The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,26

was Chantal, why’d she keep the pregnancy out of it? If she’d wanted to really screw us, she’d have led with that news flash—although based on her choice of lawyer, it is clear she does not intend to go quietly into any good night.”

“Who’d she hire?”

“Rachel Prather.”

“Who’s that?”

“Think Gloria Allred meets the Hulk—although the latter is not a comment on physical appearance, more what happens if you piss her off. She’s out of Atlanta and she called me last night at ten o’clock. I was in my jammies. The woman I was with was not.”

Lane could only imagine. “They’re not wasting any time with the ask, I see. How much do they want?”

Samuel T. held up his glass. “You know, this actually is the best bourbon I’ve ever had. So full bodied, and—”

“How much.”

Samuel T.’s eyes shot across the low-slung coffee table. “Half. Of everything in your name. Which is about eighty million dollars.”

“Is she insane?”

“Yes, but to paraphrase, Chantal has information you don’t want getting out in the press.” When Lane didn’t fill in the silence, Samuel T. pointed out the obvious, “That pregnancy is a problem in this regard—even if, in other situations, I could have used it to reduce alimony.”

“Her blessed event is just one issue.”

“Is that why your father killed himself?” Samuel T. asked softly.

“I don’t know.” Lane shrugged, thinking he should be making a damn list. “Regardless, I’m not writing that kind of check to her, Samuel. It’s not going to happen.”

“Look, my advice to you, especially given … her circumstances and your father’s passing?” Samuel T. seemed to savor some more of the bourbon. “I think you should pay the money—and I can’t believe I’m saying that. I was prepared to fight her for everything but the engagement ring. Your family’s reputation needs to be considered, though. And yes, I know it’s a hit on your bottom line, but with the way bourbon is selling right now, in three years, maybe less, you’ll be whole. This is not the time to take a principled stance, for so many reasons—especially not if you’ve moved on with your gardener.”

“She’s a horticulturist,” Lane gritted out.

Samuel T. held up a palm. “My apologies. As for Chantal, I’ll draft an ironclad, nondisclosure agreement, force her to disavow the parentage and ensure no contact for her or the child with anyone under this roof—”

“Even if Chantal signed something like that, I’m still not writing that check.”

“Lane. Don’t be an ass. This woman has the kind of lawyer who will rake you and this family through the press like you won’t believe. And your mother doesn’t know about the pregnancy, does she?” When Lane shook his head, Samuel dropped his voice. “Then let’s keep things that way, shall we.”

Lane pictured the woman who had borne him, lying in state in that satin bed of hers upstairs. It was tempting to believe that he could keep her insulated from all parts of this, but the nurses who tended her round the clock were all out in the world, reading newspapers, listening to the radio, on their smartphones.

But there was a greater problem, wasn’t there.

It seemed ironic to be pouring Family Reserve into his glass as he said, “We don’t have the money.”

“I know there is a spendthrift clause in your trust. My father put it there. But that kicks in only if you get sued by a third party. At your direction, however, your trust company can set up a payment plan. Buying her silence is likely to be cheaper than the fallout. You have a very picky board of old boys who believe mistresses should be neither seen nor heard and suicide is a criminal weakness—”

“We have larger problems, Samuel T., than that pregnancy. Why do you think Gin is marrying Richard.”

“Because she needs a man she can control.”

“It’s because she needs the money.”

Under other circumstances, it would have been amusing to watch light dawn on Marblehead, the comprehension bringing a pall over his old friend’s face.

“What are you … ? I’m sorry, what?”

“My father jumped for a lot of reasons, and some of them are financial. There’s a shitload of money missing from the household accounts, and I fear the Bradford Bourbon Company is running out of cash as well. I, literally, don’t have the money to pay Chantal, now or over time.”

Samuel T. swirled his bourbon around, then finished it. “You’ll have to excuse me, but … my brain is having trouble processing that. What about your mother’s stock