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“A slight setback, is all. They’ve turned out to be a bit more troublesome than anticipated.”
“How hard is it to knock off two socialites?”
Colton gave him a sidelong glance, as he paused to light a cigarette. He blew out a long stream of smoke, then said, “Is that what you think they are? Or did you not read the dossier I sent?”
“I did. But I thought you were better than that.”
“Because I am better than that, their social status is exactly why we can’t kill them without careful planning. Especially after that fiasco at the Payton warehouse. Like it or not, they’re connected to Oliver. If they go, it needs to appear unconnected to the Paytons or you’ll risk scrutiny when you take over the estate.”
Deep down, he knew Colton was right. It was, after all, why he hired the man. To make sure mistakes weren’t made. “Maybe step up the planning.”
Colton ignored him, as he unlocked the door and the two stepped inside. Cigarette hanging from his mouth, he keyed the code into the alarm pad, switched on the lights. The two men turned around, staring at the empty space.
Colton ripped the cigarette from his mouth, dropped it onto the ground. “I don’t understand . . .” He pulled out his phone, called one of his men. “Where’s the Gray Ghost?”
The volume was high enough for Oren to hear the silence at first before his man said, “What’re you talking about? It was right there last night when I set the alarm.”
“Well, it’s gone.”
It took a moment for Oren to register what he was seeing and hearing. When he finally came to his senses, he looked over at Colton. “Tell me again how everything’s going according to plan?”
24
Allegra was ambitious. Which is why it troubled her to know that Oliver, someday to be the 8th Viscount Wellswick, cared less about the title and more about the farmers. She, on the other hand, had a son to think about, which was what made their family history so interesting. Chances were good that if Oliver continued down the path he was on, her son would inherit everything.
Whether there’d be anything left to inherit remained to be seen, she thought, looking over at her ex-husband, Dex Northcott, who sat at the dining table, reading, while he ate the leftovers she’d hoped to save for dinner. A slow reader, he turned a page, paused to look over at the television in the front room, where a football game was on. The player dribbled the ball past the defense, then kicked it. When the goalkeeper caught it, Dex turned back to the book, the fifth journal, which told the story of the Gray Ghost, stolen in 1906, and how an American detective named Isaac Bell had helped to find it, all while he was hunting down a group of notorious bank robbers.
She regretted the day she’d ever told him that story, one she’d first read when she was about her son’s age, her early teens, after Oliver had found and read it. Back then, she’d thought it was all made up. One of her ancestors having a bit of fun with their family history. It wasn’t until her uncle had brought out the Gray Ghost, hidden in a barn on the property, that she’d even recalled the story. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one.
“Mum . . .”
She nearly jumped. Her son, Trevor, was staring at her. “Did you want something?”
“I asked where the Nutella was.”
“Same place as always. In the cupboard.”
“We’re out.”
Dex gave them an annoyed look. “Do you mind? It’s hard enough reading this ancient cursive without you two making all that noise.” Loud cheering broke out on the television, and he looked that direction but was unable to see because Trevor was standing in the way. Swearing, he slammed the book onto the table, then stalked around the boy and into the front room.
“Let’s have a look, shall we?” Allegra said, walking over to the cupboard and opening it. “Imagine, right where I told you it was,” she said, pulling out the Nutella jar. When she turned around to hand it to him, he’d picked up the journal from the table and was reading through the pages.
“Why’s Dad reading this? Looks pretty old.”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “Belongs to the manor.”
He turned away when she tried to take it from him. “Is it Uncle Albert’s?”
“Sort of.” One thing T
revor had developed over the years he’d lived with her uncle was a deep and abiding love for the man. Which meant she had to be careful if she didn’t want him to develop an inordinate interest in the book. All it would take was a few computer clicks, and he was bound to start linking some of the more unusual goings-on with what was in that journal. Since that was the last thing she needed, she gave a casual shrug. “His great-great-great-grandfather, or some such. Known for his tall tales, according to Uncle Albert.”
“Really?” He turned another page and walked out of the room, forgetting about his sudden need for food.
She would have gone after him if her cell phone hadn’t buzzed and she had to backtrack to the front room to find it, where she’d left it on the coffee table. Annoyed and disturbed when she saw the caller ID, she answered. “I told you not to call me here,” she said, lowering her voice.
“The Gray Ghost is missing.”