Chapter 8
Eight
Damien
“Anything to report?” Lord Porter asks, not bothering with preamble or pleasantries, when I answer his call—the first communication I’ve received from the man since I arrived at Thornhurst a full week ago.
“Nothing,” I tell him honestly, closing the front door to my cottage behind myself and pausing just inside, lifting my running shirt away from my damp skin. “I sent your assistant a full report as well as a budget for the proposed security upgrades, and your daughter is… cooperating.”
Barely. The attitude I got this morning from the daughter in question had taken on a particularly vicious edge when I attempted to get her up for our run.
As far as I can tell, Blair’s patience with me seems to be growing as thin as mine with her, and a more dramatic fallout seems inevitable. It’s just a question of when.
Through the phone, I hear Porter’s noise of amusement. “Well, I suppose cooperating is the best we can hope for. She hasn’t responded to Candice’s email with a link to her remedial studies program, has she mentioned starting it?”
Ha. Of course she hasn’t. Thus far, Blair and I have had hardly anything to do with one another, apart from the runs. Even for those, most of our communication comes in the form of snapping or pointed silences, and she certainly hasn’t told me about her coursework.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, annoyed with the entirety of the Porter family. “No. I’ll follow up with her.”
Though he and I touched upon the educational element of his grand plan to remake his daughter, it hadn’t occurred to me that it would be down to me to—to what?
Tutor her? Ensure she does her homework?
The limited time we spend together has already made my temper shorter than usual.
I’d rather not have anything more to do with her if I can help it.
There are more important matters to discuss, however. Yesterday morning, when the groundskeeper dropped the estate’s mail delivery with me, there were three more of the disturbing letters to Blair. The same kind Freddy had shown me on my first day here.
“There’s another matter I’d like to discuss, while I have you.
There were more of the threats you mentioned, delivered over the last few days,” I explain, glancing toward the drawer where I stashed them, uneasy.
“Crude, threatening, sexually explicit communications, addressed to Blair. I’d like to request a copy of anything else that was delivered elsewhere, so I can compare them.
We should be on top of this and looking out for signs that any of the senders might be becoming more persistent. ”
A stalker is the last thing I want to worry about on a property this big, especially before the security has been upgraded. Freddy’s antique systems are peppered with holes, and I can’t understand why Porter isn’t more concerned.
A muffled voice sounds through the line, someone talking to Porter.
“Yes, I’ll be there momentarily. Send my apologies,” he tells them.
Then, directed to me, “I’ll have my people get in touch.
In the meantime, make sure she’s focusing on her academics.
I’m sure she’ll be resistant, but this is a priority. I want an update today, Mallory.”
A tendon in my jaw twinges painfully, and I reach up, rubbing it. “Yes, sir. And the budget for the updates?”
“Pending further consideration.” He hangs up without another word, and I shove the phone in my pocket, even more weary than I was a moment ago.
Freddy wasted no time clearing out his things from the office.
Within forty-eight hours of my arrival, the former head of security had gone, leaving me with about a dozen filing cabinets filled with invoices older than I am, a leak in the roof of the office, and a desk chair that collapses in on itself at random intervals.
Even with the “upgrades” I was hired to facilitate—which are more like a complete overhaul—and the threats toward Princess Porter, it only took a few days for me to confirm this will be a long, tedious employment contract.
Outside, a distant rumble of thunder signals the approach of yet another storm, and I wander over to the cottage’s window, staring miserably up at the graying sky.
In contrast to the hustle and bustle of Ashwell Palace—where we dealt with everything from unruly tourists to coordinating security for visiting global leaders on a daily basis—the quiet of the estate is unnerving. I find myself constantly on edge, waiting for something to happen.
A something which doesn’t seem likely to come from Thornhurst’s only other full-time resident.
Permitting myself a quiet groan, I turn away from the window and cross to turn on the shower in the cottage’s small bathroom. As the hot water hits my back, and I move through the routine steps of cleaning myself, I find myself preoccupied—yet again—by Blair Porter.
Even as I go out of my way to avoid her, the interactions we do have leave me so irritated that I find myself reliving them over and over again like a masochistic skipping record.
I ought to be savoring my time away from her and using it to focus on things that don’t infuriate me beyond belief.
Yet every time I’ve tried to turn my mind toward other, more important and relevant matters, there is something about her that snags my attention, pulling it back onto her.
The phenomenon is almost as frustrating as the woman herself, and I don’t know what to make of it
Especially when my initial surveillance data has yielded few surprises about the spoiled socialite.
While I didn’t particularly relish invading her privacy, decades of experience have taught me that failing to gather all the information about a job is opening yourself up to breaches. So, since my arrival, I’ve kept a close eye on her, interested in separating fact from fiction.
My first priority was getting a list of close associates.
I wanted to know if we would have any problems from her friends trying to enter the property or sneaking in substances, which could undermine Porter’s campaign.
Blair getting caught with drugs at the family home would almost certainly be a massive scandal, and no one would escape the collateral damage. Including myself.
Having control of Thornhurst’s internet servers makes my job almost effortless, but after days of searching fruitlessly for red flags or indications she was up to anything nefarious, I was almost disappointed in my preliminary conclusions.
Blair Porter may be impulsive, bratty, and turn her nose up at anything resembling discipline, but she isn’t going to be a security concern.
She doesn’t appear to have any close friends or lovers who might come looking for her.
She doesn’t text at all, and the entirety of her communications seems to be through voice memo or video chat, with even those kept seldom and brief.
Neither Lord nor Lady Porter nor any of Blair’s siblings have attempted to contact her since I’ve begun monitoring her.
She hasn’t tried to leave the property or let anyone onto it.
The alarm on the wine cellar hasn’t been touched.
She spent a fairly disgusting amount of money on shoes, apparently not concerned that paying the credit card bill would be a problem with her funds frozen.
Everything I’ve learned should be enough for me to be reasonably confident Blair won’t be a problem, but even though I can’t put my finger on what exactly, something about the Porter heiress still isn’t quite sitting right with me.
I can only assume that my subconscious is picking up on something, and that’s why she’s dominated so much of my attention as of late.
After my shower, I’m keen to put off the inevitable rise in blood pressure which will come from “touching base” with Blair about her education, and choose to return to the office instead.
I spend the afternoon following up with a few of the contractors I’ll be hiring once Porter gives me the green light. After that, I walk the edge of the grounds with a digital surveying software, marking off the tentative locations where motion sensors will be installed.
I make calls, check my email, and organize my top desk drawer.
I go back to the cottage to eat a late lunch and unpack my final suitcase.
I stall.
There is a long list of things I would rather do—among them wrestle a rabid weasel or attend one of Araminta’s tea parties—before engaging in further communication with Blair. Unfortunately, my work is slowing to a standstill until Porter approves the budget, and there is only so much I can do.
So, once I’ve checked my email another few times and can’t justify putting it off any longer, I go in search of Blair.
I’ve been inside Thornhurst a lot, coming and going from the great house several times a day since I arrived. Still, it’s strange to fit my master key into the lock on the back staff entrance and go inside without announcing myself.
The house is as quiet as it ever is when I close the door and pause, straining my ears for sounds of life. Just as always, though, there’s nothing but silence. No footsteps. No murmured voices. Not even a television left running somewhere in the house.
I’m on the point of moving further inside when, unexpectedly, a soft sound breaks the silence.
My heart shoots into my throat. I freeze, not even breathing as I listen to the unmistakable noise drifting faintly back to me from a nearby room.
Singing.
It carries through the quiet halls, warm and slightly off tune, its singer unconcerned about being overheard.
Blair.
I should keep moving and go talk to her about the courses, but my feet don’t move.
Instead, I stand in the entryway, my feet rooted to the stone floor. Listening.
She isn’t performing for anyone but herself. Sometimes, the lyrics lapse mid-sentence, turning to a sweet, melodic hum. The song… For the life of me, I can’t place it, and yet it’s familiar in a way that raises goosebumps on the nape of my neck.