Fiona Harper
English Lord, Ordinary Lady

For Norina, not my only cheerleader,

but certainly my loudest!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

WILL stopped the car and got out, leaving it slap-bang in the middle of the road. He left the door hanging open and walked forward a few steps.

The turrets and chimneys on Elmhurst Hall rose above the surrounding trees, its sandstone walls warmed to a golden yellow by the slanting afternoon sun. Long-paned windows filled the stonework and high arches curved over the heavy wooden doors.

This was the moment he’d been waiting for since he’d opened the letter from the solicitor a month ago. The moment his family had anticipated for three generations. If he failed—uncharacteristic for him, but not impossible—it could take another three generations to recover. An eventuality he was not prepared to contemplate.

He got back into the car and glanced at the publicity brochure on the passenger seat. It said that Elmhurst Hall was ‘a vision from a fairy tale’. At the time, he’d just thought that was sales talk.

He took a deep breath and gazed through the windscreen. It was more than a vision. It was breathtaking.

And now it belonged to him.

He turned the key in the ignition and drove down the country lane towards the hall, keeping at an even twenty miles an hour. It was just as well there was no other traffic, because he was hogging the road completely.

He brought the car to a halt as he reached the large wrought-iron gates. They were more than ten feet high and were bolted shut—probably to keep the peasants like him out. The thought only made him smile again. Too bad. He was here now, and there was nothing the rest of the Radcliffe family could do to stop him.

Now he was closer, the grandeur of the building faded a little. Gutters hanging off and crumbling stonework made her seem like a tired old movie star, past her heyday, but with the echoes of her former beauty still visible beneath.

He smiled. How ironic that the grandson of the family outcast might just have enough money and skill to give this old lady the nip and tuck she needed. It was obvious that the late Lord Radcliffe hadn’t had either the cash or the inclination to do so.

What a waste. He’d found old buildings in a much worse state of repair and seen them restored so that no one would guess they’d ever lost their fairy-tale quality. He’d built a business on it. Now he would just have to work his magic here.

Down to his left was a small road. He followed it and found himself in a large and rather empty visitor car park.

The way back towards the hall was through a large walled garden. He checked his watch. Mr Barrett was expecting him at four o’clock and it was almost five to. He’d better get a move-on. Two tugs at a rickety-looking gate covered in peeling green paint gave him entrance to the garden. It wasn’t the big open space he’d expected; it was divided into much smaller sections by thick yew hedges.

After five minutes of going this way and that, he decided there was no logic to the layout. He reached a crossroads and considered his options. The path ahead of him seemed to be the obvious choice to take him to the hall, but he knew from the experience of the last five minutes that nothing in this place was as it seemed.

He was just about to take the path on his left when a creature with shimmering wings burst from the shrubbery and landed on the path in front of him. ‘A vision from a fairy tale’ the brochure had said. Still, he hadn’t expected to see actual fairies. His feet were frozen to the spot while his heart galloped on ahead.

Before he could rub his eyes, another figure tumbled from the foliage and landed spread-eagled on the path. Laughter, light and musical like bursting bubbles, filled the air. The sound vanished abruptly as the pair noticed they weren’t alone. Two pairs of impish eyes fixed themselves on him.

Will stared back, his senses still reeling from the sudden assault of noise and colour.

The little one with wings spoke first.

‘Who are you?’

He stared at the protuberances on her back. They were made of pink netting and were held in place by a criss-cross of elastic stretched over a fur-trimmed coat.

‘I’m Will,’ he said, then wondered why he hadn’t introduced himself properly. He never forgot his manners.

She stood up and brushed the dirt from her sticky-out skirt.

‘I’m Harriet,’ she said and offered him a pink-gloved hand to shake. Will bent forward and took it, too surprised by the gesture to think of doing anything else.

He had no idea how to gauge the age of a little girl. It was something that came with experience he didn’t have. Older than three—her speech was clear and lisp-free—but probably younger than seven. He didn’t know why knowing how old she was seemed important. Maybe because he needed a concrete fact to ground this rather surreal meeting in reality.

‘Hattie, I’ve told you not to talk to strangers unless I say it’s OK.’

Will registered the voice—it was older, but just as clear and precise. He meant to take a good look at the fairy’s older companion, but his gaze was locked with the little girl’s.

He’d never seen such an intense stare in his life before—not unless he counted looking in the mirror. And she didn’t shy away or hide behind the other girl’s legs as he would have expected. Instead she fixed him with a regal look of superiority and met his curious gaze. Finally, when she’d got the measure of him, she gave a nod of recognition.

How odd. Children rarely warmed to him. He always felt so stiff and awkward in their presence. But this strange little girl didn’t seem to mind that.

The noise of the other person getting to her feet drew his attention. Her gaze was just as intense as her friend’s. Although his senses were back on track and he was now fully aware that she was nothing more than human, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was something different about her.

He shifted his weight onto his other foot.

‘The hall is closed to visitors on Thursdays and Fridays until April,’ she said. ‘How did you get in?’

Will glanced briefly in the direction of the car park. ‘I came in through the gate, of course. I have an appointment with Mr Barrett.’ The man was supposed to be the butler, or something like that. He hadn’t known that real butlers still existed.

She held out her hand for Hattie’s.

‘You’d better follow me, then. This section of the gardens is divided into “rooms”, as the gardener likes to put it. It can be a little confusing if you don’t know your way around.’

Hattie skipped next to the older girl, who he was now suspecting might be a babysitter rather than a sibling. A multicoloured striped hat that reminded him of a tea cosy with strange pink tassels on either side was pulled down over her ears and she wore a short denim jacket over cargo trousers and clumpy boots.

He shrugged. Who was he to judge? It was turning out to be a much more practical choice of outfit than his Italian suit as they trudged along the pathways between the hedges. Mud was already clinging to the hems of his trousers and clogging his shoes.

They entered a large sunken garden filled with vast flowerbeds and a fountain in the centre and at last he had a clear view of the back of Elmhurst Hall.

He knew enough about architecture to recognise that the building was a patchwork of different periods and styles, some sections dating back to the sixteenth century.

The wing facing the front gates had obviously been added later, the grand façade, but round the back of the building one could see the history. Different sections had been added by previous owners, all wanting to improve Elmhurst Hall and leave their fingerprint on it. Now it was his turn to do the same.

It truly was a unique piece of architecture. He could hardly wait to start exploring it.

A small set of fingers tugged his hand then wiggled their way into his palm until they were clasped in his.

‘Come on, Will. It’s this way.’

Hattie pulled him in the direction of a set of stairs that went through a small square tower. The path then continued upwards and across a spacious flat lawn, ending at a large wooden door that was big enough to squash him flat if it fell off its hinges. He let the little girl drag him forwards, too caught up in absorbing his surroundings to navigate his own way.

The babysitter was standing in the arch of the tower, frowning down at him as he climbed the steps. He turned to Hattie.

‘So, if visitors aren’t allowed today, what are you doing here?’

‘Playing princesses and trolls.’

Her voice was flat and matter-of-fact, as if she expected every visitor to engage in similar activities. ‘I’m the princess,’ she said, spreading her full skirt slightly to emphasise the fact, ‘and Mummy is the troll.’

There was a small grunt from the figure at the top of the stairs. ‘Mummy always ends up being the troll.’

She was the child’s mother? Will took a closer look as he climbed towards her. She barely looked older than a teenager herself. Maybe it was her height. She was petite, reaching five feet three at the very most.

The hand she thrust out for Hattie’s was more an order than a request. Hattie slipped her gloved fingers from his and ran to her mother.

Something about him put this woman on the defensive. He could see it in the stubborn set of her chin, the way she avoided eye contact. She started off again before he’d caught up, always keeping a good distance between them.

He followed her, not through the large wooden door in front of them, but round the side of the building into an area that would have been the servants’ entrance in days gone by. Hattie broke free and disappeared through a little door, leaving it open behind her.

The woman turned to look at him.

‘What are you really doing here?’ he said, his usually sharp and inquisitive mind finally whirring away like normal.

She shrugged. ‘Like Hattie said, we were playing. You couldn’t find a better place to play imaginary games than here.’

Yes, but there were more suitable ways to go about it than trespassing in the grounds of Elmhurst Hall. He was about to say as much, but downgraded his observation to something less confrontational. ‘You have the owner’s permission?’

She nodded. ‘In a roundabout way. I work and live here. Use of the grounds is one of the perks of the job.’

Well, he’d find out more about that later.

She nodded in the direction of the open door.

‘Good luck,’ she said, without any hint of encouragement in her eyes. ‘You’re not the first man in a suit to turn up. You’re wasting your time, though. When Lord Radcliffe died…’ Here she paused, and her voice softened slightly. She shook her head once, as if to swish away an uninvited thought, and continued. ‘I’m guessing you’ll go away empty-handed. There’s precious little left to pay his debts.’

Now he could study her face properly, he could see why he’d thought she was only a child. She had large eyes and ripe lips set in an elfin face. If it weren’t for that square little chin, she’d look just like a fairy—timeless, ageless, wise.

‘Thank you for your advice…’

She blinked at him.

‘Josie.’ As she said her name she reached up and grabbed the tea-cosy hat with one hand.

‘I’m not here to…’ The rest of his sentence was forgotten as he realised the bright pink tassels didn’t move with the rest of that hat. He squinted at her then opened his eyes wide.

Not tassels. Plaits! Little stubby braids in a particularly violent shade of fuchsia.

This woman was one surprise after another.

He saw the barest of smiles touch her lips as she turned and stepped over the threshold. She liked the fact she’d shocked him, made him forget what he was going to say.

Well, two could play at that game. And he had a feeling his arrival here was going to cause a bigger upset than discovering an employee with pink hair. If his instincts were right they’d be as surprised as if they’d…well, found fairies at the bottom of the garden.

The narrow passageways in the servants’ quarters amplified the footsteps of the stranger walking behind her. Josie turned to knock on a door made in a century when people must have been a heck of a lot shorter.

At five-two, she wasn’t going to have a problem, but Will Whatever-his-name-was was going to have to duck.

She sighed as she ushered the visitor in to see Barrett and closed the door behind him. She had no wish to hear what he had to say. It was all far too depressing.

Harry had been the dearest, sweetest old man alive, but he’d been hopeless with money. She’d suspected it ever since she’d come to live here six years ago, but only his death and the unravelling of his haphazard accounts had proved how bad things really were.

They were all in limbo until the legal wrangling over Harry’s estate was over. He’d once told her he would leave her the cottage she lived in, but in all the rooms full of clutter Harry had left behind no one had come across anything resembling a will.

That left her and Hattie at the mercy of the new owner. Her beloved godfather had let her live in the run-down cottage virtually rent-free and she couldn’t see the new Lord Radcliffe honouring that. He’d not only inherited the hall, which ate money with a voracious appetite, but also all of Harry’s debts. Even if he was inclined to help out, he probably wouldn’t be able to afford to.

Her salary from running the tearoom here only just about covered her basic outgoings. If she had to pay rent of any kind, the only option would be to cut out Hattie’s activities, and even then there’d be a huge shortfall.

She grimaced as she threaded her way through the ancient corridors towards the kitchen—for that was undoubtedly where her daughter had run off to. Hattie loved her ballet lessons and she would sulk for a month if she had to stop.

Personally, Josie couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. There was no freedom in it, no exuberance. Twisting yourself into unnatural positions and stuffing your feet into hard little shoes that were two sizes too small. No way.

Still, Hattie seemed to like torture in a tutu and Josie wasn’t about to stop her doing what she loved. That was what good parents did—they supported their children’s choices and let them blossom into the unique creatures they were meant to be. She was not going to impose her own likes and dislikes on her daughter as if they were the Ten Commandments.

Just as she’d predicted, Hattie was sitting at the kitchen table looking expectantly at Mrs Barrett, Elmhurst’s cook. And just as her husband would answer to nothing other than “Barrett”, Mrs Barrett was conveniently deaf unless she was addressed as “Cook” by most people. Josie got away with Mrs B, but only if she wasn’t being too cheeky and the older woman was in the right kind of mood.

‘And will it be your usual, Miss Hattie?’

Josie smiled. This was a game they played, Cook and Hattie. She thought it reminded the loyal servant of the glory days of the hall when she’d had staff to boss around and ‘at homes’ to cater for.

There were no prizes for guessing why Hattie liked the game. It was every girl’s dream, wasn’t it? To be Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty and live in a castle. And she wasn’t going to stop Hattie having her dreams, even if she knew the reality was pretty grim.

Most people didn’t realise this, but living in a fantasy castle could drain a girl’s spirit. It wouldn’t be long before she’d go stir-crazy. She’d start snoozing all day, or losing her shoes, and do a Rapunzel—grow her hair so she could get the heck out of the stuffy old mausoleum.

Hattie folded her hands on her lap. ‘Yes, please, Cook.’

‘And can I tempt you with a freshly baked gingersnap to go with that?’

Josie tried hard not to laugh as Hattie considered the offer, her head tipped to one side, eyes focused on the ceiling. She looked so prim and proper sitting there, her back perfectly straight and her ankles crossed.

‘I think I would like that very much, Cook.’

Mrs B nodded and poured Hattie’s juice into a delicate little teacup, complete with saucer, reserved exclusively for that use.

‘Hi, Mrs B,’ said Josie, ruffling her daughter’s hair. The action was rewarded with a scowl as Hattie removed her tiara and smoothed down the fluffy bits.

‘Afternoon, dear. Catch any trolls today?’

Josie chuckled and slid into the chair opposite Hattie. ‘Not exactly.’

Cook gave her a quizzical look as she placed a mug of tea in front of her.

Hattie was happy to fill in the gaps. ‘We met a man in the gardens. His name is Will. I think he likes fairies,’ she said through a mouthful of biscuit crumbs.

‘I took him in to see Barrett,’ Josie added. ‘Not that he’ll have much joy until the new lord is traced. Even then he’s going to have to join the back of a very long queue if he wants his money.’

Mrs Barrett parked her ample bottom in the chair next to her. ‘Barrett told me today that they’ve found him. Working overseas, he said. The late Lord Radcliffe’s great-nephew. Apparently he will be arriving some time this week. There’s an emergency staff meeting at four-thirty. I’ll look after Hattie while you go. Barrett can fill me in later.’

Josie took a sip of her tea. ‘I didn’t think Edward Radcliffe had any sons. I thought you told me he gave up trying after four daughters.’

‘No, Edward was Lord Radcliffe’s youngest brother. The new lord’s grandfather would have been the middle of the three Radcliffe brothers.’

‘I never knew there was another Radcliffe brother. I don’t remember seeing anything in the genealogy.’

‘No, well, you wouldn’t. It happened long before you were born, Josie. Some big family falling-out between Harry’s father and his youngest son. The whole family disowned him. The man the solicitors hired discovered that he’d changed his name, which explains why his descendants have been so hard to trace.’

Josie gave a wry smile. ‘Another black sheep, then.’

Mrs B just changed the subject. ‘You’d better hurry along or you’ll be late for the meeting.’

Josie leaned back in her chair, kicked her booted feet up to rest on the table and ignored the disapproving stare she got from the other two. ‘I’ve got a few minutes left. Time to drink my tea, at any rate.’

So, the black sheep’s grandson had inherited Elmhurst. There was no doubting that life at the hall had fallen into a rut as deep as the Cheddar Gorge. It could do with a good shake-up.

Only she didn’t want some Hooray Henry storming into her territory and causing a ruckus. If there was going to be an uproar, she’d jolly well cause it herself.

Josie returned from the staff meeting feeling a little foolish. Scratch that; she felt a whole lot foolish. Not that she’d let Will Whatever-his-name-was see how she was feeling.

She stomped back to the kitchen. How dared he walk in here, looking all ordinary? He wasn’t what she’d been expecting at all. Anyway, it was his own fault she’d been a bit off with him. He shouldn’t go sneaking up on people in the gardens and expect them to know who he was.

It was still niggling her the following Monday morning as she was preparing the display of cakes for the tearoom with Mrs B.

‘Who is this guy, anyway? And where did he go after the meeting on Friday? He hasn’t been around all weekend.’

Mrs B sighed and carried on cutting a carrot cake into even slices.

‘Barrett says he’s a businessman of some sort, quite successful too, by all accounts.’

‘What kind of business, that’s what I want to know?’ Josie muttered to herself. Mrs B shrugged and placed the newly carved cake into the display case. Her baked goods were the most popular things on sale in the tearoom.

‘Oh, something to do with old buildings,’ Mrs B replied.

There was no point in pursuing this line of questioning further. To the loyal cook he was Lord Radcliffe, and that was that.

Nobody knew anything about him. Old buildings. That could mean anything. He could be a property developer planning to raze the hall to the ground and build a horrible modern housing estate.

Josie wiped her hands on a tea towel and took her apron off. ‘I’m off to the cash-and-carry to stock up on crisps and suchlike. I should be back before noon.’

Mrs B nodded and returned to arranging a tray of muffins in a pleasing manner. Josie put her coat on, pulled a stripy hat out of the pocket and plonked it on her head, tucking her hair behind her ears.

She drove through the village of Elmhurst and joined the main road that would take her to the nearby town of Groombridge. After she’d loaded up the boot of the old Morris Minor with provisions for the tearoom, she decided to take a little detour. Not exactly work-related, but it was in the interests of all those employed at the hall, so it almost counted.

The public library was only a five-minute walk away. She ignored the rows of books and headed straight for one of the computer terminals where she could get internet access. It was conveniently ready at the home page of a search engine and she sat down and typed in William Roberts with two fingers. She’d finally learnt his surname from Barrett.

Almost instantly a long list popped up. She discounted the first few—results from family history sites—and scanned down the list. A very long list.

The first site she tried was the cyber-home of William Roberts, die-hard fishing enthusiast. She smiled as she closed the page and looked for another link. She’d always thought that once you’d seen one picture of a dead fish, you’d seen them all. Obviously not.

The next try was more like it. It wasn’t exactly what she was looking for, but it had a link to another site and when she followed that she hit gold.

Her worst fears were confirmed.

The link brought up a news article. It seemed that only months ago, Will had picked up an award for one of his projects. The brief blurb underneath the photograph described his company as one that took on both restoration projects and property development.

She rested her head in her hands and massaged her scalp with her fingers. It was as if she could feel the structure of her life crumbling away. If Elmhurst Hall closed, her only option would be to go home and live with her parents. And she’d always said it would be a cold day in hell before that happened.

She navigated to a different page, hoping to garner a little more information on the mysterious Mr Roberts. The site only gave the most basic information, but she could see that he’d done very well for himself, building his company up from virtually nothing.

Out of the blue, she heard her mother’s voice echo in her head: ‘He might be rich, darling. But he’s hardly one of us, is he?’

Her mother was such a snob.

‘He’s a bit dishy, isn’t he?’

Josie turned to find Marianne, the librarian, looking over her shoulder. The silence rule was never going to be upheld very well while Marianne worked here. Somehow, a place of serious contemplation and study had turned into a hotbed of gossip. And Marianne was the main culprit.

‘I hadn’t really noticed, actually.’

Marianne whacked her on the shoulder with a paperback. ‘Go on! You can’t fool me. Look at that lovely thick dark hair and those brooding, serious eyes. I bet there’s a fine physique underneath that suit.’

‘Marianne, you’ve been spending far too long camped out in the spicier parts of the romance section. Not every woman thinks about a man in terms of hard abs and strong thighs. Some things are more important.’

Marianne hissed out a laugh. ‘Yeah, right! Just don’t dribble too much on that keyboard, OK?’

Josie turned back to face the monitor, closed down the page and stood up, whisking her belongings under her arm as she did so.

‘Nobody here is going to be doing any drooling, trust me.’

‘Whatever you say, Josie.’

The librarian sauntered off, a smug grin on her face. Josie sighed. Even if she wanted to—which she didn’t—she wasn’t going to let herself think about moody looks and washboard abs. Those didn’t count for anything. A man with a heart and a soul was a much rarer, and infinitely more precious, commodity.

Will Roberts might look ‘dishy’ but he might also be the worst thing to happen to Elmhurst Hall in five centuries. And there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

CHAPTER TWO

WILL sat in the corner of the tearoom, partly hidden by a hideous piece of garden trellis with faded plastic ivy poking through it. He picked up a leaf that had either fallen off or been picked off by a bored customer and fixed it back onto one of the many waiting stubs.

Something would have to be done about this place.

While the hall looked elegantly shabby at present, the tearoom just looked cheap.

The only possible problem might be its manageress. He’d been here a month—well, not an entire month. Only weekends, really—and he still had no idea how she’d react to the news that he wanted to completely gut and refurbish the tearoom. In the end, he’d had to cut short his work in London and come down here on a Monday afternoon.

You’d think the pink-haired girl would be pleased he was bringing this beautiful place back to life, but every time he was in her presence it was as if he could hear her tutting at him. Not out loud, of course. But the noise was there all the same. Inside his head.

He watched her as she chatted to customers, and, clearing their plates, said goodbye. She might look a little strange, but she was good with people. Warm. Engaging. With other people.

He checked his watch. Only five more minutes and the tearoom would close. Then she’d have to talk to him.

Over the last few weeks he’d met with all the staff, one by one, to talk through their jobs and find out if they had ideas for improvement. And, while he’d listened carefully to each one of them, he hadn’t been convinced about some of the ideas. Especially Molly’s. She was one of the more enthusiastic volunteer guides. Somehow, a garden-gnome museum didn’t sit right with his vision for the hall. It needed ideas with taste, class—initiatives with a certain sense of respect for tradition and the history of the place.

He wiggled another leaf on the ivy trail and pushed it back into position. Totally fake and out of place.

A cup of tea clattered onto the table in front of him. He looked up to find Josie staring at him. Let’s get it over with, then, her expression said.

‘Thank you. Why don’t you sit down?’

She looked away for a split-second then dropped into the moulded plastic seat bolted onto the metal supports that held the table in place.

‘I’ve been looking over the accounts for the tearooms.’

She let out a breath through her nostrils and continued staring at him.

‘They’re not good—’

She leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms. ‘I do as well as I can under the circumstances. You try running a place like this with only one working oven, not enough staff and a budget that only allows for the cheapest, lowest-quality ingredients. I’d like to see you do better.’

‘I said the figures weren’t good. I didn’t say they were terrible. In fact, if you’d let me finish, I was about to say that the tearoom seems to be the only part of the estate that’s made any money in the last few years and, reading between the lines, I’d say that had an awful lot to do with you.’

Her arms dropped to her sides. ‘Oh.’

‘I’m not going to beat around the bush, Josie. You’re producing a great menu under severe limitations, but this place is a dive.’

Her body straightened and her hands flew to her hips, but then she looked around the room, her eyes lingering on the ivy, and she slumped again.

‘You’re right. It’s hideous. I told Harry that over and over, but he wouldn’t hear of changing anything. Couldn’t see what the problem was.’

He took a sip of his tea. It was hot and strong and exactly how he liked it.

‘So, you won’t have any objections to a bit of refurbishment, then?’

‘A bit? I’d say we ought to rip the whole lot out and start again!’ She jumped off the chair. ‘Just look at this.’

He almost choked on his tea as she ran to get a wooden chair from near the till, balanced it on the table next to him and vaulted onto the table-top.

Circus tricks? What the heck was she doing?

Unfortunately his legs seemed to be half-wedged under the plastic table and he wasn’t about to go anywhere fast.

‘Josie! I don’t think you should…’

She made a dismissive noise. ‘I’m not very heavy. It’ll be fine.’

Finally his leg came free and he lurched forward trying to grab hold of her. Too late. She was atop the chair and poking at the polystyrene-tiled suspended ceiling.

There was nothing else to do but join her on top of the table and hope the plastic was stronger than it looked.

‘See?’

‘Josie, I…’

And then he did see. Beyond the polystyrene tile she had moved was the original ceiling, beams and all. It was dark and dusty now but if it were restored it would look sensational.

She was smiling down at him. Even standing on the chair she wasn’t a whole lot taller than him and he suddenly became aware of the rise and fall of her chest, of the glow in her eyes.

‘I…um…think we ought to discuss this at ground level.’

Something in the way she looked at him changed. She closed her mouth and stared at him. Hard, but without the familiar hint of disapproval. ‘OK…Lord Radcliffe.’

When they’d clambered down and found their seats again he said, ‘Call me Will.’

She smiled at him. It transformed her face. Without the eyeliner and pink hair she’d be an absolute knockout. ‘That wouldn’t really be appropriate, would it?’

‘It wouldn’t?’

She shook her head. ‘Barrett told me you’re a real stickler for doing the right thing—all that social-etiquette nonsense. It wouldn’t do to get too familiar with the hired help. Creates the wrong impression.’

He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m new to this.’

‘I can tell.’

‘Is it really that obvious?’

She looked him up and down. ‘Your clothes are expensive, all right, but not really suitable for the country. You look like a London city-slicker.’

‘Well, I am a…I do work in London.’

‘Then wear the Armani to the office. Your dry-cleaning bills will be astronomical if you don’t get something practical to wear down here.’

He raised an eyebrow. He wouldn’t have pegged Josie as being a girl who knew Armani from her elbow.

‘The suit makes you look out of place.’

And her clothes didn’t? However, it would do no good to mention that now. He was on a mission to build bridges. That piece of news could wait till a later date. For the first time since he’d met her, he couldn’t hear the tutting in his brain. And that was seriously good news.

If his instincts were right—and when it came to money and business, they invariably were—she was the only reason this place hadn’t closed down by now. She’d be a useful ally and he needed to keep her that way. So he nodded and filed her advice away for future use.

‘OK. Thanks.’

The door opened and Hattie skipped in. Josie rose to greet a woman he presumed was another of the village mothers. As they chatted in the doorway of the tearoom, Hattie made a beeline for his table.

‘Hello, Will,’ she said and plonked herself down on his lap.

Will held his breath.

What on earth was he supposed to do now? He didn’t know how to talk to kids, let alone play with them. He looked over to Josie for help, but she was still deep in conversation with the other woman.

He looked at Hattie. She looked back at him.

No smiles. No infantile chatter. Just a look.

A look that said she didn’t care who he was or how many grand buildings he’d restored, or even that he owned every stick and stone of Elmhurst Hall. She liked him, and that was that.

Odd.

But nice.

They were still staring at each other when Josie returned, eyebrows raised. He looked up at her, pleading, and saw a hint of a grin flicker across her face.

‘Why don’t you go and help yourself to a muffin, poppet? There’s a choice of blueberry or lemon and raspberry.’

Hattie was across the room in a flash and Will took no time in untangling himself from the table and chair and getting to his feet. He brushed himself down, although he didn’t know why; Hattie didn’t have a speck of dirt on her.

‘About the renovations. I’ll get my architect on to it straight away.’

She didn’t say anything, just nodded, and as he left the tearoom he still wasn’t sure if she was friend or foe.

Harrington House was visible from a good mile away. Josie’s heart sank into her stomach and the car complained as she crunched it into third gear.

‘Hooray!’ Hattie yelled from the back seat.

If only she could share her daughter’s enthusiasm. How Josie could feel claustrophobic in a house with nearly a hundred rooms was a mystery. But she did. Always had.

As they approached it seemed to grow and loom over her. Odd. She never felt that way about Elmhurst Hall. Mind you, it was probably less than half the size of this place and, whereas the hall sat in rolling countryside, framed by trees and old woods, Harrington House was almost the only vertical feature in view, built to dominate its surroundings. Built to intimidate.

She was determined not to let it work on her.

Still, she felt awfully small as she climbed out of the car and pulled the driver’s seat forward to let Hattie out of the back.

Hattie ran to the front door, which had opened while Josie had been locking the car, and disappeared inside. Josie pushed the keys into her pocket and walked slowly towards the woman waiting at the threshold.

They both ignored the awkwardness and leaned in for a stiff kiss.

‘Hello, Mum. Lovely to see you.’

Her mother looked her up and down, her eyes hovering on the pink bunches. She didn’t bother with a reprimand, which was very sensible. It would have done no good.

‘You too, Josephine. Your brother is already here.’

She made her mouth curve. ‘Great. What time’s lunch?’

‘We’ll be sitting down at one-thirty.’

They started the walk across the gargantuan hallway, the heels of her mother’s court shoes giving voice to the tension like the drumbeats of a Hollywood thriller. As they entered the drawing room, Josie’s smile approached something close to genuine.

‘Congratulations, Alfie!’ She ran to her older brother and gave him a squeeze. His sandy hair flopped over his forehead as usual and he wore his trademark silly grin, although it was possibly wider and sillier than normal—almost certainly due to the slender girl standing next to him who was staring at her with unabashed curiosity.

She slapped Alfie on the arm. ‘Didn’t you warn her about me, big brother?’ She gave the girl a kiss on the cheek. ‘Nice to meet you, Sophie. Your fiancé should have filled you in on his naughty little sister. Then again, perhaps he thought it wiser to keep me out of the way until you’d said yes. Let’s see the ring, then.’

Sophie obediently displayed her left hand.

Josie made all the motions of admiring the obscenely large diamond. It was so huge and Sophie was so skinny it was a wonder she wasn’t dragging it around on the floor.

Sophie was still staring at her. ‘Your hair’s…I mean, it’s very…’

Her eyes widened even further. She probably hadn’t meant to let that slip out, but the poor thing seemed to be in shock, like a startled pheasant from one of her father’s shooting parties.

‘I think the word you’re looking for is pink. The name on the box was “Hot-Pants Pink”, if I recall rightly.’

‘Really, Josephine!’

She turned to face her mother and shrugged. She wasn’t apologising for looking as she wanted to look and being who she wanted to be.

Dinner was as long and tortuous as she’d expected it to be. At least Hattie seemed content to demolish two bowls of some fancy apple tart with mountains of ice cream.

Poor Sophie—Josie had only known the girl two hours and she already couldn’t think of her without adding the ‘poor’ in front of her name—was almost too scared to chew. Although she needn’t have bothered being so petrified, not with Josie there to suck up all the negative vibes.

Next to Josie, Sophie looked like a perfect angel. And she certainly seemed like one with her quiet demeanour and impeccable manners.

Poor Sophie. If she really knew what she was marrying into she’d run a mile, screaming all the way.

After the meal, when they had retired to the drawing room once again, Josie saw her mother fix a smile to her face and walk over to her.

‘Hattie is such a darling, isn’t she?’

Here we go, thought Josie. Mother was working up to something, she just knew it.

‘Yes, she’s a very special girl.’

Her mother’s face softened as she watched Hattie, lying on the floor with her head bent over a colouring book, the tip of her tongue poking out as she concentrated.

No doubt her mother approved of the frilly concoction her granddaughter had insisted on wearing. Josie shook her head. Hattie’s tights were spotless and unladdered and there wasn’t a spot of ice cream down the front of her dress.

Her mother must have been reading her thoughts. ‘She looks charming, doesn’t she? Quite the little lady. When I remember you at her age…’

Any comparisons were not going to be favourable to Josie. Her mother might as well come straight out and say it: she didn’t know how such a disappointment as Josie had produced something so perfect.

Truth was, Josie wasn’t quite sure she knew herself. All the seriousness and particular neatness definitely hadn’t come from her.

And, as far as she remembered, it hadn’t come from Hattie’s father either. Miles was the archetypal playboy. Plenty of charm and sophistication with just a hint of danger. And a smile that had been able to melt her knees at twenty paces. She hadn’t stood a chance.

And they’d both had too much money and too little sense to behave responsibly. Cue one pregnant eighteen-year-old and two very shocked sets of parents.

‘…maybe spend the holidays here?’

She suddenly became aware she’d drifted off and her mother was asking her a question.

‘Pardon, Mum?’

There was that look again. ‘I was asking whether Hattie should come and spend the summer holidays with us. She could learn to ride.’

‘I don’t know what our plans are yet.’

She knew she couldn’t keep stalling her mother for ever, but a vague answer would give her a bit of breathing room, time to plot and plan.

No way was Hattie going to spend six weeks at Harrington House. Short visits every couple of months were OK, but a month and a half was too long. She’d be brainwashed by the beginning of the autumn term.

All that innocence and joy at discovering life would be lost and replaced by a feeling that, no matter how hard she tried, she just wasn’t living up to the standards expected of a Harrington-Jones. Every activity, every decision would be measured by whether it was ‘right’ or ‘appropriate’, not by whether it was good for her soul.

Her mother was watching her.

‘I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but it’s no excuse to keep Hattie away from us.’

‘That’s not it at all.’

Her mother raised an eyebrow.

‘You know what it’s like in the summer months. I’m going to be so busy with work. It’s difficult to plan ahead.’

‘How convenient.’ Her mother pulled a finger along the mantelpiece to inspect for dust. ‘But you don’t have to work. I’ve said many a time that you and Hattie could come and live here with us—have your own apartments even, if you wanted a little independence.’

It wouldn’t be the same. A different front door would not stop the magnetic pull of her mother’s iron will. Before she knew it, she’d be married off to some minor lord who would put up with the skeletons rattling—no, lindy-hopping—in her closet and Hattie would be ‘coming out’ as a debutante.

‘I got myself pregnant, Mum. It should be me who deals with the consequences.’

Her mother brushed the few molecules of dust she’d found off her finger with her thumb. ‘Just don’t punish Hattie because you don’t want to live here.’

‘Mum, Hattie is hardly deprived! She’s got a lot more than some children have. I’m just letting her have a happy childhood. Not everything I do is a way of getting back at you.’

There was no warmth in her mother’s voice as she answered. ‘Well, that’s a relief to know.’

‘I know what you think, Mum. I know I messed up big time in the past, but that’s changed. Having Hattie made me grow up and take a good look at my life. I might not wear cardigans and pearls and have married into a good family—’

‘You had the chance.’

Well, she’d let her parents think that. Miles had disappeared in a cloud of dust when she’d told him the news. It was less humiliating to let them think she’d turned him down. She had turned down the appointment to ‘get rid’ of the problem at a Harley Street clinic.

‘I know you don’t understand, Mum, but I want the chance to work life out for myself rather than following some pattern laid out for me from generations past.’

Her mother stopped rearranging the ornaments on the mantel. ‘Josephine, the whole point of learning from history—and our family has a rich and successful history—is that it means we don’t have to make the same mistakes over and over again.’

She could talk until she was blue in the face and her mother would never get it. To be a lady, to live in a ghastly heap of stone like this, was all her mother had ever wanted.

‘Making my own mistakes, learning my own lessons is what makes me feel alive.’

And she had learned from other people’s mistakes, just not from her distant ancestors. The generation she had learned most from was right in this room.

She looked over at Hattie, absorbed in her drawing of a princess, and her heart pinched a little.

No way was Hattie going to grow up feeling as if she had to earn every little bit of love that came her way. And while she knew her own teenage years had been pretty wild, all it had been was attention-seeking. Hopefully Hattie would be grounded enough to never feel the need to do some of the things Josie’d done.

She looked over at Hattie, lying on her front and kicking her legs in the air behind her.

It was fine to talk about letting her have her wings when she was this age, more interested in frilly dolls and secret clubs with her best friends, but in a few years’ time it would be a whole different kettle of fish. Boys. Drink. Drugs. Avenues for self-destruction would be beckoning to her at every turn.

The urge to keep Hattie at Elmhurst for ever, playing trolls and fairies, was sudden and overpowering. She looked over at her mother again, who was staring into the flames of the fire.

She wanted to lean forward and give her mother a kiss on the cheek, to say she understood her protective urges but wouldn’t be confined by them, but before she’d managed to move her mother broke out of her trance and walked away.

‘Hattie? Look out of the window and see who’s at the door, will you?’ Josie raised her head from where she was kneeling over the bath, ignoring the pink drips plopping onto the bath mat. ‘Hattie?’

Silence.

Blast! She turned off the water and dropped the shower head into the tub, then grabbed the carrier bag she’d got when she’d bought the hair dye and fixed it over her hair as she ran down the stairs. Her slippery fingers closed round the door handle. She yanked it open and froze.

Will was standing there, his eyebrows raised and his eyes wide.

Double blast! No one wanted to open the door to their boss with a plastic bag wrapped round their head. Not even if they were the sort of girl who didn’t normally care what other people thought about their appearance.

She stared right back at him, issuing him a challenge. Go on, say something. The corner of his lip twitched in the beginnings of a smile. He’d better not laugh at her.

She gestured to her hair then reached to catch a drip running down the side of her head. Her fingers were a dark magenta when she pulled them away.

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘It’s about the tearoom. I can…come back later if…’

‘No! I mean…no. Come in. I’ll just…’

She opened the door wide and let him pass. As soon as it was closed again she sprinted upstairs and into the bathroom. He would just have to wait while she sorted her hair out.

Ten minutes later, when the water had finally run from fuchsia through pale pink to transparent, she stood up and rubbed her head vigorously with a towel.

There were no sounds at all coming from the living room as she walked down the stairs. Had he left? The last thing she needed right now was to have to search the estate for him. It was almost Hattie’s bedtime.

She flicked a strand of damp hair out of her eye as she entered the room and stopped. Two heads were bent over a game of snakes and ladders. Not a word passed their lips. They rolled the dice, moved their counters, scaled ladders and slid down snakes in complete silence.

It wasn’t long before Hattie’s counter occupied the winning square. She looked up at Will and they smiled at each other. ‘Thanks, Will.’

Josie walked over and ruffled Hattie’s hair. ‘Come on, princess. Time you got into your PJs and brushed your teeth.’

Hattie smoothed her hair down with the flat of her hand and disappeared upstairs.

Josie turned to face Will and shrugged. ‘Sorry about that.’

He looked puzzled.

‘Trapped into a game of snakes and ladders. I hope you weren’t too bored.’

He shook his head. ‘It was fun.’

Fun. Really? Then where had been all the shrieks of joy and cries of despair? He was just being polite.

‘What brings you to my doorstep on a Sunday evening, then?’

He picked up a briefcase propped neatly against the leg of the table and removed a manila folder. His fingers were quick and precise, every action clean and efficient.

‘My architect has drawn up some plans for the tearoom. I thought you’d like to have a look. If you have any suggestions, please let me know.’

He handed her the file.

Well, there was a turn-up for the books. Somebody actually wanted her opinion on something for a change. All the years she’d spent trying to get Harry to listen to her…

That was the problem with being labelled an enfant terrible. Nobody took her seriously. This was her chance to show the world she was more than just a disaster on legs.

Will really seemed to want to do the best for the hall. And, since he had no knowledge of her infamous past, he looked at her without the blinkers—saw the potential instead of the danger. She liked that feeling.

Now, if only she could make sure he kept seeing her in that light. She mustn’t do anything stupid to change his opinion of her.

‘Do you want a coffee? I could look through these right now if you like. Strike while the iron’s hot.’ Keep it calm. Keep it professional, that’s right.

He nodded and the faint hint of a smile flickered across his face. ‘That would be great, thank you.’

‘OK…good. If you want to—’ she reached forward and cleared a pile of papers off one of the armchairs ‘—want to take a seat, I’ll be back in a second.’

Will looked round the room and headed for a wooden-armed chair.

Her hands flew forward in warning. ‘No! Not that one!’

Will was frozen, hovering over the chair, knees slightly bent.

She patted the back of the armchair she’d just cleared. ‘Try here. That one would disintegrate under your weight. Only Hattie can get away with sitting on that old thing.’

Will straightened his knees and looked suspiciously at the armchair.

‘This one will hold. I promise.’

It only took a couple of strides for Will to cross the room and perch on the edge of the chair. He didn’t look convinced.

He also didn’t say much. Silence made Josie fidgety.

‘Harry let me furnish this place with bits and pieces from the attics when I moved in. Some of it has seen a bit more woodworm than the rest.’

‘Oh, I see.’ He shuffled back in the seat of the chair, but managed to look just as uncomfortable as he had been when sitting on the edge.

Josie darted into the kitchen and started making the coffee. She had to do something to restrain the urge to babble away like a nutter.

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN SHE RETURNED with two cups of instant coffee he’d managed to slide right back into the armchair. Not daring to risk the other chair herself, she took the folder from him and spread the plans out on the table.

‘As you can see, there aren’t any huge changes. If we want to get the work done before the tourist season really kicks off, we’ll have to move fast.’

She wasn’t really used to reading blueprints. It all seemed a bit sterile and hard to imagine. Too flat. No colours. ‘What’s this section here?’

Will stood up and crossed the room. She pointed at a spot on the drawings and he stood behind her and leant over, following her finger.

‘That’s the self-service area and tills.’

‘They’re staying in the same place, then?’

She twisted her neck to look at him and discovered they were almost nose to nose. She hadn’t understood why Marianne had gone all weak at the knees at his supposedly ‘serious’ eyes, but now that they were focused on her she was starting to see where the attraction lay. Her breath stuck in her throat and she couldn’t do anything but blink back at him.

‘You think they should move somewhere else?’

Quickly, she snapped her head round to look back at the plans. ‘Um…’

All the little shapes had gone blurry. She forced her eyes to co-operate.

‘At the moment that long, straight layout funnels the customers towards the till. People who only want a hot drink have to queue up behind customers ordering food. I’d always imagined it would be better like this…’

She reached over and picked up Hattie’s drawing pad and flicked to a clean page. There weren’t any pencils or felt-tips easy to hand, so she used a purple crayon. Will leaned in even closer—she could tell because all of a sudden she could smell his aftershave—as she drew a few ragged lines to indicate the shape of the tearoom.

Then she drew a horseshoe shape with breaks in it.

‘If we had separate areas for drinks and hot and cold food—and maybe even two tills—we’d have a better flow of people and it would feel more open and inviting.’

Will picked up the pad and looked at it closely. Then he nodded.

Josie bit her lip.

‘I’ll get to the architects to amend the plans. We’re starting work next week but these sorts of things are finishing touches. It shouldn’t hold the work up too much.’

Josie stood up, taking her coffee-cup with her, and retreated to a safe distance. ‘Good. Glad to be of help. Any time.’

The urge to babble was getting worse. Now was the time to put the brakes on.

‘I’m really excited about the renovations and I’ve got some great ideas for the styling and decorating. I was thinking of wooden chairs and white walls with large modern art canvases…’

Stop. Stop now!

Her hands had been wildly illustrating her ideas. She dropped them and shoved them in her pockets for safe-keeping. ‘Never mind. No need to discuss all that right this very second.’

‘OK.’ He folded the plans neatly away and dropped them back into the waiting briefcase. ‘I’ll let you get back to…whatever you were doing.’

Her hand drifted to feel the damp tendrils. ‘Doing my roots.’

She fidgeted with the bangles on her wrist as he just stood there and looked at her. He opened his mouth, inhaled then shut it. He turned slightly, looking at the garden gate then focused on her once again.

‘What colour was it before?’

What? Oh, her hair! She reached up and touched the place where her hair parted.

‘I think it was white-blonde.’

‘No, before you started dying it strange—I mean, different—colours.’

She made a dismissive gesture, turning the corners of her mouth down. ‘Oh, you know. Nothing. Boring. Why do you want to know?’

Will stared over the top of her head. She was pretty sure he didn’t know why he’d asked. He had been a bit talkative for a man who was the dictionary definition of ‘the strong and silent type’.

The thump of little feet on the stairs behind her made her turn round. Hattie flew down the narrow cottage stairs and launched herself at Will, encircling his legs with her arms.

‘Bye, Will.’

He looked down at the child superglued to his legs and smiled. It was as if something about him had melted and softened. Just for a split-second.

‘Bye, Hattie.’

Something like electricity arced between the man and the little girl. Josie could swear she almost saw it. Not a bolt of lightning—more a slow, steady hum—but a strange kind of connection all the same.

All her life she’d wanted that to happen. That bolt from the blue, that sudden realisation that somebody ‘got’ her. She was still waiting.

It was unfair, that was what it was. And it was juvenile of her to be jealous of his instant rapport with Hattie.

She adored her daughter—really adored her—but if she hadn’t seen her arrive into the world and watched the wristband be attached then and there, she’d have thought her little girl had been swapped for another baby. Like those old wives’ tales about fairies leaving one of their own in place of a human child.

Mother and daughter were so totally different. And it wasn’t as if Hattie was anything like her father, either. She had none of his restless energy or extrovert tendencies.

Will attempted to untangle himself from Hattie.

‘Come on, Hattie. Let him go.’

Hattie obligingly dropped her arms and stepped away. See? There was another difference. If it were Josie, and she’d forged that kind of bond with someone at Hattie’s age, she’d have had to be prised away, yelling and screaming.

Will faced her again. The smile was gone. He looked about as comfortable as he had sitting in that old armchair.

‘Well, Josie. Thanks for your input.’

‘No problem.’

He looked down the path again. No doubt he was desperate to escape. Then she remembered something. ‘Oh, wait a minute. I’ve got something for you.’

She ran back into the living room and fished something out of a large bag beside the armchair. When she got back to the front door, she handed it to Will. ‘I crocheted this for you. Call it a peace offering.’

He turned it over once or twice. ‘What is it?’

Josie tried very hard not to be offended. ‘It’s a hat. March can still be quite cold in the country.’ What else did he think it was? A tea cosy?

‘Oh. Thank you. It’s very…colourful.’

He folded it in half and put it in his pocket.

‘Well, goodbye, then.’ And stupidly, as he turned to walk down the path, she added, ‘I’ll catch you next weekend, if I have any more ideas—if you’re down, that is.’

He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. ‘The decorators have finished in the private apartments now. I’ve decided to stay around and keep an eye on things myself for a bit.’

He didn’t say anything else, just raised a hand in a half-wave and carried on down the path. Josie responded with an anaemic ‘Bye’ that lacked enough volume for him to hear, and closed the door.

‘Do I have to go to bed right this very second, Mummy?’

Hattie was peeping at her from behind the living-room door. It really was bedtime in five minutes.

‘I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you go and set it up and we’ll have one last game of snakes and ladders?’

Hattie didn’t whoop or jump up and down, but her smile widened as far as it would go. ‘OK.’

As they sat playing for the next twenty minutes Josie stopped herself from shouting ‘yippee!’ every time she went up a ladder and blowing a raspberry every time she landed on a snake head, and something very strange happened.

Normally, Hattie would frown with concentration and get very upset if she lost, but this time she just seemed to relish the quiet. Every now and then her daughter would look at her and smile and Josie’s heart would tumble in love with her strange little changeling of a daughter all over again.

Later, after Hattie had got into bed, Josie read her a story and tucked her in. Just as she finished reading Cinderella Hattie let out a cry.

‘What is it, sweetheart?’

Her eyes filled up with tears. ‘I’ve lost Poppy!’

She smoothed the hair away from Hattie’s forehead and placed a kiss in the centre of her brow. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find her. She’s got to be here somewhere.’

Hattie never went far without her favourite doll. Thankfully, it was never too hard to find Poppy. She wore neon-pink fairy clothes and had brightly striped legs. The little fairy’s outrageous attire had saved her from being lost on more than one occasion.

Josie checked under the duvet and down the side of the bed.

‘Why don’t you say your prayers while I go and look downstairs?’ she told Hattie. ‘I’m sure I saw her sitting near the table when you played snakes and ladders with Will.’

Hattie nodded, her bottom lip quivering.

Josie clumped down the stairs, landing on both feet as she jumped off the second-to-last step. It didn’t take long to locate Poppy, who was lodged between the side of the dining table and the wall. She took the stairs more slowly going back up, deciding to wait until Hattie had finished her prayers before she delivered the good news.

She stood on the landing, smiling gently as she listened to Hattie ask blessings for each and every member of her class at school.

‘God bless Granny and Grandpa,’ Hattie continued in a high-pitched whisper. ‘God bless my new friend Will. God bless Mummy. God bless…’

Josie held her breath.

‘God bless my daddy. I know I’m not supposed to ask for things for myself, God, but could you remind him to come and see me soon? I was really little—only four and a quarter—when he came last time and he promised he’d take me to the zoo.’

Josie ran to the bathroom and furiously dabbed her eyes with a couple of sheets of toilet paper she ripped from the roll. Then she tried to blow her nose without making any noise.

She didn’t want to do anything to destroy Hattie’s innocent trust in the fact that her father would make good on his promise. The truth was, the last time she’d heard any news about Miles he’d been driving racing cars in Monte Carlo and having as wild a time as they’d had together when they’d been eighteen. She hoped, for her daughter’s sake, that one day he’d grow up and realise what he was missing.

But until then, perhaps it was better that his visits were infrequent. He certainly wouldn’t be a positive influence in Hattie’s life. At the moment, Hattie saw him with the rose-coloured vision of childhood. And in some strange way, that helped. For now, in his absence, he was the fantasy father—funny, charming, devoted. If Miles really became a permanent fixture in Hattie’s life, she was going to be awfully disappointed.

Josie held Poppy up so they were staring each other in the eye. ‘We’ll just have to fill in the gaps as best we can,’ she whispered. Poppy didn’t say much in reply, but Josie knew she’d hold up her end of the bargain.

She crept back to Hattie’s bedroom and poked Poppy’s head round the door. Hattie squealed and when Josie entered the room she found her bouncing up and down on the bed on her knees. She delivered Poppy safe into her daughter’s arms.

‘She was just playing hide-and-seek. I found her in the living room. Now, no more bouncing. Time to lie down.’

Hattie slid under the covers. Josie tucked the duvet under her chin and kissed her cheek. And, despite the urge to do exactly the opposite, she left her hair unruffled.

Piles of paper were everywhere. A stuffed pheasant sitting on a shelf kept a beady eye on him as he navigated the clutter in Harry Radcliffe’s study.

Will had been kidding himself thinking he could carry on with his business and be a part-time lord. Managing this project—no, managing his home—was going to be a full-time job and he needed office space.

The walls were lined with bookshelves and every available gap was filled with boxes, papers and mementoes from Harry’s travels. He didn’t know where to start.

On a certain level, he wanted to find out more about the man who had inhabited this study before him. Both his father and his grandfather had died when he was quite young and there had been no one to supply answers to the hundred-and-one questions about his family when teenage curiosity had struck.

Funnily enough, he’d never thought of himself as a Radcliffe. He’d been twenty-five before he’d discovered his grandfather had changed his name to Roberts, using one of his profusion of middle names as his surname.

Grandpa had always been very tight-lipped on the matter of family. It was his grandmother who had finally told him the whole sorry tale. Her husband’s family had cut him off and pretended he’d never existed. And the only crime he’d committed was to fall in love with the wrong woman. The injustice of it still made Will smart.

Not that his grandfather had ever expressed regret about marrying his grandmother, but it had to have hurt. His family had treated him like an outcast.

Will had been named after his grandfather and he’d been proud of the fact. Grandpa had been the one strong male influence in his life after his father’s early death, but he’d been so much more than a substitute parent. He’d been a friend, teacher and mentor.

William Radcliffe had not deserved to die feeling the shame that he’d forever marked his family as rejects and losers. And now Will had the chance to reverse the Roberts family fortunes, to regain the reputation his grandfather had been sure was past resurrection.

The Radcliffe family had allowed Elmhurst Hall to crumble and it would give him great satisfaction to restore it to its former glory, to turn it around and bring in an income to keep it safe for future generations—his children, not theirs. Then they’d see who the failures were.

Of course, he had to find the right woman to have them with. Someone demure but not dull, engaging but not outrageous. Someone who was ready to settle down and have a quiet country life. When he thought about it like that, it seemed an awfully tall order. Where was he going to find such a woman? And even if he did, would he fall in love with her?

No matter. If such a paragon of virtue really existed, he was bound to fall at her feet and worship.

Two hours later, he’d managed to clear most of the desk. It was hard to work out exactly how to categorise the things he’d found. Harry’s personal and financial affairs were inextricably combined with the estate business.

It seemed that Harry hadn’t thought of running the estate as a separate entity. That would have to change. Maybe he should look into setting up a charitable trust? But first things first. What Elmhurst needed was an administrator, someone to take care of the organisation, the people.

He picked up a photograph in a frame that was sitting on the desk. Until fifteen minutes ago, it had been hidden behind a stack of maps and magazines.

It was a black-and-white and taken, he guessed, some time in the Fifties. A large family group stood on the top lawn overlooking the sunken rose garden, squinting in the sunlight of a summer’s day. The man in the centre was Harry. He recognised him from some of the other photographs dotted around the hall. The rest of the group must have been made up of Harry’s brother—Will’s other great-uncle—and his children. Relations he’d never known.

Since the solicitor had tracked him down he’d had no contact from any of these people. It was as if they didn’t want to acknowledge his existence. He put the picture frame back down on the desk. Some of those children would only be in their fifties now. They couldn’t all be dead. So much for blood being thicker than water.

Hattie’s angelic face appeared at the counter, her chin lifted to see over the top of it. ‘Mummy, can I have another cake?’

Josie wiped her hands on her apron and looked at her daughter. ‘One is enough, sweetie. I’ll be finished in forty-five minutes and then we’ll be going home for tea.’

‘Please?’ Hattie clasped her hands in front of her, looking adorably hopeful.

‘Sorry. Why don’t you go and sit back down with your colouring book?’

Hattie dropped her hands and her shoulders hunched. ‘These tables are wobbly. I keep going wrong.’

Josie put her hands on her hips and looked round the makeshift tea and coffee area they had set up in the corner of the gift shop while the renovations were being completed in the tearoom. It really wasn’t ideal. She’d put tablecloths over the assorted garden furniture they’d cobbled together, but it was mismatched and left a lot to be desired.

‘Look! Those people over there have finished with the corner table. That one doesn’t wobble at all. Why don’t I help you move all your crayons and books over?’

A crayon rolled under the table in the moving operation and Josie ducked underneath to rescue it. Just as her fingers closed over it the old-fashioned bell on the door jangled. She backed out carefully, aware that the customers were getting a very good view of her rump.

She began talking as she started to stand. ‘Please excuse me. I was just…Oh.’

It wasn’t customers. It was the boss. He was clutching a familiar manila folder in his hand. Over the last few weeks he’d dropped by to see her at the end of the day every now and then to update her on the tearoom renovations. Was it her imagination, or were his visits getting more frequent? This was the second time this week and it was only Wednesday.

He thrust the folder in her direction. ‘I thought you might like to take a look at these brochures for new tills.’

‘That would be lovely, but…’ Her gaze drifted to a table of four on the opposite side of the room. ‘I just have a few more cream teas to prepare.’

He shrugged. ‘No problem. I’ll just sit here and keep Hattie company until you’re ready. Actually, I’ve got a surprise for you, princess.’

Hattie’s eyes widened. ‘Is it chocolate?’

Will laughed and put the folder down on the table. Josie wandered back to the food-preparation area, shaking her head. In between slicing scones and pouring tea she stole glances at the little table in the corner of the room. Will produced a wooden box from his briefcase. Hattie clapped as he opened it up to reveal a chessboard and chess pieces.

How thoughtful of Will. He must have noticed on previous visits that Hattie sometimes got bored on the days she had to fill the space between the end of school and the end of Josie’s working day sitting quietly at a table. There was a man who was a positive influence on Hattie. She smiled. Her daughter could certainly do with a good male role model.

By the time the last customers crossed the threshold, Hattie knew all the names of the pieces and exactly how they were allowed to move.

Josie took her apron off, hung it over a chair and crossed the room to join them.

‘Let’s see these brochures, then.’

Will dug the file out of his briefcase once again and handed it over. He nodded towards the board. ‘Do you play?’

She shook her head. ‘My older brother tried to teach me, but I was hopeless. I was always making illegal moves, sending my pawns whizzing across the board and letting my rook move diagonally.’

Hattie rolled her eyes. ‘Mum! It’s not that hard to remember.’

Josie laughed. ‘I know, but I just couldn’t resist bending the rules a little.’ She turned to Will. ‘You’re shocked. Don’t deny it.’

‘You’re never going to win if you don’t play by the rules.’

She placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. ‘I like playing by my own rules.’

Will shook his head and moved a pawn forward one space. ‘I’m starting to see that about you. But life follows a similar pattern, doesn’t it? If you don’t play by the rules, you don’t get ahead.’

That simply wasn’t true. She knew plenty of people who got ahead just because they had been born with a title or with money. They jumped to the top of the heap just because they could, because they thought it was their right. It had nothing to do with living by the ‘rules’ and everything to do with the old-boy network.

Perhaps it was just a different set of rules. Whatever. She still didn’t want to live by them. She knew her own values; she didn’t need anyone else imposing theirs on her. Freedom. Honesty. Unconditional love. Those were the things that were important. She had no problem in living according to those rules, the ones planted in her heart.

The new Lord Radcliffe had a lot to learn if he was still clinging on to the misguided belief that hard work and integrity would get him anywhere in his shark-infested social circle.

It wasn’t exactly what she’d imagined. Josie walked slowly through the newly refurbished tearoom, brushing the backs of the sturdy wooden chairs with her fingertips.

‘What do you think?’ Will looked hopeful.

‘It’s…’ dull? Stuffy? ‘…very traditional.’

‘Good. That’s the look I was going for.’

Josie sighed as she remembered reams of scribbled plans she’d built up over the years. She’d had such great vision for this place. It would have been fabulous.

Not like this. It was boring. And not just bog-standard boring. It was boring split into two syllables. Bor-ing.

‘You don’t like it.’ Will’s eyebrows edged a little closer together.

‘It’s very…appropriate.’ She mustn’t shudder, really she mustn’t, but that word—appropriate. Josie felt a quiver work its way up her body from her toes.

Will’s tiny frown developed into the full-blown variety. ‘You hate it.’

‘It doesn’t matter what I think.’

It was his stately home now. He could do whatever he liked with it.

‘Of course it does. I wouldn’t have asked for your opinion if I didn’t want it.’

That was Will all over, she supposed. In the last few weeks, as they’d spent more time together, she’d come to learn that he didn’t play games. Unless she counted the twice-weekly sessions when he was teaching Hattie to play chess.

‘What’s wrong with it, then?’

Josie turned full circle on the rubber heels of her boots, taking the room in.

‘All that burgundy drapery looks fine now, while we’re only just out of winter. It makes the place look cosy. But in high summer it’s going to be a bit dark and gloomy. Not very inviting on a hot day.’

‘We’re in Kent, not Florida.’

Josie gave him a look. ‘I know that. But it can get pretty warm here in July and August. And people get hot walking round the gardens.’

‘What would you have done, then?’

OK, she was going to try not to act as if she’d had this memorised for the past two years. ‘I’d have made it more contemporary. Light, bright and airy. Clean lines. White muslin curtains. Modern furniture. There’s a local artist who was prepared to show his work on the walls.’

‘That’s hardly in keeping with the history of the place, is it?’

Josie stopped swivelling to and fro on her heels and faced him. ‘It used to be the stables. If you’re going all out for historical accuracy, you should fill the place with saddles, horses and hay. And where there are horses there’s always plenty of horse—’

‘OK! I get the picture.’

‘Manure. I was going to say manure.’ She gave him her best angelic smile.

‘Of course you were.’

Will was giving her his trademark deadpan look, but underneath, just for a split-second, she could have sworn she’d seen the promise of a smile. She shouldn’t want to see more of that smile. It shouldn’t matter to her what he did with his mouth. Even if that bottom lip did look very inviting.

She shook her head. This was her boss and she shouldn’t be thinking about him like this. And even if he weren’t her boss, she wasn’t about to have a fling with another member of the aristocracy. It would end in tears. Hers probably. Hattie’s definitely.

Mentally, she added another entry to her unwritten set of rules: ignore Will’s bottom lip—and the rest of his finely chiselled face, for that matter. But then her thoughts just drifted lower, to the washboard abs and hard thighs Marianne the librarian had speculated about.

Perhaps she should just try and avoid thinking about him altogether.

While she’d been wrestling with herself, he’d crossed the room and unzipped a large bag balanced on a chair near the door. ‘While we are on the subject of new looks for the tearoom…’He pulled something out wrapped in the thin plastic that dry-cleaners used.

She took a few steps closer.

‘I thought the staff should have a unified look. Something more appropriate.’

He looked her up and down. Now, this was just a wild guess, but she was pretty sure that ripped jeans and a T-shirt with the name of her favourite rock band on the front was not what he had in mind when he said appropriate. Just as well she’d kept her jacket on and he couldn’t see the slogan splashed across the back.

He walked to where she was standing, let the folded bundle drop and she took in the full horror of the situation.

‘You have got to be kidding me!’

CHAPTER FOUR

‘IT’S just a uniform, Josie.’

‘No way! I mean…no way! Look at it!’ She held up a hand, keeping it at bay. ‘It’s grey!’

And knee-length, with buttons right up to her chin and a Peter-Pan collar.

Another one of those shudders started in her boots. And this one registered on the Richter scale.

‘I’m not wearing that.’

He looked her straight in the eye. ‘All the staff employed in this tearoom will wear the uniform.’

She wasn’t so thick she couldn’t catch the underlying implication in that last remark. They stared at each other.

This was the point at which she would normally go ballistic, do something completely outrageous. Just to let the person who was trying to squash her into some kind of mould know that it couldn’t be done.

‘Fine!’

She snatched the ghastly thing from his hands and walked to the door. He followed her and calmly zipped the bag back up. When he’d finished he stood and looked at her.

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