pleasure,” he says blandly.
The girl blushes furiously, switching Rowan to her other hip. Alexander has been on the premises a matter of minutes; such a response is quite an achievement, even for him.
Oh, but he is charming, my son. A fallen angel. Long-limbed, graceful, careless, with thick dark hair and ice-blue eyes as glittering, and warm, as diamonds. That he is so clearly damaged seems merely to draw the moths closer.
“Lady—um, I mean, Davina—” she flusters.
“Be careful, dear,” I tell the girl lightly. “He’s every bit as dangerous as he looks.”
The baby wails, cutting off her reply. Clare sighs pointedly as Alexander reaches inside his jacket for the silver hip flask he inherited from his father. He’s already quite drunk, although only those closest to him would know it. The slight shake of his hand and the glaze in those blue eyes betray him.
The drinking started when he was fourteen. At first, he confined it to school holidays and
exeat
weekends; within a year, we were receiving letters from the headmaster. There was an ugly incident with another pupil when he was sixteen, a broken nose and allegations of assault; with typical carelessness, Alexander merely said the boy had had it coming to him. Guy visited the school and made a substantial donation to the library, and the matter was quietly dropped.
The drunkenness could be overlooked; the drugs were taken more seriously. Guy’s money exculpated Alexander from the joints he was caught smoking, but nothing could excuse the cocaine he was discovered selling the week after his seventeenth birthday.
After some persuasion, the school agreed not to make it a police matter, but Alexander was immediately expelled. Guy cut off his allowance, and refused to reinstate it unless Alexander sorted himself out. To our lasting surprise, he responded by going out and getting himself a (legitimate) job.
ShopTV could have been founded with Alexander in mind. Everything he touched turned to gold. By the timehe was twenty-five, he was Head of Marketing; now, at thirty-five, he’s running the network with one hand tied behind his back.
Which leaves the other free for all sorts of mischief.
“Where’s hubby?” he asks me, never taking his eyes off Jenna.
“Guy had business in London,” I say shortly.
“Of course. Big sister wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Xan,” Clare says warningly.
“You’re a guest in my house, Alexander. Kindly remember—Oh, dear God, will someone
please
tell me what all that noise is?”
“I’ve been trying to.” Jenna sighs.
I fling open the French door onto the terrace. Mrs. Lampard is running across the croquet lawn with an athleticism I’d thought decades behind her. In the distance, Lampard and two of the groundsmen are yodeling as if at a rodeo. Bellowing animal grunts sound from behind the topiary, and there is enough splashing from the pool to drown a herd of elephants.
“Alexander,”
I demand.
“Bit of an altercation with a tree,” he says, tipping his head back to drain his flask.
I sweep outside. As I round the corner of the house, I see Alexander’s imported red Mustang wrapped around the ancient oak tree at the bottom of the drive. The force of the impact has knocked down the adjoining split-rail fence; the old five-bar gate swings crazily from its hinges.
Of the bull normally in the field behind it, there is no sign.
Mrs. Lampard, holding up her skirts, runs past me. Behind me, Alexander laughs.
I will kill him
, I think grimly, as I stalk away from him towards the pool. That animal is worth a fortune. If it has to be turned into rump steak, I will personally see to it that Alexander is barred from every pub and bar in Oxfordshire.
Marc, shirtless and muscular, is in the swimming pool, up to his waist in floating shit. The bull is flailing in the deep end, panic having loosened its bowels to devastating effect. The stench is overpowering. Marc has managed to catch hold of its rope
The girl blushes furiously, switching Rowan to her other hip. Alexander has been on the premises a matter of minutes; such a response is quite an achievement, even for him.
Oh, but he is charming, my son. A fallen angel. Long-limbed, graceful, careless, with thick dark hair and ice-blue eyes as glittering, and warm, as diamonds. That he is so clearly damaged seems merely to draw the moths closer.
“Lady—um, I mean, Davina—” she flusters.
“Be careful, dear,” I tell the girl lightly. “He’s every bit as dangerous as he looks.”
The baby wails, cutting off her reply. Clare sighs pointedly as Alexander reaches inside his jacket for the silver hip flask he inherited from his father. He’s already quite drunk, although only those closest to him would know it. The slight shake of his hand and the glaze in those blue eyes betray him.
The drinking started when he was fourteen. At first, he confined it to school holidays and
exeat
weekends; within a year, we were receiving letters from the headmaster. There was an ugly incident with another pupil when he was sixteen, a broken nose and allegations of assault; with typical carelessness, Alexander merely said the boy had had it coming to him. Guy visited the school and made a substantial donation to the library, and the matter was quietly dropped.
The drunkenness could be overlooked; the drugs were taken more seriously. Guy’s money exculpated Alexander from the joints he was caught smoking, but nothing could excuse the cocaine he was discovered selling the week after his seventeenth birthday.
After some persuasion, the school agreed not to make it a police matter, but Alexander was immediately expelled. Guy cut off his allowance, and refused to reinstate it unless Alexander sorted himself out. To our lasting surprise, he responded by going out and getting himself a (legitimate) job.
ShopTV could have been founded with Alexander in mind. Everything he touched turned to gold. By the timehe was twenty-five, he was Head of Marketing; now, at thirty-five, he’s running the network with one hand tied behind his back.
Which leaves the other free for all sorts of mischief.
“Where’s hubby?” he asks me, never taking his eyes off Jenna.
“Guy had business in London,” I say shortly.
“Of course. Big sister wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Xan,” Clare says warningly.
“You’re a guest in my house, Alexander. Kindly remember—Oh, dear God, will someone
please
tell me what all that noise is?”
“I’ve been trying to.” Jenna sighs.
I fling open the French door onto the terrace. Mrs. Lampard is running across the croquet lawn with an athleticism I’d thought decades behind her. In the distance, Lampard and two of the groundsmen are yodeling as if at a rodeo. Bellowing animal grunts sound from behind the topiary, and there is enough splashing from the pool to drown a herd of elephants.
“Alexander,”
I demand.
“Bit of an altercation with a tree,” he says, tipping his head back to drain his flask.
I sweep outside. As I round the corner of the house, I see Alexander’s imported red Mustang wrapped around the ancient oak tree at the bottom of the drive. The force of the impact has knocked down the adjoining split-rail fence; the old five-bar gate swings crazily from its hinges.
Of the bull normally in the field behind it, there is no sign.
Mrs. Lampard, holding up her skirts, runs past me. Behind me, Alexander laughs.
I will kill him
, I think grimly, as I stalk away from him towards the pool. That animal is worth a fortune. If it has to be turned into rump steak, I will personally see to it that Alexander is barred from every pub and bar in Oxfordshire.
Marc, shirtless and muscular, is in the swimming pool, up to his waist in floating shit. The bull is flailing in the deep end, panic having loosened its bowels to devastating effect. The stench is overpowering. Marc has managed to catch hold of its rope
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