Page 53 of Break My Rules
I study him combing his hair and fastening his watch. We go back so far, I know that the battered leather strap on his wrist is the original, bequeathed by his grandfather, and that after a disastrous close crop with a fancy stylist, he’ll only visit one ancient barber in Bethnal Green to get his hair trimmed. I can’t imagine him doing the awful things Tessa described, not Hugh, nor Max, or any of these men I’ve known for years.
But someone did it. Someone’s been lying and hiding their dark side from everyone—me included.
Not for the first time, I wonder if this tattoo clue is as reliable as Tessa thinks it is. I haven’t mentioned it, but a part of me wonders if Wren might have been mistaken, somehow. Tessa said herself that her sister’s memories were a jumble, splintered fragments from whatever drugs had spiked her drink. What if it was a different design, and we’re looking in the wrong direction? Allowing the real perpetrator to get away with the crime….
Then we’ll cross that bridge together, when we confirm Max and Hugh’s alibis beyond a shadow of doubt, I decide. I meant it when I told Tessa I was her partner in this now. No matter what friendships it costs me, we’re going to find out the truth eventually. I just have to hope it’s before the constant suspicion and mistrust drives me mad.
* * *
I spendthe day at the office, working on some budget issues with my new best mate in accounting, Harold. It’s dull-enough work, but I can tell that everyone’s distracted by the big Lionel Ambrose event setting up for tonight. I see Imogen flying around the offices, her minions trailing after her, and by the time six o’clock rolls around, and I make my way back up to the executive level, I can see she’s been hard at work. Hundreds of people have already arrived: the toast of British media, government, and society. Balloons, canapes, and tasteful floral arrangements are everywhere, all of them in Ashford colors of red and silver, despite the fact the event is technically in honor of all British industry—not just our company.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” I tell Imogen, raising a glass of champagne when she appears through the crowd, looking surprisingly serene in a tasteful cream dress.
“I have, haven’t I?” she says, looking around at the buzzing party with a satisfied smile. “Despite every best effort from the Ambrose team. You know his PR girls wanted Union Jack flags hanging from every surface? They have zero sense of taste or subtlety.”
“I don’t think subtlety and politics mix,” I remark. “At least, not if you want to win.”
Imogen rolls her eyes. “We all know he’s got the race sewn up,” she points out, rearranging a table set with glossy brochures about Ashford’s world-beating innovation. Brochures I’ve been overseeing all week. “The Lancaster papers have been pushing him hard all week. ‘The only sensible choice’ they say. Did you see those photos of Hugh and the family?” she adds with a smirk. “‘The British Kennedys,’ they called them.”
I snort. “Hugh will sock Max for that.”
“Or shake his hand, for propelling them into Number 10 Downing Street,” Imogen looks around the room, and sighs. “Does it ever make you feel… I don’t know, icky?”
“Icky?” I echo, amused.
“Uncomfortable. Wrong. That this is the way the world works.” Imogen frowns for a moment. “Lionel Ambrose and Cyrus Lancaster shake hands in a back room somewhere and decide who ends up running the country. Your father pitches in, and suddenly, Ashford's drugs get a nice government stamp of approval, and they all get a massive payout. And here we are, blowing up balloons and waving flags along the way."
“Well, shit, when you put it like that…” I drain my champagne. “But this is the way it’s always worked, isn’t it? Before Lionel and Cyrus, and my father, it was their fathers, and their fathers before them.”
“But what happens next?” Imogen asks, arching an eyebrow. “Are you going to follow obediently in their footsteps, making backroom deals with Hugh and Max twenty years from now?”
“Absolutely not,” I vow.
“What about Robert?” she asks pointedly.
I look across the room, to where my brother is shaking hands and smiling for the cameras, posing with my father and Lionel in front of one of those un-subtle Union Jack flags.
“What’s got you so contemplative?” I ask, studying Imogen.
She gives a little shrug. “I am capable of deep thoughts from time to time,” she says lightly, plucking a loose thread off her dress. “It’s not all tea parties andTatler, you know.”
“Anyone who underestimates you is a fool,” I tell her affectionately, and she smiles back at me.
“I’d say the same, but we both know, your whole ‘devil-may-care intellectual’ image is just an act.” She smirks. “It’s a good thing you’re so pretty, to make up for that lousy brain of yours.”
I laugh out loud—and then stop, catching sight of Tessa as she makes her way tentatively through the crowd. We arranged to meet here for the event, so this is my first glimpse of her wearing a figure-hugging navy dress: conservatively cut, high at the neckline and low to her knees, but clinging in all the right places. She has her hair pulled back off her face in loose curls, looking fresh-faced and impossibly beautiful.
I feel Imogen hit me on the arm.
“What?” I ask, dragging my attention away.
“Oh, I’ve been saying your name for the past minute,” she smirks again, glancing over to Tessa. “You’ve got itbad.”
I don’t bother denying it. She’s right, I’m crazy about Tessa—and I don’t care who knows it. “If you see my mother, steer her in the opposite direction, OK?” I ask, grabbing another champagne glass for Tessa. “The less time she spends around Tessa, the less likely it is she’ll send her fleeing back to America to escape the icy chill.”
Imogen laughs. “You’ll owe me, cuz!”
I cross the room, single-mindedly brushing off greetings and attempts at conversation. There’s only one person I want to see.