Page 6 of Thrones We Steal

“Nope. That would be my sick dance moves.”

“So you’re admitting that partying is your job?”

“No, that’s what I do for fun. You should try it.” He blows a tiny bubble with his gum and snaps it. “Fun, that is.”

“One doesn’t need to drink half a dozen beers and hang out in a strip club to have fun.”

“Fine. Fun that doesn’t involve a spreadsheet or a book.”

I open my mouth to reply, but he holds up a finger.

“Or anything to do with history.”

“Just because my version of fun doesn’t make the front cover of People magazine doesn’t mean I don’t have it.”

“You think I do it for attention?”

“No, I just think you’re selfish.”

The car begins the trek up the long paved driveway of the estate, over one hundred acres of gorgeous Wesbourne countryside. Maison de Lierre has been in the Chapman-Payne family for more than a century, and when my father died nine years ago, it became mine. Primogeniture laws were updated retrospectively a few years before his death, allowing the oldest child, regardless of gender, to inherit their father’s estate and title. If he had died three years sooner, everything would have passed to his first cousin.

In the distance the three-story manor’s white stucco gleams in crisp contrast to the slate gray shutters flanking the windows lined up like soldiers. A row of columnar trees border the path to the double doors. The house looks like the love child between an antebellum mansion in the American South and a French chateau in Provence.

It’s a beautiful place to live but expensive. The estate should have enough capital to sustain itself, but the money vanished years ago, into thin air for all I can make out. My mother, sister, and I all have our own trusts, but they’re small. My father’s life insurance policy and my income from the Historical Society allow us to live comfortably but not lavishly. Proof that titles don’t equal money, and old estates often take more than they give.

Regardless, I love this place and wouldn’t trade it for all the wealth in the world.

Henry’s voice is hushed. “Everyone’s selfish, C. Some are just afraid to admit it.”

“Don’t insult others just to make yourself feel better.”

“I’m not trying to insult anybody. It’s the truth. We’re all selfish. We only do something if there’s a clear benefit for us.”

A brittle laugh bubbles up. “Speak for yourself. I doubt Nelson Mandela held his ‘selfishness’ responsible for his life sentence in prison.”

“He felt better fighting for his country, even at the risk of punishment, than sitting back and doing nothing.”

“So by your reasoning, Mother Teresa was selfish too?”

“To a certain extent, yeah.”

“You get more despicable with age.” Just a few more seconds and I can get out of this car.

“There’s an endorphin rush, isn’t there? When you do something good for someone else? All I’m saying is that ultimately, we do the things that make us feel good. It’s how we’re wired.”

I don’t wait for him to open my door. As soon as the car stops, I jump out and march to the house. Rosalind would berate me for my lack of manners, but some things demand a break in protocol.

Henry happens to be one of them.

3

“Electric Love” - Børns

She’s waiting for me when I walk through the back door.

Lady Rosalind is a sight to behold under the best of circumstances. Increase the stress load, ensure people are watching, throw in a late daughter or two, and she becomes another entity altogether.

“Where is it?” she says and looks at my hands.

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