Hard Liquor: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #2 Read online

  HARD LIQUOR

  Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet, Book #2

  By: Blair Babylon

  HARD LIQUOR

  Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #2

  By: Blair Babylon

  Trial lawyer Gen has managed to corral that randy colt His Lordship Arthur Finch-Hatten, the Earl of Severn, at least as far as anyone knows. In public, he seems to be behaving himself, but she’s kind of gotten involved with her client in a way that the Bar’s Ethics Committee would totally not approve of. With Arthur’s impending trial in the House of Lords and the constant backstabbing in her law office, the last thing Gen needs is for Arthur to whisk her off to Paris for the social wedding of the century to schmooze the people who will decide his fate.

  Gen has broken all the rules, and she could very well end up with a broken heart.

  She needs a stiff drink, and it had better be hard liquor.

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  Published by Malachite Publishing LLC

  Copyright 2017 by Malachite Publishing LLC

  Table of Contents

  Hard Liquor

  Special Offers

  Table of Contents

  ~~~~~

  A Pupil Barrister in the Office

  Throwing It to the House of Lords

  Graham on the Case

  Spencer House #2

  The Finch-Hatten Jewelry Collection

  Dinner at Spencer House

  Dinner at Spencer House #2

  Not the Bed but the Chaise

  Darkness

  James Bond Was A Fictional Character

  Visiting Momma #2

  Being Followed

  Serle's Court Barristers' Clients

  Lunch with the Girls

  Dieter Schwarz, Commando-in-Chief

  Staying In

  His Submissive Little Fucktoy

  The World Is A Cruel, Cruel Place

  Feeding Maxence

  Charles de Gaulle Airport

  I Love the Smell of Testosterone in the Morning

  Dinner with Three Young Gods

  Other Masters

  Shaving

  Presentation

  Lord Richard Fane, the Earl of Devon

  The Baroness Hazel Honeycutt

  Tatiana Butorin of No Noble House Whatsoever

  Lord Ewan Caine, the Baron of Dillington

  Wulfram von Hannover and Ms. Rae Stone

  Lord David Sumner, the Baron of Corwyn

  About Arthur

  A Countess or a Spy?

  Ditching Security

  Hoodies in Paris

  What Arthur Hasn’t Told Her

  In Bed, Alone

  Octavia’s Texts

  Going to War

  Hide

  Treason

  Gossip

  Settle It #1

  Personal Day

  Talking Sense

  No Spare Mercenaries

  Settle It #2

  Spencer House, Again

  National Security Secrets

  The Earl of Sandwich

  Punishment

  The Lump That Is Ms. Ward

  Leaving Spencer House

  Farewell

  Backstabbing James Knightly

  Tea Time, Again

  Saving the Booze from Christopher

  Something to Remember

  Enough

  Begging A Favor

  Betrayal

  Final Battle

  A White Van

  More Threats

  Casimir’s Plane

  Judas's Duty

  What Maxence Knows

  Safe Haven

  At the Devilhouse

  Legal Consultation

  Not All Appetites

  What Happens in Vegas

  Stays in Vegas

  Hannoverian Empire Wealth Management

  Wedding Night

  Duty

  Thirty Thousand Feet Above the Atlantic Ocean

  The Client’s Instructions

  The Hugger

  Closing Arguments

  A Delicate Intelligence Operation

  Treason, Again

  Triumphant Homecoming

  An Introduction to Society

  Arthur’s Dark Mistress, Again

  Visiting Momma #3

  Obtaining Tenancy

  At The Office

  The Red Room of Tech

  A Dark Flat

  Poopy-Butt Pupil Barrister

  The Next Earl of Severn

  ~~~~~

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  Dear Reader

  Frequently Asked Questions

  Copyright and Notices

  A Pupil Barrister in the Office

  AT six o’clock in the dim morning, a wan, mid-March sunrise crawled over the crowded buildings of London outside Genevieve Ward’s office window. Her laptop hung off one side of her tiny desk, about the size of a TV tray, and one desk leg wobbled when she typed. Her coffee cup perched on a stack of law books beside her.

  Bins of paperwork crowded the walls of the office because some solicitors insisted on sending over paper copies of documents even though Serle’s Court Barristers’ electronic document system was top-notch.

  She was studying the court documents and other briefs that formed the convoluted case for her client, Arthur Finch-Hatten.

  Ah, Arthur.

  The sultry-hot, eye-poppingly ripped, outlandishly wealthy, very British nobleman, Arthur Finch-Hatten, the Earl of Severn.

  The one who, when he took off his tailored suit, was inked with red and blue watercolor tattoos all over his strong, muscular back and shoulders.

  The one who had a fetish for a woman sitting naked at his feet while he fed her sugared strawberries and champagne.

  The one who had bought what must be thousands and thousands of dollars’ worth of dresses for Gen so she could attend charity events with him.

  The one who was Gen’s client.

  The one whom she was definitely involved with, despite the fact that she was his lawyer and would get hauled before the Bar Council for an ethics violation if anyone found out about them.

  And the one who would lose everything, absolutely everything, if she lost his case.

  His money.

  His private airplane.

  His London penthouse apartment.

  His ancestral home, Spencer House, the five-centuries-old Tudor manor house that was stuffed with an incredible art collection.

  Arthur might even lose his Jack Russell Terrier, Ruckus.

  Gen reached down and scratched the dog, who was lying on her feet under her desk. He rolled over on his back. His white tail wagged limply, and his dark eyes closed.

  Surely Arthur would be allowed to keep the dog. Ruckus had been a gift from a friend of Arthur’s, not purchased with the estate’s money. Gen had filed a notice to that effect.

  The case wasn’t even going to be tried in a proper British court. Arthur had called up a friend of his—a friend with a single-digit succession number for the throne of Great Britain—and due to an obscure law, gotten the case assigned to a committee in the House of Lords.

  So absolutely anything could happen at the hearing. It wouldn’t be an orderly trial with a judge and jury, but a committee hearing where anyone could ask questions, even committee me
mbers with absolutely no law education.

  Gen got busy making sure every single, solitary word in the Finch-Hatten brief was perfect.

  Because she had to save Arthur.

  Throwing It to the House of Lords

  A few hours later, both Gen and Arthur were, predictably, seated in hard-back chairs in front of Octavia Hawkes’s desk. Octavia was Gen’s boss during her year-long pupillage, or internship, and Octavia’s imposing altar of a desk was commensurate with her status as a senior barrister in a prestigious London law firm. Morning sunlight streamed through the wide, clean windows across one wall.

  Octavia was glowering at them, her red lips condensed down to a red dot of anger. Her forehead and eyes didn’t move, of course. Botox, fillers, and the occasional use of a scalpel on her face prevented that. She might have been anywhere from thirty-five to sixty years old, and she would never tell which.

  She did demand, “Have you two lost the plot?”

  Gen paused, trying to remember whether any of her cases had been about land purchases.

  Arthur leaned toward her. “She’s asking if we’ve lost our minds.”

  “Oh.” Gen was prepared for that question. “A jury is just as unpredictable as any committee in the House of Lords,” Gen started.

  “We must resolve this case sooner than November,” Arthur added, “much sooner. The Committee for Privileges and Conduct can hear this case quickly, perhaps within the month, certainly by the end of spring.”

  “And we’re all ready to go, case-wise. Everything has been written for months, if not years, and is ready for submission,” Gen said.

  He said, “We need the element of surprise.”

  “Surprises are never good news in legal cases,” Octavia said. “I’m not Atticus fucking Finch, and neither are you, Genevieve. We want a nice, orderly trial. Arthur would do best with standard procedure. I don’t know how Buckingham Palace even discovered your case, let alone took it upon themselves to intervene.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Arthur said.

  Gen looked over at him, but he was calmly regarding Octavia as if he had no idea how the change had occurred.

  Dang, he was pretty good at that when he had half an ounce of preparation. She should watch that.

  Also, he hadn’t denied it, which would have been a lie. He’d only said that he couldn’t imagine how they found out.

  Arthur didn’t have to imagine anything. He’d called them.

  Gen turned back to Octavia. “And if we can find out who the committee members are, we can schmooze them before the hearing at all these events that Arthur goes to. We couldn’t do that with a jury. Plus, our opponent won’t have that luxury.”

  “Or the committee could be composed of people whom you’ve pissed off in the past, couldn’t it, Arthur?” Octavia growled at him. “You’ve slept with half the wives and sisters of the members of the House of Lords.”

  “There are seven hundred and sixty members who are eligible to take part in the work of the House of Lords. I doubt that I’ve gotten around to even a quarter of their wives and sisters. Most of my recent bedfellows have been of the common variety.”

  Did he mean Gen? She would whup his ass.

  Even though she was thoroughly common in the British sense of the word. Still, when Lord Arthur Finch-Hatten, the Earl of Severn, calls you common, it means something else.

  Seriously, she would open up a jumbo-sized can of whup ass and rain despair down upon Arthur Finch-Hatten until he cowered before her.

  Who would be the sub then, huh?

  Arthur said, “And Genevieve is correct that this will throw my brother’s team into disarray. It’s a move they wouldn’t have expected.”

  Octavia glowered at him. “It does make sense. ‘All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.’”

  Gen nodded. That particular quote was one of Octavia’s favorite passages from Sun Tzu’s The Art of War.

  Arthur glanced over at her, his silvery eyes so supremely confident, and he said, “Of course, since I have been in the hands of such a proficient minder for the last three months, I haven’t acquired any bedfellows at all.”

  Gen fidgeted in her seat. Of course, he hadn’t been talking about her because they were only pretending to engage in a relationship for the gossip sites, and Octavia needed to keep believing that or Gen was in deep, deep trouble. “Oh, yeah. Of course.”

  “You have been keeping him out of trouble,” Octavia grumbled. “At least that part of this impossible scheme has worked.”

  “And they believe us more now, right?” Gen asked. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the websites. They haven’t said anything snarky about arranged marriages in a while.”

  “Yes, that’s so,” Octavia said, still frowning as much as she was able to. The overpuffed corners of her lips pressed downward, anyway.

  “And here’s something that will bolster our claim of a genuine relationship.” Arthur turned to Gen. “Would you care to attend a wedding with me next weekend?”

  Octavia shrugged. “Attending a wedding together isn’t nearly as big a deal as it used to be.”

  “It’s Pierre Grimaldi’s wedding.”

  “Oh,” Octavia said, her stretched eyelids rising even farther. “My God, how did you get—Of course. Nevermind.”

  Evidently, everyone in the room except Gen knew the importance of Pierre Grimaldi’s wedding. Gen nodded sagely instead of commenting.

  Arthur said, “I’ve managed to find a list of the members of the House of Lords Committee for Privileges and Conduct.”

  Managed. Gen almost snorted. The Countess of Cornwall had probably faxed it over to him.

  Gen said, “I thought that committee was just to censure randy Lords who got caught peeing on prostitutes or something.”

  Arthur chuckled. “While most of the cases that they decide are quite prurient, they are also traditionally the body that decides matters of inheritance. They haven’t done so for decades, but I rather imagine that they jumped at the chance to assert their traditional rights. All those rule changes that reduce the influence of hereditary peerages are distressing.”

  Gen rolled her eyes at him, and Arthur laughed.

  He continued, “There are sixteen members of the committee. It appears that I have not slept with the wife or first-degree relative of anyone who sits on the committee.”

  “Halla-fucking-lujah,” Octavia muttered.

  “We need at least nine of them to vote in my favor, preferably more. The committee may debate until it is unanimous.”

  “Great, so this case may never be resolved,” Octavia said.

  “Your clerk will be ecstatic,” Arthur told her.

  Octavia shrugged.

  Yeah, Arthur was paying their chambers a hell of a lot of money for this protracted case that had dragged on for years. Gen wasn’t sure that was ethical.

  The lawyer who was sleeping with her own client should probably not be casting stones about ethics.

  “Two committee members are old chums, personal friends, familial allies in the House, or close relatives of such whom I know well. I’m sure that I can count on their votes. I’ll contact them this week to be certain.”

  Octavia nodded. “That’s a good start.”

  “Four more are amenable to a social engagement at Spencer House. I’ve already made overtures. I’ll host a dinner there to work on them.”

  “Good,” Octavia said.

  “That makes six,” Gen said, because she could do math.

  “Of the remaining,” Arthur said, “four will attend the Grimaldi wedding next weekend.”

  Octavia scowled. “And of course, you’re invited.”

  “Of course,” Arthur said, smiling at her like a rake in a Regency novel. His silvery ey
es sparked with mirth.

  “Is this wedding a big deal?” Gen asked.

  Octavia grumbled, “The Grimaldi wedding in Paris is the high-society social event of the year.”

  “So, it’s a great opportunity to schmooze them,” Gen said.

  Arthur laughed. “Yes, we’ll ‘schmooze’ them. You can also meet Casimir and Maxence at the wedding.”

  Gen sighed, mostly for comedic effect. “Because of course, they’ll be there, too. Are they all high-falutin’ like you? Earls or better to open?”

  Arthur smiled. “Have you ever been to a royal wedding, Genevieve?”

  “A royal wedding?” She stared at him. “Um, no. Obviously.”

  “Should be quite an experience, then.”

  Graham on the Case

  AFTER work, Gen ran out of the centuries-old building of Lincoln’s Inn, through the garden, and toward the street. The sun was setting over the buildings that crowded both sides of the street.

  Pippa was waiting for her with the cloud-gray Mercedes idling at the curb. The heavy London traffic flowed by on the other side of the car.

  Gen vaulted into the back seat. “Arthur called. I don’t know what he thought was so important—”

  Graham the stylist/tailor was sitting in the front seat. He wrenched himself around and glared at her, his thin nose wrinkled in disgust. “I can’t believe that we’ve got four days to get you kitted up for a high-society wedding. I swear to God, I will have His Lordship’s ass for this. Other stylists have had months to prepare. And of course, His fucking Lordship wants you to have something glamorous, something tasteful, something couture, all in four fucking days.”

  “Um,” Gen said, grabbing the door handle to bail, but Pippa had already pulled the car into the dense London traffic.

  Graham snarled at Gen. “How the fuck am I supposed to bash out something original and custom for you in four fucking days?”

  Gen’s eyes felt stretched on her face. “I’m really sorry about this.”