“I believe this may be the most wicked financial
cover up in New York’s history, Lord Rising.” She paused and narrowed her eyes on him. “Again, thank you
for agreeing to see me. It will be cathartic for you. Something of this nature is akin to a home built on top of a sacred
Native American burial ground. You are sure to have poltergeists.”
Nelson watched as the award winning New York Times journalist dug into her tattered western-style satchel and recovered a miniature voice
recorder, yellow notepad and a handful of fresh razor sharp pencils. She observed that the expression on his face was one
of compulsion mixed with a tablespoon of fear. His gray eyes were red and strained. He was only thirty-six years old, 1940s
movie star handsome, but appeared tired and a bit worn around the edges. He wore a rust-colored cashmere Holland and
Holland cardigan, maroon moleskin trousers and tassled loafers with argyle socks.
He was a true anomaly. Well-bred in
the highest sense of the old-money word, yet was a hard drinking, bar fighting playboy with a reputation that preceded him.
After one too many drunken brawls outside of upscale pubs and a sex video featuring him in a ménage-a-trois with two married housewives in
their late forties (his preference was routinely for the soccer mom types, or Yummy Mummies as the Brits like to say), he
was exiled from the House of Lords on the premise of conduct unbecoming of a member of the House." OK and
Hello magazines had a field day. They dubbed him, Lord Lascivious and the Dirty Dandy, to name a few.
She smiled inwardly at the contradiction.
