She shook the thought from her head as she rang the bell and heard it echo through the house. It was loud, but then she supposed it would have to be in a place this big. She was surprised when a rather handsome man in his thirties opened the door, rather than a sinister-looking butler.
‘Lord Frampton?’ she asked, feeling more than a bit stupid. Despite her job, she’d never actually visited a member of the gentry at home before – at least, not in a capacity as strange as this one. Usually she was attending some dull function organised by the museum where she’d have to make small talk with Lord and Lady Such-and-Such, or Sir Yawn-a-Lot, and it had very little to do with real archaeology or history at all. That was presuming this was Lord Frampton standing in front of her and that it was, indeed, his home. Not that it looked very homely from the outside; she certainly wouldn’t want to live in its damp rooms.
‘Mrs Logan?’ he asked, his voice rich and deep, his accent perfect and clipped. He had strong, almost Nordic cheekbones, dark curly hair and a crisp, powder-blue shirt tucked into jeans along with brown loafers. In the split second she allowed herself to look into his dark eyes, she wasn’t quite sure whether what she saw there was arrogant pride or wry humour. She settled on a bit of both before tearing her gaze away.
‘Miss,’ she corrected. ‘But please call me Cesca.’
‘Then you must call me Will,’ he said, and there it was again; that indefinable quality in the depths of his eyes that she couldn’t quite interpret. He didn’t smile – far from it – but there was something about him that put Cesca at ease. How could this be the same man who had so adeptly riled her during their phone call earlier that day?
‘But you are Lord Frampton?’ she asked uncertainly.
‘Lord William Horatio Henry Frampton the sixteenth, Earl of Cerne Hay, actually. It’s a mouthful, however, so I tend not to insist on it.’ He opened the door and stepped back to admit her. ‘Would you like to see the painting?’
No chit-chat – straight to business. Cesca really couldn’t decide whether she liked him or not. It didn’t matter, of course, because it wasn’t her job to like him, only to establish the facts around his claim. She wondered whether she was overstepping her professional remit simply by being here at all.
She followed him through a huge lobby, monochrome-tiled floors leading to a sweeping oak staircase lined with portraits of what Cesca presumed to be his ancestors. Like the front of the house, the lobby had seen better days, and there was a distinct smell of damp.
‘You live here?’ she asked, finding it hard to mask the tone of incredulity in her voice.
‘Yes.’
Cesca almost felt sorry for him, living like this; he must love the house very much not to sell it to the nearest developer and get himself a trendy flat in Kensington. She was just about to say as much when he stopped at a doorway and opened it up to reveal a cosy sitting room. It was small in comparison to the rest of the house, but it was tastefully decorated and felt warm and comfortable.
‘I keep a few rooms habitable,’ he said, holding the door open for her. ‘It’s far too expensive to use the whole house, so I have the smaller kitchen, a bathroom, bedroom, a reception room – not that I get many visitors – and this room.’
‘It’s just you?’ Cesca asked, stepping in and watching as he closed the door behind them.
‘Mother lost her marbles and is residing in a very different type of home. Father died of a heart attack three years ago and my brother is currently detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’
Cesca’s hand flew involuntarily to her mouth.
‘Yes, it is quite shocking, isn’t it? His fall from grace is a long and complicated story and I won’t bore you with it now. Suffice to say, he was summarily disowned and disinherited by my father after being imprisoned. It was a devil of a thing to keep hushed up though.’
‘So he has no claim to the estate?’
‘I almost envy him that. I suspect his current abode is rather more luxurious and less costly than mine.’
‘Would he have a legal claim to the treasure?’
‘Treasure?’
‘I mean the find… Sorry, in our business “treasure” can mean all sorts of things, though people tend to assume it means huge caskets of gold.’
‘Ah. Well, I suppose that all depends on whether it is treasure or simply my lost property, doesn’t it?’
There was a flash of arrogance, a challenge in his reply. Cesca felt her hackles rise.
‘Assuming your family’s ownership is proved, then,’ she replied coldly. ‘If the gold does turn out to be yours, will your brother have a legal claim? That’s what I meant. At this moment in time it’s a hypothetical question because the coroner will have to establish the nature of the find and who it rightfully belongs to. If your evidence is as flimsy as you mentioned on the phone, I don’t see it going your way.’
He stared at her for a heartbeat. And then a slow smile lit his face.
‘I meant no offence.’
‘I didn’t take any offence. I’m simply stating the facts as I see them.’
‘As was I, Miss… Cesca.’
‘Good, Will. As long as we understand each other.’
‘Perfectly.’ Moving an armchair away from the wall, he dragged a huge, gilt-framed canvas from behind it. Painted on it was a faded portrait of a stern-looking man in sumptuous Tudor-era clothing. He bore a remarkable resemblance to the man currently holding it for inspection.
‘I’ve had to move it here to dry it out,’ he said. ‘But it quite clearly shows a ruby ring that was stolen from Lord William Thomas Henry Frampton in 1526, along with many other valuable items that were never recovered.’
Cesca moved in to take a closer look. There was no doubt that the ring in the painting looked like the one found at Silver Hill Farm. It wasn’t conclusive proof by any means, but it looked as though he might have a case after all. It was a shame, and her heart sank at the idea of that lovely woman at the farm receiving no reward given she’d been honest enough to declare the find. She had a feeling Harper Woods could probably do a lot of good with the money.
When she looked up again he was watching her eagerly. ‘You recognise it.’
‘No,’ Cesca lied. ‘Well, I can’t be sure. The gold found at Silver Hill needed some cleaning and it’s difficult to say. As I said before, this is the coroner’s decision.’
‘But you write the initial report,’ Will said. ‘Your recommendations are the starting point of the inquest. If you say the find is treasure and that the finders have a claim, they will work on that basis. If you say it isn’t, then the property may return to me.’
Cesca frowned; he’d done his homework and it wasn’t going to be as easy to fob him off as it was some. ‘I’m going to need more evidence than this. We’re talking, potentially, about a great deal of money.’
‘Of course we are. My money!’
Cesca took a step back. ‘If you’re going to be aggressive I’ll leave now.’
He smoothed a hand over his dark curls and his tone was calm again. ‘Please accept my apologies. You must understand – this could be a lifeline for Silver Hill House. The place is falling to pieces. You only need to look around to see how much my family needs this.’
‘From what I gather, there aren’t many of you left. So by your family you mean you?’
‘I mean for the family I hope to have one day. This house and land has been passed down through generations until it came to me. And what is this marvellous legacy I hold to pass to my own son or daughter? A heap of rotten bricks and the debt that comes with it.’
‘You could sell it.’
‘I could sell it, but then everything, a thousand years of family history, would be gone.’
‘That’s the case for a great many other people. Families living on any council estate in Britain have no idea who their family is four generations back, let alone forty-four, but they just get on with things regardless.’
‘I’m not such a soc
ial dinosaur that I don’t realise that,’ he said quietly. ‘But surely someone as passionate about history as you can understand what a loss it would be if this house passed to private developers.’
‘How do you know I’m passionate about history?’ she said, trying, but failing, not to crumble under the weight of his argument. She was quite unsure whether she liked him, but she was damned sure that she didn’t want his house to get turned into a swanky hotel or spa for pampered footballers’ wives. It was a tricky situation to be in and to admit that would make her position even more difficult. She could no more write the report in his favour than she could for the owner of Silver Hill Farm.
He gave her a small smile. ‘I read your professional profile, of course. Working-class family produces Oxford graduate – that’s quite an achievement. Internship in New York, postgraduate studies in antiquities and art history, first position at—’
Cesca held up her hand. ‘That’s enough. I can’t just write a report that says what you want it to based on this portrait, or how much I love history, or how I might want to save your home from whatever awful corporate fate might await it. I appreciate your position, I do, but you must appreciate mine.’
He paused, looked about to say something more, but then gave a stiff nod. Despite the set of his jaw, she could see that he was far more upset and desperate than he was letting on.
‘Can you find anything more?’ she asked. ‘Papers, other paintings – any kind of evidence to show beyond doubt that the jewels belonged to your family?’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said, his whole face transformed with new hope. ‘Thank you.’
Cesca waved away the gratitude. ‘I can’t make any promises, but if I can be armed with all the facts it will be helpful.’
‘Of course.’ He looked around the room, suddenly awkward.
‘I can see myself out,’ Cesca said, sensing that they were done for now, her head whirling with a million different thoughts and emotions. This was swiftly turning from the find of the century into the headache of the millennium.
She turned to leave and went back across the lobby, but he followed her anyway. Reaching around her, he opened the front door.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.
‘Honestly, there’s no need. I’m doing my job.’
‘Of course. Then thank you for coming so quickly.’
She had come out here quickly, hadn’t she? Why was that? She could have left it for a day or so and it wouldn’t have mattered, yet she had been in the car straight away. She shook the thought that perhaps this case was already getting under her skin far more than it ought to. And it didn’t help that, now he’d obviously got what he wanted from her, Lord William Horatio Henry Frampton the sixteenth, Earl of Cerne Hay, was looking decidedly attractive. Smiling suited him, though she had the feeling he didn’t do it often.
Stepping from the doorway, she almost ran for the car. Oh no you don’t, she chided inwardly. Oh no you bloody don’t.
Chapter 7
Allie pinned the invite back on the corkboard. Bloody weddings – if she had her way they’d all be banned. Had she been a kinder person, she’d message Shay McArthur, tell him what a huge mistake he was making and how he should run for his life. He might be in love now, but it wouldn’t last. She’d been in love, at the beginning, and she’d thought that Greg loved her. How wrong could someone be?
She would have to go, of course. Another afternoon of torture, smiling and making small talk and pretending to all the other guests that everything was alright. That was how they did things in Cerne Hay. Not turning up would invite even more gossip than going and having everyone scrutinise their obviously fractious relationship. For Greg that would be a doddle – his whole married life was a lie that he kept up with ease. Her feelings were harder to hide, but she would do it for Josh, who, at his age, didn’t need to know just how bad things were, and for the sake of keeping the nosey parkers of the village out of her business. Going to the wedding would set tongues wagging, but staying away would make things even worse.
It didn’t help her mood when she remembered what she’d seen in the local newspaper that had dropped onto the mat that morning: a full-page spread about the find at Silver Hill Farm that had very forcibly brought the matter to the forefront of her thoughts. They were such a perfect bloody couple, and now they were going to be rich too.
It was about right that Harper sodding Woods would get lucky. Perfectly pretty, thriving business, gorgeous man, and everyone in the village seemed to think she was some kind of saint, which was a bit weird when you thought about it because six months ago everyone was determined to hate her for the planning permission to build holiday lets she was seeking. If that woman fell in shit she’d come up smelling like Chanel No. 5.
‘What’s eating you?’
Allie spun round at the sound of Greg’s voice from the kitchen doorway, wrenched from her thoughts and feeling guilty for the ferocity of them. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Your face was like thunder.’
‘I had my back to you, so how do you know?’
‘I could tell by your posture.’ He sauntered over to the kettle, shook it to check the water level and flicked it on. Plunging his hands in his pockets, he looked at her steadily. God, she could slap him right now, and yet she just wanted to feel his arms wrapped around her, to hear him whisper in her ear that everything was alright, to feel his body pressed against hers and know that he wanted her.
‘I was just thinking about the wedding.’
‘What wedding?’
‘You know what wedding. Harper and Shay’s.’
‘We’re not going to have that conversation again, are we? I thought we’d already decided that we ought to go.’
‘To keep up appearances,’ she returned bitterly.
‘For the sake of everyone,’ he replied. ‘There are more people in this family than just you. I was born and raised in this village and the people here mean a lot to me. The same will go for Josh one day.’
‘It doesn’t mean we have to live in each other’s pockets.’
‘Would you rather be in their trousers?’
Allie flushed. ‘You just can’t let it go, can you? I’ve told you a million times how sorry I am. It was just a stupid mistake!’
‘What do you want me to say? I forgive you? You were lonely, so it’s OK? If that was the case then you won’t mind if I order myself a call girl next time I’m fed up in my hotel room in Berlin, will you?’
‘How do I know you haven’t already? You have everyone in this village spying on me for you but I don’t know what you’re doing in Germany. You could be rolling around with prostitutes every night!’
‘You’re being ridiculous,’ he replied, talking to her like she was a child. Allie’s hand flew towards him, but he caught her wrist and held it fast. ‘Hitting me is not the answer.’
‘But it will make me feel better!’ she hissed. ‘Why don’t you just divorce me? If you hate me so much, just send me packing!’
He shook his head, and she saw something like pain in his eyes. ‘I don’t hate you – that’s the problem. But I don’t want to touch you and I don’t want you touching me. Understand?’
He dropped her arm and turned to pull a mug from a cupboard. Allie stared at him. She didn’t understand – not one bit.
Chapter 8
Harper was clearing a table as Pip nudged her and nodded towards a newcomer at the tearoom doorway. With a leather satchel slung over his shoulder, pen and notebook in hand, he looked suspiciously like another reporter.
‘I think it’s your turn,’ Harper said.
‘Really? But I’m crap; I say all the wrong things.’
‘Right now I’m willing to take the risk. I’m absolutely fed up of going over it with these people.’
‘It can’t be helped. I can see why everyone is curious.’
‘I know it can’t be helped, but I wish it would hurry up and blow over.’
‘It will, soon enough. You know what they say about today’s news being tomorrow’s fish-and-chip wrapping.’
‘I could cope if I thought it was going to be old news as soon as tomorrow. The way this is hitting the news, anyone would think we’d found the crown jewels in our garden.’
By the time she’d come to the end of her sentence, the man was at their table. He looked around uncertainly and then lowered his voice. Harper glanced briefly at Pip, who had a look in her eye that was something like amusement.
‘One of you is the proprietor, I presume,’ he said, looking from one to the other.
‘Harper,’ Pip said, nodding at her friend.
The man turned to Harper. ‘Ah. Then might I trouble you for a few moments of your time, Miss…?’
‘Woods. We’re quite busy—’ Harper began, but he cut her off.
‘You have only three customers.’
Pip frowned. ‘This is the first time today we’ve had an empty table, so while it might not look busy, there’s a lot of cleaning and catching up to do while we have a spare minute.’
‘No offence was intended,’ he said, backtracking quickly. ‘I only meant that you appear to be quiet.’
‘Well, we don’t know your business and you don’t know ours. We wouldn’t tell you how to write a story and you shouldn’t tell us whether our café is quiet or not,’ Pip retorted.
The man’s forehead creased. ‘A story? I don’t quite follow…’
‘You’re not a reporter?’ Harper asked.
‘My name is William Frampton; I’m—’
‘William Frampton of Silver Hill House?’ Pip interrupted. ‘Lord Frampton? To what do we owe the honour of you walking amongst the poor this fine summer’s day?’
Harper shot Pip a warning glance. While the owner of Silver Hill House wasn’t exactly active in his community, she was certain he had his own reasons for that. The fact was, he rarely came to the neighbouring village at all, and had certainly never come down into the valley to visit the farm during her year there. But she wasn’t about to chastise him for it, though Pip seemed to find it all hilarious, which was making Harper feel nothing but awkward. To come and see them, it must be a pressing matter and she wanted to hear him out.
The Summer of Secrets Page 5