“Samuel T.’s going to handle everything.” Lane took the liberty of heading for the pantry and getting the Raisin Bran. “We’re creating a trust for those assets and backdating it. It’s going to have all those secondary investments in my mother’s name and there will be provisions so the banks can’t come looking to the family to satisfy any debts arising from the purchasing of said equity outside of the BBC. It will make the misappropriation look more legal if the Feds come knocking—especially because the company is privately held and we are the sole shareholders.”

“When.” Jeff snagged two bowls and two spoons. “That would be ‘when’ the Feds show up. And I’m a shareholder too now, remember.”

“Oh, right. Guess I’ll give you a cut of the ten cents my father managed to generate—after the banks are finished fighting over it. I swear, that man could pick ’em.”

As the two of them lined up at the counter and traded the box of cereal for the Dean’s skim milk, Lane could sense Lizzie staring at them.

“You know,” she murmured with a smile, “I can picture you boys in college.”

“Yeah,” Jeff said, “who knew a guy from Jersey and this overbred piece of white bread would end up together.”

“Match made in Heaven.”

They clinked spoons and went back to eating.

Thank God for Jeff, Lane thought. The investment banker was sorting out all the cash-flow problems at the company, working with the board, which Lane and Jeff had bought off, and hiring new senior vice presidents.

There was a chance that at least the Bradford Bourbon Company wasn’t going to go down on Lane’s watch. As long as Jeff Stern was in place, they might just pull it all off.

The guy was a white knight in shining pinstripes.

FIVE

In the various branches of the Bradford family tree, there were a total of seven women called Virginia Elizabeth, a phenomenon that resulted from the Southern practice of naming one’s sons and daughters after oneself. Three of these V.E.’s, as they were known on the familiar, were still alive: The oldest one, who was ninety, lived independently in a high-rise in downtown Charlemont and still enjoyed regular bridge games and lunches out at the club. The middle one was faring far less well in her sumptuous quarters at Easterly, although given all the prescription drugs she was on, it was probably fair to say that “Little” V.E. was also “enjoying” herself.

And then there was Gin.

The youngest Virginia Elizabeth envied her mother’s medicated existence. To be blissfully unaware of the terrible state of affairs was probably a close second to their family’s reversal of fortune never happening in the first place. After all, what was it they said about reality? Perspective was everything.

Thus that which one refused to acknowledge did not exist.

As Gin walked into her bath and dressing room suite, she was fresh out of the shower and draped in a monogrammed silk robe the color of the white Frau Karl Druschki roses that bloomed in the gardens below her window. The decor she had chosen for her personal spaces was the same: white, everywhere. White carpeting, white bedsheets and duvets, white balloon drapes around all the windows.

She always preferred to be the splash of color, the gloss amid the matte, the full moon dwarfing the less bright, tiny stars, whether she was at a party, on a plane, in a room, or in repose.

And hadn’t that been so much easier to accomplish when money had been no object.

Taking a seat at her makeup and hairstyling bar, she regarded the display of professional products and tools and thanked God she knew how to use them all. She most certainly did not have the three hundred dollars to pay that woman with the spray tan and the bleached teeth and the poorly disguised aspirational affect to come in here and roll brunette locks around a three-hundred-degree wand. And apply all that Chanel. And tender a vote on the outfits for the day.

What time was it, anyway?

Gin picked up her Piaget watch and cursed. Ten eleven. So she had a mere forty-five minutes until she had to leave.

She preferred an hour and twenty to get ready—

“Where is my engagement ring.”

Gin looked up into the three-sided, vertically lit mirror. Richard Pford, her husband of just a matter of days, was standing behind her, his Ichabod Crane body in yet another variation of his uniform: Brooks Brothers dark suit, button-down white shirt, club tie.

She was willing to bet he’d come out of the womb wearing that sartorial snooze.

“Welcome back, darling,” she drawled. “How was your business trip.”

“You mean welcome home.”

Gin made a show of unwrapping the towel from her hair, triggering the curling iron, and palming the dryer. She waited for him to speak again.

“Where is the ring—”

She hit the dryer’s on switch. And then did that one better by leaning over in the chair and fluffing her damp hair in the blast of hot air.

When Richard yanked the cord out of the wall, she smiled in the midst of her hanging locks.

Flipping herself back up, she gave him a moment to be struck by how beautiful she was: She didn’t need the mirror to show her that her shining, thick hair was curling up at the ends, and her skin was glowing, and her eyes were heavy lidded and thickly lashed. And then there was the fact that the robe’s slick tie had loosened, the lapels falling open to show her astonishing cleavage and delicate collarbones.

She deliberately crossed her legs, so that the hem was split to reveal her thighs.

Gin had no interest in turning this scarecrow husband of hers on; she put on this show solely to remind him of her hold on him. Richard Pford was a miserly sonofabitch with a bad temper, but after a childhood of being picked last for teams at Charlemont Country Day, his brain was still trained in patterns that supported him believing the truth.

Namely, that he was a loser tolerated by the popular people solely because his family owned the largest liquor distributor in America—and because the cool kids enjoyed picking on him.

Her marriage was a fundraiser for herself and her lifestyle, nothing more. And in return, Richard got her, the ultimate trophy he had sought in high school, his ticket, at least in his own mind, to the status he could not achieve on his own, no matter how much cash he and his family had.

Unfortunately, the arrangement had come with some hidden costs to her.

But it was nothing she couldn’t endure—

Couldn’t handle, she corrected.

“I’m sorry, were you saying something?” she inquired in a pleasant tone.

“You know damn well I was. Where is my ring?”

“Why, right there on your finger where it belongs, dearest.” She smiled sweetly and nodded at his hand. “See?”

With a curse, he reached out and grabbed some of her hair. Twisting it in his fist, he forced her head to the side, the pain lighting up down into her neck and opposite shoulder.

Boy, that ugly flush on his hollow cheeks was unattractive.

“Do not toy with me, Virginia.”

Gin smiled brightly, the very worst part of her reveling in the discord, that appetite for destruction she had fed off of for so long seeking more, more, more of the conflict—until one or both of them snapped.

Even as she had resolved to change, her relationship with Richard was so deliciously familiar and fun.

“May I remind you,” she gritted out, “that the last husband who mistreated his wife under this roof ended up with his ring finger cut off and his body on the wrong side of the falls. Perhaps you should recall this before you go grabbing at me?”

Richard hesitated. And she was almost disappointed as he released his hand and stepped back. “Where is it?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’ve been gone for two days. It occurred to me, given your family’s financial situation, that you might sell it and pocket the cash to go buy another Birkin bag.”

“I already have twenty of them. Including ones in crocodile, alligator, and python.”

“If you do not tell me where that ring is, I’m going to pull out the contents of each and every drawer, and all of the closets, in this dressing room until I find it.”

For a moment, she got excited at the prospect of watching him trash the place, all red-faced and uncoordinated and furious. But then she remembered that they’d had to let all the help go—and given that she hated things out of place, she knew that she would have to be the one to clean it all up.