Chapter 8 Privileged Information
PRIVILEGED INFORMATION
THEO
The request came through Giles, of course—delivered with that same grim precision that made everything sound vaguely judicial. “Mrs. Mayfair would like you to join her for tea in the morning room, sir. While the girls are out riding.”
Theo doubted there was much would like involved. Evelyn Mayfair didn’t request things; she issued summonses. Tea, in her hands, wasn’t a beverage—it was strategy.
Still, he didn’t really mind. Evelyn was entertaining. Sharp in a polite, smiling-while-drawing-blood kind of way. And after last night’s mess, her particular brand of order felt almost refreshing. Predictable, at least.
Besides, this wasn’t just tea to him either. He wanted to see what she’d say without anyone else in the room. What might slip through the cracks when the only audience they held was the murder of crows perched on the stone balustrade outside the morning room window.
He arrives at precisely eleven, because being late would be rude and being early would look eager.
The morning room smells faintly of bergamot and polish, the air too warm for comfort.
Sunlight filters through gauzy curtains, softening the sharp edges of furniture that predates the concept of ergonomics.
Evelyn sits perfectly poised in a high-backed chair upholstered in a floral pattern that manages to look both delicate and slightly menacing.
Theo adjusts the cuff of his shirt as Giles pours the tea—delicate china, saucers so thin he can see light through them. There’s a silver tray of tea cookies and the low hum of classical music from an unseen source—Debussy’s Clair de Lune, if he’s not mistaken.
Evelyn gestures to the seat across from her, and he takes it. A picture of civility—two people sitting down to tea, both fully aware it’s a game.
Her expression carries the faint satisfaction of someone who’s just arranged every piece on the board exactly where she wants it.
“Professor Grayson, I do hope you don’t mind being borrowed.
It’s not often we have such stimulating company here.
Everyone else tends to talk about horses or weather or the neighbor’s unfortunate lawn ornaments. ”
Theo returns her smile, careful and mild. “I consider it an honor, Mrs. Mayfair. Though I can hold my own in a spirited debate about lawn ornaments, if that’s what the morning requires.”
Her laugh is soft, practiced over decades of polite conversation. “I’m sure you could. But I’d rather discuss something with a bit more substance.”
He leans back just enough to look at ease while keeping his attention trained on her. “Then by all means,” he says, gesturing airily toward the center of the table. “Set the agenda.”
Evelyn lifts her cup, studying him over the rim with that particular blend of curiosity and calculation that feels almost forensic. “You’re not much for small talk, are you?” she muses. “You choose your words too carefully. That’s a lawyer’s tell.”
Theo looks faintly amused. “Former lawyer.”
“Ah,” she says, amused, the sound light but edged. “I suppose so. There’s a method to the way you listen. You weigh everything before you answer.”
He stirs his tea once. “Occupational hazard I can’t seem to quit.”
Evelyn hums. “Teaching isn’t exactly a lateral move from law, which I know we touched on last night. But I can’t help but want to know more about what pushed you?”
He knows where this is going. Knows why she’s asking. She wants to take the edge off his guilt about her sons’ trial, because that’s exactly the type of person Evelyn seems to be.
“I needed something different,” he says simply.
She arches her brow.
He tips his head back. “Fine. I needed something less mind-numbing.”
He hopes that answer is enough to steer her away from where this is headed.
Her eyes spark with a quiet sort of satisfaction. “Some people might think men who leave the law for teaching aren’t running from boredom, but instead running from themselves.”
He almost laughs. Evelyn Mayfair seems exactly the type who enjoys a reclamation project.
And he doesn’t just mean the house.
She’d spend the next hour convincing him he isn’t a failure if he let her.
He knows this kind of conversation—the gentle dissection disguised as empathy—and he has no intention of bleeding out over tea and cookies.
Better to shift the conversation to something that actually matters.
He knows Evelyn wants to feel admired. So he leans on the one tactic that never fails with people like her: flattery.
“I can’t imagine you’re someone who’s usually wrong,” he says, tone even but warm enough to sound sincere. “Most people end up where they are by accident. You don’t strike me as someone who leaves anything to chance. I’d rather believe I chose my path, too.”
She seems pleased, clearly charmed. “A man who takes responsibility for where he stands. Refreshing.”
Theo takes a sip of his tea, watching her over the rim. “I find life tends to go better when you maintain the illusion of control. Though I doubt you’ve ever had to settle for illusion.”
Evelyn’s laugh this time is genuine. Pleased, and just a little indulgent. “You and I are going to get along splendidly.”
He believes her. She enjoys this—being courted through conversation, matched in wit.
But under all that polish, he notices something softer.
A kind of loneliness. The way her eyes linger a little too long, the way her voice dips between sentences, as if she’s holding on to the company more than the conversation itself.
It’s curious, he thinks, how someone surrounded by so much family can still seem starved for real conversation. So he gives her what she wants. He lets her talk. And as she does, he listens, and takes stock of what she doesn’t say.
Evelyn sets her teacup down with a faint clink, eyes glazing over a bit as they drift toward the window. “You know,” she says, almost absently, “I sometimes forget how old this house really is. How much of our name is carved into its bones.”
Theo follows her gaze to the tall panes of glass, where her reflection shifts in the morning light. Her words are soft, almost tender—nostalgia steeped in loss. She isn’t boasting; she’s remembering. A time when this house was full of life, before it became a monument to everything she’s outlived.
She smooths the napkin in her lap. “The Mayfairs have been here since the early 1800s,” she says. “Long enough for the truth to bend in our favor. People talk about legacy as though it’s earned.” Her eyes lift to his. “It isn’t. It’s inherited. Cultivated. Protected.”
Theo studies her, unsure where this is going. “And truth?” he asks.
Her mouth curves, indecisive. “Truth bends. Presentation decides the shape. If people accept a story long enough, it becomes the truth they cling to. That’s how families like ours stay standing. Until someone decides to look closer.”
Theo is certain that Evelyn Mayfair is someone who’s living with many secrets that aren’t hers to tell.
He watches her for a beat too long. There’s a purpose to her phrasing—a deliberate choice of words—that makes him wonder if she’s speaking only about the family, or about what they’ve buried.
She’s leading him somewhere. He can feel it.
He knows why she invited him here this morning just as clearly as she knows why he showed up. He hears the intent behind every careful word: keep digging. Don’t stop.
“I imagine that takes effort,” he notes.
“Constant effort,” she replies. “But it’s worth it. People find comfort in the illusion of refinement. They see a pleasant smile, a respectable name, and stop asking questions. No one really wants the truth, Professor. They just want the version that looks nice on paper.”
The entire world wants what looks nice on paper.
A clean story, tidy motives, something that fits neatly into a headline. No one wants to look deeper, to see what festers beneath the shiny surface.
That was the problem with Henry’s death. Everyone wanted to call it a tragedy and move on. Neat. Contained.
Except it wasn’t. Theo knew there was more. Lila knew it too.
Sitting across from Evelyn now, he’s certain she knows as well.
Theo lightly taps his teaspoon against the table. “And you’re comfortable with that?”
Evelyn’s eyes meet his over the rim of her cup. “Comfort has nothing to do with it. It’s simply what works.”
There’s a chill in her honesty that makes something in his chest ache with recognition. He knows that kind of pragmatism. It sands down the edges of morality until only utility remains. It’s efficient. Orderly. Almost admirable in its cruelty.
It keeps her world intact, just as it once kept his.
He sets his cup down. It clinks against the saucer. “I suppose that’s one way to preserve a legacy.”
Evelyn’s smile returns. “It’s the only way.”
He lets the words hang, the silence stretching just enough to keep her talking if she’s inclined. It’s the same rhythm he once used in court—measured pauses, disarming attentiveness, the illusion of empathy. He hadn’t realized how natural it still felt until now.
It’s disturbingly easy.
Evelyn looks at him with warmth, pleased to have an audience that looks engaged, and Theo feels that old reflex stir—the subtle mirroring, the well-timed nod, the faint hum of agreement that convinces people you’re already on their side.
He doesn’t even have to think about it. His body remembers the choreography of persuasion like muscle memory.
He hates it.
It’s the same instinct that once made him a brilliant attorney and a lousy human being.
The way he could make someone trust him without meaning to.
The way silence could do half the work if he just held their gaze long enough.
There was a time he could bend a truth until it fit whatever shape he needed.
And the ease of it, that’s what always frightened him most.
It’s who he was before Bellwood. Before Lila.