As he headed for the exit, she called after him, “Where are you going?”

“To get drunk. On a whole lot of beer.”

SIX

As Lane stood outside of his bedroom and stared down at his “wife,” he thought, just like Easterly, she was the same, too.

Chantal Blair Stowe Baldwine was, in fact, exactly the same: the whole haircut, spray tan, makeup, and expensive pink clothing routine identical to what he’d left behind. And her voice—still right out of central casting under the heading of Genteel Southern Lady of Leisure.

She still babbled, too, words leaving her mouth in a stream with no consideration of rationing for the listener’s benefit. Then again, for her, conversation was performance art, her hands moving like the wings of doves, arching up and down, that big diamond she’d wanted so badly flashing like a strobe light.

“—Derby weekend! Of course, Samuel Theodore Lodge is coming tonight. Gin’s all excited about seeing him …”

Unbelievable. They had literally not seen each other or said a word to one another for nearly two years, and she was talking about who was on the guest list for dinner.

What in the hell had he ever seen in her—

“Oh, Lisa! Excuse me, could you please ask Newark if this Mr. Baldwine could have his car brought around? We’re going to the club for lunch.”

Lisa? he thought. Then again, there had been staff turnover since he’d—

Lane glanced over his shoulder. Lizzie was standing by his father’s bedroom door, two vases of perfectly good, but no doubt freshly replaced, bouquets in her grip.

“Mr Harris is just over there,” Lizzie said stiffly.

“I don’t like to shout. It’s not appropriate.” Chantal leaned in the direction of the other woman, like they were two girlfriends sharing a secret. “Thank you so much, you’re such a help—”

“Are you out of your mind?” Lane demanded.

Chantal recoiled, her head rearing back, her eyes going from ingenue to hired killer in the blink of her false, but tasteful, eyelashes.

“I beg your pardon,” Chantal whispered to him.

Lane tried to catch Lizzie’s stare while he muttered, “Go tell him yourself.”

Lizzie refused to acknowledge him. With a professionally impassive expression, she walked forward, her lithe strides taking her past him and down the long hall to the staff staircase. Meanwhile, Chantal was talking again.

“—address me in front of the help like that,” she hissed.

“Her name’s Lizzie, not Lisa.” Now he was the one leaning in. “And you know that, don’t you.”

“Her name is irrelevant.”

“She’s been here longer than you.” He smiled coldly. “And I’m willing to bet she’ll be here way after you’re gone.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t have to be under this roof and you know it.”

“I’m your wife.”

Lane stared down at her—and wondered why in the hell she was still anywhere near his life. The easy answer was that he’d been pretending that Charlemont didn’t exist. The harder reasoning was tied to what she had done.

I’m your wife.

“Not for long,” he said in a low voice.

Those penciled brows of hers lifted, and instantly, that Persian-cat-dragged-through-a-toilet-bowl expression disappeared: She became as calm and smooth as a mirror. “Let’s not fight, darling. Our reservation at the club is in twenty minutes—”

“Let me make myself perfectly clear. I’m not going anywhere with you. Except to a lawyer’s office.”

In his peripheral vision, he noted that Mr. Newark or Mr. Harris—whatever the butler’s name was—was pulling a discreet turnaround, whisking Mrs. Mollie, the housekeeper, off in the opposite direction.

“Be serious, Tulane.”

God, he hated the sound of his full name on Chantal’s lips: Toooooooouulayne. For godsakes, it had two syllables, not three hundred.

“I am,” he said. “It’s time to end this between us.”

Chantal took a slow, deep breath. “I know you’re upset about poor old Miss Aurora and you’re saying things you don’t mean. I get it. She’s a very good cook—and they are very, very hard to find.”

His molars ground together. “You think she’s just a cook.”

“Are you saying she’s your accountant?”

God, why had he ever … “That woman means more to me than the one who bore me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, she’s black—”

Lane grabbed Chantal’s arm and yanked her up close. “Don’t you ever talk about her with that kind of attitude. I’ve never hit a woman before, but I guarantee I will beat the shit out of you if you disrespect her.”

“Lane, you’re hurting me!”

At that moment, he realized that a maid was frozen in the doorway of one of the guest rooms, her arms full of stacked, folded towels. As she ducked her head and hustled off, he shoved Chantal away. Jacked up his slacks. Glared at the hallway’s runner.

“It’s over, Chantal. In case you haven’t noticed.”

She clasped her hands together as if in prayer—and he didn’t buy it for a second. The fake torture in her voice didn’t sway him, either, as she whispered: “I think we should work on our relationship.”