Page 80 of Canvas of Lies
To my surprise, Hanson and Ford didn’t linger or ask any other questions. They shook my hand, repeated their condolences, and left. Beardsley, bless him, brought in a tray of tea and shortbread cookies as soon as we were alone. The sentiment was much appreciated by both of us, though it made me feel all of four years old again.
“So,” Nico mumbled after downing his first cookie. “The Castle has a new queen. Do I need to ask if you want company here, oh esteemed Mistress of the Willoughby Estate?”
“If you leave me here in this mausoleum alone, I’ll end up setting it all on fire,” I replied, tossing him another cookie. “I guess we’ll need to go grab some clothes before tonight. I don’t think I have it in me to start packing up anything else from my apartment just yet.”
“What about the letter?”
My nose wrinkled as I glanced down at the envelope on my lap. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that, either.”
He stroked a hand over my hair, smiling when I leaned into his touch. “No need to rush. I seem to remember an impressive whirlpool tub upstairs—why don’t you go soak while I run back to my place to pack up what we need for the next few days? Everything else can wait.”
Though I felt guilty sending him off alone, the prospect of a bath was too good to pass up.
“Fine,” I agreed, leaning over to kiss him, “but only because that tub is probably the one thing I ever missed about this house.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Kat
Thoughthebathtubwasas spacious and extravagant as I remembered, the reality of spending the night in my childhood home leaned more toward disconcerting. My body relaxed in the hot water, but my mind could not. Memories of this house pummeled against my heart like hail, images of endless summer days exploring with Nico, of hiding in the kitchen to chat with Pierre, of the rare occasions when my father had spoken to me like a human rather than an inconvenience.
I let them fall until the deluge slowed to a trickle, leaving my chest aching.
When I finally got out and dressed again, I had a text from Nico that he was back from fetching our clothes and waiting downstairs in the library. I trudged slowly down the main stairs to find him, attempting to view the house with an objective eye.
Aside from Beardsley, who steadfastly refused to even think of leaving us to our own devices, I’d asked him to inform the rest of the staff they’d be given the week off with full pay. They were all lovely people, but the thought of being fawned over in the way my father had so enjoyed made my skin crawl. How had he ever tolerated living here in this mansion by himself?
It was bad enough walking through these cavernous halls, past collectibles and other artwork that could feed a family for a month, just to get to the kitchen so we could scrounge for dinner.
As a child, I definitely hadn’t understood the wealth surrounding me—now, it weighed on me like a lead apron.
Nico’s smile when I poked my head around the doorway lightened the load enough for me to breathe freely, at least. He set aside a book and rose from a wingback chair, slipping his hand around mine. It was like curling up under a security blanket, comforting and familiar, and I was so thankful for his presence that I had to blink back tears.
He hesitated at the doorway of the kitchen, his eyes scanning the shining stainless steel appliances and spotless countertops. This had been his father’s domain, the playground of so many of our earliest memories together. It looked different now, familiar and yet altered. I hadn’t spent as much time in this part of the house in later years, but I leaned my head against his shoulder.
“The new chef made some changes, I see,” I murmured.
I could hear the thickness in his throat when he said, “Yeah, it sure looks that way. Come on, let’s find something to eat. I’m sure your father wasn’t living on frozen pizzas.”
The fridge was well-stocked and organized with care, a fact for which my empty stomach was immensely grateful. We found foil containers of leftovers from some recent event, grabbed silverware, and, by silent mutual accord, wandered out the back doors onto the patio to eat.
Side by side, we sat in lounge chairs and stared out into the autumn twilight.
The cottage where Nico and his father had lived was just visible through the trees. The current chef wouldn’t have any trouble finding a new position, I knew. Oddly, it seemed more bizarre to imagine a stranger living in the cottage than to envision myself moving into this giant house. It would simply feel like a hotel to me for the duration of the six months, but the cottage had been a true home, once.
I’d need to find a good finance manager to help me provide all the staff members with generous severance packages, maybe some kind of recruiter to help them find new positions. There was certainly no need for an army of employees to flutter around me for the foreseeable future, but I wouldn’t leave a single one of them hanging.
They deserved better, after dealing with my father.
When he laid his empty carton aside, Nico stretched out his long legs and rolled his head along the cushion behind him to look at me. “Your mom was pretty pissed, huh?”
I snorted. “Leaving her that piece of junk painting was a particularly snarky touch, even for my father.”
“Not entirely undeserved, though,” Nico replied, grinning.
“Not at all undeserved, from where I’m sitting. I could almost be impressed, if his games hadn’t put me in the middle of all of it. But her husband gives me the creeps. I hope they fly home soon.”
He raised a brow. “You think she’ll try to guilt you into a payoff or something?”
