke rising from the chimney of the big house hidden behind the trees, and yet it felt a world away from the tiny cottage with the white picket fence and perfectly pruned roses that stood before her. There were black shutters and flower boxes on every window. An ornate railing ran along a cozy porch, and the whole place looked almost like it had been made from gingerbread.

  “Marcus, where are we? Who lives here?”

  He turned off the car and reached for the door. “I do.”

  “I never knew you had a house.”

  Kat crawled from the backseat of the car and looked up at the man who held her door. Maybe it was her imagination, but she could have sworn he didn’t stand quite as straight, there in his own driveway. He looked at her a little more squarely. He wasn’t a servant then, she realized. He was a man, welcoming her into his home.

  “Oh, it’s not entirely mine. I share it with—”

  “Marcus? Marcus, is that…”

  A woman was standing in the doorway, a dish towel in her hands. She had steel gray hair and the same piercing eyes that Kat had seen reflected in the rearview mirror for years.

  “Miss Katarina Bishop,” Marcus said, “please allow me to introduce my sister, Marianne.”

  “You’re Marianne?” Kat thought about the way Hale’s mother had said the name, almost with a snarl. “It’s nice to meet you.” Kat extended her hand. But Marianne just gaped at Marcus.

  “Oh, brother. What have you done?”

  Somewhere in the house a kettle screamed. It made a sharp, haunting sound. The woman turned, Marcus at her heels, and Kat followed them into a tiny kitchen with white lace curtains and a tray set out for tea.

  “I’m very sorry, Miss Bishop,” the woman said, her British accent even stronger than her brother’s. “I mean no disrespect. I’m sure you’re a very talented young lady. But this is a private family matter.”

  “You were her family!” It was the first time Kat had ever heard Marcus raise his voice, and she had to do a double-take to make sure it was him and not some well-groomed imposter.

  “You forget yourself, brother. And your p
lace. If our father were alive—”

  “He isn’t.”

  “Marcus,” Marianne said grimly, “this is not our way.”

  Marcus pointed at Kat. “It’s her way.”

  The kettle still screamed, so Marianne pulled it from the flame, but the silence that followed was too loud, and Kat had no choice but to say, “Uh…which way is that?”

  “I’ve observed many things in the past few years, miss.” Marcus looked her in the eye. “It is not my place to talk, but I do see. I see everything. And after what I’ve seen, I know that you may be the only person who can help. And so, miss, I would like to hire you. For a job.”

  Kat could have sworn she’d misunderstood. “A job job?”

  “Yes. There is something that I would like for you to steal.”

  Marianne brought a handkerchief to her mouth but didn’t protest.

  “Okay, Marcus.” Kat took a seat at the table. “I think you’d probably better start at the beginning.”

  Never before had Kat thought about whether or not Marcus had a family. She hadn’t wondered where he went when he wasn’t at Hale’s beck and call. But there she was in his kitchen, sitting across from his sister, listening as he said, “Our parents were in service to the late Mr. Hale the Second. Marianne and I were born into this proud tradition, and when our time came, we were honored to follow in our parents’ footsteps.”

  “The family business,” Kat added, half under her breath.

  Marcus nodded. “Exactly. Our family has worked for the Hales for four generations.”

  He sat up a little straighter when he said it, and Kat knew that, in his world, that was a thing of great esteem.

  “When she was very young, Marianne was asked to care for the new wife of Mr. Hale the Third—a young American woman who had come from…shall we say…humble beginnings. But who was also very, very kind.”

  “Hazel,” Kat filled in.

  Marcus nodded.

  “When the new Mrs. Hale came to us…well…I imagine our world must have seemed incredibly strange to her. The ladies still dressed for dinner in those days. Her new husband played polo with a cousin of the king. And there she was, half a world away from anything she’d ever known, with nothing but a husband who was constantly working.”