God … Lizzie. The only reason he was going to get through today in even halfway decent shape was because of the night he’d spent with her. He’d made love to her for hours … and then, as she’d slept, he had stared up at that ceiling of hers and figured out, step by step, how he needed to proceed.
“Are you going to talk to him today?” Gin asked him roughly.
For once, the “him” was not Edward.
“I want to.” Lane ground his molars. “But not yet. I’m not saying one thing to Father until I know the scope of it all. If I have that conversation before I can prove anything? He’s just going to slash and burn whatever he hasn’t shredded already.”
“So when will you get with him?”
He frowned. “Gin, you say nothing. Are we clear? Do not say one goddamn word—especially to Father.”
“I hate him.”
“Then take the long view. If you want him to get what’s coming? You need to let him hang himself. Do you understand what I’m saying? You confront him, you’re actually helping him. I’m going to take care of this, but there’s a process. Gin? Do you hear me?”
After a moment, there was a soft chuckle. “You sound like Edward used to.”
For a split second, he felt a bolt of high-octane pride. Then again, every one of them had always looked up to Edward.
“That’s about the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he muttered gruffly.
“I mean it.”
“So radio silence today, Gin. And I’ll let you know how we’re progressing.”
“Okay … all right.”
“Good girl. I love you. I’m going to take care of us. All of us.”
“I love you, too, Lane.”
Lane ended the connection and kept watching the clouds. Off in the distance, he could hear the patter of talk, and as he leveled his head, he saw down by the garage a vast group of uniformed waiters clustered around Reginald, the lot of them getting their marching orders.
Gin better keep her mouth shut, he thought.
William Baldwine was already going to be twitchy from Rosalinda’s death. If Lane—or God forbid Gin, with the likes of her mouth—came at him? He would hide things, disappear records, destroy details.
Assuming anything like that was left.
Lane lolled his head to the side so that he stared at Easterly. How much of this would be left, he wondered.
God. He never would have imagined that thought ever going through his mind.
Well, one thing was clear: William Baldwine’s reign was about to come to an end. Whether it was payback for what the man had done to Edward for all those years … or the fact that his mother had been disrespected … or the reality that it was likely Rosalinda had killed herself because of him …
Funny, that stuff with his own wife was the least of what was getting him vindictive.
Had Chantal really gone for his father? And gotten herself pregnant?
Unbelievable.
Made him think he should give his lawyer a little heads-up. A woman capable of that could pull anything out of her derby hat—
Wait, hadn’t Samuel T. said that adultery could be used to reduce alimony?
“Sir? Would you like me to park this car?”
Lane glanced at the uniformed parker who’d walked over. As opposed to the crew of fifty down at the bottom of the hill, there was only one guy stationed up here—and his sole purpose was to handle the University of Charlemont men’s basketball coach’s car. Oh, and route the Presidents’ and the various Governors’ teams of cars and SUVs around.
But Coach’s sedan was the primary and most important priority.
“No, thanks.” He took off the baseball cap and rubbed his hair. “I’m gonna leave—”
“Oh, Mr. Baldwine. I didn’t know it was you.”
“Why would you.” Lane got out and offered his palm. “Thanks for helping us today.”
The young kid stared at the hand he’d been offered for a moment, and then he moved in slowly, like he didn’t want to mess things up or look like an idiot. “Sir. Thank you, sir.”
Lane clapped the parker on the shoulder. “I’m just going to leave her here, okay? I’m not sure whether I’m going to the track or not.”
“Yes, sir. She sure is pretty!”
“Yeah, she is.”
As soon as Lane stepped through the front door, that English butler came forward with a stern expression on his face—as if he’d had to turn a number of people away already. That act was dropped immediately when he saw who it was.
“Sir, how are you?”
“Well enough. I have a request.”
“How may I serve you?”
“I need a suit—”
“I took the liberty of ordering you up a seersucker, blue, with a white shirt—French collar and cuffs—and a pink bow tie with pocket square. It was sent over late yesterday afternoon and pre-tailored to the specifications that Richardson’s had on file. If you require further adjustment to jacket or slacks, I shall send up a maid. And there are also silk socks in pink and a pair of loafers.”
What do you know—that efficiency act might be more than an illusion.
“Thank you so much.” Although he didn’t need it for the Derby and that was clearly what the butler was thinking. “I’ll—”
The sound of the knocker pounding on that massive door made them both turn around.