Chapter 4
Four
Damien
The call from Lord Porter’s assistant comes not even a full day after I’ve returned home to Wyngate, cursing Araminta Ashwell and wracking my mind for a way around this ludicrous assignment she’s pushed on me.
Unfortunately, no obvious escape occurs to me, and I have little choice but to accept the man’s invitation.
The location of this meeting, The Lord’s Club, doesn’t particularly surprise me.
The club is situated in one of the most expensive, exclusive neighborhoods in Wyngate, only a few blocks north of Ashwell Palace. It hides in plain sight, a historic marble structure which sits amongst a row of law offices and other upper-crust businesses that look just like it.
The only thing about the place that might hint at its purpose is a metal plaque set beside the front door, which is adorned by a coat of arms older than most family names.
If the rumors are to be believed, joining The Lord’s requires a personal recommendation from a member and yearly six-figure fees. All so one has the honor of sitting amongst other men of a similar social and financial standing, smoking cigars and sipping overpriced drinks.
Even for a man who hasn’t spent their entire life standing adjacent to great power, it would be impossible to miss the palpable shift which occurs when I step inside.
The entryway is paneled in dark, rich oak and lit by a brass chandelier, which isn’t nearly strong enough to truly break through the gloomy atmosphere.
Through a door to the right, I hear a low rumble of male voices and find myself standing a little straighter as I give my name to the well-dressed hostess.
“I’m a guest of Lord Porter’s,” I tell her calmly, eyeing the portrait of an ugly old man which is hung just above her head.
She checks something in the book resting on her desk before offering me a bland smile, which doesn’t reach her eyes. “Of course. Welcome, Mr. Mallory. Follow me, please.”
I’d rather turn around and sprint from the building, but do as she requests, feeling the weight of dozens of sets of eyes as we move through the doorway and into The Lord’s inner sanctum.
A gleaming bar stands along the wall to my right, but there are no stools, only leather chairs circling the glossy wood card tables stationed around the room.
For a Monday morning, it’s surprising how many of them are occupied, and how many of their occupants are holding tumblers of amber liquid.
An acrid cloud of cigar smoke hangs in the air.
That, coupled with the dim lighting, gives the entire space an unnatural, hazy glow.
If someone were to imagine “rich old man smoking club,” this is what they would picture. To The Lords, it seems that sacrificing tradition isn’t worth bucking the cliché of it all.
The hostess leads me through the labyrinth of tables and the appraising stares from their inhabitants, heading straight for the back of the room.
Though he looks and dresses just like the rest of the men here, Lord Porter is easy enough to pick out from the crowd.
A fit, white-haired man of about sixty, he’s reclining casually in his club chair, listening to the small cluster of men who have paused to speak to him.
As we approach, I watch him lift a tumbler of Scotch—which must cost more than many people’s rent—to his lips.
He lowers it again when he sees me coming.
“You’ll have to excuse us, gentlemen,” Porter informs his companions, inclining his head toward me as he sets down his drink. He doesn’t introduce me or give any indication as to what our business is, but I have no doubt that’s by design.
As I come to a stop before him, the men eye me as they drift off into the murky room, leaving me alone with the man who will very likely be our next Prime Minister.
“Mr. Mallory, I presume?” Porter gestures to the chair across from him. “Please.”
It’s an invitation, but I don’t discount the superiority behind the question as I take the offered seat. No doubt about it, this is a man accustomed to making the rules.
“Thank you for your invitation,” I tell him politely, offering a tight, if unenthusiastic smile. Araminta might have cornered me into this, but I certainly won’t bow and scrape for the job.
The corners of Porter’s lips tug into the ghost of a smile. “Your relation, Princess Araminta, had quite positive things to say about your experience and expertise, but I did my own research. Of course.”
“Of course,” I agree coolly.
“Most impressive,” Porter continues, reaching to pick up his tumbler again, never once breaking eye contact as he swirls the drink.
Lifting one finger from the glass, he points at me.
“Educated at Burgess, then served as an officer in the Royal Navy, with special training in the Intelligence Corps, before settling down to protect the crown itself. Is that right?”
I incline my head, my expression impassive. “It is.”
Some might be intimidated by all this, but I have more than enough experience in dealing with powerful men to separate showmanship from genuine authority.
I was never going to be one of them, and yet I was kept close, an outsider with a clear view in, and I learned how men such as Lord Porter operate.
Though their egos would be heartily offended by my conclusions, I know they are all more or less the same. He’s counting on his reputation and on having something that I want to achieve the desired effect.
It won’t work on me, as I care about neither.
Come to think of it, I care about very little these days. Guilt and regret have a way of draining one’s priorities.
“The princess seemed to think you’d be an excellent fit for my household,” Porter offers, after a long sip of Scotch.
“I’m curious, though. Why leave the palace?
This would be a step down for you, on paper, anyway.
” His lips curve, as if to say he might not have the title of King, but he sees himself as superior to the man who does.
Also not a surprise. Every man in this room thinks he would do a better job of it, and yet they would trip over themselves to kiss ass if my brother were to walk through that door.
I nod, arranging my expression into one which hopefully conveys how seriously I take the question.
“My role as head of the royal guard was largely administrative. I did a great deal of scheduling, training, and management, but not much else. It was wearing on me, and my heart wasn’t in it.
Taking leave seemed the responsible thing to do, given the nature of my work. ”
Even the shadow of truth, hidden in those words, sends a vicious, shooting pain through my chest.
“Not one to sit behind a desk, then?”
“No, sir.”
Porter chuckles. “I envy you. What I wouldn’t give to be on my feet more, but that should improve as the election gets closer. Are you married?”
“No, sir.”
“Children?”
“None.”
This seems to satisfy him. “A man dedicated to his career. Admirable.” He studies me, apparently making up his mind about something, before continuing.
“While upgrading security on the estate prior to the election is a high priority, I’m afraid there is a bit more to the position than I disclosed to the princess.
Aspects more sensitive than would be appropriate to discuss at a dinner party. ”
Despite my best efforts, he has my attention. “Oh?”
Another sip of his drink, and he sets down the empty glass, looking weary now. “My youngest daughter,” he explains at last. “Blair.”
Ah. I probably should have guessed she would have something to do with it.
While I would hardly call myself a rabid consumer of celebrity gossip, it’s hard to escape learning about a scandal, especially one which involves the prospective PM’s daughter being photographed dancing topless in Ibiza.
“Is this pertaining to… the news?” I have no idea how anyone could put it delicately.
“Yes,” Lord Porter confirms, lifting his hand to signal another drink from the bar.
When his gaze returns to me, he looks more composed.
“There were threats against her personal safety following the publication of the images. My people investigated and found most of them to be baseless, but there were a few they thought credible.”
For fuck’s sake. Of course there were threats.
Just as I was familiar with the sort of powerful man sitting before me, without even laying eyes on her, I know exactly what sort of girl his daughter is. Spoiled, pampered little princesses who spend too much money and act out to get Daddy’s attention are hardly uncommon in high society.
Porter continues, sounding a little weary now.
“Frankly, the threats are only part of the problem. She’s out of control.
Partying, spending obscene amounts of money.
There are drugs, alcohol...” He trails off, shaking his head.
“Her behavior has become a liability. Your position would be as head of security for my home estate, yes. However, with my and my wife’s protection handled by the National Protective Service, your chief priority will be upgrading the security systems we have in place in preparation for my appointment to PM, and to keep Blair safely out of the news for the duration of the campaign. For her own good, and mine.”
My temples throb.
“Is she… on board with this?” I ask carefully, because I can’t imagine the twenty-something Porter heiress would be content with setting aside her frivolous lifestyle for the sake of her father’s image.
While I’m confident I could secure the property, keeping Blair Porter inside could be edging perilously close to kidnapping, and I won’t be a part of it.
Porter swipes his tongue over the front of his teeth, frowning slightly.
“On board? No. She’s hardly unreasonable, however, and understands that cooperating is in her best interest. My wife and I have made it clear that, should she not comply with the…
lifestyle adjustments, then she’s on her own.
We’ve already obtained an emergency court order to limit her control of her trust fund, and it won’t be returned until after the election.
If she isn’t cooperative, we’ll consider more permanent measures. ”
In other words, Princess Porter has been put in time-out.
Considering her tits are on the front page of half the tabloids in Europe, and her primary accomplishments seem to pertain to binge drinking, I can’t imagine she would fare well without an endless pile of money to play with.
As far as plans to remediate the situation go, Porter’s plan seems to be a decent one.
“Lifestyle adjustments?”
Porter heaves a sigh. “She’s to remain in the grounds of the estate, apart from exceptions pre-approved by me or her mother.
No alcohol, no drugs, no unapproved visitors.
” The bartender appears at his side, and Porter doesn’t so much as glance at the man as he hands him a refilled glass and takes away the empty.
Once he’s gone, the lord continues. “We’ve instructed her to use the time to improve herself with exercise and online education.
She needs structure, discipline, and someone professional to hold her accountable. ”
Fucking hell.
I would bet “improving herself” is the very last thing Blair Porter wants to do, but it seems she doesn’t have a choice. After a lifetime of obscene privilege and being permitted to do whatever pleases her, she’s finally stepped over the line.
And it’s somehow become my job to rein her in.
It’s difficult to bite my tongue and to not spit the truth right back in this man’s self-important face.
What I wouldn’t give to tell him that I despise people like his daughter—People who have never known life outside their gleaming, golden bubble, or have any idea what true suffering is.
I would bet she’s never had to work hard, or exercise restraint, or give a shit about anything in her entire life.
Very like my own, dear aunt.
“We didn’t feel it advisable to inform her of the threats,” Porter continues airily, “my daughter is many things, but clear-headed isn’t one of them. My advisors agreed, the less Blair knows on that front, the better. Whomever I select for this position will be expected to exercise discretion.”
That gives me pause. While nothing he’s told me thus far suggests his daughter is responsible, it seems ill-advised to not tell her something like this.
Nowhere, not even her family’s estate, is totally secure, and Blair’s own ears and eyes are the most important line of defense.
If she isn’t aware of a potential risk, she won’t be looking out for one.
To me, it sounds like Porter is more concerned with keeping his reputation intact than his daughter’s safety.
I shift uneasily in my seat, considering how best to put this, and coming up short. Even if I might not approve of these methods, is it really my place to question them? I’m an employee, not a member of the family.
Yet another adjustment for me to make.
“If you and your team think that’s best,” I say at last, hating it as I do.
Porter appears pleased, however. “There is a cottage on the grounds that would be for your private use, as part of your compensation package,” he informs me, obviously eager to settle the matter.
“I’ll have my assistant reach out to you with a more comprehensive pay structure, employment contract, and a non-disclosure agreement.
If I decide you’re right for the job, of course. ”
The last bit almost makes me laugh. He may want to maintain the upper hand in this conversation, but it’s fairly obvious to me that Lord Porter is desperate. Men like him never want to clean up their own mess.
Strangely, though, I don’t hate the idea of this job quite as much as I thought I would.
For one thing, it might be good to be away from Wyngate with its many lingering reminders of my failures and the omnipresent shadow of my family. A chance to forget, and room to breathe.
For another, an unfortunate hazard of living as I have—adjacent to great power and privilege, but never a part of it—is that I have had to tolerate more people like Lord Porter and his bratty daughter than I’d care to.
How often does one have the opportunity to vent decades of resentment and frustration by reminding a pampered party princess that the world does not revolve around her?
This isn’t a job I want, but, just maybe, it’s the job I need.
For the first time since I entered this building, I feel myself smile. “When can I start?”