“Abigail—”
But she’s already had her say—it’s my turn now.
“I’m not you, Grandmother. My choices belong to me and me alone. No one gets to take them away.”
There are no raving dramatics, no shouts of hysteria—I’m perfectly composed—my words are simple because they’re sincere and weighted with finality.
“If you try to harm him in any way, I’ll never forgive you. I’ll never come back here. I’ll never speak to you or think of you or admire you ever again. I honestly don’t know if that matters to you, but if you care about me—even just a little—you will let him be. Let us be.”
She looks into my eyes for several beats and I stare right back, refusing to be cowed this time. Because this family means everything to her, there is nothing she wouldn’t do for it; that’s what she said. And that’s what I’m counting on.
The Dowager Countess releases a long, vexed sigh, then she lowers her dark green eyes. And she nods—it’s stiff and begrudging, but I’ll take it.
* * *
Tommy
Brunch with Abby’s family explains so fucking much.
I’d read up on each of them, from the report Amos and Stella compiled all those months ago. But seeing them together in one posh dining room really drives home the idea that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree—and the Haddocks are an orchard of straitlaced oddness.
They’re formal when Abby introduces me and when they greet each other—reserved and as bland as the walls in Abby’s flat. Even the two young nieces are strangely subdued.
Possibly medicated.
I don’t have much experience with the whole bringing-me-home-to-mum-and-dad thing. The women I dated before Abby veered towards the wild side and tended to have issues with their families. Or the relationship crashed and burned before we ever got to that point. But I’ve been dealing with the peculiarities of the wealthy and titled my whole adult life—so I’m dead-on sure I can win these crusty crumbs over.
As we move to take our seats, I offer my hand to Abby’s father and mother, giving them my best gentlemanly smile. “It’s an honor to meet you both.”
Abby’s dad is tall—studious and bow-tied—the type who’s more of a thinker and contemplater before he considers being a doer.
Abby’s mum is strikingly similar to her. Not just because they share the same porcelain skin and exquisite features—but because of the silent, observant way she looks at me when she shakes my hand. Like she’s dicing me up into slide-sized pieces in her mind to be analyzed later.
I intercept the Dowager Countess on her way to the table, dipping my head respectfully.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Your Ladyship.” Then I give her a wink. “And don’t worry about that whole trying-to-strong-arm-Abby-into-kicking-me-to-the-curb thing . . . you were only looking out for her. I can respect that.”
Abby’s father pauses midway to his seat.
“What’s this now? I didn’t catch that.”
I wave my hand. “Nothing worth repeating. Water under the bridge.” My look to the Dowager Countess is heavy with meaning. “Isn’t that right, madam?”
Her lips pucker, like a lemon is stuck in her mouth.
“Yes. Nothing of consequence.”
Once we’re settled, brunch is served.
And even the way they eat is bizarre. As if they’re bird–human hybrids—pecking and nibbling like they’re trying to make each bite last as long as possible.
If I’d tried eating like that growing up, I would’ve bloody starved to death before age five.
The butler places a butter dish in front of Abby’s grandmother.
“Thank you, Grogg.”
A laugh barks from my throat. “Grogg—that’s a good one.”
Because I figure it’s a joke—only a twisted bastard would stick a moniker like Grogg on a boy. It’d be like naming him Beer.
Then I get a look at his face.
“Oh, shit, that’s you’re real name? Sorry, mate.”
“Mummy,” the twin niece on the left whispers, “Auntie Abigail’s friend said the naughty poopy word.”
I grin at her across the table and try to redeem myself.
“I’ll watch my mouth more carefully, sweetheart.” I slip a coin from my pocket and dance it across my fingers. “Do you want to see a magic trick?”
What child doesn’t enjoy a good magic trick?
This one, apparently.
Her face scrunches into a mighty frown . . . it must be genetic.
“Magic isn’t real.”
“Of course magic is real. “
I bet they don’t believe in Father Christmas either. What kind of nightmare house is this?
“Mummy,” the niece whispers again, “Auntie Abigail’s friend is telling lies.”
Wow. Tough room.
I toss the coin up, snatch it from the air and move to slip it back into my pocket. Before I do, Abby’s sharp-eyed older brother, who’s built like a tank, takes notice of the bruising scabs across my knuckles.
“What happened to your hand, Mr. Sullivan? Some sort of accident?”
The thing about lying is, if you’re going to do it, it’s always best to stick as close to the truth as possible. That may not have made it into the Bible, but it’s still a golden rule.