SINCE CHILDHOOD, he had often been told his cruel smile became him. With his half-lidded eyes, suggestively sensual lips, toned musculature, and wavy golden-brown hair, he checked all the boxes necessary to be considered conventionally “handsome” or “sexy.” But, for some reason, no one ever called his regular smile attractive. Perhaps it was because he was too eager to assume a false smile, Jeffrey Claremont mused.
His brother Henry was next in line to be earl, and Jeffrey wanted to be a supportive figure for him. It was only right, after all. Similarly, someone had to be there for his younger and more reclusive cousin Richard, and Jeffrey enjoyed doing just that. But playing those roles came with a price. Ever since he was a boy, Jeffrey had constantly needed to provide excuses, deceptions, and fake cheer for the adults around him. These skills became staples of his toolkit. Now that he was twenty-nine, he sometimes looked back fondly on his childhood and appreciated that, despite being Henry’s junior and Richard’s senior, he had never needed to play the role of middle manager between them. Such memories were sweet. Sweet as poisoned honey.
“—self—sir?”
“Sorry, say that again?”
“ARE! YOU! ENJOYING! YOURSELF! SIR?”
“BUT OF COURSE!”
Jeffrey shouted back like a drunken lout and shucked off his suit jacket. A beautiful blonde woman manned a DJ booth on the edge of the five-star hotel’s pool. Beside her, celebrities touting champagne flutes crowded the dance floor. Men in neckties, men naked to the waist, men in thongs… Women in minidresses, women dressed in the height of fast fashion, a woman stroking a cat poking its head out of her handbag… A mariachi band in folk costume parading around the pool, strumming guitars… A group of strippers dancing on table tops…
Welcome to the birthday party for some rich somebody-or-other.
Endless ’80s disco beats, mixed by the latest in music technology, pulsed from speakers all around the pool. The surface of the pool itself, awash with lights, rolled and rioted despite a complete lack of swimmers—with over a hundred guests crammed into such a small space, the water rocked with their stamping, dancing feet. It was like a rush-hour train whose many passengers all qualified for the highest tax bracket.
The Claremonts—a British aristocratic family with a long lineage—owned and invested in many companies, but their crown jewel was a commercial insurance company based mainly in the United States. The company had five financial officers at its highest level. One among them—the one who had rocketed to power astonishingly quickly, the one destined for bigger and brighter things, the son of the Earl of Claremont—received invitations to parties on the daily. He was young, not even thirty, but that made little difference. People longed to throw themselves at his feet to reach out, timorously, in the hopes of receiving untold wealth.
Oliver, a junior partner assigned to be Jeffrey’s assistant for the night, leaned toward the ear of his young boss from across the pond, shouting to be heard over the din, “Today’s my lucky day! I can’t believe I got an invite to this party.”
Jeffrey’s ears rang as he yelled back, “Sure are, kiddo. You’re one lucky duck.”
“Oh, I love how ‘lucky’ sounds in your British accent! Can you say it again?”
“Only if you say ‘tomato’ like an American.”
Oliver, a man five years Jeffrey’s senior, laughed. His breast pocket bulged with business cards bearing his name: Oliver Straight. He must have planned to hand them out at this party he and his new supervisor were invited to. This was, clearly, not the venue to swap business cards, but Oliver took it in stride.
“I’m so glad I could come,” he gushed. “I’ve been to plenty of parties with the fellas at work, but I’ve never gotten to rub shoulders with celebrities at one of these fancy dos.”
“Watch your behavior, now. There’re paparazzi with telephoto lens cameras just off the property.”
“This isn’t your first rodeo, huh?”
“You get used to it when you live in a family like mine.”
The Claremont line went back ten generations. Jeffrey’s name was in the papers whenever he started at or graduated from a new school, and that was just how things were. Since he was a kid, even. He was sure it would be that way for future Claremonts long after he was dead and gone. No, he didn’t doubt it for an instant.
The kid trailing behind him with a frozen smile, Jeffrey accepted a glass of champagne from a blonde woman in a bikini and stepped onto the dance floor to a chorus of feminine squeals melding with the beat of the music.
“Hey, I know you! You’re the new owner of Atlas Yachts, right?”
“No, no. You’re Ellory Higgens from Sentry GP Financials. Right?”
“I hate to disappoint you, ladies, but you are both incorrect. I’m simply an executive of a miserable little insurance company.”
“Wait. Jeffrey Claremont?”
“In the flesh.”
“No way! Get out.”
“You’re so much younger than I pictured!”
“All the better to catch the prince’s eye.”
“How is your dog? Taro, was it? I saw something about that in the newspaper.”
“Alas, he passed away quite a while ago. Thanks for asking, though.”
“Would you ever want to check out my Facebook? I post sooo many dog photos.”
“My pet passed away recently, too! It’s been so hard on me. If only I had someone to help me through my grief…”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on your business for years. Tell me more about what you do.”
“Let me redirect you to my partner, Oliver. He can tell you everything you want to know and more.”
“And you can’t?”
“I, unfortunately, just walked in and still need to say my hellos. Not this time, ladies.”
Jeffrey smiled ruefully before tipping the women a wink, eliciting another chorus of squeals from his fan club. Evidently, there were more people here than he’d thought who wanted to secure every promotion that their schedules and wallets permitted. Worse, he estimated he was the only one here still in his twenties. The ladies here could scream like college kids, but they were all over the hill and bore their tallies of marriages and divorces like medals of honor. He almost choked on their thick perfume.
Oliver dangling off his heels like a charm on a bag, Jeffrey found the birthday boy—whom he’d heard was turning sixty-four—and deftly made niceties with the host’s girlfriend, other close associates, even more members of his inner circle…
Only then did Jeffrey realize that his jacket had disappeared. He hadn’t been stupid enough to leave anything of value in the pockets, but it was still an annoyance. There was no chance he could find it in this bedlam. At least it wasn’t winter. He sighed in disappointment just as Oliver, curiously, removed his own jacket.
“You need a jacket, sir? Take mine,” Oliver offered.
“Don’t worry about it. My shirt is fine for the dress code.”
“What about the paparazzi, sir? I’ve heard they make a mint off of pictures of businessmen in their shirt sleeves.”
Jeffrey laughed. “You’re not wrong. I do run the risk of making the news. However, that’s no reason to—”
“Sir, please. Your lord father will give me an earful if you don’t take it.”
His tone was polite but brooked no argument. Jeffrey smiled faintly. He felt a sudden chill wind blow through his heart.
Oliver bowed and returned to talking shop with anyone and everyone within earshot.
Jeffrey’s leather shoe tapped the floor in time with the music. Next thing he knew, he was mobbed by a group of four women.
“Jeffrey! Aren’t you drinking?”
“Come drink with us. They have first-growth Bordeaux!”
“Jeffrey, listen—can I call you Jeff?”
“Go for it,” he said. “That’s what everyone calls me.”
“Jeff, look over here! Let’s take a selfie for social media.”
“Is it true? Are you dating that actress G—? She’s three-timing you, Jeff!”
“Jeff! Let me show you a picture of my cat.”
“Jeff.”
“Jeff!”
And then—