Out in the hallway he found Claire Walker and Brooke Mackenzie talking near the elevator. It seemed almost strange to see them without Samantha Davis, whom he'd seen no sign of since Thanksgiving.

"Ladies." He nodded and smiled, though he suspected his was no more convincing than theirs. He bit back yet another apology.

"We were wondering, Edward, whether there was any way that our money could end up invested in Private Butler like we wanted it to be," Claire Walker said.

He met both women's eyes and then wished that he hadn't. It was bad enough that wealthy people like Jim Culp and Mr. Fitson had been conned; even Mrs. Davenport would not be bankrupted by the loss. But these two women and Isabella and James . . . He couldn't believe Hunter Jackson had gone after such tiny fish.

"I really don't see how," he said. He no longer knew whether Jackson would have ever turned investor money over to fund Private Butler's growth under Edward's direction. Or if it had been a scam from the beginning. "I have consulted with Jonathan Davis, but it doesn't look encouraging."

"But what if . . ." Claire began.

"I'm truly sorry," he said, meaning it. "As far as I know Jackson intends to use that money to build a competing concierge business." He still couldn't believe the man thought he could compete after six weeks in the business. But then there was a lot about Hunter Jackson he didn't understand. "Maybe his sister has some idea of his plans," he said. "Perhaps you should speak to Samantha about it."

Claire snorted.

"We would," Brooke said. "If she'd return any of our calls."

"Yeah," Claire added. "I guess the whole friendship thing was a joint figment of our imaginations."

Edward reached out to push the elevator call b.u.t.ton. "I never had that sense," he said. "I've always liked Samantha; I think there's quite a lot of warmth beneath the polish." The elevator arrived and he prepared to step on. "But then I've good reason to question my powers of perception. My ability to size up people and their intentions has certainly fallen far short of the mark."

Claire resettled her purse strap on her shoulder. "It seems pretty clear that our investments aren't going to double and triple like Hunter promised. I just hope the money won't be completely lost."

The reminder of Jackson's potshot promises was one more fist to the gut. The whole thing was a b.l.o.o.d.y nightmare. He stepped onto the elevator and held down the "door open" b.u.t.ton. "I'll do whatever I can to work you both into the schedule," he said. "But I'm not at all sure how many hours I'll have to offer." He didn't yet know how many clients he'd ultimately lose over the whole investment scam. Or how badly Jackson's company, if in fact he actually formed one, would impact Private Butler's bottom line.

Late that night or more accurately, early the next morning, when he was still unable to sleep, Edward dialed England and caught his great-uncle Mason over morning tea.

"Aren't you the early bird?" his great-uncle asked.

Edward caught a glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror, unshaved face, bleary eyes and all. "I look a bit more like the boogeyman at the moment. Or Frankenstein's monster come to life."

"Still broodin' on the whole financial fiasco, are you?" Mason asked.

"I think brooding might be an understatement. I'm so angry I can hardly see straight. And I keep thinking there must be something I can do."

Edward heard the sound of a spoon against china and the creak of a chair. He could picture his great-uncle in the cozy cottage kitchen that opened onto his tiny garden. Julia Bardmoor surfaced briefly in this vision and he allowed himself to wonder why he'd turned being a concierge into the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Holy Grail. Just like Downton Abbey's Carson and even Mrs. Hughes, he'd given everything up in the service of others. How could he let all those sacrifices be for naught?

"You know, lad," Mason said breaking into Edward's thoughts. "I've been thinking. The boy's methods are reprehensible. Completely beyond the pale. But perhaps it's time to open your mind as I've been urging. Allowing others to invest in Private Butler-especially satisfied clients-might not be so far off the mark."

Edward pondered this as he stared out his bedroom window into an inky patch of night sky. He wasn't sure why he'd been so adamant about refusing money to grow his business, but it was becoming clear that if he stuck to the course he'd charted, he could end up with far less than he'd hoped for and on a path only wide enough for one.

But no matter what he'd once thought, he couldn't simply stand by and allow his clients to be hurt because he couldn't set aside his pride.

IN THE END IT WAS CYNTHIA DAVIS WHO FORCED Samantha out of the apartment. She did so with an unexpected and well-placed kick to the b.u.t.t.

Samantha was standing in the kitchen eating cold spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s out of a plastic foam container for breakfast and replaying Claire and Brooke's final agonizing messages for what might have been the fifth time, when she heard a key turn in the lock.

She froze. Stopped chewing. Looked down. She was wearing her oldest, most stretched-out pajamas and a mismatched pair of Jonathan's wool hunting socks. Her hair had been pulled up into a scrunchie two or three days ago. Which was the last time she'd washed-or even looked at-her face. She considered and rejected several escape plans. It was Thursday, the day Jonathan had said he'd be back from Boston. But it was only ten a.m. Her heart skidded in her chest. What if he'd come back early to have things out? Or to tell her he was leaving for good? She wasn't anywhere close to ready for that conversation. But if it were going to happen, she couldn't let it happen while she looked like this.

Turning, she hunched forward and began to tiptoe through the kitchen toward the family room. From there she might be able to make it to one of the back bedrooms or bathrooms without being seen.

"There you are." The voice caught her mid-tiptoe. It wasn't the voice she'd been expecting. "Trying to scurry back into your little mouse hole I see."

Samantha straightened and turned. She held the container of spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s in one hand, and a sauce-smeared fork in the other as she faced her mother-in-law.

Cynthia held the key that Jonathan had given her years ago in case of emergency. "I've never used it," she said, dangling the key from its gold fob. "But I think this"-she looked Samantha up and down-"qualifies as an emergency, don't you?"

When Samantha didn't answer Cynthia dropped the key and her purse on the counter. She stepped right up to Samantha and removed the fork and the container from Samantha's hands, then laid them in the sink. "You look like h.e.l.l." It was a simple statement of fact. "Sit down." She pointed to the kitchen table, then added, "There are a few things I want to say to you."

The pajamas somehow made resistance seem futile. Unsure what else to do, Samantha sat.

"As you know, I've never really understood why Jonathan insisted on marrying you," Cynthia said. "But then I was very angry with your parents at the time."

Samantha stilled. Her mother-in-law had not mentioned either of Samantha's parents except as an oath or as a warning from the day Jonathan had proposed to her.

"Your mother was . . . I considered her a close friend. We'd been in and out of each other's houses for years." A carefully penciled eyebrow went up. "But she never could control your father any more than you've been able to control your brother.

"When your father embezzled the firm's funds and almost destroyed it, and your mother stayed with him, our friendship ended. They . . . she . . . died in that accident before anyone could even attempt to make amends."

Samantha could not have moved if either of their lives depended on it.

"I could not understand why Jonathan chose to marry you. Why he would take on the burden of your family's debts, parenting Hunter and Meredith. I hated that he took on all of that baggage when he didn't have to."

She looked at her mother-in-law. Wondered if she knew that she was preaching to the choir.

"The thing is," Cynthia continued. "You don't always understand your children. You may love them more than anything, but understanding is not an automatic part of that love."

Samantha drew a deep breath and let it out. An irreverent "Amen, sister" flitted through her mind. She settled for a small nod, wondering where Cynthia was going with all this.

"You did your best with Hunter and Meredith. You were far too young-both of you were-but you put everything else on hold to try to give them a stable environment. Sometimes, even without all the trauma and loss that was a part of your parents' legacy, even the most vigilant parenting produces mixed results. Sometimes children turn out poorly despite your sincere best efforts." Cynthia smiled wryly. "Sometimes-as in Jonathan's case-they exceed your expectations and turn out far better than you deserve." Cynthia paused before continuing. "Whatever his reasons, my son chose you and I should have honored that choice. For his sake."

This time Cynthia's smile was fleeting. Her tone turned brusque. "As much as I always thought he could do better, I dislike what I see happening now," she said. "I've watched him these last ten days and I no longer think ending this marriage would make Jonathan happy. Nor do I enjoy seeing you laid so low."

Speechless, Samantha continued to listen.

"You have a lot of your mother's best qualities. You have her warmth and her wit. And her loyalty. And frankly, though we have rarely seen eye to eye, I never took you for a coward."

"But now you do." Samantha looked down, knowing that that was exactly what she looked like. In fact, it was what she was.

"I think you need to get a life; something more than just trying to make everyone else happy. You already have a lot worth fighting for," Cynthia said, more earnestly than Samantha had ever heard her speak. "But I think that in order to mount an effective campaign you're going to have to shower. And while you're at it I'd burn those pajamas. I've seen your wardrobe. I suggest you put a few of those designers on your side."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

THE SKY WAS CLEAR AND THE AIR CRISP EARLY the next morning when Samantha left the Alexander armored in Donna Karan and Stuart Weitzman. She walked the three short blocks to Hunter's building in the midst of early commuters and office workers, intent on catching her brother before he'd had a chance to don armor of his own.

In imitation of Cynthia's surprisingly effective surprise attack, she let herself into the lobby, went up unannounced, and let herself into Hunter's apartment. Her brother was still in bed and she stood in the bedroom doorway for several long moments watching him sleep. In repose, Hunter's face was slack and sweet, reminding her of the boy he'd once been before their parents' disgrace and deaths. He breathed gently, a small smile on his lips. If he'd been wrestling with the error of his ways or felt even a shred of guilt for taking money from people under false pretenses, she could see no sign of it.

Ripping the covers off him was incredibly satisfying. Watching him scramble out of bed stuttering with indignation was even more so.

"s.h.i.t! What's . . ." The stuttering stopped as his eyes flew open. "What the h.e.l.l??"

"My question exactly!" She waited for him to pull a robe on over pajamas, which looked far more elegant than any she owned, and watched him slip his bare feet into a pair of cashmere-lined slippers identical to the insanely expensive ones he'd bought for Jonathan last Christmas.

She allowed him to use the bathroom in private but banged on the door and shouted for him to hurry up; not wanting to give him time to strategize.

His face was shaved and he smelled of toothpaste and aftershave when he joined her in the kitchen, but his eyes were speculative. "I'd offer to make you coffee, but I see you've already helped yourself."

She sipped her coffee, not answering while he made a cup for himself. She could almost hear his brain clicking through all the available data to determine whether an offense or defense would be more effective. She gestured him into a seat, but she remained standing, letting the Weitzmans give her an edge.

"I'll save you the trouble," she said. "You don't need to figure out how to handle me. I'm going to do the talking today. You're going to do the listening."

A look of surprise pa.s.sed over his face. He glanced at the clock on the wall.

"I don't think it will take too long."

"Sam," he said. "There's no need to get worked up here." He took a sip of his coffee, sat back, crossed one leg over the other as if there was nothing unusual about being dragged out of bed by an angry sister. Then he threw in the wounded little boy look that had always been her personal kryptonite. Images of him as a child, at their parents' funeral, his high school and college graduations, which she and Jonathan had attended in lieu of their parents, bombarded her.

"On the contrary," she said, determined to resist the look and him, knowing she couldn't continue to let her love for him cloud her judgment. "I have every reason to get 'worked up.' You've hurt a lot of people I care about. And you've done it for no apparent reason."

She noted his surprise when "the look" failed. Watched him attempt to regroup. She walked over to the table in the high heels so that she could tower over him. "Bottom line," Samantha said. "You've gone too far this time. What you've done may be technically legal. But it's morally reprehensible and completely unacceptable."

They stared at each other.

"You're going to have to give the money back to every investor who thought they were investing in Edward." Which she a.s.sumed would be all of them.

He continued to look at her, as if waiting for her to tell him she was only joking. Finally, he said, "Sorry, sis. No can do. I've already spent a good bit of it on attorneys-after all these years of Jonathan handling things I didn't realize how expensive they are. And since I've been cut off I've needed a salary so that I can pay rent and living expenses. And of course a guy's got to eat. And entertaining clients can be really expensive."

"You had a salary at Private Butler," she pointed out grimly. "And an opportunity to be part of something real."

"That salary was an insult," Hunter said, his voice ringing with righteous indignation. "Edward Parker had no idea what I could have done for him. h.e.l.l of the thing is Private Butler has huge upside. Even while Parker was rubbing my nose in all the c.r.a.p jobs, I knew I'd finally found something I could grow and make my mark with." His smile turned self-deprecating. "I'll admit I've made some bad choices along the way. But all I've ever wanted was a chance to prove myself."

He studied her closely, his green eyes pinned on her face. "But with all his talk about reputation and personal service, Parker couldn't even see the gold mine he was sitting on. There was way too much potential to walk away from."

Samantha studied him back. He always had an excuse. Always came up with a reason that made whatever he did okay. Just like their father. "That didn't give you the right to do what you did."

He shrugged not at all repentant. "It's done, Sam." He watched her, but she could tell from his tone that he a.s.sumed she'd already done her worst. Had she?

She'd stopped the money flow and forced him to take a job and what had she accomplished? Put him in a position that gave him access to other people's money, which he had for all intents and purposes stolen.

She'd made sure her father's debts were settled, her siblings had had an expensive roof over their heads and everything that money could buy. But she'd clearly failed to teach Hunter the most important lessons. Somehow she'd allowed him to believe that he could trample all over her and Jonathan and anyone else he chose, with impunity.

"You're going to have to give the money back. Or strike some kind of deal with Edward. I don't really care how you manage to do it. You're a smart guy. I'm convinced you can find a way to make this right."

"And if I don't?" His tone was taunting, but she heard the bravado beneath it. He got up to pour a fresh cup of coffee just to demonstrate how completely he'd dismissed her, but she waited him out.

"That's not an option," she said, not certain whether the only thing she had left to withdraw was something he would miss. "I expect you to take care of this, Hunter." She swallowed. "Or I will no longer consider you a member of my family. And I will make it my business to spread the word to any potential investor in Atlanta and the entire eastern seaboard that you're not to be trusted."

The flare of surprise in his eyes was quickly masked. She didn't linger but turned as sharply as the Weitzmans allowed and left him staring after her, unsure whether her b.u.t.t-kicking abilities were anywhere close to Cynthia's. Whether she'd won this final battle. Whether in the end Hunter even cared whether he belonged to them or not.

CLAIRE SAT CURLED IN HER CLUB CHAIR. THE HEAT was turned up to fight the chill December evening and the apartment was warm and toasty. Her pen moved over the lined page of her journal, the tightly packed words illuminated in a spill of lamplight. She'd found that writing by hand soothed her. The fact that no one but her would ever see what she wrote freed up her thoughts and feelings. There was no room on these cramped pages for uncertainty, no blinking cursor demanding she write faster, no delete key that would allow her to give in to her doubts. No room for her internal editor, but plenty of room for everything good, bad, and ugly-that she'd observed and that had happened to her.

It was a relief to construct sentences even if those sentences revealed that she, who had squeezed every penny within an inch of its life for so long, had lost five thousand dollars-three months of rent-in one stupid move. She'd also lost a friend in the process; and those weren't the only losses.

Four months were gone and wouldn't be regained. And neither would the opportunity at Scarsdale. Just yesterday her agent had left a message informing Claire that due to her lack of response they'd slotted another author into November. Scarsdale would expect Highland Fling the following September as originally planned. But her tone made it clear that Claire's inability to meet the stepped-up deadline had hurt her. Her career was in tatters, her grand year of writing not grand at all.

Worst of all, in just a few weeks Hailey would be home for the winter break. And all of Claire's failures would be obvious. Her pen stilled and her gaze wandered over the s.p.a.ce that had been so alien but had somehow become home. Much as she'd come to love it, this s.p.a.ce was far too small to hide her lack of focus and page production. Even more than the lost time and money she dreaded Hailey finding out that her mother's dreams were not majestic mountains to be scaled but only great big piles of wishful thinking.

A knock sounded on the door and Claire set the journal aside to answer it.

"Ready?" Brooke stood on the threshold, her red hair wild around her face, an olive green sweater belted over a multihued skirt.

"Yeah," she said trying to shrug off her ill humor. "That outfit looks great on you. Hold on a sec while I grab my key."

In the clubroom they received a friendly yet respectful nod and dark British ales from James. Isabella gave a half curtsy and offered sausage rolls and miniature cheese and onion tarts. "A lovely evenin' to ye both," the young woman said, but her perkiness seemed forced.

Claire and Brooke mingled near the food and drink tables while they watched Edward work the room as always, drawing everyone into the fold. "Do you get the impression he's lost a bit of his sparkle?"

"And a whole lot more," Claire observed.

Brooke kept an eye on the door.

"She's not coming, you know," Claire finally said, neither of them needing to clarify who "she" was.

"I just can't believe she's written us off."

Claire thought of how she'd dodged the calls from her agent. "We don't know that's what's happened. But I am surprised she's disappeared the way she has."

"I don't understand why she's avoiding us," Brooke said, the hurt evident in her voice. "I mean we're not the ones whose brother took money under false pretenses. What did we do to her?"

"I don't know." Claire shrugged. "Maybe we're a reminder of her brother's bad behavior. Or maybe no one ever told her that friends don't pull up stakes as soon as a little s.h.i.t hits the fan. Sometimes it seems like rich people have a different set of rules."

"Well, I thought Samantha was different," Brooke said.

"Me, too," Claire said. "But then I've kind of lost count of the number of things I've been wrong about lately."

Edward called for their attention. He headed to the screen and DVD player. Everyone moved toward their seats. When they reached their sofa Brooke and Claire settled into the opposite ends and set their food and drink on the c.o.c.ktail table. Claire saw Brooke look at the empty spot in the middle, but only because she'd been looking at it herself.