‘So,’ he said. ‘The polite little girl has spirit. And what else, I wonder?’

Andre jerked her forward, his other arm going round her, pulling her against him, and as her lips parted in furious protest his mouth came down hard on hers.

Ginny couldn't struggle, or cry out. She could scarcely breathe. He was holding her too closely, her hands trapped between their bodies. Nor could she resist the practised movement of his lips on hers, or the slow, sensual exploration of his tongue as he invaded the innocence of her mouth, tasting her sweetness. Drinking from her. Draining her as she swayed in his arms, her mind reeling from the shock of it. And yet—in some incalculable way—not wanting it to stop …

SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills and Boon® in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking, and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge—the Professionals.

Inherited by Her Enemy

Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Eve, with love and thanks.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EXTRACT

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

GINNY MASON SENT a wave and grateful smile to the last of the departing well-wishers, then closed the heavy front door against the raw chill of the late January afternoon with a deep sigh of relief.

That, she thought wryly, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe as she listened to the car draw away, was the worst part of the day over. At least she hoped so.

The crematorium chapel had been full, because her stepfather Andrew Charlton was popular in the locality and well respected as an employer too, being the recently retired head of his own successful light engineering company. But only a handful of those present had accepted Rosina Charlton’s invitation to return to the house for the lavish buffet she’d arranged and few had stayed for very long.

They still think of us as interlopers, Ginny told herself, pulling a face, and they probably feel that Andrew should have been buried next to his first wife after a church service.

Or, maybe, word of Mother’s plans has probably got around. Today Rosina had been the wistful, gracious chatelaine, fragile in black. Last night she’d declared peevishly that she couldn’t wait to sell Barrowdean House and get away from all these stuffed shirts, to somewhere with a bit of life.

‘The South of France, I think.’ She nodded. ‘One of those really pretty villas in the hills, with a pool. So nice for the grandchildren when they come to visit,’ she’d added with an arch look at her younger daughter.

‘For God’s sake, Ma,’ Lucilla had said impatiently. ‘Jonathan and I have only just got engaged. We won’t be thinking of a family for absolutely ages. I want some fun too.’

Nothing new there, then, Ginny had thought to herself. Although she supposed Cilla could hardly be blamed. She was ‘the pretty one’, whereas Ginny, as her mother often pointed out, took after her father. Her creamy skin and neat figure did not compensate for the fact that her hair was light brown instead of blonde, and her eyes were not blue but grey. And her face could best be described as unremarkable.

Cilla on the other hand was a true golden girl, spoiled since birth by everyone.

Even Andrew had not been immune, because, when she’d returned from completing her education at an expensive establishment in Switzerland, while he might have muttered about her doing some proper training and getting a job, he’d never insisted that she become gainfully employed.

And when she’d caught the eye of Sir Malcolm and Lady Welburn’s only son, and courtship had proceeded rapidly to engagement, he’d nodded in a resigned way, as if weighing up the probable cost of the wedding.

An occasion he had not lived to see, thought Ginny, her throat tightening as she remembered the tall, thin kindly man who’d provided such safety and security in their lives for the past ten years.

As she began to recover from the immediate shock of Andrew’s death, she was already wondering why they hadn’t been warned about his heart condition.

But, as yet, she’d had no real opportunity to grieve. Her mother and Cilla’s hysterical reaction to their loss had demanded all her time and attention to begin with, and then had come the bombshell of Rosina’s decision to sell Barrowdean and move as soon as a buyer could be found, which had knocked her sideways all over again.

There was, her mother had claimed defiantly, nothing to keep her here, because Cilla, marrying darling Jonathan, would be well taken care of.

‘While you have your job at that funny little café, Virginia,’ she’d added. ‘I’m sure someone in the village will have a room you can rent.’

It had been on the tip of Ginny’s tongue to say that the café was no longer just a job, but a prospect for the future, and accommodation might not be an issue. However, on second thoughts, she decided to keep quiet.

She moved away from the door and stood, irresolute for a moment, listening to the murmur of voices and chink of china and cutlery from the dining room, where Andrew’s elderly housekeeper Mrs Pelham, and Mavis from the village were clearing away the remains of the buffet.

Which we’ll probably be eating for the rest of the week, she told herself ruefully.

Mrs Pel, of course, was another problem for her to worry about. Not that the old lady was under any illusions. She knew quite well that Rosina had been trying to get rid of her ever since she’d come to live at Barrowdean House, using Mrs Pel’s age and growing infirmity as her excuse. But Andrew had ignored all hints.

Apart from his personal fondness for her, he said, Mrs Pelham was part of Barrowdean, and ran the house like clockwork. When she decided to retire, she would tell him. Until then, no change would be made.

Now, of course, there was no such curb, and the housekeeper’s dismissal would be high on the list of Rosina’s ‘things to do’.

Ginny knew she ought to lend a hand with the clearing, as she did with most of the household chores these days, out of regard for Mrs Pel’s arthritis, but instead she headed for Andrew’s study to make sure everything was ready for the formal reading of the will.

‘What a ridiculous performance,’ Rosina had said scathingly. ‘When we’re the sole beneficiaries.’

I hope it’s that simple, thought Ginny, aware of a brief and inexplicable pang of anxiety.

However, Mr Hargreaves, the solicitor who’d always handled Andrew’s affairs had been quite adamant that in this, at least, his client’s wishes should be observed, and had arranged to call at five o’clock.

The study had always been Ginny’s favourite room, probably because the walls were lined with books, and she’d enjoyed curling up in a chair by the fire, silent and engrossed, while Andrew worked at his desk.

She hadn’t been in here since his death, and she had to brace herself to open the door, hardly believing that he would not be there to look up and smile at her.

But there was still a living presence in the room. Barney, her stepfather’s five-year-old Golden Labrador was stretched out on the rug in front of the fire.

As she entered, he raised his head, and his tail beat a brief tattoo on the rug, but he didn’t jump up and come over to push his muzzle into her hand. That was a privilege still reserved solely for the beloved master who would not return.

‘Poor old boy,’ Ginny said softly. ‘Did you think I’d forgotten you? I promise I’ll take you out again once this will-reading business is sorted.’

Although Barney, of course, was another problem. Her mother who disliked dogs—the mess, the smell—was already talking about sending him to the vet to be put down, and Ginny felt sick at the prospect.

She would take him herself like a shot, but until she knew for certain what her own prospects were, her hands were tied.

She added logs to the fire, switched on the lamps, made sure there were enough chairs, then walked across to draw the curtains over the French windows. As she did so, she saw the flash of car headlights approaching up the drive, and glanced at her watch, verifying that Mr Hargreaves, usually a stickler for punctuality, was in fact early.

Probably because this is undoubtedly going to be his least favourite appointment of the day, and he wants to get it over with, she thought, with a sigh.

When the doorbell rang a few minutes later, she was surprised to find Barney accompanying her across the hall, whimpering with excitement.

He must think Andrew’s simply been away and has just returned, she told herself, her throat tightening again. But it’s the sound of his key that he’s always recognised in the past.

She tucked a hand into his collar, knowing that not everyone relished being hit amidships by a large and exuberant Labrador, and opened the door.

She began, ‘Good evening,’ then stopped with the words ‘Mr Hargreaves’ freezing on her lips.

Because the man standing in front of her was certainly not the family solicitor. For a moment, he seemed part of the darkness, his black trench coat hanging open over a charcoal grey suit, with a leather satchel on a long strap hanging from one shoulder. His hair was dark too, and glossy as a raven’s wing, even if it was over-long and slightly dishevelled.

For the rest of him, he was tall, with a lean tanned face and heavy-lidded dark brown eyes. Not good-looking, was her overriding impression. Not with that thin-lipped, uncompromising mouth, nor that beak of a nose, which looked as if it had been broken at some point, and a chin that by contrast seemed to threaten to break any fist which dared approach it.

And yet he was, in some incomprehensible way, faintly familiar, and she found this disturbing.

But Barney had no reservations about the newcomer. With a whine of delight, he broke free of Ginny’s suddenly slackened hold and pushed himself against the stranger’s legs.

‘Barney! Sit down, sir.’ There was a faint quiver in her voice, but the dog obeyed, tail thumping and brown eyes gazing up in liquid adoration.

She said, ‘I’m sorry. He’s not usually like this with—people he doesn’t know.’ Or with people he does know most of the time...

The man bent and stroked the smooth golden head, gently pulling Barney’s ears.

‘It is not a problem.’ A low-pitched voice, slightly husky, with a definite accent that was certainly not local.

As he straightened, Ginny realised she was being looked over in turn. His face betrayed nothing, but she sensed he was not impressed by what he saw.

Which makes two of us, she thought.

She took a breath. ‘I’m sorry. Were we expecting you?’

‘Mr Hargreaves expects me,’ he said. ‘He asked me to meet him here.’

‘Oh—I see,’ she said untruthfully, trying and failing to connect this tough who appeared to need a shave with the ultra-conservative firm of Hargreaves and Litton. ‘In which case, you’d better come in.’

And if he turns out to be a master burglar and/or a mass murderer, she addressed Barney silently, I shall blame you.

She turned and walked back to the study, knowing without looking round that he was following her, the dog at his side.

She said, ‘If you’ll wait here. Would you like some coffee?’

‘Thank you, but no.’

Civil, she thought, but terse. And the way he was looking round him, appraising what he saw, much as he’d done with herself, made her even more uneasy.

‘Mr Hargreaves should be here at any minute,’ she went on, and he responded with a silent inclination of the head, as he put down his satchel and shrugged off his trench coat. His shirt she noticed was pearl-grey, open at the neck and he wore a black tie tugged negligently loose.

Feeling she was observing altogether too much, Ginny murmured something about her mother and sister and retired.

In the drawing room, Rosina rose, smoothing her skirt. ‘I presume Mr Hargreaves has arrived, and we can get this farce over and done with.’

‘No, that was someone else—from his office apparently,’ said Ginny, frowning a little as she remembered the tanned and calloused fingers that had fondled Barney. Not, she thought, the hand of someone who worked at a desk. So, who on earth...

Her train of thought was interrupted as the doorbell sounded yet again. She rose but was halted by her mother.

‘Stay here, Virginia. It’s Mrs Pelham’s job to answer the door, while she remains under this roof,’ she added ominously.

Just as if she didn’t know how many of the household tasks Ginny had quietly taken over in the past six months.

The drawing room door opened again to admit Mrs Pelham, back upright, but walking with the aid of a stick. ‘Mr Hargreaves is here, madam. I have shown him into the study.’

Rosina nodded. ‘I’ll join him presently.’

She and Cilla disappeared upstairs to tidy their hair and no doubt freshen their make-up. Ginny, content that she looked neat and tidy enough in her grey skirt and cream polo-necked sweater, remembered the unexpected arrival and grabbed an extra chair on her way through the hall.

As she entered the study, she saw him deep in quiet conversation with Mr Hargreaves, who immediately broke off to come across and relieve her of her burden.

His normally calm face was creased in worry. He said quietly, ‘I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Mason. I know how close you were to your stepfather. Even now, it hardly seems possible...’ He paused, patted her arm and went back to the desk, placing the chair beside his own.

Then there was the sound of voices and Rosina and Cilla entered, their blonde hair in shining contrast to their black dresses.

Mr Hargreaves’s unknown companion glanced round and paused, his attention totally arrested by the exquisitely melancholy vision being presented, particularly by Cilla, who was even carrying a handkerchief, and whose dress clung to every delectable contour of her exquisite figure.

Don’t even think about it, Ginny advised him under her breath. Cilla prefers the smooth, safe type. You don’t qualify on either count.

Rosina paused. ‘What is that dog doing in here? Virginia, you know quite well that he should be in the kitchen quarters. Must I do everything myself?’

The stranger spoke. ‘Why not a compromise?’ He snapped his fingers, and Barney got up from the rug and ambled across to curl up under the desk, out of sight.

Which was not a thing a country solicitor’s clerk should do in front of his boss, thought Ginny, startled. And that was definitely a foreign accent. So who was he?

As Rosina began an indignant, ‘Well, really,’ she took her mother’s hand, giving it a warning squeeze and led her to the big chair by the fireplace, herself perching on its arm, hoping that her sixth sense, so often a warning of trouble ahead, was wrong in this instance.

Mr Hargreaves began in the conventional manner, dealing first with the small bequests, to the gardener, and various charities. There was also a generous pension for Margaret Jane Pelham ‘in recognition of her years of devoted service’, and the use of one of the village properties Andrew owned for the whole of her lifetime.

She should have been here to hear that for herself, Ginny thought wearily, but her mother had vetoed the idea.

‘Now we come to the major provisions in the will,’ Mr Hargreaves continued, and Rosina sat up expectantly.

‘For my wife, Rosina Elaine Charlton,’ he went on. ‘I direct that she receive an annuity of forty thousand pounds, payable on the first of January each year, and the use of Keeper’s Cottage during her lifetime, its repair and maintenance to be paid from my estate.’

‘An annuity—a cottage?’ Rosina, her voice shaking, was on her feet. ‘What are you talking about? There must be some mistake.’

‘Mother.’ Ginny guided her back into her chair, aware that she too was trembling. ‘Let Mr Hargreaves finish.’

‘Thank you, Miss Mason.’ He cleared his throat, awkwardly. ‘There is one final and major item.’ He paused. ‘All other monies and property of which I die possessed, including Barrowdean House and my shares in Charlton Engineering, I bequeath to my natural son, Andre Duchard of Terauze, France.’

There was an appalled silence. Ginny stared at the man sitting beside the solicitor, his dark face expressionless. Andre, she thought. The French version of Andrew. And, while she’d been aware of some faint familiarity, Barney—Barney had known in some unfathomable way. Barney had recognised him as family.

Then: ‘Natural son?’ Rosina repeated, her voice rising. ‘Are you telling me that Andrew has left everything—everything—to some—some bastard? Some Frenchman none of us have heard of until now?’

‘But I, madame, have heard a great deal about you,’ Andre Duchard said silkily. ‘I am enchanted to make your acquaintance at last.’

‘Enchanted?’ Rosina gave a harsh laugh. ‘Enchanted to think that you’ve robbed me of my inheritance, no doubt. Well, don’t count your chickens. Because I intend to fight this outrage if it takes everything I’ve got.’

Which at the moment, thought Ginny, is forty thousand a year and the use of a cottage. Damn all else. As for me—well, I can’t think about that now. The priority is damage limitation.

She put an arm round her mother’s shoulders. She said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hargreaves, but I think we’re all in a state of shock. As my mother says, we hadn’t the least idea that Monsieur Duchard existed. But I imagine Andrew arranged for his heir’s credentials to be thoroughly checked.’

Mr Hargreaves took off his glasses and wiped them carefully. He said, ‘Indeed, yes. Mr Charlton always knew he had a son, and obtained legal recognition of his paternity according to French law. He also has letters and photographs going back to the time the boy was born, which my father kept for him in a box at our offices.’ He paused again. ‘This was a matter of discretion as Mrs Josephine Charlton was still alive at that time, and our client was anxious not to distress her.’

‘And what about my feelings?’ Rosina demanded tearfully. ‘He wasn’t so caring about them. Ten years of devotion rewarded by a pittance and the use of a hovel!’

Ginny groaned under her breath, stingingly aware of Andre Duchard’s sardonic smile, as he absorbed every word and gesture, then froze as he looked directly at her, the dark brows drawing together as if he’d been presented with a puzzle he had yet to master.

Hastily, she averted her gaze.

‘Mother, why don’t you come upstairs and lie down,’ she suggested gently. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Pelham to make you some tea and...’

‘I want nothing from that woman. Don’t you realise Andrew has treated me the same as her—a servant—in this disgusting will? Oh, how could he do such a thing? He must have been quite mad.’

Her eyes suddenly sharpened. ‘But of course, that’s it. Something must have disturbed the balance of his mind. Isn’t that what they say?’

‘I think you are referring to suicide, madame,’ Andre Duchard corrected gently.

‘Well, whatever.’ Mrs Charlton waved a dismissive hand. ‘We can still have the will overturned. You hear about such things all the time.’

‘I strongly advise against any such action,’ Robert Hargreaves said gravely. ‘You have no case, Mrs Charlton. Your husband was a sane and rational man, who wished to openly recognise his son born outside wedlock. The will I have just read was drawn up two years ago.’

‘But if this man is really Andrew’s son, why is he called—Duchard or whatever it was? It sounds bogus to me.’

The Frenchman spoke. ‘Duchard, madame, is the family name of my stepfather, who adopted me when he married my mother. I hope that sets your mind at rest,’ he added silkily.

Seeing that Rosina’s face had reddened alarmingly, Mr Hargreaves intervened. ‘I suggest you take Virginia’s advice, Mrs Charlton, and rest for a while. We will speak again in a day or two, when you’re feeling calmer. There are other important matters that need to be discussed.’

‘You mean I still have a bedroom in this house?’ Rosina glared at both men. ‘Your client isn’t proposing to move in here and now?’

‘I would not put you to such trouble, madame.’ There was a thinly veiled note of amusement in Andre Duchard’s cool tones. ‘I have a reservation at the hotel in the village, while I too have discussions with Monsieur Hargreaves.’

‘May I offer you a lift, monsieur?’ Robert Hargreaves was thrusting documents back into his briefcase, his relief palpable. ‘I see you dismissed your taxi.’

‘Merci. But with the flight and the journey here, I have been sitting too much. I think I will walk.’ He put on his trench coat and swung the leather bag on to his shoulder.

As they turned to leave, Barney emerged from the desk and stood watching their departure, ears flattened and tail drooping, as if he felt he’d been deserted a second time.

It was a sentiment that Ginny had her own reasons to share. But she made herself accompany the two men to the front door and wish them a polite ‘Good evening,’ adding haltingly, ‘I hope you understand my mother is very upset.’

‘Of course,’ Mr Hargreaves agreed reluctantly. ‘I will postpone any further meetings with her until next week. Goodbye, my dear. I’m sure things will seem different in the morning.’

She smiled and nodded, reflecting bitterly that there was a very long evening to get through first.

‘Au revoir, Virginie.’ The drawled French version of her name made it sound softer, giving it an almost sensual intonation, she realised with sudden embarrassment. Not that he had any right to use it. She felt her face warm and had to restrain herself from taking a step back, in order to put extra distance between them. ‘Et à bientôt,’ he added.

And this time the note of mockery was unmistakable, as he must know he was the last person she would ever wish to see again, soon or late.

She murmured something evasive, and shut the door, recalling how earlier she’d thought the worst was over.

With a sigh, she took herself off to the kitchen, to find Mrs Pelham sitting at the large scrubbed table reading a letter.

She said, ‘Don’t disturb yourself, Mrs Pel. I’ve come to make some tea. I’m afraid we’ve all had rather a shock.’ She paused. ‘It seems Mr Charlton has an illegitimate son—a Frenchman called Andre Duchard—and made him his sole heir.’

As she watched the housekeeper slowly remove her glasses and return them to their case, she added, ‘But perhaps you knew that already.’

‘No, Miss Ginny. But I knew there was something up earlier, Mrs Charlton having a carrying sort of voice, and Mavis all ears.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘So this French gentleman gets everything. Well, well.’

‘However, it doesn’t affect you,’ Ginny hastened to assure her. ‘Mr Charlton has made sure you’ll be taken care of.’

‘Now that I did know,’ Mrs Pelham said calmly. ‘He sat me down and talked it over with me two months since, and when Mr Hargreaves arrived, he gave me this letter with it all set out.’ She added with sudden fierceness, ‘He was a good man, the master, and I’ll never say otherwise, even if he didn’t always find the happiness he deserved.’

Ginny filled the kettle and set it on the big gas range. She said quietly, ‘Mrs Pel—have you any idea who Mr Duchard’s mother might have been?’

‘I can’t be certain, Miss Ginny.’ The housekeeper rose stiffly and began to assemble cups and saucers on a tray. ‘But I remember Linnet Farrell, the late Mrs Charlton’s companion. Here for a year she was, then one day she was gone, to nurse her sick mother it was said. Except she’d told me once that her parents were dead.’

Ginny retrieved the milk from the fridge and filled a jug. ‘What was she like?’

‘Not much in the way of looks,’ said Mrs Pelham. ‘But there was a sweetness about her just the same, and she made the house a brighter place. And Mrs Josie took to her too, for a wonder.’

Ginny said slowly, ‘I gather she was an invalid.’

‘Nerves,’ said Mrs Pelham. ‘And disappointment. That’s what it was at the start. She wanted a baby, you see, and it didn’t happen. Three miscarriages, all at four months, in as many years, and the doctors warning her she’d never carry a child full-term. She got into one of those depressions. Ended up in a nursing home, more than once.’

She sighed, ‘And when she was back at home, she spent all her time in bed, or lying on a couch. And poor Mr Charlton having to sleep in another room, as well.’

She lowered her voice. ‘I’m sure she loved him, but I don’t think she was very keen on married life, as it were. Not unless there was going to be a baby to make it worthwhile. But a man wouldn’t see it like that.’

No.’ Ginny emptied sugar into a bowl. ‘I—I don’t suppose he would.’

‘And suddenly there was this kind, warm-hearted girl living in the house, and he was an attractive man when he was younger. Not that I ever saw anything untoward, mind you,’ she added hastily. ‘And Linnet was good for Mrs Josie. Got her out and about, driving her car, and even doing some gardening.

‘But one day she just upped and left. Came in the kitchen to say goodbye, and it was plain she’d been crying.’ She sighed again. ‘And later on, Mrs Josie really did become ill, poor soul, with Parkinson’s disease, and Mr Charlton was as good to her as any husband could be, and enough said.’

She nodded with a kind of finality then glanced at the Aga. ‘And that kettle’s boiling, Miss Ginny.’

Ginny’s mind was whirling as she carried the tray into the study, but the torrent of grievance which greeted her soon brought her back to earth.

‘Well, at least you’ve got this annuity thing, Mother,’ Cilla was saying furiously. ‘Whereas he didn’t leave me a penny, the old skinflint.’

Ginny put the tray on the desk. She said mildly, ‘Perhaps he thought it was unnecessary, as you’re marrying into one of the richest families in the county.’

Cilla turned on her. ‘And you’re getting nothing too, so all that trying to wheedle your way into his good books was a waste of time. You’re going to be worse off than any of us,’ she added almost triumphantly.

‘So it would seem,’ Ginny agreed, sounding more cheerful than she felt, as she poured the tea. ‘But please don’t worry about it.’

‘I’m not,’ her sister said sulkily. ‘I just want to know how we’re going to pay for my wedding. Mother, you’ll have to talk to Mr Hargreaves. Get some more money out of him somehow.’

As Ginny poured out the tea, she noticed something. ‘Where’s Barney?’

‘I put him outside,’ said her mother. ‘I couldn’t bear him in the room a moment longer,’ she added, fanning herself with her handkerchief.

Ginny put down the pot. ‘You do realise he might have wandered off?’

‘What if he has? I told you I’m getting rid of him.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Ginny flung over her shoulder as she headed for the door. ‘Like everything else in this house, he probably belongs to Monsieur Duchard. And he’s a valuable dog.’

She huddled on her quilted jacket, pulled on her Wellington boots and grabbed a leash and a torch from the shelf in the boot room before letting herself out through the back door. The temperature outside wasn’t much above freezing, and she could see her breath like a cloud in front of her as she skirted the house, softly calling Barney’s name, hoping he would be waiting anxiously on the terrace for readmission.

But there was no sign of him. Biting her lip, she went round to the side gate, left carelessly open, probably by the departing Mavis, and stepped out on to the lane leading to the common.

As she walked, she called again, sweeping the area with her torch, knowing that he could be anywhere. As she reached the edge of the common, she took a deep breath then gave three soft whistles as Andrew used to do.

In the distance, there was an answering bark and a moment later, Barney came loping into view, tail wagging and tongue hanging out.

‘Good boy,’ Ginny said, sighing with relief as she attached the leash to his collar, but as she turned back towards the house, he resisted, standing stock still, staring back the way he’d come, and whimpering softly and excitedly.

As if, she thought, he was waiting for someone. She raised the torch, aiming the beam across the scrubby grass and clumps of gorse. She said sharply, ‘Who’s there?’

But there was no reply or sign of movement, and after a moment or two, Barney came out of alert mode and turned obediently for home.

You, my girl, she told herself grimly, had better stop being over-imaginative and get down to practicalities—like where you’ll go, and how the hell you’ll earn your living.

And, as she trudged back to the house, she found herself wishing, with a kind of bitter despair, that she’d never heard the name of Andre Duchard. Or, better still, that he’d never been born.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN GINNY GOT back to the house, she found her mother alone in the drawing room.

She said, ‘Where’s Cilla?’

‘Off to the Manor to consult Jonathan about this appalling situation.’

‘In what way—consult?’

‘How we can fight this fraudulent will, of course,’ said Rosina, the ominous throb returning to her voice. ‘Oh, I can hardly bear to think of Andrew—his deceit—his betrayal of me. Of our love.’

She shook her head. ‘To have had a son—in secret—all these years, and said nothing to me—his wife. It beggars belief. It makes me almost wish...’

She broke off abruptly. ‘Get me a brandy, Virginia. A large one. I need something to settle my nerves.’

As Ginny busied herself with the decanter on a side table, Rosina added abruptly, ‘You’re so fortunate not to suffer in this way. Cilla and I are so sensitive, but nothing ever seems to affect you.’

‘That’s not true,’ Ginny said quietly, as she brought her mother the brandy. ‘But I don’t see any mileage in fussing over things I can’t change.’

‘But if we all stand together...’

‘We could end up looking grasping and silly.’

‘You might change your tune if you were the one faced with penury.’

If only you knew, Ginny thought bitterly. Aloud, she said mildly, ‘It’s hardly that, Mother. Whole families have to manage on much less.’ She paused. ‘Why don’t we go over tomorrow and have a look at the cottage? It may not be as bad as you think.’

Rosina tossed her head. ‘You go, if you want. I refuse to set foot in the place.’ She produced a handkerchief. ‘Oh, Andrew, how could you do this to me?’

To which, presumably, no answer was expected. Ginny waited until Rosina had drunk some of her brandy, then suggested they should watch some television, figuring correctly that she would again be accused of being without feelings.

All the same, her mother allowed herself to be persuaded, and was soon deep in a drama series she enjoyed, leaving Ginny to pursue her own unhappy train of thought.

The Meadowford Café was the official name of her present place of employment, but it had never been known in the village as anything but ‘Miss Finn’s’.

The original Miss Finn had been a cook in some very exclusive households before deciding to open her own establishment in an area where she’d spent several holidays and which she’d grown to love.

A round rosy lady, her phenomenally light hand with cakes and pastry had made the business a roaring success, opening for morning coffee, serving light lunches of homemade quiches, open sandwiches and interesting salads, and closing once afternoon teas had been served.

And when she eventually retired, her place was taken and her high standards maintained by her unmarried niece, Miss Emma Finn, also pink-cheeked and on the plump side and considered locally, with kindly affection, as another born spinster.

Ginny, her school days behind her, and with respectable exam results to treasure, had considered teaching as a career, but her mother had reacted in horror, protesting that Ginny was needed at home.

‘Such an enormous house to run single-handed, and Mrs Pelham not really pulling her weight any more. And really, you owe it to Andrew.’

Eventually, Ginny had reluctantly agreed, only to find herself caught between her mother’s steely resolve and Mrs Pel’s stony resistance. After three largely unproductive months doing very little, she saw a card in Miss Finn’s window asking for part-time assistance, applied and got the job.

‘You’re going to be a waitress?’ Mrs Charlton had been appalled. ‘But you can’t possibly. Whatever will Andrew say?’

Which had turned out to be ‘Good for you,’ accompanied by a wink and a pat on the shoulder.

To Ginny’s own surprise, she enjoyed working at Miss Finn’s and it wasn’t long before she joyously accepted Miss Emma’s offer of full-time work.

Three years on, Ginny was still enjoying herself, while giving Mrs Pelham unobtrusive and now welcome support at home too.

However, a few months ago, Miss Emma had, to everyone’s astonishment, announced her engagement, with the news that she would be moving to Brussels after her marriage.

So a quick decision about the future of the café was needed. The premises were leased from the Welburn estate, so all she needed was someone to buy the actual business, and she had offered first refusal to Ginny.

‘I suppose it should be Iris Potter,’ she’d confided anxiously, ‘as she’s been here the longest, but she does so rub people up the wrong way. And while you’re young, Ginny, you’re such a capable girl and the customers like you.’

It was, Ginny knew, a wonderful opportunity, but Miss Finn clearly had no idea of her financial position. Andrew, it was true, made her an allowance, which he’d increased once he realised just how much she did in the house, but, apart from her wages, that was it.

She’d gone to the bank with a business plan, but got nowhere. Too young, she was told, and with no collateral.

So, eventually, and reluctantly, she took her plan to Andrew, who had sat quietly and listened while she outlined her requirements and her proposed system of repayments.

‘So,’ he said, when she’d finished. ‘You really want to become the new Miss Finn?’

‘Well, yes,’ she agreed, although that was not how she’d thought of it. ‘It’s a marvellous business, and since they built those two new housing estates over at Lang’s Field we’re nearly rushed off our feet.’

He held out his hand. ‘Give me your paperwork, my dear, and I’ll look it over in detail and let you have my decision.’

But he was away a good deal over the three weeks that followed, and Ginny began to grow anxious, although the last thing she wanted to do was apply any pressure when he was at home.

Miss Emma, however, wanted an answer, and Ginny was just nerving herself to approach Andrew again when he himself broached the subject in the hall one night, just as she was going up to bed.

She heard him call her name and turned to find him standing at the foot of the stairs looking up at her, with his usual gentle smile. He said, ‘Don’t worry, my dear. I haven’t forgotten about the new Miss Finn.’

But he did, thought Ginny, painfully. Because two days later he was dead, without, it seemed, leaving any instructions that would have secured her future. So, she was still—just a waitress, and on Monday she would have to tell Miss Emma that she was out of the running.

As the credits rolled on her mother’s TV series, Mrs Charlton asked plaintively if there was to be any dinner that evening, or if Mrs Pelham was on strike.

‘I told her we could manage for ourselves.’ Ginny paused. ‘There are plenty of cold cuts.’

Her mother pursed her lips. ‘Funeral food. Is a warm meal too much to ask? Even an omelette would do.’

Grating cheese and whisking eggs in a basin, Ginny reflected ruefully how completely her mother had adapted to being a rich man’s wife, and how hard she would find it to cope once more with her own cooking and cleaning.

She was just dividing the golden-brown fluffy omelette in two when she heard a door bang in the distance. And as she slid the two halves on to warmed plates and added grilled tomatoes, Cilla walked in.

‘Is that supper? Thank God. I’m starving.’ She grabbed both plates and a handful of cutlery and marched off, leaving Ginny gasping.

She buttered two thick slices from a crusty loaf, filled them generously with cold ham, and took her sandwich back to the drawing room where it was clear a tale of woe was in progress.

‘I simply couldn’t believe it,’ Cilla was saying plaintively. ‘I told them what had happened and how dreadful everything was, and they said nothing. Just looked at each other. Not a word of sympathy or concern.’

‘Do you think they already knew?’ Rosina asked, but Cilla shook her head.

‘No, they were obviously surprised. Then Sir Malcolm said he supposed that Mr Duchard was staying at the Rose and Crown, and she said, “Of course, you’ll call on him, my dear, and ask him to come to dinner.”’ She shook her head. ‘When I heard that I was stunned. I waited for Jon to say something, to point out how upsetting that would be for us, but he never spoke. Just stared at the carpet.’

Ginny said quietly, ‘You’ll find, Cilla, that Jonathan generally agrees with his mother.’

Her sister turned to stare at her, sudden malice glinting in her blue eyes. ‘Not always. If he did, you’d be engaged to him instead of me. I’m sure the Welburns had you down as the daughter-in-law of choice, so it was hard luck for all of you when I came back and Jonathan decided he preferred me.’

‘Darling,’ Mrs Charlton said reproachfully. ‘That’s not very kind.’

‘Nor is it true,’ Ginny said quietly. ‘Jonathan and I had a few casual dates, nothing more.’

Cilla tossed her head. ‘That’s certainly not what Hilary Godwin says. She’s been telling people you were crazy about him.’

Ginny shrugged. ‘Hilary dated him too for a while. Maybe she has her own agenda. But that’s unimportant. So let’s get down to brass tacks.’ She drew a breath. ‘I think we, not the Welburns, should be the ones inviting Andre Duchard to dinner.’

Her mother gasped. ‘You must be quite mad. Do you want us to become the laughing stock of the neighbourhood?’

‘On the contrary,’ Ginny returned with energy. ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid. If we’re to maintain any sort of credit locally, we have to accept what’s happened with as good a grace as we can manage. Accept Andrew’s chosen heir.’

She listened to the shocked silence, then nodded. ‘So tomorrow, I’ll leave a note for him at the Rose and Crown. Nothing formal, but not kitchen sups either. And we’ll invite the Welburns too. Make it an extended family occasion, and hopefully score a few points.’

She turned to her mother. ‘And we can’t play ostrich about the future, so I’ll also call at Mr Hargreaves’s office and get the key to the cottage. Have a preliminary look round and make a list of anything that needs to be done.’

‘You’re taking a lot upon yourself,’ Rosina said sharply.

‘Someone has to,’ said Ginny. ‘And now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’ll take my sandwich up to my room. It’s been a hell of a day, and I have a letter to write.’

As she closed the door behind her, she heard Cilla say furiously, ‘Well, really...’

She went first to Andrew’s study to get a sheet of notepaper from his desk. The envelopes were at the back of the drawer, but as she reached for them, her fingers grasped something bulkier.

My God, she thought in self-derision, as she pulled it towards her. Is this the moment I find a new will and all our problems are solved?

But what she’d discovered, in fact, was a map of France’s Burgundy region. And no need to wonder why it was here, hidden away.

She stared down at it for a long moment, fighting her curiosity with resentment. Telling herself it was of no interest to her where Andre Duchard came from, even as she opened the map and spread it on the desk.

And found Terauze, heavily circled in black, jumping out at her. Saw too that the map itself was beginning to tear at the creases, evidence of heavy use. All those trips abroad, she thought, dismissed airily by her mother as ‘more boring business’. As some of them must have been, because the company order books were always full.

She’d once asked Rosina, ‘Hasn’t Andrew ever asked you to go with him?’

Her mother had shrugged evasively. ‘My dear child, it’s just one meeting after another. He’s far better on his own.’

And so, of course, was Rosina with her golf lessons, her bridge friends, and her ladies luncheon club in nearby Lanchester, Ginny had mused drily.

But, under the circumstances, Andrew probably preferred to keep his secret, and encouraged his wife to stay at home.

But surely he must have realised the devastating effect the eventual revelation would have? Ginny argued. Or didn’t he care?

No, she thought, I don’t believe that for a minute. Because he was a kind, dear man, and taking on a widow and her two daughters must have been quite an enterprise. So what changed?

With a sigh, she looked back at the map. Burgundy, she mused.

Producing wine and Dijon mustard, and also, apparently, Andre Duchard. But if he was indeed Linnet Farrell’s son, as Mrs Pel thought, how had she fetched up there?

So many questions for which she would probably never find answers. And she would be better employed in trying to establish better relations.

And on that resolve, she put the map back in the drawer, took her paper and envelope and went up to her room.

There was no problem obtaining the key for Keeper’s Cottage the following morning. Mr Hargreaves did not work on Saturday mornings, but Ginny telephoned him at home after breakfast and he promised, sounding positively relieved, that he would arrange for it to be waiting for her at his office.

And for once, she was allowed without protest the use of her mother’s smart little Peugeot.

Keeper’s Cottage was on the very edge of the Barrowdean estate, and approached by a narrow lane. Built in mellow red brick, it was the kind of dwelling a child might draw, with a central front door flanked by two square windows, three more windows on the upper floor and chimneys at each end of the slate roof.

She pushed open the wooden gate and went up the flagged path between the empty winter flower beds. It was a bleak, iron-grey day with the promise of snow in the air, and Ginny huddled her fleece around her in the biting wind.

The front door creaked as she unlocked it and went in. She stood for a moment in the narrow hall, looking up the straight flight of stairs ahead of her, and taking a deep exploratory breath but she could pick up no telltale hint of damp, under the mustiness of disuse.

The downstairs rooms weren’t large, but they’d be pleasant enough when redecorated. And surely it wouldn’t be unreasonable to ask for the windows to be double-glazed.

The kitchen, reached from the dining room, had an electric cooker, and wall cupboards with space under the counter top for a washing machine and refrigerator.

Upstairs, she found two bedrooms facing each other across the passage, and a bathroom, where a pale blue suite made the room seem even chillier. The only other upstairs room was so small that it could never aspire to be a bedroom. Even a baby’s cot would swamp it.

Ginny closed the door on it, her heart sinking. For someone with enthusiasm and energy to match, Keeper’s Cottage had real potential, she thought. Rosina, however, would regard it as a sentence of banishment, and maybe she had a point.

Once again, she found herself pondering the state of a marriage she had always assumed was perfectly content. After all, people didn’t have to live in each other’s pockets to be happy—did they?

But what do I know about marriage—or love, for that matter, she asked herself derisively, remembering Cilla’s jibes earlier.

She’d liked Jonathan. She could admit she’d known a frisson of excitement when he called her, but that was as far as it had gone. Cilla’s golden, glowing return had made sure of that. And any inward pangs she’d suffered from his defection were probably injured pride.

If I’d cared, I’d have fought for him, she told herself. Anyway, it’s all in the past now, and, come June, he’ll be my brother-in-law.

But where and what I’ll be, heaven only knows.

She turned back towards the stairs then froze, as from the ground floor came the unmistakable creak of the front door opening and closing.

Her first thought was that it couldn’t be a burglar because there was nothing to steal but the cooker.

All the same, she reached into her bag for her mobile phone, only to remember it was on charge on her bedside table.

She crept to the top of the stairs and looked cautiously down into the hall.

And there leaning against the newel post, completely at his ease as he looked up at her, was Andre Duchard. He said softly, ‘Virginie.’

Once again, the sound of it made her feel as ridiculously self-conscious as if he had run a finger over her skin. She said huskily, ‘I don’t remember giving you permission to use my name. And what are you doing here?’

His gaze was unwavering. ‘Examining my inheritance,’ he said and smiled. ‘All my new possessions.’

‘Is that what you were doing last night—hanging round on the common?’

He shrugged. ‘I needed to clear my head a little.’

Ginny bit her lip. ‘Does Mr Hargreaves know that you’re here?’

‘But of course.’ The dark brows lifted. ‘I explained to him that I had never visited a hovel and wished to see for myself what such a place was like. He understood perfectly and gave me a key, which, naturellement, I have not needed to use. Because you were here first.’

She stared down at him. ‘Didn’t he tell you that I might be?’

‘No, why should that matter?’

She couldn’t think of a reason apart from how empty the cottage was—and how isolated. And that she had never expected to find herself alone with him—anywhere.

It occurred to her that in some odd way he made the hall seem even more cramped. And that with his untidy hair and the stubble outlining his chin, he was even less prepossessing in broad daylight than he had been the previous evening. He was wearing a dark roll-neck sweater under a thick jacket reaching to mid-thigh, and his long legs were encased in denim and knee-length boots.

And the silence lengthening between them was beginning to feel inexplicably dangerous.

She said hurriedly, ‘I—I’m sorry about the hovel remark. I’m afraid my mother was too distraught to think what she was saying yesterday.’

‘But today all that has arranged itself, and she is reconciled to her new situation?’ His tone bit. ‘I wish I could believe it was true.’

He glanced around him. ‘And how will she like her new home?’

The obvious reply was ‘She won’t.’ But Ginny decided to temporise.

‘Well, it’s rather small, and it does need refurbishing. But I think, in time, it could be—charming.’

‘Tout de même, she did not accompany you here to see for herself.’

‘I don’t think you understand what a shock this has been—for all of us.’ She bit her lip. ‘We didn’t even know that my—that your father was ill.’

‘Nor I,’ he said quietly. ‘It was a matter he chose to keep to himself.’

‘Like so many others,’ Ginny said before she could stop herself.

The dark face was cynical. ‘Perhaps he realised that news of my existence would be unwelcome.’

She said defensively, ‘My mother could hardly blame him for something that happened long before she met him. If she’d been warned what to expect, she might not have this—sense of betrayal.’

‘She feels betrayed?’ The firm mouth curled. ‘How interesting that she should think so.’

She moved restively. ‘Well, I didn’t come here to argue the rights and wrongs of the situation. I’ll go and leave you to your inspection.’ She began to descend the stairs, then paused. ‘I almost forgot. I have an invitation for you.’

‘An invitation,’ he repeated, as if the word was new to him.

‘Yes—to have dinner with us. Tomorrow evening.’ She saw the look of incredulity on his face, and wished she’d never thought of the idea, let alone mentioned it. But it was too late now, so she hurried on, ‘I was going to leave it at the hotel, but as you’re here...’

She continued her descent, fumbling in her bag for the envelope, missed her footing on the uncarpeted stairs and stumbled forward, to be caught and lifted to safety in arms like steel bands.

Momentarily, her face was pressed against his chest, her nose and mouth filled with the scent of clean wool, soap and the more alien aroma of warm male skin, before she was set, ruffled and breathless, on her feet.

‘You should have more care, mademoiselle,’ he told her coolly. ‘You do not need another tragedy in your family.’

Ginny flushed. ‘I—I’m not usually so clumsy.’ She handed him the envelope. ‘You don’t have to decide immediately, of course.’ She added quickly, ‘And we won’t be offended if you’re too busy.’

‘But naturally I shall accept,’ he said silkily. ‘I am most intrigued that your mother should offer this olive branch.’ He paused. ‘It does, of course, come from her?’

She said quickly, ‘Oh, yes.’ But the brief hesitation preceding it had been fatal.

Strong fingers captured her chin, forcing her face up to meet his gaze.

‘To be a good liar requires practice, ma mie,’ he said softly. ‘Let us hope you are not obliged to be untruthful too often, as I doubt you will ever excel. But clearly your powers of persuasion with Maman are formidable.’

Ginny wrenched herself free and stepped back. ‘If it’s frankness you want, monsieur, may I ask if you ever shave?’

‘Bien sûr—on occasion. Especially if I am going to be in bed with a woman. But I doubt I shall be so fortunate,’ he added pensively. ‘Your beautiful sister already has a lover, hélas.’

She felt jolted as if her heart had skipped not one beat but several.

She said quietly, ‘My sister is engaged to be married, monsieur. She has a fiancé.’

‘And a rich one, according to the talk in the bar last night.’ He shrugged. ‘What no one can decide is if the affair will end in marriage, or simply end when he decides he has paid enough for his pleasures.’

Ginny gasped, and her arm swung back, but before she could wipe the cynical mockery from his face, his hand had grasped her wrist.

‘So,’ he said. ‘The polite little girl has spirit. And what else, I wonder?’

He jerked her forward, his other arm going round her, pulling her against him, and as her lips parted in furious protest, his mouth came down hard on hers.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE COULDN’T STRUGGLE, or cry out. She could scarcely breathe. He was holding her too closely, her hands trapped between their bodies. Nor could she resist the practised movement of his lips on hers, or the slow sensual exploration of his tongue as he invaded the innocence of her mouth, tasting her sweetness. Drinking from her. Draining her, as she swayed in his arms, her mind reeling from the shock of it. And yet in some incalculable way—not wanting it to stop...

Only to find herself just as suddenly released.

‘Oh, God,’ she choked when she could speak, caught between anger and something dangerously like disappointment. ‘How dare you?’ And, her voice rising, ‘How bloody dare you?’

‘Sois tranquille.’ He had the audacity to grin at her. ‘It took courage, sans doute, but what experiment does not?’ He paused. ‘So, ma douce, do I still have that invitation to dinner, or have I offended too deeply?’

Ginny was in a cleft stick. The dinner party was being held at her insistence. How could she cancel it without involving herself in truly hideous explanations? And if she claimed he was unavailable, she had no guarantee he would not find some way of letting the truth be known.

She swallowed hard. ‘The invitation stands.’

He said slowly, ‘You surprise me. Your family must want something very badly.’

She walked past him to the front door, and paused. ‘A truce,’ she said. ‘Is the most that’s hoped for. So, we’ll expect you at seven-thirty.’

His smile still lingered. ‘I shall look forward to it. À demain.’

Her hair had been loosened in the encounter, and whipped around her face as she walked to the car. She slid into the driving seat and gripped the wheel, waiting for the fierce trembling inside her to subside a little before starting the engine. As she probed her throbbing mouth with the tip of her tongue, it occurred to her that she could still taste him and felt her body clench harshly in response.

Get a grip, she adjured herself tersely. You’ve been kissed and by someone who knows how. You tried to hit him. He taught you a lesson. That’s all there is to it.

But it was a learning curve she could have well done without.

She drove off with exaggerated care until Keeper’s Cottage was a long way behind her, then pulled into a lay-by just outside the village and sat there until she felt calmer and more focused.

You have a dinner party to prepare for, she told herself. Concentrate on that. Forget everything else.

She’d discussed a possible menu with Mrs Pelham that morning, and they’d settled on salmon mousse, followed by Beef Wellington with roasted vegetables, and ending with white grapes in champagne jelly, and some good cheese.

She had returned the key to Mr Hargreaves’ office, and was just emerging from the speciality cheese shop in the High Street, when she saw Sir Malcolm and Lady Welburn leaving the Rose and Crown, and waved to them.

As she reached the opposite pavement, she said breathlessly, ‘I’m so glad I’ve seen you. I know it’s terribly short notice but my mother would be delighted if you’d come to supper tomorrow evening, with Jonathan if he’s free, and meet Andrew’s son and heir, Andre Duchard.’

‘My dear Virginia, what a very nice idea.’ Lady Welburn’s slight air of constraint fell away, and she smiled with her usual warmth. ‘We were just inquiring for him at the hotel, but he’s out.’

She lowered her voice. ‘I confess I was a little worried by Lucilla’s attitude yesterday evening, so I’m very glad that Rosina’s decided to do absolutely the right thing. Such a difficult situation for everyone otherwise. Thank your mother and tell her we’ll all be there.’

Ginny smiled back, well aware that Lady Welburn was under no illusion whose scheme it really was.

‘She’ll be so pleased.’

Two hours later, she returned to the house, laden with bags from the supermarket at Lanchester. In the hall, she met her mother.

‘Hi, she said. ‘I’ll just unpack this stuff, then I’ll tell you about the cottage.’

‘No need,’ Rosina said airily. ‘Because I’m not moving there.’

Ginny put down her carriers. ‘Then where are you planning to live?’

‘I’m staying right here. It’s the obvious solution.’

‘To what problem exactly?’

Rosina waved an impatient hand. ‘To the future of Barrowdean. This Duchard individual will go back to France soon. He doesn’t belong here and he must know it. But—he owns this house and he needs someone to look after it in his absence. Hiring resident caretakers would cost him a fortune, so I continue to live here rent-free and, in return, I make sure Barrowdean flourishes. I’d say it was a no-brainer.’

‘I would too, but my definition of “no-brainer” is rather different.’ Ginny shook her head. ‘How did you dream up this fantasy?’

‘It’s a matter of hard practicality,’ Rosina said sharply. ‘You seem to have forgotten Cilla’s wedding. The marquee and the caterers have already been booked, and well over two hundred people will be coming.’

She nodded briskly. ‘Maybe this dinner party scheme isn’t as ludicrous as I thought. It will give us a chance to talk him round.’

‘I’m glad you think so,’ Ginny said drily. ‘It’s tomorrow night—and the Welburns are coming too.’

Rosina frowned. ‘Well, hopefully, they’ll get him to see reason, especially over the wedding.’ She paused. ‘You saw him, did you—the Duchard man? How did he seem when you issued the invitation?’

Dangerous, thought Ginny, as a shiver ran through her. Aloud, she said, ‘Surprised.’

Her mother shrugged. ‘Judging by his appearance, I wouldn’t think many dinner parties come his way. I only hope he knows how to use a knife and fork properly.’ She shuddered. ‘I cannot imagine how Andrew, always so fastidious, ever became involved with some peasant woman.’

Ginny, about to correct her, thought better of it, being unable to guarantee how Rosina might use any information she could garner.

She picked up her carriers. ‘I must see to this food.’

‘Well, come back as soon as you’ve done so. There were a lot more letters of condolence in the post just now, and I find them so painful. Perhaps you’d reply on my behalf, and get them out of the way.’

‘Maybe Cilla could help.’

Rosina sighed. ‘Cilla is lying down with one of her headaches. She’s so sensitive, poor darling, and this awful business has shaken her very badly.’

‘This awful business’ seems to have the right idea, Ginny thought bitterly as she went off to the kitchen. I’d like to shake her myself.

She threw herself into preparations for the dinner party, doing as much advance food preparation as possible, then cleaning silver, washing glasses, and giving her favourite tablecloth a crisp ironing.

By the time she took the tray with afternoon tea, egg and cress sandwiches and a Victoria sponge into the drawing room, Cilla had come downstairs and was sprawled in an armchair.

‘Did you visit this cottage?’ she asked, without turning her gaze from the old black and white movie she was watching. ‘What’s it like? How many bedrooms?’

‘Two reasonably sized and one like a storage cupboard,’ Ginny returned briefly as she set down the tray.

‘Two?’ Cilla sat up. ‘Did you hear that, Mummy? How on earth are we going to manage?’

Rosina glanced up from her magazine with a catlike smile. ‘We’ll worry about that when it happens, darling. I’ll have lemon with my tea, Virginia,’ she added. ‘I need to be careful about my weight.’

‘Well, I’m never sharing a bedroom,’ Cilla said sharply.

‘Do you include Jonathan in that sweeping statement?’ Ginny asked mildly, handing her mother her tea.

Cilla shrugged. ‘Plenty of married couples have separate bedrooms. It’s supposed to make it more exciting. Retain that air of mystery.’ She giggled. ‘And when you are available—it makes men so much more grateful.’

Ginny took her tea and a sandwich and headed for the door. ‘I never knew you were such a romantic,’ she said drily as she left.

She collected the pile of letters from the hall table and took them to the study where Barney was lying by the newly kindled fire. He looked up as she entered and tentatively thumped his tail on the carpet, clearly bewildered as to why he spent so much time in the kitchen quarters these days.

‘You and me both, sweetie,’ she told him as she sat down.

The letters were just as difficult to deal with as she’d suspected. They were imbued with grief for Andrew’s death and warmth and gratitude for his life. She read about his generosity, his fairness, and his personal kindness, particularly to former members of his workforce.

And after the first half dozen or so, she put her head down on the desk and wept a little, wondering where this man had gone, and why he’d changed so much.

* * *

By Sunday evening, winter had returned inside and out, with brief snow showers adding to the general chill.

Because all Ginny’s attempts to reason with her mother over the caretaker scheme had got nowhere.

‘Then at least ask him privately,’ she’d begged at last, but Rosina waved her away.

‘No, it’s a perfect opportunity,’ she declared buoyantly. ‘The Welburns are our nearest neighbours and he’ll want to make a good impression.’

‘Well, I don’t believe Mr Duchard will give a damn about what the neighbours think of him,’ Ginny returned wearily. ‘His home is in France so he won’t be around long enough to care.’

Her mother tutted impatiently. ‘Really, Virginia. Can you please stop being so negative. It’s very depressing.’

And being a widow isn’t? Ginny thought bitterly.

Working companionably and efficiently with Mrs Pel to produce the meal itself lifted her spirits however, and if she could only have put on her ‘Miss Finn’ pinny and simply served the food without having to join the party round the table, she’d have been happier still.

For one thing, she had no idea what to wear.

Most of the clothes in her wardrobe were of the workaday variety, entirely through her own choice. After a day on her feet in the café, followed by the domestic demands of Barrowdean, she was glad of the excuse to avoid the local social whirl, such as it was.

Lady Welburn had the right idea, she thought wistfully, generally appearing in a series of long skirts in jewel-coloured velvet run up for her by the village dressmaker, and teaming them with plain black cashmere tops.

She, however, would have to wear the Dress. She took it from the wardrobe and pulled a face at it. Mid-calf-length, long-sleeved and high-necked in taupe jersey, it had been bought for the Christmas before last when she was running short of time and temper.

And she could say with total truth it did nothing for her at all, except fit where it touched.

Never mind, she told herself. The best thing you can be at this blighted party is insignificant. And no more bright ideas either. They have this way of coming back to bite you in the rear.

She showered, dried her hair into its usual smooth bob, put on the taupe dress and went downstairs, knowing that neither her mother nor Cilla would put in an appearance until the last minute.

She checked the fire in the drawing room, and the drinks tray, then went along to the kitchen to fetch the bowls of nibbles.

She pushed open the door, and halted, her throat tightening in shock. Because Andre Duchard was there, perched on the edge of the kitchen table—a thing Mrs Pel never permitted—helping himself from a packet of cashew nuts.

He was wearing the dark suit again, with a white shirt setting off the sombre magnificence of a grey silk tie. That mane of hair was still too long but had at least been combed into some kind of order and, as she saw instantly, her own face warming, he had shaved.

He looked her over in turn, his brows rising quizzically as if confirming her own opinion of her dress, then gave a polite inclination of the head. ‘Bonsoir.’

Withstanding a desire to grind her teeth, Ginny uprooted herself from the doorway and took a step forward. ‘I—I didn’t realise anyone was here yet.’

‘I was unforgivably early.’ He did not look or sound particularly repentant. ‘But I wished an opportunity to speak with Marguerite who was a friend to my mother.’ He smiled at her, and took another cashew. ‘But you already know that, I think.’

Ginny said stiffly, ‘Mrs Pelham believed she knew her identity, yes.’

And at that moment Mrs Pel came bustling back from the direction of her small flat carrying a photograph album. ‘I knew I’d find it,’ she announced happily, then checked. ‘Oh, Miss Ginny. Are the other guests arriving?’

‘No,’ Ginny assured her. ‘I just remembered a few last-minute things.’

She emptied what remained of the nuts into a bowl and picked up a dish of cheese straws, intending to head for the door but something made her linger and listen.

‘There she is,’ Mrs Pel was saying. ‘Out in the garden with Mrs Charlton. And that’s her helping at the village fete. Oh, but she was a lovely girl.’

Andre Duchard said softly, ‘Si jeune. Si innocente.’

‘That’s what she was,’ Mrs Pelham said almost fiercely. ‘Not a bad bone in her body, and I’ll say so until my dying day.’

And with that came the sound of the doorbell and she became the correct housekeeper again. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir.’

Ginny raced ahead to the drawing room, Andre Duchard beside her, and was standing, smiling, as the Welburns were shown in.

She took a deep breath as she performed the necessary introductions, and offered drinks. Sir Malcolm and Lady Welburn both asked for sherry, while Jonathan and Andre Duchard requested Scotch.

Jonathan came with her to help with the drinks. He said in an undertone, ‘This must be a nightmare.’

‘Life has been easier,’ she agreed quietly, at which moment the door opened and Rosina came in wearing a black silk sheath which showed off her still admirable legs, uttering smiling greetings with profuse apologies for her tardiness.

‘I do hope Virginia has been looking after you properly,’ she added. ‘A gin and tonic for me, darling, please. And do I see it’s snowing again? How very tiresome.’

Just as a slightly stilted general discussion of the weather was running out of steam, Cilla chose to arrive, halting in the doorway for maximum effect. In her violet tunic dress and black tights she looked like a particularly sexy herald, and it was clear she knew it.

Ginny found herself glancing at Andre Duchard, observing with faint alarm that his mouth was curling into amusement, and something else besides.

Not just a bad idea, this party, she thought uneasily. The worst ever.

When dinner was announced, Ginny discovered that her carefully devised seating plan had been discarded.

‘No need for formality on a family occasion,’ Rosina announced brightly from the head of the table, indicating that the Welburns should sit on either side of her.

Ginny saw with foreboding that Andre Duchard had adroitly taken a seat next to Cilla, leaving Jonathan to sit opposite to them.

The salmon mousse was eaten with great appreciation, Rosina blandly accepting the praise lavished on it.

‘Cooking has always been one of my great pleasures,’ she added.

Lady Welburn looked over her glasses. ‘I thought this was one of your wonderful Mrs Pel’s specialities.’

Rosina didn’t miss a beat. ‘I’m afraid this sort of thing is rather beyond her now. She really should have retired long since.’ She turned to Ginny. ‘The next course, dear. Would you mind?’

Inside the pastry case, the fillet of beef with its layer of pâté and mushrooms was cooked to pink perfection and the garlicky roasted vegetables made a delicious and colourful accompaniment.

Sir Malcolm had jovially offered to act as wine waiter, his brows lifting a little when he saw that Ginny had chosen a St Emilion to succeed the Chablis served with the first course.

‘Bordeaux, my dear chap, not Burgundy,’ he boomed as he filled Andre Duchard’s glass. ‘I hope you won’t see it as a challenge.’

‘By no means,’ Andre returned softly, his gaze meeting Ginny’s across the table. ‘A wonderful wine is always that, no matter where the grape is grown.’

She flushed. ‘I don’t really know much about wine,’ she said untruthfully, and saw his smile widen.

Lady Welburn came to her rescue. ‘Where in Burgundy do you live, Monsieur Duchard?’

‘A village called Terauze, madame.’

‘Terauze?’ Sir Malcolm mused. ‘That name’s familiar. Are you involved with the wine industry, Mr Duchard?’

‘I work in the Domaine Baron Emile, monsieur.’

To Ginny’s horror, the look Rosina sent Lady Welburn could not have stated, A peasant. I knew it, more obviously if she’d shouted it aloud. But her air as she turned to Andre Duchard was gracious.

‘Are you one of the people who tread the grapes, Mr Duchard?’

‘Non, hélas.’ His dark face was impassive. ‘They are no longer crushed in that way. Although still picked by hand.’

‘Ah,’ Rosina said vaguely. ‘Then I suppose you have little to do at this time of year.’

‘Perhaps, at this precise moment, madame.’ He shrugged. ‘But after the feast of St Vincent, the patron of vignerons, in ten days’ time, we begin pruning.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Rosina, and turned back to Lady Welburn with a query about the Women’s Institute.

While Andre Duchard, still smiling, resumed devoting his attention to Cilla.

Or as it was better known, blatantly flirting with her under the nose of her fiancé, thought Ginny furiously. And her ‘beautiful sister’ was responding, all sideways glances under her darkened lashes, and little soft giggles.

She’d once heard flirting defined as ‘making love without touching’ and here was a practical demonstration, as Andre Duchard smiled into Cilla’s eyes. Murmured to her, his lips just a breath from her ear...

Very different, she thought, a sudden strange pain twisting inside her, to the way he treated me. Grabbing me and kissing me—like that.

Which is something I’ve decided not to think about again, and to behave as if it never happened.

The Welburns, she could see, were studiously pretending not to notice what was going on at the other end of the table. However, one glance at Jonathan told her he was wearing his normally pleasant expression like a mask.

She turned to him, nailing on a smile, asking him about the horse she’d heard he was buying.

‘I’m paying a hefty price for it,’ he returned tersely. ‘I just hope it turns out to be worth it.’

Ginny found herself suddenly remembering Andre Duchard’s mocking reference to village gossip about Jonathan paying for his pleasures—which she’d almost forgotten in its disturbing aftermath. Taking a deep breath, she resolved to issue a sisterly warning at the earliest convenient moment.

Every scrap of food disappeared, so Ginny presumed she was the only one who’d felt that the tender flavoursome beef was like chewing old leather gloves. And the champagne jellies decorated with frosted grapes provided a delicate and perfect finale to the meal, with only Sir Malcolm and Andre Duchard opting for cheese as well.

‘Coffee in the drawing room, I think.’ Rosina rose, smoothing down her dress. ‘See to it, please, Virginia dear.’

Ginny suspected she was being got out of the way, but there was nothing she could do about it.

While Mrs Pel made the coffee and set the tray, she cleared the dining room table and loaded the dishwasher before setting off grimly for the drawing room, only to have her worst fears confirmed when she got to the door, and heard Rosina saying in tones of outrage, ‘No? You’re refusing my perfectly reasonable request without even considering it? When it was your father’s express wish that Lucilla should be married from this house? That he intended to give her away?’ Her voice throbbed. ‘Oh, this is disgraceful—unbelievable.’

Heart sinking, Ginny pushed the door wide and went in. Not that anyone noticed her arrival. Everyone was staring transfixed at the furious woman and cold-eyed young man confronting each other from opposite sides of the wide fireplace.

‘My father’s wish, madame?’ Andre Duchard queried coldly. ‘I hardly think so. Perhaps you are not aware that only a few weeks ago he arranged for this house to be leased for three years from the end of next month, or that he himself was planning to move to France. En effet to join me in Terauze.

‘The agreement with the tenants has been signed and it would not be in my power to terminate it, even if I wished to do so.’ He added flatly, ‘Which I do not.’

In the astonished silence which followed, Ginny set the coffee tray down carefully before she dropped it. Keeping her hand steady, she picked up the heavy cafetière and began to fill the cups, her mind whirling.

Somehow, she heard herself say quietly, ‘Would you like cream, Lady Welburn?’

As if a thread had been snapped, the atmosphere in the room changed from high drama to the prosaic.

Lady Welburn said gratefully, ‘Thank you, my dear,’ then turned to her future daughter-in-law, who had started to cry. ‘Calm down, child. It’s hardly the end of the world.’

‘But we’ve ordered this really pretty marquee in pink and white stripes, and we were going to have flowers to match,’ Cilla wailed. ‘Oh, it’s too cruel of Andrew. How could he have done such a thing, and not told us?’

Probably to avoid a scene like this, Ginny thought drily.

‘Well, I don’t believe a word of it,’ Rosina said furiously.

Andre shrugged. ‘Then I suggest you consult Monsieur Hargreaves, who will confirm the details.’

‘Hargreaves?’ Rosina gave a metallic laugh. ‘I’ll find a proper lawyer of my own who won’t let me be cheated out of my rights.’

‘Cheated?’ Andre Duchard echoed musingly. ‘Perhaps, madame, that is the last argument you of all people should pursue.’

Ginny saw the high colour suddenly fade from her mother’s face and Sir Malcolm move quickly to her side.

‘Sit down, Mrs Charlton.’ He led her firmly to a chair. ‘Naturally, this has all been most distressing for you, but I’m sure Andrew had every intention of discussing his plans with you, but sadly had no time to do so.

‘It could have been a most exciting change for you both,’ he added encouragingly. ‘A whole new life.’

‘Live in France? With his bastard?’ Rosina’s voice shook. ‘I would never—never have agreed. As he should—he must have known.’

‘And my wedding,’ Cilla broke in with sudden energy. ‘What’s going to happen about my wedding—all my plans? They’re ruined,’ she added with a sob.

‘No, Lucilla, they’ll just have to be changed,’ said Lady Welburn. ‘Something we can discuss at another time when you are more composed.’

But Cilla was not to be pacified, glaring up at Ginny who was approaching with her coffee.

‘Did you know about this? I bet you did. And you can take that away. I don’t want it.’ She flung out a petulant hand, knocking the cup from Ginny’s grasp to the carpet, and spilling its contents down the taupe dress in the process.

Lady Welburn’s mouth tightened into a line of disapproval.

She said to her husband, ‘I think perhaps we should be going, my dear.’

Andre Duchard walked forward. ‘Au contraire, madame. Please do not disturb yourself. I am clearly de trop and the one who should leave. My apologies for spoiling a pleasant evening, although the cause of the disagreement was not of my choosing. Bonsoir.’

He offered a tight-lipped smile and walked to the door, where he turned to look back at Ginny, down on one knee retrieving the cup and saucer from the rug.

‘I wish I could regret also the damage to your dress, mademoiselle,’ he said softly. ‘But, hélas, that is impossible. I see it rather as an act of God.’

And, with that, he went.

She should have felt insulted, she realised as she stared after him. Instead, incredibly, she had to fight to control the great gust of laughter suddenly welling up inside her.

‘You see, Lady Welburn.’ Rosina’s voice throbbed into the startled silence, reminding her there was nothing to laugh about. ‘You see how impossible it is to deal with this—creature. God knows what pressure he brought to bear on my poor Andrew. I know he would never have given up this house of his own free will, not when he knew how much it meant to me.’

She rounded on Ginny, who had risen to her feet, holding the unbroken china. ‘This is all your fault. I knew that inviting this Duchard here would be a disaster.’

Lady Welburn rose too. She said quietly, ‘I hardly think Virginia can be blamed for her late stepfather’s decisions, Mrs Charlton. Like you, she probably wasn’t consulted.’ She paused. ‘I feel we should leave you to think quietly about the situation.’ She gave Ginny a kind smile. ‘Why not go upstairs and take off that dress, my dear. Perhaps soak it in cold water.’

Or throw it in the bin, thought Ginny. Quite apart from its lack of appeal, it would always be a reminder of an evening best forgotten.

Up in her room, she quickly exchanged it for the ruby velvet robe which had been Andrew’s last birthday gift. She’d have given anything simply to go to bed, but there was still clearing up to be done, so she waited at the top of the stairs for the Welburns to depart before she ventured down again.

But as she reached the hall, the front door opened and Jonathan came in, white flakes of snow clinging to his hair and dark overcoat.

He checked when he saw her. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Dad forgot his scarf.’

‘It’s there on the hall table.’ She paused as he retrieved it. ‘Jon, please apologise to your parents. I—I had no idea the evening would turn out like this.’

He gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘That goes for me too. What on earth was Cilla doing—coming on to that man like that?’

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