“I get it,” Tom says. Red-haired and amber-eyed, Tom is the third son of a baronet, who followed family tradition by joining the army. As a lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards, he did a couple of tours of duty in Afghanistan and saw too many of his comrades fall. Two years ago he was invalided out of the army from wounds inflicted two years prior by an IED in Kabul. His left leg is held together by titanium, his temper not so much. Both Joe and I have come to recognize that pugnacious gleam in Tom’s eyes, and we know when it’s prudent to change the subject or get him out of the room. At his request we never mention The Incident.
“When is the memorial service?” Tom inquires.
“I was discussing that at lunchtime with Caroline and Maryanne. We thought after Easter.”
“How’s Caroline?”
I shift in my seat. “Grieving.” I shrug, giving Tom a level gaze.
Tom regards me, eyes narrowed, his interest piqued. “Something you not telling us?”
Shit.
Following The Incident, not only is Tom belligerent but he’s become irritatingly insightful. “Come on, Trevelyan, you’re not playing with a straight bat. What is it?”
“No. Nothing you need to know. How’s Henrietta?”
“Henry? She’s great, thanks, but she keeps dropping bloody almighty hints that I need to buck up and pop the fucking question,” Tom replies with a doleful look.
Joe and I both grin. “You’re a doomed man, bro,” Joe says, and claps him on the back.
Of the three of us, Tom is the only one in a long-term relationship. Henrietta is a saint. She nursed Tom through the trauma of his injuries, and she puts up with all of his bullshit, his PTSD, his temper. He could do a lot worse.
Both Joe and I like to play the field. Well, I used to. Unbidden, a vision of the raven-haired Alessia Demachi comes to my mind.
When did I last have sex?
I frown because I can’t remember. Shit.
“And Maryanne?” Joe asks, distracting me.
“She’s okay. Grieving, too.”
“Does she need comforting?”
Comforting like I comforted Caroline?
“Mate!” I scoff in warning.
House rules. Sisters are off-limits. I shake my head. Joseph still has a not-so-soft spot for my sister. She could do a lot worse, he’s a good guy, but I decide to burst his bubble. “She met some bloke while she was skiing in Whistler. He lives in Seattle. He’s a clinical psychologist or something. She plans to see him soon, I think.”
Joe gives me a quizzical look. “Really?” He rubs his rakish goatee, his eyes full of speculation. “Well, if he makes it over here, we’ll have to see if this geezer measures up.”
“He may be coming over next month. She’s pretty excited about it.”
“You know, now that you’re the earl, you’ll need to provide an heir and a spare,” Tom says.
“Yeah, yeah. Time enough for that yet.”
That’s what I’ve always been. The Spare…Kit’s nickname for me.
It turns out the title and lands needed the spare.
“Yeah. There’s no way you’re ready to settle down, mate. You’re as much of a serial shagger as I am. And I need a wingman,” Joe says with a broad grin.
“Come on, Trevelyan, you’ve shagged your way through most of London,” Tom taunts, and I don’t know if he’s disgusted or impressed.
“Fuck off, Tom,” I say, and we all laugh.
The pub’s landlady rings the bell above the bar. “Time, gentlemen, please,” she calls.
“Back to mine?” I ask. Both Tom and Joe agree, and the three of us sink our pints. “You okay to walk back?” I ask Tom.
“Fuck off. I got myself here, didn’t I?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I’m running a fucking 5K in April, you wanker.”
I hold my hands up in surrender. I keep forgetting that physically he’s mended….
* * *
It is clear and sunny but bitterly cold, a day where her breath precedes her in a cloud of vapor as she hurries along Chelsea Embankment. There are still large patches of snow welded in icy clumps to the sidewalks, but the roads have been sanded. Traffic has returned to normal, and London is up and running again. Alessia’s train was delayed this morning, and now she’s a little late. But she would have happily walked from Brentford just to see him.
Alessia grins. She is finally at the front door to the Mister’s apartment, her favorite place in the world. She slips her key in the lock and braces herself for the sound of the alarm but is relieved at the silence. Closing the door, she’s surprised by the smell. The apartment reeks of stale alcohol.
Crinkling her nose at the unexpected odor, she removes her boots and pads barefoot into the kitchen. The worktops are littered with empty bottles of beer and greasy pizza boxes.
She jumps when she sees an athletic, attractive young man standing at the open fridge drinking orange juice directly from the carton. His skin is dark, he has long, knotted hair, and he’s dressed only in his boxer shorts. Alessia gapes at him. He turns toward her, and his face erupts in a broad grin of perfect white teeth.
“Well, hi there,” he says, his dark eyes widening in appreciation.
Alessia blushes and mumbles, “Hi,” then scurries into the laundry room.
Who is this man?
She scrambles out of her coat, and from her plastic bag slips on her cleaning uniform: housecoat and headscarf. Lastly she slides her feet into her sneakers.
Alessia peeks around the laundry room door into the kitchen. The Mister, wearing a black T-shirt and his ripped jeans, is standing beside the fridge sharing the carton of orange juice with the stranger.
“I just frightened your barefoot help. You tapped that yet? She’s hot.”
“Fuck off, Joe. And I’m not surprised you frightened her. Put some clothes on, you fucking exhibitionist.”
“Sorry, your lordship.” The stranger tugs at his hair and bows his head.
“Fuck off again,” the Mister says mildly, and he takes another swig of orange juice. “You can use my bathroom.”
The dark-haired man laughs and, turning to go, spies Alessia watching the banter. He grins again and waves at her, causing the Mister to look in her direction. His eyes light up, and a slow smile spreads across his face, and Alessia has no choice but to come out of hiding.
“Joe, this is Alessia. Alessia, Joe.” There is a warning tone to his voice, but Alessia doesn’t know if it is directed at her or at Joe.
“Good morning, Alessia. Please excuse my state of undress.” Joe gives her a theatrical bow, and when he’s upright, he has a wicked, amused glint in his dark eyes. His body is toned and lean—like the Mister’s. Each muscle of his abdomen is clearly defined.
“Good morning,” she whispers.
The Mister gives Joe a brooding glare. But Joe ignores him and winks at Alessia before he strolls out of the kitchen, whistling.
“Sorry about that,” the Mi
ster says as he turns emerald eyes on her. “How are you today?” His slow smile returns.
Her flush deepens as her heart somersaults. Any inquiry he makes about her well-being, even one so commonplace, lifts her spirits.
“I am good. Thank you.”
“I’m glad you made it here. The trains running okay?”
“They are a little late.”
“Good morning.” A man with fiery red hair limps into the kitchen wearing only his boxer shorts and a scowl.
“Good God,” the Mister mumbles under his breath, and he scrapes his hand through his tousled hair.
Alessia regards this new friend who has joined them. Tall and handsome, his limbs are fair, with shockingly livid scars that crisscross his left leg and his left side like the tracks at a railway junction.
He notices Alessia staring at his scars.
“War wound,” he growls.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and she lowers her gaze to the floor, wishing it would open and swallow her whole.
“Tom, do you want some coffee?” the Mister asks, and it seems to Alessia he’s trying to defuse the sudden tension in the room.
“Bloody right. I need something for this god-awful hangover.”
Alessia scuttles back into the laundry room to start on the ironing. At least she’s out of sight and won’t offend any of the Mister’s friends from in there.
* * *
I watch Alessia’s hasty retreat into the scullery, her plait bouncing from side to side and brushing her waist.
“Who’s the pretty girl?”
“My daily.”
Tom nods with lascivious approval. I’m glad she’s gone back into her lair, away from Tom’s and Joe’s prying eyes. Their reaction makes me uneasy. Suddenly, surprisingly, I feel proprietary. It’s an unfamiliar emotion. I don’t want my friends ogling her. She’s mine. Well, she’s my employee.
You’re the Earl of Trevethick now. She’ll need to go on the payroll.