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“Chamomile? Herb tea?” Rory shakes her head. “Not a good Englishman.”
“I’m afraid we won’t know until we get there.” I finish buttoning my shirt. “Finish your coffee, because we need to go downstairs and hail a cab.”
“Won’t there be cabs right outside the hotel?”
“Probably, but we still need to hurry.”
“Understood.” She slides her shoes onto her feet and then walks into the bathroom.
I finish the terrible English coffee.
In an hour, we’ll get some information.
Will it help us? I have no idea.
All I know is that I wish I were back in bed with Rory, safely enveloped in our post-orgasmic protective bubble.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
RORY
We are met at Ennis Ainsley’s front door—the front door of a lovely large red brick mansion—by an honest-to-God tuxedo-clad English butler. He’s tall, with a receding blond hairline, piercing blue eyes, and slightly crooked teeth.
“Mr. Steel, I presume,” he says in perfect Queen’s English. “And Ms. Pike?”
Brock holds out his hand. “Yes, I’m Brock Steel, and this is Rory Pike.”
“I’m Mr. Havisham, Mr. Ainsley’s butler. Please just call me Havisham.”
He does not return Brock’s handshake. Instead, he opens the door, and we walk in. Then he leads us into a sitting room.
I’d call it a living room, though it doesn’t look like anyone lives here. It’s pristine, with Queen Anne furniture—all in cherry wood and lavender-and-blue brocade.
“Please have a seat.” He nods to the sofa. “Mr. Ainsley will arrive in a moment.” Havisham leaves the room.
I can’t help a tiny giggle. “I think we’ve just entered the twilight zone.”
“That’s a gentleman’s gentleman if I ever saw one,” Brock replies.
“Mr. Ainsley must have some money.”
“I’m sure he does. Remember, he worked for my family for years. Decades even. I’m sure they set him up with an amazing retirement package.”
Right. I should’ve known that. But I’m not a Steel. I’m a Pike.
An elderly gentleman enters the room. He has a shock of silvery-white hair, and he walks upright without the help of a cane. If this is Ennis Ainsley, he’s eighty-eight years old. This gentleman doesn’t look a day over seventy. He wears a blazer with leather patches on the elbows, blue jeans, and brown leather loafers. He’s got a professor vibe going.
Brock rises. “Mr. Ainsley?”
The elderly man’s eyes widen, and they’re a searing blue. He must’ve been a handsome young man with all that hair. From its color, I’m guessing he was dark blond or light brown.
“My God,” he says. “You look exactly like your father.”
“Brock Steel.” Brock holds out his hand. “Yes, I get that all the time.”
Ennis takes his hand and gives him a hearty shake back. “You couldn’t have been more than two or three years old the last time I saw you. You resembled him even then. I remember your brother had your mother’s green eyes, but you? I could tell you were going to be a carbon copy of Jonah Steel. After all, you looked exactly like him at that age.”
“Did I?”
