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Burt pats my shoulder. “I’ve got it.”
Instead of wandering over to the breakfast nook, he meanders toward the cabinets.
“See,” Victor tells me as I settle next to him, “the old man has you wrapped around his finger.”
Burt places a bottle of whiskey beneath one arm and shuffles over.
“Coffee?” His nose upturns.
A bit queasy, I climb to my feet again. “I’ll make you a cup of—”
“It’s no bother.” Burt opens the whiskey. “A wee nip, Victor?”
“Wee? God forbid.” Victor downs half the coffee, and Burt offers him a generous amount of the amber liquid.
Once complete, Burt licks his lips and mutters, “I must resign, Victor.”
My man hefts a shoulder. “Would you prefer fewer duties?”
“Yes.”
“Alright. Do nothing, Burt.”
“Iamresigning. Congratulations are in order. But the two of you will start a family. Have chil—”
“Burt,” Victor growls, though sincere eyes search me over.
“You will have children,” Burt assures.
“It’s okay, mentioning children and babies,” I whisper. “We can still try.”
Victor dips his head into a slow, pensive nod. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” Burt refills both of their drinks. “You’ll need younger staff. Which is why I’ve taken the liberty to create a list of possible replacements.”
“I forbid you from retiring, Burt. You’ve one living aunt. You’ve simply invested too much time into my family to just . . . just . . . go survive at some bloody retirement home no matter the worth.” Victor scrubs a hand over his jaw. “You’re family. Build yourself a grandfather house if you prefer it.”
I have a sinking feeling. “Is it because of me, Burt?”Because you lied about Madeline?
“No and yes,” he replies quickly. “You all need someone young to—”
“Alright,” Victor grabs the bottle. “To my mate, ready to sew your wild oats, are ya?”
“Something like that.” Burt bobs his head in appreciation of Victor’s refreshing his glass. “I won’t leave until we’ve completed one final mission.”
“I’m bloody retired, too, Burt the Butler. I can visit the Church of England without fear of being stricken down over thinking of my next murder. I’ve no one to bloody murder!” Victor laughs softly, leaning back in his seat until his massive chest catches my attention. I’d rather lay my head there than fall in line.
But Burt’s clearing his throat, and now, the cordial smile on my man’s face falls dead.
I murmur, “We got ourselves a little problem still, Vic.”
Intense emotion slams into me. All the titanium walls resurrected between us at the Delacroix Hotel on our first dinner date come back.
I’d called Victor Tudor anit.
It had shifted in its chair.
Cold.
