The cobblestone drive circled in front of the biggest of the barns, and he parked off to the side, half on the grass. No reason to lock up as he got out. Hell, he left the keys in the ignition.

One deep breath in and he was back in his childhood, when he’d come out here to muck stalls during his summers off from prep school. His grandparents had believed in instilling a good work ethic. His parents had been less concerned with so much.

Heading over to the caretaker’s cottage, it was difficult to believe his brother really lived in such modest quarters. Edward had always been a force of energy in the world, moving, always moving, a conqueror constantly looking for victory, whether it was in sports, in business, with women.

And now … this little building? This was it?

When Lane came up to the door, he knocked on the screen’s frame. “Edward? You in there, Edward?”

As if he could be anywhere else?

Bang, bang, bang. “Edward? It’s me—”

“Lane?” came a muffled voice.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, it’s me. I need to talk to you.”

“Hold on.”

When the door eventually opened, Lane saw his grandfather standing before him, not his brother: Edward was so thin that his jeans hung like old-man pants from his hip bones, and he was slightly hunched, as if the pain he’d suffered had permanently shifted his spine toward the fetal position.

“Edward …”

He got a grunt in return and some hand motions indicating it was up to him to open the sceen and come inside.

“Pardon me while I sit back down,” Edward said as he made his way over to the chair he’d clearly been in. “Standing is not agreeable.”

The groan was almost stifled as he lowered himself into position.

Lane shut the door. Put his hands in the pockets of his slacks. Tried not to stare at his brother’s ruined face. “So …”

“Please don’t bother commenting upon how well I look.”

“I …”

“In fact, let’s just nod and you can go. No doubt Miss Aurora made you come here so that you could attest to the fact that I’m still breathing.”

“She’s not well.”

That got his brother’s attention. “How so?”

The story came out quickly: ER, looked fine afterward, still working the brunch.

Edward’s eyes drifted away. “That’s her, all right. She’s going to outlive the rest of us.”

“I think she’d like to see you.”

“I will never go back to that house.”

“She could come out here.”

After a long moment, that stare swung back. “Do you honestly think that being anywhere near me would do her good?” Before Lane could comment, Edward continued, “Besides, I’m not one for visitors. Speaking of entertaining, why aren’t you enjoying The Derby Brunch? I got an invitation, which I found a bit ironic. I didn’t bother to RSVP—a horrid breach of manners, but in my new incarnation, social pleasantries are anachronisms from another life.”

Lane walked around, looking at the trophies.

“What’s on your mind?” Edward asked. “You are never without words.”

“I don’t know how to say this.”

“Try a noun first. A proper noun—provided it is not ‘Edward.’ I assure you, I’m uninterested in any soapbox preaching about how I should get my life in order.”

Lane turned and faced his brother. “It’s about Father.”

Edward’s lids lowered. “What about him.”

The image of Rosalinda in that chair was preceded by an auditory replay of Chantal’s voice telling him she was pregnant and not leaving the house.

Lane’s lip curled up off his teeth. “I hate him. I hate him so fucking much. He’s ruined us all.”

Before he could start in with all that had happened, Edward put his palm out and released an exhausted sigh. “You don’t have to say it. What I want to know is how you found out.”

Lane frowned. “Wait, you know?”

“Of course I know. I was there.”

No, no, he thought in shock. Edward couldn’t have been in on the money losses, the debt … the possible embezzlement. The man was not just brilliant with business, but honest as a Boy Scout.

“You couldn’t … no.” Lane shook his head. “Please tell me, you’re not—”

“Don’t be naive, Lane—”

“Rosalinda is dead, Edward. She killed herself in her office yesterday.”

Now it was Edward’s turn to look surprised. “What? Why?”

Lane threw up his hands. “Did you think it wouldn’t affect her?”

Edward frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The money, Edward. Jesus Christ, don’t be dense—”

“Why would the fact that Father wouldn’t pay my ransom affect her?”

Lane stopped breathing. “What did you just say?”

Edward rubbed his eyes like his entire skull hurt. Then he went for the Beefeater bottle next to him and took a deep draw right from the open neck. “Do we have to do this.”

“He didn’t pay for your release?”

“Of course he didn’t. He has always hated me. I wouldn’t put it past him to have engineered the entire kidnapping.”

All Lane could do was stand there and blink as his head went rush-hour-traffic-jam on him. “But … he told the press—he told us—he was negotiating with them—”