Jameson wasn’t about to give Katharine another twenty-four hours to determine her—and his mysterious uncle Bowen’s—next move. “I don’t need a day,” he told Rohan.
The Proprietor of the Devil’s Mercy kept control of its membership through use of a ledger that held their secrets. Powerful secrets of powerful men—and some women, though not many.
Jameson looked to Zella. Her lips ticked very slightly upward on the ends. Whatever she’d wanted from Katharine—or Bowen Johnstone-Jameson—she’d presumably secured it. She’d fulfilled her end of whatever deal she’d struck with them by handing over the last key. And now, the duchess owed Jameson a debt, one she seemed to think she’d soon be in excellent position to repay.
Jameson looked to Branford next: uncle, head of a family that wasn’t Jameson’s in any way but blood. And yet… Jameson had to put real effort into looking away from the man, and when he did, it was to look up at Vantage. He thought of the portrait of his paternal grandmother. This was her ancestral home, and through her blood, his.
Jameson held the mark back out to Rohan. “I like this place,” he told him. “Though I might get rid of that damn bell.”
CHAPTER 88
JAMESON
Walking through the front door of Vantage felt different this time. It felt right. Jameson moved slowly to the bottom of the grand staircase. He looked up. Mine. He’d grown up being handed every opportunity, every luxury, in a mansion easily larger than this place, but Jameson’s entire life, nothing had ever been just his.
“It suits you,” Zella called from somewhere behind him.
Jameson didn’t turn. He barely heard her.
“You would think so.” That was Rohan, also behind him. Katharine had made her exit.
Branford strode past the others, making his way to Jameson and fixing him with a stare so pointed that it drew to mind a threat: If I’d had any hand in raising you, I would be doing a hell of a lot more than yelling.
“We need to talk.” Branford didn’t wait for Jameson to reply before nodding sharply toward the stairs. As Jameson took the first step, the viscount turned to shoot a warning look at anyone who might be tempted to follow. “I need a moment with my nephew. Alone.”
At the top of the grand staircase, Jameson found a window, one that faced out over the stone garden, the view stretching all the way past the cliffs to the ocean and the hint of a storm brewing on the horizon.
“Do you have a death wish, nephew?” Branford’s tone walked the line between an accusation, an order, and a threat. “Answer me.”
Jameson recalled telling his uncle to yell at him later—which was, apparently, now.
“No.” Jameson tore his gaze away from the window and looked back toward the red-haired, sharp-featured, scowling viscount. “I don’t have a death wish.”
“But it doesn’t bother you,” Branford countered. “The idea of dying.” The viscount’s tone was almost too controlled now, a danger sign Jameson recognized all too well.
“I didn’t say that.” Jameson thought back to the moment before he’d leapt onto the bell. He’d hesitated, one thing—one person—on his mind. Avery. Jameson was fast cars and tantalizing risks, laughing in the face of danger and stepping right up to the edge of magnificent drops.
But he was also hers.
“I definitely wouldn’t say that I’m unbothered by the idea of dying,” Jameson continued. “It’s not true.” Anymore. He didn’t go out of his way to risk his life anymore.
Branford’s brows pulled together, his expression severe. “Then I can only conclude that you are completely without sense? That there was perhaps some sort of traumatic head injury when you were a child? Perhaps several? Because I can think of no other explanation for the reckless, ill-considered, impulsive display I witnessed back there.”
It was an odd feeling, being scolded like a child. Like he was someone’s child. Jameson took half a step forward, hands dangling loose by his side. “I don’t need a father,” he told the viscount.
Branford took his own step forward—no half measures. “You don’t have one.” His uncle didn’t pull that punch. “I bear some responsibility for your lack, for the kind of man that Ian is. This family has let him get away with far too much for far too long.” Branford’s mouth settled into a grim line. “That ends. Now.” The full weight of his focus settled on Jameson’s eyes. “With you.”