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And how dangerous.
It was young love—Billy Hamlin and Toni Gilletti’s—that had caused the tragedy that was to define Alexia De Vere’s life. Alexia herself may have thrived and prospered. But other lives had been ruined. Lucy thought about the little boy who drowned. Nicholas. He was the true victim here, not Billy Hamlin, for whom Alexia seemed to feel unaccountably sorry, and certainly not Alexia herself. But somehow Nicholas’s story had gotten lost, overshadowed by Alexia De Vere’s fame and success. He’d become part of the wallpaper, the backdrop for what happened next.
For what Alexia became. What Alexia achieved. What Alexia now stood to lose, if Billy Hamlin or her other myriad enemies had their way.
Lucy Meyer would remain loyal. There was no question about that. Sisters must always remain loyal. They must stand by their siblings through thick and thin. Lucy Meyer had been raised to believe in family, and she believed in it to this day.
Lucy would keep Alexia’s secret.
But after today’s revelation, nothing would ever be quite the same between them again.
Chapter Twenty
It was a typical late-summer night in London: rainy, gray, and cold. As a result, all the pubs were full.
At the Old Lion on Baker Street, Simon Butler was working his usual shift behind the bar when a disoriented man rolled in.
“Watch that one.” The landlady, Simon’s boss, saw the man too. She immediately recognized the stooped shoulders, staggering gait, blank stare, and unshaven hopelessness of the long-term homeless. “He looks like he’s had a few too many already.”
The man made a beeline for the bar. “Pint, please.” He pushed a handful of dirty change in Simon’s direction.
“Coming up.”
He’s not meeting anybody. He’s here to drink. To forget.
As Simon pulled the man his beer, he noticed him muttering to himself. Quietly at first, but then in a more agitated way, the classic confrontational, paranoid ramblings of the schizophrenic. Simon’s brother Matty had been schizophrenic. Simon recognized inner hell when he saw it.
“Booze isn’t the answer, you know,” he said gently, handing the man his beer. Close up he looked even worse than he did from a distance, all sallow skin and bloodshot eyes. He smelled of desperation and dirt, a wisp of unhappy smoke floating aimlessly on the wind.
“She was going to marry me.”
The man wasn’t talking to Simon. He was talking to himself, to nobody, to the air.
“She loved me once. We loved each other.”
“I’m sure you did, mate. I’m sure you did.”
Poor bastard. He wasn’t dangerous. Just pathetic.
It was a cruel world.
Brooks’s is one of the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in London. Standing on the west side of St. James’s Street, it was founded by four dukes and a handful of other aristocrats in the 1760s, and began life as a political salon for Whigs, the liberals of the day.
Nowadays it has a broader membership, but is still heavily frequented by diplomats, politicians, and civil servants. The only true, unspoken conditions of membership are that applicants be male, British, and unquestionably upper class.
Teddy De Vere was not a member, belonging as he did to the Tory Carlton Club just across the street. The two institutions consider themselves gentlemanly rivals, and membership in both clubs is quite unheard of. Teddy was, however, a frequent guest at Brooks’s, so today’s lunch was nothing out of the ordinary.
“De Vere.”
Sir Edward Manning, Alexia’s permanent private secretary, greeted Teddy warmly. With the home secretary herself, Sir Edward maintained an appropriately formal distance. But Alexia’s husband was another matter. The two men knew each other slightly. As social equals, meeting privately, familiarity was perfectly appropriate.
“Manning. Thanks for seeing me. I’m sure your schedule must be jam-packed.”
“No more so than yours, old man.”
They ordered gin and tonics, and a pair of rare filet steaks with Brooks’s famous crispy fries. Teddy got down to business.
“It’s about Alexia.”
