Page 7 of She Doesn't Have a Clue
But their greeter moved through it all like it was a luxury resort in the Bahamas. “I’m Abraham from Dreams Come True Event Planning. Our clients value discretion above all else, so while nondisclosure agreements prevent me from naming names, let’s just say I’ve fixed a tear in the bridal gown of a certain American to a certain royal and personally stocked the bar on the private plane of a certain billionaire on the way to his private island wedding.”
He continued on like he saw all this luxury and more on a daily basis. Which, considering he was coordinating a Hempstead wedding, might be the case.
“This is the entry hall, and that is Russell Hempstead,” he said, waving at an oil painting of a man with impressive muttonchops. “And his children, Ferdinand and Nikola.”
“What’s with the two empty spaces?” Jake whispered to Kate, nodding at the long stretch of wall after Nikola’s painting where two portrait-size gaps stood empty.
“Those are the dissenters,” Abraham said in a stage whisper. “The Hempstead family feud? Inspiration for a certain HBO series?”
Kate had read about the feud that had split the Hempstead family apart. Russell willed the bulk of his estate to his eldest son, Ferdinand, with a host of strings attached to how the money could be dispensed. Russell’s two youngest children—Georgi and Lydia—were so incensed by the rules (and being cut off from their fun money) that they took Ferdinand to court over the terms of the will. Only Ferdinand’s brother, Nikola, sided with him, mainly because he knew where the butter got spread. The younger siblings lost their court case, their inheritance, and, apparently, their portraits in the gallery.
“And this, of course, is our esteemed host for the weekend,” Abraham said with a little sigh, stopping in front of a massive portrait of a sharp-looking woman with a severe bob haircut and sparkling blue eyes. “Rebecca Hempstead.”
“Her portrait’s at least twice the size of the other fellas,” Jake observed, looking around the room. “Healthy ego on that one, eh?”
“Probably because that one’s net wealth is greater than the GDP of most European countries,” Kate said. Was it too much to curtsy to a portrait? Probably, but that didn’t stop her from considering it. “Ferdinand might have established the Hempstead family fortune, but it’s Rebecca who’s put them at the top of theForbeslist. They call her the Queen of Wall Street. While our parents were trying to build a decent 401(k), Rebecca was buying up stock in dying legacy companies and turning them into the hottest tickets on the market. She’s increased the Hempstead fortune tenfold. I read that the market once dipped a hundred points because she made an offhand comment about the auto industry at a fundraiser in DC.”
Jake had slowly turned to her during her observations, his eyebrows raised. “And how do you know so much about Rebecca Hempstead?”
Kate flushed. She could hardly say she’d spent most of the past six months obsessively googling the entire family, learning the ins and outs of their ongoing legal battles over the family trust, scrounging up every interview Rebecca ever did as if she could siphon off some of the woman’s success. Rebecca was polished, confident, stylish, and flamboyant—a magnetic magnate. Kate wasn’t easily impressed with wealth, especiallyinherited money, but Rebecca had taken her family’s respectable fortune and turned it into a never-ending gold mine by sheer force of personality. She’d also been the center of her fair share of sensational news stories; she’d spent most of her younger life in the press for one reason or another, and had eventually withdrawn entirely from the public eye. But that didn’t mean she didn’t still control every aspect of the Hempstead family fortune. She was exactly the kind of personality Kate couldn’t resist.
And of course, there was the matter of that mysterious letter.
“You forgot her greatest nickname of all,” came a loud, expansive voice from down the hall. A man sauntered in, looking very much like the owner of such a voice with his thinning hair aggressively combed into submission, his nose bulbous and pocked from too much alcohol indulgence, and a smirk that rivaled any used car salesman.
“Excuse me, Mr. Sheffield,” said Abraham, his tone strained. “I was simply conducting these new arrivals—”
“The Bitch Bull,” the man spat, swilling a glass of something dark brown before knocking it back in one massive swallow. “That’s what we used to call her. The Bitch Bull of Wall Street. And she earned it, too, oh boy, didn’t she? A real bitch she was then, and an even bigger one now. But she’ll get what’s coming to her, mark my words. This weekend, the Bitch Bull will finally be castrated.”
Chapter Four
“Okay!” Abraham said brightly, clapping his hands together. “Moving on. Cocktail hour is at five, though I see you’ve gotten a head start on that, Mr. Sheffield. Can’t be late!”
“Who was that?” Kate whispered as Abraham led them out of the portrait gallery, where the man glared his revenge at Rebecca’s portrait.
“Marcus Sheffield,” Abraham whispered with dramatic distaste, shaking his head. “He and Ms. Hempstead were once… paramours.”
“Those two used to root?” Jake said in surprise. “He sounded like he wanted to fuck herover.”
“Well, I said once upon a time,” Abraham said, eyes gleaming at the chance to impart some NDA-free gossip. “According to my sources, they were young and in love, and Mr. Sheffield swore he wanted to marry her. She had a great deal of restrictions on her, being the Hempstead heir and all. Her father didn’t approve. Apparently, Mr. Sheffield was quite the drinker and gambler back then.”
“Still is, by the look of that nose,” Kate murmured.
“Right?” Abraham said gleefully, tapping the side of his own nose for emphasis. “Ms. Rebecca was going to run away with him. But whenshe got to the airport, he was a no-show. Her father had gotten wind of the scheme and offered him an obscene amount of money to buzz off, and he took it like the fly he is. Broke her heart, and she swore vengeance on him.”
“Marcus Sheffield!” Kate gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Now I recognize that name! The Sheffield takeover. Oh my gosh, that’shim? I didn’t even think he was still alive after everything he went through.”
It had been one of the more sensational bits in Kate’s Google deep dive, which was really saying a lot, considering the Hempstead family history. In the early eighties, before Rebecca had really earned her reputation on the market, she’d staged a hostile takeover of a small family business that had just been listed publicly. But instead of buying up shares at a fair rate, she brutalized them in the marketplace first, fueling rumors of corruption and incompetence, driving the stock price down to almost zero before scooping up the ashes of what remained at a fraction of their value. It had earned her the Bitch Bull reputation and cemented her reign of terror over the market.
“What’s he doing here this weekend?” Kate whispered, glancing back toward the man at the far end of the gallery.
“Bad luck for Ms. Rebecca, his son is Kennedy’s godfather,” Abraham said. “Boarding school buddies. And Ms. Kennedy is very,veryprecious about family, even questionably extended family. So here he is, on her private island, making it his personal mission to drink through the whisky supply before Sunday.”
“I’m surprised Rebecca let him set foot on the island,” Kate said, shaking her head before cocking it to the side. “Actually, I’m surprised she letanyoneset foot on the island this weekend. I thought she had a reputation as a recluse.”
“Oh, she didnotwant to,” Abraham said, pausing just before the exit leading out of the portrait gallery into the main house. “Again, sources I can’t divulge, but when Kennedy asked her about hosting the wedding here, Rebecca refused. But Ms. Kennedy has an iron streak up that sweet spine of hers. She went behind Rebecca’s back to the board of trustees atthe Hempstead Family Trust and requested a vote. She beat Rebecca byone vote. Hers.”
“Yikes,” Kate murmured. She couldn’t imagine sweet, people-pleasing Kennedy Hempstead going up against someone as formidable as Rebecca Hempstead, even if the woman was her aunt. Kate couldn’t even stand up to her dry-cleaner lady, who always overcharged her for dresses. Maybe the girl had more to her than Kate realized.