“I hate this place.” Winston murmured at the twinkling Parisian lights as they past.

“Keep your voice down. The chauffeur will hear you.” His mother waved her gloved hand.

“Please,” Dean added. “He doesn’t speak English …” he looked toward the front of the limo. “…do you, monsieur?” The driver grinned but said nothing. “God, get me out of here.” He raised the tinted partition, eliminating the chauffeur’s very existence. He smiled at his mother’s scornful frown and was, as always, forgiven for his cheekiness. Such was her children’s affect on her.

“Winston?” She straightened her gloves at the elbow and adjusted her beaded evening gown. “Will you be attending Westminster next month?”

Winston pulled his emerald eyes inside the car. “Does father’s will bequest I go?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“There’s your answer.” He smiled and winked at his younger sister, Sadie.

“Don’t say such things. Sadie might take you seriously.”

“I doubt it. She doesn’t listen to a word we say.” Dean kneed his sister causing her leaflet to crinkle.

“Are you coming?” His mother asked him.

“Not if I can help it.”

“Listen to this!” Sadie kneed Dean back. She cleared her throat and mocked a British accent. “All proper society will be attending tonight’s The Graydon Charity Ball. Mister and Mrs. Graydon are pleased to announce their longtime friends, Mrs. Stanley Bellamy and their recently introduced daughter, Sadie, will be escorted by the Bellamy twins, Dean and Winston. This is the Bellamy family’s first formal engagement since the death of their patriarch last November …”

Winston snatched the paper from her hands and read in horror. “Following tonight’s ball, the Bellamys will join several other patrons at Lion’s Head, the palatial estate of Mr. Graydon, for a week long house party …” he turned an exhausted eye to Dean. “Why would they print this shit? Why not just fly it overhead!”

“Well well well. The sharks are circling.” Mrs. Bellamy said. “Does it mention Dean’s trip to Monaco after the funeral?” Her eyes narrowed on her son. “I knew where you were. You and Winston have your father’s good looks and charisma—it’s a shame you don’t use your powers for good. Your words and behavior cut like knives, and everyone still loves you.”

“Of course they love me. I’m your son.”

“His greatness lies in his ability to appear genuinely gracious and vulnerable while simultaneously not giving a fuck what people think of him.”

“Why thank you, sir. Capital assessment.” Dean’s dimpled smile mirrored his twin.

“That’s more of a family trait than a singular accomplishment.” Sadie snatched her paper from Winston.

“You’ll be thirty-five next year.” Her sons stared at her as if she was an alien life form. “You have to settle down. The both of you.”

Winston and Dean looked at one another. “She … she isn’t serious, is she?” Winston asked quietly.

“No …” Dean studied his mother more closely. “… the blue vein in her forehead isn’t throbbing; she’s not serious.” He placed his hand lovingly on his mother’s knee and spoke loudly. “You’re not serious, are you, Mum?”

“I’m not deaf and I’m perfectly serious,” Mrs. Bellamy said to Sadie’s amusement. “Winston, you’re the ‘good’ twin … well, you’re the lesser of two evils. You should put your head in the noose first.”

“What?! I’d planned on waiting until I was an old, embittered alcoholic.”

“You drink?!” Sadie’s doe eyes looked cartoonish.

“No, we don’t drink.” The twins replied in unison.

“Mother, you make marriage sound so appealing when you refer to it as a noose. No wonder we avoid it like the plague.” Dean corrected his bowtie in the overhanging mirror. “Beside, cousin Bart said marriage is the leading cause of testicular cancer in our family—or something to that affect.”

“What does he know? He doesn’t have any balls.” Winston rolled his eyes.

“You’re wrong; he has balls. He told me about them just last week.” Dean lifted the mirror back in place. “Apparently, he had his first wet dream and wanted to know if I’d ever had one. I told him no—I was too busy having the real thing.”

“I don’t want you labeled as a womanizer.”

“Mother, Dean isn’t a womanizer—serial flirt, maybe, but not a womanizer.”

“Thank you, Winston. And I have no intention of marrying or even serving breakfast, for the matter, to any woman I sleep with. Catch and release is what I do. You see, Mother, I have it all: I’m well versed both socially and scholarly, and I have pedigree and capital. And I doggedly adhere to the acceptable codes of conduct which maintain my position. And thanks to you and Father, I’m quick-witted and I have rapier-sharp intellect—and might I add, I’m damn good looking.” He paused for affect. “Still, I’m a humble renaissance man—a progressive, even.”

“Which means you’ll fuck your way through social barriers.” Winston interjected.

“Exactly!” Dean said then turned back to his mother. “Any woman fooled by the likes of me isn’t worthy of being your daughter in-law.”

“See, Mother. There’s a method to his madness.” Sadie beamed.

“Just … don’t come home with any illegitimates. The Rickmans are going through hell with their little bastard—you can’t buy back your past.” Mrs. Bellamy sighed as the car came to a stop and the ballroom’s doorman reached for the car door. “Please behave yourself. Remember, Sadie’s future husband may be in attendance.” The door opened and she took the gloved hand presented her.

Sadie shook her head at her brothers.

“Don’t worry …” Winston stepped from the car and took Sadie’s slender hand. Her tiny chocolate ringlets pushed up in something resembling a French roll and her rosy cheeks made it difficult to believe she was fourteen. “… we won’t let her marry you off—not for a very long time.”

Mrs. Bellamy’s concerns for her sons were well-founded. They had long, slim, yet well-defined bodies; smooth, strong legs, and asses you could bounce quarters off …. and they knew it. How could they not? Everyone told them so, including her and her late husband. In truth, Winston and Dean were exceptional: precariously smart, devilishly charismatic, and intuitive beyond their years. Even amongst their circle they were somewhat of an enigma, where it is often said had they not been born with silver spoons in their mouths, there was no doubt they would’ve built their fortune themselves. But fate is a funny maneuvering thing—Winston and Dean had it all based solely on their ability to snake their way down the birth canal and land comfortably in the doctor’s hands without putting up too much of a fuss.

Such is life.


                                                         *****


Winston stood at the far end of the ballroom watching the old guard pay their respects to his mother and the arriviste fawn over his brother. Sadie and her gaggle of debutantes slipped outside past their former chaperones and were happily lying on the grassy hill under a blanket of stars, destroying their finery.

“Hello Winston!”

Just as Winston pushed the mindless dribble of a group of men standing nearby out of his head—just as he was beginning to mellow and enjoy the evening, Bart, the hyperactive dwarf, appeared, virtually pissing on his mood. “Hi … Bart.” he said, steadying himself for the inquisition.

“Your mother and sister are staying with my mother. Are you staying in Paris?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Lion’s Head.”

“Lion’s Head? Why not Dean’s place?” Bart asked.

“The contractors are two weeks over schedule.” Winston felt as if he were on trial for murder. “Besides, we patrons—we must try and play nicely with others, no matter how annoying they are.” he said snubbing a passerby.

“How long are you in town?”

“Just the week. You?”

“Same. We’ve been here all week.” He nodded at a young lady. “Mother assumed you’d arrive much earlier than today.”

“How does anyone know when we arrived? Why do they care?” Irritation seeped into Winston’s tone. Bart was unaffected.

Bart gave their family smirk. “You’re a Bellamy. Our presence is heralded by the angels, though some are heralded louder than others.” He took a sip from his snifter and gestured across the room towards Dean and three people he identified as Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood and their niece, Rebecca. Bart, annoyingly informed and privy to everyone’s personal business, had his uses. “Mr. Lockwood’s father made the family’s fortune quite literally in shoveling shit … or at least that’s where it began, on the dust heaps. Like most things, necessity breeds innovation, and he invented a tram system that sold like hotcakes. The present Mr. Lockwood inherited everything. Then, five years ago, when it became apparent that Mrs. Lockwood couldn’t conceive, they plunked Rebecca, the golden haired, fresh faced, jeweled eyed twenty-one year old daughter of his third cousin, from her obscure country upbringing in Canada and she became his sole heir.”

“She’s pretty. When she inherits his estate, she’ll have her pick of husbands.” Winston pointed out.

“She’s a romantic. Champagne, flowers, chocolates,” Bart scoffed. “She wants to be wooed.”

“Woo her then. You obviously have a thing for her.”

“Me? Go up against Dean?” Bart laughed aloud. “I don’t stand a chance. Besides, I don’t have the energy to woo anyone.” He looked up at Winston blankly. “We share a last name, the dimpled smile, and large bank account—but that’s where our similarities end. I don’t have the dark hair. I’m not tall or handsome or clever, and my sense of humor resembles sawdust. So, no, my aspirations are much, much lower. Unlike you and Dean, I understand my last name and my money are my calling cards.”

Winston looked, really looked at his squat, redheaded cousin for the first time in years. He was right, of course. He was a Bellamy in name only. Unlike Bart’s quest for love, Winston and Dean possessed a dangerous edge that worked to their advantage in the bedroom and boardroom. It was unfair, Bart was good natured; and whereas he dedicated himself to the family’s organization, Winston and Dean were obliged to limit their duties to the fundraiser ball and mandatory annual meeting. They loved Bart—yes, there were times when he annoyed them—but things were noticeably less interesting when he wasn’t around. “Ah, pygmy …” he wrapped his arm around Bart’s shoulders. “… you’ll find your piglet.” Just then, a black couple appeared in the entryway of the ballroom, waiting to be announced.

“Drs. Hamilton Mitcham.” The attendant called out. The gentleman whispered to him. “And their daughter Dr. Andrea Mitcham.”

A brandy complexioned lady with expressive eyes joined her father’s side. Her pale yellow dress dotted with crystals seemed to cascade over her delicate frame, with only a single string of diamonds calling attention to her slender neck. She corrected a curl which had fallen from her updo just as Mr. and Mrs. Graydon greeted her. She smiled warmly and tucked her arm into Mr. Graydon’s elbow as he went on to introduce her and her parents to a group of people nearby.

Winston was immediately struck dumb by her simplicity and quiet confidence. She, unlike the other women present, had a natural sense of self worth. She was above it all; however, when she spoke and laughed, she genuinely listened to the conversation. Try as he might, Winston couldn’t peel his eyes away from her.

“Who invited darkie?” one man from Winston’s left said. Winston and Bart turned stern eyes on them. “Sorry.” One of the men apologized.

“No, please, say it again.” Winston said coldly, silencing the men. Finally, one man spoke up.

“I asked who invited darkie.” The older of the men spoke up. This time his statement didn’t garner so much as a snicker.

“Thank you. Bart …” he said without taking his eyes off of the men. “… you know what to do.”

Bart handed Winston his glass and hurried off; returning minutes later with the host himself.

“Mr. Graydon …” Winston said, his eyes trained on the offender. “… I’d like you to introduce me to the Mitchams’ after you’ve escorted this gentleman off the premises.”

Though Mr. Graydon, who looked like Santa Claus, was old enough to be Winston’s grandfather, he didn’t question him. He nodded and walked the man through the crowd and out the door while the other men stood bolted in place.

“Excuse me.” Winston returned Bart’s glass and met Mr. Graydon half way across the floor.

“Does he always get what he wants?” a man asked Bart once Winston was out of earshot.

“Yes.” Bart replied with that Bellamy trademark detachment.


                                                           *****


“Do you live here in Paris, Mr. Bellamy?” Mrs. Lockwood asked Dean.

“Periodically. I keep a townhouse. However, my mother and sister see it more than I do, I’m afraid.”

“So, you’re close to your family?” Rebecca cut in abruptly and soon wished she hadn’t. “I … I ask because you’ve mentioned them a few times.”

“Yes, I’m very close to my family. I have a twin brother, Winston. He’s somewhere around here. I’ll be sure to introduce you later.” Visions of her tied to his bed having her brains fucked from her skull forced his lips into a smile.

“I’m trying to convince my husband to invest in a piece of property.” Mrs. Lockwood chuckled. “Staying in the grandest of hotels wears on you sooner or later.”

“The places in Paris are too small and there are no kitchens.” Mr. Lockwood grumbled.

“We don’t cook. Why do we need a kitchen?”

“It’s the principle of it all. Homes must have kitchens.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lockwood; I must agree with your husband. I renovated last year.” Dean clasped his hands behind his back. “We’re here for the next three days if you’d like to take a look around. Who knows, Mrs. Lockwood, you could win this battle.” He caught his mother’s eye; she fanned him over. “I should go. You have an open invitation.” He shook Mr. Lockwood’s hand and kissed Mrs. Lockwood on both cheeks, then turned to Rebecca. “Ms. Rebecca.”

“Wait,” she caught Dean’s wrist. “You were going to introduce me to your brother.”

Mentally, Dean patted himself on the back. Snagging Rebecca had taken only half the time he allotted. Mr. Lockwood nodded his approval, and then Dean placed his hand on Rebecca’s. “I’ll introduce you to my mother first.” He turned to her as he walked through the crowd. “So have you ever sucked cock?”

“No.” Rebecca blushed prettily.

“Would you like to suck mine?”


                                                         *****


“Drs. Mitcham,” Mr. Graydon said as he and Winston approached. “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Winston Bellamy.” He gestured between them. Winston was the picture of decorum, giving each of them his undivided attention. “Mr. Bellamy, this Dr. Hamilton Mitcham and Dr. Rhonda Mitcham.” He stopped short of introducing Andrea, prompting her father to speak. Silly archaic customs reduced perfectly sensible adults to sniveling children.

“Mr. Bellamy, this is our daughter, Dr. Andrea Mitcham.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Mitcham. Please call me Winston.” He queued up his formal manners. Andrea’s stunning eyes unnerved him more than he dared show. She, like many others, was judging him. Sadly, for Winston, her summation was correct; his blood was tainted with a smidgen of narcissism. But there was more, much more if she cared to look—which, given her indifference towards him, she did not. Andrea was intelligent, smolderingly sexy, and independent, but she also struck Winston as being fiercely proud.

“Nice to meet you, Winston,” Andrea extended her hand. “You can call me Dr. Mitcham.”

Winston acknowledged her jab with a slight lift of an eyebrow before turning his attention to her parents and making polite conversation. Dr. Hamilton Mitcham was the pioneering genius who bettered the instruments used in microsurgery; Dr. Rhonda Mitcham, who bore a striking resemblance to Phylicia Rashad, was a noted genealogist; and Andrea followed her father’s footsteps, specializing in neurosurgery. Their properties dotted America and the continent. They weren’t new to the social circle; however, they were particular about the company they kept; none more so than Andrea. Judging by her father’s colorful account of her blowing off a snotty barrister at last year’s Armory Art Show, she was a force to be reckoned with. And like himself, abhorred patron functions.

“I take it you’re lodging at Lion’s Head.” Winston said.

“Yes, this is our first year,” Hamilton replied. “It sounds like fun.”

“It’s an experience you’ll never forget.” Winston bit back his nasty comments about the drafty rooms, poor lighting, and noisy plumbing. They’d find out soon enough. “The grounds are lovely this time of year. I know them better than my own. I’d be happy to show you around.” He leaned into Hamilton and lowered his voice. “There’s rumored to be a Hellfire Club.”

“Sold,” Hamilton gave a broad, James Earl Jones toothy grin.

“Are you in Paris often?” Rhonda asked.

“No, I don’t care for Paris.” Winston replied, realizing too late the tone of his reply had been less than measured.

“If you don’t care for Paris, then how are you familiar with the gardens at Lion’s Head?” Andrea shot off curtly.

“Andrea!” Rhonda hissed.

“I’m not trying to be rude.” Andrea looked through Winston. “I’d like to know what sort of man I’m dealing with. Was your remark meant to impress us or are you a liar?”

“I’m neither.” For a man who wore his brutal honesty like a crown of thorns, Andrea’s pontification pushed her dangerously close to getting her ass told off. His voice was cold; and though his brilliant eyes were devoid of life, they lacked anger. A thin crescent smile curled his lips. “I don’t care for Paris. The gardens at Lion’s Head happen to be one of the few attractions I enjoy.” He turned to Hamilton, his demeanor light. “Mr. Graydon will attest; my father planted a number of trees in his park.”

“Oh yes!” Mr. Graydon broke his silence. “Stanley sent trees and landscape designs from his travels. I have a pineapple tree! We move it inside the conservatory during the colder months, but I have one!” His jolly tone lightened the mood.

Through the sea of people, Mrs. Bellamy summoned Winston. “I apologize for cutting our conversation short …” he gestured toward his mother. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see one another at the house.” He shook Hamilton and Rhoda’s hands. Andrea received a dry, half-hearted nod before he left.