The Bourbon Kings.

J. R. Ward.

Dedicated to my beloved Southern Gentleman, John Neville Blakemore III, without whom this, and so much else, would not be possible.

a c k n o w l e d g m e n t s.

Thank you so much to everyone at NAL, especially my wonderful boss, Kara Welsh, and Leslie Gelbman. Thank you also to Team Waud, and to my family and friends.

About ten years ago, I moved down South, and I have to say, I honestly love it. It took a while to get used to everything, but now that I have a profound passion for college hoops (#L1C4), a number of tremendous friends, and a house that feels like home, it is clear that this Northerner has embraced everything about living in the Derby City. To say that this book wouldnt have been possible without this town and all the people I know here is a vast understate-ment. And for the first time ever, there are some loose connections between certain folks in the book and people whom I know"with these kinds of characters, how can you not write about them?

To that end, I would like to thank the following in no particular order:.

Leonard, my daughter, my mom, Nomers & Jonah, my pup and TatSon, my bffle & her kids, my Papa, Bob Melzer, Nique & Clarke, Mr. Henry Camp aka Uncle Stank, Dr. Michael Bad Boy Haboubi and his family, Dr. and Mrs.

Gary Edlin (chief, your nickname, will stay on the QT in this public forum), Chuck Mitchell and the lovely Renee & Cya, Mr. & Mrs. Ballard & Gracie & SophSoph, my adopted godson, Jacob (Whos the man?!), my niece, Polly, and nephew, William (Go Cards!), and their parents, Aunt Betsey & Uncle Bob, and all their family, Grandmother Sue & Geegaw, my FIL Padre & Granny Gray, Granny & Aunt Lee, Little Lee and the twins, Dr. & Dr. Fox, the Norton Fam-.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

ily, the incomparable Roderick Hodge & his whole family, Kathy Cary, the Robinsons (esp. the Mrs. who breaks out the good stuff for me), both sets of Ronalds (the ones by me and the ones by my mom), all of the members of the Brown family on whom absolutely, positively none of this is based (and I really do mean that), Sandra Frazier, the Fellons, Ghislain & Nicholas, Karl & Elizabeth, Steph & Robert & BOB, The Leslie & Andy Hyslop, and so many more.

And in closing, I have to acknowledge my wonderful husband Nevilles grandmother, Mrs. Neville Blakemore, who will remain in my heart forever- more as the ultimate Southern Lady.

Ive tried not to leave anyone out, if I have, my apologies.

{ viii }.

You are cordially invited to A Derby Brunch in celebration of the One Hundred and Thirty-Ninth Running of The Charlemont Derby Saturday, May the Fourth Ten oclock.

Easterly.

rsvp: newarkharris@gmail.com.

ONE.

Charlemont, Kentucky.

M ist hung over the Ohios sluggish waters like the breath of God, and the trees on the Charlemont shore side of River Road were so many shades of spring green, the color required a sixth sense to absorb them all. Overhead, the sky was a dim, milky blue, the kind of thing that you saw up north only in July, and at seven-thirty a.m., the temperature was already seventy- four degrees.

It was the first week of May. The most important seven days on the calendar, beating the birth of Christ, the American Independence, and New Years Rockin Eve.

The One Hundred Thirty- ninth running of The Charlemont Derby was on Saturday.

Which meant the entire state of Kentucky was in a thoroughbred racing frenzy.

As Lizzie King approached the turn-off for her work, she was riding an adrenaline high that had been pumping for a good three weeks, and { 3 }.

she knew from past experience that this rush-rush mood of hers wasnt going to deflate until after Saturdays clean- up. At least she was, as always, going against the traffic heading into downtown and making good time: Her commute was forty minutes each way, but not in the NYC, Boston, or LA, densely packed, parking- lot version of rush hour"

which in her current frame of mind would have caused her head to mushroom cloud. No, her trip into her job was twenty- eight minutes of Indiana farm country followed by six minutes of bridge and spaghetti junction delays, capped off with this six- to ten- minute, against- the- tide shot parallel to the river.

Sometimes she was convinced the only cars going in her direction were the rest of the staff that worked at Easterly with her.

Ah, yes, Easterly.

The Bradford Family Estate, or BFE, as its deliveries were marked, sat high up on the biggest hill in the Charlemont metro area and was comprised of a twenty- thousand- square- foot main house with three for- mal gardens, two pools, and a three- hundred- sixty degree view of Washington County. There was also twelve retainers cottages on the property, as well as ten outbuildings, a fully functioning farm of over a hundred acres, a twenty- horse stable that had been converted into a business center, and a nine- hole golf course.

That was lighted.

In case you needed to work on your chip shot at one a.m.

As far as she had heard, the enormous parcel had been granted to the family back in 1778, after the first of the Bradfords had come south from Pennsylvania with the then Colonel George Rogers Clark" and brought both his ambitions and his bourbon- making traditions into the nascent commonwealth. Fast forward almost two hundred fifty years, and you had a Federal mansion the size of a small town up on that hill, and some seventy- two people working on the property full- and part- time.

All of whom followed a feudal rules and rigid caste system that was right out of Downton Abbey.

Or maybe the Dowager Countess of Granthams routine was a little too progressive.

{ 4 }.

William the Conquerors times were probably more apt.

So, for example" and this was solely a Lifetime movie conjecture here" if a gardener fell in love with one of the familys precious sons?

Even if she were one of two head horticulturists, and had a national reputation and a masters in landscape architecture from Cornell?

That was just not done.

Sabrina without the happy ending, darlin.

With a curse, Lizzie turned the radio on in hopes of getting her brain to shut up. She didnt get far. Her Toyota Yaris had the speaker system of a Barbie house: there were little circles in the doors that were supposed to pump music, but they were mostly for pretend" and today, NPR coming out of those cocktail coasters just wasnt enough"

The sound of an ambulance speeding up behind her easily overrode the haute pitter- patter of the BBC News, and she hit her brakes and eased over onto the shoulder. After the noise and flashing lights passed, she got back on track and rounded a fat curve in both the river and the road . . . and there it was, the Bradfords great white mansion, high up in the sky, the dawning sun being forced to work around its regal, sym- metrical layout.

She had grown up in Plattsburgh, New York, on an apple orchard.

What the hell had she been thinking almost two years ago when shed let Lane Baldwine, the youngest son, into her life?

And why was she still, after all this time, wondering about the particulars?

Come on, it wasnt like she was the first woman whod gotten good and seduced by him"

Lizzie frowned and leaned forward over the wheel.

The ambulance that had passed her was heading up the flank of the BFE hill, its red and white lights strobing along the alley of maple trees.

Oh, God, she breathed.

She prayed it wasnt who she thought it was.

But come on, her luck couldnt be that bad.

And wasnt it sad that that was the first thing that came to her mind instead of worry over whoever was hurt/sick/passed out.

{ 5 }.

Proceeding on by the monogrammed, wrought- iron gates that were just closing, she took her right- hand turn about three hundred yards later.

As an employee, she was required to use the service entrance with her vehicles, no excuses, no exceptions.

Because God forbid a vehicle with an MSRP of under a hundred thousand dollars be seen in front of the house"

Boy, she was getting bitchy, she decided. And after Derby, she was going to have to take a vacation before people thought she was going through menopause two decades too early.

The sewing machine under the Yariss hood revved up as she shot down the level road that went around the base of the hill. The cornfield came first, the manure already laid down and churned over in prepara- tion for planting. And then there were the cutting gardens filled with the first of the perennials and annuals, the heads of the early peonies fat as softballs and no darker than the blush on an ingenues cheeks. After those, there were the orchid houses and nurseries, followed by the out- buildings with the farm and groundskeeping equipment in them, and then the lineup of two- and three- bedroom, fifties- era cottages.

That were as variable and stylish as a set of sugar and flour tins on a Formica counter.

Pulling into the staff parking lot, she got out, leaving her cooler, her hat and her bag with her sunscreen behind.

Jogging over to groundskeepings main building, she entered the gasoline- and oil-smelling cave through the open bay on the left. The of- fice of Gary McAdams, the head groundsman, was off to the side, the cloudy glass panes still translucent enough to tell her that lights were on and someone was moving around in there.

She didnt bother to knock. Shoving open the flimsy door, she ig- nored the half- naked Pirelli calendar pinups. Gary"

The sixty- two- year- old was just hanging up the phone with his bear- paw hand, his sunburned face with its tree- bark skin as grim as she had ever seen it. As he looked across his messy desk, she knew who the ambulance was for even before he said the name.

{ 6 }.

Lizzie put her hands to her face and leaned back against the doorjamb.

She felt so sorry for the family, of course, but it was impossible not to personalize the tragedy and want to go throw up somewhere.

The one man she never wanted to see again . . . was going to come home.

She might as well get a stop watch.

New York, New York C ome on. I know you want me.

Jonathan Tulane Baldwine looked around the hip that was propped next to his stack of poker chips. Ante up, boys.

Im talking to you. A pair of partially covered, fully fake breasts appeared over the fan of cards in his hands. Hello.

Time to feign interest in something, anything else, Lane thought.

Too bad the one- bedroom, mid-floor, Midtown apartment was a bache- lor pad done in nothing- that- wasnt- functional. And why bother staring into the faces of what was left of the six bastards theyd started playing with eight hours ago. None of them had proved worthy of anything more than keeping up with the high stakes.

Deciphering their tells, even as an avoidance strategy, wasnt worth the eye strain at seven- thirty in the morning.

Helllllloooo"

Give it up, honey, hes not interested, someone muttered.

Everybodys interested in me.

Not him. Jeff Stern, the host and roommate, tossed in a thousand dollars worth of chips. Aint that right, Lane?

Are you gay? Is he gay?

Lane moved the queen of hearts next to the king of hearts. Shifted the jack next to the queen. Wanted to push the boob job with mouth onto the floor. Two of you havent anted.

Im out, Baldwine. Too rich for my blood.

{ 7 }.

Im in" if someonell lend me a grand.

Jeff looked across the green fleet table and smiled. Its you and me again, Baldwine.

Looking forward to takin your money. Lane tucked his cards in tight. Its your bet"

The woman leaned down again. I love your Southern accent.

Jeffs eyes narrowed behind his clear- rimmed glasses. You gotta back off him, baby.

Im not stupid, she slurred. I know exactly who you are and how much money you have. I drink your bourbon"

Lane sat back and addressed the fool that had brought the chatty accessory. Billy? Seriously.

Yeah, yeah. The guy whod wanted to go a thousand dollars into debt stood up. The suns coming up, anyway. Lets go.

I want to stay"