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“Those ledgers were the key to this whole thing. If they’re gone, we’ll never get to the bottom of this.”
Pushing past him, my stomach knots to the point of pain. My insides are threatening to choke me.
“Oliver gave us everything he had.” Christopher follows me out of our room. Irritation coats his words with indignation. “It was part of our deal. He wouldn’t…”
“They’re not his!” Taking the wooden stairs two at a time, the cherub carvings are all but a blur with each slap of my bare feet.
“Slow the fuck down!” He grabs the back of the T-shirt I wore to bed as I skid down a few steps in my haste. “You’re going to break your fucking neck!”
“Where’s your mum?” Francis will always pick up for her.
Floral wallpaper lines part wood-panelled walls. Creams, greens, reds, and blues all mix together to a nauseating fog. Soft wood floor feels like hot coals as I rush through the lower levels of the house. Pine fires scent the air cloying in my lungs.
“She’s in the sunroom,” he calls behind me, no doubt already heading in the right direction towards the glass-dome room.
Hotfooting behind him, my steps keep up with my runaway heartbeat. The historic building feels encroaching with narrowing corridors lined with endless portraits of all the Right Honourable Lords to have held this house. All Emsworth heirs. Every single face hard and stoic. All blond and blue-eyed.
One day Freddie’s will grace these walls. Although I imagine his portrait to be a little different. Maybe somewhat detached.
Christopher freezes in the doorway, and before I can stop myself, I barrel into him, face-planting his muscled back.
“What are you doing here?” His snarl is hateful, and as I try to round him, he pushes me behind him. “I should’ve known you’d be in on whatever this is.”
“Don’t be difficult, Christopher,” Emily’s thin, papery voice bites back.
“He’s not welcome here.”
“Too bad he’s my guest, and as long as I’m alive this is my home. My house, my rules.”
The air grows cold and heavy with the tension steeling around us. Stone and wood threaten to bow around the pressure in these walls.
Stepping around Christopher, I push past him to a low curse. Our stares lock before I can take in the room. He’s not being difficult; he’s pissed. His face is as hard as his ancestors’ in all the paintings, and although he’s the visual antithesis, there’s a breathtaking similarity to the coldness in all their eyes, even with the warmth of his honey and whisky notes.
“Finally,” Emily groans. “We are graced with your presence.”
I turn, baffled by her remark. Christopher’s arm wraps around my front, tucking me into him as his grandmother steps towards us. The hems of her loose black trousers skim the floor with every step. The embellishments of her knitted cardigan set sparkle with the golden light from the elaborate chandelier hanging above us. Crystal ropes sweep like hanging vines off intricately carved antlers and wrought iron to match the black leading on the windowpanes. Picture frames and taxidermized creatures line the low ledges.
“Why don’t we sit down and sort this mess?” It’s an order disguised within a soft question. “We’re all on the same side. Are we not, Lucian?”
Fuck. No.
My eyes dart around her to where Lucian stands behind her tall frame, with Penelope at his side.
Her eyes round. I can hear her beseech me to be cordial with her gentle gaze.
Fuck. No.
“We are.” His reply is short and deep.
He sounds sick. Looks like shit even in his expensive clothes. He’s wasting away.
Good.
“Does Leo know?” Stupid question seeing as Christopher had no idea.
“I’m sure he’ll agree with the plan in place.” Christopher turns at the sound of Francis’ voice, taking me with him.
He doesn’t look much better than Lucian. Both of his hands are in bandages, and although he’s standing ramrod straight, his shoulders are curved in like he’s in more pain than he wishes any of us to see.
