Chapter 6
Six
Damien
“What can you tell me about her?”
Freddy McKellen, Thornhurst Estate’s long-suffering head of security, casts me a long, wary look, pausing in the act of gathering up the knick-knacks on his desk.
The moment I walked into the office, it was clear my arrival had been highly anticipated.
Though I’d only needed four days to close up my house in Wyngate and pack up a sparse collection of personal things for my time here, McKellen had already made a start on getting his own belongings into boxes.
“I can tell she liked the look of you. Lit up like Christmas came early when you walked in.”
I laugh. Physically attractive she might be, but I’m confident Blair Porter won’t be a temptation. Good looks can only take you so far when your personality is repellent. There are a lot of lines I’ll cross if the situation calls for it, but she certainly isn’t one of them.
Outside the window, the corner of the main house draws my gaze through the trees, its many windows sparkling in the warm autumn light.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” I assure Freddy, crossing my arms as I return my gaze to the old man.
Freddy grunts. “She’s not a bad kid. Never quite measured up, though. Don’t get the sense she’s very bright. Back in the day, Lord Porter had to make some donations to get her through school.”
Not exactly a shock, given the shit situation she’s landed herself in, and that Porter’s parenting style seems to be: throw money at it and hope for the best. “Porter said something about drugs?”
“Lord Porter—” His lips press into a stern line, clearly not impressed by lack of formality, “Might be right. To be fair, we’ve never had any incidents here at the house, but she’s never spent much time here, either.
They sent her away to school when she was young, and then it was off to party afterward.
No university. His Lordship’s a busy man, don’t think he cared much to try and rein her in, until she took it too far. ”
“Boyfriends?” I raise my eyebrows.
Freddy shrugs. “None she’s ever brought around, and none that have turned up since she’s been back. It’s been quiet.” He hesitates, a troubled look crossing his face. “His Lordship got some nasty communications after the whole business with Miss Porter’s photographs in the papers.”
“What kind of communications?” I press, because our employer had neglected to go into detail on such a small, inconsequential matter.
The question makes Freddy wince. “Emails to the campaign, a few letters, a package or two. There might have been more, but nobody tells me much. Above my pay grade.”
I don’t like the sound of any of that. “Was any of it delivered to the estate specifically?”
Considering Thornhurst is well known to belong to the Porter family, and has belonged to them for centuries, I’m not surprised when Freddy nods grimly. “Aye. It was turned over to the police, of course, but nothing came of it as far as I know.”
“Did you take photographs? Any kind of documentation? I’d like to know what to look out for.”
Freddy leans down to turn on his computer, and I move to his side, suppressing a wince at the jumbled assortment of out-of-date software and record keeping which appear on the old desktop.
My concerns about Thornhurst’s security are doubled, however, when I see the scanned letters Freddy kept, some delivered as recently as a few days ago.
After reading through the vile fantasies and seeing the array of equally disgusting photographs sent to the pretty, half-naked party princess these men saw in the papers, it’s clear that His Lordship greatly understated the situation at hand.
Any one of the letters is enough to alarm me, and there are dozens.
“You’ll look after her, yeah?” asks Freddy anxiously, peering sideways at me as we finally make it through the last of them. “She’s not a bad girl, just a little lost.”
“I’ll look after her,” I confirm grimly, and it’s the truth, even if ‘a little lost’ seems like a wildly generous overestimation of Blair Porter’s character.
We move on. I listen patiently to Freddy’s explanations of his systems and ask questions here and there, but I’m barely paying attention.
My education in protecting high-profile families began at the very top of Stelland’s social hierarchy, and managing an estate such as this won’t be a challenge.
Even with the recent threats against Blair, Thornhurst is located hours from any major city, and its only significant occupants currently live elsewhere.
With any luck, the negative attention will die off as she stays out of the public eye, and we won’t see any excitement.
Though the job itself might be quiet, I’ll have work to do getting Porter’s system up to date, because nearly everything Freddy has shown me so far is alarmingly antiquated.
It’s pure luck that they haven’t had more issues with personal data being compromised, considering the internet password is Thornhurst1.
Reporters or criminals don’t have to pick through trash to find sensitive information anymore, and data security is as big a part of my job now as the physical.
Getting things locked down before the election, rather than scrambling afterward, is a smart move.
For a high-profile family like the Porters and an estate like this one, security is considerably more complicated than wiring in a few security cameras.
The bespoke system will need to be as inobtrusive and infallible as possible, with multiple layers of protection for the family’s data, as well as their physical safety and property.
The current systems might have been state-of-the-art at the turn of the century, but they’re obsolete now, and seeing all the gaps that exist has me on edge, itching to get to work.
When Freddy is done with his rambling explanation of the software I’ll be dispensing with at the earliest opportunity, the old man waves me into the estate’s green utility truck and continues his tour of the property’s many outbuildings and features.
Once, old European noble families all kept houses like this, until the astronomical cost of upkeep and shrinking pool of generational wealth made them too great a burden to carry on with.
Now, places like this are nearly gone, converted into multi-use properties or broken up into condominiums. The Porters, who are one of the few families that managed to increase their wealth rather than see it drain away, seem to keep Thornhurst as more of a showpiece than an actual place to live.
Not that I could blame anyone for not making this place their full-time home.
Purely from a practical standpoint, the estate isn’t central to anything, apart from a smattering of minuscule local villages, and the craggy bluffs to the west are beautiful, but undoubtedly bring in a brutal wind during the winter months.
It’s a lonely, desolate place, and I can’t help feeling as though I’ve crash-landed at the very end of the earth.
As we drive, Freddy tells me about the skeleton staff kept on and the locals I’ll need to watch out for. He’s had problems with poaching in recent years, and the occasional hikers who wander into the area by accident.
“You’ll do fine,” the man assures me when we park back at the security office, which is a small brick structure, nestled beside the empty stables.
“Not a lot you’ve gotta watch out for, to be honest. Things might heat up with His Lordship’s election, but…
” He shrugs, turning the keys to the truck and holding them out to me with a wry smile.
“Nothing you can’t handle. They tell me you worked for the Ashwells. ”
I take the keys, ignoring the ache which spreads through my chest at the mention of my former position. “Yes. I did.”
“Why’d you leave a position like that? Must be more exciting than it is here,” Freddy questions as we get out of the truck, pausing beside the hood with his hands on his hips, frowning at me.
This is the last thing I’d like to discuss right now, but I school my expression into an obliging smile. “Family trouble. I needed some space.”
Freddy seems to accept this, nodding in understanding. “Yeah, I know all about that. My youngest isn’t much better behaved than His Lordship’s, and my wife,” he scoffs, “well, don’t get me started on my wife. I’ll be on your doorstep, begging for my job back, just for a break from it all.”
He carries on, talking about his family, wife, and the family fishing business he’ll be helping more with in his retirement. It’s explained that he lives in the neighboring village and never took advantage of the cottage set aside for my use.
Finally, when the sky is going dark, and the old man seems to remember supper time is approaching, he waves me off to find my new home with a rambling set of instructions, already halfway to his truck.
Even without his help, I find it without much trouble.
The structure is set out of view of the main house behind a copse of trees, composed of weather-beaten stone and a slate roof, which I can already foresee leaking in heavy storms. There are no lights on, and my shoulders are heavy with exhaustion as I grip the heavy brass key Freddy gave me and take my duffel bag from the passenger seat of my car, stepping out onto the dark drive.
Above me, the moon peeks from between the clouds, and somewhere in the dark trees surrounding the cottage, an owl hoots noisily. This place, which I will be calling home for the next eight months, is as far from my townhouse in Wyngate as I can imagine.
I am well and truly alone, and it unsettles me more than I’d like to admit.
My boots crunch over the packed-down gravel as I draw forward, making my way onto the porch and fitting the key into the old lock. It turns easily, the old hinges groaning noisily, as I reach inside, feeling blindly for a switch on the nearest wall.
It could be worse.