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It’s almost midnight when I pull out the picklock tools to unlock the Whitson’s front door. Silently, I slip upstairs and to Luxury’s bedroom. My eyes adjust to the darkness.
Grabbing the stool from near the door, I sit close to Luxury’s bed. She’s in the midst of peaceful slumber. For a while, I watch her. Even though I have a few things to do in New York before leaving, this is the last time I’ll visit—for my Little One’s sake.
32
VICTOR
Day Twenty-seven
“Don’t start with me, Victor Wesley Tudor. Acheekydemeanor is unbecoming of a duke! If you do not arrive home within an hour, you will be stripped of all your titles. I will see to it myself.” Mother’s threatening tone blares through my mobile as I’m seated before a breakfast of boiled eggs, beans, and sliced tomatoes.
Cheeky?Women are cheeky. She continues to reprimand me like an impudent rugrat. “God forbid you come home to a desolate land.”
What’s this woman talking about? I hand selected my advisors. There are no issues, and I’ve warned death to the consultants who didn’t alleviate any disputes promptly. Although they’re not aware of my immoral hobbies, my reputation for order proceeds me. Buttering a piece of toast, I wedge myself into the discussion. “But Mother—”
“Madeline would like to speak with you, too.”
“I’ll arrive by day's end tomorrow. That’s my best and final offer,” I grit out.
“Very well, then,” my mother, Princess Mary, composes herself, “we will all be simply elated to see you.”
The call disconnects.
“Love you too, Mum.” I slide the phone across the table to Burt. He rubs the bridge of his nose as if not wanting anything to do with the situation.
“I’m to presume my withstanding as a butler for all of forty years has come to an end?” he replies, having heard Mother’s rants.
“Honestly, Burt the Butler, my father’s already discharged you for your snooty attitude.”
“That’s rubbish. You Tudors simply forgot to stop bloody compensating me, denoting you never dismissed me.”
Though miserable, I have a laugh. As we eat, we sift through references for private security. We’ve evaluated hundreds of them. Monica even sent for a few from as far as Chicago and down to Miami. Am I about to leave my Little One in the hands of a stranger?
I personally interviewed one bloke. He was too eager for the wages. Money’s not a question, but I want someone driven, someone noble. Not a greedy mongrel who will retreat under duress.
“Burt, what’s the next round?”
He rubs the dark circles under his eyes. “Paul completed thorough background searches onthreesecurity representatives waiting in the lobby, Vic. For our sakes, for your mother’s, to spare—”
“Burt, bring up Bobby George,” I order, poring over a dossier. Bobby George Inc. is a private security firm, which began in Texas; however, George has expanded his area. The man himself is also waiting in the lobby, which I respect. He has the workforce to watch the Whitsons around the clock and the ability to check into Everhart’s past. Find out where the doctor has been hiding these days.
Though it’s absurd to believe that Luxury needs me to survive, I will not leave until she’s in safe hands.
Day Twenty-eight
Time’s up. Bobby George’s private security team has proven capable of around-the-clock care. The team’s kept surveillance on both Whitsons without the father or daughter perceiving their presence. In addition, Bobby George has vowed to notify me the second Everhart’s found.
The stairs of the jet slowly descend to the black asphalt on the tarmac. Agitated, I retrieve our hard-sided luggage from the trunk. I rub my leather-clad hands together and clasp another button on my camel coat, selecting a larger piece of baggage when Burt stops me.
“Victor, I’ve handled the luggage—”
“For forty years, of course.” I lug another piece out of the trunk.
“Sir,” his tone sharpens, “you have a board meeting to attend. If you can get your hands dirty, you can commence your own meeting. It wouldn’t do to keep the members waiting any longer.”
“That’s where I’m ahead of you, Burt the Butler. I’ve ten minutes. Moreover, you’re not as spry as you once were. Let me help youget us out of here asswiftlyas possible,” I reply drily.
For the next few minutes, I process Whitson’s words and how I meant to tell him about Everhart. I’ll wait for more concrete evidence. Nevertheless, how could I not respect the man’s wishes? Luxury’s his daughter, his only child.
