Page 43 of False God

“Happy Fourth of July, Elizabeth.”

That’s all he says before he turns around and walks away.

Leaving me, slumped and breathless and disappointed, wondering what the hell just happened.

10

Blythe wanders downstairs shortly after noon. It’s the first time I’ve seen my little sister in two weeks. She’s spent summer so far traveling with her friends, returning to Newcastle Hall for sporadic weekends, but mostly preferring to stay at the London flat I lived in before becoming the eighth Duke of Manchester.

“Where’s breakfast?” Blythe asks, surveying the empty table.

“You mean lunch?”

She makes a face as she sinks into one of the Chippendale dining chairs. Yawns, her brown eyes still bleary with sleep. “Thought you’d sleep in, considering the time difference.”

Blythe inspects her fingernails, painted a bright shade of pink, and I know it’s the closest she’ll come to asking how my trip to New York was.

She flat-out refused to accompany me to the States to visit our mother, which was the expected response. I get why Blythe doesn’t want to see Georgia better than anyone, and it’s her decision to make.

But I experience a fresh surge of anger toward Georgia, watching my sister forcibly project disinterest. Blythe shouldn’tbe the one who has to make an effort with our mother. Neither should I for that matter.

“It was bloody hot. Our cousin Ellis is fairly entertaining.” We exchanged numbers last summer, but Ellis never called or messaged. Since I left New York, he’s already texted me twice. “I played polo at Georgia’s husband’s country club.”

Blythe doesn’t react to the brief recap, continuing to stare at her nails. Eventually, she asks, “Did your team win?”

I smile. “Yes.”

She makes an approving hum in the back of her throat.

“How was”—I try to remember where she called me from—“Budapest?”

Blythe perks up, finally making eye contact. “Oh, it was brilliant. And then we went to Sintra. We visited Cabo da Roca and Queluz National Palace.” She glances around. “It was about the size of this place.”

I snort and shake my head. “I’m sure the Portuguese would appreciate the comparison.”

My sister smirks. “They should have built a bigger palace if they wanted to avoid comparisons.”

“Are you here this week?” I ask.

“Until Wednesday. I’m going to Saint-Tropez with Zara and Emily.”

My stomach churns, the eggs, sausage, and toast I ate for breakfast threatening to make a reappearance. Part of me—all of me—was hoping I could avoid this conversation until after the sale was finalized.

“I’m selling the villa, Blythe.”

A rare instance of my sister being speechless follows.

“What?” she demands. “Why?”

“We hardly use it. It just sits there, and I’m?—”

“So?” she interrupts. “Iuse it. Let it sit.”

Do I tell her?That’s been a weekly—sometimes daily—question that’s echoed around in my head ever since a roomful of barristers informed me exactly what I’d inherited along with my father’s former title.

Blythe has one year of university left, and I don’t want to be the one who ruins it for her. I’m all she really has since her independence has never meshed well with Gran’s strict nature. For his many faults, our father adored Blythe. Showered her with warm affection I’d thought he was incapable of. She’s mourning his death in the same way she grieves our mother’s absence, even though she’ll never admit to either. Our parents both let her down in different ways, and I never want to do the same.

My hope was to resolve everything without Blythe ever knowing the truth. But until Kensington Consolidated or another investor writes a check, my best option for staying afloat is to sell more assets.

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