Page 7 of False God

Ellis appears unfazed by my irritated outburst, taking another swig from the glass he’s holding as he surveys the crowded room.

He has no clue how precarious of a position I’m in. I doubt he’d care, even if he did know about the massive pile of debt my father left behind. His life is unaffected by my father’s decisions, and my mother’s recent choices allow him to golf and flirt all day.

“You sound like you really need a drink, man,” Ellis tells me, then takes another sip.

I do. But this isn’t the time or place.

“What Ineedis for you to introduce me around to somemenI can makebusiness connectionswith.” I enunciate all the important words, hoping it’ll finally get through to him. “I don’t need or want your help getting laid.”

Ellis heaves a sigh. I have no idea whathe’sirritated about. “Yeah, yeah. Come on.”

He leads me toward a middle-aged man standing next to an oil painting of a majestic stallion. The man is typing on his phone. Unless he’s texting a mistress, his lack of attention is promising. Businessmen who are more focused on checking emails than enjoying the drinks and appetizers being circulated around are the type of investors I’m looking for. Ones who study balance sheets and business plans rather than anatomy and pathology.

“Mr. Cushing!” Ellis calls out as we approach.

The man glances up from his device, recognition evident in his expression as soon as he spots Ellis.

At least Ellis wasn’t exaggerating about how well connected he is here. Since his mother moved their family into Derek’s summer place, Atlantic Crest Country Club is where he’s spent most of his time in the Hamptons.

I paste a polite smile on my face as Ellis introduces me to John Cushing, who owns a technology software company. I barely understand half of what he explains about his business, but that isn’t the point. Moguls of more than a dozen industries are in this room. Introductions to Americans with deep pockets and important connections can only benefit me, the broke Englishman. I have to start somewhere.

So, I make obligatory small talk. Listen to Mr. Cushing’s explanation of nanotechnology until a brisk, “John, good to see you,” interrupts.

Conversation halts as a silver-haired man approaches. Not just ours, but the chatter of several surrounding groups fades as their attention swings this way.

The older man is walking with a cane. It thumps almost ominously as he nears, the steady thud of the varnished wooden stick against gleaming floorboards audible over the soft music trickling out of the piano in the corner.

“Hello, Hanson,” John replies. I see his shoulders straighten.

Next to me, Ellis’s posture also noticeably improves. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ellsworth.”

Since we arrived, Ellis has treated everyone he introduced me to with the same friendly politeness. Excluding the women he flirted with shamelessly. He’s looking at the man in front of us with a respect that’s new.

Mr. Ellsworth studies my cousin for a few seconds. “Ellis, is it?”

Ellis inflates with importance. “Yes, sir.”

The man’s attention lands on me next. He holds out a hand. “Hello. I’m Hanson Ellsworth.”

“Charles Marlborough,” I respond, shaking his hand. His grip is firmer than I would have expected for a man his age.

“Charlie is my cousin. He’s the Duke of Manchester.”

Hanson’s expression doesn’t change in response to Ellis’s boast. But he surprises me by saying, “I was very sorry to hear about James’s passing. My condolences.”

“Thank you,” I reply, stiffening some. I wasn’t anticipating any sympathies this far from home. “I wasn’t aware you knew my father.”

“Not well. Our paths crossed a few times when I was doing business in London.”

Hanson doesn’t elaborate any further, making me think he shares the same low opinion of James Marlborough that mostpeople have. My father agreed with Machiavelli on fear versus love.

Hanson is still studying me, head tilted slightly, like he’s an art critic assessing a painting. “What brings you to—Elizabeth!” He cuts himself off mid-sentence, his attention totally focused on something—someone—behind me.

I resist the urge to look over my shoulder at who caught his interest.

“Hi, Grandfather.”

A woman nears our circle. And with a start, I realize I recognize her.

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