Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
The rain was unrelenting. The torrential downpour seemed fitting for a funeral, holding everyone in a pall of gloom, battering umbrellas and beating against the oak veneer of the casket in which Arthur Montgomery lay. The white lilies had succumbed to the onslaught.
Wyatt stood awkwardly on the perimeter of the gathering, doing his best to avoid everyone, including his parents. He no longer fit into the fabric of their society, which was marinated in tradition and steeped in arrogance.
He’d never belonged there. Never understood the need for peerage. The only ranking of importance to him was in the military. Respect that was hard-earned with time put in.
So, why he was about to go to the wake at the Montgomery Mansion, where he’d have to talk to people, was beyond him.
His black dress shoes, which were reserved for weddings and funerals, now carried him through the front entrance. He took slow, cautious steps as if he were in formation to assault a mudbrick home in Ramadi that had possible insurgents inside with AKs.
He’d rather be in Iraq than walking into the home of his childhood best friend. Nonetheless, a friend now gone.
The place was more of a castle than a home, though.
The stone exterior was a throwback to the medieval times.
It was no Kensington Palace but the grandeur wasn’t too far off.
The seventy-million-dollar property sat on a private enclave at the edge of Hyde Park.
Period craftsmanship. Sweeping ceilings.
Pine paneling. A blend of old and new since the property had survived a fire in the 1800s, only to be partially burned down again in the 1970s.
Memory after memory surged to mind like a storm wave building higher and higher—on the verge of cresting.
He stood a few steps away from the double doors inside the front entrance, and his eyes connected with the family portrait painted by some well-known artist. Arthur had been fifteen in the painting.
Fifteen had been when Wyatt lost his virginity to the daughter of the gardener in the private cottage out back.
Sixteen had been when he and Arthur had played rugby inside the house, and he’d plowed right through the wall in the drawing room.
Sixteen had also been when they’d taken Arthur’s father’s Rolls-Royce out for a ride to pick up girls. One speeding ticket later . . . yeah, they’d been in deep water after that night.
Arthur’s old man hadn’t been amused when they’d passed out drunk in the wine cellar when they were supposed to have been grounded. And, oh yeah, two eighteen-year-old girls had been with them, too.
They’d planned and plotted their escape from London.
They would attend school in America where no one gave a damn about peerage, and women would throw themselves at them not because of their names but because of their good looks and muscles (well, back then they were both a bit lanky, but they were more built than most of their mates).
But when Arthur turned eighteen, he changed his mind about leaving London.
He fell for their mutual friend Charlotte Walsh.
The daughter of a marquess. Their parents had pushed for the union—a marriage right out the gates of high school.
Wyatt wasn’t sure if they’d been in love, not yet, at least, but a fall wedding had been planned.
More memories hurtled to mind as he remained rooted in place inside that entrance hall, not ready to step in farther and face the fact Arthur had died of cancer.
“I saw you standing at the back of the gathering during the funeral. I didn’t expect you to come.”
Wyatt’s attention moved to Charlotte standing off to his right.
She threaded her fingers through her ash-blonde hair before smoothing her palms down the sides of her black pencil skirt.
Knee-length. Black shoes to match. A black silk blouse tucked into the skirt beneath a black blazer.
Proper. Always proper when it came to the Walshes.
“Lady Montgomery.”
“It’s been twenty years, but when have you ever addressed me as lady?” Her lips twitched into a slight smile, but her eyes were watery, more so than he’d expected. It wasn’t like the Walshes, the Montgomerys, and certainly not his family, to show emotion in public, not even at a funeral.
“I’m sorry about Arthur. I, uh, should’ve visited when I first found out.” He scratched at his shaved face. He wasn’t used to being without a beard, but given the day, he’d gotten rid of the facial hair.
When Wyatt learned of Arthur’s cancer diagnosis, he’d been in the middle of an op. And when that op had ended, another took its place. And then another. But he should’ve made time. Despite what had happened to tear their friendship apart, he’d known the guy since they were born.
“And what would you have said?” She brought her manicured nails into her palm at her side. “You hadn’t spoken in twenty years, and I’m afraid that’s my fault.”
At her words, his focus flicked to her green eyes.
He should never have had drunken sex with Charlotte the summer before he left for San Diego . . .
“I destroyed your friendship. I’m sorry.
” It was the first time she had acknowledged the consequences of their actions all those years ago.
She’d gone straight to Arthur the next day to tell him she had sex with his best friend, no doubt hoping it would stir up some jealousy, make Arthur stop cheating and keep his dick in his trousers before he lost her for good and pissed off both their families.
She’d used Wyatt, but he’d let himself be used. If anyone was to blame, it was him and his own fucking stupidity.
And when Arthur had come swinging at him in a public show of outrage, gossip had spread like wildfire as it always did within their social circles.
Arthur had demanded he get the hell out of London and never come back.
Not so hard as far as demands went. Wyatt’s bags were already packed for San Diego, which led to fight number two, this one with his old man.
You leave, don’t ever come back, had been his father’s words before he’d left for Heathrow.
Over the years, he and his parents had made a pseudo-amends, but they never forgave him for taking off. He was their only child. Their miracle baby since his mum was told she couldn’t have children.
Who will carry on the family name? his father had roared when he’d discovered Wyatt had legally changed his name to Pierson, his mum’s maiden name, to avoid ridicule in the Navy from the guys.
“I heard you were in London this summer,” Charlotte added when he’d yet to speak.
Of course. Rumors. Gossip.
The nobles loved a good scandal as long as they weren’t at the heart of it.
“I should’ve visited then.” He’d been in town on assignment, which had led to his brothers on the Teams discovering his real last name and his peerage. “I was here for work, and—”
“Your mum is proud of you, you know. The work you did in the Navy, and now as a paramilitary contractor . . .” She forced a closed-mouth smile. “My son, Richard, Googled the term paramilitary for me so I could understand what it is you do.”
“Yeah, I, um, help people.” As vague as vague could get, but she seemed to accept it with a curt nod.
But also, why was his mum talking about him? She never showed much interest when they chatted on the phone, which was a rarity in itself, but to hear his mum was “proud” of him—was Charlotte mixing his mother up with someone else?
He shifted uncomfortably in his dress shoes. Regret poured inside of him, filling his lungs, making it hard to draw in a decent breath.
“Arthur was a good father, but he wasn’t always the best husband.” Her admission took him by surprise.
Honesty, and so out in the open, was also not very common for a Walsh or Montgomery. He wasn’t sure why she felt the need to confess to him, no less.
“I heard you have tattoos.” The abrupt change of topic could’ve given him whiplash.
Her eyes lingered on the sleeves of his black jacket as if she’d be able to see through the fabric to learn if the rumors were true.
Yup, he had ink, also a sailor’s mouth. “You got married shortly after we did that summer.”
And she was two for two on the quick convo change. He’d need airbags if it kept up.
“To a Marine, right?”
He nodded. What was he supposed to say?
“Sorry about the divorce, but I’m sure you’ll find someone that makes you happy again.”
Funny. Same thing Clara said to me.
A few guests cut around where they stood near the main door, and Charlotte turned to welcome them.
He tucked his hands into his pockets and eyed the room open to his left where most people were gathered to pay their respects.
He caught sight of Charlotte’s father talking to two teenage boys, and he couldn’t help but wonder if they were Arthur’s children. From what his mum had said, they had three kids. Two sons to carry on the name. His mother’s tone had rung with jealousy.
His eyes journeyed back to Charlotte once she’d finished welcoming the guests. “How old are your kids?”
She glimpsed her father and nodded toward the two boys talking to him.
“Arthur Junior is fifteen. Richard’s twelve.
” She angled her head to get a better vantage point of the other room, as if searching for her third child, but then straightened, giving up.
“Gwen turned nineteen in March. I’m sure she’s here somewhere. ”
Gwen. The pregnancy Charlotte had attempted to hide by moving the fall wedding to the summer. Scandal broke out. Rumors flew. She’d denounced them, and from what his mum had told him, Charlotte had declared the baby simply came six weeks early.
“Gwen goes to uni in Canada.” She tightened her hands into a knot, ringing them together. Her shoulders sank a touch even though it was obvious she was doing her best to maintain the dignified posture expected of a lady. “She and Arthur had a horrible argument last summer before she left.”
Another confession in public. Really?