Yet in spite of all that, Edward was still the one she wanted to talk to, the only person other than her father whose opinion she cared about. And before his kidnapping? She would absolutely have dialed him up, and he would have answered on the first ring, and he would have supported her at the same time he would have put her in her place.

Because he was like that.

The fact that he wasn’t there anymore, either?

Just one more of the losses.

One more thing to miss.

One more piece of the mourning.

Letting her head fall back, she stared at the river and wished that things were as they had once and always been.

“Oh, Edward …”

EIGHT

Samuel Theodore Lodge III drove his vintage Jaguar convertible down River Road at a measly fifteen or sixteen miles an hour. Traffic was no slower or faster than it ever was, but he was less frustrated than usual at the delay because this morning, he didn’t have to go all the way in to his law office in Charlemont proper. No, today, he was stopping off first to meet one of his clients.

Although to be fair, Lane was more family than anything else.

The big estates up on the hills were to his left, the muddy waters of the Ohio were to his right, and overhead, the milky blue sky promised another hot, humid May day. And as the balmy breeze ruffled through his hair, thanks to the top being down, he turned the local classical music station up so he could hear Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2 better.

On his thigh, he played the left-hand part. On the wheel, he commenced the right.

If he had not been a lawyer, as his father, his uncles, and his grandfather had been or currently were, he would have been a classical pianist. Alas, not his destiny—and not only because of the legal legacy. At best, he was serviceable at the keys, capable of impressing laymen at cocktail parties and at Christmas, but not talented enough to challenge the professionals.

He glanced at the passenger seat, at an old briefcase that had been used by his great-uncle T. Beaumont Lodge, Jr. Like the car, the thing was a classic from an earlier era, its brown hide well worn, even bare in patches on the handle and the flap with the gold embossed initials. But it had been handmade by a fine Kentucky craftsman, built to last and look good as it aged—and as it had been in his uncle’s time, its belly was full of briefs, notes, and court filings.

Unlike in T. Beaumont’s time, there was also a MacBook Air in there, and a cell phone.

Samuel T. was going to pass the briefcase down to a distant cousin, someday. Perhaps a bit of his love of the piano, as well.

But nothing was going to a child of his own. No, there would be no marriage for him, and no children out of wedlock—not because he was religious, and not because it was something that “Lodges simply don’t do,” although the latter was certainly true.

It was because he was smart enough to know he was incapable of being a father, and he refused to do anything that he did not excel at.

This lifelong tenet was why he was a great trial lawyer. A fantastic womanizer. A highbrow drunkard of the very finest order.

All of which were a ringing endorsement for dad of the year, weren’t they—

“We interrupt this broadcast with breaking news. William Baldwine, sixty-five, the chief executive officer of the Bradford Bourbon Company, is dead of an apparent suicide. Numerous anonymous sources report that the body was found in the Ohio River—”

“Oh … hell,” Samuel T. muttered as he reached forward and turned up the tinny radio even further.

The report had more fluff than substance, but the moving parts were all correct as far as Samuel T. knew. Clearly, their efforts to squash the story until they were ready to come forward had failed.

“—follows an accusation against Jonathan Tulane Baldwine of spousal abuse by his estranged wife, Chantal Baldwine, just days ago. Mrs. Baldwine was admitted to the Bolton Suburban Hospital emergency room with facial bruises and ligature marks around her throat. Initially, she accused her husband of inflicting the injuries. She recanted her story, however, after police refused to charge Mr. Baldwine due to lack of evidence …”

As Samuel T. listened to the rest of the report, he looked up ahead to the tallest hill.

Easterly, the Bradford family’s historic home, was a glorious spectacle at the apex of the rise. Overlooking the Ohio, the mansion was a whitewashed grand dame in the Federal style, with a hundred windows bracketed by glossy black shutters, too many chimneys to count, and an entrance so grand that the Bradfords had made it their company’s logo. Terraces sprawled out in every direction, as did manicured gardens full of specimen flowers and fruit trees, and great magnolias that had dark green leaves and white blossoms as big as a man’s head.

When the mansion had been built, the Bradford money had been new. Now, as with those bank accounts, there was a patina of age to it—but all kings started off as paupers, and all venerable dynasties were nouveau riche once. The term “aristocrat” just measured how far back you had to go to get to the upstarts.

Also depended upon how long you could keep your position going into the future.

At least the Bradfords didn’t have to worry about money.

The many-acred Bradford estate had two entrances. A staff one, which bisected the cutting gardens and vegetable fields and went up to the garages and the rear of the mansion, and a formal, gated path of glory for family and proper guests. He took the latter, the one Lodges had been using for a century, and as he ascended, he glanced at himself in the rearview.

It was good that he had sunglasses on. Sometimes one didn’t need to see one’s own eyes.

Gin would be having breakfast, he thought as he pulled up in front of the house. With her new fiancé.

Getting out, he did a pass-through with a hand to make sure his hair was back where it needed to be and picked up his great-uncle’s briefcase. His blue and white seersucker suit reordered itself on his body without any prompting, and there was no reason to worry about his bow tie. He’d done it properly before leaving his bedroom suite.

“Good morning!”

Pivoting on his handmade loafer, he raised a hand to the blond woman coming around the side of the house. Lizzie King was pushing a wheelbarrow full of ivy plants and had a glow about her that was the best recommendation for clean living he’d ever seen.

No wonder Lane was in love with her.

“Good morning to you,” Samuel T. said with a slight bow. “I’m here to see your man.”