THE KASTELLAN HEIR.

THE CONFESSION.

Aldric Neville's mansion glittered like a jewel box.

Tall windows blazed gold across a manicured lawn. Under a dozen chandeliers in the great ballroom, a hundred and fifty guests drifted in silk and tailoring, glasses clinking, laughter rippling like water. Waiters in white gloves carried trays of champagne. A string orchestra played something slow and sweet.

Vivienne stepped through the doors on her mother's empty arm and held her breath.

Margaux, of course, wasn't there. But Aldric's people didn't know that yet. The stage-managed story was that Mrs. Brentford had fallen ill at the last minute and sent her daughter in her place. Aldric's greeter took the invitation, bowed, and ushered her into the room with a smile.

Don't look up. Don't look at the cameras. You belong here.

"Miss Brentford!"

She turned. Aldric Neville came toward her through the crowd, arms open, white beard trimmed, eyes bright as a bird's. He looked like everyone's kind grandfather. He kissed her hand.

"What a delight! And so lovely. I'm heartbroken your mother couldn't join us."

"She sends her apologies, Mr. Neville."

"Nonsense. You're here, and that's what matters." He tucked her hand into his elbow and steered her toward the center of the room. "I hear there was some regrettable unpleasantness at your wedding. I was so sorry."

"Thank you."

"Such a public humiliation. Preston Halvane is an idiot." Aldric patted her hand. "And what of the boy? The orphan? Has he been in contact?"

She forced a bitter smile. "He's a parasite. I hope he rots."

The old man chuckled, warm and approving. "Spoken like a Brentford."

In the second SUV, parked a block away, Ronan's fingers curled around the edge of the seat.

"She's doing well," Sienna murmured.

"She's good at this," he said, and wasn't sure whether the thought comforted or disturbed him.

Across the ballroom, a tall, weathered man in a gray suit stood near the wall, watching. Gideon Crane never took his eyes from Vivienne.

She felt it. A prickle on the back of her neck. She kept smiling.

"Come," said Aldric, leaning close. "There is a friend I want you to meet. A small gathering in the salon. Very private."

Here it is.

He guided her out of the ballroom and down a hall lined with tall portraits, each of some long-dead Neville with a hard, pale gaze. The salon was a small, oak-paneled room, warmed by a fireplace. A decanter of brandy sat on a table.

Crane followed them in and closed the door.

Vivienne's pulse thundered. Aldric poured two glasses and offered her one. She thought of Sienna's warning. Don't drink. Don't touch a single thing. She took the glass and held it, untasted.

"Tell me, my dear," Aldric said pleasantly, settling into an armchair. "Do you know why I wanted you here tonight?"

"I assumed you wanted to console me."

"I wanted to use you." He smiled. "Do you object?"

She hesitated. "It depends on for what."

"For the boy."

Her fingers tightened on the glass. "Ronan?"

"He is stubborn," said Aldric. "Sentimental. He holds himself up as a paragon of virtue, the noble orphan. But you, Vivienne, are the one weakness he has never learned to bury. If you were to go to him, weeping, regretful..."

"You want me to seduce him."

"I want you to bring him to me."

Silence. The fire crackled.

In the SUV, Sienna had gone rigid.

"Say something," Ronan whispered. "Ask him why."

As if she'd heard, Vivienne set down her glass. "Why do you want him so badly, Mr. Neville? He's just a boy."

Aldric laughed, low and soft. He sipped his brandy. Then he leaned back and sighed like a man at last shedding a heavy coat.

"You've never asked me a proper question before. Perhaps because you're afraid of the answer." His pale green eyes glittered. "Very well. Do you know what the Kastellan estate is worth, my dear?"

"No."

"Nor does anyone. Because they've hidden it for a hundred years behind shell companies and trusts. It's worth more than the GDP of most countries. And it is mine. It should have been mine. I was there when the old man built it. I bled for that company. And what did the Kastellans give me? A shareholder's dividend and a pat on the head."

"So you decided to take it."

"I decided to correct the mistake." Aldric smiled fondly. "Patrick was the obstacle. Idealistic. Sentimental. He refused every offer. Elena was worse. And the baby..." He shook his head. "The baby was a complication."

Vivienne's voice was very small. "You had him kidnapped."

"Of course. Crane arranged it. A nurse, a nanny, some trusted person in the house. It was supposed to be simple. A small fire. A car accident." He paused. "Except the woman disappeared. Marta. That devoted, meddling creature. She took the child beforeCrane's men arrived. Slipped out with the boy on her back, in the middle of the night, and never came home."

In the SUV, Ronan stopped breathing.

"She hid him," Aldric said, and there was a note of bitter admiration in his voice. "For three years, she hid. Half the country was searching. Then the poor thing died of pneumonia in a boardinghouse, and left the child at an orphanage with a note. But by then, Patrick and Elena were already gone, and the boy was just another baby among hundreds."

"You never found him?"

"Not until Harold Brentford's foolish sentiment. When I heard that a man in Harold's family had married an orphan named Ronan, I knew. But by then the old fool was watching too closely. So I waited." He smiled thinly. "Waited for Harold to die. Waited for your mother to owe me. Waited until the boy was weak enough to take."

The glass in Vivienne's hand shook.

Ronan, in the SUV, had gone perfectly white. His hand covered his mouth. Sienna gripped his shoulder.

Marta. The pendant. The note. The name he had never known.

She hadn't kidnapped him. She had savedhim.

"You murdered his parents," Vivienne whispered.

"I removed a difficulty." Aldric shrugged. "And Kastellan himself, the old man. Do you think a stroke is natural, at eighty-one? A little something in the tea, a little something in the pills. I've been very patient." He looked at her almost tenderly. "You needn't look so pale, my dear. I don't intend that for you."

"And Emeric."

"Ah. The gold-toothed servant." Aldric sighed. "A pity. Sentiment again. But the cigarettes were a lovely touch."

Got it, Sienna mouthed, her hand shaking on the recorder.

The phone in Vivienne's hand buzzed. She glanced down. A message from Ronan, pinged straight to her screen. Get out. Now.

She looked up. Aldric was watching her.

"You know," he said, still smiling, "the strangest thing. Crane found something odd in the car this evening."

Every muscle in Vivienne's body went cold.

"A small transmitter. Under the second SUV's dashboard." Aldric set down his glass. "A crude little thing. But it had been sending a signal all night. So I thought, now who could that possibly belong to?"

Crane stepped forward. His hand rose to his belt.

"I suppose," said Aldric softly, "we should have a look at your hair."