would still be locked up, which is where he should be, and not loose in London somewhere.”
“Sir William wanted to avoid a scandal.” Lame as that reasoning was, I understood my late mother’s former employer’s unwillingness to besmirch the family name after his son Dylan had made two attempts on his life.
“Dylan was always such a spiteful lad. Even as a five-year-old, his cold eyes showed malice. My poor Harry suffered. As did you, dear boy. I’m worried he might come for you. He was livid when he lost his inheritance to you.” She pointed. “Rightfully, I might add. If you hadn’t saved Sir William…” Touching her heart, she shook her head dramatically. “Goodness knows where any of us would’ve ended up.”
“I can look after myself.” I sat back and took a deep breath.
She took my hand and stroked it. “Look at what you’ve become. You’re so tall and handsome you should be in the movies.”
I sniffed.
“At least before I die, please promise me you’ll find yourself a good woman.”
Her faded hazel eyes shone with concern.
“One day I will.” Although I had no intention of ever marrying, I always reassured Milly that I would.
Her frown faded into a smile. “A round of five hundred?”
In addition to our history, we shared a love of cards.
During the day, I made a killing buying up estates from the children of wealth who couldn’t afford death duties and inheritance taxes. And after hours, I played cards.
Milly had taught me well. She loved a flutter and had won my undivided respect for her ability to remain blank faced even when holding a royal flush.
I removed my wallet and emptied some notes onto the table.
“Where are the coins?” Milly asked, looking disappointedly at the crisp ten-pound notes I’d brought along for our card game.
“I thought we’d splash out a little today.”
She frowned. “Nothing beats the rattle of coins, though.”
I chuckled. “I suppose so. These days, Milly, they’re rare.”
She pointed to the drawer by her bed. “The cards are in there.”
I opened the drawer and, next to the cards, saw something I’d never seen there before—a journal.
“Have you started writing?” I asked, removing the pack of cards.
“I have. And don’t you go poking around in there.”
Her feisty tone brought back memories of Milly and her bossy ways. I had to grin, despite a growing thirst for that book.
I’d spent years observing furtive glances between Milly and my late mother. One day, I hoped to understand why my mother, who’d mysteriously disappeared, had taken her secrets with her.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING DAY, I was in my London office. I’d been on one phone call after another, tussling with the council over the development of one of my recently acquired estates. I shut the folder and stretched my arms. Turning away from the postcard view of Westminster, I looked through the wall of windows to a neighboring building.
My inner voyeur stirred.
She was on her knees. While seated, he positioned himself close to her face. Taking out his cock, he shoved it into her mouth. They liked it rough and met on a Wednesday or Friday. They were hard to miss, given that they performed in front of the window.
I unzipped my trousers and sat far away from the window to avoid becoming someone’s performance piece.
As I watched the woman playing with her tits, the phone buzzed. I wiped my hands before returning the call.
“There you are,” said James. “I’ve been trying to call all day.”
“I’ve been dealing with heritage layers and a pair of squabbling siblings.”
He laughed. “That sounds entertaining.”
“More torturous than anything. There’s nothing like the smell of cash to incite hatred within a family.”
“I’ve seen it all too often. I suppose you’re buying the family jewels.”
“It’s a pretty estate. In Norwich. An old Georgian Hall. They’ve fallen into debt. She wants to sell, he wants to keep it, and so it goes, on and on. If I had a soft voice and patience, I could become a counselor in this business.”
James laughed. “I could never see you being that, you old cynic.”
“Hey… steady on. I’m what thirty going on fifty.”
“Yes, the body of a stud and the mind of a pipe-sucking mad uncle.”
“Mad? Me? Never.” I grinned.
“Tonight. Remember? We’re off to the Cherry Orchard.”
I sat up. That was unexpected. “The play by Chekhov?”
He laughed. “That was my response. An artful and rather apt subterfuge for a place dealing in virgins.”
“Disrespectful to the master playwright, in my book.”
“Stop sucking on that pipe, uncle.”
I chuckled. “So, it’s tonight.” I