For the very few that had never known such wealth, it could be a heady experience. Every year, the selection committee chose one from an underprivileged background. Almost like their own sick Trading Places experiment. It didn’t usually turn out well. Our year, that token recruit was Bridge. The joke was on the selection committee, though. Bridge was as steady as they came, and he’d made not a single misstep. Now he was richer than half the membership combined.
Just when the recruits were out of their minds with whatever booze and drugs were on hand, they’d be taken away, separated into pairs, and pulled into their bonding ceremony. Then, to their bonded brother, they would make their confessions.
They’d leave their sins on the table in a process that would continue throughout the years. There was always an even number of recruits. In our class, there had been five pairs. Bridge and East had been paired. Drew had been paired with someone else. There had been two other pairs, and I had been paired with Toby. Since Toby had died, I’d had to make my confessions to my father. That awkward moment when my biggest confession was that I hated him was one I would never forget.
One by one, in a sea of black and gold, all the brothers filed into the vestibules to hang their cloaks and shelve their masks, then up the spiral staircase at the end of the darkened hall to the level that was composed of elevator banks to the upper floor. There was no other way up to the estate.
The clipped sounds of our polished oxfords on the marble floor built like an orchestra crescendo while we loaded onto the elevators. I never felt I breathed more freely than when the stainless-steel elevators gave way to the white marble, chrome, and glass of the massive foyer.
I was free once again.
Above us, the enormous crystal chandelier gleamed. The cool forced air reminded me that I would not die in that tomb after all. Beyond the wide expanse of marble and the glass wall, I could see into the acres of garden, lit up with tea lights for the occasion. The miniature fountains lining either side of the double Olympic sized koi pond also had all the lights turned on. And the drawbridge leading from the house to the mini island in the middle, complete with seating and a Champagne bar, was drawn to allow guests use of the outdoors.
To the left was what the family used as their receiving room. It was more intimate than their ballroom. The furniture was plush and designer. Many pieces were handcrafted. Every five years or so the décor would change to keep up with the times. The Van Linsteds couldn’t be behind the times in any way.
I grabbed a scotch and headed for the balcony. Now that the ritual was done, senior brothers weren’t required to stay. One more hour and I could head back to the city. I hated the fucking Van Linsted estate.
We’d been dragged there for workshops and to be inducted into the brotherhood of the Elite properly. I’d been tattooed there, lost my friend there, and I had also been tortured there. Induction was only the first step.
After you celebrated becoming a brother was when the real work began. They had trained us like we were military. Deprived us of food and sleep, preparing us for the harsh realities of the world outside. ‘Molded us into gentlemen,’ they said. Refined us to be strategists. Prepared us to be leaders. And I wanted to burn it all to the ground.
When I thought back to it, I thought it was absolutely insane some of the things they’d made us do. We’d only been kids.
It was hard to not wonder what would have happened if Toby had lived. I tried to shrug it off, but then the hairs on the back of my neck prickled, not so much for danger but with awareness, and I asked, “How long have you been standing there, mate?”
Bridge sauntered over. “I knew I’d find you out here.”
“Where are the others?”
“East is involved in a tight conversation with his father. Drew is enjoying the ass kissing of the new recruits. Why does no one understand that when free booze is offered, you need to temper yourself because you don’t know what’s coming next?”
I shrugged. “Because everyone loves a party, and no one ever thinks they’ll have to pay for it.”
“I feel bad for them. They have no idea what they’re in for.”
“We certainly didn’t.”
He shook his head. “No, we didn’t, did we?”
I turned to him, watching as he lit up his cigar. “Do you regret this?”
He shrugged. “Oh, I hate every single one of these fuckers, aside from you lot. But I’m not an idiot. I know that as much as we aimed to build London Lords without them, the skills that they taught us got us where we are now. So I can’t say I regret it.”
I turned back to stare over the expanse of grounds lit by the crystal lights to give atmosphere.
“Yeah, well, I think we would have made it on our own.” I drained my scotch, letting the burn warm me from the inside as it hit my gut. “You ever think about him?”
He cleared his throat. “Every fucking day.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I put the glass down and turned to him. “I’ve had enough. I’m heading back to the city. Are you riding with me or with East?”
“I’ll come with you. Let’s tell him we’re leaving.”
I nodded. Starting a business with your best mates had its advantages. You become tighter than brothers. That was how both Bridge and I knew immediately that East needed a rescue.
It was in the tightness of his jaw, the stiffness of his shoulders as he spoke to what appeared to be an older version of him. Same face, but with salt and pepper hair and lines around his eyes. He hated his father. And he wasn’t alone. The old man had never gotten over that East was more successful than he was. He’d never gotten over the fact that East hadn’t needed a single dime from him. What was it like to be jealous of your own son?
Things were difficult with my father too. He’d never really acknowledged my existence or wanted me. Oh, and he liked my girlfriends a little too much. He wasn’t the kind of father I needed, and I wasn’t the kind of son he wanted. It was tit for tat.
But Bridge had it the worst. His father, even on days like this, refused to acknowledge him from across the room. Refused to say that Bridge Edgerton was his son. Lord Edgerton’s bastard child. The blight on the Edgerton name. He’d lost it when back in school Bridge had decided to use his name. He’d even come to Eton and caused a stir.
He didn’t bother speaking to Bridge. Instead, he’d screamed at the headmaster for an hour about how lawyers couldn’t be allowed on the campus to speak to his child without his permission.
Headmaster Tellerman had brilliantly said, “Well, sir, either he’s your child or he’s not.” And he had been listed on Bridge’s birth certificate, so Bridge could take his name.
I’d always thought it was the most brilliant ‘fuck you’ to a parent I’d ever seen, forcing him to do the one thing he didn’t want to.
I marched over and forced a smile on my face to address Lord Hale. “Sir, it’s been a long time.”
He grinned at me. “Covington. You look more and more like your mother every day.”
Inwardly, I winced.
I hated that all those people had known my mother better than I had. After all, she’d been a fixture at my father’s side until she passed. There were people there who knew her longer than I did, and that ate at me. “Thank you, sir. Ah, we’re going to borrow East here for a minute.”