Country Rivals
ZARA STONELEY

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016

Copyright © Zara Stoneley 2016

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Praise for Zara Stoneley’s Books

‘A great treat for readers who love their books jam-packed with sexy men and horses’

Bestselling author Fiona Walker

‘Jam packed with horses, dogs, beautiful countryside, crazy characters and a wonderful sense of community.… .… … please let me live in Tippermere!’

Brook Cottage Books

‘Packed with fun, frolics, and an unforgettable cast of characters, Country Affairs is a must-read this summer!’

Victoria’s Pages of Romance

‘Delicious,naughty, fabulous, hilarious.’

Jane Linfoot

‘Hilarious, sexy and so much fun!’

Mandy Baggot

‘It’s fast, it’s funny, it’s deliciously naughty and it’s a bloomin’ good read!’

Ginger Cat Blog

‘Country Affairs packs a whole lot of plot lines, and depth into its compact bundle, and is a joy to read.’

Rachel’s Random Reads

For Alex

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Zara Stoneley’s Books

Dedication

Tippermere

The Residents of Tippermere

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Acknowledgements

Coming Soon From Zara Stoneley

Also by Zara Stoneley

Zara Stoneley

About the Publisher

Tippermere

Welcome to tranquil Tippermere, set deep in the Cheshire countryside. Home to Lords and Ladies, horsemen and farmers.

Set on the highest hill, keeping a close eye on the village and its inhabitants, lies Tipping House Estate. In pride of place is the grand Elizabethan style mansion, sweeping down in front of her are immaculate gardens, well-kept parkland and rolling acres that spread as far as the eye can see.

Follow the stream down to the flat below, and nestling between copses and lakes, you find Folly Lake Manor and the sprawling grounds of the bustling Equestrian Centre. The country lane in front wends its way between high hedges to the village green, the church and two village pubs. Then fans out into tributaries, follow them further and you find a small eventing yard, a scattering of country cottages and rambling working farms.

Take the road north eastwards, travel on a few short miles and soon the elegant village of Kitterly Heath unfolds before you - a village whose origins were recorded in the Domesday Book. At one end of the ancient high street a solid 14th Century church stands sentry, with an imposing school at the other, and all around sprawl the mansions old and new that house the rich and famous …

The Residents of Tippermere

Charlotte ‘Lottie’ Steel (nee Brinkley) – disorganised but loveable daughter of Billy. In line to inherit the Tipping House Estate.

Rory Steel – devilishly daring and sexy three day eventer. Lottie’s husband.

Tilly – head of the terrier trio that accompany Rory everywhere.

Harry – Lottie’s spaniel.

William ‘Billy’ Brinkley – Lottie’s father. Former superstar show jumper, based at the equestrian centre.

Victoria ‘Tiggy’ Brinkley – wife of Billy. As friendly, shaggy and eternally optimistic as a spaniel.

Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe – owner of Tipping House Estate, lover of strong G&T’s. Meddler and mischief maker. Lottie’s gran, Dominic’s mother.

Bertie – Elizabeth’s black Labrador.

Dominic ‘Dom’ Stanthorpe – dressage rider extraordinaire. Uncle to Lottie, son of Elizabeth, slightly bemused and frustrated by both. Husband to Amanda.

Amanda Stanthorpe – Elegant and understated, delicate and demure. Owner of Folly Lake Manor and Equestrian Centre.

Alice Stanthorpe – Dom and Amanda’s 3 year old daughter.

Tabatha Strachan – Rory and Lottie’s groom. Horse mad, smitten by Rory, but suitably unimpressed by most other things.

David Simcock – England goalkeeper, resident of the neighbouring Kitterly Heath.

Sam Simcock – wife of David. Lover of dogs, diamonds and designer delights.

Roxy Simcock – Sam and David’s 3 year old daughter

Rupert – Roxy’s pony

The Film Stars & Crew

Pandora Drakelow – scheming, sneaky, man-eating star of the film. Seb’s wife.

Seb Drakelow – Pandora’s husband. Producer/Director. Hates the countryside, all things four legged and furry, or feathered, and anything North of Stratford-Upon-Avon.

Jamie Trilling – intern, location scout and general dogsbody.

Xander Rossi – Pandora’s half-brother. Dashingly handsome polo player. Adviser on the film set.

Ella – Xander’s Wire-Haired Dachshund.

Chapter 1

Jamie Trilling had worked on enough film sets to know the sound of a shotgun being closed. It was a heavy clunk. Distinctive. The type of sound that vibrated in the still night air.

His fingers froze mid text.

Before he even had time to look up from his mobile phone there was the metallic echo of a safety catch being released and he knew he had to move. He couldn’t. His tongue stuck to the parched roof of his mouth, and his throat – along with the rest of his crouched body – tightened with fear.

The shotgun barked out an unmistakable message, peppering his hands, his face, his hair with a shower of dark, peaty earth, and sending a rush of adrenalin that shocked him out of his stupor.

Jamie dived straight into the nearest rhododendron bush, catching a brief flash of a ghostly figure shimmering in the moonlight before his body hit the ground and the breath was knocked out of him.

For a moment all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, then the crisp snap of twigs told him that whoever, or whatever, had shot at him was about to get a second chance.

He was too young to die, and if he did have to go he’d not planned on it being under a bush in the middle of nowhere. His mother would never forgive him.

Jamie swallowed hard. If this was the movies he’d be rolling his way out of trouble and have his assailant in an arm-lock and disarmed before the next bullet had been loaded. But it was real life and his arm bloody hurt from landing on an exposed root. Lying paralysed in the greenery was so pathetic though. And for what? If he hadn’t relied on bloody Pandora he’d have arrived in daylight and knocked at the door, not been skulking in the undergrowth, in the middle of night, with only a camera for company.

There was another crack of brittle wood, alarmingly close this time, and a rustle of leaves and Jamie shut his eyes.

‘Damned ramblers. I’ll give you the right to roam, you buggers.’ The unmistakably posh, and female, voice was unexpected. ‘Think you own the blasted countryside.’ There was the sound of a path being hacked out between him and her. He opened one eye, and through the shrubbery could just make out a green wellington boot. Not a ghost, then. ‘Come out and show yourself, man, before I pepper your backside with shot.’

It was a turn of events he really hadn’t expected, and it was all beginning to feel a bit surreal. A bad dream. Except it would take a better imagination than his to conjure up the painful throb in his elbow.

Jamie groaned. Two minutes earlier he’d been crouched in the undergrowth gazing at the image on his camera display like some self-satisfied goon who’d won the lottery. Now he was about to die. Or worse.

* * *

If he was honest, it had been a pretty weird kind of day, the strangest part being that his boss’s wife, Pandora, was actually being helpful.

‘Ignore Seb, dear. He’s just anxious,’ she’d remarked, swanning into the room just as Seb Drakelow had stormed out, after ripping a strip off him with the type of sarcasm you had to be born with. ‘I can help you get back in his good books, if you like?’ She’d said it disarmingly enough, but it still made him feel uneasy. Pandora was never nice to anybody. Feeling he hadn’t really got much choice, he’d nodded. ‘I do rather like you. It would be a shame if you were sacked so soon after starting, like the last boy.’ She smiled, as sympathetically as her Botox-frozen features would allow. ‘He’s rather impulsive. It’s his artistic side, I’m afraid. Now, what was it he asked you to do?’

Without Pandora’s help Jamie would have been in trouble. Location scouting was fine when you had time on your side and knew what you were looking for. But he’d been dropped in at the deep end, with a ridiculously tight deadline, after the site his predecessor had arranged had fallen through at the last minute.

‘Don’t worry, I know exactly what type of place we need.’ She held a hand out for his tablet. ‘We did have a shortlist of places before, let me just look … Something like this maybe? Or this one? Oh yes, I can just imagine filming here, can’t you? Although it’s probably way outside our budget. Now this one,’ she tapped on an image that linked to a newspaper report, ‘Oh dear, they’ve had a fire and it looked ideal.’

Jamie looked over her shoulder. ‘But that’s what it looks like after the fire, isn’t it? The outside still looks fine.’

‘So it does, aren’t you the clever one? And I suppose it might be a reasonable price if … Well, I’ll leave it with you. I must admit though, it does look rather nice. You have a closer look and let me know.’ She’d dropped the tablet on his lap, one finger to her lips. ‘This can be our little secret, I won’t tell Seb I helped. I presume you do want a permanent job with us?’

He did. He stared at the images, hardly noticing as Pandora left, shutting the door quietly behind her. She was right. From the few details he knew about the film it seemed to fit the bill. In fact, the more he looked at the Tipping House Estate, the more he was convinced it was exactly what Seb Drakelow was looking for. He scanned the newspaper report, a fire, closed for business, broke landowners …

‘You are a fucking genius, man.’ An unexpected surge of triumph had flooded through him. ‘A bloody genius, even if I say so myself.’

Two hours later Pandora had willingly (in her husband’s absence) authorised expenses for his train ticket and practically pushed him out of the office. ‘And if you fuck this up you’re on your own. Seb really doesn’t like failures,’ had been her parting words as she’d signed the form without even looking at him.

The train journey had been a nightmare, and by the time he’d arrived at the nearest station to Tippermere it had been dark. The taxi rank had been deserted and when the station master had taken pity on him and offered the loan of a bike and directions to the estate, which was ‘impossible to miss’, it had seemed ideal. It would be a doddle – how hard could it be to find a whacking big country estate in a village?

It turned out to be harder than anticipated. There were no signs, no street lights and the names of the country lanes mysteriously changed at what appeared to be random points. He’d needed a map and he couldn’t get a signal on his mobile, and his hands felt like they were about to drop off from the combination of freezing cold and juddering handlebars.

When he’d finally spotted the entrance gates to the Tipping House Estate he’d dropped the bike, punched the air and done a jig. Then he’d realised that he couldn’t get in, which was slightly sobering. But with the promise of a well-paid job hovering just out of reach on the horizon he’d decided he had to be resourceful.

He’d clambered over a stone wall, torn his jeans on a barbed-wire fence, had brambles wrapped round his crotch (thank God for thick denim) and stood in more than one pile of smelly fox poo. He stank and was frayed at the edges, but he’d been proved right.

As he’d absentmindedly brushed a hand down one long denim-clad leg, his blue-grey eyes never leaving the image, he had to admit it. Tipping House was awesome. The perfect country pile. Full, no doubt, of stuck-up toffs and their horse-faced wives, but what the hell? It was the building he was interested in, not its inhabitants.

From his vantage point in the woods there was no sign of the fire damage that had caught his attention online, and even with the heavy cloak of night time, pierced only by the silver-white slivers of winter moonlight, the grand old building seemed to glow with a grandeur that spoke of majesty and pride. It shouted out, well murmured in a very upper class way, ‘country estate’. It was all about what ho’s, stiff upper lips, hunting parties and Hooray Henrys. Even the lawn was bigger than a bloody football pitch. Which was exactly what film-maker Seb Drakelow, and his demanding bitch of a wife, were after.

Jamie wasn’t really into stately homes and all the pretentious crap that went with them. What he was into was ideas. And this idea was going to pay off big time. The Tipping House Estate was going to win him some points and a permanent job. Pandora had more or less said as much – although whether he trusted her word or not was debatable. But he did trust Seb, and Seb was going to be impressed.

The world might have been his oyster since leaving university, but it was a pretty cramped shell when all you were getting was the word ‘intern’ to slap on your CV along with an endless supply of cheap coffee and the kind of pay that didn’t cover a week’s worth of train fares. He desperately needed to get a place of his own. Urgently. Living with a librarian was seriously cramping his style, even if he was very fond of her. His mother. How the hell was he ever going to get a girl to take him seriously if he had to admit he’d moved back home?

It wasn’t that there was any shortage of girls in his line of work, and with his loose-limbed frame, generous smile and earnest gaze Jamie had always had his admirers. But they tended to mother him rather than show any desire to strip off their clothes and drag him into bed.

There was a subtle change in the quality of the light as the clouds drifted, and Jamie focused back on the job. The clouds were clearing from over the moon – which was his sole source of light. The photographs he’d already got weren’t bad, but this was his chance to get the winner. The perfect moonlit mansion. He lifted his camera to get one more shot. And that was when it all started to go wrong.

‘Shit.’ It was a ghost.

His mouth dried, his throat constricting, his gaze locked on the viewfinder. The figure was lit by the moon, as white as death, smack bang in the middle of his line of sight.

Except this was a solid mass, not the watery, wispy apparition he’d imagined a ghost would be. Some part of his brain told him that he should still be able to make out the mansion, through a shadowy form. That a ghost should be elusive.

Jamie knew he should run or take a photograph. But he couldn’t do either. He couldn’t even glance up to take it in with his own eyes. Second-hand, through the camera, was enough. He was mesmerised. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck. As he stared, transfixed, the auto focus in the viewfinder of the camera flickered, trying to fix onto and sharpen the apparition.

Which was the precise moment when his mobile phone had beeped its way into his conscience and he’d picked it up with trembling hands to find an irate ‘Well?’ text message from an impatient Pandora. The sight of her profile picture had rather brought him back to reality. Then he’d heard the clunk of the shotgun.

* * *

Jamie stared at the wellington boot, which didn’t appear to have moved.

‘Show yourself, man, or I’ll send the dogs in after you.’

‘No fucking chance, you loony.’ He stayed where he was, one hand clutching his precious camera to his chest. A ghost would have been easier to handle than this trigger-happy harridan.

Another shot rang out, alarmingly close, splinters of bark bouncing off the canopy of leaves that covered him, and Jamie froze. His ears picked up the clunk of the gun being reloaded, or at least that’s what his imagination told him it was. In his world nobody carried shotguns or fired at strangers.

He supposed he should wriggle his way, commando style, to freedom. Not easy with a camera like a brick in one hand. And she’d probably pepper his arse with shot, or send the hounds in to drag him back. Christ, he was going to need new jeans after this. His inner action hero had obviously abandoned him.

‘After him, boy, flush him out.’

‘Well, Mum, I’m not quite sure this was what you had in mind when you said a degree would broaden my mind,’ he muttered under his breath as the sound of snapping twigs heralded the oncoming dog. The Hound of the Baskervilles meets Miss Havisham, was his second thought as the snuffles and panting got closer. Although Havisham Hounds sounded more like a pub than a horror film. He had to breathe, calm down. Think rationally.

There was a rustle immediately to his left, the smell of sweet doggy breath, and Jamie opened his eyes – which he hadn’t realise he’d shut. Whiskers tickled his cheek, above them a black, wet, shiny nose. Jamie all but giggled in relief as he realised that it was a Labrador grinning down at him. It plonked itself down on its haunches by his shoulder, tongue lolling, tail swishing through the leaves.

Jamie, who’d never heard of anybody being eaten alive by a Labrador, even though they’d eat more or less anything, offered a hand. The dog sniffed, then licked him with a noisy slurp.

‘Bertie stop that, you bloody traitor.’ Bertie stopped and glanced up guiltily over his shoulder, and so did Jamie. Straight into the barrel of a very old shotgun, gripped by even older, liver-spotted hands. ‘And don’t even think about running off. Darned safety catch, sticking again.’

Jamie wasn’t even sure he could get up without help, let alone run. ‘Do you know what you’re doing with that thing?’ He nodded at the barrel, which was a damned sight steadier than his wavering voice.

‘I’m perfectly competent.’

Which he took as a yes. Despite the firearm pointed at his heart he could feel the blood returning to his extremities with a rush. His fingertips started to throb. ‘It might be nice if you pointed it somewhere else.’ She didn’t. ‘I thought you were a ghost.’

‘A ghost?’

It was laughable now, but had seemed a real possibility only minutes ago. If it was minutes. He’d lost track of time, along with the feeling in one arm.

She was, he decided on closer inspection, quite an old lady. But one with a steady hand and a much firmer voice than most grannies he’d come across. More Clint Eastwood than Lady in a Van.

‘Are you drunk, young man? Or under the influence of one of those new-fangled drugs you children play with?’ Which was quite a good question, considering the weird direction his mind was taking him in. ‘You’re all the same you youngsters, need to get out in the fresh air and do some manual labour. You look pasty.’

‘You’d look bloody pasty if you’d been shot at by a ghost.’

There was a glimmer of a smile across what he could now see were unmistakably aristocratic features. High cheekbones, beady eyes, a long slightly hooked nose and grey hair fixed firmly back. ‘In my day …’

He rolled his eyes and let his head fall back onto the pillow of leaves. It was surreal, being stuck in the middle of nowhere, well, a Cheshire estate – but it might as well be nowhere, in the shadow of an amazing building, hearing the same words his grandfather threw at him on a regular basis.

‘In my day nobody dived for cover. Stand up like a man, you lily-livered buffoon.’

Which wasn’t quite what he was expecting.

‘My estate manager will be sending a bill for any damage.’

Jamie stared up incredulously at the foliage that surrounded him. ‘How do you damage a bush?’

‘Fences, you fool. I know you didn’t walk in through the front gate as a normal,’ she stressed the word, ‘visitor would do. You don’t look like you’d be capable of damaging much, though. Far too stringy.’ Her eyes narrowed and she peered more closely at him. ‘Are you sure you’re not on drugs?’

‘No I’m bloody not. I could ask you the same. You’re the one in wellies and a nightie, walking the dog in the middle of the night.’ It was probably better not to mention the gun. ‘Nice dog, by the way.’ She harrumphed as he edged himself cautiously up onto his elbows, the dog’s tail beating a tattoo against the mulch of leaves. ‘Not much good at the hunting and killing, though, is it?’

‘He’s a Labrador, a gundog, trained for picking up game not tracking quarry.’ The unspoken ‘stupid boy’ hung in the air. ‘You are trespassing, young man, so you’re fair game.’

‘I know.’ He shrugged and grinned. ‘Would you mind if I got out of this bush?’

‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you.’

‘If you do, you won’t find out why I’m here?’

‘I said shoot you, not kill you.’

‘Ahh. You wouldn’t hit a man when he’s down, would you?’

‘I am more than happy to give you a five-second start, young man.’

Jamie was just trying to decide if she was kidding or not, as her face was scarily emotionless, when she seemed to come to a sudden decision and straightened up. ‘You don’t look like a lunatic. Come up to the house and make me a drink.’ She lowered the barrel of the gun. ‘And you can explain yourself. Now where’s Bertie wandered off to? Damned sure that dog is going senile. Bertie, Bertie, come here you old fool.’ Breaking open the gun, she hooked it over her arm. ‘Well, come on young man, it’s too cold to stand about gawping.’ And without looking back, she stomped off out of the trees.

Jamie, plucking twigs from his hair and holding firmly onto his camera, ran after her. He caught up just as she reached the edge of the expanse of lawn.

‘Jamie, James Trilling.’

‘I’m sure you are.’ She didn’t even glance his way. ‘Bertie, old boy, don’t you even think of rolling in that excrement or you’ll be sleeping in the stables.’

‘Isn’t it rather late for you to be out walking him?’

‘Couldn’t sleep. Overrated if you ask me, all this lying about. Does your mother know where you are?’

Jamie laughed. ‘Why, are you going to kill me and bury my body?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She chuckled, and he joined in. ‘That is the gamekeeper’s job.’

‘Oh. You’re kidding?’ She didn’t reply. ‘So you live here?’ They were crunching over the gravel that fronted the imposing house, and Jamie slowed his pace and glanced up. ‘It’s incredible.’

‘It is.’ Her tone softened, ‘and I do. I was born in that wing,’ she nodded, ‘and now I live,’ she paused to push open the large door, then gestured across the hallway, ‘in that one.’

Jamie stared. Visiting stately homes as a kid had been part of growing up, but now, standing here in the lived-in version he wondered if he’d cracked his head while climbing over the wall. It couldn’t be real. Close up, it was like something out of one of the BBC bonnet-busters that his mum loved to watch. She hated it when he called them that, or told her that the day a woman came out of the lake with a shirt clinging to her chest was the day he’d start watching them.

He supposed he should be used to places like this, just view it as another location, like the rest of the crew would do. But the only locations he’d been sent out to see since starting this job were sink estates that scared the shit out of him (Seb liked ‘authentic’ and was far more comfortable surrounded by concrete than fields), and deserted stretches of railway track where no doubt somebody would get brutally murdered on film. They gave him the willies, if he was honest, but this was different.

Jamie glanced at his ghostly companion as he followed her in. She couldn’t be real. But with a black Labrador at her feet, the shotgun cracked open over her arm and the Hunter wellingtons on her feet, he had to admit that even in her nightie her resemblance to the portrait at the end of the hall was remarkable. ‘You’re, you’re Lady …’

‘Elizabeth Stanthorpe,’ she finished for him, the hint of a smile twitching at her thin lips. ‘Who the blazes did you think I was? You may call me Lady Elizabeth. Now, are we having that drink or not? You’re not one of those feeble types that doesn’t drink are you? No appetite for anything these days, you youngsters, other than fiddling with those egg box things.’

‘X-box.’

She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Gimmicky what-nots. All that staring at screens and fiddling with knobs. I bet you don’t even have time to fiddle with girls. It’s not natural.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Do those lap-dancing clubs still exist? They were very trendy at one time. I blame that Stringfellow chap for a lot of the shenanigans. And there were gentlemen’s clubs. That kind of thing was guaranteed to raise the blood pressure. Nowadays there are no wars to fight, no hunting allowed, no sex … mark my words the human race will die out if the do-gooders have their way. It’s all about being gay now, isn’t it?’ She pulled a wellington off, then pointed at his feet. ‘Shoes off. Not that I have a problem with gay men. It’s always gone on, that type of thing. Knew some splendid chaps who did it. But they did their duty and married the gals as well. Heir and a spare and all that.’

‘People do still have sex.’ Jamie wasn’t quite sure where the conversation was heading.

‘Jolly good. Bertie do leave those alone, there’s a good chap.’ The Labrador looked at her with big chocolate eyes, a boot held gently in his jaws, which he very carefully laid back down at his mistress’s feet. ‘He misses Holmes, don’t you old man?’ She patted the dog’s head and his tail swung a metronome beat as he looked up expectantly.

‘Holmes?’ Jamie looked around, half expecting a butler to appear.

‘Lab. Like peas in a pod the two of them were. Died of old age, dropped like a stone the other week as he ran out after a pheasant, daft old bugger.’

‘Ah.’

‘Philippa said she expects me to go the same way.’ She shook her head and pursed her lips. ‘Never chased a pheasant in my life though.’

‘Maybe she didn’t quite mean …’

‘I know exactly what she meant. You remind me of her a little.’

He wasn’t quite sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

‘Philippa?’

‘Friend of my granddaughter’s. Philippa, Pip, bright girl, most entertaining. Gone off to Australia with her surfing chap and I have to say I do miss her company. She’s a good girl, but I can’t be doing with this sky chatting, not the same as having her here. Darned new-fangled ideas.’

‘Sky chatting?’ Jamie looked at her blankly. ‘Oh, you mean Skype?’

‘That’s what I said. Do pull your trousers up properly, it’s no wonder you haven’t got a gal when you go around showing your underwear.’

‘I never said …’ He sighed as she marched across the oak-panelled hallway and pushed a door open. What was the point in wasting his breath? It was like some kind of test, to see what his reaction would be, although he reckoned he must have at least passed the first stage. It was a bit like playing an online game. And he hadn’t a clue what her end game was, although he still just about remembered his. Even if things hadn’t quite gone to plan.

Chapter 2

Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe propped the shotgun at the side of her chair and took a proper look at the trespasser. He was more youth than man, and an untidy one at that. When he’d lain under the rhododendrons, his dirty-blond hair a splash of colour against the dark mulch, he’d looked impossibly young and innocent. Which was why she’d invited him in. ‘You appear to have been rolling in fox excrement.’

He took a sniff of his jacket and grinned apologetically. ‘Sorry.’

‘Tomato ketchup.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Our old housekeeper used to swear by it. To get rid of the smell.’ She put her hands in her lap and followed his line of sight.

‘Is that thing even licenced?’ He was staring at the gun, as though he’d never seen one before. ‘Is it safe?’

‘Of course it is, young man, it was one of Papa’s favourites. He bagged a lot of poachers with this, easier to hit than rabbits, can’t move as fast.’

‘Isn’t it illegal to shoot people?’

‘That rather depends.’ He was waiting for an explanation and Elizabeth watched him, bemused. He seemed bright, if a little confused, just like Philippa had been when she’d first arrived in Tippermere.

The girl had been a friend of her granddaughter, Charlotte, and the same age, but had soon become a firm favourite of Elizabeth’s.

She had a taste for adventure, the spirit of youth. It had been nice to have a youngster around the place who was smart, but still had a streak of mischief. Her inquisitive mind, and a natural leaning towards investigation, had made her an excellent journalist and an entertaining companion. Philippa had been such fun. Unlike most of the people she came across day to day.

‘Are you going to pour that drink, young man?’

‘Isn’t it a bit late?’

‘Never too late for a tot of whisky. Keeps you warm at night. So, do I know your mother?’

‘I doubt it.’ He grinned and reached for the ice tongs, deciding fingers probably weren’t the best etiquette.

‘Don’t you dare!’

Jamie jumped as the commanding tone rang out, making the cut glass sing.

‘You are not ruining my best whisky with bloody ice! Which school did you go to, boy?’

* * *

Old ladies, Jamie thought, were supposed to mutter and croak, although maybe that didn’t apply to the upper classes. ‘Not one of the better ones, obviously.’ Waving what he considered the right type of glass and the correct bottle of whisky he got a nod of approval. ‘But although I may be a heathen as far as whisky goes, I’m not a rambler.’

‘So I gather.’

‘Or a druggie or drunkard.’

‘But you were on private land so I was perfectly entitled to shoot. You could have been an armed intruder.’

‘I’m a scout.’

‘Aren’t you rather old to enjoy short trousers and middle-aged men?’ She raised an elegant eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching.

Jamie laughed and took a sip of the shockingly smooth malt whisky. During his train journey he’d had the chance to read a little bit about the Stanthorpes, and in particular about Lady Elizabeth. Eccentric, elegant, impoverished. Matriarchal. But none of the reports had as much as hinted about a sense of humour. ‘I’m a location scout.’

‘Is that what the less-savoury reporters call themselves these days?’

‘God, no. Is that what you thought? I’m nothing to do with the press.’

‘They aren’t all bad.’ Lady Elizabeth frowned. ‘Philippa was always very fair in what she reported, but so many seem to be lacking in scruples as well as a grasp of the finer points of the English language.’

‘Oh. So, do you get many of that type out here?’

‘Only recently.’

‘Since the fire?’

She ignored the question. ‘And you’re not from the insurance company?’

‘Nope.’ He shook his head.

‘That fire has been rather an inconvenience, which is why I wasn’t surprised to find another interloper in the grounds. You’re not some kind of investigator?’

‘No. Honest, nothing like that. So you’ve not started repairs yet, then?’ He’d actually thought it rather odd, when he was taking photographs, that there was absolutely no sign of fire damage. The newspaper reports had talked about a devastating fire, about flames that took the fire brigade several hours to get under control. So he’d assumed that at least some of it must have been fixed pretty quickly, that the Stanthorpes were the type of people who could afford to put things right, even though they might still be willing to take Seb’s money. But if they had, why did she think he was from the insurance company?

And yet he hadn’t even noticed anything out of the ordinary since they’d arrived at the house. Apart from the very faintest trace of acrid smoke that hung in the entrance hall.

‘You do seem to be asking rather a lot of questions if that’s the case. But no. Not yet.’ She tapped a nail on her glass and Jamie could only guess at how annoyed that meant she was. ‘There appears to be a lot of bureaucracy involved.’

He zoomed in the picture on his camera. ‘You can’t see any damage from outside. I thought it was supposed to be a massive fire.’

‘It was bad enough. So what do you know about the fire, James? Is that why you’re here?’

She had a pretty piercing gaze for an old lady.

‘Jamie, not James. Not even my mother calls me that. Well, yes and no. I mean I’m here because I saw the pictures in the newspaper after the fire. I’d never heard of Tipping House before that, in fact,’ he grinned sheepishly, ‘I’ve never even been to Cheshire. But I thought the place looked cool, so, er, I came for a closer look.’

‘So you’re not one of those developer chaps?’ He shook his head. ‘Swarming round like flies they were. They smell the rot. I would have quite liked to have taken a pot shot at one or two of them, but Charlotte said she’d hide the key to the gun cabinet if I did.’

‘Charlotte?’

‘My granddaughter.’

He racked his brain for facts, but he hadn’t really been interested in reading the reports – his attention had been grabbed by the pictures. And there hadn’t been a memorable picture of any attractive heiress. Maybe she looked like a horse. ‘Seems sensible, you know, to stop you shooting at people. So, what happened?’ It didn’t really matter as far as the job went, but he was interested. ‘Was it arson, like some of the reports said? Are you after a big fat insurance pay-off?’

‘Ridiculous idea.’ She held her glass out for a refill, so he complied and wondered why she still looked sober as a judge when his world was wobbling at the edges. ‘To answer your questions, yes, we had a substantial fire here. Yes, arson is suspected but,’ she peered over her glass at him, ‘some people seem to think we had a hand in it, which is quite preposterous. And to answer your final question, quite honestly the extent of any insurance pay-out is none of your business, young man.’ She stared at the amber liquid. ‘Such a shame when the wedding business was beginning to turn a proper profit. Awful mess, damned good job they used to build places properly. The curtains, of course, were ruined. We’d only had them cleaned a couple of years ago. Such a waste. I do hate waste.’ She frowned. ‘It has been suggested that a disgruntled guest started it, because he had been muttering about jumped-up toffs, but that is nothing new, is it? I do rather suspect there is more to it than that. Bloody developers, no respect.’ Her voice had drifted, so maybe the drink was getting to her. Then she put her glass down on the table and fixed him with the type of look that made him feel like a naughty schoolboy, even though he’d never actually been that badly behaved. ‘Mark my words, I intend to get to the bottom of it. So,’ she sat slightly more upright, if that were possible, ‘why were you snooping about in the middle of the night rather than arriving at a more civilised hour?’

‘Well I don’t usually, er, snoop, in the middle of the night. My train was cancelled.’ He’d called Pandora to suggest a re-run the following day and had been told, in no uncertain terms, to make sure he took ‘the fucking photos today’ – so much for him suspecting she had a nice side. ‘I’m working for this film producer and he’s on the look out for a location. When I saw this place I thought it looked perfect, so I offered to come over.’ He held his camera up. ‘Take some shots. I mean, I would normally just knock at the door and ask, but I got lost looking for the place. Then, when I found it, with the gates being shut and everything, I thought it was a bit late to be bothering you. I only needed a few photos of the outside and the grounds.’ He shrugged. ‘I just thought it would make sense to get on with it. So, I, er, got over the wall and then thought if I got a move on I’d be able to get the last train home, but …’

She was frowning. But it had seemed the sensible solution at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure. But at least he’d met Lady Stanthorpe. His mum would be impressed, although he’d have to skate over some of the facts. ‘It’s amazing, the way the light …’

‘It’s dark.’

‘Even in the moonlight it’s fantastic.’

She didn’t look convinced. ‘And what are you filming? Some inaccurate historical nonsense? Why you people are too lazy to check your facts confounds me.’

‘Dunno exactly, but it’s not old-fashioned stuff. All they told me was that they wanted somewhere to shoot the polo bits. You know, that game they play on horses, with sticks.’

‘I do know what polo is, young man.’

‘They wanted a backdrop like this for it, you know, something posh, impressive.’

‘One doesn’t play polo in Cheshire in the winter, dear boy.’

‘One would,’ he grinned, ‘want to do a few shots now, and most of the shoot in the spring. Apparently there’s more to polo than just the beautiful game.’

‘Is there now? One would hardly call it beautiful, although some of the Argentinian players have a certain something about them. My late husband, Charles, used to play when he was abroad. He was rather dashing, I must admit, although all that racing about did take it out of him as he got older. Arthritis is a bugger and I rather feel that the poor ponies suffered as the poor old fool put weight on. So much nicer for them with some slim young man on board. So much nicer for all of us.’ She waved her empty glass again, and Jamie wondered if she was pouring it down Bertie, who was now snoring and whimpering, his feet dancing as he chased imaginary rabbits.

‘So, you say you will be filming outside?’

‘Outside only.’

‘And there would be substantial reimbursement?’ She tapped her stick on the floor and Bertie leaned more heavily against her. He guessed this was what Elizabeth looked like when under stress. Just a twitch. ‘Poor Charlotte does rather needs funds. Bloody insurance people aren’t paying out yet. I’ve always said one was better investing one’s money oneself elsewhere.’

‘It is all repairable, then?’

‘It is, for a price. But until then the business is at something of a stand-still. Brides-to-be are not interested in looking at scorched walls. No imagination, you youngsters, these days.’

‘Well, we would pay to film here.’

‘I’m not sure Tipping House, or the village of Tippermere for that matter, is ready for a film crew. You would no doubt ruin the lawns and litter the place with pop bottles, chip wrappers and people with loud-hailers.’ She stared gimlet-eyed down her long nose.

‘No doubt.’

‘And you would scare the horses. And you do realise that we can’t stop the pheasant shoot or the Boxing Day meet just to humour you?’

‘I do. But all that is finished by spring, isn’t it?’ A Boxing Day meet was surely on Boxing Day? ‘It could up your profile.’ She stared. ‘You know, keep you going while you’re waiting for the insurance money?’ The lines he’d been fed spilled out of him. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Be fun?’ He’d strayed from the script, but now he was pretty sure he had her hooked on that one. ‘Must be pretty quiet round here. Give me a call. I’ve got a card …’ He was reaching into his pocket as he spoke.

She waved a regal hand, dismissing the idea. ‘I will do no such thing. You may call me after Christmas and I will decide whether I wish to pursue this matter further. The first Tuesday in the New Year will suit, at 3pm. But I’m not promising anything. I shall raise the matter with Charlotte when the time is right. Although, if I were you I’d keep this quiet, because if my son Dominic gets as much as a whiff of this kind of thing he’ll raise the drawbridge.’

‘You’ve got an actual drawbridge?’ Jamie was even more impressed.

‘A metaphorical one.’

‘Ahh. And Dominic has the final say?’

‘Certainly not. But he can be quite sniffy at times and he is rather strong-willed when he puts his mind to it.’

‘I wonder where he gets that from?’ He hadn’t thought he’d actually verbalised the words, but it appeared he had.

The corner of her mouth twitched. ‘One has to know what one wants. But he is slightly too, what is the word? Conservative for my taste. He is a dressage rider.’

She said it as though it explained everything, which to Jamie it didn’t. Knowing very little about horses and absolutely nothing about dressage riders.

‘Precise, controlled. The boy sorted all his books alphabetically and his cars into the most orderly of rows when he was a child.’ That didn’t help much either. ‘Re-stabled all the horses one day because they weren’t in any kind of size or colour orientation. The head groom was not amused.’

‘Ahh.’

‘He was very young though. He appears to have grown out of his most faddy tendencies. Too many fancy notions and picky habits aren’t good for a boy. Poncey. Not quite sure where he gets it from, his father was nothing like that. If anything upset him he’d go out and shoot.’

‘And so Dominic helps you run the place?’

‘Oh heavens above, have you not listened to a word I’ve said? Dominic is my son, but Charlotte, my granddaughter, runs the estate.’

‘Ah, so Charlotte is Dominic’s daughter.’

‘No.’ She shook her head, lips pursed. ‘Dominic is Charlotte’s uncle.’

‘Oh. But shouldn’t he …’

‘The Stanthorpes have never liked to stick to the normal order of things; we do things our own way. Tipping House is never passed to a male heir, it is inherited by the eldest female and sadly Charlotte’s mother, my daughter Alexandra, died in rather unfortunate circumstances. One day all this will be Charlotte’s. You really do need to do your homework, young man.’

Jamie frowned. He’d thought taking a few pictures and selling the idea to Seb was all he needed to do. But it appeared not. The longer he was here though, the more he realised it wasn’t just that he needed this job; he actually wanted it. He wanted to peep into the life of Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe. To make her smile.

‘And so Charlotte is in charge?’

‘I rather think I am in charge.’ Her tone was dry, but there were the crinkle lines of laughter around her eyes again. ‘But she is responsible for running the estate and raising the necessary funds.’

‘She’s the one who set up the business here, as a wedding venue, isn’t she?’ Elizabeth nodded. ‘And one of the punters started the blaze, so she’s knackered.’

‘Knackered is a word I’d reserve for an altogether different usage, young man, but she is in rather a predicament. Most of the bookings were over the summer months, so very few had to be cancelled. But she should now be taking bookings for the spring after next, and how can she? These young girls look around and want everything to be perfect, and that is not going to be achievable for quite some time.’ She sniffed. ‘These insurance investigators are quite tiresome. And without the income one is very much back to square one.’

‘Even if you get it fixed up?’

‘A place like this costs a fortune to maintain and that is something that, sadly, we don’t have. That young fool of a bank manager is already starting to twitch, silly boy. But I’m sure things will sort themselves out, although I might well shoot the next person who arrives with a buy-out plan.’

‘Why not just sell the place?’

‘Sell?’ She raised both eyebrows. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Over my dead body. If they think they can turn this village into a safari park or giant amusement arcade they have another thing coming. The Marquis of Bath and that Aspinall chap have a lot to answer for, putting ridiculous ideas into people’s heads. You will never see a pride of lions here during my lifetime. Utter tosh and nonsense. Right, I’m sure it’s past your bedtime. Your push bicycle is by the front door.’

‘Push …?’

‘The police called in to say they’d seen it propped against the south wall,’ she raised an eyebrow and he tried not to smile. ‘Some chap saw you climb over, but they knew better than to follow you. More than one policeman has been peppered with shot on this estate. By accident, of course, mistaken identity and all that. One of the gamekeepers went to collect it while I brought Bertie to sniff you out.’

‘You knew I was there? You didn’t find me by accident?’

‘What do you think I am? This estate stretches for miles, and I can’t see in the dark at my age, can I?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Be careful on the bicycle, you look a bit tipsy. Unlikely to meet any traffic but the ditches can be hazardous I’m told.’ She stood up. ‘Can’t have you killed just before Christmas can we? Your mother would never forgive us. Oh, and watch out for ghosts and wolves.’ And he was pretty sure that it was the whisky that made him think she’d winked.

Chapter 3

‘Faster Worwy, faster, faster.’

Charlotte ‘Lottie’ Steel jumped as the unexpected shrill scream echoed down the hallway and her needle came unthreaded, and disappeared between the floorboards. ‘Bugger.’

She shut one eye and peered down the crack, wishing that they could afford to send the horse rugs to the local saddlery for mending. Impoverished landowners might be expected to make do and mend (and she definitely was impoverished), but sewing was really not her thing. She just wasn’t very good at it. She was much better at whitewashing the stables, if she was honest, and at least then she’d not be using her fingers as pin cushions.

In fact whitewashing, and mending fences, were the type of thing she’d spent most of her time doing before she’d discovered that one day she would inherit Tipping House – and in the meantime was expected to manage the day-to-day running of the estate, and remove as much of the responsibility as she could from her elderly grandmother. Not that Elizabeth considered herself either elderly or in need of assistance. It was rather Lottie who thought she needed help, especially since her wedding business had gone up in smoke, leaving them once again struggling to make ends meet.

But it was hard to imagine now that she’d ever thought she could belong anywhere else. When she was a child she’d always imagined that one day she’d follow in her father, Billy Brinkley’s, footsteps and enter the world of show-jumping (or at least groom his horses and be the one that educated the youngsters), and then when she’d moved in with Rory she’d imagined herself supporting his eventing career and chasing off his female fans, and the very last thing that had ever crossed her mind was that she would instead live a life rather more along the lines of her aristocratic grandmother Lady Elizabeth and her Uncle Dominic. Although whilst it all sounded rather grand, the reality was anything but. And at times she quite honestly found it hard to believe she was related to them, even if she did feel she would die rather than give up her beautiful, but demanding, inheritance.

Whitewashing and mucking out stables, she decided, came to her much more naturally than balancing spreadsheets and sewing.

‘Giddy up, horsey.’

A shrill whinny stopped her short and she forgot all about needles.

Her husband, Rory, could often be seen cantering around Tipping House with their goddaughter, little Roxy, riding on his shoulders, but he couldn’t whinny like that. That sounded far too authentic. Lottie scrambled across the room on all-fours and leaned out of the doorway.

It was indeed a horsey, or rather a very fat Shetland pony, coming down the hallway.

‘No Woxy, I mean Roxy. Oh for heaven’s sake!’ Lottie exclaimed. For a moment one of the portraits swung on the wall as the excited child caught it with a flailing arm before it came to a rest at a rather jaunty angle. ‘Stop, stop. Rory, stop before Great Uncle Albert falls off the wall.’

Rory stopped. The pony didn’t. It ambled on past him, reached the end of the lead rope and ground to a halt a couple of feet short of Lottie. Stretching its stubby neck out, it peered down at her through long-lashed brown eyes before snorting and showering both her and the hall rug with spittle. Roxy, who was perched like a cherry on a cake, lurched in the saddle, then giggled.

‘Lot-tie.’ Her blond curls trembled as she waved her hands in the air in an enthusiastic greeting and she bounced on the saddle. ‘Look at me, look at me, me and Alice have got weal horseys and I’m in my best pwincess dwess. Look, look.’ But Lottie wasn’t looking at her. She was staring at her devastatingly dishy husband and trying to keep the cross look fixed on her face.

Rory. Gorgeous, fit Rory. Clad in the tightest of breeches and sloppy polo shirt, despite the cold winter air. He tipped his head to one side and grinned, his tawny-brown eyes alive with mischief. ‘What are you doing down there, darling?’

Rory Steel loved the children, the children loved him, and as his best horses had been turned out for a rest and the ground was far too hard for jumping, he’d been glad of the diversion that a bit of baby-sitting offered. And he also loved his scatty but occasionally bossy wife, Lottie. In fact, when her assertive side emerged he found her totally impossible to resist, as that glint in her eye worked wonders for his libido. Not that he ever had a problem that way.

Rory and Lottie were widely accepted as the dishiest, and possibly the nicest, couple in Tippermere. Where Rory was lean and hard, Lottie was no size zero, but possessed rather unfashionable curves. As a teenager she’d been as leggy as a yearling, but she’d matured into a statuesque (she thought fat) woman, who appealed to the old and young men of Tippermere alike. Her gorgeous thick hair gave her a ‘just out of bed’ look that was irresistible, and her enormous green eyes and generous mouth made her as huggable as she was desirable.

‘Rug-mending. It’s not going too well though.’ She stared at the row of haphazard stitches.

Rory also found her home-making activities quite attractive too. Well, all in all, the longer they’d been married the more he’d fallen in love with the girl.

Lottie gazed up at him and couldn’t stay cross. She never could with Rory, well, not unless he’d been really, really bad. Like the time he’d turned up with a string of horses and organised a jump-off at her father’s wedding, in the marquee, before the cake had been cut.

She fought the smile that was threatening to break out. It had been typical Rory – mad, fun and had signalled the end of the wedding cake. When his horse had landed on it.

Then there had been the episode on the day she’d launched her wedding fayre business. He’d done a runner – and then turned up and proposed like some dashing and romantic knight.

‘I’m not sure you should bring them in the house, even if they are small.’

‘You’re no trouble, are you girls?’ He winked at Roxy, who giggled.

Lottie sighed. ‘I meant the ponies not the girls.’

She had been finding it strangely therapeutic, sat on the floor sewing (even if she wasn’t very good at it). Except when the needle came unthreaded. That was annoying. But maybe leaning out of the doorway was a mistake, with a pony on the loose. ‘Hang on.’ She clambered to her feet, the horse blanket falling off her knee, and Tilly the terrier, who’d been chewing the end of it, let go and with an excited yap launched herself down the long hallway straight at Rory. Who, forgetting the job in hand, let go of the lead rope and caught the little dog. The shaggy pony, sensing freedom, did a swift U-turn and headed for the nearest open doorway.

‘Look, Lottie, I’m widing, I’m widing Woopert all by myself.’ Roxy grinned, forgot about hanging on to the saddle or the reins and clapped her hands excitedly. ‘Take a picture, picture for Mummy.’

‘Crumbs.’ Right now Lottie wasn’t interested in capturing the moment for prosperity, she was more bothered about damage limitation. Sliding in her socks on the polished floorboards, she skidded after her goddaughter, grabbing the lead rope just as the round-barrelled pony opened its mouth to take a bite out of the flower display. The pony retaliated with a loud burst of wind (it could have been worse, Lottie decided, much worse) and Roxy giggled.

‘Is that a new fashion statement, darling? And on the catwalk today we have Lottie in green breeches with purple horse blanket artistically attached.’ Rory had wandered in to the room after them and was now leaning against the pony, one arm around Roxy, looking thoroughly amused.

‘What?’ Lottie glanced down, confused. ‘Oh bugger.’ She was towing the blanket with her. She’d been concentrating so hard on neat stitches that she appeared to have sewn right through the blanket and her breeches. And she also appeared to be towing a terrier.

Tilly, spotting a moving object, had forgotten all about her master, Rory, and had taken chase. She now had her teeth firmly attached to the end of the blanket that had been trailing on the floor.

‘Should we put Rupert back, Auntie Lottie?’ The softly spoken, but perfectly enunciated, words drifted through the chaos and Lottie looked up to see her little cousin Alice (though she thought of her more as a niece, due to the age difference) standing in the open doorway, her dark hair drawn back into a perfect sleek ponytail, a very solemn look pasted across her pretty features.

Although only a few months separated Alice and Roxy, they were as different as night and day. Roxy was a born giggler, the spitting image of her own mother, the gloriously over-the-top Samantha Simcock, with a dash of her energetic footballing father thrown in, but Alice saw life in a far more serious light.

The polite and shyly pretty Alice was the perfect blend of her parents – Dominic Stanthorpe, Lottie’s uncle, who was precise and perfect in everything he did, and his wife, Amanda, who had always been poised and beautiful. Except when she was pregnant. Now, that, Lottie thought, should have been enough to put anybody off ever starting a family. Except poor Amanda had decided to put herself through the ordeal again and was currently back at the puking stage. Which was why Lottie had offered to look after Alice for the afternoon. Which meant she couldn’t say no when Sam had asked if Roxy could join in the fun, could she?

But what had ever made her think asking Rory to assist had been a good idea?

Except he was great with kids. They loved him. In fact, she thought with a pang of guilt, he’d make a perfect father. How on earth could she ever think about having a family of their own though, when they were penniless and they lived a life of chaos, dashing between horse shows and trying to come up with schemes to keep food on the table?

‘Auntie Lottie?’

Sometimes, Lottie thought, the three-year-old Alice was more mature than the adults in this place.

‘That’s a brilliant idea, Alice.’

‘Rubbish, we’ve only just started.’ Rory gathered the terrier into his arms and grinned. ‘Do you want unstitching?’

The pony, realising that Lottie’s concentration was elsewhere, nudged the vase with its stubby little nose and Roxy giggled as it rocked from side to side. Lottie put a steadying hand out and was glad that most of the stuff in their wing of Tipping House was actually either from Rory’s old cottage, or rubbish. Her life really wasn’t compatible with priceless antiques.

Whilst she absolutely adored her inherited home and could never, ever imagine leaving it, sometimes she thought that life back at Mere Lodge had been so much safer. At Tipping House you never quite knew what disaster was going to befall you next.

It was hard to be dignified, but Lottie was going to do her best in front of the children. Not that she really wanted them to think this was normal. ‘I’m not sure you should have ponies in the house, darling.’

‘Old Lizzie said we could,’ Rory said with a wink.

‘Shhh. Don’t call her Lizzie.’ Lottie lived in dread of the day when her grandmother, Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe, overheard the diminutive of her name and planned revenge. ‘Or old. You know she hates it. And I’m sure she didn’t say you could.’

‘Oh come on, don’t be a spoilsport. It’s common knowledge that your mother used to ride her pony in here.’

‘That’s different. We’ve got somebody coming to look at the place. What if it smells of horse poo?’

‘Woopert poo, Woopert poo.’

Lottie ignored the little girl, who was now bouncing up and down in the saddle and no doubt increasing the chances of ‘Rupert poo’.

‘The last lot who came to look round said it smelled doggy.’ Lottie felt herself redden at the memory of the very haughty young bride-to-be standing in their magnificent hallway with her nose in the air proclaiming that it was old and smelly and not at all what she’d expected. ‘It doesn’t, does it?’ She sniffed as though to check.

That was the trouble these days. Since the fire, the once-imposing Great Hall had been out of bounds as it smelled strongly of smoke, charred wood and whatever the firemen had used to douse the flames. So, potential customers had to visit the Steel’s own private wing of the house to discuss wedding bookings, which wasn’t quite as clean and tidy as it might have been. Or as sweetly scented. However many bowls of potpourri she distributed. She really should ask the manufacturers of Glade for sponsorship, considering the amount of their products she’d distributed around Tipping House.

But she was fighting a losing battle. Horse rugs seemed to find their way up from the stable yard, because it was far too cold to repair them down there, scattering loose hair and horsey smells as the heat permeated the grease and sweat-imbued fabric. She had to admit, she loved the smell of horses and hay, but she fully accepted that it probably wasn’t what a bride-to-be was looking for on her special day. And that was the problem. Lottie had built up a business selling dreams, wedding dreams. The glossy brochure promised perfection and the numerous articles in Cheshire Life and Tatler portrayed a sanitised version of life in the countryside and the old creaking mansion. When a bride-to-be came to Tipping House Estate she was buying a fairy tale not the rather less-inspiring reality.

Lottie sighed. Real life included the dirty boots that were kicked off everywhere but the boot room, the bits of damp leather that were sponged down, soaped and oiled as they sat by the fire in the evening, spreading a rather unique odour, plus the assortment of gifts that the dogs brought in with them. Some dead, some alive, and some unmentionable.

She chewed the inside of her cheek. Taking bookings for the following spring was all well and good, but would they ever have the money to repair the damage? And what was supposed to happen in the meantime? They’d all but used up the small nest egg she’d accumulated since establishing the business three years previously. The fire had been such awful timing, and her rather naïve assumption that she’d fill in one form and the insurance company would hand over a very large cheque had proved just that. Naïve.

‘It doesn’t smell to me.’ Rory kissed his wife on the nose and took the lead rope from her hand. ‘You worry too much.’ He backed the pony up so that it was no longer straddling the rug. ‘And anyway they aren’t coming, Lots, they rang and cancelled this morning.’

‘They cancelled?’ She looked at him aghast, her throat tightening with disappointment. ‘Oh no, not another one. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Sorry, darling, forgot. They said something about wanting it to be perfect, but really needing to see the place as it was actually going to be, and muttered some tosh about what if it wasn’t ready in time. All the usual guff. Would have told you earlier but one of the horses had barged through the electric fencing again. That horse must have a hide like a rhino, or he just likes the buzz.’

‘Oh damn and blast, what are we going to do, Rory?’ She felt like wailing, but knew there was absolutely no point in collapsing into a pathetic heap. Off the top of her head she had no idea how many appointments had been cancelled, but it was a lot. Too many. The diary was a mass of red crossings out and was beginning to look more like a patchwork quilt than a sign of their success. At this rate, by the time they had the place refurbished and ready to go there would be no business left. They’d have to start from scratch again.

She had long ago accepted that the coming summer was a write-off and belts would need to be tightened (not that a stable full of horses understood that concept), but had been banking on a healthy number of bookings for the following year.

‘This year is going to be hard enough,’ she chewed the side of her fingernail, ‘but we’re completely screwed, sorry, messed up,’ she glanced up at the children guiltily to check if they were listening, ‘if we’ve not got anything definite for next year. I was counting on a full diary from April to September. What am I going to do, Rory?’

‘Cheer up. We’ll think of something, darling.’

‘We’ll fail. Gran will never forgive me. I’ve let her down.’

‘Lottie.’ Rory, noting the dejected tone looked down at her fondly. Although she could come across as totally scatty and disorganised, he’d discovered over the last few years just how strong and determined his wife was, and it was slightly worrying that after keeping her chin up and fighting back since the fire, she was now looking slightly beaten. ‘You’ve never let anybody down. You took this place on and got the business going and you know how proud Elizabeth is of you. We all are. Me especially. You can do this. We can do it. Together.’

‘But what—’

‘Are we putting them back, Uncle Rory? My pony doesn’t like it on his own outside.’

Lottie had all but forgotten little Alice, who was still at the doorway waiting patiently. Just like her mother, Amanda, would have been.

‘Your pony?’ Lottie suddenly noticed that the little girl was clutching a rope firmly with both hands. ‘Your pony doesn’t like being on his own?’ She looked at Rory. ‘You mean there are two? Where have all these ponies come from?’

‘Lady Lizbet bought them.’ Roxy bounced a bit more. ‘I love Lady Lizbet, I love Lady Lizbet.’ She bobbed up and down, and then stopped and grinned. ‘I’m going to be her when I gwow up.’

Rory nodded confirmation. ‘Late Christmas present. She thought it was time Alice started to ride, said she didn’t want her behaving like her mother did around horses.’

‘And didn’t Amanda and Uncle Dom mind?’ Lottie knew only too well how hard Amanda had tried to share Dom’s love of horses, and that she had been totally relieved when he’d said it didn’t matter. Lottie had never, ever, seen anybody look as petrified sat astride a horse as Amanda had been.

Rory shrugged. ‘Not a clue. And she bought Roxy one too. Said it was only fair.’

‘Mine’s called Woopert and Alice has got Bilbo. He’s black. Mine is owange.’ Supplied Roxy helpfully.

Lottie stared at the pony. ‘We call it chestnut, Roxy.’ And then at the grinning Rory. ‘And what does Sam say?’

‘Wow, isn’t it amazing, babe? How awesome is that? My little princess riding and everything, just like a real lady.’ Rory clapped his hands together and grinned as he completed what Lottie had to admit was quite a good impersonation of Samantha.

‘Mummy says I can go to Lympi next year and I’m going to be a pumpkin.’ Roxy tugged experimentally on one rein. ‘Can you make me into a pumpkin Lottie? You can do sewing stuff and Mummy doesn’t cos it hurts her nails.’ Her face was solemn. ‘I can be owange then like Woopert. I’ve got lots of days to pwactise.’

‘Chestnut.’ Lottie corrected automatically.

‘She means Olympia Horse Show. She’s been watching YouTube videos of the fancy-dress parade.’

‘Doesn’t she mean a plum pudding then? You don’t see pumpkins at Christmas really, do you?’ She leaned in closer to Rory and lowered her voice so the girls couldn’t hear. ‘Wouldn’t it have been better to have given owange Woopert to Alice and let Roxy have black Bilbo? She can say her Bs.’

‘Your grandmother specifically said they were to be this way round.’

‘I bet she did.’

‘Said something about speech impediments should not stand in the way of life decisions.’

Lottie rolled her eyes.

‘What colour are plum puddings, Worwy?’

Rory never got chance to answer as a squeal of delight, and clapping of hands, had everybody turning round, apart from the pony.

‘Oh my God, oh wow, aren’t they just gorge? How adorable is that cute little horse?’ Rushing in on her high heels, bracelets jangling, Samantha Simcock blew a kiss in Rory’s direction then wrapped her arms around Lottie, engulfing her in a waft of very expensive perfume, which contrasted alarmingly with Lottie’s own eau-de-horse. In fact the two girls appeared polar opposites in every visible way. Where Lottie had curves, Sam was model-slim (with the exception of her very expensive boobs), her complexion was as perfectly made-up and blemish-free as a touched-up photo of a model, her clothes the height of fashion and her blue eyes as clear as a baby’s. But appearances could be deceptive and Sam was as down to earth and honest as they came, and more – like Lottie – strong willed and determined than she looked.

When Sam and her husband, England goalkeeper David Simcock, had moved into the neighbouring (and very upmarket) village of Kitterly Heath she had, for a very brief time, been lonely, but with her extrovert personality and natural warmth it hadn’t taken her long to make friends.

In Tippermere she should have been a fish out of water, but she wasn’t. Everybody warmed to Sam; she was non-judgemental and generous to a fault, which more than compensated for the fact that her view of life in the country was slightly unusual, to say the least. Sam’s dog, Scruffy, was the only dog in the village to sport a diamante collar; she was the only girl who had ever turned up at a Boxing Day meet in six-inch heels, and she flatly refused to get on a horse on the grounds that a fall might have a devastating effect on her boob implants.

Sam had hung on to her bling and embraced the countryside in her own way – complete with high heels, hair extensions, weekly manicure and Botox.

Lottie loved every outrageous inch of her friend and couldn’t imagine life without her.

‘How are you doing, babe? You and Rory are just so sweet looking after little Roxy for me. Aww, come on Alice honey, don’t stand in the doorway all shy. You get on your little horse as well, sweetie pie, and I can take a picture of you both together. Her Ladyship is so fab, isn’t she? Oh Daddy will be so proud. Our own little princess on a horse, just like the royal family and Jordan, you know, whatchamacallher, Katie.’

Lottie wasn’t too sure that the Windsors would want to be wrapped up in the same sentence as an ex glamour model, nor was she sure that her gran was ‘fab’.

‘Maybe it would be better if we all went outside?’

‘It’s a bit nippy out there, babe. Did you know you’ve got a blanket thing dangling from you?’ The stage whisper carried clearly across the room.

Lottie gave the blanket an experimental tug, wondering if ripping it off would work or whether she needed scissors. ‘They’re ponies. They’re supposed to be outside. That’s why they’ve got fur coats.’ Lottie looked pointedly from Sam’s fur to the ponies and back again. ‘And the light’s much better if you want to take a photo. It’s so gloomy in here in the winter.’

‘Aww aren’t you clever? Here you are, babe. I’ve got some nail scissors in my bag somewhere.’ She rifled through the contents of her very large tote, eventually coming up trumps. ‘Come on girls.’

‘Do you think we should wash him?’ Alice was staring at her Shetland pony, who was waiting patiently behind her in the hallway, and was looking as genuinely concerned as her mother often did when faced with a cushion that needed plumping up. Lottie had never met a child quite like her (although she was the first to admit she was no expert where children were concerned), but found her much easier to handle than Roxy, who at three years old was already as huggable as Sam was, but twice as energetic. Rory loved her.

‘I think you could brush him later.’ Lottie gave Alice a hug. ‘But he might turn into an icicle if we get him all wet now. Here you are, let me lift you up.’ Once in the saddle, Alice was as still, upright and elegant as her dressage rider father, unlike Roxy, who was bouncing about like one of the terriers.

‘Mummy, Mummy can we paint Woopert’s nails so they look like mine?’

It was only then that Lottie noticed Roxy’s teeny tiny nails were sparkling like diamonds. In fact they could be diamonds, knowing Sam.

‘Course we can, babe, can’t we Lottie? He will look so cute with pretty feet.’

‘They’re not real diamonds, are they?’ Lottie hoped she didn’t sound as horrified as she felt.

‘Don’t be daft, hun.’ Sam giggled, a carbon copy of Roxy’s. She lowered her voice and leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Don’t tell her but they’re diamante, like Scruffy’s collar, but she thinks they’re the real deal.’ Her voice lifted. ‘Cos she’s my little princess, aren’t you, babe?’

‘And Woopert is my pwince.’ Roxy for once sounded serious, then grinned.

‘It might come off quite quickly in the field.’ Lottie dreaded what Uncle Dom, or her gran, would say, if they spotted a diamond-encrusted pony in the paddock.

Samantha frowned, then just as quickly smiled. ‘Well we can get him a nice sparkly harness thing for his head can’t we? Like Scruffy’s collar. I mean he’s got to look handsome when we go to Olympia and ride in front of all those people, hasn’t he?’

‘I don’t think …’ Lottie didn’t know quite how to put this.

‘We are going aren’t we, babe? Dave will be so proud, just like Wembley and him playing for England. When he played in the World Cup I was so proud of him, and he’ll be just as chuffed to see his little princess on her horse, won’t he, babe?’

‘It’s not that easy. Roxy has only just started riding, and,’ Lottie floundered, looking at Rory for help, wondering just how to explain that the three-year-old might not quite be ready to star at an international horse show. Whereas she often had doubts, Sam had none. She was an unstoppable force, totally confident of her own ability to conquer the world.

‘Bit of a challenge for next year, Sam. Have to see how it goes, won’t we girls?’ Rory supplied.

Sam gave him a hug. ‘Oh, you’re so sensible and clever, isn’t he, Lots?’ She kissed him. ‘The best godfather in the world, isn’t he Roxy, babe?’ She giggled. ‘The godfather, oh that sounds bad, doesn’t it? Aww and it’s so nice of you to bring the horses inside. I mean it’s parky out, freeze the balls off a …’ She put a hand over her mouth and laughed again. ‘Listen to me, and in front of the kiddies.’

‘The horses aren’t supposed to come in the house.’ Lottie frowned in Rory’s direction.

‘Aren’t they babe? Well, why?’

‘Worwy said Lady Lizbet would let us.’ Roxy was now fed up of sitting on the motionless pony and spotting a way back onto centre stage went for it. ‘Catch me.’ And before anybody could stop her, she’d flung her leg over the pony’s withers and launched herself in her mother’s direction.

‘Isn’t she priceless? Bless.’ Sam kissed her daughter on the head. ‘Shall we take your little pony back to his bed, then?’

‘And then go shopping for nice sparkly things for him to wear?’

Sam, who could never say no to a good shopping trip, especially one that included anything that sparkled, grinned. ‘Course we can, princess.’

Lottie was pretty sure that it was impossible to buy a diamante bridle in Shetland pony size, and totally impossible to buy anything horsey with diamonds on. Pretty sure. But then she’d never seen a shaggy mongrel wearing a diamond-encrusted collar and an Armani jumper until Sam had rehomed Scruffy. Oh, what would the dogs’ home think of him if they could see him now?

‘Come on.’ Roxy tugged experimentally on the reins and the pony turned his head the other way. ‘Naughty horsey.’ Sam might be blond, busty and blingy (in her own words) but she was also ‘bloody determined’ when it suited her, and Roxy, it seemed, had inherited her mother’s genes by the bucket load. Heading round to the other side, she pushed.

Rupert sighed, then yawned, showing a good set of teeth, and shook his head and neck with such vigour that he showered Roxy with what Lottie hoped was shavings, and not as she suspected, dried flakes of mud and poo. Then he rested a back leg as though to demonstrate his complete lack of interest.

Roxy waved a finger. ‘I’m vewy disappointed in you.’ Lottie tried to keep a straight face, but one glance in Sam’s direction and she knew she couldn’t keep it up. Rupert the pony, sensing that his fun might be over, didn’t want to leave the party. ‘Uncle Worwy, make him move.’

‘Has your mummy never told you that boys don’t like bossy girls?’

‘Mummy tells Daddy she’ll,’ she grimaced, concentrating, ‘make him beg for more and he likes that. It makes him do his big smile.’

‘Roxanne!’

Lottie and Rory, who had never heard Sam call her daughter by her full name, tried to avoid looking at each other.

‘When did you hear that?’

‘When you played horsey in your bedwoom. Now I’m playing horsey widing too.’

‘Rory maybe you should make him move?’ Lottie didn’t dare wait to hear what Roxy might come out with next.

The thing was, Rupert didn’t want to move. Not even with Rory pulling, Lottie and Roxy pushing, and Sam waving the bowl of sugar lumps in front of his nose.

‘Hang on.’ Lottie was out of breath. ‘Idea.’ She held a hand up. They all waited until she could speak. ‘Backwards.’

And so Rupert departed Tipping House in reverse. He very nearly got stuck in the doorway when he sped up, taking Sam with him, and nearly made her the filling in a sandwich between his hairy bulk and the door jamb, but pretty soon he was surprised to find himself at the top of the stone steps.

‘Don’t bring him in again, Rory. Please,’ Lottie begged, hoping she didn’t sound a complete spoilsport.

But Rory was too busy putting Roxy back in the saddle to hear. ‘Ready to go, Alice?’

Alice who had been watching the proceedings with interest, nodded. ‘I don’t think he liked going backwards,’ she said solemnly. ‘Once he started he couldn’t stop.’

‘Like the wheels on the bus,’ added Rory with a nod. ‘All day long.’ And broke into song.

‘Aww bless, isn’t he good with the kids? I can’t wait for you two to have your own.’ Sam winked at Lottie. ‘And you’d make an ace mum. I mean you’ve had all that practice with foals and puppies and stuff.’ She paused. ‘I mean I know it’s not my business, babe, but if you’ve got problems with your tubes I know this doctor.’

Lottie shook her head.

‘You’ve got this lovely big house, you could fill it with kids and hardly notice.’

Lottie thought she probably would notice, even one little teeny tiny baby. After a particularly drunken night at the pub Sam had shown her all her baby pictures of Roxy, every last one of her through the blooming stage of her pregnancy, and most of the in-labour ones, and she’d thought Lottie was kidding when she said that quite frankly she’d rather have a puppy.

‘He would make a lovely daddy, though, wouldn’t he?’

‘He would.’ Lottie agreed, which rather took Sam by surprise. But, as she watched the trio of the man she loved and the two little girls make their way to the stables all singing about the wheels on the bus at the top of their voices (well, Alice’s was slightly muted) she suddenly felt a pang. Would she ever make a good mother?

It wasn’t just Sam who’d dropped heavy hints to Lottie about starting a family, these days it seemed to be on everybody’s mind. In fact she’d started to feel like it was expected, her duty, and if she wasn’t waving an ultrasound scan from the flag-post soon she’d be letting the side down. Even Rory had joined in and that was truly the worst part. She wanted to be there for him, to give him whatever he wanted, support him as he supported her in the running of the estate. But the mere thought of having a baby made her palms go clammier than when she was faced with a bucking youngster and a three-foot hedge.

So she’d said the same to her husband as she had to everybody else. They didn’t have enough money to feed another family member. Right now, it was all hands to the pump doing the work with the horses themselves. Paying a groom was completely out of the question, so for now the only help was Tab, who worked in exchange for lessons and a horse to compete. She couldn’t afford to have her feet up playing the pregnant mother. Not yet.

Lottie sighed and clutched the horse blanket to her. The part that really scared her wasn’t being short of money, it was what she’d say when they’d got their lives back on track. Would the man she loved still want her when she admitted that she was prepared to do almost anything except bear his child?

Chapter 4

‘It’s for charity, love,’ said Mrs Jones, admiring Mr August for a lot longer than Lottie thought necessary. ‘Oh my, would you look at Mr July? His helmet’s hardly big enough to cover his meat and two veg.’

Lottie cringed at the rush of middle-aged hormones the normally restrained shopkeeper was displaying as she waggled the calendar around. ‘There’s something about a fireman, isn’t there, love? I wouldn’t mind being rescued by Mr February and look at the way he’s cuddling that puppy. I don’t know which is more adorable.’ She shoved the calendar under Lottie’s nose. ‘Maybe we need a hot horseman one. What do you think, dear? Your Rory and that lovely Mick. People would pay to see them with only their riding hats and boots on now, wouldn’t they?’ She frowned. ‘And your dad. Although a lot of people have seen him in his undies already.’

She said it kindly, but Lottie still blushed. It was years, no, decades, since her father, Billy Brinkley, had appeared in the tabloids, but everybody remembered. And brought it up regularly. Even the village gossips. Although she supposed they were a similar age to him. Really, they were all old enough to know better.

‘Sorry, love. But your old man was quite a pin up in his day.’ Mrs Jones sighed and Lottie fidgeted, hoping that was the end of the conversation. ‘And he was such a naughty boy, just like your Rory. Must be something to do with all that fresh air and horses, eh?’ She winked. ‘Your mother had her hands full, I can tell you.’

Please let the ground swallow me up, thought Lottie. Instead the tring of the little bell above the door announced another customer. Bugger, if she wasn’t careful there would be a full-scale debate about what made a horseman hunky and whether Billy was still up for a full frontal for charity.

‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you, dear? It is for charity and it is the start of the New Year tomorrow. Where does the time go? So it’s your last chance. You wouldn’t want to miss a single day of Mr January would you?’

‘Just the er, pint of milk and, er, yes, okay one of these.’ She grabbed the calendar. ‘For charity, of course.’ Maybe if she took it with her that would be the end of it, and after all that the fire brigade had done for her, the least she could do was show some support. If they hadn’t been on the scene within minutes of the blaze being spotted, the whole of Tipping House (and guests) could have been barbecued, not just the main entertaining rooms.

‘Hang on, hold your horses, love, is that the last one?’

She hadn’t moved fast enough. The booming gruff tone was instantly recognisable. Her father.

Lottie glanced up and he was standing there, large as life, in his boots and breeches, blue eyes twinkling. His thinning sandy curls were damp against his head from the riding hat that he’d just taken off (which luckily meant his horse must be tied up outside, so he wouldn’t be there for long) and his arms were folded over his rather stout frame.

‘I hope you’re not planning on pinning that up in the bedroom to give the lad some competition.’ He guffawed.

Mrs Jones joined in. ‘You’re a card, Billy. We were just talking about you, weren’t we? Those were the days when I couldn’t put the newspapers out on a Sunday morning without seeing your body.’

‘Dad!’ Lottie felt vaguely nauseous. The conversation about her father’s naked butt (and, yes, it would get onto that if she hung around) was bad enough. I mean, who wants to even acknowledge their parents have bodies, let alone ones that have been lusted over by the nation? But for him to even hint at anything going on in her own marital bedroom was just plain weird. Cringe-worthy.

Mrs Jones obviously thought it was hilarious though.

‘I’m only getting it because it’s for charity,’ Lottie protested.

‘Yes, well you can stop looking, love. Come on,’ he waved a hand, ‘give it here. I need that if it’s the last one.’

She found she was gripping it more tightly than she’d expected when he tried to take it. ‘What do YOU want with naked firemen?’

‘It’s a surprise for Tiggy.’

Oh God, now he was dragging her step-mum and their relationship into this. ‘Here.’ She shoved it at him. ‘Don’t say another word.’

‘After a younger man is she, Bill?’ There was what sounded suspiciously like a girly giggle from Mrs Jones, who appeared to be flirting outrageously as she leant her elbows on the counter, displaying an ample cleavage. ‘Always a place in my bed for you if you need it, my darling.’

‘No, no, no.’ Lottie put her hands over her ears and hummed.

‘Tigs took a shine to Mr February. She said she’s thinking of doing a bit of painting again and I haven’t got the time to pose for her, have I now, Molly?’ Billy winked at Mrs Jones, then looked back to his daughter, who was studying the bars of chocolate avidly. ‘Want me to buy you some sparklers while I’m here, love?’

Lottie looked at him, startled. Was that some kind of euphemism? Did he think her and Rory’s love life needed a boost? Was Sam now responsible for the corner shop stocking vajazzle kits as well as superior fake tan?

‘We always had them when you were a kid. Thought the sprogs would want some.’ She looked at him blankly. ‘Sparklers for little Alice and Roxy? Fireworks? To see the New Year in with, Lottie. I know Rory’s stocked up with more fireworks than they’ve got on the Thames, but a few of these never go amiss, do they?’ He tapped the packet she hadn’t spotted on the counter. ‘I’m sure young Roxy could put a few to good use.’

‘Oh God, yes, of course, thanks, got to go. Happy New Year.’ She grabbed both packets of sparklers that Mrs Jones was now holding out, made a lunge for the pint of milk and was out of the shop faster than a starter at Aintree.

Her father’s guffaws echoed round the shop as the door slammed shut behind her, and if it hadn’t been for Harry’s whine of surprise she would have forgotten all about the spaniel and left him still tied to the hook under the window.

‘Cripes, Harry, they go sex mad after a certain age.’ She would have actually quite liked to have had a closer look at the fireman’s calendar, but no way was she ever going to mention it again. To anybody. ‘Come on, Harry, we’re off to Sam’s to talk about something sensible like acrylic nails and boob jobs, and pick up the nibbles for tonight.’

* * *

‘Have you seen that naked fireman’s calendar that they’ve got in the corner shop, babe? That Mrs Jones was showing me this afternoon; said they were selling like hot cakes before Christmas. If I hadn’t got my Davey I’d be after Mr October, I can tell you.’ Sam pulled her leather jacket more firmly round her. ‘He’d warm me up. Cold enough to freeze the brass bits off a monkey out here, isn’t it, babe?’ She chuckled. ‘Nothing like a fireman’s lift and an ogle at his hose to get you glowing.’

‘Sam!’ Lottie glanced over in Roxy’s direction, but the little girl was too busy to hear. She was whispering into Alice’s ear, no doubt trying to get her to collaborate in mischief.

‘Aww bless, don’t they look cute together? Roxy with them blond curls and Alice all dark and neat like Mandy. Where is Mand?’ She looked round. ‘She dashed off just after we got here.’

‘Loo.’

‘Throwing up again? She’s spent more time with her head down the bog this time than she did when she was carrying little Roxy. Poor thing. Would put me off being preggers if it made me like that. I told Davey we should have at least two more, though, and I know he wants a little boy, though he says he’s happy with his girls. Ooh look at Rory and Mick with them big flames, they look like Romans or something, don’t they? But with clothes on.’

Lottie giggled. ‘They’re torches, for lighting the fireworks, I think.’

‘Nothing like a big bang to see in the New Year, is there, babe?’

Lottie loved fireworks. In fact Bonfire Night had always been the highlight of the year for her – until the last one. She glanced nervously behind her at the large French windows that led from the terrace into the Great Hall.

Not that a stray firework had started the blaze responsible for destroying a fair chunk of Tipping House and wiping out her business, but if they hadn’t been so busy staring into the dying embers and setting more midnight fireworks off at the end of a very drunken and noisy party, they might have realised that the flames in the window weren’t a reflection of what was going on outside.

And they might have called the fire brigade before there was the sharp crack of hot glass followed by a rush of black, billowing smoke.

Sam caught the look and gave her a hug. ‘Sod him, babe. Next November we can pretend the guy on the top of the fire is that toe-rag, burn him at the stake.’

‘We’re not sure it definitely is him yet.’ Lottie wanted to be fair and although all indications were that the bridegroom who had been celebrating his wedding at Tipping House on November 5th had, in fact, snuck out of the four-poster bed armed with a match and bottle of spirits, enquiries were still ongoing.

‘Well he did say so on Facebook, so it’s got to be, hasn’t it?’

‘You can’t believe everything on there.’

‘Course you can, love, all the important stuff. I don’t bother listening to the news any more, I just go on Facebook.’

Lottie did love Sam, even if she could be decidedly un-PC at times. Well that was part of her charm.

‘Have you got a date to get it all done up again then, babe? I do miss seeing all those lovely brides here. That one that looked like she was a big fat gypsy was amazing. You know, the one with that glass carriage. Life a fairy tale it was.’

‘I miss them too.’ Lottie fought the feeling of gloom. ‘The insurance people are still poking around, and to be honest I’m not quite sure where I’m going to get the money from to get started again.’

‘We’ll sort it, babe. We can have another fundraiser, can’t we, Mandy?’

Amanda Stanthorpe, who had emerged from the bathroom, was looking pale green at the edges and didn’t even have the energy to flinch at the abbreviation of her name. She smiled wanly.

When she’d first moved to Folly Lake Manor in Tippermere she’d spent most of her time wishing she wasn’t there; she was scared of horses, hated disorder and loathed mud, but after her millionaire husband had died she’d been touched by the support and warmth of her neighbours and now couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Especially after finding a kindred spirit in Dominic Stanthorpe. Marrying him and having his daughter had been the best thing she had ever done. Apart from the actual pregnancy part, of course, which had left her feeling like she’d been fed through a mangle. Repeatedly.

Amanda was the most organised, demure, and elegant person in Tippermere and Lottie had been in awe of her for a long time. Before discovering that the immaculate exterior was a cover for a shy but extremely kind person. She still found it impossible to believe, though, that the young Amanda had been a geeky, unfashionable kid from the suburbs who created a fantasy world to escape from her loneliness. All she could see when she looked at her Uncle Dominic and Amanda was a perfect couple who could have run the Tipping House Estate with effortless ease, had the Stanthorpes not decided long ago that it should only be passed down to female ancestors.

Since discovering that she was to inherit the estate Lottie had worried on an almost daily basis that Dominic would be distraught at being passed over, but he was adamant that he had no desire to shoulder the huge burden that Tipping House represented, but was happy to help his niece out where he could. And she had to admit that he seemed extremely content with Amanda in their rather elegant, and decidedly easier to maintain, home.

‘Not missed anything, have I? I hope Alice hasn’t been any trouble.’

Lottie smiled and hugged the friend who had married her uncle and become her aunt, which was a bit weird. ‘Only Sam talking about firemen and another fundraiser to put the weddings back on track, and Alice is never any trouble.’

‘We could have another wedding fayre.’

‘Amanda.’ Dominic, who had been quietly watching proceedings, stepped out from the shadow of the building and put a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘What did we agree about not overdoing things?’ He looked down his long, elegant nose, slightly disapprovingly, in Lottie’s direction and she shrugged her shoulders, doing her best to ignore the piercing blue gaze that was so like her gran’s and always left her feeling like a naughty child.

‘Just a small event, darling, as an announcement that we’re back in business.’

Lottie gave a sigh of relief as Dom switched his gaze from her back to Amanda, and it softened. He’d always seemed stuffy, serious, and slightly too aristocratic and forbidding as she was growing up (and still did sometimes, like when she was sure she’d done something he wouldn’t approve of), but when he looked at Amanda he was a different man.

Well, he still made her feel a klutz – overweight, clumsy and never quite as confident as she should be – but she’d seen a softer side to him since he’d met Amanda and had been amazed by how delighted he’d been at the prospect of fatherhood.

‘Big is better though, isn’t it, girls?’ Sam laughed heartily. ‘Like them firemen on the calendar. Have you seen it, Mand?’

Amanda shook her head and Dom sighed. ‘I will go and attend to the champagne, ladies.’

‘Old Molly at the shop told me your dad had been in stocking up for Tiggy, saucy mare isn’t she? And at her age as well. Bless, she’s such a card. I reckon her and your dad are a perfect match. Well, of course, not as perfect as your mum and dad.’ She gave Lottie an apologetic hug.

‘They are perfect together, though she’s much too nice to him sometimes. I’m not sure Mum would run after him like Tiggy does. From what Gran’s said I think she was more like Roxy.’

‘Aww, nobody is like my Roxy, she’s a right little tinker at times. I bet your mum was lovely, just like you.’

Lottie smiled. It was hard to know what her mother, Alexa, would have been like if she’d lived beyond her twenty-fourth birthday. Everybody said she’d been mischievous, a whirlwind of energy with long curly hair and dark flashing eyes, but Lottie didn’t know. She couldn’t even remember her mother’s touch, her presence. ‘I was younger than Roxy and Alice when she died, and all I know is that her and Dad loved each other.’ But would Alexa have loved her, Lottie? Had she ever even wanted children, or had she had that gnawing empty well of fear at the pit of her stomach when she’d found out she was pregnant, the same feeling that Lottie had whenever the baby question was asked? Maybe Alexa had just been doing her duty and trying to fill Tipping House with the heirs it demanded.

“Aww I’ve made you sad, babe.’

‘You haven’t, I’m fine.’ Lottie grinned and tried to shake off gloomy thoughts about babies. ‘I love Tigs. She’s good for Dad. He was such a grumpy bugger before.’

Sam giggled. ‘I’ve been trying to get Tiggy to come with me and get her roots done. I mean, nobody actually wants to have all them grey bits on their head, do they? My hairstylist, Bobby, would make her look ten years younger, and I reckon a bit of Moroccan oil would work wonders on her hair. Look what it’s done for me.’ She held a blond strand out for inspection. ‘I don’t think them people in Morocco should have kept it a secret from us for so long, it’s amazing. Anyhow, she keeps saying she’s busy. Run off her feet she is.’

Lottie knew Tiggy was no such thing, but wasn’t surprised at the tactics. Her step-mother, AKA ‘Tatty Tiggy’, was more than happy in her own skin and Billy loved her just as she was, with her bohemian clothes, wild hair, and ample bosom. Whilst Lottie was pretty sure that nothing in life ever horrified Tiggy, at a guess she did, no doubt, think the idea of a Samantha-style makeover a huge joke. She was still trying to work out whether there was a tactful response or whether she’d be better just smiling, when a shriek of laughter made them all turn round.

‘Lottie, Manda, Mummy look, look at me.’ Roxy had found an old cushion and was sitting on it sliding down the stone steps that led up to the balustrade, where they were supposed to be watching the fireworks from. She was nothing if not resourceful.

‘What is she like? Bless her. Davey, Dave hun, be a babe and bring her back. My heels are hell walking up and down these steps. Get one caught in a crack and I’ll be A over T again, won’t I?’

‘I thought your au-pair was supposed to be here, Sam?’

‘I’ve given her Christmas off, babe. So she can see her family, back in Croatia or wherever it is. Where’s she from, Dave?’ She carried on without waiting for an answer. Dave was busy turning his daughter upside down so that she squealed and her dress covered her head. Lottie watched worriedly as he put her on his shoulders. She was only three and he was the size you’d expect to be an England goalkeeper to be – six foot and quite a lot. Roxy, though, was fearless.

‘But it’s New Year now, Sam, shouldn’t she be back?’

‘Aww I know, babe, but it’s a long way, isn’t it? We can manage, can’t we Davey? And I thought a proper Christmas holiday, just us,’ she linked her arm through Lottie’s, ‘would be amazing. We’ve helped each other out, haven’t we, babe? And the kids love being with you and Rory.’

Hmm, I know they do, thought Lottie, waiting for the inevitable subject to crop up again. Just when she’d been trying to forget about it.

‘Your turn next eh, hun? Don’t want your eggs getting past their sell-by date, do you? You’ll only be fit for making omelettes, as my mam used to say.’

Lottie smiled. Sam was as bad as Gran; once she had an idea she was like a bloody terrier. There was no letting go, but this was one decision that Lottie wasn’t going to be bullied into. It wasn’t just that they couldn’t afford it – it was more than that. The whole idea scared her: all that responsibility, just her and Rory and a tiny defenceless baby. She glanced down at Alice, who had slipped her small hand into her mother’s and was standing quietly at her side.

What she’d said to Sam about Alexa was true. She’d never really known her mother, as she’d been a toddler when Alexandra had died, leaving just her and Billy. She loved her father and she knew he loved her, but she also knew she’d changed his life. Thrown a burden of responsibility on the young show-jumper that had altered the course of his future. Even now, when she was supposed to be all grown up, she still remembered those feelings she’d had as a teenager. She’d hated her mother, the woman she’d never known – truly hated her with a strength that had left her feeling sick and guilty – for leaving and turning their lives upside down.

Her only real memories came from photographs, of a laughing carefree girl, forever young. A girl who’d flitted away, abandoned her. They’d got by, but she dimly remembered the many heated arguments she’d overheard between Billy and Elizabeth, and the frequent occasions when a groom had picked her up from school. ‘I wish I was a better dad,’ he’d said when he rang her from yet another show-jumping event, apologetic that he’d missed a parents’ evening, a sports day. But he had been a good dad, a good dad trying to be a mum as well. Struggling to be everything, when her mother should have been there. How could she even think about being a mother herself when she didn’t know what one really was? She’d either be stupidly over-protective or resent the whole idea of motherhood and carry on as she always had.

‘I do love this terrace.’ Amanda ran a hand along the stone balustrade, trying to change the subject, glancing up at her through long eyelashes with a worried frown.

But there was no need. Sam had already been distracted.

‘Bloody ‘ell, look at that.’ She was staring across the grass towards the dark figures of Rory and Mick, suddenly illuminated as a Catherine wheel sprang into life, sending them dashing for cover as it spat out an uneven shower of light in all directions, like water from a hosepipe with kinks in it. ‘Girls, come here, quickly, Alice, Roxy, come on Davey.’

The fireworks had started with a bang, well, a splutter. Davey galloped up the steps, little Roxy clapping her hands in delight at the turn of speed, the giggles turning to a wail as a huge rocket exploded like a cannon, scattering an enormous shower of sparks into the black night sky. She burst into tears, while Alice clutched Amanda’s hand tightly in both of her own and looked up at her aghast.

‘They won’t get you, darling, they’re in the sky, like the stars.’

Alice’s brow was creased in a frown as she listened to her mother earnestly, and Roxy stopped the noise while she considered the new revelation.

‘If they’re stars why do they disappear? Stars stay until I go to sleep.’

‘Only a few more,’ Lottie glanced at her watch, ‘then it’s midnight and there’ll be one big bang and all over.’

‘Friggin’ hell.’ The yell from Rory carried clearly across to the terrace. ‘Run Mick, the whole bloody lot’s about to go.’ The two men started sprinting towards the house, still carrying their torches and their audience watched open-mouthed. ‘Maybe not.’ Rory ground to a halt and grinned up at them from the bottom of the steps. ‘False alarm, folks.’ But he’d spoken too soon, as with a terrific squeal the firework show started in disorganised earnest.

‘You stupid eejit.’ Mick was laughing as he doubled over, trying to get his breath back. ‘I told you to put the lid on.’

‘Lost it.’ His words were drowned out by the noise as more fireworks lit the night sky.

Roxy had forgotten her tears. Hands on hips, she stood at her mother’s side looking down at Rory, then she waved a finger. ‘I’m,’ bang, ‘vewy’ double explosion, ‘disappointed. You’ve,’ bang, ‘wuined everything.’ And with that she folded her arms and, marching to the back of the terrace, sat down.

Mick laughed. ‘God knows why I agreed to help you, you idiot.’

‘I think it’s pretty spectacular, actually.’ Rory rolled over and lay on the damp grass, staring up at the sky. ‘Synchronised displays are for sissies.’

‘Anybody for a glass of bubbly? Close enough to midnight, by my reckoning.’ Dom popped the cork as the last of the fireworks fizzled out and Lottie passed the glasses round, saving Rory’s to last.

‘Happy New Year, darling.’

She stared into his eyes and what shone back was pure optimism, love of life, and love for her. It was going to be alright. This year would be fine. They’d sort something out, work out how to raise the money they needed to keep Tipping House going until the wedding business was back in full flow. They’d come up with a plan together, and he was happy with the time he spent with Roxy and Alice. No responsibility, just fun. ‘Happy New Year, Rory.’

‘Stop worrying.’ His kissed the end of her nose and grinned. ‘It’s going to be a good year. I’ve got a feeling in my water.’

Lottie giggled. ‘Hmm, that could be all the beer you drank when you were setting the fireworks up.’

‘You could be right, but I think I deserve a New Year shag anyway, after providing such brilliant entertainment.’

‘Shush.’ Lottie put a hand over his mouth and glanced over at Roxy anxiously. The little girl had surprisingly good hearing and a habit of repeating new words at the worst possible time. Shag, she was sure, should not be part of a three-year-old’s vocabulary.

‘Sorry to break the party up, but we’d better go.’ Amanda smiled and scooped up the yawning Alice. ‘Past bedtime isn’t it, poppet?’ The little girl rested her head on her mother’s shoulder and put her thumb in her mouth. ‘Happy New Year, Lottie.’ She kissed first Lottie, then Rory. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’

‘Me too.’ Mick drained his glass. ‘I better get a move on. I promised to call Niamh, she’s not forgiven me yet for not making it back home to Ireland with her to see the New Year in. I need to earn some brownie points.’ He winked at Lottie, then ruffled her hair. ‘I think I’d better be checking the cheap flights out and keep her company for a few days. Happy New Year, treasure.’ He shook Rory’s hand. ‘Cheers, mate. See you all tomorrow.’

* * *

‘I can’t believe it’s so long since we last had a wedding here, can you?’

‘Peaceful isn’t it?’ Rory pulled Lottie to him and nuzzled at her neck until she wriggled and tried to escape. ‘Lovely, just us and the kids. No bossy mothers-of the-bride about. Maybe we should have one of our own?’

‘Bossy mother? We’ve got Gran.’

‘I meant a kid.’ He smoothed his hand over her stomach and felt Lottie instinctively tighten her muscles.

‘We’ve got Roxy and Alice.’

‘One of our own would be nice, wouldn’t it?’

‘Nice when you can hand them back.’ She smiled, but he didn’t miss the tightness in her voice, or the little sigh of exasperation that he was sure she had tried to keep in. ‘And anyway we’re having enough trouble looking after ourselves and the horses.’

‘You’ll be able to start up the business again soon. Stop worrying.’

‘But I do worry.’

Rory grimaced. He’d got worries of his own; worries that he’d rather hoped would have disappeared by now, before Lottie found out. But he knew that life for them would never be straightforward, they didn’t live a nine-to-five existence and didn’t want to. There would never be a good time to start a family, but people did it anyway, didn’t they? ‘Well there’s plenty of time. I didn’t mean we had to rush into it, but it’s what everybody does, isn’t it? I mean not even Dom and Amanda wasted time.’

She stared. ‘We’re not wasting time. Is that what you think? You’re wasting your life?’

‘Don’t be daft, Lots. I only meant it’s what people do, it’s just normal.’

‘But we don’t have to be the same as everybody else, do we?’

‘Well no, but … I mean, it’s the next step, isn’t it?’

‘It doesn’t have to be. I mean, aren’t you happy with it just being the two of us?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘You’re not getting bored?’

‘How could I get bored of you?’ He pulled her closer in to his side. ‘But I thought it might be fun teaching our own kids how to do stuff. And Mum was saying how she’d love to be a grandma …’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Lottie looked down. ‘Look, I am sorry if that’s what she wants, I just …’

‘It’s not a problem, honest. No rush, let’s make them wait a bit, eh? Anyway,’ he grinned, ‘I know that one day you’ll love having a tiny version of me to boss around.’

She didn’t smile back. ‘Maybe, but not yet.’

‘You’re not doing my ego much good here.’

‘Your ego does fine on its own, Rory Steel.’ The smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘I just want things to be right between us first.’

‘Right? But they are, aren’t they? I thought you were happy. Is it you that’s getting bored?’

‘Don’t be daft. I didn’t mean between us in that way. I meant money-wise, this place. Nobody is making bookings for next year, they’re all too worried it won’t be fixed.’

‘It’ll be fixed.’ He said it with the type of conviction he knew she needed to hear. ‘Come on, gorgeous,’ he pulled her to her feet and drew her in close so that he could look straight into the big green eyes he loved so much. She still looked the same old Lottie, his Lottie. The money thing was obviously worrying her more than she let on, that was the trouble – she was just too good at coping sometimes. ‘Let’s see the year in with some baby-making practice. You don’t want me to forget how to do it, do you?’ He winked. ‘Just in case.’

Chapter 5

‘What are you doing here, Andy? Up to no good, I bet.’ Sam grinned at the slightly overweight middle-aged man, then transferred her attention to Lottie. ‘Everything okay, babe?’

‘You know each other?’ Lottie raised an eyebrow. The man standing on her doorstep had just announced that he had an appointment with Lady Tipping, then had smiled reassuringly at her as though she was ten years old, although she probably did look like a kid in her scruffy breeches, old fleece, and spotty socks. A very big kid, though.

Quite honestly everything wasn’t okay. She was fed up of fending off property developers and trying to be nice to insurance investigators. This one hadn’t even bothered to do his homework properly. There was no such person as Lady Tipping (well, not to her knowledge, and certainly not in Tippermere). There was Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe and there was her, Charlotte Steel.

‘Course we do. We go way back.’ Sam winked. ‘This bugger ran a full-page spread about me and my Davey when he played in the World Cup, didn’t you, darling? Called us girls plastic fantastic.’

‘Spread? So he’s a journalist?’

Andy ignored Lottie’s interruption. ‘Well to be fair, Sam …’

‘There was nothing fair about that, babe.’ She waved a stern finger. ‘Martina was well pissed off with you telling everybody how much her nose job cost. She’d told her Frankie that it cost half that. Made him out to be a right dickhead, you did. And you know the boys don’t like to look stupid in front of the rest of the team.’

Lottie, who had been trying to work out how to slam the front door in the stranger’s face in a polite way, looked from Sam, who was a vision in skin-tight maroon leather trousers, matching jacket and brown thigh-high boots, to the guy and back again.

‘And you said I’d been to that dodgy London geezer for my new boobs. Davey wasn’t pleased at all when he’d arranged it all special for me. I mean, look at them.’ She opened her leather jacket with a flourish and cupped her generous breasts in both hands. ‘They’re perfect. There’s nothing cheap about my Dave. No way would he let just anybody mess with my body.’ She jiggled them about. ‘These are as real as fake ones get, you know. Look.’ He was looking. ‘And they’re quite squeezy – not solid at all like those cheap ones.’ She flexed her fingers. ‘You have to look dead close to see the scar. Davey was really insulted when you said that.’

‘Sorry, no er insult intended.’

He didn’t look sorry, thought Lottie, more like transfixed.

‘So you don’t have an appointment?’ She took the opportunity, while the pair of them were engrossed with Sam’s boobs, to get a word in.

‘You’ve made an appointment?’ Sam let go of her boobs and said the word in such a tone of astonishment that Lottie giggled.

‘Well not an actual appointment, more like an arrangement. Give her the first chance to comment on this.’ He shoved a newspaper in Sam’s direction, tapping a finger on the headline. ‘Only fair to get her side of the story, isn’t it? In the interests of fair play and all that.’

‘Fair play?’ Sam guffawed. ‘You’re a cheeky bugger, you are.’ She grabbed hold of the paper before Lottie could and took a swipe at the man’s head with it. ‘You don’t want to look at that, babe, it’s a real load of bollocks. That’s why I came. They’ve not got it right at all, have they, babe?’ She waved it in the air so that Lottie had to bob her head up and down to try and catch a glimpse, although she wasn’t quite sure now if Sam was telling her she should or she shouldn’t read it.

Lottie had never thought any of the headlines associated with the Tipping House Estate and her family could be called ‘right’, though.

The ‘Billy-the-Bonk’ headlines about her father (while she was still at school) had made her cringe, the more recent ‘Flaming Family Pile’ one had nearly made her cry, as had the ‘Lady Elizabeth’s Ashes’, which was just plain cruel. Then there had been the ‘Wizard of Oz’ one, when her Australian ex-lover had arrived unexpectedly in the village, which had made her laugh and the ‘Tippingly-Good Theme Park’, which she’d actually torn up and was going to use as loo paper until Rory pointed out that the ink would leave her with a black bum.

But this one, flashing before her eyes as Sam waved it like a flag, brought a sharp pain to her chest. ‘Upstairs Heiress Rips Off Down-town Bride.’ She opened her mouth to object and got a warning look.

‘Don’t you say anything while he’s here listening, Lottie,’ Sam glanced at the journalist, ‘cos he’ll write it down, won’t you?’

‘Well that is my job.’ He looked affronted. ‘Some of us have got to earn a living, we can’t all be lords and ladies, you know.’

‘I’m surprised at you, Andy, I really am.’

For a brief moment Sam sounded just like her daughter Roxy, Lottie thought.

‘Not my headline, darling, I’m just here for a quote. So you’re Lady Lottie?’ He raised an eyebrow and gave Lottie a once-over from head to toe.

‘I’m not a Lady.’ She said it automatically and folded her arms, trying her best to look like a somewhat affronted Lady rather than an angry kid. ‘That’s why you came round, Sam?’

‘Come on, let’s get inside, babe. And you,’ she blew a kiss at the journalist, who looked like he was intent on following them inside Tipping House, ‘can bugger off back to Fleet Street or wherever it is you come from.’ The man looked unsure whether to make a bolt for the door with them, but Sam waggled a very long (which Lottie thought probably qualified as a lethal weapon) glittery-bronze fingernail at him.

‘So, it’s no comment then?’ He had one hand raised, as though to ward off the inevitable.

‘You can write the truth about my boobs instead. Move your fingers, babe, you don’t want them getting squashed, do you?’ And with that Lottie found herself pushed firmly back into Tipping House and the door slammed behind them.

Lottie glanced worriedly at her watch. She really had to muck out the horses before Rory got back from the gallops, and she’d had a summons from her gran, Elizabeth, which she really couldn’t afford to ignore or her life wouldn’t be worth living. ‘You came to show me the latest headlines, then?’

‘And my new extensions, babe. What do you think?’ Sam flicked her hair back over her shoulder. ‘Do you think they look natural?’

‘Well,’ Lottie paused, how natural could that particular shade of bleached blond look?

‘Never thought I’d need them, but my hair has been a right state since I had Roxy. I mean, at first it was really thick, you know?’ Lottie didn’t. ‘I mean that happens when you’re preggers, doesn’t it?’ She didn’t pause for an answer. ‘But then it started coming out in handfuls. I mean, we’re going to have loads more kids, so I suppose it will get thick again,’ she looked doubtfully down at her handful of hair, ‘but I can’t wait, can I, babe? I mean, it has to look right for Davey every day, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s lovely,’ said Lottie truthfully. It was. Sam always had a full head of perfectly tamed hair, even if the colour wasn’t always a shade that nature intended. Unlike her own hair, which tended to resemble something a bird would make a nest in, and was a kind of very natural brownish shade. Like bark. The same colour and not far off the texture when she got out of bed in the mornings.

‘Aww thank you, babe. I know you always say it as it is. Mandy said it suited my personality, isn’t she the sweetest?’

‘Very. Er, where’s Roxy?’

‘She’s in the car, babe. Scruffy is looking after her.’

‘He’s a dog.’

‘I know that, but he’s dead protective, wouldn’t let anybody harm a hair on her head.’

Lottie, who had been worrying more about what Roxy might be doing to the dog and the car (she had what Sam called an ‘inquisitive nature’) let it go.

‘Don’t worry, babe, I’ve got the key this time.’ Sam waved it in the air; leaving it in the ignition one time had led to the roof being put down, which was quite handy seeing as Roxy had managed to lock all the doors and was howling as she’d then shoved the keys down the back of the seat and got her fingers trapped trying to get them out again. Heaven only knew, Lottie thought, what she’d be like by the time she was four years old. ‘She was good as gold when I left her, promised to stay in her seat with the seatbelt done up and everything, bless her.’

‘That’s, er, good.’

Sam beamed, totally confident in her role as mother. ‘Well, it was little Aggie told me.’

‘Aggie?’

‘My new au-pair. She arrived the other day and she’s such a sweetie. That other one decided to stay in Croatia, said me having little Roxy had reminded her how important family is and she was homesick. Isn’t that sweet?’

Lottie had a feeling that generous and lovely as Sam and her family were, trying to cope with them would remind anybody how much they treasured their own.

‘So, anyway, Aggie said had I seen the paper? She never stops reading stuff, was asking where my library was the other day.’ Sam giggled. ‘She’s a right card. I gave her a pile of mags, but she seems to prefer to go and get her own from the village, says it’s no trouble and she wouldn’t dream of taking mine. Anyhow, she brought this back.’ Sam opened the newspaper out. ‘Makes you out to be a right cow, and we all know you’re not. You didn’t do that though, babe, did you?’ She frowned. ‘Says here that you wouldn’t give this poor girl any money back or let her have her special day here and she’s skint, can’t afford to get married at all now.’

Lottie sighed and sank down into a chair next to the Aga as she studied the picture of the distraught bride-to-be. ‘I never said she couldn’t get married here.’ The problem was there had been so many cancellations lately she was struggling to remember exactly what she’d said to this one. ‘But, I wouldn’t have given her a deposit back, cos you don’t do you? That’s the point of a deposit, isn’t it?’ She chewed the side of her thumb.

‘Well, yes,’ Sam looked doubtful, ‘but if she can’t have her wedding here, then it’s only fair to give it back, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not her fault the place burned down, is it? Haven’t you got insurance for that type of thing, you know Acts of God, or whatever.’

‘It wasn’t God, it was the act of a drunken toe rag.’ It was rather unfair that this article was all about how evil she was and barely mentioned the inebriated groom, who had nearly toasted his family and friends as well as her own. ‘But I haven’t cancelled her wedding. It’s not until next year and the house should be fine by then, so she can still have it here. That’s why I haven’t given her a deposit back.’ She skimmed over the article again. ‘In fact it’s right at the end of next summer, I remember her now.’ And she did. It had only been yesterday and one of the shortest conversations of the lot. In fact it consisted of ‘I want to cancel and can I have all my money back?’ followed by the dial tone before Lottie had even had time to discuss reduced rates or extra flowers (which was her latest tactic in the effort to stop the rush of cancellations). ‘She says here I’ve ruined her fairy tale, wrecked her dreams, and it has to be perfect or her whole life will be destroyed ‘cos his family will think she’s cheap.’ Lottie pulled at Harry’s ears absentmindedly and he wriggled, trying to lick her hand. ‘And she didn’t say any of that to me.’

‘What about this one, babe? Here’s another one.’ Sam pointed to a paragraph further down the column. ‘I think this is the Downton bit, where she says I just wanted to be like Lady Charlotte.’

‘And I’m not bloody Lady Charlotte,’ sighed Lottie, knowing she was sounding a right grump.

‘Look here, she says I was promised I’d be treated like a lady of the manor on my special day and now they won’t give me my money back or give me my dream wedding, they just think they can do what they want to normal people like us, it’s a disgrace.’

Lottie peered at the photograph, this time the bride-to-be had actually gone to the trouble of putting on a wedding dress. ‘Isn’t it bad luck to let your groom see the dress beforehand?’

‘Probably not hers, hun. I bet the press lent it her.’

‘I remember her.’ Lottie jabbed at the picture. ‘We bloody did offer her some money back. I gave her a cut price and offered them a marquee.’ She hugged Harry to her. ‘The thing is they’re not the only ones. They’re all pulling out. It’s like somebody has told them to. None of them will discuss it. The moment I ask they just slam the phone down.’

‘Like who, babe? Who would tell them to cancel? I mean that Andy that was just here. He’s a bit naughty but he wouldn’t do anything like that, not on purpose.’

‘I don’t think it’s the papers,’ she paused, ‘I keep getting these other phone calls all the time, as well as the cancellation ones.’ In fact the phone rang almost non-stop and Lottie always leapt on it in case it was good news. But it never was. ‘There’s this bloke who says bungee jumping is the answer to all my problems, then there’s the boot-camp lot who want to do squats on the front lawn, and this hyper weirdo who says we need an adventure park, not forgetting the loony who said we need lions because they are so going to be the in-thing next year.’

Sam giggled.

‘Then there’s the luxury hotel chain who want to offer spa breaks.’ Lottie frowned, but Sam clapped her hands.

‘Ooh a spa sounds exciting, that would be amazing.’

‘But I don’t want somebody running a spa here. It’s my home, Sam, but it’s just like there’s a load of vultures circling; you know, waiting for us to cave in and accept an offer. Do you think one of them is behind this?’ She sighed. ‘I can’t really afford to pay back all the deposits for next year. We actually are pretty broke, you know.’

Sam shrugged, but looked far more serious. ‘I don’t know, babe, but it’s quite a lot of work to find out who all these people are, isn’t it? I mean how would anybody do that, get their names and phone numbers and everything?’

‘Oh I don’t know. Am I just imagining it all? And then there’s the insurance people. They keep asking so many questions, it’s as though they don’t believe a word we’ve said.’ She opened the paper out fully. ‘They asked just how hard up we are, and even though I told the last one how well the business had all been going and asked why on earth I’d set fire to my own home, he still gave me a look over the top of his specs and then made a harrumph noise, muttered something like not for me to say and wrote something down.’

‘Isn’t it scandalous or libellous or something, what she’s saying here? About you not being honest about everything?’

The problem was, Lottie thought, she had every intention of being up and running again by next spring, but what if she wasn’t? What if the insurance company still hadn’t paid out and she really did have to start paying the remaining deposits back? Not that there were many, but it would leave their bank balance in rather a dire state. She’d be back to square one, just as she’d been when she agreed to take on the responsibility of the Tipping House Estate and try and save it from rack and ruin.

‘Aww don’t look so sad,’ Sam gave her a hug, ‘it will all work out. Tell you what, I’ll work my charms on Andy and find out who put that girl up to this. I’ll give him some goss.’ She grinned. ‘He’s a real pushover, if you know what I mean. Oh no, look at the time. I’m going to have to go soon. Me and little Roxy are going to the Botox clinic.’

Lottie looked at her horrified. ‘You can’t …’

‘Oh don’t be daft, babe, she’s coming with me not having it done.’ She giggled. ‘You’re a hoot, babe.’

‘Oh shit, I didn’t realise it was that time either. I said I’d go and talk to Gran, and you know she hates me being late. Oh God, I hope she hasn’t seen this.’

‘She probably has, babe. She doesn’t miss much. Amazing isn’t she?’

Amazing was one word, thought Lottie, but there were many others. She did love her gran, but sometimes wished she didn’t interfere quite so much. It just made her feel worse, as though she really was totally incompetent and not up to the job.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then, shall I, hun? I hope Roxy hasn’t tried to plait Scruffy’s tail again or got stuck under the seat. She’s the spitting image of me at her age, you know. My mum says I used to hide all the time and the other day she was stuck under the car seat. Like a cork in a bottle she was, with her bottom in the air.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t leave her on her own?’

‘Aww you’re so sensible, Lottie. I suppose it’s having all these horses and stuff. You know, my Roxy can’t wait to ride her little horse again. She might grow up just like you. You can give her lessons if you like.’

Lottie tried her best to look thrilled at the honour and headed for the front door, half expecting to discover Roxy had somehow managed to drive the car off. She hadn’t.

‘Bless, look how pleased little Scruffy is to see me.’ Sam waved in the direction of her convertible and Lottie was fairly sure that the poor dog was desperately trying to dig his way out of the car, rather than enthusiastically greet his owner.

Chapter 6

‘Oh good, you’re here.’ Elizabeth checked the clock. ‘And on time. Sit down. Now, I think it is time you met an acquaintance of mine, Charlotte.’

Lottie looked at her grandmother and wondered what she was up to. Elizabeth Stanthorpe liked to meddle. Despite handing over the day-to-day running of the Tipping House Estate to Lottie, she had the distinct feeling that when decisions were made, her gran was often behind them. And now she was pretty sure that the old woman had something up her sleeve. She didn’t indulge in idle chit chat, there was always an agenda. Even Bertie managed to look guilty as he lay at her feet, raising his eyebrows alternately and giving an occasional lazy wag of his tail.

‘Now, don’t look like that. I think this person may be able to help you, dear.’

Lottie raised an eyebrow.

‘You are doing splendidly, but if anything, matters seem to be getting more difficult. This problem isn’t going to be resolved overnight, is it, Charlotte?’

‘No.’ Every last hint of hope had disappeared from the long, drawn-out syllable.

At first Lottie had thought it was a case of putting the flames out, getting the cleaners in and carrying on as normal. Instead, the room had been declared out of bounds (there had even been a strip of red and white tape at one point that made it look like the scene of a murder) and there was a lot of poking about by firemen, none of whom matched her mental image of a muscled-up firefighter stripped to the waist and smeared in soot.

It was a good job, thought Lottie, that she’d not seen the Hunky Heroes calendar in the village shop before the fire, or she’d have been sorely disappointed.

The heroes that had clambered out of the fire engine bore no resemblance to the hose-wielding hunks who were raising money for charity: no nudity (covered by helmets or otherwise), no cheeky grins, no offers of a fireman’s lift. In fact, totally covered up they looked more like her dad than Mr January, February, or March.

The first lot had very efficiently put the blaze out and the second lot had poked around, grimaced, and written notes.

She would never look at a firework or bonfire in the same way again.

‘Are you listening, Charlotte? I do sometimes wonder how you get anything done with your head in the clouds.’ Elizabeth tapped her stick impatiently against the table leg.

‘It’s not in the clouds.’ Lottie, brought back to the present abruptly, decided to change the subject. ‘Why did you really buy Alice a pony?’

‘The girl needs to get in the saddle – nothing wrong with a bit of responsibility.’

‘It’s cold, wouldn’t it have been better to wait until the weather warmed up?’

‘No point in putting things off, and ponies are too easily ignored when they’re turned out to grass.’

Lottie sighed and wondered if it was too early to crack open a bottle of wine. ‘She’s only three years old, Gran.’ Although she was three going on thirty, but that was irrelevant.

‘Nearly four, by my reckoning, so she’s got long enough legs. And you can stop raising your eyebrows, young lady, she’s tall enough to sit astride. No good these little podgy toddlers, roll straight off a pony.’

‘Did you ask Amanda first?’

‘I think it’s time for a G&T, don’t you? Then I can tell you all about this nice young man I’ve invited for you to meet. Ah,’ she paused, ‘that must be him now, his name is James and I want you to be nice to him. I told him to come straight up. I do like punctuality.’ She gave Lottie, who usually raced in at the very last minute, a pointed look.

Lottie wanted to do more than raise her eyebrows; she wanted to lie on the floor and scream. ‘How come you can hear somebody coming in and you don’t hear a word I say when I’m explaining why you can’t afford to bet on the horses? And,’ she paused, wondering if it was worth wasting her breath, but decided to crack on anyway, ‘buy the girls ponies.’

‘I look at it as speculating, Charlotte. And I didn’t hear him, I saw Bertie cock his ears.’

Lottie glanced down at the fat Labrador, who was flat out at Elizabeth’s feet, his paws twitching as he ran after rabbits in his sleep, little snuffles of excitement ruffling his lips every now and then. ‘Of course you did, Gran.’

From the moment he walked into the room, Lottie realised that it was going to be hard not to like James, with his willing-to-please but slightly awkward air. He was lanky, with a lopsided verging-on-cheeky grin and slightly too-long hair (in fact to Lottie’s eye he had a definite forelock). His jeans, which no doubt should have been skinny, had plenty of room in them (and looked like he’d rolled down a hill), his hoody hung off his frame and the outfit was finished off with Converses that were green-smudged.

If he had been a horse she would have had to wrap her arms around his neck, kiss his nose and tell him what a clever boy he was, and assure him that everybody would love him once she’d fed him up. As it was, kissing noses might have been misinterpreted.

Elizabeth was frowning at her – no doubt she’d read her mind again. Lottie frowned back trying to convey the message that she really, really wasn’t about to kiss anybody’s nose.

James hadn’t noticed; he was staring at the floor. God, the poor man; here she was trying to weigh him up with her best imitation of Elizabeth’s shrewd look (although Rory always asked her if she’d got something in her eye when she tried it on him) and he no doubt thought she was some haughty lady of the manor. She’d never get to grips with the whole aristocratic thing, which Gran and Uncle Dom did so well, she’d rather hug people.

‘Love the stars and stripes.’

Okay, he didn’t think she was haughty. Failed on that front, again. He was staring at her socks not the woodworm-riddled floorboards. ‘Clever to avoid convention and split them up.’

‘I never wear matching socks. Stars and stripes should be kept apart.’

‘Stars and stripes? You are not an American are you?’ Elizabeth peered at him more closely. ‘So hard to tell these days, you youngsters all sound the same. Nobody enunciates, even when one has been to a decent school.’

‘Gran!’ But Lottie knew it was useless trying to stop Elizabeth’s tendency towards Prince Philip-isms.

Elizabeth gave her a look, intended to silence her, and then cleared her throat. ‘James, this is Charlotte, who is in charge of our fundraising.’

Lottie loved the way that in one sentence her gran had managed to lower her status to that of occasional help.

‘It isn’t going too well at present, for obvious reasons.’ Incapable, occasional help. ‘She’s also my granddaughter and runs the estate.’ Better. ‘And will one day inherit it.’ She’d put a slightly unnecessary emphasis on the ‘one day’ Lottie thought (she could well sympathise with Prince Charles), but she grinned. Whatever Gran was plotting, it at least did have her in the position of heiress-in-waiting and not the home help. ‘Although, of course, she won’t inherit the title. This, Charlotte, is James Shilling. I found him in a rhododendron bush and he says I don’t know his mother.’ Elizabeth considered it her duty to know everybody within a twenty-mile radius, and everything about them.

‘Trilling.’

Lottie stared at him. What a peculiar thing to say.

‘It’s Jamie Trilling, not Shilling.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘And it’s Jamie. Everybody calls me Jamie not James.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say so, young man? Speak up, no use mumbling.’

He sighed, he obviously had said it before, but Elizabeth only heard what suited her. Lottie tried not to smile, more likely she’d done it on purpose not misheard him. Reducing him to loose change, and old currency at that.

‘That explains it, no Trillings round here.’ She frowned. ‘So where do you come from, young man?’

Jamie suddenly looked worried and Lottie could sympathise. Elizabeth knew just how to make somebody feel that their dream deal was inches away, that she valued their opinion, only to dash it with one carefully worded statement and then look at them like they were an alien life form. ‘Well, I …’

‘We’ll discuss that later. Now, tell Charlotte why you’re here. Speak up, now, we can’t sit around here all day.’ She waved an imperious finger and waited expectantly for him to perform.

* * *

Jamie looked from Elizabeth to Lottie and back again and felt like he was in front of a firing squad. This was worse than any interview he had ever had, not that he’d had many. She changed tack more often than a boat heading into the wind; Lady Elizabeth was unlike any old woman, well any woman, anybody, he’d ever met before.

He’d spent several hours on the internet after meeting her, desperately trying to find out more about the Stanthorpes and the Tipping House Estate, but had largely drawn a blank. In fact, he’d discovered more when he’d popped into the Tippermere village shop to buy a newspaper on the way over.

The woman in there had been quite chatty and had insisted on filling him in on the history of the church and local pub, as well as some rather colourful tales about Rory (that’s Lottie’s husband, such a naughty one he is), Billy (and that’s her father, the tales he could tell, won a gold medal at the Olympics, he did), a guy called Mick (he really had a soft spot for our Lottie, he did, but I reckon they’re more like brother and sister) and an Australian called Todd (you should have seen him, rode up like a knight on a charger, he did, and we all thought he was about to sweep little Lottie off her feet, but then, would you credit it, he whisked Pip off to Australia, a right character he was. Mind you, I’m not sure Elizabeth was happy, she misses that girl). In fact, by the time he’d paid for the newspaper, he felt quite dizzy, but not much the wiser about Tipping House.

Not that he was any expert at digging for facts, he was more visual, which was why he loved the job he was doing.

‘I’m a location scout,’ he told Lottie.

‘Found him loitering in the grounds in the middle of the night, didn’t we, Bertie?’

Lottie raised an eyebrow and Bertie gave a single thump of his tail. ‘What were you doing out in the middle of the night?’

‘She was in her nightie. I thought she was a ghost.’ He leapt on the opportunity to deflect attention.

‘Gran!’

‘I was quite alright, dear, had Bertie with me, couldn’t sleep.’

‘But … but … you met him, anything could have …’

‘Oh, he’s harmless.’ She waved a dismissive hand.

‘And she had a shotgun.’ Jamie didn’t want to get side-tracked onto the rights and wrongs of old ladies wandering out in their nightwear on a winter’s night.

‘Gran, you promised not to go out shooting.’

‘I wasn’t shooting, Charlotte.’

‘You had a gun.’

‘Nonsense, carrying a gun and going out shooting are two totally different things. You, of all people, should know that. I went out prepared. And Bertie doesn’t sleep properly these days, now he hasn’t got Holmes, he gets restless, poor chap. Now stop fussing and let this young man explain.’

Jamie opened his mouth and there was a loud whine. ‘That wasn’t me.’

Lottie giggled. The noise came again, along with a sound like scrabbling rats. ‘It’s Harry, he’s found me.’ There was a loud bark as the dog heard his mistress’s voice, followed by more frenzied scrabbling at the door interspersed with snuffles and whimpers.

Elizabeth pursed her lips and frowned.

‘Shall I?’ Jamie moved towards the door.

‘I wouldn’t—’

It was too late, he’d thrown it open and been swept off his feet by an ecstatic spaniel and a whirlwind of brown and white fur. After trampling over the visitor’s body in his rush to see Lottie, Harry went back, his back end wagging to apologise. Followed by the terriers, who, rather than apologising, treated the boy as an obstacle to run over and round. Harry then set off again, his nose to the ground, the pack following in his wake.

‘He’s good at sniffing things out.’ Lottie shrugged apologetically as Jamie sat up, rubbing a bruised elbow. ‘He doesn’t like me leaving him.’

‘Seb is never going to believe this place.’

‘Seb?’ Lottie passed him a gin and tonic, which he rather felt he needed, and started to prepare a new one for Elizabeth.

‘He’s my boss, Seb Drakelow. I check out places to film for him, well, really I’m just an intern, which is another word for dogsbody.’ He stayed where he was, sat on the floor. It felt the safest place to be. ‘He needs a location for this drama he’s making with his wife.’

‘His wife?’

‘She’s an actress.’ One who can’t get any parts because she’s such a bitch, he thought, but didn’t say so aloud. Talk about ‘fake it until you make it’, she’d got it down to a fine art. He was pretty sure that the only part she had nailed was that of ‘prima donna’. But she’d always treated him okay, and if it hadn’t been for her help he might never have spotted the potential of Tipping House, so he really shouldn’t have any gripe with her. She just made it so difficult to like her though. ‘Pandora Drakelow.’

Lottie was looking at him blankly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t really watch much television.’

‘She’s quite, er, well known.’ Or she had been very briefly, but that was some years in the past. In fact, he reckoned he’d probably been at school when Pandora was in the one production that had achieved popular acclaim, and now she was struggling to reach those lofty heights again.

But she had tried to help him this time – he had to give her credit for that. And if he delivered on this one he had a proper job in the bag, plus Pandora’s appreciation, which was always useful. ‘The setting is a country estate.’

‘Oh, so it’s like Downton Abbey?’

He didn’t like to say no, because she was actually looking like she might be mildly interested. But he had no choice. ‘Well, no, not really. I mean I don’t know all the details, but it’s like modern-day stuff. It’s about a rock star and his wife, who buy a country pile,’ he glanced from Elizabeth to Lottie, who didn’t seem offended, ‘you know, escape to the country and all that, and she’s kind of bored with nothing to do, then decides to learn to play polo.’ Lottie was staring at him with a blank expression. ‘Well, she falls for this polo player and persuades him to teach her because she thinks it’s all glamour and thrills. That’s where you come in.’

* * *

Lottie suddenly realised that they were both staring at her expectantly. ‘But we don’t play polo here. We haven’t got a ground.’ She looked from Jamie to Elizabeth in confusion. ‘I’m not quite sure what this had to do with us, and it really isn’t the right time of year in this country, I mean the season doesn’t start for ages.’

‘He wants somewhere majestic,’ Jamie was clearly warming to the subject, ‘but warm, you know, that centuries-old lived-in thing.’

Lottie nodded, but wasn’t sure she did know.

‘It kind of glows, this place, if you know what I mean?’

She did get that bit. In fact, as they all knew, it had glowed literally not so very long ago, which wasn’t something she wanted to dwell on. It left a hollow feeling of dread in her stomach.

‘I saw this place in the papers, you know, after the fire and knew it would be totally amazing. Polo on your front, er, lawn. So cool, you know?’ She half-expected him to add ‘wicked’ or ‘awesome’ on the end, like Tab would have done. And he was, she thought, around the same age as their part-time groom. ‘So I, er, decided to come and have a look, and met …’ he glanced at Elizabeth.

‘Very fortuitous. They will pay, Charlotte, which is sadly more than your business is doing at the moment. Look on it as a temporary measure. It will fill a gap until you can start to take bookings again.’

‘But I thought you didn’t want people here, Gran? And they will,’ she didn’t want to offend Jamie, but she had to say it, ‘be traipsing everywhere. You said that no way would you let me open the place to the public.’ Not that she wanted to.

‘James?’

‘We’ll only work outside. We just want the grounds for shooting. The rest is all sorted.’ Jamie didn’t look offended.

‘But there will be people and catering vans … burgers!’ Lottie finished triumphantly, knowing her gran abhorred everything fast-food related.

‘I’m sure there wouldn’t be food in wrappers, would there?’

‘No, definitely no, I mean not. We have a very good catering van, with, er, plates and forks and everything.’ His voice tailed off as he looked from Elizabeth back to Lottie, then back again. ‘Proper forks. No plastic and lots of bins. And people to tidy up.’

‘There.’ Elizabeth tapped her stick on the floor, which was usually followed by a ‘that’s settled’.

‘But we need money now, not when the polo season starts, Gran.’

‘We’d want to shoot now – well soon. You know, all the setting-up shots. It’s not just polo. And,’ he paused, ‘you’d get some kind of payment as soon as the contract’s signed.’

‘You can’t gallop horses flat out this time of year, you’ll ruin the grounds and their legs.’

‘It’s not all about the game. Well, I don’t think it is much at all, to be honest. It’s about one player, mainly. There’s only a tiny bit of actual polo. The horses are just a kind of backdrop really. But, I mean, you still do stuff when you’re not in the show-jumping season, don’t you?’

‘Three-day eventing.’ Lottie tried not to scowl. ‘We event. It’s Dad that does the show-jumping.’ She liked the weddings because they were, well, contained. Usually. Apart from when they had the fire.

The bloody fire. She sighed and tried to keep her attention on Jamie and the closest thing to a survival plan that they’d got. ‘So there isn’t actually any polo?’

‘Well, yes, there is some.’ Jamie frowned. ‘But not much. It’s not a film about polo, more a love story.’

‘Do you really know?’

‘Well, not in detail.’ He shrugged and pulled the type of comical face one of the horses did when he could smell perfume, but minus the curled lip, which would have been very strange. ‘I am just the advance party. You’d get told loads more before you had to sign the contract, you know. All your questions answered. But Seb and Pandora have both seen pictures and they’re really mad about this place. Honest.’ He looked so sincere that Lottie felt guilty about not jumping in and shouting yes. ‘They’ll be gutted if you say no.’ She tried not to feel even worse. ‘And initially we’ll shoot the other stuff, without the horses, well, without the riding. The story is a kind of love-triangle thing. You know, the rock star wants a hideaway and his wife isn’t keen at first because she doesn’t want to be stuck in the sticks, but then she falls in love with the glamorous house. She gets a bit carried away, wants to do the whole ladyship thing, and then meets the real deal – a guy who’s old money, posh, not like her husband. He’s the polo-player. I think at first he comes to see if they can carry on playing polo here and they have an affair, but it all goes wrong. She realises she doesn’t belong here and goes back to the city. Or something like that.’

Lottie frowned. ‘With her rock star?’

‘Yeah, I guess so.’

‘So they aren’t actual polo-players, just actors?’ Lottie couldn’t put her finger on exactly why she didn’t like the idea, but it made her uneasy. In fact, it sounded worse now he’d told her more. It spoke of upheaval. And the fact that Elizabeth was all for it just made her even more suspicious.

Elizabeth would rather be penniless and have battles with the bank than let riff-raff into her beloved home. They’d been dodging the march of progress for years; it had been a major triumph when she’d finally got decent broadband installed and it didn’t take three days to download an eventing entry form. But the pipes were still gurgling, the moth-eaten rugs still lay on the woodworm-riddled floor, and she’d threatened the last property developer who’d suggested a theme park and open days with a shotgun. Which made the idea of her welcoming a film crew all very strange.

‘Well, there is one player. He advises and sorts everything.’

‘One?’

‘Actual polo-player. He’ll be advising on all the horse stuff, the rest are actors. It’s all going to be done properly.’

‘And you won’t be straying around the estate, or coming inside the house, or—’

‘Setting it on fire? Was that really a disgruntled groom, like the paper said?’

‘Well he said it actually, on his Facebook page. Said we were a load of stuck-up toffs who deserved what we got.’ Lottie frowned. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m getting rather fed up of discussing it.’

‘Sure. I guess the bit in today’s papers hasn’t helped?’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’ She really had to stop thinking about the past and move on to the solution. She glanced at Elizabeth, who hadn’t actually directly mentioned the latest reports, and wondered if she’d read them. She probably had. As Sam had said, very little got past her eagle eyes. ‘Well, I suppose this could be a good idea, as a one-off, of course.’

‘Splendid,’ Elizabeth pursed her lips as though she’d decided it was time to have the final say. ‘I knew you’d come round to my way of thinking, dear.’

‘So, it won’t be until Spring, I suppose, when the weather picks up?’

‘Oh no, dear. James came to me before Christmas, not long after we’d been in the papers with the fire. This Sebastian chap would like a meeting as soon as possible. I suggest that you invite him here next week and sort all the paperwork. Haven’t spoken to him myself. Thought I’d leave all that to you, seeing as you’re in charge, but I’m sure he’s a splendid chap. Seems keen to get a move on from what young James said.’

‘Next week?’ Lottie, who’d been feeling comforted by the ‘you’re in charge’ comment, sat down abruptly and took a large gulp of gin and tonic.

‘No use in dilly-dallying. We’ve had long enough with no income, and we are still no further forward, are we?’

Lottie wondered if that was the royal ‘we’, as in ‘her’, or if they were in this together. She opened her mouth, thought better about asking, and shut it again.

‘We really do need some more money coming in,’ Elizabeth paused and peered at Lottie, ‘before it starts going out.’

Ah, so that answered one question. Her grandmother did know about all the cancellations and demands for deposits to be returned.

‘Right, splendid. I think this warrants a toast. Do pour us all another drink, James.’

Jamie scrabbled up from his position on the floor and took Lottie’s empty glass from her frozen fingers.

Next week. She watched as he capably poured the drinks. Yes, it made sense. He hadn’t been awkward, he felt at home, he’d been here before (lots of times, no doubt) without her knowing. He’d just been embarrassed about the fact she didn’t know. Elizabeth had been planning this for weeks and biding her time to announce it.

‘I thought I was running the estate, Gran?’

‘You are, dear.’

‘But, you can’t just barge in and make new arrangements like that. You’re, you’re …’

‘Interfering? If you’d have had any real objection, then we would have stopped it. But,’ her tone softened, ‘we can’t wait any longer, can we? And this is just a short-term measure. What else can we do, Charlotte? You’ve done a splendid job with your business and, believe me, I would not even consider a project like this if we had an alternative. But we don’t, do we my dear? And I really think that newspaper article this morning proves that we’re not going to get any new bookings until we’re in a position to prove we can honour them, are we, dear?’

Lottie sighed. ‘Give me until tomorrow, I’ll talk to Rory.’ She doubted very much that her fun-loving husband would be able to magic another solution out of thin air. But who knew?

Chapter 7

Rory Steel stared into the stable, which reflected the emptiness he felt inside perfectly. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to come clean with his wife.

They’d hit lows before and struggled through them together, but this time he had a horrible feeling they were well and truly sinking. Adding to the burden of responsibility that Lottie shouldered so stoically hadn’t been part of his plan at all.

Rory had always been known in Tippermere, and throughout the three-day eventing community, for his sense of fun, and, it had to be said, a certain irresponsibility. But, since he had taken the blind leap into matrimony he’d been surprised to realise just how important his wife was to him. He wanted to love and care for her, but it was more than that. He wanted to protect her, to share the responsibility of looking after the inherited estate that he’d grown to love.

Rory admired and loved his scatty wife, and he wanted to provide for her. To fill the house with children and to help put food on the table, so that she no longer felt the need to take a spreadsheet, calculator, and frown to bed on a regular basis.

Now he looked gloomily into the echoingly empty stable and knew that one particular gift horse had bolted.

With his easy manner and dashing good looks people always assumed that Rory had it easy, but he’d worked his way up the hard way. He had an eye for a good horse, and the type of natural riding ability that meant that he was prepared to take a risk – buy a difficult horse cheap and turn it into a winner. Sometimes all the bruises and scrapes were worth it and it worked; sometimes the best he could hope for was to break even and sell the animal on as a slightly safer ride, but one that was never going to survive in the demanding world of eventing. But he always bounced back onto his feet with a grin on his face and a joke at his own expense.

Six foot tall, with the toned thighs of an athlete, roguish grin, and a wicked sense of humour, the easy-going Rory had always been a hit with the girls. But now, in his early thirties, he was at his peak, both physically and mentally. Rory had always been one of the lads, as comfortable with a pint in his hand as he was with a good malt whisky, and he’d had a female following since his first televised outing, where he’d had a disastrous encounter with a lake.

After the type of ducking that should have left him gasping, he’d very carefully removed his hat and body-protector, run a hand through his sopping curls, then strode out of the lake in full-on Mr Darcy mode, but with a cheeky grin rather than brooding intent. The resultant photographs that were splashed (as he liked to recall) over many a Sunday newspaper won him an adoring fan club and a sponsorship deal that had finally meant he had a reliable horsebox and a horse that wasn’t intent on killing both of them. Over the years he’d come to count his sponsor as a friend. Until today.

Closing the stable door with a heavy clunk, Rory shoved his hands into his jacket pockets then glanced down at the terrier that was seldom far from his feet. ‘We’d better wave goodbye and then go and break the bad news, hadn’t we, Tilly?’ The dog cocked her head on one side, as though she understood every word, then she spun round and made a run towards the archway that divided the stable yard from the main part of the Tipping House Estate.

* * *

Lottie stared at the horsebox as it trundled its way down the long driveway away from Tipping House and wondered if she’d forgotten something important.

As it was winter it was unlikely Rory was competing, and even if he was going to an indoor show-jumping competition with one of the youngsters she was absolutely sure he would have texted her before he set off. It was also highly unlikely he’d just pop out anywhere without telling her, unless he’d discovered a bargain horse that he couldn’t resist and daren’t tell her? She frowned. No, surely he wouldn’t? Not when they were in such dire straits, and even he didn’t often buy horses at this time of year unless they were real bargains, as it just meant months of feeding another mouth. There was the slight possibility he was taking one of the young horses out for a run in the lorry, so that they could add ‘travels well’ to its CV, but she was sure he’d have mentioned it, even if he was only going round the block.

A slight movement down by the yard caught her eye and she was surprised to see Rory standing in the archway, Tilly in his arms, staring after the horsebox in much the same way she was. Which was totally confusing. If Rory was still on the yard, who the hell was driving off with their horsebox?

With a sense of foreboding, Lottie flew down the stairs two at a time, Harry the spaniel at her heels. She shoved her feet into the nearest pair of wellingtons and flung the door open just in time to see her husband disappearing back into the stable yard.

It wasn’t hard to spot Rory when Lottie dashed through the archway into the small circular yard. He was sitting on the edge of the fountain, with Tilly the terrier perched on his knee, looking as sad as she’d ever seen him. Dejected, she decided, was the word.

‘I just saw the horsebox. What’s happened? Rory?’ He put the dog down and stared at her wordlessly. ‘Is one of the horses ill?’

‘Worse. I’m afraid,’ he glanced towards one of the stables, ‘I’ve got some bad news, darling.’ He groaned and put his head in his hands. ‘Shit. I was really hoping I would be able to sort something out before I had to tell you.’ His voice was muffled. ‘I’m sorry.’ The sigh came from somewhere deep inside him and Lottie felt a twinge of alarm. Rory might not be reliable, but he never gave up, he always saw the positive side of things.

She looked around the yard, from stable to stable.

‘Simon. Where’s Simon? He’s not …’ For a horrible moment the word ‘dead’ hung in the air between them, but that was impossible. ‘He’s not in his stable.’ The handsome grey liked to know what was going on, his head was the first to appear at his stable door whenever he heard voices on the yard. He’d nicker a welcome and then wait for the polo mint that he knew he deserved.

‘He’s gone. Oh Christ, I am so sorry.’

Rory repeatedly saying sorry was nearly as alarming as the missing horse. Lottie strode across the yard and peered over the stable door, not because she didn’t believe Rory, but because it didn’t seem possible.

‘Gone, but how can he be gone? You can’t just sell him, Rory, he’s not ours …’

‘Exactly. He’s not ours to sell. David sent somebody over to collect him,’ Rory looked up, tawny eyes sorrowful, ‘he’s pulled out, he’s not going to sponsor me any longer.’

‘But I saw our—’

‘Horsebox? It’s his horsebox, remember, darling. He’s taken his bloody lorry and his horses.’ Rory stood up abruptly. ‘Shit.’ Simon wasn’t just any horse, he was the best horse he’d ever had the opportunity to compete. Maybe not the best he’d ever sat on, but a brilliant, talented horse and a top-class eventer were two different things. Simon was as honest and big-hearted as they came and he knew his job.

The second horse that David had provided was a talented youngster who hadn’t been with them long, but Rory had already bonded with the animal and was convinced he had a brilliant future ahead.

‘But why?’ Lottie stared at him in disbelief. Rory and Simon had gelled from day one, and over the last twelve months had started to look like serious contenders. ‘Why on earth would he do that?’

‘Divorce. He’s getting frigging divorced.’

Lottie looked at him blankly, wondering what that had to do with them. ‘But Simon was going so well for you, and David knew that. I thought he liked us.’

‘He did like us.’ Rory sighed. ‘We’re not the issue. Well, it isn’t actually him that’s got a problem, it’s his wife. He told me a while ago that she’s taking him to the cleaners, wants half of everything and that includes the horses. He was talking about shipping them out of the country, all of them, including Simon, until after the court case, but she beat him to it. It’s her that sent somebody over.’

‘Her? But it’s David who sponsors you. How can she? Couldn’t you stop them?’

‘It’s her name on the papers too, for tax reasons, no doubt.’ Rory rolled his eyes. ‘I couldn’t stop her, believe me I tried to, but she’s got as much right …’

‘Did you tell David?’

‘I rang him, he went ape-shit, but there’s not a lot he could do apart from rant.’

Lottie cringed. David on a rant wasn’t a pretty sight.

‘I can understand her leaving him, I suppose. He could be pretty nasty. To be honest, I’m surprised she didn’t go earlier. They didn’t exactly get on, did they? They were always having a go at each other. He could be so rude and bossy.’

‘Well, I suppose he wanted a glamorous wife, and she wanted a rich husband who took her to places.’ Rory shrugged. ‘There’s lot of people like that, even these days.’

‘But why did she have to go after the horses? She hates horses. The only thing she liked about them was being able to dress up and boast when you were competing.’

‘Exactly.’ His tone was dry. ‘She liked being an owner but she knew he liked it even more. I don’t think she’s exactly planning on keeping them to ride herself.’

‘So couldn’t we offer to buy them? You know, put down a deposit?’

‘And where would we get that from?’ His voice was soft and he grabbed hold of Lottie’s hand and pulled her towards him. ‘He’s a top-class horse. We’d never get our hands on that kind of money even if things were going well. Besides, as far as the horses go she doesn’t give a shit about the money, she’s just having a go at him. She’ll probably hide them away for a bit then give them away. It’s spite. She wants to wind him up and I reckon she’s succeeded. She knows how much Simon’s success means to him. From what he said, I reckon he’s been stingy over the settlement, so the gloves are off. Come here, you’re cold.’

‘I’m fine, honest.’ Lottie, who hadn’t thought to grab a coat, wrapped her arms around herself and concentrated on stopping her teeth chattering. ‘So no more sponsorship money.’

‘Nope. He’s not going to pay me if I’m not riding his horses, is he?’

‘You don’t think he’ll buy you another one? You know, that she doesn’t know about?’ She was clutching at straws; she knew she was.

‘He’s busy trying to look as poor as possible; going out buying horses isn’t going to work in his favour when it comes to agreeing a divorce settlement, is it? I was rather hoping they’d reach some kind of agreement and it wouldn’t get to this. Oh shit, I am so sorry this had to happen right now, Lots.’

Lottie sighed. ‘It’s not your fault, darling.’ Then she looked up, determined to see the bright side. ‘At least we didn’t sell Minty to him.’

After a couple of years’ battling with Lottie’s very temperamental mare, Black Gold, Rory and Lottie had realised that despite her huge potential she was never going to be suited to competition. She was just too inconsistent. And Rory was afraid that one day she’d fall too hard, or spook in the wrong place and put Lottie in hospital. Or worse.

So they’d put her in foal, hoping that it might settle her, and if they were lucky produce an eventer that had talent and temperament to match. And it looked like they’d hit the jackpot.

Her filly foal, Araminta, had been a hit from the moment she’d struggled to her feet on impossibly long, wobbly legs. She didn’t bite or kick and she moved like an angel – eating up the ground effortlessly with the type of movement and natural carriage that made her stand out. David had wanted to buy her, promising that he’d guarantee Rory the ride, but something had stopped Lottie and Rory from signing on the dotted line. She was the first homebred horse they’d had with that elusive star quality, and despite their seriously diminished bank balance they’d been loath to let her go.

‘True, thank God for that. But she’s only two; we’ll be destitute by the time she starts to compete, and I really need to attract another backer now.’ He gave a rueful smile and ruffled Lottie’s hair. ‘And we need a new horsebox or we’ll be hacking to events.’

‘So we really haven’t got any choice at all now, have we? Gran was right, we have to let the film crew in or the money will run out long before we get back on our feet.’

‘Much as I hate to admit that the old dragon has won again,’ he shrugged and held her tighter, ‘what else can we do? It is pretty quiet round here right now, though, so I can keep an eye on them and we’ve had the contract checked through – it all seems straightforward enough.’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘Me neither, if I’m honest, but do we have any choice?’

‘Not really.’

‘Let’s go for it, gorgeous, and come next season I’ll have a new loaded sponsor, and we’ll have a new USP for the wedding business.’

‘USP?’ Lottie looked at him blankly.

‘Well before, people just wanted to come so they could imagine they were gentry for the day, but after this they’ll be able to boast they’ve been on the film set. USP, unique selling point.’ He shrugged and grinned. ‘Maybe old Lizzie has done us a massive favour. How bad can it be?’

* * *

‘What is it with fucking scriptwriters who think they’re directors?’ Sebastian Drakelow jabbed irritably at his laptop, adding, no doubt, a sarcastic comment, then ran long, slim fingers through his ash-blond hair before resting thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose. ‘For God’s sake, will somebody answer that bloody phone?’

‘It’s your bloody phone, you answer it, darling.’ Pandora’s tone was mild and faintly bored, the voice of a disinterested mother talking to a toddler. She crossed one long, elegant leg over the other and stared at her husband as she took a sip from the champagne flute, and then shifted her gaze so that she could watch the bubbles slowly rise to the top. ‘What did your last servant die of?’

Seb looked up, cold, grey eyes narrowed, and scowled. ‘Where’s Jamie?’

‘It’s Sunday, darling. The terms “intern” and “interned” have different meanings.’

‘Ha, bloody, ha. Who’s ringing on a Sunday anyway?’

‘Why don’t you answer it if you want to find out? It’s probably your mother demanding you go over and change a light bulb for her.’

Seb looked at his wife and wondered, not for the first time, how he’d managed to marry somebody who was even more selfish than he was. She was beautiful, in a thin, slightly brittle, contained kind of way, and she was smart. A lethal combination, he’d discovered. What Pandora wanted, Pandora got. She possessed more manipulative instinct in her little finger than most people thought existed, and she used every wile at her disposal in pursuit of her desires. The fact that she had such a striking appearance, with her flame-red hair and feline, green eyes certainly didn’t hamper her. Seb might not always like his wife, but he admired her; he’d always found it impossible to resist pure, unadulterated passion and ambition.

Pandora might not be an intellectual but she was as streetwise as they came and she was quick. A born improviser. She was also, he deduced, pissed off with him for some reason – or curiosity would have forced her to answer his goddamn phone.

‘She has a little man to do that for her these days. A home help.’

Pandora raised one beautifully arched eyebrow and he laughed.

‘Oh I do love you, you miserable cow. What have I done now?’

‘I’m bored. We need a change of scene.’

‘We’ll be filming again soon.’

‘A proper change of scene. This place is so,’ she waved a dismissive hand that took in the luxurious penthouse suite in one gesture, ‘so crass. It has no class, darling. I want class. I want to be somebody.’

‘You are somebody.’ He leant back and rested one ankle on his knee, wondering where this was going.

‘I want to be in Tatler, not Heat. I need a challenge, Seb. Oh, what’s the point, you will never understand. Answer that fucking phone, it’s giving me a headache.’

‘No, you’re right, I don’t understand. Why on earth would you want to be in Tatler

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