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“I’m here to see either Bram or his father.”

The butler gave me the up and down. “Your name?”

“Carson Lewis. In charge of security for the Lovechildes.”

“One moment.” He closed the door in my face.

“Nice one, arsehole,” I muttered.

I’d never liked the upper classes and their snooty staff, with their holier-than-thou attitude.

The door opened and from behind, I heard, “Come in.”

Bram’s father entered the large sombre room with paintings of sneering men and glum women.

“How can I help you?” he asked. “I think we met, didn’t we, in Paris? You were the one that roughed up my son.”

I nodded. “I’ve come to speak to him.”

“To threaten him again?”

I would have loved to wipe that smirk off his veiny face. He had that reddish drinker’s nose, just like my dad’s.

“He’s broken his promise, which means a lawsuit, I believe.”

“Oh, so you’ve come to threaten me?”

“Look, Mister…”

“It’s Lord. You’ll address me by my title.”

Yes, Lord Scumbag.

“Your son has crossed the line. He’s lucky that Ms. Lovechilde hasn’t laid charges. I’ve seen the bruises.”

“That could be anyone. It’s no secret that Savanah Lovechilde consorts with brutes.”

“Your son being one of them.”

“Now listen you.” He pointed in my face and had I been a few years younger, that aggressive gesture would have resulted in his index finger hanging off a tendon.

I stepped away and counted to three—an army technique when faced with rude but harmless types.

Was Lord Pike harmless? To me maybe. But I smelt something rotten in him just by his association with Crisp, and I knew he was a private guest at that venue of sleaze at the back of the casino.

“Is your son here? I’d like a word. Or do I just go straight to the police?”

His cloudy eyes held mine for a moment. I didn’t blink. Stonewalling was my specialty.

He puffed out a breath. “What the fuck has he done now?” he muttered, sounding like a father sick of cleaning his son’s mess.

Despite lacking sympathy for Lord Shithead, I would have hated to have a son like Bram, whom I’m certain had rubbed the family name in the mud.

“Just wait here.” He pointed at an antique chair that looked like dust might fly off it were I to sit.

If I were a director looking for an ideal horror movie setting, then that creepy room, with its dark wood walls and scowling portraits, qualified. There was even a statue of armour, which sort of amused me.

Humour aside, I sensed that this was not a happy home.

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