The Brothers Hawthorne (The Inheritance Games, #4)(17)

Who am I, Jameson thought, to turn down an invitation?

“And finally…,” one of the stylists said, holding out an imperious hand. The other stylist placed a hat in it: white, with a wide, asymmetrical brim and a black rose, its petals kissed with tiny jewels, attached to the underside. Pinned in place, the hat sat on Avery’s head at angle, the sparkling black rose drawing the gaze to her eyes.

“Figured out where we’re going yet?” Avery said.

Jameson held out a hand and waited for her to take it. He anticipated her touch, then felt it through every inch of his body when the pads of her fingers brushed his palm, electric.

This was the beginning.

“Are we, by any chance,” he said, answering her challenge, “off to the races?”





CHAPTER 14





JAMESON


Like the Kentucky Derby,” Jameson murmured in Avery’s ear as they stepped onto a fabulously green lawn, “but make it royal.”

There was no press on racecourse grounds and no personal security allowed. Oren had grudgingly signed off on Avery’s attendance, primarily because, for once, she wasn’t the biggest target in the vicinity. The rich. The famous. The connected. The royal.

“Ready to make some noise?” Avery murmured back.

Jameson swept his gaze over a sea of men in top hats and long-tailed jackets and impeccably dressed women vying for a spot in Vogue. “Always.”





An hour in, the champagne and Pimm’s were flowing freely, and word of the Hawthorne heiress’s appearance had spread. In other circumstances, with literal royals in attendance, that might have mattered less. But Avery was in the beginning stages of giving away twenty-eight billion dollars. And then there was the fact that she literally had a horse in this race.

Actually, she had two.

“Thamenold had a good showing yesterday.” The lordly gentleman currently holding court around them was one of many who’d made a similar comment. “Is there any truth to the rumors that you’re looking to part with him, Ms. Grambs?”

Thamenold. Jameson’s mind automatically rearranged the letters in the horse’s name. The old man. As with everything his grandfather had ever done, there were layers of meaning.

“You must know better than to listen to rumors,” Avery replied coyly.

That was his cue. “Although,” Jameson said, lowering his voice, but pitching it so that everyone in the vicinity could still hear, “I have to say that you certainly have some interesting rumors on this side of the pond. Legendary, even.”

You aren’t going to ask what I’m referring to, but you won’t forget I mentioned it, either.

“What about Lady Monoceros?” another older gentleman asked. “She’s running today, is she not? Have you placed a bet on your own horse, Ms. Grambs?”

Avery met the gentleman’s gaze. “Jameson and I are interested in a different kind of wager. We hear that London offers some very intriguing… options.” The spacing in her last sentence spoke volumes.

“Sorry, Heiress.” Jameson brought a champagne glass to his lips. “But my money isn’t on Lady Monoceros.” He waited for one of the men to take his bait and wasn’t disappointed.

“Who did you put your money on, then?”

Jameson flashed a smile. “Devil’s Mercy.” He counted the beats of silence that followed.

“You mean Devil’s Duel?” a third man said abruptly. “He’s had some nice showings.”

Jameson let another beat pass before he lifted his glass once more. “Of course. Devil’s Duel. My mistake.”

And so it went, encounter after encounter, comment after comment, glass after glass. Someone here had to be a member. Someone here would recognize the name Devil’s Mercy and realize that he hadn’t misspoken. Someone would understand what they were really looking for when they talked of rumors and legends, wagers and intrigue and options.

And it’s anyone’s guess, Jameson thought, how that someone will respond.





CHAPTER 15





JAMESON


The hats came off at the after party. In the upper floors of a private club, Jameson and Avery mixed with the younger set—and requested that every photo posted online be accompanied by the same hashtag: TDM.

There was more than one way to make noise, and the more they made, the more alive Jameson felt. Hyper-alert, he missed nothing as he and Avery made their way back through the throng of socialites.

“Did you see the way he kissed her on the stairwell earlier?”

“I heard he overdosed in Morocco a few months ago.”

“You know there are four brothers, right? Do you think they all look like that?”

“If you ask me, she’s not nearly as pretty in person.”

“Can you believe—”

Jameson tried to filter out what people were saying about him, about Avery. He tried to focus on hearing something more, and one comment bubbled up over the rest. “It looks like That Duchess decided to grace us with her presence.”

Jameson followed the speaker’s haughty gaze and saw an elegant woman in her twenties. She was tall and lithe, her skin a deep brown, the cut, length, and fit of her bright yellow dress exquisite. Beneath a petite yellow hat, thick braids of varying sizes adorned her head. Those braids were gathered at the base of her neck and streamed down her back, all the way to her hips. More than one person seemed to watch as the woman closed her fingers around the stem of a champagne glass.