He pulled her closer and held her tighter, and yet Kat could feel him slipping away. One moment, he was the boy who had teased her and kissed her and followed her across six continents; the next he was slipping into his most dangerous and least favorite cover: the head of Hale Industries and heir to one of the greatest fortunes in the world.
When the back door of the Bentley opened, Kat recognized Marcus’s calm, cool demeanor as he held open the door for Hale who slid from the warm back seat and into the cold winter air.
“Thank you, Marcus,” Hale said.
Marcus nodded. “Of course, sir.”
In a lower voice, Hale asked, “I trust you know what to do?”
“Indeed, sir.” Marcus stood a little straighter. “I shall endear myself to the staff and find out where all the skeletons are buried. Both literally and figuratively.”
“We can probably do without the literal skeletons, but I like the enthusiasm,” Hale said with a slap on Marcus’s arm, but he didn’t look back at Kat. He didn’t offer a hand and help her from the car. She was utterly on her own—almost forgotten—as he moved to the long line of people who stood, waiting. He didn’t even pause as he made his way to the old man in the wheelchair with the heavy plaid draped across his legs.
There were a number of other guests ahead of Hale. They made their bows and dropped into curtsies. Kat slid from the back seat with Marcus’s help and mentally reviewed what she knew about the Earl of Greymore’s guests.
Most wouldn’t arrive until Christmas Eve, but his man of business was already there, as well as some family and a dowager duchess who had been close with the earl’s late wife. There were supposed to be a few business associates and distant relatives, but Kat couldn’t help but notice that none of these people seemed particularly filled with the Christmas spirit.
She was aware, faintly, of the sight of a pair of uniformed footmen coming to assist Marcus with the bags. A tall, thin maid in a too-short uniform spoke briefly with the pair, then followed Marcus to the other side of the car, but Kat kept her gaze on the man in the chair.
Perhaps that’s why she was surprised to hear another man speak.
“Scooter Hale!” The voice was thin but loud. The accent sounded like Oxford and money, but the man it belonged to looked more like an overgrown boy, walking toward Hale, hand outstretched, like a puppy who had just been asked if he wanted to go play.
“Scooter!” the guy said, gripping Hale’s hand too tightly in his own.
If Kat didn’t know Hale so well, she might not have been able to read the look that crossed his face, the brief hesitation as he met the man’s gaze. W. W. Hale V was perhaps the most natural inside man that Kat had ever known. And Kat was Bobby Bishop’s daughter.
But this wasn’t a new identity he was slipping into, a questionable con. Hale was wearing the face and the name he’d been born with, and if there’s something all great inside men have trouble being it’s themselves.
But the man with the death grip on Hale’s hand didn’t know that. If anything, he gripped harder.
“Well met, ol’ chap,” he said as Hale cocked his head. “Well met!”
Hale almost laughed. His most roguish grin filled his face. “I don’t believe we have met,” Hale said, but his smile never dimmed, even as the other man laughed.
“Oh, I’m Viscount Marley,” he said, just as the earl huffed.
“He’s no viscount!” The old man seemed healthier when he was shouting.
The younger man cocked his head, a can you believe what I have to live with expression if ever Kat saw one. “Fletcher Fitzsimmons is the name,” he said. “Viscount Marley’s just a courtesy title, you see. My uncle has three titles in total, and he’s not using that one. I’m the heir.”
“Heir presumptive!” the earl spat. “I may get a son on my new wife yet.”
“Yes, of course, Uncle. We all await that day with bated breath.”
Kat watched the play between the old man and his heir, between one generation and the next. She knew well what it was like to be born into a powerful family. And she couldn’t help but pity the person who ever spoke to Uncle Eddie the way the viscount was speaking to the earl right then. In her experience, that would be an excellent way to find oneself banished to the old country, cleaning cast iron pots until the end of the decade.
Fletcher Fitzsimmons was either very brave or very, very stupid. Judging by the grin he was giving Hale, Kat didn’t wonder long.
The earl, however, barely gave his heir a second thought as he looked up at Hale who stood in the cold wind, blue eyes shielded behind dark glasses.
“You’re the Hale.”
When the earl spoke, it wasn’t a question. More like an accusation, and Kat could tell it wasn’t the first time Hale had heard it.
“That is correct, my lord.” Hale bent into a bow. “It is an honor to meet you.”
“You’re supposed to be older,” the old man said, and Hale couldn’t hide his smile.
“I hear that a lot.”
“Played golf with the Hale heir once. He was older.”
Hale removed his dark glasses and slid them into the pocket of his coat. “I’m the fifth, my lord. Four is, in fact, older. One through three are dead.”
For a moment, the earl looked like he was going to spit and demand that this impudent pup be dragged from his estate and from his presence. But then the old man laughed, a quick, hard bark that echoed through the cold air and off the hills. And just like that, the tension was broken.