Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
He liked indulgences.
This remote house on the shores of a lake where property values were very high and the head count of neighbors very low was another indulgence—although at its conception, the spec project had been a luxury meant for someone else. In the planning stages, the multi-layer, terraced stack, mounted on the side of a mountain, had been just another way to make money. However, as the site had been judiciously cleared to retain the tree canopy, and the shape of the home had started to come to fruition, he had begun to see a bit of himself in the construction.
And then very much of himself in its layout, flow, and especially, this view over the currently frozen water that stretched out as far as one could see to the south and the north.
In fact, a male with ambition could see the whole future from this spot—
A knock sounded at the door.
“Yes,” he said without turning around. “What is it.”
Conrahd Mainscowl the Elder entered. The male was like a sword in so many ways, tall, thin, and angular, with prematurely silver hair that was always precisely in place, and a wicked tongue that was sharp with wit and intelligence. He had proven to be quite an asset to the cause, although one did not fully trust him. In this work of treason, one should indeed take no single person fully into confidence—and that truism was especially apt with somebody as shrewd as Conrahd.
“I believe we may have a problem,” came the announcement.
Conrahd strode over to the display of rare bottles on the teak bar and helped himself to a serving of Woodford Family Reserve. Which proved he had perfect manners: Having been invited to partake at his discretion, he nonetheless knew that to pour the Pappy would have been an overstep.
Whestmorel pivoted on his velvet slipper and went over to the twinning sofas by the hearth. Lowering himself into a sit on the herringbone cushions, he crossed his legs at the knee and pulled the edge of his satin robe over.
“You mean other than this interminable delay?” He propped his elbow on the Hermès blanket that had been folded over the arm.
“That cannot be helped.”
“It can indeed, although that is another discussion.” Whestmorel finished off the Pappy in his glass. “Do tell.”
Conrahd came around and took a seat across the glass table with its display of crystal pinecones and leaves. “Thermon is proving a difficulty.”
Whestmorel pictured the dark-haired aristocrat. Of all the allies he might have expected trouble from, the gentlemale was not on his list. Not like Conrahd was.
“What about him.”
“He is considering breaking the sequestration.”
Putting his glass on the Vuitton trunk that had been turned into a side table, Whestmorel arched a brow. “Is he now. For what reason.”
“He will not say. But I caught him with a burner phone, and when I asked him what he was doing, he stated that there were family goings-on.”
“Did you monitor his email.”
“Yes. His shellan reached out to him.”
“And has he contacted anybody else.”
“No, only her, and he gave me the phone. Her number was the only one he called.” Conrahd lifted his squat glass toward the windows. “And no, he spoke unto her out of doors, so we have no audio recording of the approximately eighteen-minute call. I did confirm via video monitoring where he stepped outside to converse with her. He went to the clearing with the view, and used the phone there. The trail cameras picked his movements up.”
“When did this occur.”
“Last evening.”
Whestmorel looked to the flames, watching the oranges and yellows dance. Ironic, how something so beautiful could be so deadly.
“Why am I only finding this out the now.”
“We had no reason to check the security feeds, as no alarms had sounded because we are permitted to go outside to smoke. His affect was off, however, and out of an abundance of caution, I decided to investigate.”
Closing his lids briefly, Whestmorel kept his tone level. “Bring him to me, will you. That’s a good lad.”
Conrahd nodded at his bourbon. “May I please leave this here for a moment?”
“Please do.”
“Thank you.”
Whestmorel watched the male stand up and return to the doorway, his stride elegant and even, his hand-tailored dark suit fitting him perfectly, even as he walked.
“Conrahd.” He waited as the male glanced back. “You have very good manners.”
“And I do not break rules.”
We shall see on that, Whestmorel thought as his newest right-hand male departed.
Poor Jenshen hadn’t worked out, after all. And had had to be dealt with.
Getting to his feet, Whestmorel went over to the glossy black slab of granite that had been propped up on two curated, hardwood trunk slices. On his rustic desk were a laptop, three cell phones, a charging pad, and a Montblanc pen. Picking up the latter, he turned the torpedo over and over in his hands, admiring the workmanship, from the precise lines of the white star on the crown of the cap, to the gold bar of the pocket clip, to the absolutely smooth circumference of its body. He had many more down in Caldwell, but he’d had to leave them behind.