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I would have preferred to meet them at the funeral, but Ralph insisted we travel together. After getting a taxi over to his house this morning, I checked that Pippy was okay. The crazy pup went wild as soon as she saw me, jumping up and licking my face. She seemed happy, despite the new diamante collar aroundher neck that must have been bought as a gift and would be burned as soon as we got her home.
“We’re here,” I announce.
My hand’s poised on the door handle, ready to fly out as soon as we come to a stop.
The car passes through wrought iron gates and crawls up the gravel path to the small church where the service is happening. A group of mourners wait by the doors. I’d guess there are around one hundred people gathered, which sounds like a lot, but is far smaller than other funerals I’ve attended. Usually, funerals in old-money families are huge, grand affairs, but Beatrice’s premature death caused enough of a scandal to make them organise a simpler do.
“There’s no press,” my sister-in-law says, her nose pressed against the glass. She sounds almost disappointed.
“Good,” I say, jumping out before the driver pulls the handbrake.
The crowd spins to face me as soon as my foot hits the ground.
The last time I saw most of them was at Collingsbrook Manor. Their judgemental gazes show I’m not welcome. I didn’t expect to be greeted with open arms. Since the fire, many companies I worked with have removed me from their boards. Nobody wants to be associated with a crazy person whose alleged fiancée had a drug problem. I adjust my sleeves and keep my head held high. Fickle fuckers.
My mother, noticing the silence following my arrival, totters over to greet us. Her hat wobbles as she walks. The precariously balanced monstrosity on her head resembles a black swan laying an egg.
“Sebastian,” she croons. “Come and stand with us.”
My father loiters behind her and nods sullenly in my direction. It’s unusual for him to attend these events, and it’sbeen months since I’ve seen him. In his old age, he’s balding and gained weight around his middle. Thankfully, I’ve inherited my mother’s thick hair, but Ralph isn’t so lucky. He’s a mini version of Father and has had to slick his hair back to disguise the thinning patch around his crown.
“I’m surprised you came, Father,” I say.
He purses his lips, barely bothering to acknowledge me. All he cares about is his handicap in golf. Thankfully, he married a climbing socialite who handles social obligations on his behalf—perhaps their similarities are why my mother had been so fond of Beatrice.
“It’s a tragedy, isn’t it? Drugs! I can’t believe it!” Mother says, loud enough to make sure everyone’s listening. “Did you know about her problems, Sebastian? Did she open up to you?”
“No,” I reply, knowing her performance is for the audience’s benefit. “She didn’t seem like the type, but I guess you can never tell.”
I can’t exactly declare that assassins staged Beatrice’s death to make a point.
“I suppose you can’t,” she says, seemingly content that I’ve given the correct answer. She drops her voice so only I can hear, “If you ever need to go to rehab, I’ve done my research and have found a very discreet place.”
She isn’t saying it because she cares about my welfare. No, she’s more concerned about avoiding the enormous scandal it would bring to the family.
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“Did you see them over there?” she hisses. “Lord and Lady Deveraux didn’t even acknowledge us. Can you believe it? We’re true royalty, and they’re looking down their noses at us when they paid for their titles.”
“I know we’ve not had great publicity lately,” Ralph chips in. “But I have plans to change things, Father.”
Daddy Dearest is too preoccupied checking out the younger wife of a man standing nearby to pay attention to Ralph’s peacocking, and I resist the urge to laugh.
“Very good, Ralph,” Mother says, brimming with pride. “At least one of our sons keeps the family in mind.”
“This is Beatrice’s funeral,” I remind them. “Can we not talk about the family or publicity for one day?”
Her eyes narrow coldly, but she pats my arm to present the illusion of being supportive. “Of course, dear.”
Over her shoulder, my gaze locks on the man I’ve been waiting for.
“I need a minute,” I say, heading away from the group.
“Take as long as you need,” Mother says in a tone that implies she means the exact opposite.
While everyone waits for the service to start, Callen and Freddie are stationed behind a giant tombstone, ready to inject Christopher Trout with a paralytic agent as soon as I can get him away from the party.
I put up my hand to cover my mouth and use the other to adjust the button on my jacket. The button doubles as a tiny camera that’s live-streaming to Bram. Even though he stayed behind, he isn’t missing any action and will be seeing everything that happens.
