With dance music hammering in my ears and sweat rolling down my back, I drag air into my lungs. The pounding of my feet on the treadmill clears my mind as I concentrate on pushing my body to its limits. Usually when I run, I’m focused and grateful that at last I feel something—even if it’s just the pain of bursting lungs and limbs. Today I don’t want to feel anything, not after this fuck-awful week. All I want is the physical pain of exertion and endurance. Not the pain of loss.

Run. Breathe. Run. Breathe.

Don’t think about Kit. Don’t think about Caroline.

Run. Run. Run.

As I cool down, the treadmill slows, and I jog through the final stretch of my five-mile sprint, allowing my feverish thoughts to return. For the first time in a long time, I have a great deal to do.

Before Kit’s demise my days were spent recovering from the night before and planning the next night’s entertainment. And that was about it. That was my life. I don’t like to shine a light on the vacuity of my existence. But deep down I know how bloody useless I am. Access to a healthy trust fund since I turned twenty-one means I’ve never done a serious day’s work in my life. Unlike my older brother. He worked hard, but then again he had no choice.

Today, however, will be different. I’m the executor of Kit’s will, which is a joke. Choosing me was his last laugh, I’m sure—but now that he’s interred in the family vault, the will has to be read and…well, executed.

And Kit died leaving no heirs.

I shudder as the treadmill comes to a stop. I don’t want to think about the implications. I’m not ready.

Grabbing my iPhone, I swing a towel around my neck and jog back upstairs to my flat on the sixth floor.

Stripping off my clothes, I discard them in the bedroom and head into the en suite bathroom. Beneath the shower, as I wash my hair, I consider how to deal with Caroline. We’ve known each other since our early schooldays. We each recognized a kindred spirit, and it drew us together, two thirteen-year-old boarders with divorced parents. I was the new boy and she took me under her wing. We became inseparable. She is and always will be my first love, my first fuck…my disastrous first fuck. And years later she’d chosen my brother, not me. But in spite of all that, we managed to remain good friends and keep our hands off each other—until Kit’s death.

Shit. It has to stop. I don’t want or need the complication. As I shave, solemn green eyes blaze back at me. Don’t fuck it up with Caroline. She’s one of your few friends. She’s your best friend. Talk to her. Reason with her. She knows we’re incompatible. I nod at my reflection, feeling more resolved about her, and wipe my face free of foam. Tossing the towel onto the floor, I head into the dressing room. There I gather up my black jeans, which are embedded in a pile on one of the shelves, and I’m relieved to find hanging a newly pressed white shirt and a dry-cleaned black blazer. Today I have lunch with the family solicitors. I slip on my boots and grab a coat to defend myself from the cold outside.

Shit, it’s Monday.

I remember that Krystyna, my ancient Polish daily, is due later this morning to clean. Taking out my wallet, I deposit some cash on the console table in the hall, set the alarm, then stroll out the front door. Locking up behind me, I forgo the lift and take the stairs.

Once I’m outside on Chelsea Embankment, the air is clear and crisp, marred only by the vapor of my frozen breath. I stare beyond the gloomy, gray Thames on the other side of the street to the Peace Pagoda on the opposite bank. That’s what I want, some peace, but that may be a long time coming. I hope to have some questions answered over lunch. Raising an arm, I hail a cab and order the driver to take me to Mayfair.

* * *

Housed in the Georgian splendor of Brook Street, the firm of Pavel, Marmont and Hoffman has been the family’s solicitors since 1775. “Time to be a grown-up,” I mutter to myself as I push open the ornate wooden door.

“Good afternoon, sir.” The young receptionist beams, a flush staining her olive skin. She’s pretty, in an understated way. If these were normal circumstances I’d have her number within five minutes of conversation, but that’s not why I’m here.

“I have an appointment to see Mr. Rajah.”

“Your name?”

“Maxim Trevelyan.”

Her eyes scan her computer screen, and she shakes her head and frowns. “Please take a seat.” She waves toward two brown leather chesterfields that are situated in the paneled hall, and I slump into the nearer one picking up that morning’s edition of the Financial Times. The receptionist is talking on the phone with some urgency while I peruse the front page of the paper but take nothing in. When I glance up, Rajah is coming to greet me himself, striding through the double doors with an outstretched hand.

I stand.

“Lord Trevethick, may I offer you my sincere condolences for your loss,” Rajah says as we shake hands.

“Trevethick, please,” I reply. “I’ve yet to get used to my brother’s title.”

My title…now.

“Of course.” Mr. Rajah nods with a polite deference that I find irritating. “Would you like to come with me? We’re having lunch in the partners’ dining room, and I must say we have one of the finest cellars in London.”

* * *

Mesmerized, I stare at the dancing flames of the fire at my club in Mayfair.

Earl of Trevethick.

That’s me. Now.

It’s inconceivable. It’s devastating.

How I envied my brother’s title and his position in the family when I was younger. Kit had been the favored child since birth, especially with my mother, but then he was the heir, not the spare. Known as Viscount Porthtowan since he was born, Kit had become the twelfth Earl of Trevethick at the age of twenty upon our father’s sudden death. At twenty-eight I’m lucky number thirteen. And though I’ve coveted the title and all that goes with it, now that it’s mine, I feel like I’m intruding on my brother’s domain.

You fucked his countess last night. That’s more than intruding.

I take a slug of the Glenrothes I’m drinking and raise my glass. “A toast to the Ghost,” I whisper, and smile at the irony. The Glenrothes was my father’s whisky of choice, and my brother’s—and from today this 1992 vintage will be mine.

I can’t pinpoint the moment I made peace with Kit’s inheritance and with Kit himself, but it happened sometime in my late teens. He had the title, he’d won the girl, and I had to accept that. But now everything is mine. Everything.

Even your wife. Well, for last night at least.

But the irony is that Kit has made no provision for Caroline in his will.

Nothing.

This is what she feared.

How could he have been so remiss? He’d drawn a new will four months ago but he hadn’t made provisions for her. They’d only been married for two years….

What was he thinking?

Of course, she may challenge it. And who would blame her?

I rub my face.

What am I going to do?

My phone buzzes.

WHERE ARE YOU?

It’s a text from Caroline.

I switch off my phone and order another drink. I don’t want to see her tonight. I want to lose myself in someone else. Someone new. Someone with no strings attached, and I think I’ll score some blow, too. I pull out my phone and open Tinder.

* * *

“Maxim, this is a stunning flat.” She gazes out over the murky water of the Thames that glimmers with light from the Peace Pagoda. I take her jacket and drape it over the back of the sofa.

“Drink or something stronger?” I offer. We are not going to be in the drawing room for long. On cue she flicks her shining black hair over her shoulder. Her hazel eyes, framed with kohl, are intent on me.

Licking painted lips, she arches a brow and asks, “Something stronger?” Her tone is seductive. “What are you drinking?”

Ah…she’s not taking the hint, so no coke, then, but she’s way ahead of me. I step closer so that she has to angle her head to look up at me. I’m careful not to touch her.

“I’m not thirsty, Heather.” I pitch my voice low, pleased that I’ve remembered her name. She swallows, and her lips part.

“Me neither,” she whispers, and her provocative smile reaches her eyes.

“What do you want?” I watch as her gaze moves to my mouth. It’s an invitation. I pause for a moment, just to make sure I’m reading her correctly, then lean down and kiss her. It’s the briefest touch: lips on lips, then nothing.