by Jagger, Kait
Seconds later, Luna raced out of the farm shop and hitched up her skirt again, scarcely bothering that she was in full view of the entire shop, including the Nordic God. Needs must, she silently reasoned, swinging off down the path towards the main gatehouse.
A battered Morris Minor van was waiting for her when she rolled up beside the gatehouse.
‘I owe you,’ Luna said to the shopkeeper as she leaned forward in the saddle of her bike to deposit a pack of unsmoked back bacon and another of smoked streaky in her bike basket.
‘No worries, flower,’ he replied. ‘I’m just glad it was you ringing, rather than her Ladyship.’
As the van pulled away, Luna considered her options. She could go back the way she came, which would take around ten minutes. Time she didn’t have. Or she could take the main road to the house and risk being witnessed by arriving trustees, pedalling along like the Wicked Witch of the West, pre-twister.
There was nothing for it. Luna took the main road – and almost immediately regretted it as within 300 yards she heard the sound of a car approaching behind her. The road was only wide enough for a single vehicle, so she quickly pulled onto the grass verge and waited as a bright yellow Lamborghini moved past.
A little bit flash for one of our trustees, Luna thought to herself, though their guest list for the morning extended beyond the immediate board to press and ‘friends’ of Arborage.
The tinted driver’s side window of the Lamborghini rolled down as it purred past…to reveal none other than Nordic God.
‘Hello again,’ he smiled warmly, tipping his head. Luna nodded gravely and climbed back aboard her bike, re-joining the road in the Lamborghini’s wake. Who the hell was he?
It was ten past ten by the time Luna finally rolled up to the main portico, weaving her way through the assembled Bentleys, Jaguars and Land Rovers. The Lamborghini, too, was parked off to the left of the entrance.
Arborage House’s main hallway, with its massive marble staircase and baroque ceiling painting of cherubs and nymphs in various states of undress, was virtually empty as Luna entered. Which had been the whole idea of relocating the Visitor Centre, previously situated in a small cloakroom off the main hall, to the east wing of the house. Decades of foot traffic and prams had taken a toll on the hallway’s inlaid marble floor, and moving the tourist entrance to the east wing would allow essential renovation work to commence later that year. It had the added benefit of quadrupling the space available for the centre, meaning they could add a video screening room and expand the gift shop.
For Luna, this meant a trek through the main reception rooms on the tour. Passing quickly along a carpeted, cordoned path through the formal sitting room and the music room with its assorted pianos and harps, she entered the portrait gallery, the jewel in Arborage House’s crown. Two stories high, with a balustraded balcony on the second level and a frankly jaw-dropping vaulted ceiling, it contained portraits of the Wellstone family stretching back over five centuries.
Luna could hear a swell of voices coming from the Visitor Centre, just visible through a door slightly ajar at the far end of the gallery. She assumed with some chagrin that Lady Wellstone must already have given her opening speech and cut the ribbon. But as she walked under the impassive gaze of the first Marquess as painted by van Eyck in 1435, the hum abruptly receded. Luna skidded to a halt as the sound of her heels, those blasted heels which had made riding the bike nigh on impossible, became audible against the marble chequered floor.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, trustees and friends, thank you so much for coming this morning,’ Lady Wellstone’s disembodied voice floated and echoed through the gallery. Thinking fast, Luna hugged the cool bag to her chest, lifting first one knee, then the other to remove her heels. As the speech continued, she stealthily continued on stocking feet along the floor, stopping only when she reached the portrait of the eighth Marchioness (one of Luna’s favourites, a Hogarth) at the far end of the gallery.
‘…so, without further ado, I hereby declare Arborage House’s new Visitor Centre open.’
Just in time! Luna hurriedly placed her shoes on the floor and braced a hand against the wall. Her left foot poised above her black heel, she felt a prickle along her neck. She looked toward the doorway and saw none other than the Nordic God, leaning casually against the wall just inside the doorframe. Watching her. A scattering of applause broke out as, Luna assumed, the ribbon was cut, and he raised his hands to clap as well. Only he was directing his applause at Luna. From that angle he must have witnessed her entire, tortuous journey across the gallery.
Luna finished putting on her shoes and smoothed her skirt, then frowned at him, which had its desired effect, his facial expression immediately shifting from amused observer to innocent choir boy.
She approached the door and gingerly attempted to push it further open, but met resistance. Nordic God was grinning again and Luna realised there must be someone blocking it. He shrugged helplessly, flexing his sizable shoulders inward slightly as if to say, Really crowded in here, sorry!
Now he was starting to infuriate her. No way was Luna turning back around and trudging back the way she came. Sucking in her breath and lifting the cool bag above her head, she lined her body up with the perishingly small gap in the door and pressed herself through it.
Although she was certain the Nordic God could have moved out of her way, he didn’t, and as she inched forward into the room Luna actually felt her breasts coming into contact with his chest. Which was rumbling slightly. The bastard was laughing at her!
Then, just as she was starting to worry that her bum, which didn’t seem to want to follow her torso through the gap, might be her downfall, Nordic God slipped his hand to her waist – oh, the nerve of him – and gestured to the man blocking the door. Who shifted just enough to allow Luna to stumble through the door, straight into him.
She felt his fingers splay along her back and immediately lowered her arms, pulling away from him and turning into the crowd without another glance. Her body was physically hot where it had come into contact with him. The man was like a radiator, the kind of heat he put out.
Lady Wellstone was standing facing the new floor-to-ceiling glass entrance, talking to a clutch of grey-haired trustees. Luna quietly sidled up behind her and passed her the cool bag. The Marchioness accepted it without breaking conversational stride, but quickly reached her free hand back to pat Luna’s hip gratefully.
Mission accomplished, Luna turned back into the crowd, smiling to herself. Crazy last-minute requests and all, she wouldn’t change a thing about her job.
‘Ah, Tom,’ she heard Lady Wellstone say. ‘I have a little something for you…’
Nordic God was still there as she slipped out the way she’d come, now chatting with the rather portly gentleman who had been blocking the door.
It was doubtless her imagination that the Nordic God’s eyes followed her back down the gallery. She certainly didn’t look back to find out.
Chapter Two
The rest of the morning was fairly sedate by comparison. Luna dropped by the staff kitchen to grab a cup of coffee, then returned to her small office and continued ploughing through her emails. A couple of urgent texts from her Ladyship notwithstanding – What Hon Miss Smithson’s first name? Please book taxi for Rev Thatcher – things were quiet, for which Luna was grateful.
Lady Wellstone was flying to Venice later that afternoon and, although Luna had already made all the flight and hotel arrangements, she knew her employer liked to have her itinerary and papers in a tidy ‘pack’, which Luna hadn’t yet had a chance to prepare.
The trips to Venice were unpleasant necessities for the Marchioness. Her estranged husband, the 16th Marquess, had lived there for the past thirteen years, ostensibly ruling Arborage in absentia as ‘lord and master’, the traditional title attached to his position. The reality, of course, Luna reflected with a grimace, was that the Marchioness ran Arborage. But there were certain matters on which she had still to de
fer to her husband. Luna had printed out an entire sheaf of legal documents that required his signature.
She’d pretty much finished laying these and the other paperwork out on her desk for collation when her phone rang.
‘Nigel, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I completely forgot to ring you back.’
‘Not a problem,’ replied their head gardener. ‘I was just checking that I’m still alright to come see her Ladyship.’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ Luna said, propping the phone on her left shoulder as she quickly pulled up the diary on her laptop. ‘No, wait.’ She rolled her eyes. Despite the twelve o’clock appointment with Nigel clearly showing in the calendar, it appeared the Marchioness had been at the diary herself.
‘I don’t know why, but it looks like there’s a private appointment in there at exactly the same time.’ It wasn’t strictly true that Luna didn’t know why; it was an ongoing thorn in her side, the fact that the Marchioness regularly scheduled her own meetings without any reference to what was already in the diary. And ‘private appointment’ was no use to Luna. Who with, and how long?
She spent a few more moments on the phone with Nigel rescheduling his appointment for the following week, then rang off just as the Marchioness strolled in, Regina at her heels, looking pleased with herself.
‘That went very well, I thought. And the bacon went down a treat with Tom Jefford, so well done you.’ Lady Wellstone was carrying on into her office, but Luna held up her hand.
‘You’ve put in a private appointment in five minutes?’
‘Ah, yes. I meant to mention that to you. Come in my office for a second.’
Luna grabbed her pad and followed the Marchioness, who had stopped in front of the ornate mirror next to her desk.
‘That girl put too much makeup on. I look a fright,’ Lady Wellstone mused, lifting her chin and frowning at her reflection.
‘Rubbish. You look lovely, as ever,’ Luna replied, earning a quick, complicit smile in the mirror. Then Lady Wellstone turned and sat down, momentarily collecting her thoughts.
Eventually she began, ‘I’ve been thinking for a while now that we need to take a closer look at the estate’s portfolio…’ She paused, letting this sink in. ‘Since the new accountancy firm started last year we have more accurate information on how different areas of the business are performing. And now seems like a good time to take stock.’
Luna nodded, but privately winced at the anxiety a portfolio review would doubtless whip up among the staff.
The Marchioness appeared to read her thoughts, because she added, ‘I want this all to be a bit sub rosa, so I’m keeping it within the family.’
At this Luna kept her expression purposefully neutral. She couldn’t imagine either of the Marchioness’s daughters, Helen or Isabelle, heading up this kind of review, and she knew Lady Wellstone would sooner throw herself off the west tower roof before asking for help from her brother-in-law, the heir presumptive. So who…?
There was a knock on the door. Luna raised her eyebrows at the Marchioness, who consulted her watch and nodded. Luna rose and went to the door, the hairs prickling on the back of her neck for the second time that day. Suddenly things were becoming clear.
Clear enough that she hoped she evinced no sign of surprise when the door opened to reveal the Nordic God, who she now finally recognised.
‘Stefan, come in, my dear.’ Lady Wellstone smiled as Luna opened the door more widely and pointedly stood against it, gesturing with her palm into the room.
As Lady Wellstone came around her desk, Stefan Lundgren took her hands in his and kissed her first on one cheek, then the other. ‘Augusta, it’s good to see you.’
‘Luna, this is Stefan, my – remind me what you are, Stefan?’ Lady Wellstone queried, laughing.
‘Your second cousin…in law,’ Stefan smiled, extending his hand to Luna. ‘And you are…?’
‘Luna Gregory, her Ladyship’s personal assistant,’ Luna replied, accepting his firm grip. His hand was predictably warm. Luna feared that hers must feel like ice by comparison.
‘Ah, you must be new,’ he said, looking toward the Marchioness. ‘I seem to recall the last time I visited you had an old dragon sitting out there, guarding you like a treasure hoard.’
‘You mustn’t speak ill of Rose, she’s a lovely woman,’ the Marchioness chided lightly. Was it Luna’s imagination, or was her tone mildly flirtatious? She had literally never seen her employer behave this way before. Stefan Lundgren seemed to have that kind of effect on women.
With some difficulty, Luna withdrew her hand from his and said to him, ‘I’ve met your father, of course.’
‘Yes, how is Sören?’ her Ladyship interjected.
‘He’s very well, and sends his apologies that he couldn’t be here for the opening today.’
The Marchioness waved a hand and shook her head. ‘He can’t fly over from Stockholm every time we have a little party here. You tell him he must come the night before the next board meeting, and he and I will have dinner together.’
Sensing a natural break, Luna placed her hand on the doorknob and enquired, ‘Can I get you both something to drink?’
‘Yes please, I’ll have tea, and why don’t you see if Marta can magic up a few sandwiches and some biscuits,’ the Marchioness said.
‘Coffee for me, thank you.’ Stefan hesitated, squinting slightly at Luna. ‘There is something very familiar about you, Miss Gregory. Have we met before?’
For a split second Luna thought he was taking the proverbial, referring to their interactions earlier that day. But no, his question was genuine. And it needed to be immediately shut down.
Fixing her coolest gaze on him – and Luna well knew that her coolest gaze could freeze water – she said simply, ‘I can’t imagine that we have, no,’ and beat a swift retreat.
Standing in front of the powder room mirror moments later running warm water over her fingers, Luna studied her pale, heart-shaped face, pleased that it revealed absolutely nothing but coolness. Her light blue eyes, milky in this light but icy when she chose, had been a liability when she was younger. They looked startling, out of place, framed by her long, dark lashes. She still remembered her university roommate Nancy holding a hand up and crying, ‘Jesus, turn them down, will you? You’re freaking me out.’
But now they were an asset, a wall she could pull down between her and the world.
She patted her dark brown hair lightly, but there was no need. Despite her morning’s labours her French twist remained firmly in place. Only the slight flush in her cheeks and an infinitesimal smudge of mascara beneath her left eye, which she carefully erased with a swipe of her index finger, revealed anything other than smooth blankness.
Stefan Lundgren was right. He had seen her before, although they had never exchanged words before today and Luna was confident he would never put two and two together to place her. It had been a lifetime ago, and she had been very different then…him too.
*
Luna had plenty of time to review what she knew about Stefan Lundgren as she waited in the staff kitchen while a tray of food was prepared for the Marchioness and her guest. For a man she hadn’t recognised a few hours earlier, she knew a surprising amount. Mostly because his father, Sören Lundgren, was a trustee and friend of her Ladyship. And of hers, too, in some small way, Luna liked to think. Sören was her favourite trustee, a real gentleman and the only man she’d ever known who made tweed look good. At age fifty-three, their youngest board member was quite the clothes horse; not surprising given that he owned an entire chain of upscale menswear shops across Scandinavia.
His father, Stefan’s grandfather, younger brother of the 15th Marquess, had quit British shores on the eve of WWII, never to return. The 15th Marquess, who was a bit of a madman by all accounts, latterly accused his brother of being a Nazi sympathiser and traitor, but the truth was more prosaic. As is so often the case when one brother inherits the keys to the kingdom and the other is left empty-handed, Stefan
’s grandfather simply wanted to make a new life for himself on his own terms. He moved to Sweden, married a wealthy Swedish widow and proceeded to go completely native, even adopting her family name.
Stefan’s grandfather thrived in his newfound home, establishing a steel and timber empire that, thanks to Sweden’s liberal inheritance laws, he was able to pass on intact to his son and stepsons. Arborage, meanwhile, suffered under the mismanagement and profligacy of the 15th Marquess, and the death duties imposed after his eventual demise practically brought the estate to its knees.
And so. On to Stefan. As far as Luna knew, Stefan played no direct role in any of the Lundgren family businesses, preferring to strike out on his own. Indeed, like his grandfather, he appeared to have been at pains to distance himself from the family empire. She knew he had spent some time in London working in the City as an investment banker before going on to establish a management consulting firm, S Lundgren Associates, with high-profile clients across Europe and farther.
So successful was his business, and charismatic its founder, that he eventually came to the attention of an independent television production company pitching a new ‘dragon’ style programme, The Triad, where a team of three management experts took turns parachuting in to imperilled businesses. Predictably, Stefan was the ‘young, hot one’ on the team, and his reputation as a dedicated ladies’ man did nothing to detract from this.
Luna herself had never seen the programme, which predated her career at Arborage. She was working abroad when it first aired, but well remembered the flurry of emails that came from her friends Jem and Kayla, and even Nancy, who’d somehow managed to find a cable station in New York that aired the programme. ‘Swedish entrepreneur and third in line to inherit the Arborage estate,’ was how the programme notes they’d sent her had described him. (‘Hot Swedish totty’ was the description Nancy preferred.) And Luna had been slightly chuffed to be able to email her friends back saying she had had a brush with greatness, however slight, many years ago.