“He’s bluffing?” Archie asks.
“No,” I say, jaw tight. “He’s clueless.”
Hudson glances toward the dock. “Then why the performance?”
“Because he’s a coward,” I snap. “Just a cockroach desperate for a fortune.”
My hands are still shaking as I turn toward the exit. But somewhere in the back of my mind, her voice cuts through—the way Martine ran into that study. The way she knew about the yacht.
The way Ford was always one step closer than I realized.
“Let’s go,” I say through clenched teeth. “He’s not here.”
And if I’m right, Ford’s been under our noses the entire time.
Chapter twenty-four
Martine Lilian Herron
I’m supposed to be in bed.
The command was simple: go to our room, take a bath, and then get under the covers and wait for him like a good little wife. And the moment the sound of the car tires faded into the distance, I slipped into the bath.
I wanted to be good, and I did. I tried to climb into bed and wait in the safety of our scents. I wanted to curl up and cry from the worry of my husband being out searching for my once dead and now missing brother, but I couldn’t.
I doused myself with bubble bath and lay in the warm bubbles until my skin wrinkled and the knot in my chest loosened.
But the persistent ache in my chest craved the comfort of cosying up with my friend. I needed to be with someone who I knew shared my pain and my worry just as viscerally.
So now, Dale and I are in the library. The fire is roaring, flames licking the grate with that luxurious, greedy hiss. Dale and I are stretched out like two spoiled cats on the oversized velvet couch, swaddled in silk pajama sets and thick cashmere blankets. Hers is midnight blue, mine a soft ivory that feels soothing and expensive on my skin.
Only the best from my husband.
She took a bath, too, and her skin finally has some color. Her smudged and messed-up makeup is cleaned off her face, and a bit of her usual devilish wit has returned. I see the faithful Dale thawing out under the worry that’s twisted up her features.
The staff keeps trying to feed us, but neither of us will eat. We’re too worried about the men, where they are. How much they accomplished.
Are they hurt? Do they need us? I can’t stomach anything other than worry, and yet the staff continues to try to comfort us with luxurious pastries and overbearing help, like worried mothers.
First, it was a tower of pastries stacked high and glazed, dusted with sugar. Then it was a full tea service that we let go cold; the idea of Earl Grey and milk curdling in my stomach was something I couldn't force myself to endure. Then, there were small finger sandwiches, stacked neatly on a platter, taunting us with their whipped cream cheese and perfectly sliced cucumbers.
“No,” I say, waving off the tower with a flick of my manicured fingers. “Bring us ice-cold gin martinis with a twist.”
The butler hesitates for half a second too long. I stare at him over the rim of my blanket until he disappears.
Dale snorts beside me. “This is so fucked.”
Neither of us can rest, pausing off and on for long moments of staring off into space to sniffle and cry.
“I feel like I can’t breathe,” I mutter quietly. That statement conveys all that I can give. Because I can’t, my husband is off on an impossible task to find my horrible uncle, and my brother, who, god knows what state he’s in. I can hardly stand it.
If it were about inheritance, Uncle Douglass could have it. I don’t want any of it, and I know Ford is cunning enough to find a way to get it back from him. Because now that he’s not dead, the inheritance would possibly belong to my brother? I can’t be sure; I’m too confused to know what will happen with matters as serious as titles and the transfer of estates.
Hayden made a shocking point at our hastily arranged wedding, suggesting that I receive half of the Herron Empire. Although I don’t know what that entails, considering my daily experiences and the luxuries of our lifestyle, I understand that I’ll never want for a thing.
When the martinis arrive, they’re ice cold and perfect. Dale takes hers with both hands like it’s a chalice and takes a large gulp. I sip mine slowly, letting the gin melt across my tongue, the lemon peel bright and bitter.
After two small sips, I thinkfuck itand knock the whole damned thing back, immediately motioning for another.
