The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,108

she was doing work to improve things.

Even if she was the only one who noticed.

Entering the staff hallway, she went down toward Rosalinda’s old office and Mr. Harris’s suite of rooms—

She didn’t make it through to the kitchen.

Outside the butler’s residence, there was a line-up of suitcases. Some photographs and books in a box. A rolling rack that suspended a bunch of suit bags.

Putting her head through the open door, she frowned. “Mr. Harris?”

The butler came out of the bedroom beyond. Even in the midst of his apparent move, he was dressed in one of his suits, his hair gelled into place, his clean-shaven face looking as if he had put a light layer of make-up on it.

“Good day,” he clipped.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“I’ve taken another position.”

“What?”

“I’m moving on. I am being picked up in approximately twenty minutes.”

“Wait, and you’re not giving notice?”

“My check bounced at the bank this morning. Your boyfriend, or whomever he is to you, and his family owe me two thousand nine hundred eighty-seven dollars and twenty-two cents. I believe failure of payment is grounds for me to redact the clause in my contract requiring me to give notice.”

Lizzie shook her head. “You can’t just leave like this.”

“Can’t I? I would suggest you follow my example, but you seem to be inclined to get further involved, not less so, with this family. At least one can guess that you are emotionally vested at a proper level. Otherwise, your self-destruction would be laughable.”

As Lizzie turned away, Mr. Harris said, “Do tell Lane I’m leaving my resignation letter here on the butler’s desk. And try not to depart on a snit, will you.”

Out in the hall, Lizzie smiled at the man as she picked up his box of things. “Oh, I’m not in a snit—or whatever you call it. I’m going to help you get out of this house. And I’m more than happy to tell him where to find your letter. I hope it has your new address on it, or at the very least a phone number. You’re still on the Charlemont Metro Police Department’s interviewee list.”

Fine, I’ll come to you, Lane thought as he pulled the Porsche in between the gates of Samuel T.’s farm.

The lane proceeded down an allée of trees, which had been planted seventy-five years ago by Samuel T.’s great-grandparents. The thick, rough-barked trunks supported broad branches of spectacular green leaves, and a dappling shade was thrown across the pale little pebbles of the driveway. Off in the distance, centered among the fields that rolled with grace, the Lodges’ farmhouse was not rustic in the slightest. Elegant, of perfect proportion, and almost as old as Easterly, the clapboard box had a hip roof and a wraparound porch to end all porches.

After Lane parked next to the old Jaguar, he got out and went to the front door, which was wide open. Knocking on its screen, he called out, “Samuel T.?”

The interior of the house was dark, and as he helped himself and walked in, he liked the smell of the place. Lemon. Old wood. Something sweet like fresh cinnamon buns that have been homemade in the kitchen.

“Samuel T.?”

Some kind of rustling got his attention, and he tracked the sound, walking into the library—

“Oh, shit!”

Pulling a fast pivot from the doorway, he turned away from the image of a very naked woman sitting on Samuel T. on a leather sofa.

“I knocked,” Lane called out.

“It’s okay, old man.”

Samuel T. didn’t seem bothered in the slightest, and the blond was solidly in that camp, too: From what Lane could tell in his very, very peripheral vision, she didn’t bother to even get dressed. Then again, maybe her clothes were in another part of the house. Out on the lawn. Hanging from a tree.

“Wait for me upstairs,” Samuel T. ordered.

The woman murmured something, and there was the sound of a kiss. Then the model—because she was that good-looking and that tall—sauntered by in one of Samuel T.’s business shirts.

“Hi,” she said in a voice that was like whiskey, smooth and probably heady to a lot of guys.

“Yup, good-bye,” Lane said as he ignored her and went in to join his friend.

Samuel T. was pulling a black silk robe closed and sitting up with a blurry expression. As he rubbed his messy hair and yawned, he looked outside. “So it’s morning, I see. Where has the night gone.”

“On a scale of one to ten, where one is Sunday church and ten is the last frat party you