Brilliant by Marne Davis Kellogg Read Free Book Online Page B

herself and liquidate her estate and give it away to charity is because she doesn’t want any of her relatives, none of whom is even a little bit close to her, or a direct connection for that matter, most especially her nephew twice removed, who goes around making his living off being her relative, to wrangle for her money over her coffin.”
    “How do you know all this?”
    “I’m a fan.” I might have been blushing a little. “I’ve read every single one of her books, and . . .” what-the-hell, I thought, tell it all, “. . . this is a typical take-charge move. Her heroines are always self-sufficient, take-charge girls.”
    “Rather like you, I gather.” Bertram laughed.
    “Exactly like me.”
    If I do say so myself, all three of us were charmed and amused by my girlishness.
    Owen laughed and shook his head. “Thanks, Kick.”
    “My pleasure.” I paused. “There is a bit of a dark side.”
    “Oh?”
    “It’s been gossiped about for years, and probably is just gossip, but it was a huge scandal back in the sixties. A woman claimed Lady Melody was her mother, which naturally Lady Melody denied vehemently—her virgin image has always been protected at all costs. At any rate, the woman had a strong case, but Lady Melody had more money and could afford better solicitors, who basically decimated and crushed this woman in court and smeared her in the media. She ended up committing suicide.”
    “I remember that incident,” Bertram added. “It was a tragedy. I’d forgotten all about it.”
    “That’s no accident. Lady Melody’s public relations machine went into overdrive to make us forget.”
    “Do you think she was her mother?”
    I nodded. “I do. And I think it’s too bad Lady Melody acted the way she did. She should have acknowledged the woman as her daughter and just gotten on with it. People would have accepted it and forgiven her.”
    “Sad,” said Bertram.
    “Can we all put our hankies away now and move on to the real world?” Owen asked.
    Mickey’s, or rather Michael’s, foot was even more leaden than his personality, and we fishtailed on the gravel at the entrance to Carstairs Manor, ricocheting a spray of stones off the iron gates. We were ten minutes ahead of schedule.
    “Hey!” Owen put the privacy screen down and yelled. “Take it easy—you chip the paint on this car it comes out of your paycheck. Slow down.”
    “Sorry,” Michael mumbled, and proceeded at a more suitable pace down the tree-lined lane toward the distant manor house, which had evolved over the centuries from a rustic hunting lodge into a majestic limestone pile in a private park. The rain stopped and the sky was clearing. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of bare branches.
    “Here’s how this’ll work, Bertram. You and I will meet with Lady Melody—you’ll tell her how you got to the 400 million. Then I’ll give you the high sign, and you’ll excuse yourself and I’ll discuss the commissions with her. I’m going to start at eight and a half percent and see how she reacts.”
    “Be careful, Owen,” he warned. “She’s a very canny, decisive woman, and she keeps her cards close. That’s most likely what she’s negotiated at least one of the others down to. If she senses you’re trying to manipulate her, you’ll be out the door before your tea’s cool enough to sip. Don’t play games with her, don’t underestimate her, and don’t let her shut us out for half a percent. We have to get this estate. Start at eight.”
    “Okay. Eight. Kick, you stay close to the car and keep the lid on any emergencies. You’re in charge. I don’t want to be interrupted.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The red enamel front doors opened.
    “Okay,” Owen said, and cracked his knuckles. “Showtime.”
    Dear God.
    Bertram looked out the window, pretending he hadn’t heard.
    I jammed the tip of my pen into his thigh. “Listen to me,” I muttered under my breath. “Do not crack your knuckles ever, ever again.” I swear