“This makes Allan Fox’s estate look like my place,” Elle says as the asphalt ends and the tires start to crunch on the crushed marble that makes up the rest of the park lane. “And I’ve always been amazingly uncomfortable with Mr. Fox’s whole shebang. I mean, how many forks do you need for one meal? I can tell you . . . one. Just lick it clean between the salad and the steak.” She’s rambling nervously, neck craned as she looks around. “You sure this isn’t a royal palace or something?”

There’s no walking this back. Allan Fox measures his estate, a very fine house in all respects, in acres. The Wolfe compound is measured in square miles, although a good portion of it is a working farm. And that’s just the main property of the family home. There are others—vacation homes, country homes, city apartments. All of which make Mr. Fox’s home, and even my US penthouse apartment, look dinky in comparison.

I try to see through Elle’s eyes, imagining seeing it for the first time and not growing up here with it seeming normal. The house truly is impressive, and I feel a weight in my chest as we approach the front of the main wing.

A true country estate for the landed gentry, the three floors of Victorian splendor stand in a solid, slightly imposing façade, austerely ornate and lined with windows that make me feel watched even as the car stops.

Elle is nearly silent as she gets out, though I think I can hear her heart beating as fast as mine. It’s for an entirely different reason, however. She gawks at the manicured gardens stretching off to the left and right of us, searching for the source of the sound of the horses in the stable.

The front door opens, and a servant descends the stairs toward us.

“Master Colton.”

The man who greets me is a long-familiar face, and while there’s significantly more gray in his perfectly coiffed, conservative haircut, he looks exactly the same as he did when I was just a boy running around the family estate. Even his suit and cravat look the same.

“Alfred!” I greet him, grinning foolishly. “You are a sight for sore eyes. Bloody good to see you!”

I don’t think I’d realized how much I‘d missed him until he was standing right in front of me. There’s a part of me that would love to pull the older man into a back-slapping embrace. However I know Alfred, I know the way he was raised and trained, and instead, I offer my hand, shaking his warmly.

“Quite lovely to see you as well.” The words are formal, but the affection feels good. I think he’s missed me as well. “And your guest?”

“Oh, of course. This is Elle Stryker, a coworker . . . and friend.” I know I stumble over finding a label for Elle, but it seems like something I should discuss with her before tossing out anything more . . . significant.

Elle offers her hand, and Alfred shakes hers as well. “Alfred Duncan, ma’am.”

She smiles, looking from me to Alfred. “Do you really have a butler named Alfred? Are you sure your last name isn’t Pennyworth?”

Alfred chuckles. “Quite sure, ma’am. And technically, I’m not a butler but a house assistant.”

“Oh, my apologies.” Elle’s hand covers her mouth. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

Alfred dips his chin deeply, not offended in the least. “Master Colton, can I show you in?”

“Coltie! Wotcher!”

The cry echoes from the front steps of the house as a manic ball of rugby shorts, trainers, T-shirt, and blondish hair comes pelting out the front door and down the steps. Lizzie launches herself to hit the grass before flinging herself into my arms.

“Lizzie!” I yell, swinging her around me in a huge circle. A fresh wave of emotion floods through me as I feel the tickle of my sister’s hair under my chin, of her wiry arms locked around my neck.

It’s been too long. Far, far too long.

“I’d say surprise, but I’m certain everyone knew of my arrival before the plane even touched ground.”

Lizzie rolls her eyes, huffing heavily. “You know it. Like the bloody MI6 around here.” She elbows Alfred, who offers only his polite ‘of course, Miss’ smile before he steps back to direct Oliver.

I trust that Alfred will have Oliver squared away with parking and a scrummy snack in no time.

For the first time, Lizzie notices Elle, who’s looking on with a mixture of amusement. “Hi, there . . .” Lizzie’s stilted greeting says she’s searching her mind for something, and with a raised brow, she settles on . . . “Assistant.”

Lizzie steps closer to me, putting herself between Elle and me and effectively giving Elle her back. “Coltie, what’s with the fit bird?”

I move so that we’re back in a circle, placing a hand on Elle’s lower back. “Lizzie, this is Elle Stryker. Elle, this is my sister, Lizzie.”

Lizzie’s eyes are sharp, not missing the intimate touch. “Ah, taking after Father after all, Coltie? Getting off with the closest tart?”

The venom in the words surprises me. “Lizzie, don’t be rude. Elle is my assistant and my friend.”

Lizzie doesn’t pout. She’s too well-trained at Mother’s elbow to do that, but I can feel the sulk. “Sorry, Elle. Just miss my brother. It’d be nice to have him to myself, you know?”

Elle’s smile is kind. “Of course. I hope he’ll have time to really hang out with you while we’re here.”

Lizzie scents blood in the water, and like a shark, she attacks. “Why are you here, Coltie? And does Nan know?”

Before I dodge those questions, I hear Nan herself bellowing in the gardens.

“Get out, you old cocker! Get out of my gardens!”

I run for it, wanting to make sure Nan is okay, with Elle and Lizzie hot on my heels.

Nan is a lady through and through, proper and posh at all times. Well, at least when she’s in public. Privately, I’ve seen her a bit knackered, singing an old dirge off-key, while holding court over an empty ballroom. But these are things we don’t speak of. Suffice it to say, yelling is not her style by a long mile. But her voice calls out again.

“No. I’ve already told you. Bugger off.”

Around the east end of the house, we find her in her garden. If I weren’t so worried, I’d probably shed a tear at seeing her in the flesh, but I can’t take time to take in her dark hair, dyed but again one of the things we don’t discuss in polite company, startling blue eyes, and arms that used to rock me to sleep as a boy.

None of those things matter, considering she’s holding up a dirty spade, threatening an even older man with it as though she could decapitate him at any second.

As we get closer, I can see that it’s Geoffrey Blackwire, a sour old wanker who used to work for the family. I understood he retired, but it’s not uncommon for lifers to be allowed a space on the estate. If I recall, his grandson lives with him as well. Will, I think his name is. He’s Lizzie’s age, give or take a year or two.

But right now, Geoffrey’s sneering at Nan as though he doesn’t know who the fuck he’s talking to, to borrow an American phrase. Another flits through my mind. I’ll kill the motherfucker.

“What is going on here?” I boom. A side effect of being in the US, where everything is loud and aggressive. There’s no finesse and delicateness there like there is in the UK, but as Geoffrey jumps nearly out of his skin, I’m finding it a rather useful tool in my arsenal. Perhaps not as much as Nan’s spade, but sufficient enough to turn his attention to me.