“My dad always respected you,” Mack said.

“Feeling was mutual. Anyway”—the man refocused on Lane—“I think we should play for it.”

“I’m still not really following.”

Which wasn’t exactly true. He wasn’t on the front lines of making bourbon, but he wasn’t a total noob, either. Six months of grain was a lot to ante up for. And given that his stock portfolio was ninety-nine percent BBC and the company was about as healthy as an asthmatic in a hayfield … he had no idea how he could get enough cash together to buy into the game.

Lenghe shrugged again. “I’ll supply you with six months of corn, rye, and barley for free if you win.”

“And if I lose?”

“Then you gotta pay me for it over time.”

Lane frowned. “Look, I don’t mean to talk you out of a deal that’s favorable to me, but how is that fair? You’re just getting what I would have offered you anyway.”

“One, I love a challenge. Two, my instinct tells me you’ve got a really, really deep financial hole to get out of. You don’t have to confirm or deny it, but I don’t think you can afford to pay me right now or in the near future. And even if I take a secured interest in a thousand barrels? You’re going to need the sale of them to keep the Bradford Bourbon Company going through all this, because without cash from operations, you’ve got no income to make payroll or your accounts payable to your vendors. That’s why I’m doing it. Well, and there’s one more reason.”

“What’s that?”

Lenghe shrugged. “Your family does, in fact, make the best bourbon on the planet. My net worth is well north of a billion dollars—so I can afford to help out the company that supplies my favorite drink to me.” The man leaned in again and smiled. “And the ability to do that? It’s so much more valuable than getting into a country club. Trust me.”

Gin walked into Easterly’s formal Amdega Machin conservatory and smelled sweet hyacinths and lovely lilies in the dense, humid air. Across the lofty, glassed-in space, among the beds of cultivating flowers and the placid faces of specimen orchids, her future sister-in-law had her hands in a pile of dirt and a smudge of same on the ass of her khaki shorts. Lizzie also had no make-up on and her hair pulled back with what looked like a rubber band.

As in a band. That was made of rubber.

Indeed, this gardener was going to be a relation soon. Lane was going to marry the woman, and Gin supposed, considering how unctuous his first wife, Chantal, was, anything short of a farm animal would be an improvement.

“You are certainly being industrious.”

Lizzie glanced over her shoulder as she kept her hands where they were over the pot. “Oh, hello.”

“Yes.” Gin cleared her throat. “I mean, hello.”

“Do you need something?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I need you to do the flowers for my wedding and reception. We’re waiting until after the visiting hours, so we’ll be doing the event on Saturday after I get married at the courthouse on Friday. I realize this is short notice, but you can put a rush on the order, surely.”

Lizzie brushed her palms against each other, getting only the loose dirt off before turning to face across the way. “Have you spoken to Lane about this?”

“Why would I? This is my house. My reception. He’s not my father.”

“I just thought with all the financial challenges—”

“Ivory and peach for the color scheme. And before you talk to me about cost cutting, I’m keeping the reception small, only four hundred. So we’ll have forty tables at the most in the garden. Oh, speaking of which, can you please take care of ordering the tables and chairs, too? Also a tent and the silverware and glassware. I don’t really trust Mr. Harris. And I’ll let Miss Aurora handle the food-related orders.”

“Who’s paying for this?”

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s a seventy-five thousand dollar event right there. Because, in addition to all that, you’re going to need waitstaff. Parkers and buses. And Miss Aurora will have to have help in the kitchen. Who’s going to pay for it?”

Gin opened her mouth. And then remembered that Rosalinda was dead. So there was no sense throwing the controller’s name out there.

“We are going to pay for it.” She lifted her chin up. “That’s how it will be covered.”

“I think you better talk with Lane.” Lizzie held up her dirty palms. “And that’s all I’m going to say. If he thinks he can afford all that right now, I’ll be happy to do whatever it takes to make it happen.”

Gin fanned out her hand and inspected her manicure. No chips. Perfectly filed. Red as blood and shiny as a new dime.

“You may be sleeping with my brother, darling, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? You are still staff, and as such, this is none of your business, is it?”

Yes, there were … issues … but surely one small gathering wasn’t going to break the bank? And it was a necessary expenditure. She was a Bradford, for godsakes.

Lizzie looked away, her brows lowering. When her eyes shifted back, she spoke in a soft voice. “Just so you and I are clear, yes, I may be staff, but I don’t need the wake-up call that’s coming your way. I am well aware of the situation this household is in, and if it makes you feel better to play Downton Abbey with me, that’s fine. But it’s not going to change the reality that your ‘modest’ wedding reception is more than you can afford right now. And I’m not ordering so much as a dandelion head without your brother’s permission.”

Gin felt the branches of her extensive family tree straighten her spine. “Well, I have never—”

“Hello, Mother.”

The sound of that insouciant voice was like the claw of a hammer hitting the back of her neck, and Gin didn’t immediately turn around. She focused on the glass panel in front of her, seeing who had come up from behind. The face that was reflected had changed since she’d seen it last in September. The coloring was the same, and the long, thick brunette hair remained just like Gin’s own—and yes, the expression was exactly as one remembered. But those cheekbones seemed higher, either because of the maturation process or because Amelia had lost some weight.