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Getting Dirty

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She reaches out to cup my cheek, her bony hand cold against the heat of my skin.

‘You have such a big heart...but you have your mother’s wild streak in you too.’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’ I ask softly.

There’s a rap at the door that saves her from answering and I push off the bed to open it, knowing it will be Sue with brunch. There’s no use fighting this out with Granny. I don’t even know what I’m fighting for. To clear my mother’s name? To lift the shackles of the Lauren name? I mean, Christ, it’s the twenty-first century—who gives a toss about family reputations any more?

I look back at Granny as I pull open the door for Sue. Above Granny’s bed is a painting of my great-great-great-grandmother, all prim and perfect. I can see myself in her, I can see Granny in her and I realise that this is what it’s about. A legacy that exists long after we’re gone, a part of us that travels through the generations.

That’s why I can’t fight her.

Because I get it.

But I want to live my life too. I want to be happy.

Why can’t I have it all?

I smile at Sue as she brings in the laden tray and my mind is catapulted back to another tray, another person offering it up, and my body warms. My heart swells.

I’m an old romantic, Granny’s right, and now that I’ve found a man worthy of loving, have had a glimpse of happiness with him, a glimpse of what the future might look like, I’m going after it.

I just need to make him realise he wants it too and then we can work out the rest together—his job, the public, all of it.

CHAPTER NINE

COCO’S BEEN GONE an hour, tops, and I’ve been staring at my computer screen, revisiting everything I know of her...of the Laurens. The Duchess’s illness, guesstimates of the estate value, including their private wealth, and the business Philip continues to run. Facts, figures—tangible things that I can work with.

But none of it eases the weird angst inside me. I’m edgy beyond reason, and if I stop focusing for a second Coco fills my vision, taking over and making it personal—too personal.

I open up an article I have bookmarked and there she is, looking exquisite in a slinky silver number, attending a red-carpet event. Just beneath is a picture of her parents, Robert and Elizabeth Lauren, taken when they were a similar age to what Coco is now.

I keep on reading, even though I’ve read it multiple times before. It feels more important now—more crucial to my understanding of her and what Philip can hope to gain.

It makes for tragic reading. The sullied reputation of her mother, the open disapproval of her parents’ marriage as a result and the sudden death of Elizabeth in a car crash. And her father’s second marriage was reputed to have been fiery at best.

I imagine what Coco’s life has been like—trying to avoid censure, the kind of slander her mother suffered, coping with the derogatory press coverage of her father’s second marriage. Hell, it even makes me feel sorry for Philip, who grew up through it all.

It doesn’t excuse his behaviour now, though. Or his mission to ruin her.

And I can say that because I’ve been there. I lived through it when my father was arrested. It was the biggest case of fraud the country had seen in years and my father was splashed through the media—us too, for a time.

I still don’t understand why her brother wants to taint their family name with more scandal. Maybe it’s for blackmail purposes or maybe it’s something far simpler. I know I said it outright to Coco, but does her brother hope that by ruining her reputation he can somehow get her pushed out, disinherited, cut off? That would explain the timescale pressures, with the Duchess so sick.

My eyes fall from the screen as I shake my head. I can’t get my head around it.

She’s gone through enough already. Losing her parents. Soon to lose her grandmother. How can her brother be seeking to ruin her too?

I press my fist to my mouth and breathe through the rage clouding my brain; rage doesn’t get me any closer to finding answers.

I look at my phone. How long has it been since I instructed my researchers to dig up everything they could on Philip? Thirteen hours at most. Hardly long enough. But a quick chase-up won’t hurt.

I snatch it up, but it illuminates before I can do anything, ringing through the quiet.

Philip.

I fight the urge to throw the damn thing down and take another controlled breath before putting it to my ear.

‘Philip.’



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