“Definitely not.” I glanced back at the delivery slip. Cumbria. I flipped it over. Oh, fucking hell.
“All right?” asked the man.
“Return it to the box,” I ordered. “And send it back to the bastard who sent it.”
“Can’t do that,” he said. “I think it would look quite nice here. Though your flat’s a bit modern for this piece.”
“Back in the fucking box,” I snapped as I snatched an envelope off the top of the lid, tore it open, and began to read the letter within.
Boy—
I growled. I fucking hated when he called me that, and he never stopped, did he?
Since you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge any part of your distinguished lineage, I’ve taken the liberty of sending a piece of that heritage to you. This clock was presented as a gift from his tenants to the Duke of Kendal when he received his title in 1597. Local legend says that its maker’s wife was a powerful witch who tied the wealth of the Kendal estate to its legacy. She instructed only the Duke of Kendal may wind the clock, lest the entire estate fall to ruin.
The clock has sat at Corbray Hall for nearly four years. I’ve been patient since your father died, but it’s time to do what’s right. The vultures are descending. I’m sure you know whom I mean.
You’ve had your fun, but it’s time to come home. I’ve fulfilled my duty as steward, but you cannot evade your responsibilities forever. Starting with this one.
I expect your reply promptly, as well as your return, with the wound clock, to Corbray Hall before summer, when I fully expect to take a long due holiday in Scotland.
Do not disappoint.
— H. Parker
I stared at the letter for a long time, then looked back at the clock, now sitting on its box. The man was completely mad. Vultures? Really? Who was at Corbray Hall other than villagers and the house staff? He couldn’t mean…
I shook my head. No, it wasn’t possible, not after what had happened at the funeral. They wouldn’t dare. Uncle Henry just wanted to be done with the books so he could have more time to hunt. That was all.
The delivery man had long since left, leaving me there with my letter, wondering what the fuck I was going to do with a clock and my uncle’s request.
“Fuck off,” I muttered, then tore up the note before tossing it on the counter.
“Who’s it from?” Jagger asked, eyeing the bits of paper even as he returned to his seat and pulled his plate of noodles closer.
“No one,” I said. I wasn’t giving Henry Parker the time of day when I had too many more important things to do. “Now eat up. I’ve got a plane to New York out of Heathrow at seven, and I’ve still got to pack.”