Page 10 of The Devil's Deceit
“Just as well we have the cover in place, then.”
If Christian does research me, Arron’s made sure there aren’t any gaps in my fake background. At least I hope there aren’t, or we’re screwed.
“I’m sorry I almost messed up in the car.”
“It’s fine. The entire time I was talking to Christian, I kept having to think before I spoke. It’s exhausting, and it’s only the first interaction.”
“Gracie.” Juliet tilts her head to one side. “Are you sure there’s no other way? I’m scared for you, and not just what he might do to you if he finds out who you really are, but for the toll this is going to take on your mental health.”
She’s not saying anything I haven’t thought about myself, but we’ve all gone over this a hundred times. There is no other way. The De Vils have enough power to bury this so deeply, the truth will never come out. Only by infiltrating their world can I find the answers my family deserves.
“There is no other way.” I squeeze her hand. “I can do this. I have to.” I finish my coffee while Juliet calls me a cab, then walks me outside. We hug and arrange to meet up in a couple of days for lunch. She puts on a brave face, but as the cab moves off, her worry lines return. I smile brightly and wave, but mine falls, too, the second she’s out of sight.
Twenty minutes later, I arrive at the home I’ve lived in all my life. The living room light is on, and I trudge up the path and open the front door, bracing for Arron’s disappointment. He can’t be any more disappointed in me than I am in myself. For six months, I’ve prepared myself mentally for how tough this will be, and I fell at the first fence.
Arron switches off the TV when I stepinto the living room. Myriad questions race across his face, but he holds them inside.
“Want a cup of tea?”
I shake my head. “I’m good.” Flopping onto the couch, I close my eyes. “I messed up.”
“How?”
I run through the evening from start to finish, and he listens without interruption, nodding here and there, but the anticipated disappointment never arrives. My brother truly is the best. Uncle Daniel won’t be as forgiving, and I’m dreading recounting what happened for his benefit.
“There will be other chances, Grace,” Arron says when I fall silent. “I can make it happen.”
“I know, but…” I purse my lips and exhale a slow breath. “I set out to do something and I failed.”
Arron laughs. “Grace, you’ve always been the same. No one is harder on you than you are on yourself. You haven’t failed. What you’re doing… it’s fucking amazing. If he doesn’t call, I’ll engineer another meeting. Mum and Dad would be so proud of you. Theywereso proud of you.”
Tears rush to my eyes, but I blink them away. If I let grief consume me, I won’t be able to carry out this plan. There is plenty of time to grieve. First, I’m getting answers… and then I’m getting revenge.
Chapter Four
CHRISTIAN
My gaze tracks the car as it winds away from Oakleigh with the intriguing, if skittish, Lady Grace Ambrose inside. Whatever I said that made her flee remains a mystery, and there’s little point in poring over it when I have far better things to do with my time.
Starting with research. I have an entire team I could call upon to do this for me, but I’d rather peel back the layers myself. It’s far more fun than having a dossier dropped on my desk.
Grace mentioned she’d recently moved back to the area, which explains why this was her first visit to Oakleigh, but I’m keen to discover where she spent her time growing up, and what her background is. Because one thing is certain: I’m not letting her slip through my fingers. She’s far too intriguing to let that happen, and it’s been a good long while since I got punched in the gut with a slug of lust at first sight.
I return inside, but instead of making my way back to the ballroom, I head for the stairs, taking them two at a time. My office is in darkness, and I feel around for the light switch.After closing the door behind me, I sit behind my desk and open my laptop.
TypingLady Grace Ambroseinto the browser, I lean back as results fill my screen. The first one has a small picture of Grace dressed in black. I zoom in. It’s unstaged, and she looks somber, lost in her own thoughts, with a de-thorned rose clasped between her fingers. Underneath the photograph is a caption:
Lady Grace Ambrose at the funeral of her mother, the late Lady Sarah Ambrose.
I read the article, brief as it is. Her mother died of cancer at the age of fifty-two. There’s no mention of a father, but as I dig further, I discover that he died some ten years earlier. As she confirmed, there are no siblings or, it seems, any other family. I can’t imagine being that alone in the world. The Ambrose name has a long history, but I’m not interested in her family tree. I’m far more interested in living in the present.
She was left a little money by her mother, but not enough to afford a life of luxury, hence the rented apartment she’s living in about thirty miles from here that she shares with a woman called Juliet Beech. The two appear to have been childhood friends, although they only recently reconnected when Grace moved back to the area following her mother’s death.
From what I can gather, she leads an extremely private life. No social media presence, no wild parties or scandal. A brief article mentions she’s dabbled in playing the piano and writes her own music. The lack of evidence she lives a riotous life all adds up to making her even more interesting.
It takes another thirty minutes of digging and using a few tools that aren’t exactly legal before I unearth a mobilephone number for her. I plug it into my contacts, close my laptop, and head back to the ball before my father realizes I’ve bailed.
After the peacefulness of the gardens and Grace’s quiet introspection, the noise from more than five hundred guests pierces my eardrums as I enter the ballroom. I glance at my watch, groaning. At least another two hours before the guests begin to drift off, and another hour past that before I can hit the sack. My family throws many balls, all of which we are required to attend, but I’m not a huge lover of formal gatherings. Give me a quiet dinner with family or friends and I’m content.
