Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
“So you could bring your A game?”
“Fucking in public is no longer my forte.” I flick invisible lint from my trouser leg. “I’m too long in the tooth these days.”
“That must be why you didn’t turn up to your birthday party.”
If I didn’t know better, I might worry he knows exactly how I spent that night. Van is a friend, but it doesn’t do to let him know too much. In his family’s line of work, they’re always looking for influence. Leverage, I suppose. Not that I’m at all certain exactly how that would pertain to me. I have nothing he needs, unless he wants a castle with a crumbling roof. Truthfully, I can’t even give him that because entailed property isn’t mine to give.
“I’m suffering a midlife crisis, so I’m told.”
“By Portia?” He almost sneers. The pair aren’t fans of each other.
“I’ve been too busy to see much of her of late. She probably thinks I’m avoiding her.”
“That’s not a bad strategy,” he murmurs, setting the tiny cup and saucer down onto the desk.
“We’re not all of us interested in girls almost young enough to be our daughters.”
Wrapping his fingers around the edge of the desk, he leans forward. “There’s a girl downstairs you would love. She’s studying for a PhD in medieval history. Beautiful, very cerebral. A little cold on the surface, but she likes to be manhandled. Just how you like them.”
“As I said, I’m not—”
“Living for yourself. Alexander, there’s something to be said for the company of twenty-five-year-olds.”
Twenty-four-year olds, too. As for the woman he just described, I’m not going to bother telling him that his tastes are just that. His own. Mine are mine alone, as well as none of his fucking business.
Van holds up his hands as though warding off my words. “I know, we’re all far too jaded for love. For fucking? Never. And just the whisper of your visit will be enough to drive this month’s numbers up.”
“I’m happy to oblige,” I reply, curt. “But I’d appreciate it if in the future you just be honest with me. We’re supposed to be friends, aren’t we?”
“Friends make time for one another,” he says rather regretfully.
“Yes, you’re right.” Of course he is. “Things have just been precarious,” I add hesitantly, unwilling to share my burdens. The ongoing battle with bankers and those of my investors, of how my personal fortune is whittled away daily, dripping into the abyss of entailed properties that are little more than financial black holes of ruin, properties in need of millions of pounds for repairs. Perhaps a sensible man would gift them to the National Trust, a charity dedicated to preserving such history. Unload them and move on, but how could I when it feels like giving in? And what of my heir? Offloading them from under him feels little more than theft. So, I’ll stay the course and trust that by the time my nephew inherits, the dukedom won’t be such a mess. I press my fingers against a building throb in my temple.
“Matteo and I, we’re your friends. We can be relied on to lend an ear . . . money, if the need arises.”
I laugh unhappily. If anyone would have the money to help it would be Van, not Matteo. Matteo is wealthy, but Van’s father is as rich as Croesus. Or perhaps I should say the family is. Read into that what you will.
“Thank you,” I reply. Van smiles knowingly. He’d no more borrow from me than I would him. “It is money I’ve come to speak with you about, actually.” At this, his expression reacts in shock, but blink, and I would’ve missed it, such is the skill of his poker face. “My sister, Isla. You remember Isla?” A telling pulse begins in his jaw, though I know he’ll offer only the blandest of responses.
“How could I ever forget her?” I find my brow reacting as though yanked up by a string. “I’ve seen her at the castle many times,” he blusters, and I find myself wondering if I’ve ever seen the man so unguarded. “Is she well?” His blonde brows beetle as his fingers tighten on the edge of the desk.
“She’s fine.”
“And her sons?”
“They’re well, too. They’re staying at the castle at the moment.” Isla had given me some bullshit about repairs on her own home. Add to that I’ve been unable to reach Chrissy, the woman who is the string that holds the castle together, by anything other than email, and I’m beginning to suspect all is not as they’d have me believe.
“And her husband?” Bland, so bland, Van. Yet not quite bland enough.
“No. He’s not with them. He came to see me last month, and it seems he’s overstretched himself in an investment. A distillery on one of the Hebridean islands, I believe.” Along with an ill-fated golf course. “He was looking for a partner.” More like someone to bail him out.