Instant. Rage.

“What are you doing!” Chantal hollered, her body quivering. “Eavesdropping!”

Lizzie held out the scarf. “I was bringing this to you—”

Chantal snatched the wrap. “Get out of here. Get out! Get out!”

And you do not have to ask twice, Lizzie thought as she wheeled away and gunned for the great outdoors.

As she cut through the tent and weeded around the tables and chairs, she took out her phone and texted Lane a cheerful, No-big-deal, I’m-heading-home-after-a-long-day message.

God knew that man was going to have a lot on his hands as soon as Chantal found him.

The good news, at least for Lizzie?

No anniversary party to plan.

And Lane had been true to his word.

It was hard to stop a small smile from surfacing on her face. And when it refused to go away, she let the thing stay where it was.

Lane’s phone let out an electronic bing! just as Chantal marched by the parlor, screaming his name as she headed for the grand staircase. He did nothing to tip off his whereabouts, just let her go upstairs to cause whatever scene was going to roll out in front of the closed door of his empty bedroom.

Funny, just a few hours before, the fact that she was on the warpath would have been an issue he’d have dealt with. Now? It was down oh, so low on his list of priorities.

“I need to go see Edward,” Lane said without bothering to check who had texted him.

Gin shook her head. “I wouldn’t. He’s not well, and the news you will share can only make things worse.”

She had a point. Edward hated their father already. The idea the man had stolen funds?

Gin got to her feet and went over to the bar for a refresh. “Is tomorrow still going forward?”

“The brunch?” He shrugged. “I don’t know how to stop it. Besides, it’s mostly been paid for already. The food, the liquor, the rentals.”

He was ashamed of the other reason to keep the event on track: The idea that the world might know even a hint of the problems his family was potentially facing was unacceptable to him.

The sound of someone coming down the carpeted stairs at an absolute tear made his sister cock an eyebrow. “Looks like you’re about to have a marital moment.”

“Only if she finds me—”

Chantal appeared in the parlor’s doorway, her normally pale and placid face ruddy as a tar layer’s at a BBQ.

“How dare you,” his wife demanded.

“Guess you’re packing your bags, darling,” Gin said with a Christmas-morning smile. “Shall I call for the butler? I think we can grant you that last courtesy. Consider it your going-away gift.”

“I am not leaving this house.” Chantal ignored Gin. “Do you understand me, Lane.”

He circled the ice in his glass with his forefinger. “Gin, will you give us a little privacy?”

With an obliging nod, his sister headed for the archway, and as she went by Chantal, she paused and glanced back at him. “Make sure the butler checks her suitcases for jewelry.”

“You are such a bitch,” Chantal hissed.

“Yes, I am.” Gin shrugged as if the woman was barely worth the breath to speak. “And I also have a right to the Bradford name and legacy. You do not. Bye, now.”

As Gin threw out a toodle-oo wave, Lane stepped up and moved his body between the two of them so they could avoid an Alexis/Krystle lily pond moment. Then he went over and slid the panels shut, even though he didn’t want to be alone with his wife.

“I’m not leaving.” Chantal wheeled around on him. “And this is not happening.”

As she tossed the divorce petition to the floor at his feet, all he could think of was that he didn’t have time for this. “Listen, Chantal, we can do this the easy way or the hard way—it’s your choice. But know if you choose the latter, I will go after not only you, but your family. How do you suppose your Baptist parents would feel if they received a copy of your medical records on their front doorstep? I don’t think they’re pro-choice, are they?”

“You can’t do that!”

“Don’t be stupid, Chantal. There are all kinds of people I can call on, people who owe my family debts that they are eager to pay off.” He walked back to the bar and poured more Family Reserve into his glass. “Or how about this one. How about those medical records fall into the hands of the press, or maybe an online site? People would understand why I’m divorcing you—and you’d have a hell of a time finding another husband. Unlike up north, we Southern men have standards for our wives, and they do not include abortion.”

There was a long stretch of silence. And then the smile that came back at him was inexplicable, so confident and calm, he wondered if she’d gone daft in the last two years.

“You have more to keep quiet than I do,” she said softly.

“Do I.” He took a deep draw from the edge of his glass. “How do you figure that. All I did was the right thing by a woman I supposedly got pregnant. Who knows if it was mine, anyway.”

She pointed to the paperwork. “You are going to make that go away. You are going to allow me to stay here for however long I want. And you are going to escort me to the Derby festivities tomorrow.”

“In what parallel universe?”

Her hand went to her lower belly. “I’m pregnant.”

Lane barked out a laugh. “You tried that once before, sweetheart. And we all know how it ended.”