“Bravo!” Tarquin said. “And do you know, if you can’t convince Driscoll that you’ve won round the pig, come and live at the Towers! I don’t even know if that’s the right thing to say, but it feels right, so…there we are.”
“So, what about Petunia?” He kissed Tarquin again, stealing a quick smooch. “Have you told her?”
“No, not yet.” Tarquin winced. “I got out of bed and I…I grabbed the ice cream and came straight over here. I’ll speak to her tomorrow. She’s put me in the guest bedroom. Not even letting me sleep in my own bed now. But I’m not having that. I know it was wrong of me, to go behind her back, and I should’ve been brave enough to tell her that women aren’t exactly my thing. But… Well, it’s over now. She doesn’t know it, but it is.”
Chris studied Tarquin’s face, catching him in that irresistible blue gaze. “Stay the night?”
“I’d love to.” Tarquin patted Chris’ knee. “And I mean it. I’m not just saying this, then tomorrow I decide it’s easier not to get Petunia’s hackles up. I’m serious. I love you, Chris, and I’m not going to hide from myself anymore.”
“Ice cream, bed and the man I love.” Chris kissed his cheek. “Let’s go up and snuggle, darling. It’s been an emotional day.”
Chapter Eighteen
Tarquin woke early, as he always did, and left Chris sleeping. In the early dawn light he was able to finally admire the man he loved and who loved him in return, who even now slumbered with a soft look of happiness on his face, sunlight picking out the golden tones of his thick hair.
But Tarquin had a farm to run.
He scribbled a note—Farm duties—back soon! T xxx—and went off to see to his cows.
Would Petunia realize he hadn’t slept in his bed?
I don’t bloody care!
Tarquin strode toward the house, only to hear Petunia’s voice coming from the back garden.
“All that money,” she was sneering. “All that money for a bloody pig! After all that I did!”
With the squire in his veins, Tarquin headed through the gate, and—
“Petunia, what the hell are you doing?”
“I should’ve put a bloody bullet in you the first time you waddled through the bloody door,” Petunia snarled as she lifted Tarquin’s shotgun up to her shoulder, bracing it against her floral-print blouse. Standing before her the Oracle of Delphi squealed, held in place by a dog lead that was looped through her harness and tied to the fence. “Bye-bye, you ugly sow, hello, my inheritance!”
Her inheritance?
Not…not the last fancy.
Tarquin’s heart raced, but he steadied himself, his hands in his pockets, his stance wide. He shone the terrified Oracle an encouraging look.
Don’t worry, old girl, I’ll get you out of this!
“Petunia, a word if you wouldn’t mind?”
“I’m going to shoot the pig,” she announced. “The pervert next door will lose his inheritance and you’ll give me the money that the will says you’ll get for her ridiculous funeral. That should tide me over until I get my inheritance.”
Tarquin shook his head. “First of all, the man next door is my boyfriend. Secondly, if you shoot the Oracle like this, I’ll make sure you’re prosecuted for animal cruelty, and thirdly, what inheritance?”
“Animal cruelty?” Petunia pouted, her face crumpling as tears began to trickle down her powdered cheeks. “The pig got loose and I was so frightened, Officer. I didn’t know what else to do, I adore animals, I feel so guilty.” Then she smiled. “Beardsley swore he’d leave me something!”
But she couldn’t be the last fancy, not if she’d been the one who wanted the Prince Albert. Petunia was far too sensible to offer thousands for something that was already under the same roof.
Besides, her finger was already tightening on the shotgun trigger.
Tarquin crouched and picked up a fallen apple, which he tossed nonchalantly from hand to hand as if he was limbering up for a game of cricket. But inside, Tarquin was fuming. At least she had confirmed for him his doubts about their relationship. A person who could do this was not someone he wanted to have in his life.
“Petunia, there’s something we need to talk about, and I can’t do that while you’re holding my shotgun. Pop it down and we’ll have a chat.”
“You leave my pig alone!” Chris called as he hopped the fence. He didn’t catch his trousers, of course. Then he held up his phone and told her, “You’re on camera, I’d listen to Tarks if I were you.”
But she wouldn’t, Tarquin knew, because she never had.
The Oracle struggled against the harness and stared wide-eyed in fear at Tarquin, then at Chris. Tarquin didn’t like violence, but by trying to murder a pig in the back garden, Petunia had crossed a line and had to be stopped.
He lobbed the apple he’d been toying with at Petunia. Its soft, rotten flesh burst apart as it glanced off her shoulder. That seemed to break the spell and Petunia gave a cry of disgust, then lowered the gun. In two strides, Tarquin was at her side and took the gun from her. He slid out the cartridges and put them safely in his pocket before hanging the shotgun over his arm.
“Chris, would you untie your pig? Petunia’s going to be busy now, packing her bags.”
“I can’t wait,” she spat as she stalked away toward the house, leaving them alone. Chris quickly unknotted the lead then sank down beside the pig, softly stroking her head.
“Come on, old girl,” he soothed. “No harm done.”
The Oracle snuffled against him, her squeals now replaced by contented grunts.
“She likes you,” Tarquin said. “She certainly doesn’t like Petunia!”
“That’s understandable on both points,” Chris decided. He ducked his head until his nose was level with the Oracle’s delicate snout. “And if your late daddy was really carrying on with Petunia, Orry, his taste in women fell far short of his taste in best friends. Don’t you worry, Miss Hardacre, because I’m not going to let you out of my sight from now on.”
“Petunia carrying on with Beardsley. What a thought!” Tarquin shuddered. “She didn’t seem at all sad when he died, but I suppose she was thinking of her dratted inheritance. All she cares about is money. I wish I could have seen through her earlier—and now…”
Tarquin stroked the Oracle’s floppy ears and beamed at Chris. “You and me, lovely boyfriend, have a pig to charm!”
Chapter Nineteen
As the days of summer wore on and the Upper Bough versus Lower Bough rowing grudge match grew nearer, Tarquin and Chris embarked on not one project but two. Every free moment was spent together, exploring the loving bonds that they had forged in the guise of the squire and his captain, indulging not just the physical desires that had drawn them together in the first place, but the emotional pull that thrummed between them like a shared heartbeat. Sometimes it was romance and roses, candlelit dinners and long walks through the meadows, and others it was a trip to the farmers’ market to gather Sunday lunch, the Oracle trotting alongside them or lazing in the sun beside their table as they passed a balmy evening in Bough Bottoms’ beer garden.
Of Petunia, precious little seemed to be said. She was simply gone, disappeared from the life of Bough Bottoms as though she had never been there, and though Tarquin had girded himself for unwanted commiserations and whatever poison she spread about him, it seemed that Petunia Rudd wasn’t much missed at all. Perhaps it had been Chris’ video that had silenced her before she started, perhaps she was ashamed or even heartbroken, but somehow Tarquin thought not. She didn’t seem like the sort of woman who knew what shame was.
But with each minute that ticked away toward the boat race, another minute passed on Chris’ deadline to tempt the Oracle home and safeguard his inheritance. The inheritance that might well end up being Petunia’s if he was unsuccessful. The elegant pig certainly liked her new guardian and she listened happily to his spirited readings of PA Pierce’s legendary Madam Fanny’s Floral Pomander, squealing in scandaliz
ed merriment at the busting breeches and swelling bosoms, the delicate buds and muscular thrustings. She and the dogs dozed as he sang to them too, a look of utter delight on the pig’s gently sleeping face with every rendition of Sondheim or Berlin, Hammerstein or her particular favorite, Gershwin, and there was nothing she liked more than joining Tarquin and Chris in the garden as the moon rose over the Sussex countryside, snuffling lazily in the grass with her pack of hounds as they shared a bottle of something nice.
Yet for all of that, whenever the Oracle needed a little me time, it was to Bough Towers that she repaired. Whatever drew her there, Tarquin knew, he and Chris had to find it fast and save the Hardacre inheritance from his last fancy, whether it was Petunia or some other, possibly even worse, prospect.
“Who’s a lovely girl in her crown? You! That’s who!” Chris cooed at the Oracle of Delphi, snapping a photo of her in the floral crown he had crafted as they bobbed lazily down the river together in a thankfully sturdy rowing boat one Sunday afternoon. “Don’t you think, Tarks? A natural elegance and poise that few can match!”
“She’s a beauty, our girl!” Tarquin smiled as he pulled on the oars. “I just wish she’d stop faffing and go back to your house.”
She lifted her gaze and grunted at Tarquin, causing the floral crown to slip just a little. The Oracle’s snout sniffed the air and, with a toss of her head, the handcrafted headpiece fluttered up into the air and spiraled back down into her waiting mouth. Chris patted her shoulder as she chewed thoughtfully on his creation, watching her as though he might be able to intuit what it was about Bough Towers that had so enchanted the Oracle.
“I’m counting on you, Orry,” he said as he settled back in the boat, lounging with a decadence that Tarquin knew would never cease to make him melt. “Unless you want Petunia Rudd living next door and spending your inheritance, you need to charm Mr. Driscoll just once and tell him that the Hardacre place is the best place in Bough Bottoms. After that, if Bough Towers is where your snout leads you, Bough Towers it shall be.” Chris ruffled his hand through his hair and said casually, “Besides, Tarks, I’ve been thinking thoughts about the absurdly big Hardacre place. Future plans, and all that.”
“Really? What sort of —?” At the sound of a familiar voice barking down a megaphone, Tarquin winced. The Upper Bough rowing team were speeding along the river, Petunia Rudd, would-be pig murderess, as coxswain. “Wait, I’d better get us out of the way—they’re going at quite a clip!”
Tarquin maneuvered them toward the bank.
Petunia.
Petunia, who’d slept with the hundred-year-old Beardsley Hardacre just to get into his will and who, he now suspected, might be more than business partners with Bryan Reeve. Why the suspicion occurred to him he wasn’t quite sure, but it seemed all too cozy that she had somehow ended up in the front of the Upper Bough boat.
They’re welcome to her.
“Let’s be having you, you miserable bunch!” she bellowed, hardly needing her megaphone. “Come on, you’re supposed to be men! You’re not men, you’re pathetic little girls! Row! Row! Put some muscle into it!”
“Bloody hell, imagine being married to her!” Tarquin chuckled. “Maybe Bryan will find out one day?”
“Do you think…” Chris’ mouth fell open and he watched the boat approach, amusement dancing in his eyes. “If he is Aubrey Reeve, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke.” The boat was steering toward them and Tarquin could see Bryan readying himself for some quip or other, but Chris got there first with a chipper call of, “Morning, Aubrey, nice day for it!”
“Hold water!” Petunia roared and the boat slowed to a gentle glide, the better to allow Bryan his moment in the sun. “You’re a bloody shower!”
Bryan, whose face had been red with effort, blanched to a horrible gray. He stared at Chris as the boat skimmed slowly by, then, with a shake of his head, turned back to Petunia.
“He is Aubrey, isn’t he!” Tarquin whispered.
“We’re working very hard here, Petty, darling!” Bryan replied. He was sitting right in front of her and leaned in, his lips puckered to kiss her. Tarquin’s stomach roiled with nausea.
“So nice to have a real man,” she cooed, pressing her lips to Bryan’s. Chris rolled his eyes and the Oracle paused in her chewing to give a snort of distaste at the woman who had tried to blow her brains out. Petunia waved one hand and said, “Too late, Tarquin, this ship has sailed away!”
“Keep an eye on Aubrey in that case,” Chris said helpfully. “He’s got form for sinking boats when he doesn’t get his way.”
“Got to shoot off, Petunia? What a shame!” Tarquin called after her. “The bloody cow. Good riddance.” He looked up at Chris. “Sank a boat? What the hell happened? You said before something about Aubrey trying to drown people. Sadly, that wouldn’t surprise me from Bryan.”
“We’ll settle this once and for all.” Chris took out his phone, tapping at the screen as he spoke. “Aubrey Reeve was a couple of years above me and whatever I did, he was there. My father’s very keen on competition, so I was put into every team you can think of at school, and when it came to a choice between studying and training, I was expected to focus on the latter. Bring home the gold, Dad would say. And I did. Archery, rowing, shooting, whatever you can think of. And silver was always this bullying bastard called Aubrey Reeve. The boys were all terrified of him—he was a rotten bit of work even then.”
He pocketed his phone and stroked the Oracle’s back as she went back to her chewing. “And Leadbetter has this annual solo boat race, bloody punishing, and Reeve just couldn’t quite best me. So after three years of it, he holed my boat. Not enough to go down in one, but enough to cause me serious trouble in the middle of a fast-moving river. I finished it though, came in silver. Dad was furious. Then a miracle happened. One of Aubrey’s cronies got caught stealing exam papers from the headmaster’s study on behalf of Aubrey and in a last blaze of glory the thief gave up the Godfather in return for the chance to take his final exams before they kicked him out. And one of those he gave up was Aubrey Reeve, who he’d helped hole my boat. Reeve got expelled, I got my gold and my bloody dad never apologized. But rich dads rarely do.”
Tarquin had nearly lost his oars, so intensely had he been listening to Chris’ story. He gripped them at the last moment before they could splash into the water. “What an absolute rotter! He is certainly competitive. I must admit it washes over me somewhat, but he’d always come round the house and tell me how his car was better than mine, his house was better than mine, his kitchen was better than mine, and… He would, wouldn’t he? He would’ve gone behind my back with Petunia just to win her from me! What a load of hypocritical twaddle—she demanded I give you up, she made me sleep in the spare room, and she’d been boffing your uncle and Bryan bloody Reeve while taking over my home and forcing me to marry her! Bloody hell.”
Tarquin slapped his forehead. He’d been played like an idiot.
“I don’t approve of Beardsley’s immoral dealings at all, but I hope I’ve got even a quarter of his stamina when I reach my centenary,” Chris said dryly. “All of my old school pics are still boxed up until I know if the house is mine. I’ve just emailed a few old Leadbettian chums though. One of them might have a picture of Aubrey they can send our way. Until then it’s just you, me, our girl and the river. And that suits me.”
“And me as well.” Tarquin paddled them back into the center of the stream. “Hmm… Bryan did say he wasn’t at the same school as you, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was sent to Shillinglaw after he was expelled. That’s Bryan for you—or Aubrey. You don’t buy a Porsche from selling old books without primping the truth somewhat.”
“And how did I ever waste time with an Aston when there was a crazy old homebrewed Land Rover just waiting for me? It’s great fun, like being a lad again.” Chris laughed. “So, I didn’t finish telling you my plan. I think, if everything turns out all right, I’d quite like to try my smallholding. I’m goi
ng to have a silly amount of land and there are a silly amount of animals who aren’t as lucky as the Oracle, and I think they might like to have a sanctuary filled with show tunes and questionable literature. But if you’re my neighbor, I really think you should have the right to say no. Animals can be noisy and if a hungry goat got into your orchard… Well, we could have chaos!”
“I think that’s just what old Hardacre Grange needs! I can’t wait!” Tarquin grinned. “Now look here, Orry, your fellow beasties have a lot riding on you moving back to your old house. I know you like Bough Towers and the dogs, and I’ve loved having you to stay, but you show Mr. Driscoll that you’re great chums with Chris and all will be well.”
She looked up at him then, with a snort, went back to her crown as Chris gave a cry of triumph when his phone beeped.
“Look at the sixteen-year-old oik!” He held up the screen to Tarquin. “What do you say? Was I right about Reeve or was I right about Reeve?”
Tarquin recognized the expression before the face. That tight-lipped sneer, the self-important stare. It was Bryan to a tee. Albeit with a more freckled nose. His face was undistinguished, and, if Tarquin was feeling unkind, somewhat resembled a potato. The hair was cut shorter—school regulation length, perhaps—and a blazer replaced the pinstripes.
But it was definitely Bryan Reeve. Or Aubrey, as he’d once been.
“Bloody hell. That’s him! Definitely him! What a small world, eh?”
“Squire!” A voice bellowed from the bank and there was Longfellow, his dogs milling around his wellingtons. “Bough! I say, Bough, steer your way over here, man!”
“Oh heck, what does he want?” Tarquin mumbled. With only a few strokes, he brought the boat up to the bank, then shielded his eyes with his hand as he blinked up at Longfellow. “Afternoon, old bean! What can I do for you?”
The Captain and the Squire Page 18