Page 119 of Savannah Royals
The shop is still dark when I arrive. I flick on the lights in the workroom and head straight to my desk. I unlock the drawer with the DaMolin rubies. I place them on the table and give everything a thorough once-over with my loupe. Then another. And another. Checking for perfection. My heart pounds with each scan, praying no eleventh-hour problem materializes.
When I’m satisfied, I dig out a polishing cloth and start buffing. Over and over and over, compulsively. Over and over and over again.
Today…this necklace…everything needs to go perfectly. No room for error.
Today, several millennia ago on the Ides of March, a lover of Cleopatra was felled by a blade. A dictator. Julius Caesar.
Tonight, I’m aiming to take down a despot of my own.
WhenMatthew,Mellie,andI arrive at the Jekyll Island Club, there’s a croquet game on the great lawn. The participants are all dressed in white, whacking away at a set of pastel balls.
“It’s all very prim and proper, isn’t it?” I point to the game with a chuckle. “Like an advertisement in a magazine.”
“Indeed,” Matthew concedes. “Aside from the fact they’ve likely put ridiculous wagers on the outcome. Family fortunes don’t spend themselves, you know.”
My chuckle turns into a full-fledged laugh.
“Oh look, Ethan is on the veranda.” Matthew points, then taps the back of the front seat to catch the driver’s attention. “Excuse me, could you let us out here?”
Mellie perks up, scanning the porch for her escort.
“What?” My laughter dies instantly. “Matt, no. What about our things, our bags?”
“He’ll deliver them to Cherokee Cottage,” Matt replies, nodding at the driver. “Don’t fret.”
“But…but…my dress…” I say weakly. It’s not the dress I’m concerned about. It’s the DaMolin rubies. The forgery is burning a hole in my luggage; I don’t want to let it out of my sight.
Matt smiles indulgently. “Your gown will be fine, Katarina. Let’s introduce Mellie and have a lemonade with Ethan. There are hours to kill until the ball. We’ll walk to Cherokee to get ready later this afternoon.”
He doesn’t wait for my response; he’s already opening his car door, walking around to mine. Reluctantly, I follow him into the sunshine.
After introductions are complete, we sip lemonade on the porch with Ethan for the next hour, chatting and making outlandish projections as we observe the croquet match. I notice Harry Astor among the players. I haven’t spoken to him since New Year’s Eve, since the night I walked in on him and Ethan together. I casually point him out, but Ethan gives no reaction. Mellie, naturally, is blissfully unaware, all pink cheeks and puckered lips as she sucks down her second glass of lemonade with contented vigor.
“Yes, I believe Harry has been on the island this whole week,” Matthew says, looking to his brother for confirmation. “Have you seen much of him, Ethan?”
“Hardly,” Ethan replies, smooth. “I’ve been locked up in Cherokee going over accounts with Dad. I believe Harry has been quite busy though. His cousins are visiting for the ball.” He points to two white-clad gentlemen beside Harry.
Less than a half hour later, the game breaks up. Most of the players slip past us to enter the clubhouse, but the Astors remain on the lawn. Harry shades his face to gaze at us. His eyes glide over Ethan with practiced ignorance, but they land on me with distaste. His posture coils tight.
Matt and Ethan lean over the porch railing as they chat, oblivious to the fast-approaching storm cloud that is Harry. His footstepsthudup the veranda steps. Mellie puts her empty glass of lemonade on the railing and moves to my side.
“Matt?” I reach for his arm, a bit anxious. “Perhaps we should—”
“Still slumming it, Matthew?” Harry asks. He flicks his eyes over me as he peels off white leisure gloves. “Is your little Catacomb toy really that good a fuck?”
I blink twice, shocked by the unprovoked vitriol. His aggression slices through the humid air.
Matthew rises and steps forward. I reach to stop him, but it’s Ethan who gets there first, firmly pressing a hand to his brother’s chest, halting him. His gaze slides over to Harry with confusion.
“Is that what you like, Matt?” Harry continues, prowling forward. “Paying a slut to get you off? How much does she charge per fuck? I hope you’re getting a deal.” He slides a hand in his pocket, produces a flask, and takes a long swig.
Ah, well, that explains it. I eye the alcohol warily, understanding all too well what fuel like that does to a smoldering fire.
Heat flames Matthew’s cheeks. “If you utter one more vile word against her,” he growls, glowering, “I’ll—”
“Yes, that’s quite enough, Harry,” Ethan jumps in, keeping the restraining hand on his brother’s chest. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Stay out of this, E,” Harry drawls. “I’m talking to your brother, not you. It’s not your fault he has piss-poor taste.”
