The Bourbon Kings #1 (29 page)

“Ma’am,” the deputy murmured to her, before striding away after the Englishman.

“Well, this should be interesting,” came a dry voice from the parlor.

She pivoted around. “Lane?”

Her brother was standing in front of the painting of Elijah Bradford, and he lifted his squat glass. “Cheers to my divorce.”

“Really.” Gin walked in and got busy at the bar because she didn’t want Lane to focus on her red-rimmed eyes and swollen face. “Well, at least I won’t have to take Mother’s jewelry off her neck anymore. Good riddance, and I’m surprised you don’t want to enjoy the show.”

“I’ve got bigger problems.”

Gin took her bourbon and soda over to the sofa and kicked her stilettos off. Tucking her legs under her seat, she stared up at her brother.

“You look terrible,” she said. As bad as she felt, actually.

He sat down across from her. “This is going to be rough, Gin. The money thing. I think this is really serious.”

“Maybe we can sell stock. I mean, you can do that, right? I have no idea how all this works.”

And for the first time in her life, she wished she did.

“It’s complicated because of the trust situation.”

“Well … we’ll be all right.” When her brother didn’t say anything, she frowned. “Right? Lane?”

“I don’t know, Gin. I really don’t know.”

“We’ve always had money.”

“Yes, that has been true.”

“You make it sound past tense.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Gin.”

Leaning her head back, she stared up at the high ceiling, imagining her mother laying in that bed of hers. Was that going to be her own future, too? she wondered. Was she some day going to retire and pull the curtains so that she could live in a drug haze?

Certainly sounded appealing at the moment.

God, had Samuel T. really turned her down?

“Gin, have you been crying?”

“No,” she said smoothly. “Just allergies, dear brother. Just spring allergies …”

L
izzie hustled out of the conservatory with Chantal’s fragrant wrap, all the perfume on the floaty fabric thick in her nose, making her want to sneeze. Funny, she could be surrounded by a thousand real blooms, but this fancy, falsely curated stuff was enough to send her over the Claritin edge.

Off in the distance, she heard Chantal’s unmistakable Virginian drawl and headed in the direction of the dining room to—

“What is this?” Chantal demanded.

Lizzie stopped short and leaned around the heavy molding of the archway.

At the head of the long, glossy table, Chantal was standing next to a uniformed sheriff’s deputy who’d apparently just given her a thick envelope.

“You have been served, ma’am.” The deputy nodded. “Have a good day—”

“What do you mean ‘served.’ What does that—no, you’re not leaving until I open this.” She ripped the envelope apart. “You can stay right there while I …”

The papers came out in a bundle that had been folded three times, and as the woman unfurled them, Lizzie’s heart pounded.

“Divorce?” Chantal said.
“Divorce?”

Lizzie rolled out of sight and went flush against the wall. Closing her eyes, she hated how relieved she felt, she really did. But it wasn’t like she could pretend that not being a fool for a second time wasn’t a good thing.

“This is a divorce petition!” Chantal’s voice grew sharp. “Why are you doing this!”

“Ma’am, my job is to serve the papers. Now that you’ve accepted them—”

“I do not accept them!” There was a fluttering sound as if she might have actually thrown them at the man. “You take them back—”

“Ma’am,” the deputy barked. “I’m going to advise you to pick those papers off the floor—or don’t. But any more of that and I’ll drag you down to the courthouse strapped to the hood of my patrol vehicle just for getting aggressive with an officer of the peace. Are we clear. Ma’am.”

Cue the waterworks.

Between sniffles and what had to be a heaving bosom, Chantal backpedaled at a dead run. “My husband loves me. He doesn’t mean this. He’s—”

“Ma’am, that is none of my business and none of my concern. Good day.”

Heavy footsteps sounded out and drifted away.

“Goddamn it, Lane,” the woman hissed with perfect diction.

Guess the acting happened only when there was an audience.

Without warning, the
clip-clip-clip
of those kitten heels across the floor headed in Lizzie’s direction. Crap, there was no time to get out of the—

Chantal rounded the corner and jumped back when she saw Lizzie.

Even though the woman had turned on the waterworks for that deputy, her eyes were clear and free of tears, her makeup not marred in the slightest.

Instant. Rage.

“What are you doing!” Chantal hollered, her body quivering. “Eavesdropping!”

Lizzie held out the scarf. “I was bringing this to you—”

Chantal snatched the wrap. “Get out of here. Get out!
Get out!
”

And you do not have to ask twice,
Lizzie thought as she wheeled away and gunned for the great outdoors.

As she cut through the tent and weeded around the tables and chairs, she took out her phone and texted Lane a cheerful, No-big-deal, I’m-heading-home-after-a-long-day message.

God knew that man was going to have a lot on his hands as soon as Chantal found him.

The good news, at least for Lizzie?

No anniversary party to plan.

And Lane had been true to his word.

It was hard to stop a small smile from surfacing on her face. And when it refused to go away, she let the thing stay where it was.

L
ane’s phone let out an electronic
bing!
just as Chantal marched by the parlor, screaming his name as she headed for the grand staircase. He did nothing to tip off his whereabouts, just let her go upstairs to cause whatever scene was going to roll out in front of the closed door of his empty bedroom.

Funny, just a few hours before, the fact that she was on the warpath would have been an issue he’d have dealt with. Now? It was down oh, so low on his list of priorities.

“I need to go see Edward,” Lane said without bothering to check who had texted him.

Gin shook her head. “I wouldn’t. He’s not well, and the news you will share can only make things worse.”

She had a point. Edward hated their father already. The idea the man had stolen funds?

Gin got to her feet and went over to the bar for a refresh. “Is tomorrow still going forward?”

“The brunch?” He shrugged. “I don’t know how to stop it. Besides, it’s mostly been paid for already. The food, the liquor, the rentals.”

He was ashamed of the other reason to keep the event on track: The idea that the world might know even a hint of the problems his family was potentially facing was unacceptable to him.

The sound of someone coming down the carpeted stairs at an absolute tear made his sister cock an eyebrow. “Looks like you’re about to have a marital moment.”

“Only if she finds me—”

Chantal appeared in the parlor’s doorway, her normally pale and placid face ruddy as a tar layer’s at a BBQ.

“How
dare
you,” his wife demanded.

“Guess you’re packing your bags, darling,” Gin said with a Christmas-morning smile. “Shall I call for the butler? I think we can grant you that last courtesy. Consider it your going-away gift.”

“I am
not
leaving this house.” Chantal ignored Gin. “Do you understand me, Lane.”

He circled the ice in his glass with his forefinger. “Gin, will you give us a little privacy?”

With an obliging nod, his sister headed for the archway, and as she went by Chantal, she paused and glanced back at him. “Make sure the butler checks her suitcases for jewelry.”

“You are such a
bitch,
” Chantal hissed.

“Yes, I am.” Gin shrugged as if the woman was barely worth the breath to speak. “And I also have a right to the Bradford name and legacy. You do not. Bye, now.”

As Gin threw out a toodle-oo wave, Lane stepped up and moved his body between the two of them so they could avoid an Alexis/Krystle lily pond moment. Then he went over and slid the panels shut, even though he didn’t want to be alone with his wife.

“I’m not leaving.” Chantal wheeled around on him. “And this is
not
happening.”

As she tossed the divorce petition to the floor at his feet, all he could think of was that he didn’t have time for this. “Listen, Chantal, we can
do this the easy way or the hard way—it’s your choice. But know if you choose the latter, I will go after not only you, but your family. How do you suppose your Baptist parents would feel if they received a copy of your medical records on their front doorstep? I don’t think they’re pro-choice, are they?”

“You can’t do that!”

“Don’t be stupid, Chantal. There are all kinds of people I can call on, people who owe my family debts that they are eager to pay off.” He walked back to the bar and poured more Family Reserve into his glass. “Or how about this one. How about those medical records fall into the hands of the press, or maybe an online site? People would understand why I’m divorcing you—and you’d have a hell of a time finding another husband. Unlike up north, we Southern men have standards for our wives, and they do not include abortion.”

There was a long stretch of silence. And then the smile that came back at him was inexplicable, so confident and calm, he wondered if she’d gone daft in the last two years.

“You have more to keep quiet than I do,” she said softly.

“Do I.” He took a deep draw from the edge of his glass. “How do you figure that. All I did was the right thing by a woman I supposedly got pregnant. Who knows if it was mine, anyway.”

She pointed to the paperwork. “You are going to make that go away. You are going to allow me to stay here for however long I want. And you are going to escort me to the Derby festivities tomorrow.”

“In what parallel universe?”

Her hand went to her lower belly. “I’m pregnant.”

Lane barked out a laugh. “You tried that once before, sweetheart. And we all know how it ended.”

“Your sister was wrong.”

“About you stealing jewelry? Maybe. We’ll see about that.”

“No, about the fact that I don’t have every right to be here. And so does my child. As a matter of fact, my child has as much right to the Bradford legacy as you and Gin do.”

Lane opened his mouth to say something—and then slowly closed it. “What are you talking about.”

“I’m afraid your father is no better a husband than you are.”

A tinkling rose up from his glass, and he looked down, noting from a vast distance that his hand was shaking and causing the ice to agitate.

“That’s right,” Chantal said in a slow, even voice. “And I think we’re all aware of the delicate condition of your mother. How would she feel if she knew that her husband had not only been unfaithful, but that a child was going to be born? Do you think she’d take more of those pills she’s already so reliant on? She probably would. Yes, I’m sure she would.”

“You
bitch
,” he breathed.

In his mind, he saw himself locking his hands around the woman’s throat and squeezing, squeezing so hard that she started to struggle as her face turned purple and her mouth gaped.

“On the other hand,” Chantal murmured, “wouldn’t your mother enjoy knowing that she was going to be a grandmother for the second time? Wouldn’t that be cause for celebration.”

“No one would believe it’s mine,” he heard himself say.

“Oh, but they will. He’s going to look just like you—and I’ve been going up to Manhattan on a regular basis to work on our relationship. Everyone here knows it.”

“You lie. I’ve never seen you.”

“New York City is a big place. And I’ve made sure that all are aware in this family are aware that I’ve seen you and enjoyed your company. I’ve also talked about it to the girls at the club, their husbands at parties, my family—everybody has been so supportive of you and me.”

As he remained silent, she smiled sweetly. “So you can see how those divorce papers aren’t going to be required. And how you aren’t going to say a thing about what happened between us with our first baby. If you do, I’m going to blow the lid wide open on your family and embarrass you in front of this community, your city, your state. Then we’ll see how long it takes you to have to put on your funeral suit. Your
mother’s out of it, but she’s not totally isolated—and her nurse reads her the paper every morning right beside her bed.”

With a self-satisfied expression, Chantal turned away and shoved the panels open, clipping her way out into the marble foyer, once again the lady of leisure with the
Mona Lisa
smile.

Lane’s entire body shook, his muscles screaming for action, for vengeance, for blood—but the rage was not aimed at his wife any longer.

It was all directed toward his father.

Cuckold. He believed that was the old-fashioned word that was used to describe this kind of thing.

He’d been cuckolded by his own goddamn father.

When in the hell was this day going to be over,
he thought.