Page 10 of Stroke of Shadows
She was always told to be proud of her ancestry, but that same history was shadowed in death. Money had paved the way to success. Until money wasn’t enough, and whoever went against the Beauchamps quickly figured out why they were one of the oldest remaining names in Britain.
Harper didn’t wait for her door to be opened, ignoring Charles’s disapproving frown as she made her way up the marble steps to the double doors.
“He’s waiting for you in his study,” one of the housekeepers whispered, walking past swiftly as if not to get caught. Harper wasn’t sure what her name was, the staff inside the house always shifting and changing. Angel had gotten more insecure as he’d aged, limiting those who had access to the estate. There were security stationed outside, but none inside, other than his personal guard. Not like it mattered, the house was locked down tighter than a prison most days.
Checking to make sure she looked presentable in the mirror, Harper followed the sound of crackling flames and murmured whispers until she found herself in front of Angel’s study.
“Let the Light cleanse your sins…”
Harper waited for her uncle, a man of barely sixty, who sat silently in his leather armchair, head bowed slightly forward, with his eyes closed. The fireplace blazed behind him, the only source of light which threw shadows across his sharp features. The Leader of the Church of the Light stood directly behind, blessing him with gentle caresses of a wet cloth and soothing words that were lost against the crackle of the flames.
“Let the Light guide you,” she said, bowing her own head as Angel stood.
“And give sanctuary from the darkness,” Angel finished, allowing the blessed water to dribble down his face. His eyes caught Harper’s from across the room, and she fought to clench her fists as she waited for the Leader to finish collecting her items. She was young, much younger than any Leader before her. Early thirties would be Harper’s guess, with dark red hair and a traditionally beautiful face.
Her gown was tied with an intricately twined rope, as pale as the rest of the fabric covering her body. “I hope to see you at my service soon,” she said as she passed, her tone far gentler than expected from someone with so much power. Lorraine was the voice of the Gods, and with that, the influence to guide, or even command those that followed the Light.
“My men will see you home safely,” Angel said, his voice deeper than it should be, damaged from years of smoking cigars traced with god knows what.
“And the next donation?” Lorraine asked, looking back over her shoulder at him.
Angel’s sharp stare turned to her. “Do you not trust me, Lorraine? After everything I’ve done for you? For the cause?”
Lorraine bristled at the use of her name so casually, lips pressed into a thin line. “Of course,” she said, tone tense.
Angel took a step closer, the thick gold rings on both his hands glistening in the firelight. He’d gotten bigger as he’d aged, more fat than muscle, but he was still intimidating at well over six feet.
Lorraine stiffened, but remained where she was as he approached. “My cleric like to be informed,” she said. “So we can schedule events accordingly.”
His smile was forced. “Of course, my Leader. I apologise for my abruptness.” Raising his arm, he gestured towards the door. “Please, safe journey home. My donation will be with you in the morning.”
Her nod was jerky. “For the Light.”
“For the Light,” he echoed, watching her leave the study before turning his attention to Harper. She could already tell he’d been informed from the tightness of his shoulders, and the way he spun the ring on his middle finger, right hand. “Tell me,” he demanded, returning to his armchair with the flames at his back.
Harper took the chair opposite, placing her hands gently on her knees in the proper way she’d been taught as a child. “He didn’t bring the piece, so I couldn’t authenticate it. He was upset you didn’t attend the meeting.”
Angel cocked his head. “How much did you go to?”
“1.5 million.”
“That fucking cunt,” he seethed, smacking his palms against the leather armrest. “The work’s not worth that much, not when I have the rest of the collection and he knows it.”
He pinned her with his eyes, the blue crystal clear and something that ran in their lineage. Everyone except for her. No, hers were grey. Lifeless, as he’d told her on numerous occasions. The only Beauchamp child to be born without blue.
“He asked for a real offer, or he’ll sell it to someone else.”
Angel’s laugh was a dark bark, the sound echoing around the room. “He doesn’t trust me,” he concluded, the chair scraping as he returned to his feet. “Which was why I sent your pretty face, rather than going myself. You very rarely fail to get the job done.”
Harper stilled, sensing the underlying threat. “He’d brought two men with him, guards.”
Angel’s upper lip curled. “Of course he did, fucking coward.” A grunt. “I want that painting, Harp. It’s important, otherwise the collection won’t be worth my time or investment. I already had another buyer scheduled after the showing, tripling what we paid.”
“What did you want me to do?” she asked. “He’s not—”
Angel’s hand snaked out, gripping her jaw in a bruising grip. He never actually left bruises on her face, no, only below her neckline. “I don’t care what you have to do. Threaten him. Kill him.”
Harper tried to pull back, but Angel only tightened his hold, leaning forward until his breath feathered across her face.