Lord Seeks Wife: A hilariously funny romantic comedy

by Heather Barnett

  ***

  Up in the bedroom, time weighed heavily on Saskia. She had calmed down a little and was starting to ask herself some uncomfortable questions. Such as, hadn’t Mia been wearing a black dress? If so, whose cream skirt was she resting her Uggs on? And whose house was this?

  She pulled up a corner of the blind, saw a police car outside and dropped it again. Before she had time to think, someone was calling up the stairs.

  ‘Police, anybody there?’

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. This could ruin her: her reputation, the magazine. Fucking fascist pigs, sticking their snouts in where they weren’t needed! She hadn’t even broken in; the door was open. She’d done nothing wrong – in all but the pedantic eyes of the law, anyway. Quick, must use razor-sharp journalist’s brain, must think of a way to escape. Footsteps on the stairs. There was no escape. Only her wits stood between Saskia Stonor and ignominy. Stepping forward she opened the door wide and glared at the ascending police officer as her head bobbed up above the balustrade.

  ‘What, in God’s name, do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded, in her best home-counties tones.

  The policewoman got to the top of the stairs and took her time surveying Saskia from head to toe. Then glancing down the stairs, she yelled, ‘Up here.’

  Saskia refused to be browbeaten.

  ‘I asked you a question. I demand an answer.’

  The officer pulled out a notebook.

  ‘May I take your name, madam?’

  ‘No!’ Saskia flung back at her. ‘You may not! You may get out of this house; you are trespassing on private property.’

  The second officer now joined them, observing Saskia with a look not entirely respectful. He was young and spotty and Saskia’s blood boiled.

  ‘I shall be reporting your behaviour to your superiors as soon as you leave my house, and I can assure you that stupid grin will be wiped off your face!’

  The first officer repeated her question.

  ‘I’m not obliged to tell you what my name is. This is my house and I am ordering you to leave. Now!’

  The officer consulted her notebook.

  ‘We have received a report of an intruder, answering to your description, effecting an unlawful entry into this property. Am I to understand that you are claiming to be the householder?’

  Saskia’s glare didn’t flicker as she snapped, ‘You are.’

  The policeman consulted her notebook again.

  ‘I repeat, am I to understand that you are the owner of this property, Mrs Kalpna Bhatia?’

  The hesitation was barely noticeable.

  ‘Correct.’

  The policewoman looked at Saskia. Saskia looked at the policewoman. The policewoman looked at her colleague, who returned the look.

  While their attention was diverted, she made a run for it. Shoving one officer into the other, she hurtled down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the door and straight into the arms of the householders themselves. The policewoman was hot on her heels and as Saskia tried to sidestep the startled couple, the officer grabbed her and pushed her up against the wall of the house.

  ‘Let me go! Let me go you fascist pigs! Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Why yes,’ quipped the young, pimply officer. ‘You’re Mrs Kalpna Bhatia.’

  ***

  Over the dividing hedge into Elaine’s garden a row of faces, whose expressions ranged from the flabbergasted to the horrified to the fascinated, were drinking in the scene. Alice, hearing the commotion, appeared at the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a tea towel as they were leading a still-screaming Saskia away. She saw Alice and fell silent for a moment. Then, dragging one of her arms free, she pointed straight at her.

  ‘You! You did this, you shopped me! It won’t make any difference, you can tell that bitch Mia Wild that I know everything! Tell her I know all about the whitebait!’ she shrieked before being bundled into the police car and driven away.

  Chapter 22

  When Cecily and Piers popped in for tea with Alice on the way back from their weekend away, they found it hard to see the serious side.

  ‘Elaine’s aunt thought she’d been poisoned?’ sniggered Cecily.

  ‘Yes. She was quite upset,’ chided Alice. ‘See it from her point of view – a potential criminal was bundled into a panda car yelling that she knew all about the whitebait.’

  ‘Whitebait!’ snorted Piers to no one in particular before stuffing a huge scone in his mouth.

  ‘And it was awful,’ continued Alice, ‘because of course then everyone wanted to know about the whitebait: where it had come from, if it could have been tampered with. I had to admit that Mia had brought it round from the pub.’ Her face grew pale at the memory. ‘I’ll never forget the look on Elaine’s face.’

  ‘Poor Al!’ Cecily reached over and squeezed her arm. ‘The stupid woman shouldn’t have made you get it at the last minute anyway. She deserves whatever she gets.’

  ‘Anyway, it all calmed down eventually and the Colonel and I cleared up while Elaine put her aunt to bed in the spare room. I haven’t seen Elaine or Ted since.’

  There was a pause, and Alice and Cecily contemplated the pretty cottage garden in silence while Piers stalked a wasp with a rolled-up magazine. Having exterminated it, he put down the magazine and did a little weeding in Alice’s borders. Alice noticed he was digging up an allium.

  ‘Erm…’ she began, pointing towards the plant.

  ‘I know, I know!’ He smiled and tapped the side of his nose. ‘You have to get the whole root out to eradicate the weed completely. Never fear, little Alster, sit back and watch an expert at work. Now. The real issue we should be chewing over here is who is the blonde bimbo and what is her beef with battered fish.’

  ‘The – er – blonde bimbo is Saskia Stonor. She’s the girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend,’ Alice tried to keep her tone nonchalant, ‘of Henry de Beeble. Henry is Lord de Beeble’s brother – the one who’s been holding the interviews for a wife. I’ve no idea what she was doing in the neighbouring house or what she meant about the whitebait. Mia thought she’d followed her so I guess she might have been trying to find Mia and got the wrong house.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Cecily.

  ‘Yes, why?’ echoed Piers, soil-ingrained fingernails tapping against his cheek.

  They all fell silent once more; the only noises in the garden humming insects, birdsong and the occasional rip of one of Alice’s summer-flowering bulbs being wrenched from the soil and tossed aside.

  ‘This is a bit of a long shot,’ mused Alice after a while, ‘and I’m thinking aloud here, but…’

  ‘Spit it out, Alster.’

  ‘Maybe Saskia’s jealous of Mia and wanted to confront her? If she and Henry de Beeble have split up, maybe she thinks he’s left her for another woman. Henry knows Mia via the interviews. Something might have happened to make Saskia think they’re seeing each other.’

  As she said it out loud her heart sank. What would be more natural? They were in the same league, Henry and Mia – the premier league, whereas Alice was way down in the Johnstone Paint Trophy or whatever it was called these days. It shouldn’t hurt so much, she’d never seriously thought anything could happen between her and Henry de Beeble. But she’d cherished the idea of him, single, deep in the secret part of her brain set aside for fanciful daydreams. Stupid. Henry and Mia falling in love, that was the way the fairy tale ended. The prince didn’t go down on one knee to the ugly sister, that would be repugnant to everything in nature.

  Looking down, she noticed she was dipping a piece of fruitcake into her tea and the other two were staring at her.

  ‘Anything wrong, Al?’

  ‘Oh! No, nothing. Sorry, I was miles away. Wondering about Saskia and everything, you know. Fascinating stuff.’

  Her phone rang – she answered it and after a short conversation put it down again, looking shell-shocked.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Cecily. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘It… It
was Lady de Beeble.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘She’d seen one of my posters about the catering. Or one of her staff had – I can’t remember which now. I was so flustered when I realised who it was that I didn’t take much in at the beginning.’

  ‘She won’t read posters herself, Alster. She’ll have someone to do that for her.’ Piers grinned.

  Alice wasn’t paying attention. ‘She said she’s having a party – her annual summer party – and she wants me to help with the catering.’

  Cecily hugged her. ‘Alice! That’s amazing! It’ll make your name.’

  ‘She’d been so impressed by my cooking at the interviews that she thought she’d employ me to do one or two things her cook wouldn’t have time for. Like the canapés.’

  ‘Canapés – sounds fun. What are you going to do?’

  The vacant look disappeared from Alice’s face as she looked at her sister with wide eyes and said, ‘Panic.’

  ***

  ‘Scotch eggs?’ asked Sinead.

  Derek glanced down at the hamper. ‘Yurr.’

  ‘Smoked salmon sandwiches?’

  Derek hunted around, picked up a cling-film wrapped package and peered at it.

  ‘Yurr.’

  ‘Bubbly?’

  ‘Yurr.’

  Sinead put a final tick against her list and laid it down on the worktop.

  ‘Crockery’s in there already. So are the serviettes – napkins, I mean.’ Jerking her head in the direction of the hamper, she ordered, ‘Fastened and outside, please.’

  Derek pulled the leather straps through the buckles and tossed the hamper onto his shoulder as if it were empty.

  ‘Careful!’ chided Sinead. ‘The bubbly!’

  As he tiptoed out, she slipped into the hall and checked her make-up in the mirror. Immaculate, as usual. Although what her hair would look like by the time they got there was another question. Outside, Derek had strapped the hamper to the back of his motorbike and stood waiting for her, a pink and silver helmet in his hand.

  ‘Oh!’ she stopped, eyeing the helmet. It had her name picked out in crystals on the back. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Bought it. For you.’ He beamed.

  She took it from him and inspected it from all angles. He lit up as one of her rare smiles spread over her face. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Good. Knew you didn’t like the bike. Wanted to make you feel more…’ He ran out of words and finished with one of his all-purpose grunts.

  The motorbike had been a topic of some debate between them in recent weeks. After their midnight tryst, Sinead had surprised herself by letting Derek take her out from time to time. She knew it was interfering with her hectic beauty and fitness regime but somehow, she kept finding herself saying yes. Until today, they’d gone everywhere in Sinead’s car because she refused to get on Derek’s motorbike. She had a niggling feeling that a lady wouldn’t be seen in public on a motorbike. It involved postures which, from all she’d read, weren’t considered ladylike. Derek had finally managed to convince her, by suggesting a picnic in an out-of-the-way spot.

  The beautiful pink and silver helmet made a difference, of course. She felt sure that even Lady Caroline could be persuaded to ride pillion if she were wearing that kind of designer headgear. Derek was astride the bike, waiting for her to mount. She popped one pink leather-clad leg over the seat and slid into position, gripping the burly waist in front of her.

  ‘Hold on tight,’ growled Derek as he revved the engine three or four times before pulling away.

  Something strange happened to Sinead Dumper within the space of that ride. Derek realised something was up as soon as she hopped off the bike, yanked off her helmet and planted a huge kiss on his visor (he whipped off his helmet in order to allow her to repeat the process on his mouth). Her eyes were wide, her hair dishevelled and her expression dreamy.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ she gushed. ‘The most wonderful thing.’

  She staggered a little way from the bike and back again.

  ‘Never experienced anything like it. The speed. The freedom. I felt,’ she looked at Derek as if seeing him with new eyes, ‘I felt out of control.’

  Grabbing his leather jacket with both hands she pulled him towards her and asked, huskily, ‘How hungry are you?’

  Dropping the hamper, he whooped, flung her over his shoulder and rushed headlong into the woods.

  ***

  Later, lying on a blanket beside Derek, the remains of a picnic scattered around them, Sinead took a sip of her champagne and sighed happily.

  ‘Should be doing an hour’s circuit training now.’

  Derek glowered at her. ‘Don’t need to exercise so much. Figure’s perfect.’

  ‘Takes work. Shouldn’t have eaten those chocolates either.’

  He growled and leaned across to kiss her. ‘If it was up to me all you’d do is sit on a pink sofa eatin’ chocolate and lookin’ pretty.’

  She giggled.

  He did a double take. He’d never heard her giggle.

  ‘Can’t do that. Too much prep to do.’

  Derek’s face fell.

  ‘For the interviews,’ he assented.

  ‘Mmmm. Got to get ahead of the competition.’

  ‘Bound to win anyway,’ he said, his face a picture of despair.

  Why did he keep kidding himself, he wondered. She wasn’t interested in him. Why would she be? An out-of-work door supervisor who lived with his mum. What kind of a mate was that for a woman who could marry into royalty? (Was a lord royalty? He wasn’t sure.) Each time he saw her, he managed to convince himself that she liked him, but what good did it do? She was still preparing for the final interview. She hadn’t had confirmation yet if she had got through, but to Sinead – and Derek – it was a foregone conclusion.

  She interrupted his reverie by putting down her glass and becoming businesslike.

  ‘Reminds me. Need your help.’

  ‘Yurr?’

  ‘Lord de Beeble’s gardener was in the village shop yesterday.’

  ‘Yurr?’

  ‘Said he’s run off his feet. Prepping for Lady de Beeble’s garden party at the Hall.’

  ‘Yurr?’

  ‘Everyone will be there. Including His Lordship.’ She paused and looked meaningfully at him. ‘I need to be there. You have to smuggle me in.’

  ‘But…’ he grappled with the idea. ‘Don’t work there anymore.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘But you know the grounds. The security arrangements. Easy.’

  ‘Shouldn’t really,’ he said, a worried crease on his brow.

  She leaned over and kissed him. ‘But you will.’

  He nodded and she flashed a brisk smile at him.

  ‘Let’s go. Got Pilates at six.’

  Chapter 23

  The long summer rolled onwards, heavy and close. In London, the air seemed to have tripled in weight and clung, clammily, to Henry’s skin. He thought longingly of the high-ceilinged cool of the Hall and the breeze that ruffled the leaves of the trees on the hill behind the house on even the stillest August day. Work was quiet – the whole world seemed to be on holiday – and Henry decided the best he could do was to pack up and join them. He would head down to Mereshire a week ahead of his mother’s summer party; it would give him a chance to talk through preparations for the final interviews with Bob.

  The final interviews. The words were loaded with menace. What would ordinarily signify the approach of success for one lucky candidate and one well-satisfied employer, signalled, to his mind – and surely to Bob’s – potential disaster. Henry had been focussing so much on the logistics until now, that the reality of life once the interviews were over hadn’t sunk in. For, of course, the winner would expect Bob to marry her. Henry was far from confident that Bob would go through with it; which would mean further media frenzy and his mother’s fury raining down on his brother. Even if the marriage did happen, was that any guarantee of greater happiness for anyone? His mother, p
erhaps, would be placated but long-term would the marriage last? Would the new bride be content once the excitement died down and she settled into life as the partner of a disorganised academic who forgot she existed on a regular basis?

  Two women were being invited back for the last interview in three weeks’ time. Mia Wild and Alice Brand. Would either of them make a good wife for Bob? He paused in his packing and thought about Mia. He didn’t have to think for long. Intelligent, confident, stunning – a wonderful wife for someone, but not Bob. He couldn’t see her being content rattling around in the hall with the country squire and his handful of domestics. And Alice? She seemed more domesticated, amenable: again, she would make someone a wonderful wife, no doubt, but Bob? Well, possibly. She was a more suitable companion for his brother than the glamorous Mia, that was for sure. He laid a couple of shirts in his suitcase, pausing with one hand resting on them. If that was so, then he should try and influence his brother in Alice’s favour. Steer him away from the obvious charms of Mia to the quieter attractions of Alice. Henry took a stern, hard look at himself. Was he acting from altruistic motives? Yes. If the consequence was that Mia would be free to look elsewhere – well, so be it.

  He tossed the suitcase into the boot of the car and slid into the driver’s seat with an end-of-term feeling. He loved that moment when the last layers of London peeled away and he was out in the countryside, trees flashing by as he sped towards what would always feel like home. His phone rang as he put the key in the ignition. He looked at the screen: Saskia – and removed the key again. She had been strangely quiet since storming out of the interviews. He’d expected to be bombarded with vitriolic voicemails or at least the odd letter written in blood – but nothing. He’d half persuaded himself that she’d given up; but knowing Saskia’s persistence the silence could suggest she was busy with something else. Such as trying to scare Mia away from the interview process.

  He could ignore the call, but forewarned was forearmed.

  ‘Hello, Saskia.’

  She cut to the chase. ‘Didn’t expect to hear from me, did you, babe? Thought I was locked up in Wormwood Scrubs, I expect. Thought they’d thrown away the key.’