"Agnes doesn't care for tea," her nanny informed Mrs. Rutherford one Sunday. "She never drinks it."
"Add some sugar," Agnes's mother suggested. She'd pursed her thick lips and waved the nanny out of the room. Sugar had always been Mrs. Rutherford's choice of currencies. She doled out the sticky and the sweet as fast as her staff could produce it and Agnes consumed the gooey replacements for any parental affection like a dutiful child.
She eventually drank the tea, though it hung thick in her mouth and still tasted awful. She drank it, but she continued to watch her brother's games. She sipped and stared down on the yard while Spaulding played Cops and Robbers with
that Maxwell boy
. She swirled the leafy residue as the boys fought mock battles as Cowboy and Indian, or raced, or wrestled. Agnes saw the pattern in the games and even as a child she read the truth behind them.
Spaulding summed it up one afternoon, after Agnes met him in the hall and asked her standard query.
"What's he like?" She followed him up the stairway, huffing at the exertion of the pace he set.
"Who?" Spaulding always played dumb and he'd speed up as well until she fell behind and ended up whining from the middle step.
"Spaulding, come back."
He would, his game meant only to humiliate her. Spaulding needed Agnes's attention as much as she needed his information on the outside world.
"I almost beat him today." He'd sit beside her on the step and wait for her to catch her breath. "I almost caught him."
"Who?" She took her turn being difficult.
"Simon." Spaulding sighed. "He's fun enough, but he always has to win."
The significance of that statement hadn't been lost on Agnes, who'd already guessed how her brother would react to Simon Maxwell's obvious superiority. Nor had it taken long, beyond that afternoon, for the boys to conflict enough to part ways. Young Agnes witnessed that as well.
Well, she thought, fifteen years was probably long enough for any childhood resentment to fester. She left the window and spared another brief inspection of her old bedroom. Tomorrow, Maxwell and Rutherford would face off again. She frowned at the dust caking her childhood belongings. The contest turned into an annual tradition. Agnes passed the bed and stepped to the door without another look at the folded tea table or the pile of stuffed dolls and creatures. This year Maxwell would get more than he'd bargained for. She smiled as she slid into the hall and closed the door firmly on her youth. This year, Agnes intended to have her day.
* * * *
Simon rubbed his hair with the towel and examined his abdominals in the bathroom mirror. He flexed and relaxed the muscles until his forehead creased with the effort. Two hours in the gym tomorrow. He shook his head. No. Not tomorrow. Tomorrow he had other commitments.
He dropped the towel to the floor. It landed with the loopy monogram staring back at him--S.M.--Simon Maxwell. He rolled the kinks out of his shoulders, grinned and dropped into a rapid set of squats. He couldn't be in better shape, but a little extra preparation never hurt.
He doubted Spaulding really trained at all. He snorted and flashed his teeth at the mirror. Spaulding relied on other tactics, regardless of how often they failed him. No, tonight Spaulding Rutherford would spend his evening plotting. Simon grinned. It hardly mattered. The race would go his way--always went his way--and the Maxwell estate would remain in control of the town.
He grabbed his robe from the hook on the back of the door. The garment also bore Simon's initials embroidered on the pocket. He tied it loosely in front and stepped out of the bathroom in time to catch the flash of an incoming call.
The computer in the master suite dominated the wall opposite the sliding doors. Simon checked his appearance in the glass before pressing the button beside the flashing red light. The screen flared to life and an enlarged, real-time image of the police chief's craggy face frowned from the wall. The man stopped speaking mid-sentence and waved at someone out of view before turning to face Simon.
"Mr. Maxwell. I'm sorry to bother you this evening."
"It's quite all right, Mr. Poole. What can I do for you?"
For a moment, the older man didn't speak. Simon watched the chief's face crinkle as he sorted through his details to find the correct wording. His thick brows rippled with the effort.
"Earlier this evening," he said at last. "Maximus apprehended a group of The Spartan's goons attempting to sabotage tomorrow's parade floats."
"That's terrible," Simon said. "Thank God they were caught."
Chief Poole blinked at him.
"Did they do much damage?" Simon flashed a broad smile. "Are the floats safe?"
"Yes. I mean, the damage was minimal. Sparky'll have everything ready by the morning."
"Excellent." Simon stretched his left hamstring and nodded. "I assume we have the men in custody?"
"Right. Er--most of them. Maximus followed the remaining two as far as the Rutherford estate."
"Did he manage to connect them to Spaulding?"
Chief Poole stared openly at him.
"No? Well, did he at least trail them long enough to lead us to The Spartan's hideout?"
"No," Poole said. "He didn't."
Simon shook his head. "I fear, Chief Poole, that we may rely too heavily on this superhero of yours."
"Right. Well."
"It's a pity he couldn't get us a solid lead. Still, four goons in the jailhouse isn't a bad thing."
"Five," Chief Poole corrected.
"Five?" Simon rolled his eyes and counted to himself. "Right," he said. "Five."
The two men exchanged smiles. Five goons in the town clink would keep things fairly quiet tomorrow. Unless Spaulding had managed to import a batch of new recruits, he should be running low on manpower.
"About tomorrow," Poole said. "I plan to start the race immediately following the parade."
"Of course. Wouldn't have it any other way."
"And the obstacles this year--"
"Don't," Simon interrupted. "I want no advantage over Spaulding."
"I know, but it seems our designer has ties to Rutherford."
"Of course he does." Simon stretched the other hamstring.
"Which means that Spaulding already knows what's coming," Chief Poole reiterated. "Simon, he has the advantage over you. If a Rutherford were to win controlling leverage with the town council--"
"Never going to happen."
"It's happened before." The chief's eyes narrowed. His jaw tensed at the memory.
"Not on my watch." Simon returned the man's stare. It was unfair to remind him, unfair to blame any Maxwell for what happened that year. But the chief had been around to see what Rutherford's stint in power had done to the town. Simon couldn't blame the man for his concern. "Don't you worry, Chief. Spaulding can't beat me, regardless of his advantage. He never could."
"All right, Mr. Maxwell," Poole ran a big hand through his gray hair. "We'll trust in that."
"Good."
"Have a restful evening, Mr. Maxwell. I'll see you in the morning."
"Goodnight." Simon pressed the button and the wall faded to black again.
He frowned and crossed to the king-sized bed, flopping down and placing both hands behind his head. He never lost. There was no point in worrying about it. He let his gaze drift over the textured ceiling, looking for patterns, faces in the randomness. A Maxwell had never lost a race to a Rutherford, not one that they'd actually ran.
He'd been thirteen that year, the year Spaulding's father won the annual competition and seized control of the town council. Simon remembered the night
his
father disappeared. He remembered the week leading up to the race, remembered wondering each night if his dad would ever walk through their front door again.
He remembered his mother's frown as she watched out the kitchen window ten, fifteen times a day. Even then, Simon noticed her gaze wandering to the far hill where the Rutherford estate sprawled. Even then, he'd suspected what she must have known.
She'd called on them once during the week, had left him with a kiss on the forehead and walked right up to the Rutherford's front door. Rumor had it she spoke to Rutherford Senior himself, to her husband's business partner, to a family friend who also happened to be a rival both politically and socially. But she'd returned alone and without news.
It hardly mattered what Rutherford said to his mother. Both she and Simon knew who'd abducted Mr. Maxwell. They knew why. The entire town knew. But every night they went to bed without word from Simon's father. And even after the race had been called and Rutherford announced his controlling interest for the year, Mr. Maxwell remained missing.
The adult Simon knew more. He knew what the Rutherfords were capable of. He knew Spaulding like no one else did. They might have kept his father locked up there longer, might never have set the man free. If it hadn't been for
her
.
His bedroom door rattled as an aging fist knocked against the wood. Simon sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Come in, Mr. Swain."
"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir." The ancient butler's face appeared around the door's edge. "But you have a call waiting."
Simon glanced to where the light flashed again. How long had he ignored it? He smiled at Swain and stood. He didn't have time to relive the past, he had a job to do. "Thank you, Swain. Did you catch who was on the line?"
"It's Mr. Rutherford, sir."
Simon nodded and crossed to the phone. Spaulding. Of course Spaulding would call tonight.
* * * *
Agnes sat in the mauve wingback and watched her brother pace. The chair faced the long, parlor windows that would have let in a lovely slant of light during daylight hours if the Rutherfords had ever let the brocade curtains be drawn.
She leaned forward in her seat and checked the mirror over the hearth. From this position, Agnes could watch the screen on the opposite wall without moving into range of the machine's cameras. She ran a finger along the chair's upholstery and nodded to her brother to get on with it.
Spaulding grinned like a fool, halting mid-pace and gesturing with the cigar in his left hand. He nearly skipped away from the hearth, his red smoking jacket glowing in the fire's light like an ember. He looks like Satan, Agnes thought. She swallowed a chuckle and closed her eyes, listened as Spaulding crossed the room and imagined him punching up Maxwell's number.
Simon Maxwell. How many years had passed since Agnes watched him from her bedroom window? She squeezed the chair arm against a spasm of nervous excitement. How had time dealt with her brother's young friend? Would she even recognize him? How long did the man take to answer his phone for heaven's sake?
Finally, Agnes heard the faint hum as the screen kicked on. She heard the unfamiliar voice speak her brother's name.
"Spaulding, my old friend." His words held little friendliness. He spoke in a deep, surprisingly soft, tone. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Agnes peeked. She opened her eyes and sat a touch forward, but the mirror reflected only Spaulding's smoking jacket. Her moron sibling stood directly in the way.
"I'm afraid that I have some bad news about the race tomorrow."
Spaulding's voice sounded far too eager for Agnes's taste. She'd have tried a more subtle approach. But then, she'd never shared Spaulding's dramatic streak and Agnes had more patience than he could ever know. She shook her head and waited for Simon's reaction.
"Really?" Simon's reply sounded staged. He'd expected the call, had expected some last minute trick from her brother. "What news is that? You've used your contacts on the council to hire a biased course designer?"
Ouch. She watched Spaulding's mouth open and shut like a trout's and wished for the thousandth time that he'd cultivated at least a portion of their mother's finesse. Of course Maxwell knew about the obstacles by now. Spaulding should have expected it.
By the time he'd recovered, they'd lost the moment. Spaulding tried to salvage it, moved back to the hearth and waved one hand dismissively at the cameras. "I'm certain I have no idea what you're talking about." The effect proved far too obvious for him to salvage any dignity from the situation.
"You have better bad news?"
Agnes looked to the mirror. With Spaulding out of the way, the face of Simon Maxwell filled the parlor wall. She sucked in a breath and held it while her mind registered the features, compared them to a memory. The boy's face had disappeared, though traces of it remained around the dark eyes that sparkled even through the digital translation. He'd grown into the family features--a strong jaw, elegant nose and honey brown hair.
Spaulding kept going. "I'm afraid that I'm unable to participate in tomorrow's event."
Agnes watched Simon's eyebrow arch and let the air out of her lungs. One corner of his thin mouth twitched and she shivered.
"You're conceding this year?" The disappointment sounded genuine. "That will save time. Though, I did look forward to stretching my legs a bit."
"There won't be any concession," Spaulding snapped. His old inferiority complex flared to the foreground. "I've simply injured my leg during training." He patted his right leg where a tightly wrapped sheath of gauze wound from ankle to mid-thigh.
Agnes cringed. He'd crossed the room seconds earlier and completely forgotten to limp.
"I see," Simon nodded. "But certainly, if you can't compete."
"Nothing in the rules states that I must run the race."
"Enlighten me then. How do you intend to win, if you don't run?"
Agnes leaned forward and fixed her gaze on Simon's face. His forehead wrinkled as he tried to sort out her brother's clumsily stated puzzle.
"The contest requires a Rutherford and a Maxwell," Spaulding snickered, a low, raspy noise that crawled up Agnes' spine. "Which Rutherford is up to us."
"Us?"
Thoughts flickered across Simon's features. Agnes watched each lovely expression follow the other as he struggled to catch Spaulding's meaning. She held her breath again and waited for him to understand.