by Anne Mather
Juliet gasped. ‘I can’t believe your grandmother approves of that.’
‘She doesn’t know. As far as she’s concerned I’ve got an office job. She still hasn’t given up hope of me settling down with a good woman and taking over the running of the estate. And that low-life, Marchese, is just waiting for me to put a foot wrong.’
Juliet would have thought he’d already put more than one foot wrong, but she didn’t say so. ‘Marchese?’
‘Rafe Marchese!’ exclaimed Cary half-irritably. ‘Surely you remember? My aunt Christina’s deliberate mistake?’
‘Oh, your cousin,’ said Juliet, understanding. But Cary took offence at that.
‘The bastard,’ he corrected. ‘A real one this time. Surely you don’t expect me to be friendly towards him. He’s made my relationship with Grandmama almost impossible over the years. I don’t forget how he treated me when I first went to live at Tregellin.’
‘He’s older than you, isn’t he?’
‘A couple of years. He must be thirty now. Or maybe a little older. Whatever, he’s there all the time, like a thorn in my side, and Grandmama loves to taunt me about leaving the estate to him.’
‘To taunt you?’
‘Yeah. Not that she would, of course. Leave the place to Marchese, I mean.’ Cary laughed again. ‘She’s far too conventional for that.’
Juliet hesitated. ‘If your aunt was never married to his father, why is his name Marchese?’
‘Because she put his father’s name on his birth certificate.’ Cary was dismissive. ‘A bit of a joke, that, considering I don’t think Carlo even knew he was going to be a father. Christina was such a flake, always taking off for some new destination, finding one distraction after another.’
‘I thought she was an artist,’ said Juliet, trying to remember what her father had told her.
‘She’d have liked to think so,’ said Cary, with a sarcastic smile. ‘Anyway, like me, Rafe was orphaned at a fairly early age. One too many Martinis for Christina and she fell from the balcony of the hotel in Interlaken where she was staying with her latest conquest.’
‘How awful!’ Juliet was amazed that he could be so blasé about it. She had been his aunt, after all. She took another sip of her drink, taking a surreptitious glance at her watch as she did so. It was time she was leaving. She needed to buy one or two items of food from the local delicatessen before heading home.
‘Anyway, I’ve got to go down there next week,’ Cary went on, apparently unaware that she was getting restless. He grimaced. ‘I told her I’d got a girlfriend and she wants to meet her.’
‘Oh.’ Juliet smiled. ‘Well, I hope she likes her. Is it someone you met while you were in Cape Town, or does she live in London?’
‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ declared Cary flatly. ‘I just told her that to get her off my back. You know what I said about her wanting me to settle down and so on? I thought if she believed I was getting serious about someone, she’d lay off for a bit.’
‘Oh, Cary!’
‘I know, I know.’ He scowled and summoned the bartender again to order another drink. ‘Where am I going to find a suitable girlfriend between now and next Thursday? I don’t even know any “suitable” girls. My tastes run in another direction entirely.’
Juliet stared at him. ‘You’re—gay?’
‘Hell, no!’ Cary snorted. ‘But the kind of girls I like, you don’t take home to introduce to your grandmama. I’m not interested in settling down, Jules. I’m only twenty-eight. I want to have some fun. I don’t want some good woman and a couple of sprogs hanging about my feet.’
Juliet shook her head. He’d changed so much from the shy boy he’d been when they were children. Was this his grandmother’s doing, or had he always had this streak of selfishness in him? Perhaps he wasn’t so different from David, after all.
She was suddenly aware that he was staring at her now. There was a distinctly speculative look in his eyes, and she hoped he had no designs as far as she was concerned. She might be desperate, but Cary simply wasn’t her type. Sliding down from her stool, she nodded pointedly towards the door.
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Go where?’
Was it any of his business? ‘Home, of course.’
Cary nodded. ‘You wouldn’t fancy having dinner with me, I suppose?’
‘Oh, Cary—’
‘It was just a thought.’ He chewed vigorously at his lower lip. ‘I wanted to put a proposition to you. But I can do it here, just as well.’
‘Cary—’
‘Hear me out.’ He laid a hand on her sleeve and, although Juliet badly wanted to pull away, she had accepted a drink from him and that made her briefly in his debt. ‘Would you consider coming down to Tregellin with me? As my pretend girlfriend,’ he added swiftly, before she could object. ‘You say you need a job. Well, I’m offering you one. Well-paid, of course.’
Juliet couldn’t believe her ears. ‘You’re not serious!’
‘Why not? We’re friends, aren’t we? We’re male and female. Where would be the harm?’
‘We’d be deceiving your grandmother. And—your cousin.’
‘Don’t worry about Rafe. He doesn’t live at the house.’
‘All the same—’
‘You’d be doing me the greatest favour, Jules. And Grandmama is bound to believe it when she sees it’s you. You know she’s always liked you.’
‘She hardly knows me!’
‘She knows of you,’ persisted Cary. ‘And when we get back, I’ll be able to write you a reference you can use to get another job.’
‘A real job, you mean?’
‘This is a real job, Jules, I promise you. Oh, please. At least say you’ll think it over. What have you got to lose?’
CHAPTER TWO
THE tide was in and the mudflats below Tregellin were hidden beneath a surge of salt water. There were seabirds bobbing on the waves and the sun dancing on the water was dazzling. For once, the old house had an air of beauty and not neglect.
It needed an owner who would look after it, Rafe thought, guiding his mud-smeared Land Cruiser down the twisting lane that led to the house. Though not him, he reminded himself firmly. Whatever the old lady said, she was never going to leave Tregellin to the illegitimate son of an olive farmer.
Not that he wanted her to, he reflected without malice. Now that the studio was up and running, he hadn’t enough time to do what he had to do as it was. Oh, he collected the rents and kept the books, made sure the old lady paid her taxes. He even mowed the lawns and kept the shrubbery free of weeds, but the house itself needed a major overhaul.
The trouble was, he didn’t have the money. Not the kind of money needed to restore the place to its former glory anyway. And if Lady Elinor was as wealthy as the people in the village said she was, she was definitely hiding it from her family.
He knew Cary thought his grandmother was a rich woman. That was why he seldom refused an invitation, ran after her as if her every wish was his command. It was pathetic, really. If Rafe had had more respect for the man he’d have told him the old lady was just using him to satisfy her lust for power. If she did intend to make Cary her heir, she was going to make him work for it.
Whatever happened, Rafe doubted Tregellin would survive another death in the family. Unless Lady Elinor had some hidden cash that no one knew about, when she was gone the estate would have to be sold. It was probably Cary’s intention anyway. Rafe couldn’t see his cousin moving out of London, giving up the life he had there. Nevertheless, with death duties and lawyers’ fees, Rafe suspected he’d be lucky to clear his grandmother’s debts.
Rafe was fairly sure the old lady had been living on credit for some time. The tin mines, which had once made the Daniels’ fortune, had been played out and dormant for the past fifty years. The estate, with its dairy farms and smallholdings, had struggled in recent years. Things were improving but, like everything else, they needed time.
Time they might not
have, he acknowledged. It was sad, but the old lady wasn’t as robust as she’d once been. He hated to think of what might happen when she died. Tregellin deserved to be resurrected. Not sold to fund another loser’s debts.
He skirted the tennis court and drove round to the front of the house. Tregellin faced the water. It occupied a prime position overlooking the estuary. When he was a kid he used to love going down to the boathouse, taking out the old coracle Sir Henry had taught him to use.
He pushed open his door and got out, hauling the bag of groceries he’d bought at the local supermarket after him. Lady Elinor wouldn’t approve of him spending money on her, but Josie would. Josie Morgan was the old lady’s housekeeper-cum-companion, and was almost as old as Lady Elinor herself.
Although he’d parked the Land Cruiser at the front of the house, Rafe followed the path that led round to the kitchen door. Hitchins, the old lady’s Pekinese, was barking his head off as usual, but when Rafe came through the door he stopped and pushed his snub nose against Rafe’s leg.
‘Noisy old beast, aren’t you?’ Rafe chided him, bending to scratch the dog’s ears with an affectionate hand. Hitchins was almost fourteen and blind in one eye, but he still recognised a friend when he saw one. He huffed a bit, wanting to be picked up, but Rafe dropped his bag on the scrubbed-pine table and started to unpack it instead.
Josie bustled through from the hall, carrying a tray, and Rafe saw an empty cafetière and two cups, and a plate that still contained three chocolate digestives. He picked up one of the biscuits and bit into it as Josie welcomed him, making light of her thanks as she examined what he’d brought.
‘Fillet steak!’ she exclaimed with some enthusiasm. ‘You spoil us, Rafe, you really do.’
‘If I don’t, who will?’ he retorted philosophically. ‘How is the old girl this morning? I intended to get over yesterday evening, but then I got caught up with something else.’
‘The something else wouldn’t be called Olivia, would she?’ she teased him, putting the steak and other perishables he’d brought into the ancient fridge.
‘You’ve been listening to too much gossip,’ retorted Rafe, stowing a warm loaf in the bread bin. ‘Where is the old lady, anyway? I’d better go and say hello.’
‘Shall I bring another pot of coffee?’ Josie paused in what she was doing, but Rafe just shook his head.
‘I’ll take one of these,’ he said, picking up a can of ginger ale he’d bought for his own use when he was here. ‘No. No glass,’ he deterred her, when she would have taken one from the cupboard. He paused. ‘The conservatory, right?’
‘Oh—yes.’ Josie pulled a rueful face and tucked a strand of iron-grey hair behind her ear. ‘She’ll have heard the car, I don’t doubt for a minute. She may be old but her hearing’s as sharp as ever.’
Rafe grinned, and with Hitchins at his heels he walked across the mahogany-panelled hall and into the morning room opposite. Beyond the morning room, a vaulted conservatory basked in sunlight. It was built at one side of the old house, to take advantage of a view of the river. Weeping willows trailed their branches in water that mirrored their reflection, while kingfishers dived from the river bank, their speed only equalled by their success.
Lady Elinor was seated in a fan-backed basketwork chair beside a matching table. The morning newspaper resided on the table, turned to the crossword that was almost completed. It was the old lady’s boast that she could finish the crossword before eleven o’clock every morning and, glancing at his watch, Rafe saw she still had fifteen minutes to go.
‘Don’t let me keep you!’ she exclaimed shrewishly, noting his momentary distraction, and Rafe pulled a face before bending to kiss her gnarled cheek.
‘I won’t,’ he assured her. ‘I was just checking the time, that’s all. It looks like it’s in danger of defeating you today.’
‘If you’re talking about the crossword, that fool, Josie, has kept me gossiping again. She brings my coffee and then thinks she has to keep me entertained. I’ve said to her a dozen times, I don’t need her company.’
‘You love it really.’ Rafe was laconic. He picked up the Pekinese and walked across to the French windows, gazing out across the river to the meadows beyond. ‘So—what have you been talking about? Or am I not supposed to ask?’
‘Since when has that stopped you?’ Lady Elinor was impatient. ‘I was telling her that Cary’s bringing his fiancée to meet me on Thursday. I’m hoping they’ll stay for a few days. At least over the weekend.’
‘His fiancée, eh?’ Rafe turned, and put the dog down again. Ignoring its complaints, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, a heavy strand of night dark hair falling over his eyes. ‘That must please you. Him settling down at last.’
‘If it’s true.’ The old lady massaged the handle of the malacca cane that stood beside her chair and Rafe thought how difficult it would be for Cary to put one over on his grandmother. Her brain was as sharp as it had ever been, despite the many wrinkles that lined her patrician features. ‘I’ve met the girl, actually. She and her family lived in the same road as Charles and Isabel, when they were alive. Her name is Juliet Lawrence—well, it used to be Lawrence, but she’s a divorcee, so who knows what she calls herself now? She’s younger than Cary. Her father used to work in the City. Her mother died when she was just a baby and I believe her father died five or six years ago.’
‘A comprehensive history,’ remarked Rafe drily, and Lady Elinor gave him a darkling look.
‘I need to know these things, Raphael,’ she said irritably. ‘I don’t want Cary marrying some strumpet. At least this girl is from a decent family.’
Rafe shrugged. ‘You don’t think entertaining Cary and his girlfriend might be too much for you right now?’ he ventured, and saw the look of indignation that crossed the old lady’s face.
‘I’ve had a cold, Raphael. Not pneumonia. It’s the time of year. I always catch a cold in the spring.’
‘If you say so.’ Rafe knew better than to argue. ‘OK. If that’s all, I’ll go and see if Josie needs any help. If you’re putting them in the Lavender Room, I’d better check the bathroom for leaks.’
Lady Elinor looked positively offended. ‘I’m not putting them anywhere,’ she declared, laying great emphasis on the pronoun. ‘Cary will stay in his own room, as usual, and Miss Lawrence can use Christina’s apartments.’
Rafe’s jaw tightened. ‘I’ve never heard you call them that before.’
‘Haven’t you?’ The old lady was dismissive. ‘Christina was my daughter, Raphael. Just because she chose to live the kind of life I could never approve of doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten her.’
‘Or forgiven her?’
‘I’m too old to bear grudges, Raphael.’
‘OK.’ He inclined his head and strolled towards the door. ‘Is there anything else you need?’
Lady Elinor pursed her lips. ‘Josie told me that you had a reception at the studio last night,’ she ventured, with some reluctance. ‘Why wasn’t I informed?’
Rafe sighed, pausing in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested.’
The old lady scowled. ‘And why would you think that?’
‘Why would I think that? Let me count the ways,’ he misquoted mockingly. ‘Because you don’t approve of my painting portraits for a living? Because you don’t want me to turn out like my mother? Because my independence sticks in your craw? Am I getting close?’
‘I don’t approve of some of the people you mix with,’ conceded Lady Elinor testily. ‘But I never stopped your mother from doing what she wanted, and I shan’t attempt to stop you. Remember, it was she who chose to live in all those exotic places, hauling a small boy around whose existence I knew nothing of. When she died, however, I didn’t hesitate in offering you a home here with me.’
Rafe’s shoulders rounded. ‘I know.’
‘Just because we don’t always see eye to eye—’
; ‘Look, I’m sorry, OK?’
‘—doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Raphael.’
‘I know.’ Rafe closed his eyes for a moment and then said wearily, ‘I should have told you about the reception. You’re right, I was thoughtless. The local paper took some pictures, so when I get copies I’ll show them to you. It wasn’t a very grand affair. Just a glass of wine and a chance to view the studio.’
‘I’m sure it was very exciting,’ said Lady Elinor, but Rafe could hear the reluctance in her voice. ‘Before long, you won’t be spending any time at Tregellin at all.’
‘I’ll always have time for you, old lady,’ retorted Rafe harshly. ‘Look, I’ve really got to get moving. I’m meeting Liv Holderness at half-past twelve.’
‘Olivia Holderness?’ Lady Elinor’s eyes narrowed. ‘Would that be Lord Holderness’ daughter?’
‘Lord Holderness doesn’t have a daughter,’ said Rafe flatly. ‘Or a son either, as you very well know. Liv’s his wife. She wants to discuss having her portrait painted as a gift to her husband on his sixtieth birthday.’
‘I see.’ The old lady frowned. ‘You seem very familiar with her. I seem to remember Holderness hasn’t been married to her for very long.’
‘Eighteen months, I think.’ Rafe’s tone was sardonic. He knew nothing went on in the surrounding area that Lady Elinor didn’t hear about sooner or later. ‘She’s his third wife. The old guy turns them in at regular intervals for a new model.’
‘Don’t be coarse.’ Lady Elinor was disapproving. ‘And you be careful what you’re doing, Raphael. It seems significant to me that she’d choose a local studio over any number of more famous establishments she and her husband must know in London.’
Rafe grimaced. ‘Damned with faint praise,’ he said drily. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve known Liv for a few years. Her father owns the Dragon Hotel in Polgellin Bay.’
‘Ah.’ The old lady nodded. ‘So she’s one of the Melroses?’
‘The youngest daughter,’ agreed Rafe, wishing the old lady didn’t make them sound like the Doones.