Page 48 of Cruel Games

“I can’t imagine you two having much in common.”

“Elocution lessons,” I replied, not wanting to go into detail about how we had become close.

We continued down a gravel path that meandered around a stone pool. Oak trees stretched out overhead, sheltering us from the last vestiges of the autumn sun. Water lilies covered the pool’s surface, their pads housing little, brown frogs. Their croaks mingled with the rustling of the golden leaves overhead.

“Really?” he asked. “I quite liked the way you spoke before. It made you stand out from the other girls.”

“I’m surprised you noticed me with all that mooning you did over Elizabeth.”

He let out a long sigh. “We weren’t dating each other.”

“It looked like that to me.” My insides cringed with embarrassment. I hadn’t meant to sound so possessive.

“Elizabeth likes to keep an entourage of admirers. Suitors if you like.” He chuckled. “She’s styled herself after her namesake.”

My brows furrowed. “Who?”

“Queen Elizabeth the First, the virgin queen. She loved the male attention but never wanted to commit herself to a single suitor. Whoever married her would become the king and relegate her to the position of an obedient wife.”

“What about Elizabeth the Second?” I asked. “Everyone knows she’s the ruler. Same with Queen Victoria.”

“Things were very different back in the Tudor times.”

As we left the pool, I thought back about a documentary I’d seen about Queen Elizabeth I’s father, Henry VIII.

The king broke away from the Catholic church just because he wanted to marry his mistress, Anne Boleyn. And he ended up executing her on trumped-up charges when she couldn’t bear him a son. Four of his six marriages ended in divorce or execution. Not too different from modern days, the way some blokes discarded their women like used condoms.

We continued toward a wall of tall hedges with an arched entryway. The wind changed, carrying with it the sound of barking. I stiffened, and my throat dried.

“Anything the matter?” asked Kendrick.

“Where are we going?”

“To the chapel, of course.”

“Via the kennels?”

“We pass the kennel master’s domain. Don’t you like dogs?”

A shudder ran down my spine as the memory of strong arms dangling me over snapping, snarling, slathering German shepherds and Rottweilers. I pushed it to the recesses of my mind, but the sounds of barking made them creep back.

Forcing a laugh, I said, “Not since a dog barked at me the wrong way when I was little.”

“Really?” he said, disbelief dripping from his voice.

“Maybe there was more than one dog, and maybe they did more than just bark.”

He patted my arm. “I’m sorry to hear that. The hounds here are well-behaved. Just like the bloodhounds on our estate.”

“Your family hunts?” My mind conjured up an image of Maxwell dressed in hunting gear, his tattoos, and silver piercings scaring away all the pheasants.

“Father goes shooting with his friends most weekends to relax, but Mother is a breeder. She always taught us that there’s no such thing as a bad dog. It’s the person training them who’s at fault.”

“True,” I muttered.

Billy Hancock had trained his dogs to intimidate and attack. The massive brutes were well fed with meat brought in from a specialty butcher and a veterinarian on call.

Those dogs were his silent business partners, more intimidating and more trustworthy than any of his lieutenants. And they didn’t tip off the police with the whereabouts of his shipment of cocaine.