Outcast. Joan Johnston

and challenging. It gave him something to do with his life.

      Until the day came when he’d realized he couldn’t remain a soldier one more hour. That he had to quit.

      But he’d lived as a soldier most of his life, in a family full of soldiers, and he’d felt surprisingly lost after he left the military. He’d needed a reason to get out of bed in the morning. He’d needed something useful to do with his life.

      No one who needed to work simply to put food on the table or clothes on his back or a roof over his head could understand the utter emptiness—the unnecessariness—of a life where all those things were already provided.

      Ben had thought about ridding himself of his wealth. But there were problems with that, too.

      Ben grimaced when he heard a wailing siren and saw flashing red-and-blue lights in his rearview mirror. He carefully maneuvered his Jag through a slick pile of burnished leaves on the side of the road. They were less than ten miles from Hamilton Farm. “Don’t say it,” he said before Waverly could speak.

      The Virginia motorcycle cop had a hand on his Glock as he approached the driver’s-side window. “License and registration,” he said.

      Ben handed over his license and registration.

      “Show him your badge, Ben,” Waverly said irritably. “You’ll be in trouble with your boss if you end up with a ticket for speeding.”

      “What badge is that, sir?” the cop asked.

      “Just write the ticket,” Ben said.

      “What badge is that, sir?” the cop repeated.

      Ben shot Waverly a dark look and pulled out his ICE badge. “You should ask him for his badge, too.”

      The cop eyed Waverly, who said, “I’m MPD.”

      “The senator’s been looking for you,” the cop said, as he handed back Ben’s license and registration. “I’ll give you an escort to The Farm.”

      The cop pulled his Harley-Davidson out in front of Ben’s Jag and turned on his flashing lights and siren.

      “Does this happen often?” Waverly asked, his eyes wide with astonishment.

      Ben shot his friend a sardonic look. “Get used to it. Like I said. It isn’t easy being rich.”

      He glanced at his friend and saw the dawning realization in Waverly’s eyes that when he married into Julia’s family, his life would take a drastic turn.

      “Does Julia have to take the money?” Waverly said. “Can she turn it down?”

      “You can’t get rid of my mother’s money. Or the senator’s money. Neither Julia—nor your child—will ever want for anything if they can help it.”

      “I intend to support my family myself,” Waverly said through tight jaws.

      “Good luck telling Julia’s parents to butt out of your life,” Ben said as they entered the half-mile-long, oak-tree-lined drive along the James River that led to The Farm.

      “I plan to do just that,” Waverly said. “Tonight.”

      Ben grinned as the elegant Southern mansion came into view. “This I have to see.”

      11

      “You’re late.”

      “Hello, Ham,” Ben said, shaking hands with his mother’s second husband.

      Randolph Cornelius Hamilton, III, met them in the wild-rose-wallpapered foyer of The Farm with a bourbon in hand. His glazed eyes and slurred voice suggested he’d already had a few.

      Waverly cleared his throat nervously and said, “Good evening, Senator. There was an incident—”

      Ben watched as Ham waved away his future son-in-law’s offered hand. Waverly accepted the dismissal without protest. Ben couldn’t imagine Waverly confronting the senator about supporting Julia. But he had a feeling it would liven up the party if he did.

      “I know about the kid getting his throat cut,” Ham said. “Terrible!” He turned and headed down the oak-pegged central hallway, obviously expecting the two of them to follow.

      Ham glanced at Ben over his shoulder and said, “I would think you could have arranged to do your paperwork on Monday. Everyone’s been waiting in the parlor for half an hour to go in to dinner.”

      Ben exchanged a chagrined look with Waverly. The rich and powerful didn’t believe that the rules applied to them. Don’t want to hang around and do your job? Just leave. It can wait until you’re good and ready to do it.

      The wedding being held tomorrow at Hamilton Farm, home to Hamiltons since Virginia was a colony, was the Washington society event of the season. The expected crowd of several hundred included the exceedingly rich and the oh-so-powerful. Julia had acceded to Waverly’s request to keep the wedding party small, so there were only four male and four female members of the wedding party.

      “I assume that the ‘everyone’ waiting in the parlor includes Mother,” Ben said.

      “And your father,” the senator added ominously.

      Ben grimaced. He’d tried to talk Waverly out of making Foster Benedict part of the wedding festivities. Waverly had argued that since both his parents were dead, he wanted Ben’s dad to participate in the wedding as one of his groomsmen.

      Even when Ben had pointed out the problems of having both his mother and father under the same roof for an extended period of time, Waverly had remained adamant. Ben could count on one hand the number of times his parents had sat down at the same dinner table in the twenty years since their divorce. This made four.

      His mother was a lady in every situation. His father was a former officer and a gentleman. They’d loved each other passionately. Which meant they’d hurt each other horribly.

      And the love and the pain were ongoing.

      It was like watching an impending train wreck and knowing there was nothing you could do to prevent it. At the same time, you couldn’t take your eyes away.

      “They’re here!” Ham announced as he entered the parlor with Ben and Waverly.

      Ben took one look at the tableau—his father on one side of the room, his mother on the other—and could almost feel the tension arcing between them.

      The furniture was Victorian, which meant spindly and uncomfortably stuffed with horsehair, and there was little of it in the parlor. The twelve-foot windows were draped elegantly with pale-rose-colored silk, and the walls bore an ivy-patterned rice paper above and forest-green wainscoting below.

      The other two groomsmen were standing near a sideboard that held a wide selection of crystal liquor decanters. His mother, his half sister Julia and Julia’s three bridesmaids and maid of honor were arranged on the settee and wing chairs. His father and stepmother stood alone near the only apparent warmth in the room—the crackling fire in the white-marble-faced fireplace.

      His mother immediately stood, adjusted her expensive, yet elegantly simple, black off-the-shoulder evening gown around her and said, “Shall we go in to dinner?”

      “Abigail?” Ham said, holding out his arm to his wife.

      Ben’s mother crossed and laid her hand on Ham’s arm. “Hello, Ben,” she said as she moved past him. “I’m so glad you were able to make it.”

      Ben heard a world of censure in his mother’s voice. Apparently, she’d spent more discomfiting time in his father’s company than she’d wanted to.

      “Julia?” Waverly said, holding out his arm to his fiancée.

      Julia crossed to Waverly and tucked her arm around his. “You got here just in time to avoid World War III,” Ben heard her murmur as she kissed her fiancé tenderly on the lips.

      Ben