Page 28 of Duke It Out
“He was a drinker. Most people would say he was a barrel of laughs, mercurial, last of the old-style aristocrats. Loved shooting, loved his dogs. All that’s true, but he was a manipulative bastard.” His face darkens. “Last summer he tried to fold the foundation which was set up by my great-grandfather.Hebelieved that with the role came the responsibility to effect positive social change. My father’s belief was that the place should fund his lifestyle, not the other way round. Any sense of duty skipped a generation when Dickie Kinnaird was born, it appears.”
Moss tosses her head, and the reins slide through my fingers for a moment.
“Not with you.”
He turns to look at me, and I see the Rory I met in New York in his eyes, not the guarded, patrician duke. “I hope not, no.”
A huge bird soars in the cloudless sky, circling for a moment and then swooping into the heather. The land seems to stretch on forever, rolling on for miles on every side of us. In the distance, I can just make out the dark shapes of the islands beyond the shore. It’s so far from the first time we met in Manhattan that it seems like another world.
“So whywereyou in New York?”
“Business.” His tone is flat.
“Not bussing tables.” I shoot him a teasing glance, pushing my luck.
He surprises me with a brief smile “No. One hopes my bartender career is on a par with yours as an investigative journalist, which is to say – non-existent.”
“I’d be a shit journalist,” I laugh. “I have no game face whatsoever.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, you had me fooled.”
“Really?” I preen.
“What do you think?”
I look at him, confused. “Weren’t you worried I’d blow your cover if I was?”
“I took a calculated risk. Back then, my head wasn’t as far above the parapet as it is now.”
“With great honour comes great responsibility and all that?”
“Something along those lines.” His face closes down again, and it’s as if the brief glimpse of the person he is behind the aristocratic mask is gone completely. “Anyway, you’re wrapped up in so much legal red tape that if you eventhink about exposing any of the secrets you might come up against, your career would be over.”
Back to reality with a very hard bump. I think it’s pretty clear that the arrogant billionaire duke is his default mode. I swallow back a wave of panic, even though I haven’t done anything wrong.
“So, what is your end game, Edie?” He pulls his horse to a stop and Moss follows suit, reminding me that I’m not the one in control here.
“End game?”
“You’ve written a memoir for Annabel.”
I open my mouth to protest.
“Yes, yes, you signed an NDA.” He tosses his head irritably. “But she’s got a mouth like the Channel Tunnel. Fortunately, it’s only her reputation that’s at stake, and frankly that seems to be pretty much bulletproof, God knows how.”
“I want to be a writer.” I look down at the smooth leather of the saddle and adjust a long piece of Moss’s mane which has flipped over to the wrong side of her neck.
“One hopes you are, given you’re being paid handsomely to do the job.”
I shake my head. “Not that kind of writer. Fiction.” I sigh. The document on my laptop is sitting there neglected, because I’m too scared to open it.
“And you’re here doing this because…?”
Oh, it must be nice to have the confidence that comes with billions in the bank.
“Because,” I say, as if explaining to a child, or someone so important that they are completely unaware of the minor day to day details. “My agent is friends with Annabel. She put in a good word, and the estate needs someone to collate your father’s notes and diaries into some sort of family record.”
“I am aware.” He looks at me as if I’m an idiot. “You were selected for your skill, your excellent qualifications in both history and English literature, and your talent.”
