The Bluebell Castle Collection

by Sarah Bennett

  Tristan slapped his hand to his forehead, as though to say he thought Arthur was an idiot. ‘Exactly! Now what are you bloody waiting for?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was déjà vu, Lucie thought as she stared at the cracked bedroom wall and ignored the knock of her mother on the door. Leaving Arthur had been the right thing to do, but that hadn’t made her feel any better. Hour after hour she’d stared at her silent phone, willing him to call, and yet knowing he wouldn’t until she’d turned it off and thrown it into her dressing table drawer.

  All the promises she’d made to herself about marching up the front steps at Witherby’s and demanding answers had faded to nothing. There didn’t seem to be much point in doing anything, not that she could concentrate, which was why she was curled up under her duvet once more. She wasn’t just upset this time, she was angry. Angry with Arthur for letting her go, even though it had been the right thing to do, angry at herself for not fighting harder to defend her innocence in the first place. And beneath it all bubbled the bitterest and oldest anger, the one that had simmered inside her since the day her father had betrayed them and turned her life upside down.

  The knock came again. ‘Go away, Mum, please.’

  ‘There’s someone at the door to see you, Lucie. A Mr Hazeltine.’ Lucie sat bolt upright. The head of security from Witherby’s had come to her home? This couldn’t be good news. Her gut churned. They’d obviously decided to sack her, and had chosen to do it here rather than summoning her to the auction house. Best to keep the stink of scandal as far away as possible, she thought bitterly.

  She glanced down at her rumpled pyjamas. She couldn’t face him like this, looking like she’d been wallowing in her own guilt. Self-pity, maybe, but not guilt. ‘Tell him I’ll be out in fifteen minutes.’

  With her wet hair secured at her nape in a neat bun, Lucie eyed the contents of her wardrobe. Her first instinct was to don one of her prim skirt suits, to look every part the Witherby’s girl, only she wasn’t going to be one of those for much longer, was she? Her gaze landed on the carefully folded garment she’d found in her suitcase and tucked away for safekeeping. Drawing it out, she pressed it to her nose, inhaling the spicy scent of Arthur’s cologne still clinging to the fabric.

  She was still rolling the sleeves back as she padded into their tiny living room on bare feet. The moment she entered, Mr Hazeltine rose. ‘Miss Kennington. It’s very good to see you again.’

  Good? To see her? ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here to offer you an apology, and an explanation.’ He gestured towards the sofa. ‘Perhaps you’d like to sit down?’

  Dazed, she could only stare at him. He didn’t sound like he’d come to sack her, but why else would he be there? Apparently sensing her confusion, Lucie’s mum took the initiative. She pointed at the armchair. ‘You sit here, Mr Hazeltine, and Lucie, you take the sofa. I’ll make us some tea.’

  Lucie waited until the door had closed behind her before she spoke. ‘Why are you here?’

  The bluff man shifted uncomfortably in his seat for a moment. ‘I’m afraid we at Witherby’s haven’t been square with you, Miss Kennington…Lucie.’ He clasped his hands together then braced them firmly on the arms of the chair. ‘I’m afraid your suspension was my idea. We’ve known for some time there’s been a problem at the house, and although I had my suspicions, I didn’t have enough evidence to act.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ The lump in her throat was the size of a golf ball and all she could do was swallow hard and nod at Mr Hazeltine to continue.

  ‘When the incident with the Meileau arose, and forgive me for saying this, your father’s unfortunate history was raised, I saw the opportunity I’d been waiting for.’ Steepling his fingers, he stared over them at her. ‘We’ve suspected Carl Nelson’s involvement with a handful of embarrassing, not to say costly, incidences over the past few years.’

  Carl? The man who’d taken her under his wing and mentored her from the moment she’d first stepped through the door at Witherby’s? She couldn’t get her head around it. ‘But Carl’s been there for years, you can’t possibly think he’d have anything to do with this.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true. He was the one who told me about your father’s conviction.’ Mr Hazeltine’s lips compressed into a straight line. ‘He dropped the information in my ear a couple of weeks before the Meileau debacle. I think it was a kind of insurance on his part, setting you up to be the fall guy in case his plan to switch the paintings went wrong.’ He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘When both you and Piers recognised the copy, he panicked a bit and threw you under the bus as it were. I had no choice but to act immediately and suspend you. If I hadn’t, it would’ve put him on guard that we suspected him.’

  She still couldn’t believe it. Carl had set her up? ‘I don’t understand how he thought he could get away with it?’

  ‘Apparently, he was in cahoots with the owner, Mr Richardson. He convinced him to have a copy of the painting made to be displayed on the family’s wall at home. Carl then switched the copy out for the original. The plan was for the mix-up over them to be revealed after the launch, forcing Witherby’s to quietly withdraw from auctioning the item to hide our embarrassment over putting a faked painting on display.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make any sense.’

  ’Not the smartest of plans, to be sure. Carl was going to drop a rumour to an art critic that Witherby’s had dropped the ball and couldn’t tell the real painting from the copy, but when you and Piers spotted the fake, he panicked and pointed the blame at you. It wasn’t as if he could admit to knowing there was a copy floating around.’ Mr Hazeltine continued. ‘He’d persuaded Mr Richardson they could sell to a private buyer once the fuss had died down. Carl would handle the entire transaction privately for twelve percent of the selling price. Given this is almost half our commission rate, they both stood to pocket a considerable amount between them. It’s not the first time. We’ve had a number of items unexpectedly withdrawn from sale only to find out they were sold on the private market at a later date.’

  Lucie could only stare at him. ‘When did you find all this out?’

  ‘I approached Mr Richardson, and to my surprise, he confessed the whole thing. His wife had found out about it and was furious with him, was threatening to expose him if he didn’t come clean so I came knocking at just the right time. His statement has been enough for us to take action and Carl Nelson has resigned with immediate effect.’

  ‘Resigned? But where’s the justice in that?’ Lucie was outraged at the idea.

  The security head had the decency to look embarrassed. ‘Witherby’s has a reputation to protect.’

  ‘But of course.’ She couldn’t hold in the bitter laugh. ‘And where does all this leave me?’

  Mr Hazeltine shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Well, that’s entirely up to you. The board is willing to offer you a full written apology, and you are welcome to commence work again as soon as you wish to do so. Should you find yourself unwilling to return, I’m authorised to offer you a generous severance package and a glowing letter of recommendation. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding work at one of the other London houses. Not that we would wish to lose you.’

  Could she go back? Could she walk through that door and act like nothing had happened and pick up the pieces of her life once more? She honestly didn’t know. ‘Can I think about it?’

  As though she’d released him from a trap, Mr Hazeltine bounced up out of the chair. ‘Of course, Miss Kennington, of course. Take all the time you need.’ He was already halfway to the door before she’d even got up. ‘I do hope you’ll choose to come back in due course. You might not realise it, but you have a lot of champions there. I can’t tell you the number of complaints I received once word got around about your suspension. We had to hold a full staff meeting once Carl resigned.’

  ‘Everyone at work knows everything?’ There’d be no slinking back through the door and pre
tending nothing had happened.

  ‘Everyone knows the truth. Your reputation is fully restored.’

  With them maybe, but not with the only person who really counted. ‘I’ll be in touch in a few days.’ Lucie couldn’t bring herself to thank him as she showed him out. At the end of the day, he’d used her cruelly to protect the reputation of his employer, and she wasn’t sure she could forgive that.

  *

  Two weeks later, Lucie paused at the bottom of the steps leading to the main entrance of Witherby’s and smoothed a hand over her skirt. When the reality of still having bills to pay had set in, she’d found she could forgive Mr Hazeltine after all. Besides, if she let Carl’s actions drive her away, she would lose a piece of her self-respect she might never get back. Lucie had done nothing wrong and it was past time to act like it.

  As she approached the door, it swung back to reveal the smiling face of James, the doorman. ‘Welcome back, Lucie. It’s great to see you.’

  ‘Thank you, it’s great to be back,’ she replied, almost certain she meant it.

  ‘They’re waiting for you in the preview room. You know the way.’ James beamed from ear to ear like he’d told her something splendid.

  Her stomach flip-flopped. Oh, goodness, was there some kind of welcome back party for her? She’d hoped to be able to settle in quietly, track down Piers and a couple of other friends for a bit of moral support before she faced everybody. ‘Thanks,’ she replied, weakly, and started down the corridor.

  As she passed one colleague after another, each greeting her with a smile, a few words of welcome, even a couple of hugs, she grew more and more confused. Maybe there wasn’t going to be a big fanfare, after all. Who was waiting for her in the preview room, then?

  When she pushed open the double doors, her heart seemed to stop beating for a moment. The room was empty, apart from a very familiar painting nestled on an easel in the centre of the raised dais. Spellbound, she crossed towards it, her eyes roaming over the magnificent image of the woman astride a horse, a knight in full armour knelt in supplication before her. It was even more magnificent than she remembered, from Eudora representing the Lady Guinevere, her stubborn chin raised as though accepting her rightful due, to the love and yearning etched on the face of Thomas as King Arthur. Beautiful. Heartbreaking. A masterpiece.

  ‘I’m furious with you.’

  She spun so fast at the low, clipped words, Lucie almost stumbled down the small steps of the dais. Dressed in a smart dark suit and tie, Arthur was even more devasting than in his usual shirtsleeves and jeans. His dark brow glowered, giving proof to his words. Why was he here, what could this possibly mean? He couldn’t want her to work on the project to authenticate the painting, could he? To have to deal with him, knowing everything she could’ve had and let slip through her fingers? It didn’t bear thinking about. If she thought leaving Arthur had broken her, she’d been a fool. This would grind her down to dust. He wouldn’t be so cruel.

  It’d be no more than she deserved, though, given everything she’d put him through. ‘You have every right to be. I’m sorry that I lied to you.’

  ‘Is that all you’re sorry for?’

  The question confused her, what else was there? ‘I hope you can at least understand why I did it. A painting like this appearing out of the blue would attract enough suspicion. I couldn’t afford to be associated with it in any way.’

  ‘Mr Hazeltine has been good enough to explain the vagaries of the art world to me.’ His voice was so stiff, so devoid of warmth. So Baronet Ludworth, it cut her to the quick. He clearly couldn’t stand the sight of her.

  ‘James—th…the doorman, told me I was wanted in here, but he obviously made a mistake.’ She turned towards the door, desperate to escape his cold glare. ‘I should go—’

  ‘If you walk out of that door now, I will never forgive you.’ Oh, there was no coldness in his tone now, only heat, and anger, and beneath all of that the faintest flicker of something that threatened to turn her knees to jelly. Need.

  She whirled about once more, expecting to find him glowering still, but instead there was such a look of yearning on his face, it could’ve been him on his knees in the painting. Hope sent her pulse fluttering. ‘And if I stay, is there a chance you might forgive me?’

  He took a step towards her, seemed to catch himself and held his ground. ‘I shouldn’t.’

  Oh, he was going to make her work for this. If he wouldn’t come to her, she would go to him. Today, and every day for the rest of her life if he would let her. She closed the space between them. ‘But you might?’ She slipped her hand inside the lapel of his jacket and placed it over his heart, gratified to feel it was pounding as hard as her own.

  His lip twitched. ‘I might have told the board that Witherby’s would only receive my patronage if their best expert was put in charge of the project.’

  ‘Me?’ It came out as more of a squeak than she’d intended, but she couldn’t believe what he was saying. He wasn’t making her come to him, he was offering to meet her halfway.

  Retrieving the hand she’d placed on his chest, he pressed a kiss to her palm. ‘This is your discovery, Lucie. If it hadn’t been for you, we might never have known about it. I won’t let anyone steal your glory, not now. Not ever.’

  The truth of what he’d done for her was staggering. He’d risked everything to rescue her reputation, put her above everything, including the future of Bluebell Castle. Gone against everything she’d warned him about.

  She was beyond furious with him. She’d never loved anyone as much as she did him in that moment. ‘You’re an idiot.’ She flung her arms around his neck. ‘I love you.’

  Arthur laughed as he gathered her close, a rich glorious sound she wanted to hear every day for the rest of her life. ‘I love you, too.’

  Acknowledgements

  Welcome to Bluebell Castle!

  Creating a brand new setting has been so much fun, I really hope you enjoy exploring the castle and its surrounds as much as you like the new characters I’ve introduced you to. I can’t wait to explore it with you as the seasons change over the next few months.

  If you’ve read any of my other books, you’ll know by now I have a thing for character names and creating a tenuous link from the Ludworth family to the Arthurian legends was just too tempting to resist. Poor Uncle Lancelot got the worst of it, but he seems to be coping admirably!

  As ever, though the words on the page are mine, it takes a lot of people to write a book, and I’d like to take a moment to thank just a few of them.

  First and foremost, my husband. All my happy endings start and end with you x

  My fantastic editor, Charlotte Mursell, without whom I simply couldn’t navigate the often-choppy waters of this publishing business. Knowing you have my back means everything.

  Everyone at HQ Digital. I say it every time, but without each and every one of you who helps behind the scenes, there would be no book. You’re the absolute best x

  Special mention to Dushi for weaving her copy-editing magic. You bring the sparkle x

  Rachel Bavidge brings my audio books to life. I’m so pleased you’re back on board for Bluebell Castle.

  So many author friends who hold my virtual hand and cheer me on when I doubt myself. Rachel Burton, Victoria Cooke, Jules Wake, Phillipa Ashley, Darcie Boleyn to name but a few. Getting to know you all has been the biggest joy x

  And, saving the very best to last, here’s to you, my wonderful readers! Whether this is the first book of mine you’ve tried, or you’ve been with me from the start – thank you. If I can give you a few hours of escapism and enjoyment, my work is done.

  Sunshine Over Bluebell Castle

  Sarah Bennett

  For Charlotte –

  thank you for believing in me when I don’t always believe in myself

  Chapter 1

  After a fruitless afternoon fighting with the overgrown tangle of thorns all but blocking the entrance to the maze which formed the
centrepiece of the long neglected formal gardens of Bluebell Castle, Igraine Ludworth-Iggy to everyone but her formidable great-aunt, Morgana-was ready for nothing more than a quiet cry in a hot shower. Like the labours of Sisyphus, trying to make sense of the mess so many years of neglect had wrought to the gardens was starting to feel like a pointless exercise. It would take months of hard work, a bucketload of money, and a team full of assistants; the first she could manage, the other two… well a girl could dream.

  Shoving at the frizzy, sweaty dark snarl of a fringe haphazardly shortened with a pair of secateurs in a foolish act of frustration the previous week, Iggy had just reached the end of the pathway leading to the enormous gravel driveway in front of the castle when she heard the sound of a vehicle crunching over the stones. Frustrations and her dire need for a shower forgotten, Iggy hurried as fast as her wellies would carry her towards the battered Land Rover pulling up on the other side of the enormous circular fountain and flower bed occupying pride of place in the centre of the drive.

  ‘You’re back, you’re back! How was it?’ Iggy asked her brother Arthur and his girlfriend as they clambered out of the vehicle. As the new baronet, Arthur had been invited to the local primary school to give out the prizes at their speech day, and he’d taken his girlfriend along for moral support.

  Though the eldest of triplets, Igraine had been passed over in the line of succession of their family’s lands and title to Arthur, the middle child, as she had the misfortune of being the wrong sex. Had it not been for the blatant sexism etched in every word of the entailment of the Ludworth Baronetcy, it might have been Iggy presenting the prizes instead of Arthur.

  There weren’t many times she was grateful for the words ‘Firstborn, legitimate male offspring’, but from the harassed look upon her brother’s face, now might be one of them.

  ‘They all wanted to take a selfie with me, like I was some kind of celebrity,’ he said, shaking his head in bemusement at the idea.