Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Run. Run. Run.
As I cool down, the treadmill slows, and I jog through the final stretch of my five-mile sprint, allowing my feverish thoughts to return. For the first time in a long time, I have a great deal to do.
Before Kit’s demise my days were spent recovering from the night before and planning the next night’s entertainment. And that was about it. That was my life. I don’t like to shine a light on the vacuity of my existence. But deep down I know how bloody useless I am. Access to a healthy trust fund since I turned twenty-one means I’ve never done a serious day’s work in my life. Unlike my older brother. He worked hard, but then again he had no choice.
Today, however, will be different. I’m the executor of Kit’s will, which is a joke. Choosing me was his last laugh, I’m sure—but now that he’s interred in the family vault, the will has to be read and…well, executed.
And Kit died leaving no heirs.
I shudder as the treadmill comes to a stop. I don’t want to think about the implications. I’m not ready.
Grabbing my iPhone, I swing a towel around my neck and jog back upstairs to my flat on the sixth floor.
Stripping off my clothes, I discard them in the bedroom and head into the en suite bathroom. Beneath the shower, as I wash my hair, I consider how to deal with Caroline. We’ve known each other since our early schooldays. We each recognized a kindred spirit, and it drew us together, two thirteen-year-old boarders with divorced parents. I was the new boy and she took me under her wing. We became inseparable. She is and always will be my first love, my first fuck…my disastrous first fuck. And years later she’d chosen my brother, not me. But in spite of all that, we managed to remain good friends and keep our hands off each other—until Kit’s death.
Shit. It has to stop. I don’t want or need the complication. As I shave, solemn green eyes blaze back at me. Don’t fuck it up with Caroline. She’s one of your few friends. She’s your best friend. Talk to her. Reason with her. She knows we’re incompatible. I nod at my reflection, feeling more resolved about her, and wipe my face free of foam. Tossing the towel onto the floor, I head into the dressing room. There I gather up my black jeans, which are embedded in a pile on one of the shelves, and I’m relieved to find hanging a newly pressed white shirt and a dry-cleaned black blazer. Today I have lunch with the family solicitors. I slip on my boots and grab a coat to defend myself from the cold outside.
Shit, it’s Monday.
I remember that Krystyna, my ancient Polish daily, is due later this morning to clean. Taking out my wallet, I deposit some cash on the console table in the hall, set the alarm, then stroll out the front door. Locking up behind me, I forgo the lift and take the stairs.
Once I’m outside on Chelsea Embankment, the air is clear and crisp, marred only by the vapor of my frozen breath. I stare beyond the gloomy, gray Thames on the other side of the street to the Peace Pagoda on the opposite bank. That’s what I want, some peace, but that may be a long time coming. I hope to have some questions answered over lunch. Raising an arm, I hail a cab and order the driver to take me to Mayfair.
* * *
Housed in the Georgian splendor of Brook Street, the firm of Pavel, Marmont and Hoffman has been the family’s solicitors since 1775. “Time to be a grown-up,” I mutter to myself as I push open the ornate wooden door.
“Good afternoon, sir.” The young receptionist beams, a flush staining her olive skin. She’s pretty, in an understated way. If these were normal circumstances I’d have her number within five minutes of conversation, but that’s not why I’m here.
“I have an appointment to see Mr. Rajah.”
“Your name?”
“Maxim Trevelyan.”
Her eyes scan her computer screen, and she shakes her head and frowns. “Please take a seat.” She waves toward two brown leather chesterfields that are situated in the paneled hall, and I slump into the nearer one picking up that morning’s edition of the Financial Times. The receptionist is talking on the phone with some urgency while I peruse the front page of the paper but take nothing in. When I glance up, Rajah is coming to greet me himself, striding through the double doors with an outstretched hand.
I stand.
“Lord Trevethick, may I offer you my sincere condolences for your loss,” Rajah says as we shake hands.
“Trevethick, please,” I reply. “I’ve yet to get used to my brother’s title.”
My title…now.
“Of course.” Mr. Rajah nods with a polite deference that I find irritating. “Would you like to come with me? We’re having lunch in the partners’ dining room, and I must say we have one of the finest cellars in London.”