driveway.”
That was enough for Saltman. “Of course, right this way.”
We traveled a short, flower-lined walk to the front entrance. Saltman pulled wide the massive oak door to reveal a cozy vestibule. The manor’s signature room was just ahead—a fifty-foot grand entrance hall in antebellum style.
Memories flooded back. I pushed them away.
Keep your head straight. Chance is no one to trifle with.
Saltman led us to a smaller chamber on the right—a spacious wood-paneled parlor decorated with elaborate crown molding, painted friezes, a wooden mantel, and a giant crystal chandelier. In the center, six leather chairs surrounded a mahogany coffee table.
“Please have a seat.” Saltman pressed a false panel to reveal an intercom system. “Inform Master Claybourne he has four guests in the reception. Tory Brennan and . . . some others.”
When a liveried butler appeared, Saltman retreated the way he’d entered. After declining refreshments, we sat, waiting, taking in the rich appointments.
“I assume you’ve got a plan,” Shelton whispered. “We’re not just gonna toss this bag of loot at him, right?” He tapped a pocket containing two stacks of gold doubloons.
“We need to find out what he knows. If he suspects anything.”
“How?” Ben asked quietly.
“Just follow my lead.” Code for: I have no idea.
“Hey, check this weirdo out.” Hi was inspecting a bust on the mantel. “This face is ninety percent eyebrow. What do you wanna bet he owned slaves?”
Scowling to match the carving’s expression, Hi spoke in a gravelly voice.
“In my day, we ate the poor people. We had a giant outdoor grill, and cooked up peasant steaks every Sunday.”
“That is General Clemmons Brutus Claybourne, you twit,” a voice said dryly. “He commanded two companies during the Revolution, before dying at Yorktown. You might show a little respect.”
Chance leaned in the doorway, one shoulder against its frame.
Whoa boy.
Chance was dusk made flesh. Dark skin, dark eyes, and dark humor. His thick black hair framed strong features and a Hollywood perfect chin. Tall, slender, and muscular without being bulky. In a word, he was gorgeous.
Last I’d seen Chance, he’d been tired and bedraggled, with purple crescents under his eyes and a nervous tic. Exhausted, haunted, and questioning his own sanity, soon thereafter he’d recommitted himself to a mental hospital.
That boy was gone.
“So. The gang’s all here.” Chance smiled as if enjoying a private joke. “Everyone have a nice end of summer?”
“Hello, Chance.” Now that we’d come to it, my tongue was tied. “I hope you’re doing well,” I finished lamely.
“Do you now?”
Chance strolled into the room and gripped the back of the nearest chair, his fluid stride hinting of past athletic glories. The smirk remained on his face.
“Hey there, Chancy.” Hi is impervious to awkward moments. This one was no exception. “When’d you get out of the nuthouse?”
I know I gasped. My eyes might’ve bugged.
Chance chuckled without humor. “Hiram, you never disappoint. Stop annoying Uncle Clemmons and join us.”
As Hi flopped into a leather seat, Chance studied the group. “Nice uniforms.”
“Heard you’ll be sporting one again,” Ben shot back. “Not enough credits, huh?”
Chance’s grin slipped for a millisecond. “Good afternoon to you too, Ben. Yes, I’ll be back for a few weeks. I missed a handful of exams last semester. But I’ll be done with Bolton soon enough.”
“You’re eighteen now, right?” Shelton arced a hand, taking in the room. “That make all this yours?”
“Yes. I came into my inheritance last month. And with Father . . . away . . . I’m now
the
Claybourne of Claybourne Manor.”
Chance winked at Hi. “That’s when they discharged me. Funny thing. Turns out, I
do
own that hospital. Ironic, isn’t it?”
Chance had no siblings, and his mother had died giving birth to him. His father was doing hard time.
That was enough for Saltman. “Of course, right this way.”
We traveled a short, flower-lined walk to the front entrance. Saltman pulled wide the massive oak door to reveal a cozy vestibule. The manor’s signature room was just ahead—a fifty-foot grand entrance hall in antebellum style.
Memories flooded back. I pushed them away.
Keep your head straight. Chance is no one to trifle with.
Saltman led us to a smaller chamber on the right—a spacious wood-paneled parlor decorated with elaborate crown molding, painted friezes, a wooden mantel, and a giant crystal chandelier. In the center, six leather chairs surrounded a mahogany coffee table.
“Please have a seat.” Saltman pressed a false panel to reveal an intercom system. “Inform Master Claybourne he has four guests in the reception. Tory Brennan and . . . some others.”
When a liveried butler appeared, Saltman retreated the way he’d entered. After declining refreshments, we sat, waiting, taking in the rich appointments.
“I assume you’ve got a plan,” Shelton whispered. “We’re not just gonna toss this bag of loot at him, right?” He tapped a pocket containing two stacks of gold doubloons.
“We need to find out what he knows. If he suspects anything.”
“How?” Ben asked quietly.
“Just follow my lead.” Code for: I have no idea.
“Hey, check this weirdo out.” Hi was inspecting a bust on the mantel. “This face is ninety percent eyebrow. What do you wanna bet he owned slaves?”
Scowling to match the carving’s expression, Hi spoke in a gravelly voice.
“In my day, we ate the poor people. We had a giant outdoor grill, and cooked up peasant steaks every Sunday.”
“That is General Clemmons Brutus Claybourne, you twit,” a voice said dryly. “He commanded two companies during the Revolution, before dying at Yorktown. You might show a little respect.”
Chance leaned in the doorway, one shoulder against its frame.
Whoa boy.
Chance was dusk made flesh. Dark skin, dark eyes, and dark humor. His thick black hair framed strong features and a Hollywood perfect chin. Tall, slender, and muscular without being bulky. In a word, he was gorgeous.
Last I’d seen Chance, he’d been tired and bedraggled, with purple crescents under his eyes and a nervous tic. Exhausted, haunted, and questioning his own sanity, soon thereafter he’d recommitted himself to a mental hospital.
That boy was gone.
“So. The gang’s all here.” Chance smiled as if enjoying a private joke. “Everyone have a nice end of summer?”
“Hello, Chance.” Now that we’d come to it, my tongue was tied. “I hope you’re doing well,” I finished lamely.
“Do you now?”
Chance strolled into the room and gripped the back of the nearest chair, his fluid stride hinting of past athletic glories. The smirk remained on his face.
“Hey there, Chancy.” Hi is impervious to awkward moments. This one was no exception. “When’d you get out of the nuthouse?”
I know I gasped. My eyes might’ve bugged.
Chance chuckled without humor. “Hiram, you never disappoint. Stop annoying Uncle Clemmons and join us.”
As Hi flopped into a leather seat, Chance studied the group. “Nice uniforms.”
“Heard you’ll be sporting one again,” Ben shot back. “Not enough credits, huh?”
Chance’s grin slipped for a millisecond. “Good afternoon to you too, Ben. Yes, I’ll be back for a few weeks. I missed a handful of exams last semester. But I’ll be done with Bolton soon enough.”
“You’re eighteen now, right?” Shelton arced a hand, taking in the room. “That make all this yours?”
“Yes. I came into my inheritance last month. And with Father . . . away . . . I’m now
the
Claybourne of Claybourne Manor.”
Chance winked at Hi. “That’s when they discharged me. Funny thing. Turns out, I
do
own that hospital. Ironic, isn’t it?”
Chance had no siblings, and his mother had died giving birth to him. His father was doing hard time.
Similar Books
