by Geneva Lee
“We’ve reached London, though?” I asked, peering outside. The city was starting to give way to quieter stretches.
“Kinda,” he said with a shrug. “That was Watford. We don’t have to go into the city proper, thankfully. It would be hours, but they reopened the M25. This construction makes getting anywhere impossible, but we’re nearly to Hampstead.”
We hadn’t even been in London proper? My memories of London were loud and jarring, full of flashing colors and swarms of people. I was surprised we’d only passed through a suburb, but I was also grateful for the construction delays. It gave me time to cram some of the information I’d neglected to study.
Grabbing my mobile from the console, I opened the folder marked Kerrigan on the home screen and began to scan through the notes. A sinking feeling dragged at me. This wasn’t just a few collected facts, there were pages and pages of information. It was like someone had been writing her autobiography. Instantly, I regretted sleeping. I’d promised myself I would arrive as prepared as possible. According to Mr. Belmond, only a few people were to know the facts of my arrangement with him. Even his new wife was being kept in the dark. Given that she was nearly my age and had barely known him a year—thank you, Google—he didn’t seem worried about my ability to fool her. Considering that I was expected to live in the same house as her, I didn’t share his certainty.
I was only on the second file—a play-by-play of Kerrigan’s private primary school days—when the car slowed in front of a gate.
The driver rolled down his window and spoke into a callbox, “Miss Belmond is home.”
I ignored the shivering thrill that raced through me at that proclamation and turned my attention to the gates. The wrought iron groaned and began to swing open, affording me a glimpse of the place I’d agreed to call home.
Chapter Seven
When I’d been told I would move to London and live in the Belmond family home, I hadn’t expected a mews but I wasn’t prepared for an estate. It wasn’t the sort of place I pictured people living when they claimed to live in London. Hampstead wasn’t full to bursting with people, houses and shops stacked on top of one another. Nor was it a sleepy village. It was practically a different world. I thought only the King and Queen lived in large residences with gardens and endless rooms. Apparently, I was wrong—very wrong.
I swallowed back the gasp that threatened to escape my mouth as I took in the behemoth before me, reminding myself that the real Kerrigan would never be so impressed by a place she’d been tens of thousands of times. But it wasn’t easy. The house, if it could be called that, sat behind a tall brick wall, which afforded privacy by obscuring the estate from view. Panels had been cut and secured to the iron gates to block out even the nosiest of passersby. Considering what lay beyond those gates, I could understand why. Most people in the city lived in cramped flats and visited parks to enjoy green space. That wasn’t necessary for the Belmonds, it seemed. They had space both inside and out.
The Mercedes continued, once the gates were fully open, down the private drive. Behind me, I heard the gates close with an ominous rattle as we were swallowed into a lush garden. It was a riot of flowers, blooming in colorful masses. Large trees towered along the perimeter of the wall blocking the residence from the street leading to it. We continued along the drive only a short way, even the wealthiest Londoners had to put up with some limitations, I supposed. Maneuvering the long car around a fountain, the driver parked and got out to open my door.
I did my best not to get caught staring as I stepped into the afternoon light and took in the grand expanse in front of me. Neatly trimmed hedges ran the length of the house, a large brick Edwardian home greeted me, complete with a small tower, circled with windows, overlooking the front garden. It was imposing: far grander than any place I’d ever been. My pulse quickened as I studied it.
“I’ll bring this inside,” the driver said, holding up the bag he’d retrieved from the boot.
“I can do—” But he was gone before I could tell him I would handle it. Quickly, I realized it would be a mistake to carry my own bag. I assumed Kerrigan didn’t do such things. She had probably never carried anything heavier than a Chanel handbag in her life.
I found myself frozen to the spot, staring at the house and listening to the tinkling spray of water from the nearby fountain. I’d expected someone to be there to greet me. Did Tod Belmond just expect me to walk inside, kick off my shoes, and make myself at home? I took a cautious step forward as if I might discover I’d simply found myself in a mirage. The paving stones were firm under my foot. Solid. Real. As real as I was, but I was playing a part. Perhaps, that’s why I couldn’t get a grip on my new reality.
As I took a second step, the front door burst open and a statuesque woman appeared.
“Kerrigan!” she called, and my stomach flipped.
I’d seen her photo in the files I’d skimmed through quickly. Tod Belmond’s third wife. My stepmother. I knew a few facts about her. She was only four years older than Kerrigan and me, which made me a little nauseous. They had married less than a year ago after a whirlwind romance. She’d been a dancer, ballet or something respectable. I’d thought she’d look pretty in her picture. In real life, she was gorgeous. Easily the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. Her dark, yet luminous eyes were set over regal cheekbones. Her deep brown skin was flawless, made all the more striking by the ivory silk she wore. The clothing draped over her with sophisticated ease, rippling across her flawless figure as she strode toward me.
“I’m so delighted you’re back at Willoughby Place,” she said, and then, to my shock, she threw her arms around me. “I feel certain we’re going to be the best of friends.”
“I’m glad to be home,” I murmured, feeling more confused than ever. “It’s been…” I cursed myself for napping instead of preparing.
“Too long,” she said. “You didn’t even come home for Christmas.” She looped her arm through mine and continued, leading me inside, completely oblivious to my discomfort, “I was concerned that you might be angry—about the elopement, I mean. It was so last minute, and Tod felt—”
“I’m not angry,” I cut her off quickly. I wasn’t, but Kerrigan might be. That was her problem to sort out. I was just grateful that she seemed nice and blissfully ignorant that I was a fraud.
“Oh, I’m so glad! And you must call me Iris. I know there was never a discussion about the stepmother thing,” she said in a lowered voice, “but I hope it won’t be awkward. It will be so nice to have another woman in the house.”
“Okay, Iris,” I said, trying on the name. I was grateful I wouldn’t have to call her mum. That would have added a layer of weirdness to a situation that was already teetering on too surreal to maneuver.
“Are you tired?” she asked as we stepped into the marble entry.
I gawked for a moment as I drank in the opulent setting. The interior of the house was vastly different than the exterior. Everything had been remodeled into a sleek, modern mansion. Overhead a cluster of starburst chandeliers hung at varying lengths. Sliding doors were open on each side, revealing glimpses of luxurious sitting rooms, and a grand staircase waited in the center, leading to the upper levels of the home.
“I fell asleep in the car,” I confessed after I managed to get ahold of myself.
“It’s too comfortable!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “I can’t stand being driven if I’m alone, because I start to doze. But if you’re not tired, then I hope you won’t mind lunch. You can say no. I promise not to be offended.”
My stomach grumbled at the idea of food. “Lunch would be good.”
“Wonderful. I’ll let you change.” She managed to say this without a hint of judgment, but I realized then that although I was wearing a nice pair of black trousers and a simple t-shirt, I looked woefully out of place.
“Thanks,” I offered, wondering if I might be able to find my room without drawing suspicion.
“I made sure your closet was changed for the season. It seem
s no one got around to doing so since the fall. Of course, we’ll pick up some new pieces. I’ve been dying for a shopping partner,” she gushed.
I nodded, starting toward the stairs and hoping I hadn’t made a calculated error. Before I reach the bottom step, a ding stopped me, and I turned to see the lift doors slide open. I’d been so caught up in all the other spectacular elements of my new home that I hadn’t even noticed it. A man in a well-cut linen suit stepped out.
“Good, I caught you,” he called, his deep voice bouncing off the marble floor and booming around me.
“Giles is quite pleased you’re back, too.” She smiled warmly at him. “He’s been helping me get ready all morning for your arrival.”
“Yes, Miss Belmond,” he said, moving toward me in a businesslike clip and ignoring Iris altogether. “I have an itinerary for you to review. Perhaps, I can accompany you to your quarters.”
I flipped through the mental files I’d managed to absorb and remembered that Giles was Kerrigan’s assistant. I nodded enthusiastically at my savior. “Of course. I do have lunch with Iris, though.”
“Of course,” he repeated my own words, continuing past me on the staircase without a backward glance at either of us. “This won’t take long.”
“I’ll be in the library,” Iris said. “Take your time and get settled.”
I gulped, forcing a smile in response, and started up the stairs, toward my new life.
Chapter Eight
I caught up to Giles, who had already started down a hall, and opened my mouth, only to have him hold up a hand.
“Perhaps, we should wait,” he said. It was perfectly polite, and he was right, but I had the oddest sense of being a child told to hold her tongue at the table.
I followed him in silence, padding across plush Persian runners, past art that looked dangerously expensive until he stopped in front of a door. He turned the knob and opened it for me.
“Your rooms,” he said with the slightest emphasis.
Rooms? I managed to swallow the question since we weren’t inside and safely behind a closed door. It wasn’t a bedroom that we entered but rather a sitting room, tastefully decorated in shades of light blue. Heavy, silk drapes in icy silver were drawn, allowing the late morning light to filter into the space. A velvet couch, a small table with a stack of magazines, and two upholstered chairs were clustered around an unlit hearth. There wasn’t a spec of dust anywhere. It looked as though the occupant might have left this morning, not months ago.
“Mrs. Belmond will want you to change,” Giles said, looking me up and down with an expression that said he understood why and agreed with the request.
My gaze fell on the duffel I’d brought with me from Bexby. It had been delivered to the rooms ahead of me. I had a few outfits in there, even a nice dress. Despite what Iris had said I wasn’t certain I could literally step into Kerrigan’s shoes. Not yet, at least.
Giles followed my gaze and rolled his eyes. “Don’t even think about it. If this ensemble is any indication, nothing in that bag is suitable.”
“You don’t know—”
“Kerrigan Belmond has never worn an item of clothing that cost less than a hundred pounds,” he informed me.
My mouth formed a small O. Of course she hadn’t. She’d probably never checked the sales rack at Zara or worn a hand-me-down like the dress I’d been considering, a gift from Eliza.
“This way,” he said impatiently.
I barely had time to process the bedroom he led me through, complete with a sumptuous four-poster bed and too many pillows to count before I found myself in an octagonal room. Mirrors lined every wall and it was empty save for a pin-tucked stool and fur rug in the center of the room. Giles walked up to a mirror and waved a hand over it. Instantly, a crack appeared in the glass and it opened to reveal rows and rows of shoes.
Glossy, patent-leather black shoes. Prim, round-toed suede heels. Sky-high, strappy sandals. There had to be over one hundred pairs of shoes, all neatly lined up on shelves, waiting for their owner to return.
“The first rule to passing as Kerrigan,” Giles said, “is looking like her. She always chooses her shoes first and then creates her outfit around it.”
He said this like she crafted a work of art. I shook my head. “I don’t really wear heels.”
“You do now,” he said dismissively. “Pick a pair.”
“That’s it?” I asked. “Then what?”
“I will help you pick an outfit that Kerrigan would put together.”
“Did she always have you do this?” I asked, trying to buy myself time. I had no idea which shoes Kerrigan would pick or what was appropriate for a lunch date with my twenty-six-year-old stepmother. It felt like a test, and I was going to fail.
“Rarely. Kerrigan had impeccable taste,” he said. “She didn’t require me to dress her.”
“Had?”
“Has,” he corrected himself.
“I don’t want her to be angry when she comes back. What if I break a heel?” Or my ankle?
This earned me an eye roll that was neither inconspicuous nor good-humored. It was clear that while Giles might know Kerrigan well enough to help me, he wasn’t thrilled at the prospect. “She’ll buy new shoes. Just pick.”
I ran a finger along the shelf, stopping on a pair of relatively stable-looking wedges. They weren’t nearly as sexy as most of the others, but they had the benefit of a bit of a platform. Most of Kerrigan’s other shoes could be used as murder weapons. Still, the white leather straps were thin and delicate and the platform would easily push me five inches off solid ground. Before I could look for something less tall, Giles noticed my pause and seized them.
“These will be fine.”
I stepped back and watched as he opened more doors hidden within the mirrored walls, picking hangers with practiced ease. He stopped and arched an eyebrow.
“Are you going to change or…”
“Oh, um.” I shifted uncomfortably.
“Kerrigan is very comfortable with her body,” he advised.
“And if I’m not?” I asked defensively.
He resumed pillaging the closet, talking over his shoulder. “I would suggest you become comfortable. There’s a party tomorrow night. Spencer will be there. I expect things will progress rapidly.”
Apparently, Giles was going to force me to read between the lines. Except that I needed more than that from him. “Look, you don’t have to treat me like I’m her, but I’m not an idiot either. Just tell me what you’re trying to say.”
“Alright.” He stopped and turned to face me, clutching something lacy. “If you can’t get naked around me, how do you plan to do so around Spencer?”
“I—I—” I’d pushed him to be honest, but now I wished I hadn’t. The surreality of my situation was wearing off quickly, and in its place was a rather harsh reality. I’d agreed to act as Kerrigan. I’d known I would be expected to sleep with Spencer. I suppose I’d imagined a lights-off, under-the-sheets experience. “You’re right,” I admitted finally. “I guess this is a lot to digest. Thank you for being honest with me. It’s nice to have an anchor in the storm.”
For the first time, Giles smiled. Stretching out one hand, he offered me the lingerie he’d gathered. My outfit was draped over his other arm, which held onto the shoes that had inspired his choices. “This is a rather unusual predicament. I promise to help you navigate it as Kerrigan would.”
“And she would already be down to her birthday suit?” I guessed.
“If it makes you feel better, I’ve seen her naked a thousand times. It’s hardly anything exciting.”
“Am I terrible if that makes me feel better and worse?” I asked him.
“Not at all.”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, remembering what Eliza had said. This was the first of many uncomfortable situations I’d signed up for when I agreed to her father’s plan. I thought of the ten million pounds. Once I had it, I could slip away, start over, and finally sta
rt a real life. That was enough incentive.
A short while later, I stood in front of the mirror, processing the transformation Giles had achieved. When he’d first handed me his choices, I’d been skeptical. To go with the wedges, he’d chosen a pair of airy, wide-legged linen pants in a summery white. They rose high on my waist, tapering in at the narrowest point with two precise, sophisticated pleats. The silk blouse he’d selected was thin and nearly sheer, cropped to showcase the highrise of the pants.
“Less is more for a luncheon,” he told me, handing me the largest pair of diamond solitaire earrings I’d ever seen.
“Are these real?” I asked, nervously, as I poked them through my lobes.
He paused and considered. “Do you want to know?”
“No,” I said swiftly. If one of them fell out, I didn’t want to think about losing a diamond approximately the size of a small boulder.
Giles finished putting a few items into a handbag and passed it to me. I took it, studying the quilted leather and its interlocking CC logo.
“Lipstick, keys, identification, and I put my number in your mobile,” he informed me.
“Identification?” I repeated with surprise. I opened the clasp and found a driver’s license. Kerrigan’s face stared at me. I scanned it quickly. “But why wouldn’t she take this…”
“She took her passport,” Giles said. “Wherever she went, she didn’t need to drive, it seems.” He reached over and fluffed my hair over my shoulder. I’d sat still long enough for him to show me how she curled the dark locks we shared with an iron. He’d even walked me through her daytime cosmetic routine, which I was grateful turned out to be relatively low maintenance for someone who planned her wardrobe around her shoes.
I looked in the mirror one more time and found a stranger staring back at me. I’d seen her pictures, but until this moment, I’d questioned how everyone else saw such a resemblance. This morning, I’d shoved unruly hair into a ponytail and slipped into what I thought was a dressy outfit. Then I’d been whisked away from Bexby in the safe confines of the Belmond’s car and delivered here, where Giles had overseen the final stage of my physical transformation. The reflection showed no sign of Kate. I’d emerged from my cocoon with bouncing curls, full, painted lips, and the kind of sophistication that could only be bought. I’d become Kerrigan Belmond.
