God. He never would have imagined that thought ever going through his mind.
Well, one thing was clear: William Baldwine’s reign was about to come to an end. Whether it was payback for what the man had done to Edward for all those years … or the fact that his mother had been disrespected … or the reality that it was likely Rosalinda had killed herself because of him …
Funny, that stuff with his own wife was the least of what was getting him vindictive.
Had Chantal really gone for his father? And gotten herself pregnant?
Unbelievable.
Made him think he should give his lawyer a little heads-up. A woman capable of that could pull anything out of her derby hat—
Wait, hadn’t Samuel T. said that adultery could be used to reduce alimony?
“Sir? Would you like me to park this car?”
Lane glanced at the uniformed parker who’d walked over. As opposed to the crew of fifty down at the bottom of the hill, there was only one guy stationed up here—and his sole purpose was to handle the University of Charlemont men’s basketball coach’s car. Oh, and route the Presidents’ and the various Governors’ teams of cars and SUVs around.
But Coach’s sedan was the primary and most important priority.
“No, thanks.” He took off the baseball cap and rubbed his hair. “I’m gonna leave—”
“Oh, Mr. Baldwine. I didn’t know it was you.”
“Why would you.” Lane got out and offered his palm. “Thanks for helping us today.”
The young kid stared at the hand he’d been offered for a moment, and then he moved in slowly, like he didn’t want to mess things up or look like an idiot. “Sir. Thank you, sir.”
Lane clapped the parker on the shoulder. “I’m just going to leave her here, okay? I’m not sure whether I’m going to the track or not.”
“Yes, sir. She sure is pretty!”
“Yeah, she is.”
As soon as Lane stepped through the front door, that English butler came forward with a stern expression on his face—as if he’d had to turn a number of people away already. That act was dropped immediately when he saw who it was.
“Sir, how are you?”
“Well enough. I have a request.”
“How may I serve you?”
“I need a suit—”
“I took the liberty of ordering you up a seersucker, blue, with a white shirt—French collar and cuffs—and a pink bow tie with pocket square. It was sent over late yesterday afternoon and pre-tailored to the specifications that Richardson’s had on file. If you require further adjustment to jacket or slacks, I shall send up a maid. And there are also silk socks in pink and a pair of loafers.”
What do you know—that efficiency act might be more than an illusion.
“Thank you so much.” Although he didn’t need it for the Derby and that was clearly what the butler was thinking. “I’ll—”
The sound of the knocker pounding on that massive door made them both turn around.
“I shall take care of that, sir.”
Lane shrugged and headed for the stairs. It was time for him to go through those dressers of his and throw on another change of clothes—
“Brunch workers are to go to the rear entrance,” the butler said in a haughty tone. “You shall have to—”
“I’m here to see William Baldwine.”
Lane froze as he recognized the voice.
“That is absolutely not possible. Mr. Baldwine is not receiving privately—”
Lane wheeled around and recoiled at the sight of the lean, dark-haired man in the disheveled clothes and the expensive leather boots. “Mack?”
“—remove yourself immediately from the—”
Cutting the butler off, Lane went over to a guy he’d grown up with. “Mack? Are you all right?”
Okay, the answer to that was clearly “no.” Bradford’s Master Distiller was looking worse for wear, his normally sharp eyes hung with dark circles, a shading of stubble on his handsome-as-sin face.
“Your father is ruining this company,” Mack blurted out in a series of slurs.
“I’ve got this,” Lane said, dismissing the butler and taking the distiller under the arm. “Come with me.”
He dragged the drunken man up the grand staircase and then frogmarched him down the hall to his bedroom. Inside, he led Mack over to the bed, sat him down, and turned away to shut the door—
The thump! of deadweight hitting the floor resounded all around the room.
With a curse, Lane doubled back and lifted the guy off the carpet and back up onto the mattress. Mack was babbling about the integrity of the bourbon-making process, the importance of tradition, the lack of reverence that management was showing the product, how much of a cocksucker someone was …
They were going to get nowhere like this.
“Time to wake up,” Lane said as he got his old buddy up on his feet again. “Come on, big guy.”
Mack had been to the house countless times, but never pickled like this—well, not since they’d transitioned into adulthood. You coupled that with Rosalinda’s information and the fact that the distiller thought William was ruining the company?