Page 63 of Stick to the Deal
I’d completely forgotten Serena. She still stands before me, her cheeks mottled with rage as she glowers at me. “Some artsy whore who’ll never be a proper countess?”
Drawing up to my full height, I glare at Serena with all the contempt and bitterness I’ve buried for years. “Nic is twice the woman you’ll ever be, but even if she wasn’t in the picture, you’ll never be my countess.”
She gulps. “You’ll regret this.”
I highly doubt that.
My phone is already to my ear as I storm down the front steps and back into the town car—much to the shock of Foster in the front. The line rings once before going to voicemail.
“Fuck,” I yell as I toss my phone onto the seat.
“Everything alright, sir?” Foster’s concerned voice echoes in the confined space.
“Not really.” My fingers scrape down my face as I lean my head back. “Can you take me home, please?”
“Not staying for dinner, I take it. Where is the missus tonight?” His eyes dart to me as he pulls out into traffic.
“That’s the million-pound question.” I sound petulant to my own ears.
“If I might be so bold?”
“You know you can always speak freely with me, Foster.” Yet he still asks every time after thirty years.
“Anyone who sees you with both Miss Wentworth and Lady Ravenscourt can see the truth of it. You know how these gossip rags go.”
“I’m not the one needing convincing.”
A soft chuckle. “Lady Ravenscourt knows, too. But knowing something and feeling it aren’t quite the same thing. She just needs some reminding.”
“How?”
“Make a big gesture. That always worked with my Julia. Some of those books you are always reading should give you some ideas. What would Mister Darcy do?”
What would Fitzwilliam Darcy do? Besides throwing money at her problems, that is. First, Nic is so independent she fixes her own problems before I can help, and second, it’s her money anyway, so that doesn’t work. There’s got to be something else.
My mobile buzzes from the floor. I scramble to pick it up, hoping it’s her.
Henri Beaufort
I’m glad you convinced her to call me. Merci beaucoup.
As I’m puzzling out that message, a second arrives. The image shows an invitation to an art show at Henri’s gallery next month. I’m about to close it when the artist’s name stands out.
Nic Kato-Atherton.
She’s actually going to do it. A complex mix of emotions flood my senses. Pride in her for putting herself out there. Disappointment that she didn’t tell me herself. Jealousy that she can share this with Henri and not me. Inspiration for my grand gesture.
I smile down at the phone as an idea forms.
“Did you think of something, sir?” Foster’s voice sounds as hopeful as I feel.
“I believe I did. Might need some help, though.”
Like so many times in my youth, Foster listens as I talk through my thought process. A thoughtful question here, a gentle nudge there, and by the time we pull up in front of my flat, I have the makings of a plan.
April
Love me, hate me, but I know when I sniff a story. Lord and Lady Ravenscourt have not been photographed together in over a month—believe me, I have bots sniffing the web for any whisper of the two of them. Lord R hasn’t even left London in that time. Is his brief adventure into business now over? He appears to be the perfect little princeling again, dancing to daddy and mommy’s tune. Every day he’s been meeting with various boards the family sits on. Every night he’s at some glittering society event.
