by Sasha Morgan
‘A house-warming party,’ Gary supplied.
‘Yes, and he seemed…’ Tracy trailed off.
‘Unapproachable?’ Viola offered.
‘Er… just a bit aloof, I’d day,’ finished Tracy hesitantly.
‘Even though he was happy to take your money,’ concluded Viola.
Gary coughed with unease. ‘Yeah, but he did invite us to his wedding.’
‘And made us feel very welcome,’ Tracy conceded.
Viola gave a quick nod and moved onto the next question.
After a shaky start, Viola rounded the interview off on a positive note, asking about their future, possible children, and telling them how lucky they were to have such a beautiful home. All in all, the experience had gone relatively OK.
Although Gary wasn’t as jubilant when seeing the television crew off, he returned to the lounge looking fairly optimistic.
‘How do you think it went?’ Tracy asked.
‘I think we came across quite well, don’t you?’
‘Hmm, I hope so.’ She had a very uneasy feeling about the whole experience now.
28
Flora was shattered. Running around after Dylan as well as taking care of the training yard was taking its toll. Dark circles hung below her eyes. Dylan was now managing to get up and about a bit, but he hadn’t returned to work full time yet. Instead, he did as much paperwork as possible from home, leaving Flora to attend to the staff and horses.
She had just ridden a horse at full pelt down the all-weather woodchip gallops and felt invigorated. She passed the stables, which were being mucked out by the busy grooms. Fresh hay and buckets of water stood outside, ready to replace yesterday’s.
Marching into the office, she heard the phone ring. Quickly picking up the receiver, she was just about to speak when a voice barked at her. ‘Is that Delany’s Racing Yard?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Where’s Dylan Delany then?’ Affronted by the sharp tone, Flora decided to tread carefully.
‘He’s unavailable at the moment. Can I help you? I’m the assistant trainer.’
‘Suppose you’ll do.’
Charming. Flora paused, waiting for the rather angry voice to continue, which it did without any prompting.
‘I need someone to look at my horse. It’s a bloody waste of space and costing me a bloody fortune.’
‘Who’s speaking, please?’ Flora asked, her instincts started to ring warning bells.
‘Roper, Graham Roper. I own Phoenix Rising, but the only thing that horse is rising is my blood pressure, plus the fees it’s costing me to keep it!’ he thundered.
Flora knew this horse. She’d seen Phoenix Rising run a few times. The reason Flora remembered the poor horse was because he had trailed in last every time, and received a good thrashing from each frustrated jockey who had ridden him. Flora’s heart went out to the beautiful horse, with its rich brown coat that shone like French-polished mahogany. Instantly she acted on her gut feeling. Where horses were concerned, Flora’s intuition was invariably spot-on.
‘We’ll look at Phoenix for you,’ she smoothed, trying to sound professional, as well as calming the irate owner down.
‘You will?’ He sounded surprised as well as relieved.
‘Yes. Where is he at the moment?’
‘Here, in my stables. It’s been in a few training yards. The last one was Fox’s, but I’ve just had a blazing row with that idiot Sean Fox and told him where to go.’ She could imagine. Seamus’ dad, Sean Fox, was renowned for his fierce temper. Graham Roper would have made a fine match for him. Meanwhile, a horse was suffering, thought Flora bleakly.
‘Can you deliver him tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘I can deliver the lump today,’ retorted Roper with a snort.
Flora closed her eyes. She hated any kind of cruelty to an animal but knew a conversation with Dylan was necessary before agreeing to take the horse that day.
‘I need to speak to Mr Delany first—’
‘Tell him, he either takes my horse, or it’s heading for the knacker’s yard,’ cut in an ice-cold voice.
Flora’s eyes filled. ‘Tomorrow. Bring Phoenix tomorrow morning, first thing.’
‘Right you are.’ The phone slammed down.
Flora took a deep breath and decided to head off home early. She desperately needed to speak to Dylan.
Dylan was propped up by his bureau, papers spread out before him. He’d been busy contacting owners and chasing up fees, plus arranging for all the horses’ six-monthly blood tests.
He half turned to Flora, not expecting to see her this early. ‘Everything OK?’ he asked, still looking at his paperwork.
‘No.’
Dylan stopped what he was doing. She had his full attention now. ‘What is it Flora?’ He frowned at the worried expression on her face.
‘We’ve had a call from some owner called Graham Roper.’
Dylan shook his head. ‘Grim Reaper more like,’ he muttered.
‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘Too right. He makes Sean Fox look like Father Christmas. He’s owned a few horses in his time, but he’s no horse lover.’
‘I gathered that. He wants us to train Phoenix Rising.’
Dylan sucked in a breath; he too had seen this horse run. ‘Have you seen its form?’
Flora sighed. ‘I know, but, Dylan, you should have heard the way he was talking. He sounds a complete ogre. That poor horse is going to suffer unless we take it on. Sean Fox has tried.’
Dylan gave a harsh laugh. ‘I bet he has,’ he replied, knowing full well just how Sean Fox would have dealt with it.
‘I said he could drop him off tomorrow morning,’ Flora stated quietly.
‘What?’ Dylan’s eyes widened.
‘Please, Dylan, he says Phoenix is for the knacker’s yard otherwise.’
Dylan could see how upset she was, but they were running a business, not a charity.
‘Flora, I’m sorry, but I really don’t think this is viable.’
‘I’ll sort him. I’ve the patience,’ she countered, hope in her eyes.
Dylan swallowed. This was hard. It killed him to see her like this.
‘Just give me two weeks. If you don’t see any improvements then… then we’ll have to let him go.’ Her voice cracked as she finished speaking.
And this was before the horse had even got here, thought Dylan dubiously. He couldn’t fault Flora’s reasoning, though; two weeks wasn’t a lot to ask. He admired her passion, which was why she was his assistant trainer, he reminded himself. He also reminded himself of Flora’s hard work and commitment towards the yard and felt he couldn’t deny her this one request. With a heavy sigh, he relented.
‘OK. Two weeks.’
Flora went to hug him. ‘Oh, thanks, Dylan!’
He winced in pain as she squeezed his broken ribs.
*
The next morning, as arranged, Graham Roper pulled up at the training yard with Phoenix Rising in a trailer. Dylan chose to be there with Flora, not trusting Roper to do business decently with Flora. They both flinched at the way he was handling his horse, pulling roughly at the reins, tugging at its mouth. Flora couldn’t bear it. She rushed across and offered to take over. Immediately he flung the reins at her.
‘Help yourself,’ he said flatly. Dylan wanted to punch his arrogant face. ‘So, Delany,’ Graham Roper stared squarely at Dylan, ‘think you can do something with it, then?’
Dylan eyed him coolly. ‘We’ll do what we can.’ He was keen not to make any promises.
‘You’re its last chance,’ Roper replied, almost accusingly.
Dylan didn’t care for his tone or his attitude, and he was glad Flora had talked him into taking the horse. He looked towards Flora, who was gently stroking Phoenix. Even now, the horse was slightly trembling. Dylan also spotted the scars that the excess of whipping had caused and clenched his jaw.
‘I said, we’ll do what we can. He’s in good hands,’ Dylan reiterate
d in a steely voice.
‘Pah! Good luck with that.’ Roper flicked his hand dismissively. ‘Right, I take it there’s something to sign then?’
‘My office is this way,’ directed Dylan. He turned to speak to Flora, but she’d already gone. No doubt she’d taken the horse quickly away in case this monster changed his mind, thought Dylan wryly.
Inside the stables, Flora continued to sooth Phoenix’s jumping nerves. She softly massaged the horse’s strained muscles and back, then gently rubbed wound gel into the long, thin risen welts from the whip. Flora could see his hind legs were swollen. This could be for a number of reasons, but judging by the horse’s size and shape it wasn’t down to obesity or lack of exercise; more like trauma, she concluded with anger. She hosed the inflamed legs with cold water and applied liniment before bandaging them. Phoenix loved the way she pacified his tired flesh and butted her gently to carry on.
Flora laughed quietly. ‘You’re not used to this, are you, old boy?’ The horse neighed in reply and butted her again. Flora flung her arms round his neck. ‘It’s all right, Phoenix. You’re safe now.’
*
Sebastian was feeling anything but safe. He took a steady breath and prepared himself as he walked into the doctor’s surgery. He hadn’t had to wait long before his name was called to go through.
‘Hello, Sebastian,’ Dr Giles smiled. ‘Take a seat.’ Once Sebastian was sitting opposite his desk, he asked the usual, ‘So, what can I do for you?’ He’d noticed Sebastian’s slight limp as he’d entered, plus the pale, tired face.
Sebastian coughed slightly, ‘I feel exhausted all the time and my leg appears to be dragging sometimes.’
Dr Giles nodded. ‘I see. When does it seem to drag?’
‘After about forty minutes’ walking or jogging. Also, when I’m really tired.’
‘Do you suffer any cramps?’
‘Yes. At night my leg often spasms.’
‘Have you experienced any other symptoms?’
‘No, not really. Just the tiredness and dragging leg.’
Dr Giles rose from behind his desk. ‘I’ll just take a look at you.’ He reached for a small, silver torch and shone it in Sebastian’s eyes. Then he asked him to sit on the side bed and tested his reflexes by tapping below his kneecaps. All the while his face was set in concentration, giving very little away. Sebastian tried to read any signs at all, but the doctor’s expression remained impassive. Finally, after examining him thoroughly, Dr Giles directed Sebastian back to his chair.
‘Do you think I should consider physiotherapy?’ he asked.
The doctor looked squarely at him. ‘You could try physiotherapy. It certainly wouldn’t do any harm,’ Sebastian sensed a ‘but’ coming, ‘but, I think we need to delve a little deeper.’
Sebastian gulped. ‘How deep?’
‘I’m going to refer you to a neurologist.’
‘A neurologist?’ he squeaked.
Dr Giles nodded slowly, ‘Yes, Sebastian, a neurologist.’
29
It was the evening before the television crew’s visit to Treweham Hall and Marcus’ stomach was in knots. Now that he had finally got what he had craved for, the prospect was rather daunting. He reminded himself exactly why he was in Treweham. He had orchestrated the whole thing: the documentary, the location and the subject. For months he had been planning and plotting this moment, when he could expose the Cavendish-Blakes for what they really were.
He badly needed more information on the late Richard Cavendish-Blake (refusing to think of him as ‘Dad’). In order to dismantle the man’s reputation and good name Marcus had to learn more about him. All he knew was that apart from siring him and not supporting his mother, Richard Cavendish-Blake had left two other sons, a wife and his ancestral home. Again, the notion of revealing himself as his bastard son passed through his embittered, cynical mind, but without proof – which he didn’t have – it was futile. The last thing he wanted was to appear foolish or, even worse, a fraud. Marcus had a reputation, a professional high standing, and he most definitely didn’t want that being sullied in any way. Plus, he had his pride, and his pride for his mother, he thought fiercely. There was no way his mother’s memory was going to be tainted either.
His reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. Hoping it wasn’t Viola, he was relieved to hear Finula’s voice.
‘Marcus, are you there?’ Instantly his restless mind calmed and he opened the door with a relaxed smile. She never failed to cheer him up. The sight of her creamy, white complexion, bright eyes and riotous red curls dissolved any feelings of anger.
‘Come in,’ he opened the door fully.
‘I’m so excited about tomorrow,’ Finula gushed. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?’ She searched his face for an answer.
‘Just be your usual, lovely self,’ he assured her, with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall. His gaze travelled over her svelte body and his need for her started to grow. He could feel a slow, burning sensation start to rise from within. All of a sudden he didn’t want to be here, in this room, in The Templar, with her father under the same roof. He yearned to take her someplace else, away from everyone.
‘Finula, after we’ve finished shooting at Treweham Hall, I’m thinking of going home for a quick break. Do you fancy coming along?’
She looked at little startled. ‘You’re going back to Shropshire?’ Again, that charming, black and white Tudor cottage sprung to mind and her heart leapt.
‘Only for a couple of days. There’s things I could be doing at home.’ He had renovated his cellar into a studio, with all the necessary screens, recording and editing equipment he needed to work from home.
‘I’d love to come,’ she answered with enthusiasm. Something told him she was never going to play it coy and he wasn’t disappointed.
‘Good, because I’d love you to come.’ Wouldn’t he just.
He moved forwards, staring intensely into her eyes. Finula’s heart started to pound as he advanced towards her. Marcus was looking dangerously handsome in black jeans and an olive-green shirt, which revealed a touch of hair at the opening. His eyes glistened with mischief, inches away from hers. Then he lowered his face and gently kissed her. His lips were soft and probed hers, then his kiss became stronger and more forceful as his tongue slid across hers, making her jolt in delight. Her arms reached round his neck, pulling him further in to her. Finula could feel his heart hammering against her chest. He tugged her closer still and his kiss became deeper. Her hands ran into his short, dark hair and he groaned with pleasure.
‘Finula, I want you so much,’ he whispered thickly into her ear.
His throbbing erection pressed hard against her. She was melting under his touch. His fingers traced the outline of her chest, his thumbs circling the stiff nipples. Finula cried out in desire, then ran her hands down his body to rest just below his jeans waistband. She delved lower and brushed the tip of his pulsing shaft.
‘My God, Finula,’ he growled with lust, feverishly unbuttoning her blouse to reveal a white, silk bra bursting with two heaving breasts he ached to taste. He dipped his head to lick the rosebud tips protruding from the edge of the silk, then stopped abruptly at hearing another knock on the door. Finula gasped, the two of them urgently separated and she hurriedly fastened her buttons back up. Cursing under his breath, Marcus strode over to the door, whilst Finula quickly hid to the side of the room. ‘This had better be good,’ she heard Marcus mutter as he opened the door, then froze as she listened to his next words. ‘Ah, Dermot, what can I do for you?’
‘Have you seen Finula? I’ve been looking for her everywhere.’
‘Er… no.’
Finula stifled a giggle. It was the first time she’d heard Marcus uncertain of himself.
‘Well, if you do, tell her she’s needed at the bar!’ Dermot spoke the last few words loudly, clearly for her benefit, not believing Marcus one bit.
‘Yes, will do,’ Marcus replied. De
rmot eyed him with a knowing look and disappeared.
Finula doubled over laughing at Marcus’ face.
‘It’s not funny,’ he said in exasperation. ‘The sooner we’re in Shropshire, the better.’
30
Tobias was waiting patiently in his study. It was 10.30 a.m. and he’d been up since the crack of dawn giving strict instructions to all the staff. He reiterated to them all, including Henry, how they were to be fully aware of the visitors from the film crew who would be invading the Hall. He stressed discretion. He also informed them where the boundaries lay for the filming. Anyone seen beyond these areas had to be reported immediately to him. Basically, the television crew were allowed in all the rooms that were already opened to the public, plus the library, which was where he was to be interviewed. Sebastian had chosen to be interviewed outside in the grounds, so Tobias had given permission for them to shoot there too. All the other private rooms, especially their south-wing suite, were strictly forbidden territory.
Megan was overseeing the tearoom. She had asked the kitchen staff to provide refreshments there for the documentary team. It seemed the ideal place, as Tobias was so keen to keep them at arm’s length. She was now approaching her sixth month of pregnancy and was as radiant as ever, in a dark, plum dress with a matching cashmere pashmina. Megan was at pains to look elegant and business-like, whereas Tobias had stubbornly chosen to wear casual jeans and a check shirt, determined not to make any effort. Sebastian, too, appeared completely relaxed in combat trousers and a grey, long-sleeved T-shirt as he threw Zac’s ball up and down the Great Hall, encouraging the black Labrador to scurry across the tiled floor, much to Henry’s distaste.
Lady Cavendish-Blake was at fever pitch. Badly put out at not being included in the interviews, she had decided to wow the film people with a floaty, lilac creation she had bought especially for today. The accompanying fascinator seemed rather over the top, but was totally Beatrice. Tobias had rolled his eyes at the vision of layered lilac that was his mother, whilst Megan and Sebastian had exchanged amused looks.