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"Sisters, you both sound idiotic; it's forehead. Now please,"
A car ride with four men is hellish.
That's what Thomas is currently thinking about. Correction, a car ride with four vigorous-war-torn men, is unbearable. Here Tommy is sitting in between Arthur and Alfie, ears this close to being deaf. The three of them, including John in the front seat, hideously sang wartime songs. No, calling it singing would be an insult to the word itself, more like screaming at the top of their lungs to the lyrics of wartime songs.
With him being pressed in the middle, Thomas couldn't do anything, let alone escape. He had asked the three of them to stop their yammering multiple times by now, with a calm and collected tone. Each time, they would stop. Then to only continue the ear-bleeding sound right after they talk about the olden war days. It's a never-ending cycle of death.
Hence when Eaton Hall came into view, standing tall with all its glory, Thomas let out an exasperated sigh. All five men, the chauffeur included, gaped at the colossal estate laying in front of them. Lord Hugh Grosvenor seemed to not skip on luxury wherever he goes. Alfie took off his top hat, "Holy fuckin-"
"Exactly." Tommy whistled. Both Arthur and John hadn't spoken a single word yet, still gaping at the vast grounds of Eaton Hall. Two footmen greeted them as soon as the car doors open. The taller one spoke with a clear Scottish accent, "Welcome to Eaton Hall, sirs. If you would follow me, I will take you to Lord Grosvenor's offices where he's already waiting for your arrival."
"We shall." John jokingly bowed. Thomas shot him a bemused glance.
Whispers about the details of Lord Grosvenor's mega estate did It no justice. Thomas' informants have detailed the manor as grand and richly. When, in fact, it was more than that. It was Grand, Richly, and Exquisite. Even Mr Barclay, the private investigator, seemed to get a few things wrong. This... Palace was not fit for only a lord. It would work for a king.
"Oi, look." Arthur pointed to a portrait hung proudly at the centre of the entrance.
It was a portrait of the Grosvenors, brightly lit with two small scone lights on either side of the picture. The picture had Lord Hugh and, who Tommy assumes is his wife, sitting on a luxurious velvet settee with an air of absolute aristocracy.
How they sat, how they smiled, it laced with an atmosphere called nobility.
Thomas lingered on the late Duchess of Westminster's facial features. She was alluring, something Tommy was sure she passed on to her children. Specifically, her daughters. Alluring was an understatement, actually. Lady Grosvenor had a unique beauty that he couldn't prescribe.
Behind them, of course, stood their ever-so-proud children. Heads held up high, smiles dashing, faces gorgeous as ever. Robert, the eldest, stood behind his father wearing a – indeed- expensive three-piece suit. His handsome face was decorated with a dashing smile that would put damsels' cheeks red like a tomato.
Thomas' eyes surfed through the picture. His eyes caught familiar warm brown ones; his breath stopped for a millisecond.
Irene was arrestingly ravishing in the picture. As heavenly as she would on the daily, though the photograph put a particular light on her. Her eyes, warm honey brown, had a glint of particular mischief in them. Thomas couldn't tear his eyes from her smile, though it was the most beautiful smile Irene has ever mustered. Not the tight smiles or the small ones she would give him when annoyed or when Thomas ignores her suggestions.
The kind of smile that would put world leaders to their knees for how mesmerizing it is. The smile that could bring on wars and make peace. A warm sun melting the morning the morning's cold dew. The heiress stood in the middle, arms linked with Isabelle while her palms rested on her parents' shoulders.
"Pretty as a fucking picture," Said Alfie, eyes fixated on a certain sister of Irene's.
Thomas shifted his eyes slowly to the boys, all of them still soaking in the picture. The footman's steps haltered once he realized his entourage had stopped, "Ah, that photo. You know, everyone that has come through those doors would do exactly what you're doing, sirs. Their steps would cease to exist, eyes would be fixated on that majestic picture."
The footman walked back slowly to meet the rest of them, "This was taken about nine years ago. Suddenly, the Duchess of Westminster, may she rest in peace, wanted a family portrait to be taken and hung up. Was a bad time, really."
John pulled out the toothpick in his mouth, eyes still glued to the wall, "Bad time, how?"
"You see there, Lady Irene had just gotten into a fight with her mama. Something about her monthly allowance wasn't enough,"
Of fucking course.
"And Lady Imogen and Lady Isabelle had been fighting all week about all sorts of things. While the men of the house had been busy with a business expansion to India and Monaco. In essence, it was bad timing." The next sentence shunned the four men, "All of them were miserable when the Duchess had passed away the day after."
All two sets of heads turned almost too immediately. The footman shot them a tight smile before cleared his throat, "Right, let's make haste. Better not keep His Majesty waiting."
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Once again, Thomas found himself to be amazed by the Duke of Westminster's country house workplace. When the ornate mahogany doors opened, Thomas and his entourage were greeted by the duke. He looked up from his papers, lifting his whiskey-filled crystal enthusiastically, "Shelby!"
Hugh Grosvenor was a jolly man for someone very much feared in both the business and aristocratic world. Thomas mustered up his best smile, which ended up looking tight-lipped, "Lord Grosvenor."
His blue eyes shifted to the oldest Grosvenor offspring lounging on a seat. Robert's eyes turned into slits when Thomas's eyes fell into his. The fucking goof had a cocky smile on as he took a drag from his cigar, "Mr Shelby." Thomas nodded lazily in return; having Robert in front of him reminded Thomas of Irene. Where is she in this colossal manor? What is she doing right now?
Probably somewhere being a spoilt hungover.
Robert's eyes moved to Alfie, though he didn't say anything. Only, the duke's son's expression hardened on both Thomas and Alfie. Thomas's guessing Robert found out about his second sister's latest transfer to Alfie's service. All a scheme invented by Hugh, Thomas, and Alfie himself
"Sit, sit. Oh, I forgot. Mr Solomons!" The duke ushered them to sit on a settee near the windows, just a bit hidden from the doors. Thomas, Alfie, and his brothers looked quite hysterical, elbow to elbow, knee to knee. The five of them, including Robert, looked like children about to be reprimanded by their father. The duke turned, "Whiskey? Cigar, perhaps?"
"Whiskey for us." Said Arthur, pointing to John, Tommy, and himself. Alfie paused, "Cigar is fine for me."
"Of course, my partners. James, go fetch another chair or something; these men look cramped!" Hugh nodded at his butler. The latter then scurried along as the duke approached his minibar.
Giving each of them, barring Alfie, a glass of Whiskey, the duke said, "Right, shall we begin?"
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Three and a half hours later, they're already halfway through the expensive whiskey bottle, frustratingly discussing business plans and schemes, their coats and hats strewn about the room. Robert was pacing on the floor, "Frankly, I believe that to be the stupidest idea –thank you, James."
"And why would that be?" Alfie challenged, his face contorted into an, in Thomas's opinion, irritating look Thomas hates. He shot Alfie a knowing look before Robert threw his hands up; turning to his father, he said, "Please tell me you're not actually considering this, papa." The duke lifted up his palm to calm his son.
He leaned back into his chair before rubbing his chin, "Well, why don't you indulge us with the reason why it would be an unintelligent move, son."
"Well, where do I start. First-"
Robert's intervention was cut short by the door banging open. All eyes were on the two women entering the room. Correction, two women, staggering into the room like two undignified drunkards. One's brunette, one's golden-haired.
Is that...?
"Afternoon, papa," Irene stumbled onto his father's desk, knocking the bottle of Whiskey down. Her hands reached out to grab it, only to make her lose more balance and flounder over the foot of the desk. What a fucking mess.
Thomas's small smile, though, didn't go unnoticed by Alfie.
"I believe Isabelle Florence Deschanel-Grosvenor, has something to say to you." Irene continued, putting a hand on her hip as the other one pointed at the duke. Hugh Grosvenor glanced back at Thomas and his entourage, looking as awkward as ever. "Daughters."
Robert's arm shot up protectively to help his embarrassingly stumbling sisters, "Soeurs, I believe now is not a good time..." His eyes took a quick glance behind him towards Thomas, Alfie, Arthur, and John. All of them hiding a laugh with a tight-lipped smile. "No, Robert! You need to grow a pair and – and, stand up to our papa!" The older sister yanked Robert's arm with much force, though the brother hardly budged.
The second sister nodded solemnly, "That's right. Do you know how miserable we are working for that... Thomas." Isabelle dragged out the s like a snake.
It was interesting to Thomas; how Isabelle has been quiet in front of him, though very much the opposite she's not. He always depicted her as the tranquil one out of the two. "Sister..." Robert reprimanded for the second time. By now, the duke's forehead had knitted up tightly.
"That's correct, papa. Thomas Shelby is a terrible man! He – he tortures me, papa. Me! Your beloved daughter. I – I felt a wrinkle on my headfore." Irene feigned a hand over her chest like it was indeed the greatest tragedy in this world. Both of them hadn't realized the man of the hour was behind them.
"A wrinkle; on the headfore." Isabelle retorted, now dramatically leaning over the desk with a petrified face.
"Sisters, you both sound idiotic; it's forehead. Now please,"
"And now, you want me to work for that – that terrifying, alcohol-smelling man? I saw a wart on his face, papa. A wart!" All heads turned to Alfie after what Isabelle had yelled. "I can't, papa. I – Oh, mon Dieu." Thomas glanced back at Irene, who was idiotically opening and closing her father's cigar box like it was some kind of magic as Isabelle fake-cried to her papa. These girls would be the death to them all. "Daughters..."
"What we're trying to say is that papa, we are tired of being your chess piece!" Isabelle, yet again, pointed at the duke. The latter rubbed his forehead tiredly. Irene bobbed her head excitedly, arms flailing about, "That's right. They're both terrible men, and we – ladies, are done."
The foot stomp at the end was adorable. What?
"Daughters!" Hugh held his hand up when Irene was about to yell something again; his eyes moved to Thomas and the boys. Taking the hint, Irene and Isabelle turned their heads. It was now Robert's turn to rub his head, "I told you."
Thomas loved seeing the colour drain from Irene and her sister's faces. Their mouths opened, but no coherent sound can be heard. Adding more salt – and comedy - to the wound, Alfie waved his hand, "Ello, ladies."
Thomas looked down, hiding his smile, before clearing his throat, "Ekhm."
The heiresses' eyes were as wide as saucers. Insulting your boss was one thing, but wounding two of the most feared gangsters, who are also your bosses, was another thing in the United Kingdom. That piece of mind might have sobered Irene and Isabelle a bit. They slowly turned to Hugh; Irene straightened her dress as Isabelle cleared her throat. Both of them threw Thomas and Alfie a sickly sweet smile.
"You – Excuse us, gentlemen." Isabelle backed to the door right after she pointed at Robert, making a slicing neck movement. The brother shrugged as he chuckled lightly.
"As you were." The older sister followed, her bejewelled hands fumbled around. When her eyes met Thomas's blue ones, she froze. Irene shot an innocent wide smile that made Thomas perplexed. Thomas presumed the heiress yelped when she was pulled out from the room by one of her sisters.
"Daughters, looking after them is equivalent to guarding a pack of lions. A spoilt pack of lions, to be exact."
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"I want to thank both of you for returning my daughters safe and sound last night. As you just saw, my daughters aren't precisely fans of restraints," The Duke of Westminster glided across the floor to the sitting area. He grasped both Alfie and Thomas's shoulders tightly, "Glad nothing happened to them."
Hugh Grosvenor had implicitly said, You gangsters mess with my girls or any associated with them, I will bring hell to you and watch you burn to a crust.
Both clan leaders are aware of what this is—an ultimatum. Ah, the terrifying side of Lord Grosvenor everybody talked about has come out. Thomas and Alfie shared a knowing glance before the latter responded with his thick cockney accent, "Very glad, indeed, m'lord."
The duke changed his whole demeanour after releasing his claw; smiling as he said, "Right, I believe it's time for supper."
Right before they leave the room, Alfie pulled Thomas's arm,
"Why do I get the feeling that the duke is a much scarier man than I had presumed?"