Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle
SARAH BENNETT

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Sarah Bennet 2019

Sarah Bennet asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008314804

Version: 2019-03-18

For Phillipa – always an inspiration x

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader

Extract

Keep Reading…

Advert

About the Author

Also by Sarah Bennett

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

‘Arthur? Arthur!’

The bellowing of his name roused Arthur Ludworth from a most pleasant snooze in front of the fireplace in the family room. Giving several of the castle’s mob of unruly dogs a gentle shove, he fought his way free from the cosy depths of one of the matching burgundy leather sofas and stood. Scrubbing a hand across his eyes, he frowned as Lancelot yelled his name once more. His normally placid-tempered uncle sounded furious.

‘Lord, what’s he shouting about?’ Tristan, Arthur’s younger brother by a matter of minutes, protested from the opposite sofa, one arm draped over his eyes, the other holding a brandy balloon which was in serious danger of spilling its precious contents onto the worn and faded Aubusson rug stretched out before the fire. Pippin, Tristan’s scruffy little border terrier, raised his head briefly from his master’s chest to grumble about being disturbed before settling back down again.

‘Mrs W’s probably hidden the whisky from him again,’ Igraine, the eldest of the three Ludworth triplets, said from her cross-legged position next to the fire, eyes still fixed on the screen of her e-reader. Thanks to an ancestor’s obsession with the Knights of the Round Table, it had become tradition for subsequent generations of Ludworths to be named after characters from those legends. Arthur felt like he and his brother had gotten away lightly—considering his grandfather had gone full-bore ridiculous in naming his sons Uther and Lancelot—but their sister hadn’t been so lucky. Refusing to be saddled with such a flowery name, she’d shorted it to Iggy, and woe betide anyone who forgot it.

‘Arthur!’ Lancelot’s roar was closer this time. ‘The hellbeast is on the phone for you.’

The last of Arthur’s post-dinner good mood evaporated at the mention of his uncle’s nickname for their mother. His soft groan was echoed by the other two. ‘Perhaps she’s called to wish us Happy New Year,’ he said, more out of hope than expectation.

‘Perhaps hell has frozen over,’ Iggy muttered, as she played her fingers over the thick dark plait of hair curling over one shoulder and almost into her lap. The self-soothing gesture was a hangover from their childhood, and one of those unconscious habits she’d never quite managed to break.

Arthur wanted to reach out and stop her, to take her hand and offer the comfort she obviously needed, but he stopped himself. There was too much to say—nothing he hadn’t already said a million times since he’d first become aware of the anachronistic inheritance rules attached to the Baronetcy of Ludworth that made him the rightful heir over her simply because he was their father’s first-born legitimate male issue—but tonight, of all nights, was not the one. He’d try again, soon, before the gulf he could sense between them split any wider.

Using one hand to hold his beloved pup in place, Tristan sat up then drained the last of the cognac in his glass. ‘If she asks after me, tell her I’m dead.’

‘Tris…’ Arthur hated himself for the soft admonishment the moment it left his lips.

Tristan shrugged, then checked his watch. ‘It’s nearly eleven, I’m going to sort Dad’s stuff out.’ Placing Pippin on the floor, he stood. The terrier cast him a baleful look at being so rudely disturbed then wandered over to jump up on the sofa Arthur had abandoned and wriggled his way into the centre of the dog pile still occupying most of it.

Iggy rose, all fluid grace and lean muscle from a lifetime spent more outdoors than in. ‘I’ll help you.’ The two of them left the family room via the opposite door just as Lancelot’s silvered head popped around the other one.

‘Traitors,’ Arthur muttered, before offering his uncle a weary smile. ‘How is she?’ He pointed at the cordless phone in Lancelot’s hand.

‘Poisonous, as ever.’ His uncle made no attempt to lower his voice as he thrust the phone towards him, and Arthur winced at the indignant squawk coming from the handset. ‘I’m off down The Castle for a pint.’ The only pub in the small village that sprawled out from the edges of the Ludworth Estate wasn’t the most imaginatively named establishment, but there was a guaranteed warm welcome for all who entered its front door.

Arthur wrapped his hand over the receiver. ‘You’re not coming out with us later?’

Lancelot shook his head, the fierce frown on his rugged features melting away, leaving behind lines of strain and grief. ‘Can’t do it, lad. Saying goodbye to him once was bad enough.’

Arthur swallowed. He didn’t feel much like doing it himself, but his father had been very clear about his final wishes, so he would honour them together with Tristan and Iggy. ‘We’ll walk down afterwards and say hello to everyone.’ And make sure Lancelot didn’t fall down one of the grassy embankments, which were all that remained of the once-imposing moat that had protected the residents of Camland Castle from invaders for centuries, on his way home. With a brief nod, his uncle left the room.

Having no more excuses to avoid speaking to his mother, Arthur lifted the phone to his ear. ‘Hello, Mother, how are you?’

‘How am I? How can you ask me that? How could he have been so cruel?’ Helena Ludworth-Mills-Wexford-Jones broke down into noisy sobs which Arthur knew from long experience wouldn’t produce enough tears to ruin her perfect make-up.

With a sigh, he rested his head back against the dark wood panelling lining the wall behind him and let the performance play out. His eyes strayed instinctively to the smiling portrait over the fireplace, and he wondered—not for the first time—how someone as jolly and lively as his dad had ended up married to someone like Helena.

Within less than a minute the sobs had quietened to a series of breathy gasps and he was able to make himself heard. ‘Who’s been cruel to you, Mother?’ It was a pointless question. Deep down in his gut he knew what the call was about. He’d settled the last bits of his father’s will with the solicitor the previous week. Not the best way to spend Christmas Eve, but the timing couldn’t be helped and Arthur had just been glad to see the back of everything after several months trying to tie off the myriad strands of red tape tangled around his dad’s sprawling portfolio. Once they’d untangled the mess of dodgy investments, short-term loans and several eye-watering overdrafts it had become clear to Arthur the estate he’d inherited was flat broke.

‘Your father, of course. He waited until the last to drive a dagger into my heart. I bet he went to his grave laughing over it.’

‘There wasn’t much to laugh about at the end,’ Arthur said, fighting to keep his voice steady as he pictured his father at the last. Uther’s once hearty frame had been reduced to little more than skin stretched over bone by the cancer that had ravaged him in a few short months.

‘But how am I supposed to survive on the pittance he’s left me?’ Helena wailed.

Arthur gripped the phone so hard his fingers turned white. God, she had a bloody nerve. ‘Technically, he didn’t owe you a penny.’ Helena had walked out on the four of them before the triplets’ second birthday, declaring her duty done, and had barely looked back. Even after she’d demanded a divorce to marry her second of four husbands—and counting—his dad had continued to support her financially over the next twenty-five years and had insisted on a final settlement for her in his will, one which the over-stretched estate could ill afford.

‘How can you say that? He owed me! Giving birth to the three of you ruined my figure and destroyed my career.’ Her voice wavered, and Arthur braced himself for another round of crocodile tears.

‘One feature in a magazine thirty years ago doesn’t exactly amount to a modelling career, Mother.’

‘That’s because I met your father shortly afterwards, and I had to give it up. I gave him everything he wanted—an heir, a spare and even a bloody brood mare to carry on the family line and look how he repays me!’

Anger shot through him. He hated the dismissive way she talked about them, especially Iggy. ‘That’s enough, Mother. The terms of Dad’s will have been settled and there’s nothing more to be said about it.’ He’d cut out his own tongue before he’d admit to her the mess they were in. It was his business—well, his, Iggy’s and Tristan’s because they’d refused to let him shoulder it alone—and no one else’s.

‘But you’re Baronet Ludworth now, Arthur.’

‘Not officially.’ In order to inherit his father’s title, Arthur had been required to apply to the Department for Constitutional Affairs to be formally recognised and have his name entered onto the official Roll of the Baronets. As with most things of that nature, the wheels turned slowly, and he was still awaiting confirmation. He’d tried in vain to appeal to them for Iggy to be recognised as the rightful heir, but had been advised, not unsympathetically, that the restrictions laid down could not be overturned.

‘Oh, you know what I mean.’ His mother’s formerly shrill tones turned soft and wheedling. ‘You control the estate.’

Arthur laughed, a bitter snap of sound. ‘You’ll get nothing out of me, Mother. Not one more penny.’ Even if the estate finances weren’t teetering on the brink, he had nothing to give the woman who’d ruined his father’s life.

‘He’s turned you against me! Listen, Arthur, you don’t understand—’

Bloody hell, the nerve of the woman! His dad had never said a bad word against her, had done everything in his power to keep a relationship between his beloved children and the mother who’d never given two hoots for them. Arthur had shed his last tears for her after she’d failed to turn up to collect the three of them from school for a long-promised weekend. They’d been 13 at the time. Tristan and Iggy had given up after an hour and gone back to their rooms, but Arthur had stayed on the front steps convinced she’d come motoring up any second complaining about a holdup with the traffic. As each hour past he’d gone from excited, to hopeful, and eventually to worried she’d had some terrible accident. His housemaster had finally coaxed a tearful, frozen Arthur inside after putting in a call to his father who’d tracked Helena down at Ascot races. Having received an invitation to someone’s box, she’d chosen to spend the day seeing and being seen by her society friends and couldn’t understand what the fuss was all about.

With an echo of that sad boy in his heart, Arthur cut off her protestations. ‘You abandoned us without a second thought, there’s nothing left to understand. If you need money, I suggest you ask your current husband for it.’ Arthur ended the call before any more of the bitterness welling up inside him could spill out. Shaking himself like one of their Labradors emerging from the pond after a dip, Arthur shed the cold shards of disappointment threatening to seep into his heart. She was never going to change. He’d known that at 13, and now, at 27, it was time to acknowledge it.

‘What did she want?’ Tristan entered the family room bundled up in a navy padded jacket and a bright yellow scarf, a locked metal box balanced carefully across his arms.

‘Money.’

‘I hope you told her to get stuffed,’ said Iggy who’d entered on Tristan’s heels, equally well wrapped up and carrying Arthur’s coat which she thrust at him.

‘Close enough.’ Accepting his coat, he tugged it on then moved to give Tristan a hand with the box. It wasn’t heavy, but they didn’t want to risk any accidents. ‘Are we ready for this?’

‘Nope, but let’s do it anyway.’ With a shrug, Iggy pulled a white knitted cap over her dark hair then tugged on a pair of matching gloves. God, she looked so sad. Arthur bet if he looked in a mirror right then, the same haunted look in her hazel eyes would be reflected in his. ‘I’ve put your boots by the front door,’ she said, pointing to the thick woollen socks on his otherwise bare feet.

‘Cheers, Iggle-Piggle.’ The hated nickname earned him a punch on the arm, but at least it eased some of the pain tightening her face.

It also sent him jostling into Tristan, who staggered a couple of steps, trying to keep the box steady. ‘Careful! We don’t want Dad going off by accident.’

Iggy patted the metal box with one gloved hand. ‘Sorry, Dad.’ The three of them laughed at the absurdity of it, further easing the stress of what was to come.

Steadying the box between them, Arthur and Tristan followed their sister through the echoing vaulted central chamber of the great hall. Once the beating heart of Camland Castle, it now belonged mostly to the dogs whose sprawling mass of beds and pillows occupied pride of place before the enormous fireplace which Arthur—at just a shade under six-feet tall—could still walk inside without ducking. Thick, evergreen boughs decorated with sprigs of blood-red holly berries and creamy-white clumps of mistletoe covered the high mantle, scenting the air with fresh pine. A matching display filled the middle of the enormous, age-scarred circular table positioned in the exact centre of the room.

As he did every time he passed through the space, Arthur paused to admire his sister’s handiwork. Born with a green thumb, according to their great-aunt, Morgana, Iggy was never happier than when she could escape into the gardens and woodland stretching out around the castle.

Their progress halted by the front door for Arthur to stuff his feet into the dark-green wellingtons his sister had previously put out for him. Ever practical, she’d also left a large torch beside his boots, something he’d completely forgotten to think about when they’d been planning this evening. Arthur watched Iggy’s face as she pulled opened the left-hand side of the imposing oak front door. The moment the chilly December air touched her skin, her whole body seemed to lift and lighten, as though she were some kind of sprite, only able to truly thrive out of doors.

Standing to one side, she ushered Arthur and Tristan out then shooed several disappointed dogs back into the warmth of the hall. ‘No walkies for you tonight, darling, you won’t like the noise,’ she said, rubbing the silken ears of Nimrod, one of a pair of greyhounds they’d adopted from the local shelter.

Knowing they had the space to accommodate them, the shelter would often call if they were struggling to rehome any dogs. Large dogs; older ones; those at the less aesthetically pleasing end of the spectrum—Arthur and his siblings would take them in. The numbers in the pack had ebbed and flowed over the years, and those that passed on were buried together in a beautiful grove in the woods, so they could ‘rest forever in the sunshine’ as Iggy had declared when they’d first chosen it as children.

Nimrod snuffled her palm, then allowed Iggy to gently ease him back far enough to tug the heavy door closed once more. A few protesting barks followed them as they descended the steps, but Arthur knew they’d soon all be sprawled in front of the hearth in a tangle of heads and tails.

Iggy dug her own torch from her pocket and aimed it at the gravel ahead of her, giving them a point of reference to follow. They followed the path as it wound around the western wall of the castle and beyond to the faded and overgrown formal gardens where it finally gave way to the gallops still used daily to exercise the horses from the successful Bluebell Castle stud their uncle ran from the stables.

The whimsical name was drawn from the incredible floral display the woods surrounding the castle put on every spring. The little flower had become so synonymous with the Ludworth family it had even found its way onto their family crest. Thoughts of what might become of his uncle’s business haunted Arthur along with a million other worries. Lancelot’s reputation was good enough the business could survive relocating elsewhere if the worst of their nightmares came true and Arthur was forced to sell up, but it’d be a devasting loss to the members of the local community who relied upon it for employment.

The circle of torchlight stopped as Iggy paused. ‘Here?’

‘Just a bit further, and then I reckon we’ll be fine,’ Tristan replied. ‘What do you think, Arthur?’

It was hard to gauge distances in the dark, but he knew the land beneath his feet as well as the back of his own hand. They were almost to the edge of where the formal lands surrounding their home gave way to the wild escarpments of the Derbyshire hills. Their father had loved tromping over those hills and it was also a symbolic threshold. Free of all worldly responsibilities, Uther’s spirit—or whatever—could escape back to the untamed wildness of nature. ‘Here is probably as good a spot as any. We’re well away from any trees.’

‘I think it’s perfect,’ Iggy’s voice held a slight tremor, but the beam of light cast by her torch onto the ground in front of them was steady as a rock.

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing with these things?’ Arthur asked Tristan as they bent to place the box gently on the ground.

‘I’m sure. I’ve read the instructions at least half a dozen times, and I had a briefing from the manufacturers when I went and picked them up. Stop fussing.’ The last was said with exasperated affection.

Taking up a position opposite his sister, Arthur pointed his own torch to increase the illuminated area and give Tristan enough room to work with. Trying to quell the nerves in his stomach, Arthur watched his brother unfasten the metal container and draw out the first of several massive rockets attached to long sticks. ‘Trust Dad to come up with something as daft as this,’ he muttered.

Tristan’s broad grin flashed up briefly in the torch light. ‘I think it’s a fab idea, who wouldn’t want to be turned into fireworks when they die?’

Just about everybody he could think of, but Arthur kept that to himself. Tristan had become enamoured with the idea from the moment they’d first read the request included in their father’s will. Arthur had never heard of it before, but once they’d looked it up on the internet, it had proven to be more popular than he’d expected. After reading some of the touching testimonials on the manufacturer’s site, he’d agreed to go along with it.

With their dad having passed away in early October, they could’ve done this on Bonfire night, but it had been Iggy’s suggestion that they wait until New Year Eve’s and mark the passing of the old year into the new with this final farewell and tribute. The symbolism of it had led Arthur to suggest this as the location, echoing as it did that transition from one thing to another: old to new; settled lands to wilderness; life to death.

Tristan paced out the placement of each of the eight rockets provided with the kit and set them firmly into the ground. He then removed the central piece of the display—a multi-firework barrage which could be lit by a single fuse. Straightening up, he checked his watch. ‘Five minutes.’

They waited in silence until the first distant chime from the village church, then Tristan stepped forward to fire the first rocket using the special ignitor kit provided by the manufacturer. A shiver travelled down Arthur’s spine at the distinctive whoosh of the firework streaking high into the air, and then all his worries vanished as a huge boom echoed off the nearby rocky hills and a sparkle of silver and blue bloomed across the dark sky above their heads. Seconds later, the second rocket splashed golden rain, swiftly followed by the third, a bright silver starburst that ended in a series of crackles. Tristan lit two more, bright blue then bright green, five in total to mark each decade of their father’s too-brief life.

Having lit the barrage, Tristan stepped back to join Arthur and Iggy who’d come to stand beside him and they watched in awed silence as the sky lit up with flash after flash of multi-coloured sparks sending their father on his way. Though the company had promised the barrage would last for two minutes it felt like much longer, and by the end of it Arthur found his face was aching from smiling so much at the sheer joy and exuberance. ‘Well done, Dad.’

‘That was fabulous, just perfect,’ Iggy said as she squeezed his hand.

‘Just the last three left.’ Tristan offered the ignitor to Arthur. ‘Age before beauty.’ Arthur took it with a shake of his head. Apart from a pale scar bisecting Arthur’s left eyebrow thanks to a fall from one of the mighty oak trees spread throughout their woods, they were alike enough to be mistaken for each other by anyone who didn’t know the family well.

As he stepped up to one of the remaining rockets, all traces of humour fled and he found it hard to breathe around a sudden ache in his chest. The official memorial service they’d held back in the autumn had been the time for wordy tributes and eulogies. Now, he had only one thing left to say. ‘Blaze bright, Dad, always.’ With shaking fingers, he touched the ignitor to the fuse.

Bright silver sparks showered high above as Iggy placed a soft hand on his back before accepting the ignitor from him. ‘Love you, Daddy, to the stars and back.’ Her fiery tribute streaked into the sky, a perfect crackling match to Arthur’s rocket.

‘We’ll always have Paris,’ Tristan said as he lit the third and final fuse, and the three of them laughed. Stolen from Casablanca, it had been their dad’s response to any awkward or emotional situation, and had become his traditional farewell phrase whenever he’d dropped them off at school.

As the final firework blazed above, they turned away towards the castle. Mixed amongst the smoke, the ashes of Uther Pendragon Ludworth, fourteenth Baronet Ludworth of Camland Castle drifted to settle over the lands he’d loved so much, and Arthur swore he’d do everything in his power to keep hold of them.

CHAPTER TWO

‘You’ve got this. You’ve done all the research, double-checked and triple-checked everything. Come on now.’ Pep talk over, Lucie Kennington released her grip on the porcelain sink in the ladies’ bathroom and turned on the cold tap. Running her wrists under the cool water, she practised a deep breathing technique she’d picked up at yoga class and squished down the last of the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

A quick check in the mirror above the sink told her the carefully applied ‘there, but not there’ make-up she’d got up an hour earlier than normal to apply still looked flawless. One of the first things she’d learnt when starting at Witherby’s Fine Art five years previously was the importance of presentation. Whether it was finding the perfect frame for a painting, a table from the right period to display an exquisite porcelain vase, or just ensuring you were immaculately turned out, presentation was an essential part of maintaining Witherby’s reputation as one of the foremost auction houses in the country.

Having used a damp finger to tame a stray tendril threatening to escape from the sleek bun tied at her nape, Lucie dried her hands on one of the white hand towels stacked in neat rolled rows next to the sink then slid her arms into her navy jacket. Single button fastened at her waist, a quick half-turn and a smoothing hand over the matching pencil skirt and she was ready to face the music.

The low heels on her navy court shoes sank into the deep pile of the forest green carpet as she strode along the hallway then down the sweeping staircase which led from the upper floor staff offices to the ground floor housing the exhibition spaces. Witherby’s occupied what had once been a grand Georgian mansion in the heart of London, and its high sculptured ceilings and painted half-panel walls added to the gravitas and atmosphere. Coming to work every day in the exquisitely beautiful building felt like a real privilege to Lucie—even if the ancient heating system and original sash windows left something to be desired in the cold depths of winter.

As she stepped down onto the creamy marble floor of the imposing entrance hall, a blast of cold from the open front door sent a shiver through her, and she was glad for the thermal vest hidden beneath her silk blouse. A strip of Wedgwood blue sky showed over the rooftops of the buildings across the street. It might be chilly, but at least the weather was fine which boded well for their first major sale day of spring. A quick, nervous smile to James, the doorman clad in a traditional set of tails, complete with top hat, earned her a wink in return. ‘It’s going to be a good one,’ he said. ‘They were queuing to get in.’

His declaration did nothing to quell her nerves, nor did the hubbub of conversation already spilling out of the open double-doors of the main auction room. The start of the auction was still three hours away. ‘Better go and make sure everything’s ready then!’ Lucie kept her tone bright and breezy, like it was just another day and not the most important one to date in her career. With a quick wave, she headed down a short corridor to the left of the main entrance and into the private viewing area where select patrons were given time to peruse the best lots in relative peace.

One more deep breath as she paused on the threshold and then she swept into the room, head high, smile bright, eyes dancing over the people already gathered with a glass of Buck’s Fizz. ‘Something to drink, Ms Kennington?’ Marnie, one of this year’s new interns, offered her a silver tray topped with glasses.

‘Thank you.’ Lucie accepted a highball filled with sparkling water. The ice clinked, and she wrapped her left hand over the right to calm the slight shaking. She cast a glance around the room, trying to focus on individuals and not just the blur of chattering faces. Spying a famous newspaper art critic holding court in one corner, she took a too-large mouthful of water and almost choked as the bubbles fizzed up the back of her nose. Smooth, Lucie. Snorting out one’s drink was most definitely not the ‘Witherby’s way’ of doing things.

Hoping nobody had noticed her discomfort, she began to stroll around the edge of the room, catching snippets of conversations as she went. It came as no surprise how few of the discussions were about the painting they’d all gathered to see. Art was rarely appreciated solely for its ability to induce an emotional reaction, whether breath-taking joy, or shock and discomfort. It had become a commodity. A thing to own for the sake of owning it, or even as a way of reducing taxation liabilities. It was the ugly side of the art world, a necessary evil without which she wouldn’t be able to do the job she loved. But it broke her heart to think of all the treasures secreted away in bank vaults and kept under lock and key. A shiver ran through her. Try as she might to escape it, the tendrils of materialism continued to thread themselves through her life.

‘Ah, Lucinda, there you are.’ The warm greeting from Carl Nelson, the head of her department, chased away the dark clouds gathering in her mind. He’d been nothing but supportive since she’d first joined the company as a shy girl fresh from university. Setting her shoulders, she lifted her face to meet the paternal smile he aimed her way and moved towards the small group gathered around him. ‘I was just telling everyone about your remarkable discovery.’

A woman clad in a sleek black skirt and jacket that whispered of vintage Chanel from every stitch and thread gave Lucie an appraising glance before smiling. ‘You really just found the piece hanging forgotten in the hallway?’

Lucie nodded. ‘I was there to appraise another artwork entirely. I turned to take off my coat and caught sight of the Meileau from the corner of my eye.’ She paused, lost for a moment in the memory of her first sight. Butterflies danced inside her, the same as they had in the dusty hallway of a suburban bungalow. The luminous blues and greens of the beautiful watercolour had glowed even in the half-light of a gloomy afternoon, stealing the breath from Lucie’s lungs.

‘And Impressionism isn’t even her speciality.’ The slightly hesitant voice behind her shoulder was another welcome balm to Lucie. Turning, she made room for a slightly rumpled-looking Piers Johnson to join them. ‘So you can imagine,’ he continued with a quick wink at Lucie, ‘how green with envy we were when our Pre-Raphaelite-loving colleague stumbled across one of the discoveries of the decade.’

Fighting not to blush, Lucie found his hand and gave it a quick squeeze before dropping it again in case he got the wrong idea. With his kind blue eyes twinkling from behind the lenses of his wire-framed glasses, to the ruffled brown hair that always looked in need of a good comb, Piers had the kind of bookish charm that ticked every one of Lucie’s boxes. Or should have.

They’d dated a handful of times the previous summer before Lucie had admitted reluctantly to herself that the only stimulation between them was on an intellectual level. When he’d finally kissed her in a quiet corner of the V&A where they’d been to visit an exhibition together, it had been…pleasant.

Though he’d been disappointed when she’d suggested they had too much to lose in terms of both friendship and their working relationship, he’d been nothing but gracious. Over the past twelve months he’d never intimated he wanted to resume their fledgling romance, but she caught the odd look from him now and then that made her wonder, so she was at pains not to act in a way he might take as encouragement. He was a decent man, and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt or embarrass him. Turning up to support her today was just the sort of thing he would do, and she wished, not for the first time, that she was attracted to him. He was perfect for her in every other way.

Swallowing a sigh of regret, she turned his compliment aside with one of her own. ‘Oh, Piers, don’t tease so. Everyone knows how much you’ve done to build Witherby’s reputation to what it is today. I’m just a beginner in comparison.’

Casting her a grateful smile, he shoved his glasses back in place with his forefinger. ‘You’re too kind.’ He turned back to the client. ‘Since Lucie’s find we’ve all been trawling the valuation enquiries inbox in the hopes of matching her success.’

Members of the public were welcome to submit requests directly to Witherby’s via their website, and it usually fell to Lucy and the other junior valuation staff to comb through the emails and winnow out anything of interest. Her find had, temporarily at least, elevated the task from mundane chore to something of an in-house competition to find the next big thing.

‘It was pure luck,’ she stressed. ‘Any one of my colleagues could’ve been assigned the visit. I was just in the right place at the right time.’

‘Well, we’re all on tenterhooks. When do we get to see this masterpiece?’ The sleek woman asked.

Glancing past the woman’s shoulder, Lucie spotted Carl making his way towards the cloth-swathed stand in the centre of the room. Immediately, the butterflies in her tummy were dancing once more. ‘Any minute now.’

‘Allow me.’ With a smile, Piers offered the woman his arm, excusing himself from Lucie with a smile. No doubt he’d sensed her nerves and was giving her space to compose herself. Such a good man. As he strolled away, his words drifted back to Lucie. ‘There were some questions over the provenance, but Lucie beavered away until she scraped together enough data to satisfy the committee.’

Lucie winced. It was true she’d faced an uphill battle to trace an unbroken line of ownership of the Meileau. Piers was no doubt just trying to make polite conversation, but she wished he would be a little more discreet. Someone might overhear him and assume there was some question mark over her research, which could be ruinous. Provenance was everything in the art community, and any doubt in its veracity might put off potential bidders. Trying not to let her nerves ratchet up to panic, she gave the pair a wide berth as she made her way towards the circular dais along with the rest of the converging crowd.

‘Lucinda, where are…oh, there you are. Come on up.’ Carl gestured to a spot beside him facing the gathered staff and guests.

Feeling heat prickle in her cheeks, Lucie edged towards the front to slip through a gap and join him. Never comfortable in the spotlight, she would’ve preferred to remain within the group. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter who had discovered the painting, only that someone had brought it back into the light for the world to enjoy once more. Credit where credit is due. The old adage drifted up from her memory, the words spoken by her grandfather when she demurred over him giving her a special present after she’d received an award at her school’s speech night. When she’d pointed out her award had been for participating in a group project, he’d chucked her cheek with his finger. ‘You’re allowed to shine a little bit, sometimes. People will be quick enough to steal your glory, don’t give it away so easily.’

With the spirit of her grandfather boosting her courage, Lucie forced her shoulders to relax and lifted her head to meet Carl’s encouraging smile. He’d been instrumental in ensuring she received her due. He’d monitored her progress as she’d worked to pin together the bits and pieces of lost provenance caused in the main by the desperate flight from Paris a few steps ahead of the unrelenting press of the Third Reich sweeping over France’s borders by the grandparents of Mrs Richardson, the now-owner, in the spring of 1940. Along with many other French Jews, their assets had been seized, the belongings they’d left behind ransacked by neighbours and former friends caught up in the anti-Semitic frenzy of those darkest of days.

It had taken many hours of delicate negotiation and correspondence with the great-granddaughter of a neighbour, before she’d allowed Lucie to search through the contents of their attic. In amongst boxes and suitcases stuffed with personal items and correspondence belonging not only to Mrs Richardson’s grandparents but a host of other families who’d fled—or worse—Lucie had eventually found the original bill of sale for the Meileau. What other secrets might still be hidden in amongst the other boxes she’d left for others to uncover.

Lost in the memory of that dark, dusty attic filled with ghosts, Lucie didn’t realise that Carl had launched into his speech until he mentioned her name again. With a little jump, she resolved to pay more attention, though it was hard to concentrate with so many eyes trained upon her. Mrs Richardson should’ve been there to celebrate the moment, but she and her husband had decided to avoid the limelight and inevitable press intrusion that would follow if the painting came close to achieving the sort of sales figure the valuation team were expecting, and had gone away on holiday. The auction house’s legendary spring fine arts sale had been a calendar fixture for many years, and the Meileau was the star of the show. Lucie couldn’t blame the Richardsons for wanting to stay anonymous.

Carl’s tone increased in volume and enthusiasm as he built up to the finale of his speech. ‘…And without further ado…’ Lucie took the agreed upon cue and moved to the other side of the painting to grip the velvet covering as Carl did the same on his side. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Witherby’s is proud to share with you the first official unveiling of François Meileau’s Summer’s Eve.’

To a round of applause they lifted the cover, Lucie already turning eagerly to drink in the beauty of the painting. Secured safely in the vaults beneath the auction house, it had been several weeks since she’d last set eyes on it, and the myriad photographs she’d taken couldn’t do it justice. Like a woman relearning the face of a long-lost lover, she let her greedy gaze rove over the entire surface of the work, waiting for the flutter of excitement she got every time she was up close to a masterpiece. And waited.

Whether it was too much excitement, or just plain nerves she wasn’t sure, but the gut-punch of pure emotion she’d come to expect didn’t come. The brushstrokes that had once seemed to dance across the canvas lay dull and flat, the delicacy of the colours she’d so admired missing somehow. Feeling strangely hollow, she edged back from the stand allowing the guests to crowd closer. Heat swept through her, churning her stomach and dampening the base of her spine until the silk of her blouse clung unpleasantly to her skin beneath her jacket. As she backed away from the stand, she watched Carl accept congratulations from one of the guests with a clink of their champagne flutes before they turned to face the painting. Arms waving like a windmill, he rabbited a mile a minute, oblivious to the dread creeping through Lucie. She waited for him to react, to notice what she had within seconds, but he continued to chatter to one person after another.

When a reporter clutching a notepad moved up beside him, Lucie found herself swallowing back a mouthful of bitter bile. Unable to watch anymore, she turned away and locked gazes with Piers. A deep furrow arrowing down between his brows, he worked his way across the room before her. Feeling hunted, Lucie backed up until her shoulders bumped against the dark wood panelling of the far wall.

Stopping barely inches from her, Piers cast a horrified glance towards the painting before fixing his confused stare back on Lucie. ‘What,’ he muttered low enough no one else could hear, ‘the fuck is that?’

His unusual use of the expletive as much as the churning inside told her the worst of all possible truths. She hadn’t been wrong, it hadn’t been a case of first night nerves or over-anticipation. ‘I don’t know.’

Piers’ eyebrows all but disappeared beneath the floppy strands of his fringe. ‘You don’t know?’ There was a disbelieving edge to his tone, as though he was shouting at her even though his voice barely carried across the few inches separating them.

Feeling tears prickling behind her eyes, Lucie blinked hard. ‘It’s not the painting I found. It looks like it, but that’s not the Meileau. I don’t know how this has happened.’ Her last words came out as a low wail and Lucie clamped her hand over her lips to stifle it.

Piers opened his mouth, and she flinched back against the wall expecting a tirade of abuse. Not that he was one to rage and shout, but the enormity of the disaster they were facing surely deserved it. It would be ruinous, not just for her career, but for the auction house as a whole. They’d made a huge song and dance about her discovery, had set the Meileau up as the star of the season and instead unveiled what to Lucie’s eyes looked like a poor man’s facsimile of the original. As though his knees were as weak as hers, Piers slumped against the wall beside her, stunned eyes fixed on hers.

‘What are we going to do?’ she whispered.

‘I don’t know,’ he whispered back.

‘We should tell someone.’

He shook his head. ‘Not now. We can’t. Not in front of this lot. It’s not the way.’

The Witherby’s way. God. Making a scene in public might almost be frowned upon more than the scandal of displaying what Lucie was almost entirely convinced was a fake painting. Almost. She wanted to cry. No, she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. She wanted her mum. But she wasn’t a little girl anymore, and no one was coming to rescue her. ‘Okay, okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to grit our teeth, smile and blag our way through the next hour that’s what we’re going to do.’

Piers stared at her for a long moment before throwing the remaining contents of his champagne glass down his throat. ‘Okay, I’ll get us another a drink.’ With a wave, he summoned a server and swapped his empty glass for a new one. When he spotted the glass of water Lucie still clutched between numb fingers, he swiped it from her and thrust a second glass of champagne towards her. ‘Here.’

‘I wasn’t going to drink tonight.’

He bit off the beginnings of a hysterical laugh. ‘You’re going to need it. And you might as well get something from the company whilst you can.’

Whilst she could? What on earth was that supposed to mean? Oh. ‘They’re going to sack me.’

Piers gave her a sad smile. ‘Well, I don’t think they’re going to invite you to join the board of directors, that’s for sure. Right, drink up and put a smile on your face. This is supposed to be your moment of triumph. If anyone catches you looking like a wet weekend, the game will be up. If one or other of us catches Carl alone, we’ll have to try and warn him.’ Following his own advice, Piers took a long swig from his glass then turned away from her. ‘Ah, Charles, there you are! What do you think of our little masterpiece then?’

*

The hour that followed was one of the longest of Lucie’s life. Fascinated by the backstory as much as the painting itself, one guest after another demanded her version of events from first discovery to finding the bill of sale. Jaw aching from the rictus grin she’d plastered on, Lucie drank and chatted like the life and soul of the party, her eyes never straying far from Piers as he worked the opposite side of the room. Carl maintained his position beside the painting, acting as master of ceremonies and still seemingly oblivious to the impending disaster.

When Piers moved towards him, Lucie feared the champagne churning in her belly would end up spewed all over the antique rug beneath her feet. Like witnessing a slow-motion car crash she watched the colour drain from Carl’s face as Piers muttered into his ear. When Carl’s disbelieving gaze met hers, there was nothing Lucie could do other than nod miserably to confirm the terrible news.

*

‘What the hell happened?’ Carl asked for the dozenth time in the ten minutes since they’d entered his office after ushering out the last guest. Lucie had stopped trying to explain after the first five times he’d asked it. At least he’d stopped yelling. Her eyes strayed to the pile of shattered glass in one corner, the remnants of a Lalique paperweight he’d snatched from his desk and flung against the bookcase in his rage. She’d never seen him out of control and had Piers not stepped in front of her at the first signs of Carl’s temper, she might have been more scared. As though he’d finally blown out the last of his fury, Carl dropped like a stone into the leather chair behind his desk and buried his face in his hands for a few seconds before lifting it to stare at them. ‘We’ll have to cancel the sale. Spin some story about the owner having second thoughts about parting with it. I’ll speak to the publicity department first thing tomorrow.’

Feeling like it was safe to come out from behind Piers now Carl sounded so much calmer, Lucie edged to her right. ‘I’ll see if I can contact Mrs Richardson.’

‘No.’ Carl’s sharp response ricocheted around the room like the bang of a gun. ‘You will gather your things and leave this building immediately. Consider yourself on suspension until further notice. You won’t speak a word to anyone about this other than the internal security team when they contact you.’

Feeling sick, Lucie swayed for a moment before forcing some steel into her spine. She hadn’t done anything wrong. There had to be a logical explanation for this, if she could just stop the panicked swirl of her brain for two minutes, she knew she could fathom it out. ‘I’m happy to cooperate, of course, but I’m sure it’s just some kind of mistake.’

‘Mistake? How can you stand there and tell me the most important artwork of the season has been replaced by a fake whilst it was under your care, and call it nothing more than a mistake? The word you are looking for is fraud.’

The word struck her like a blow, spinning her back almost fifteen years as she watched a team of policemen root through the contents of her bedroom as her mother sobbed in a heap on the landing. ‘You…you can’t…’ Swallowing, she tried again. ‘You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with this?’ She turned from Carl to Piers, hands held out in appeal. ‘Why would I tell you it wasn’t the right painting if I was trying to pull off some kind of scam?’

Piers glanced down at the carpet, clearly uncomfortable. ‘But you didn’t tell me, not until it was obvious I’d spotted there was something wrong with it.’

‘What? No! That’s not how it happened at all! As soon as Carl pulled off the cover I knew it wasn’t right, I told you.’ Frantic, she ran through the events in her head. As soon as she’d realised something was wrong, she’d…oh. She hadn’t said anything, had she? She’d backed away instead of immediately making Carl aware of it. And it had been Piers who’d approached her, not the other way around. ‘I swear to you both, I don’t know anything about this. I swear.’

Piers flushed. ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, not at all, but none of this makes sense.’

‘I trusted you, Lucie.’ The accusation in Carl’s tone cut her to the quick. ‘I should have listened to my instincts when I found out about your background, about the kind of family you come from. Instead, I gave you the benefit of the doubt, and this is how you repay me!’

A wave of nausea swept through her and she pressed a hand to her lips as though to hold it back. He couldn’t be implying… ‘You had my background investigated? Is that even legal?’ Even as she said it, the fight left her. It didn’t matter what she did, how diligently she worked to prove herself, she was never going to escape her name. Her past.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Carl shot her a look of such contempt she knew it was true. ‘We are the premier auction house in the country for a reason, and protecting our reputation is tantamount!’ There was no denial in any of that, he really had looked into her background.

‘It was fifteen years ago! I was a child, I had nothing to do with anything my father did.’ She could hear the pitch in her voice climbing and forced herself back into silence. Like father, like daughter. The apple never falls far from the tree. All those sayings existed for a reason—because people actually believed them.

Raising his hands to his face, Carl scrubbed at his eyes, tone quieter now, as though he was talking to himself. ‘Employing the daughter of a convicted fraudster? What was I thinking! It won’t be just you losing your bloody job over this.’ He pointed towards the door. ‘Get out of my sight!’

Only the neat crescents of her nails digging deep into the palms of her clenched fists stopped the tears of frustration from spilling over. Crying wouldn’t do any good, it might even serve to demonstrate a guilty conscience. Lucie followed Piers with her eyes as he crossed the room to pull open the door. He muttered something to whoever was outside, then stepped back. To her horror, Mr Hazeltine, Witherby’s head of security stood in the corridor. God, this was some kind of terrible joke. She looked from Carl to Piers and back again. Grim-faced, neither of them spoke.

‘If you’ll come with me, Miss Kennington, I’ll take you to gather your belongings.’ The security chief held out his hand indicating he wanted her to go with him.

With no fight left in her, Lucie did as he bade. To his credit, Mr Hazeltine took a slightly circuitous route to the restroom area which also contained staff lockers in an anteroom between the two sets of bathrooms and they only passed a couple of people she knew on the way. Neither spoke when it would be normal practice for both to say at least hello, and Lucie felt her insides cringe. The gossip mill was already churning, which was hardly surprising giving the volume of Carl’s earlier yelling.

Mr Hazeltine checked the anteroom then nodded for her to enter. Lucie’s low heels sunk into the plush carpet as she crossed to her locker, then paused key in hand. ‘Did you want to search this?’

‘I’ll also require the keys to your office, and your access pass.’ His voice was so bland, like they were discussing something as neutral as whether he took his tea with milk, rather than whether she’d got a load of stolen contraband stuffed under her spare pair of tights. ‘Of course.’ Lucie unhooked the lanyard dangling around her neck then sank onto the velvet banquette lining the wall before catching her slumped posture and forcing herself into an upright position. Body language and appearance were everything. It was the Witherby’s way, after all.

It took about ten minutes to go through the meagre contents of her locker, and though he hadn’t suggested it, Lucie took the opportunity to empty out the contents of the small rucksack she used to ferry her belongings back and forth to work. Laying out her trainers, a selection of old receipts, a spare pair of tights, two books—both of which were recent bestsellers—and a small cosmetic bag containing a few bits of make-up and a handful of tampons, she tried not to think about what it said about her life. It could be the contents of any woman’s bag. There was nothing amongst the items that said anything about her, who she was, what she thought, what she felt. She’d tried so hard to present the perfect front, and yet it seemed there was no escaping the past.

‘Right, I think I’ve got everything I need for the time being.’ Mr Hazeltine closed the door to her locker with a decisive click then pocketed the keys. ‘Now, before you go home, I should remind you about the non-disclosure clause in your employment contract.’

Bewildered, she could only blink at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

If the smile he gave her next was supposed to be reassuring, it was anything but. ‘When you signed your contract, you agreed not to discuss any matters which could harm or in any other way bring the reputation of Witherby’s into disrepute.’ The words tripped off his tongue in such a way she could tell it was a direct quotation. ‘Until this matter is satisfactorily resolved, you cannot discuss it with anyone—legal counsel permitting, of course—outside these four walls.’

‘L…legal counsel? Do you honestly think it might come to that?’ And how the hell was she going to be able to afford it, if it did? ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. This is all a horrible mistake!’

There was that smile again, all teeth and no warmth. ‘We’ll be in touch in due course. Try to be patient, these things can take time.’

Lucie found herself thanking him, when she wanted to throw herself at him and beat her fists against his chest in frustration. Not the Witherby’s way. Clenching the scraps of her pride together, she clamped her mouth tight against any further protests and gathered her belongings. As Mr Hazeltine escorted her out the rear entrance, Lucie knew she’d never be crossing the threshold of Witherby’s again. Not now they’d found out who she really was.

CHAPTER THREE

‘Yes, yes, I understand.’ Arthur spoke into the phone as he stared across the wide oak desk in what was now his office and met his brother’s eyes. ‘And there’s no chance of recovering any of it?’

‘I’m sorry, Sir Arthur, we tracked the funds as far as the Cayman Islands, but they’re notorious for withholding cooperation.’ Inspector Dillon sighed. ‘Even if we could get them to let us inspect their records it’s highly unlikely the funds are still in situ. It’s taken us the best part of eighteen months to get Masterson’s case to a verdict. We assume he’s not acted alone, though he’s not said as much. Hasn’t said anything beyond “no comment” since his arrest, slippery sod.’

The very last of his hopes sinking, Arthur shook his head at Tristan’s enquiring glance. ‘Well, I want to thank you, Inspector, for all your hard work and diligence in bringing him to justice. Please pass on our gratitude to your team, also.’

‘I will, Sir Arthur, I’m just sorry we couldn’t get the justice you and all the other innocent victims deserve.’ He sounded exhausted, poor man, which wasn’t surprising considering Masterson’s case had been splashed all over the tabloids. Ponzi schemes were nothing new, but it was the calibre of people who’d been caught up in Masterson’s fraud that had the press pack slavering. Arthur’s father hadn’t been the only notable name to lose a fortune. From members of the peerage to pop stars and actors, the roll call of the duped and deluded had been a gossip columnist’s dream.

‘Not at all, and you have our profound thanks for keeping us up to date with developments in the case, I’m sure you have enough on your plate.’

‘Well, the times I met your father, I was touched by what a decent man he was. I was very sorry to hear of his passing, and it seemed the least I could do under the circumstances.’

So, Arthur wasn’t the only one who suspected the stress of the case had contributed to his father’s demise. ‘Thank you. I know he held you in very high esteem, Inspector, as do we all.’ Having ended the call, Arthur dropped the handset into the cradle then let his head fall back. As he studied the brilliant crystal droplets of the chandelier hanging above the desk, he acknowledged how much hope he’d been clinging to—hope that Masterson would have a change of heart and enter some kind of plea bargain deal. The money was gone. And that was all there was to it.

‘What are we going to do?’

Tristan’s question made Arthur sit up straight once more. ‘We’re not going to do anything, little brother. You and Iggy are going to get the hell out of Dodge while you still can. No point in all three of us going down with the sinking ship, is there?’

Swiping the dark curls of his fringe out of his eyes, Tristan glared at him. ‘Don’t start that nonsense again, or you and I will have a serious falling out.’

‘Stubborn fool.’ Exasperation and affection filled the words in equal measures.

‘Takes one to know one.’

He had a point. The two of them were similar in far more than looks, Arthur thought as he smoothed a hand through his shaggy hair, which was well overdue for a cut. He was looking more like Tristan every day, though Arthur was broader thanks to years spent rucking on a muddy rugby field. With his taller, more slender build, Tristan had been better suited to the cricket pitch. It had relieved them both to find their own sport to excel at, as people had tried to pit them against each other for as far back as he could remember. There’d never been any sense of competition between them, though. Their father and uncle had set an example which they’d been only too happy to follow—regardless of whose shoulders the family title rested upon, the Ludworths would succeed, or fail, together. Just lately though, Arthur had begun to regret this, desperate as he was to spare his siblings the pain of witnessing their family legacy collapsing before their eyes.

Frustrated, Arthur shoved his fringe from his eyes, an unconscious mirroring of his brother’s earlier action. He’d never really bothered much with his own appearance, content with a short back and sides whenever he could be bothered to pop down to the little barbershop in the village, and a basic uniform of cords or chinos and a checked shirt. Tristan had always been the trendy one of the two of them, and he claimed the women loved his Poldark-esque mane.

Arthur was finding the tangle more hassle than it was worth and made a mental note to wander down to the village sooner rather than later. Besides, he’d never had any trouble attracting women even in his baggy old cords and rugby shirt. Being heir to a title was its own special pheromone, he thought with more than a shade of weariness. It had taken him a while—longer in fact that he was proud to admit—before he’d come to understand his popularity with women had more to do with his title than him as a person. He’d even got as far as considering asking one girl to marry him before the scales had fallen from his eyes when she’d been horrified by his attempts to promote Iggy into the position of official heir to the baronetcy. Now he was officially Baronet Ludworth—his name having entered the official roll the previous week—they’d be crawling out of the woodwork once more. Well, if they were hunting for a fortune, they were going to be sorely disappointed.

A knock at the study door scattered the random musings his brain was using to avoid thinking about the enormous hole in their family finances. When the heavy wood remained resolutely closed, Arthur rolled his eyes at Tristan and hid a smile as he called out ‘Come.’

The door opened to reveal Maxwell, their family butler, dressed in an immaculate charcoal trousers and waistcoat over a white shirt. The black tie at his throat was fastened in the same Windsor knot he’d taught both Arthur and Tristan to tie as young boys. ‘Good afternoon, Sir Arthur, Master Tristan, your aunt has requested you join her in the yellow drawing room for afternoon tea.’

It was all Arthur could do not to let out a snort. Morgana Ludworth had never requested anything in all of her seventy-plus years. As delicate as a bird to look at, she had an implacable will and a tongue sharp enough to slice through steel. And a heart as big and fierce as a lion. She’d remained at home to nurse her ailing father whilst her peers had flown the coop, got married and had babies. ‘I didn’t just miss the boat, I missed the entire regatta,’ she’d told them once with a laugh in her voice that hadn’t reached her eyes. ‘Then your father and Lancelot came along, and I stayed to help out your grandmother.’

Always a delicate woman, Arthur had few memories of his grandmother other than as someone they were always shushed into silence around. She’d died when they were still very young, and it had been Morgana who’d once again stepped into the void. Arthur adored his paternal great-aunt, as did his siblings, for as stern as she could be at times, she’d not blinked at taking on the three heartbroken, confused children Helena had left in her wake. ‘Thank you, Maxwell, we’ll be along shortly.’

‘Very good, sir.’ With the briefest incline of his head, Maxwell pulled the door closed behind him.

‘He’s got more starch in his pants than a virginal vicar. Can’t you get him to relax a bit?’

Arthur shook his head. He’d tried to have a chat with Maxwell when he’d first inherited the title, but the butler had been so offended at the idea he might “move with the times and dispense with a few unnecessary traditions” that Arthur had abandoned the effort. Mrs W, their housekeeper, had been more on board and he’d given her free rein to discuss the issue with Betsy, the cook, and give him a proposal on improvements and updates they would like to make. Together, the three of them were in charge of the day-to-day running of the castle, with an ever-shrinking band of staff to assist them.

With March just around the corner, they were busy gearing up for the annual spring clean scheduled for next weekend. Mrs W and Betsy had been delighted when Arthur told them he, Tristan and Iggy would be rolling up their sleeves and getting down to it along with the team of paid volunteers gathered from the village. Maxwell had looked as though he were sucking a lemon at the very idea of members of the family dirtying their hands, but had refrained from commenting.

A building as old and extensive as the castle took a huge amount of physical effort to keep going, never mind the financial cost. They’d closed as many rooms as possible over the winter months, but with the latest utility bill lurking in Arthur’s desk drawer like a malevolent toad, it had been a drop in the ocean. He dreaded to think what damage they were going to find now the weather was improving and they were beginning to pull back the dust covers.

Feeling suddenly queasy, Arthur swallowed hard then forced himself to stand. ‘Come on, we’d better not keep Morgana waiting.’

Tristan gestured to the old fisherman’s jumper Arthur had bundled himself into that morning, and then his own designer-branded sweatshirt. ‘We’d better get changed, too, or we’ll never hear the end of it.’

*

Hands and faces washed, jumpers and jeans exchanged for collared shirts and dark cords, the brothers entered the yellow drawing room. With a view to the woods behind the castle, it was their great-aunt’s favourite room, and her unofficial domain. As usual, Morgana sat at the head of the small rosewood dining table, closest to the large stone fireplace. A cheery fire filled the room with the scent of pinecones, mingling with the ever-present fragrance of Penhaligon’s Bluebell Eau de Toilette which was their aunt’s signature perfume. Finding Iggy already seated to Morgana’s left, Arthur bent to brush a kiss to the powdered cheek of his aunt before taking the empty chair to her right. Tristan repeated the greeting and slid into the seat beside Iggy.

Clad in her usual unrelieved black, Morgana cast an eye from Arthur to Tristan before nodding once. At the gesture, a maid stepped forward and began to pour tea into the bone china cups placed before each of them. As he waited for the maid to serve everyone, Arthur studied the silver stands laden with finger sandwiches, slices of Victoria sponge and fresh-baked sultana scones. Though it hadn’t been that long since he’d wolfed down a bowl of soup for his lunch, Arthur felt the stirrings of appetite in his stomach at the fine spread before them.

Only once the maid had set the silver teapot down and left the room, did their aunt speak. Fixing Arthur with an expression that said she would brook no nonsense, she asked, ‘What did the inspector have to say?’

That she knew who Arthur had been on the phone to surprised him not at all. Very little happened behind the stone walls of Camland Castle that didn’t reach Morgana’s ears sooner or later—usually sooner. ‘We have to assume the money’s gone for good.’

Iggy’s sharp intake of breath told Arthur he wasn’t the only one who’d been pinning his hopes on a different result. Morgana, however, showed no reaction. ‘It’s done then. The silly fool’s scuppered your ship good and proper.’

‘Morgana.’ Iggy sounded pained, and Arthur saw Tristan reach beneath the table to give their sister’s leg a comforting pat.

‘Don’t Morgana me, girl, when I’m only speaking the truth. Your father was as foolish with money as he was generous with his heart. Remember that race horse he bought for a fortune only for it to go lame the next week? Or that holiday resort in Dominica that got demolished by a hurricane and then it turned out the developers weren’t insured? And what about—’

‘Enough!’ Arthur wasn’t sure who was more shocked, Morgana at being cut off mid-flow or himself at having the balls to raise his voice to her. His great-aunt recovered first, raising her teacup to her lips and taking a sip as though nothing had happened.

Leaping in to fill the silence, Iggy reached for the stand of sandwiches and placed it next to her aunt’s plate. ‘Egg and cress, Morgana, your favourite.’

‘I’m not a child to be mollified, Igraine,’ Morgana said stiffly, but reached for a sandwich none the less.

Arthur and Tristan made themselves busy filling their own plates. Silence reigned over the table for a few minutes as they all tucked in. Only once Morgana had finished her first cup of tea and nodded to Iggy to refill her cup did she speak again. ‘Regardless of how we got here, the dire situation can’t be ignored any longer.’

‘It’s not your problem to worry about, Morgana, I can handle it.’ Arthur said in his best ‘head of the family’ voice.

Morgana snorted. ‘Don’t try that tone with me, boy. You’re not too old for a box on the ears.’

‘You’d have to kneel by her chair so she can reach,’ Tristan muttered causing Arthur to cough loudly to try and cover his sudden burst of laughter.

‘Tristan Ludworth, I’ll thank you to try and remember some of the manners I taught you,’ Morgana snapped before turning away from the hot blush scalding Tristan’s cheeks. Gaze fixed firmly on Arthur, she continued. ‘The way I see it, you have very few choices, none of them particularly palatable.’ She held up one slender hand, fingers gnarled with age. ‘One, you can see if the National Trust will take this place off your hands. If we’re lucky, they’ll allow us to occupy a small part of it and open the rest up to the public.’

Arthur frowned at her rather unkind portrayal of the charity. ‘They do a fantastic job, but I’m not quite ready to hand over the reins to someone else. I’m already seriously considering opening some parts of the castle to the public, but I want it to be on our terms and absolutely under my control.’

Morgana pursed her lips. ‘Option two, you find some filthy rich foreigner to take the place lock, stock and—’

‘No!’ The triplets shouted her suggestion down in unison.

‘There must be another way…’ Iggy said.

‘Can’t we sell a few bits off?’ Tristan asked.

Arthur raised a brow. ‘Like what?’

His brother shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but the place is stuffed full of paintings, furniture and the like. Some of it must be worth something.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘There’s an old archive record somewhere, but I wouldn’t know where to start with it.’

‘If the three of you would let me finish,’ Morgana said, her voice sharp, ‘My third suggestion is to get an expert in to take a full survey of the contents of the castle. As well as being obsessed with all that Arthurian nonsense, the ninth baronet was friends with a very artistic set of friends. I believe several of them gifted him with works of art to thank him for his hospitality.’

Thomas Ludworth, Arthur’s several times great-grandfather had become obsessed with a theory that rather than the traditional Cornish and Somerset connections, the legendary King Arthur had in fact been a Northern warlord and Camland Castle the seat of the court of Camelot. The majority of his peers had openly laughed at the idea, but there was a stack of research and papers Thomas had collated in the library which he’d sworn proved his theory. He’d even gone so far as to name his children after characters connected to the legend, a tradition the family had adopted to that day. As part of his obsession, he’d collected every bit of tat he could lay his hands on with even the most dubious connection to Arthur and Camelot. The walls were littered with rusting swords, battle axes and the like, and the family chapel held no fewer than three cups on the altar alleged to be the holy grail. He’d even gone so far as to commission the huge round table which dominated the centre of the great hall.

It kept the locals amused and gave the area a bit of a tourist boost, so Arthur didn’t see any real harm in it, but he’d never given the theory any serious credence. ‘I suppose it would be useful to get a survey done, for insurance purposes if nothing else.’

‘And if you did decide to do some public open days, you could get this expert to curate the best of the Arthurian stuff into a proper exhibition. That’d be something to draw the crowds in,’ Tristan said, sounding more excited than Arthur would’ve expected.

‘It might work,’ he mused. ‘If we could get someone in quickly, we may even be able to put it together in time for the summer.’ He would have to do some serious research, find out what some of the famous estates like Blenheim Palace and Highclere Castle charged for admission, and what sort of thing they offered the tourists who flocked there. The Arthurian connection gave Camland an eye-catching hook—regardless of how spurious it was.

‘I could try and do something with the gardens,’ Iggy said, eyes alight. ‘A few themed walks to connect to the legend. There’s that gorgeous glade in the woods we could suggest it was the meeting place for Lancelot and Guinevere; a more testing one out to the lake we could call the Excalibur trail.’

‘With a great big rock somewhere along the way you’ll claim is where King Arthur pulled the sword from the stone, no doubt,’ Arthur said, half-joking.

‘Yes! Exactly.’ When she saw the doubt on his face, Iggy leaned forward. ‘Come on, Arthur, in for a penny in for a pound. If we’re going to go down, it might as well be in a blaze of tasteless glory!’

*

‘Are you sure we’re not deluding ourselves with this?’ Arthur asked Tristan as they surveyed a dusty collection of paintings in the long gallery. It was hard to imagine anyone looking twice at the gloomy-looking, mostly brown images lining the walls. Years of dirt and neglect made it almost impossible to make out the subject of most of them.

Tristan shrugged. ‘We might be, but it’s got to be worth a shot. If we can show the bank and the other creditors a viable business plan it might take a bit of the heat off you, at least for a little while. And as Iggy said, if we’re going down let’s go down fighting. We can call it Arthur’s Last Stand,’ he said with a wink.

‘You and me on the drive wielding broadswords at the bailiffs? Lord, can you imagine it?’

‘Morgana wouldn’t need a weapon, she’s already a battle-axe.’ They both laughed, then glanced around guiltily. Their aunt had a habit of appearing at the most inconvenient of times, a bit like the witch some of the children from the village suspected her of being.

Only once they were sure the coast was clear did Tristan speak again. ‘Look, worst-case scenario we’re going to lose this place, so it won’t do any harm to know what all this stuff is worth—separate the tat from the treasure, you know?’

Arthur nodded. He did know. He also had a sinking feeling in his stomach that there was more tat than treasure to be found hanging on the walls and littering the dusty surfaces of old bits of furniture. He took a breath. One thing he’d promised himself when he’d inherited the place was that he would face whatever came head on. No hiding behind dreams of a miracle, no banking on a deal that would never come off.

He’d loved his father, would always be fond of the fantastic memories his spirit of adventure had created for the three of them. But Arthur couldn’t afford to be like him. Much as the responsibilities of his position might weigh on his shoulders and keep him tossing and turning in the middle of the night, he couldn’t afford to show it. He was Baronet Ludworth and the people around him were depending on him. Not just his nearest and dearest, not even the direct employees who worked in the castle. If Arthur failed, it would cost the entire community.

He set his jaw. Failure just wasn’t a bloody option, was it?

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Lucie, darling, time to wake up. I’ve made you a cup of tea.’

The coaxing tones of her mother’s voice penetrated the foggy edges of sleep, and Lucie forced one eye open. ‘I’m not thirsty,’ she grumbled before rolling away to face the wall, but not before catching a glimpse of the worry lines etched into her mother’s features. An unwelcome stab of guilt burrowed under the musty covers on her bed, making Lucie feel even more miserable. Why couldn’t her mum just leave her alone as she’d asked?

Since walking out of the door at Witherby’s two weeks earlier, a dull kind of fog had settled over Lucie leaving her unable to do anything. After attending a formal investigative interview where it had been clear nobody on the panel her employer had put together believed her protestations of innocence, she’d crawled under her covers three days ago and had barely shifted since. They hadn’t gone to the police so far, hoping to keep the whole thing quiet to protect the company’s name and reputation, but it was only a matter of time. Lucie had none of the answers they’d demanded, and a very valuable artwork was still missing.

‘Well, I’ll leave it here on your cabinet just in case, darling.’ Silence hung long enough in the air for Lucie to believe her mother had left the room before Constance Kennington placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and said in a firmer tone than Lucie had heard in years. ‘It’s a lovely day, you might feel better for a little bit of fresh air…?’

Shrugging off the touch, Lucie wormed her way deeper under the quilt, knowing she was being a brat but unable to help herself. It was about fifteen years too late for Constance to start worrying about her. If she’d only bothered to take an interest when it had mattered, they’d neither of them have been in the mess they were in now. As though on cue, the baby next door started wailing, the shrill sound penetrating the paper-thin walls of their twelfth floor flat in a rundown council block.

‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ Constance’s voice was back to its usual hesitant whisper, making Lucie feel lower than a slug. With Mr Hazeltine’s warning over the non-disclosure agreement still rattling around in her head, Lucie had been afraid to go into detail over what was happening. Her refusal to say anything beyond that she’d been suspended pending an investigation was driving a wedge between them. She could tell her refusal to confide was hurting her mum—it was hurting Lucie, too—but aside from her worry over being found in breach of her contract on top of everything else, how on earth was she supposed to explain it without dragging her father’s past crimes up?

Her mother had always been quiet and contained, the complete opposite of the brash, confident figure her father had cut through her childhood. Content to reside in the sheltered comfort of her husband’s shadow, Constance had left everything to him. Like some Fifties’ throwback to the image of the perfect housewife, she’d kept house and made sure she always looked nice. Any spare hours had been spent turning their back garden into a little slice of paradise.

Whenever she pictured her mum from those days, it wasn’t in one of her neat Chanel suits as she clung to her husband’s arm on the way to some function or another. It was in a simple day dress, a large straw sunhat shading her pale complexion as she tended the immaculate borders bursting with roses, foxgloves and lupins. She’d never seemed to care about the trappings, her world had been her husband and her daughter and the lovely haven she’d created for the three of them.

Lucie’s gaze strayed to one of her favourite pictures in the frames that littered her bedside cabinet. Dressed in a mint-green pair of short dungarees over a white T-shirt, 6-year-old Lucie beamed with pride as she held up the first carrots she’d grown in the little vegetable patch her mum had created for her. One arm around Lucie’s waist, the other held up to shade her eyes from the sun, Constance knelt beside her, smiling up at the taker of the photo. Such an innocent image of domestic perfection, would either of them ever feel that carefree again? A hot tear trickled down Lucie’s cheek.

Lucie loved her mum, had never wanted for affection or attention from her, but at heart she’d been a daddy’s girl. Oh, how she’d adored Paul Kennington with his bright smile and booming laugh, his generous nature and ever-flowing wallet. Nothing had been too good for Paul’s girls as he’d referred to Lucie and her mum. Summer holidays in exotic resorts, winter skiing trips in exclusive mountain-top lodges, all the newest fashions—though Constance had never been one to put herself on show, sticking to timeless, elegant classics which suited her willowy frame. Though Lucie had been grateful for the wonderful presents and gifts, what she’d craved beyond anything was more of her father’s time. Those holidays could’ve been in Bournemouth as easily as Disneyland as far as she had been concerned, as long as the three of them had been together. But it had always pleased her daddy to treat her like the princess he called her, so she’d gone along with things. Even when he’d sent her away to a private school, when all she’d ever wanted was to stay at home and be close to the two of them.

It had been a struggle at first to make new friends, but she’d just started to find her feet when it had all come crashing down around them. A few of the friends she’d made had tried to keep in touch afterwards, but Lucie had been too embarrassed and ashamed to return their calls or reply to the cards and letters they’d sent in the aftermath of her father’s downfall. If the scandal of it all hadn’t been devastating enough for her 13-year-old self to cope with, the seizure and sale of the Kennington’s assets certainly had. The grand house where she’d enjoyed her own little suite of rooms—bedroom, bathroom and a huge playroom which had been converted into an entertainment and games room as she’d entered her teenage years—had been mortgaged up to the rafters and worth next to nothing when it was sold.

All the fancy clothes stuffing her wardrobes had gone too, declared to be profits from illegal activities and sold off, along with all the gadgets and devices as the police attempted to claw back at least some of the money her father had embezzled from his clients, friends and neighbours. Not that she’d cared about any of those things. It was the loss of security, of her little island of safety in the world being torn away much as her father had been torn from her sobbing arms when they’d come to arrest him that terrible night.

If she’d understood at the time it was the last time she’d see him, would she have fought harder to keep hold of him? She’d never know. Her parents had agreed she should be shielded from it all as much as possible and had refused to allow her to visit her father in prison. With an eight-year prison sentence, they’d hoped he would be out in half that time, but a heart attack eighteen months later had robbed Lucie of any chance to reconcile the confusing tangle of emotions that still threatened to overwhelm her whenever she risked thinking about him.

Once Lucie and her mum had been forced to take up residence in a tiny little flat miles from where anyone might know them, Lucie had become something of a hermit. Enrolled in the local comprehensive, she concentrated on keeping her head down as much as possible. Crippled by the desperate shame that people would find out what her father had done, Lucie had made no attempt to make new friends. Her only solace had been the quiet hours spent in the art department, where a sympathetic teacher had nurtured Lucie’s small talents as a painter as well as her thirst for knowledge. A tough-love careers conversation halfway through her A levels had steered Lucie away from thoughts of a Fine Art degree to one in Art History.

Terrified of racking up any more debt than the basic student fees, she’d opted to attend UCL and stay living at home. When she wasn’t in class, she would haunt London’s myriad museums and art galleries, picking the brains of numerous volunteers and guides who were only too happy to spend wet Tuesday afternoons sharing their knowledge with an eager, interested girl. Weekends and evenings were spent pulling pints, waiting tables, and whatever other casual work she could pick up that would bring money in to supplement her mother’s cleaning jobs, until one of her lecturers hooked her up with a contact at Witherby’s and her apprenticeship—and what she’d hoped would be a new life—began.

Though she’d tried several times to persuade her mum to move, Constance had refused, saying she wouldn’t be a burden on Lucie. She’d also encouraged Lucie to stay put and tuck away as much of her money into a savings account as she could rather than blow it on rent. Lucie had gone along with it, promising herself that as soon as she could afford it, she’d get them both out and into a nice little house somewhere in the suburbs. Somewhere with a garden so her mum could spend time on her knees tending her flowers rather than scrubbing kitchen floors. She had it all planned out in her mind’s eye, down to the little shaded arbour she would build for Constance to sit and relax beneath.

And now those plans were withering before her eyes. Although no one had said as much, it had been made plain to Lucie that regardless of the final outcome there would be no place for her at Witherby’s. Reputation was everything in the art world and word would slip out eventually—if the whispers hadn’t already started, she’d be shocked. Innocent as she knew herself to be, it would matter naught if gossip tainted her name. She would have to find a new career, leave her beloved art behind and go back to waiting tables, the only other type of work she had any experience in. With the drop in income, she could kiss her little dream house in the suburbs goodbye, and with it her dreams of being able to give her mum a better life. The tears took hold in earnest, a keening wail escaping her lips before Lucie could bury her head in the pillows and muffle it.

A few moments later, her bedroom door flew open to bang against the flimsy wall, jolting Lucie upright at the noise. Bright light spilled in through the window as Constance flung open the curtains then turned to face her, fists on her hips. ‘Lucinda Mary Kennington, you stop that now!’ Though her voice quavered a little, there was no mistaking the determined gleam in her mother’s eye. ‘You’ve told me you’ve done nothing wrong, so stop acting like you’re guilty. I want you up and in that shower, right this minute.’ Her delicate nose wrinkled. ‘It smells dreadful in here. You’re 27, not 17, far too old to sulk.’

Shocked at this new assertive side her mother had never shown before, Lucie allowed herself to be herded into the little bathroom. When she emerged from behind the flimsy plastic curtain it was to find her grubby pyjamas had been replaced with clean jeans and a jumper, and her favourite pair of fuzzy socks.

Feeling better than she had for days, Lucie tugged a comb through her long hair as she wandered back into her bedroom to find the bed stripped bare and the window open to let in a chilly, but blessedly fresh breeze. The mugs, plates and other detritus she’d accumulated had all been swept away. Catching a hint of lemon polish in the air, Lucie shook her head in amazement. In the time she’d been in the shower, Constance had even managed to wipe a duster around the room.

Wondering which version of her mother awaited her, Lucie slunk into the small open-plan living space they shared to find a fresh cup of tea and a plate of toast waiting on the little gateleg table squeezed beneath the window. A copy of The Times lay open beside her plate, with something circled in biro. Curious, Lucie picked up the paper as she sat down, eyes scanning the open page. It was the Register section, where people placed announcements of births, deaths, marriages and—she blinked at the circled entry—advertisements.

Wanted: art historian, archivist, or other expert with relevant skills, to undertake a full assessment and survey of the Ludworth Collection at Camland Castle, Derbyshire. Full board and reasonable expenses covered for an initial two-month period, with room for extension on proof of need. No timewasters. Immediate start preferred. Apply to Sir Arthur Ludworth with full CV and covering letter to Ludworth@CamlandCastle.co.uk.

‘Well, what do you think, darling?’ Constance asked as she slipped into the opposite chair with her own cup of tea.

‘What do I think about what?’ When her mother raised a sculpted eyebrow, Lucie prodded a finger at the advert. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘I think it would be prefect for you, just what you need to keep yourself occupied and a wonderful chance to get out of London for a bit. Some fresh air would do you the world of good and think how exciting it would be. The chance to live in a castle, for heaven’s sake, even if it’s only for a couple of months!’ Constance gestured around the little room which even with her very best efforts to make homely was about as far from a castle as it was possible to get.

‘But, I can’t just up and leave you, and what if Witherby’s want to interview me again?’ Lucie still couldn’t get her head around what her mum was suggesting.

‘Of course you can leave me, darling, I’m not completely helpless.’ Constance glanced down at her tea, a delicate blush heating her pale cheeks. ‘Although I’ve given a fair impression otherwise for far too long. I can manage perfectly well here on my own, better in fact if I thought you were doing something with your life other than worrying about me.’ She straightened up, the little flash of steel back in her eye. ‘And as for whatever that nonsense is with Witherby’s—’ she held up a hand before Lucie could interject ‘—I know, you’ve told me you can’t talk to me about it, darling, but it doesn’t mean I can’t be furious about the way they’re treating you. What do they expect you to do? Sit here in suspended animation until they finally get their backsides in gear?’

‘I can’t leave town, Mum. I just can’t.’ Wouldn’t running away just make her look guilty? Lucie sipped her tea, half-amazed she was even given credence to the idea. But then again, didn’t it feel like Witherby’s were already treating her like the guilty party? Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t…

‘You’ll have your phone with you, so if they need to speak to you again, they can contact you,’ Constance pointed out.

‘I probably won’t even get it. This Sir Arthur Ludworth, whoever he is, is probably looking for someone with a lot more experience…’ Was she actually considering this crazy idea? Apparently so.

‘That’s as maybe, but there’s no harm in applying, is there?’

‘I suppose not.’ And that was how Lucie found herself plonked on the sofa with her laptop on her knee as she worked and reworked her covering letter, trying to find the right combination of words to indicate she was immediately available without mentioning her current suspension. If she made it as far as the interview stage, she would speak to Sir Arthur face-to-face about what had happened, she reassured her pang of conscience.

*

A week later, Lucie was lugging her suitcase down the steps of the intercity train she’d boarded at St Pancras several hours previously. The crowds on the platform thinned out as her fellow travellers marched off in different directions, each apparently secure in their onward journey.

Unlike Lucie.

There’d been no interview stage, just a cursory reply accepting her application with instruction to report to the castle no later than the tenth of the month and a vague instruction that catching the train would be her best option. Her Google searches hadn’t revealed a great deal about the Ludworths or Camland Castle other than a dubious link to Arthurian legend she’d quickly dismissed. No pictures of the family beyond the odd image on the Hello! website of a middle-aged, slightly portly man. In one he was dressed in full top hat and tails at Ascot, the caption beneath it stating simply ‘Baronet Ludworth’. Another showed the same man in amongst a group of similarly aged men clad in dinner jackets and women in flowing evening dresses, snapped at some grand party held to celebrate the birthday of somebody she’d never heard of.

There were plenty of images of the castle walls, a few that showed a glimpse of grey stone in the distance taken through thick, high iron gates and tree cover, so clearly the castle wasn’t open to the public. Most of the tourist photos online were of the village that shared a name with the castle, and showed a mix of stone cottages, a handful of shops and a pub. The surrounding dales looked wild and untamed, and her heart had fluttered in both excitement and a little trepidation at living in the shadow of those mysterious hills. The family holidays she’d enjoyed as a child hadn’t involved a lot of trekking or hiking and she could imagine how easy it would be to get lost in that beautiful, if bleak, Derbyshire wilderness. The pictures which had really captured her imagination, though, were those accompanying a feature article listing some of Britain’s hidden natural treasures. Beneath the tangled limbs of what was clearly an ancient wood, a sea of dancing bluebells spread out to a faded blur in the distance. The ground looked untouched, as though no one had walked beneath those ancient boughs for years. A magical place, like the photographer had strayed through the barrier between reality and fantasy and if the observer just looked hard enough, they might spot a fairy, or sprite peeking out between the roots of one of the ancient oaks. Would she get a chance to see it with her own eyes? Gosh, she hoped so.

Of the Arthur Ludworths listed on social media, none looked to be likely candidates, although she couldn’t be sure as several of the accounts had their security settings locked so she could do no more than view their most basic information. A reference she’d found in the Gazette to Sir Arthur’s recent listing on the Roll of Baronets had led her down a rabbit warren of searches into the weird and wonderful world of the Honours and Peerage system, fascinating but ultimately worthless to the job she’d been hired to do.

As she wrestled with the stubborn handle on her suitcase which was refusing to be pulled out, Lucie spotted a man dressed in the navy and red uniform of the local rail network and gave him a wave. ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for the next train to Camland?’

Tucking the signal paddle he was holding into one voluminous trouser pocket, the guard retrieved a timetable from the other. ‘You’ll be wanting Platform 7B, my love.’ He pointed to the farthest platform from where they were standing, and then to a concrete and corrugated panel construction behind him. ‘Up and over the bridge, there.’

‘Okay, thank you!’ Lucie staggered a little as her final tug released the locking mechanism and the handle of her case flew up.

‘Need a hand with that, my love?’

Though she knew he meant nothing by it, and likely referred to every female he encountered from 8 to 80 in the same manner, the man’s colloquial endearment rankled her feminist sensibilities almost as much as his assumption she couldn’t manage her own luggage. ‘I’ll be fine, thanks. Platform 7B, right?’

‘Up and over.’ The guard nodded, then turned away towards what looked like the main ticket office. The moment he stepped inside, a vicious whip of cold wind blew down the platform, followed by an ominous rumble from the dark clouds overhead. Lucie glanced from the ticket office to the far platform that appeared to offer no form of shelter with a sigh. Up and over it was.

By the time she’d panted her way to the top of the concrete incline and onto the bridge itself, Lucie was regretting not accepting the guard’s offer of assistance. In a panic over what might be deemed suitable clothing for residing in a castle, she’d stuffed pretty much the entire contents of her wardrobe into her suitcase—including a bottle-green velvet formal dress she’d found in a charity shop for the university leavers’ ball that no one had invited her to. In addition to the weight of her case, the rucksack on her back was stuffed to bursting with every reference book and cataloguing guide in her considerable collection. Rubbing her red and aching palm against her leg, Lucie hitched the rucksack a little higher on her back, ignoring the dull ache spreading across her shoulders. Switching hands, she towed the case over the bridge, thankful that at least the walk down the opposite slope would be easier.

When the case banged into her ankle for the third time, its weight and the momentum of the slope causing it to careen a little unsteadily, she realised she’d been too quick in giving those thanks. With a huff and an angry shove that sent the unwitting cause of her misery spinning into the chain link fence lining the rear of the station platform, Lucie sank down onto the cold metal bench nearby. She scanned up and down the platform for an electronic sign, or a timetable noticeboard at least, but there was nothing as far as she could see. There was nothing she could do, it seemed, but wait.

Wanting to make a good impression, she’d chosen to wear a skirt suit and a pair of low heels, teamed with her best wool coat. A decision she now regretted as the cold wind whistled past her once more, sending a run of goose bumps over legs clad only in thin nylon tights. To add insult to injury, a fine drizzle began to fall from the clouds overhead, soaking through the wool of her coat in a matter of minutes. Unable to face the return journey back over the bridge, and with no idea how much longer she would have to wait, Lucie tugged a beret from her pocket to cover her hair, hunched her shoulders and willed the train to hurry up.

Ten long minutes later, a single carriage train pulled up at the platform disgorging several passengers who scurried past Lucie with barely a glance. With no sign of any member of staff around, Lucie approached the open door of the train and peered inside just as the internal door to the driver’s area slid back. ‘Eee, you startled me, love!’ A grey-haired man with the kind of creases on his cheeks that said he smiled a lot clutched at his chest and staggered back in an exaggerated movement, the twinkle in his eyes telling her there was no harm done. ‘Are you all right, there?’ he added, taking in her bedraggled state with a quick once-over.

‘I’m looking for the train to Camland.’

‘Then you’re in the right place. Hop on, love, and I’ll get you there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, or forty-seven minutes if you go by what the timetable says.’

Grateful at the chance of shelter, Lucie hurried to retrieve her suitcase, and didn’t demur when the driver reached down to help her lift it into the train. ‘Blimey, love, you running away to join the circus?’

His kind, familiar manner was so unlike the brisk efficiency of London, she smiled. She would have to get used to being called ‘love’ or spend the next couple of months in permanent offence if he and the guard she’d spoken to previously were anything to go by. It could be worse, she mused, unbuttoning her wet coat and hooking it over the back of the seat in front of her. She’d take chatty over being ignored any day of the week. The door shushed closed behind her, and Lucie settled back in her seat, grateful for the warmth of the carriage. Well, for the first few minutes until she could feel dampness beneath her armpits and her wet coat started to steam. The central heating on the train had clearly been set to tropical.

Standing up, she tugged open the nearest window with a sigh of relief as a blast of cold air hit her glowing face, followed swiftly by a much less wanted shower of raindrops. Another gust drove more rain through the open window and she shoved it closed with a gasp. She could either boil or drown. Great.

Over the next ten minutes, the train door opened and closed as a handful of other passengers climbed aboard. As was human nature, they scattered around the carriage with as much space between each other as possible, and were soon plugged into headphones, or had their noses buried in e-readers, tablets or paperback books. Not everyone was social in this part of the world, apparently, and Lucie was grateful for that as it gave her time to gather her wits and think about what lay ahead.

From almost the moment she’d opened the email offering her the position at Camland, she’d been thinking about what she should say if Sir Arthur asked any awkward questions about why she’d left her position at Witherby’s. On her application, she’d said she wanted the chance to explore a collection in depth, and highlighted the six months she’d spent in the cataloguing and records section at the auction house as part of her training. Not a lie, but also not the truth, and it was beginning to sit uncomfortably with her. That bloody non-disclosure agreement had tied her hands. Then again, who in their right mind would let someone suspected of what she’d been accused of doing cross their threshold? Talk about a Catch-22 situation. She’d just have to hope the topic didn’t come up. As the train pulled out of the station, she leant her head back, closed her eyes and began to run over the introductory speech she’d been working on.

*

In what seemed like a matter of moments, Lucie woke to a hand shaking her shoulder lightly. ‘Wake up, love, this is the end of the line.’

Panic and adrenaline shot through her. ‘Have I missed my stop?’

The driver shook his head with an amused smile. ‘No, love, Camland is the end of the line. The end of the world some folks might say.’

Fuzzy from the heat and her impromptu nap, Lucie tried to concentrate as she collected her belongings, shrugging on her now only slightly damp coat and shouldering the cursed backpack once more. When she reached the luggage area, it was to find the driver had already lifted her suitcase down onto the platform and popped up the handle with apparently no problems. ‘That’s very kind of you, thanks.’

‘My pleasure, love. Now you know where you’re headed?’

‘The castle. I’m hoping it shouldn’t be too hard to find,’ she said with a grin.

The driver laughed. ‘Not hard at all, love. Just keep heading up until you can’t go any further.’

Oh. Great. Trying not to let her smile slip, Lucie gave him a wave and trundled down the little platform towards the open gap at the end which led onto a tiny car park big enough for no more than a dozen cars. ‘The end of the world, indeed,’ she murmured to herself at the idea of any place small enough to manage with so little parking.

The stone cottages she’d seen on her computer screen looked a little grimmer in real life, set as they were against a heavily leaden sky. Without the pretty hanging baskets and blooming window boxes of summer it was easy to see the peeling paint, the cracked and weathered pathways, the moss on the roof tiles. The front of more than one was marred with the ugly wheelie bins that pervaded housing estates throughout the country, even remote areas such as this, it seemed.

Glancing left, then right, it wasn’t immediately obvious to Lucie which way she should go, and the tiny car park didn’t bear something as metropolitan as a taxi rank. Did they do Uber in Derbyshire? Lucie retrieved her phone from her pocket, stared at the single bar on her screen and tucked it away with a sigh. They might do Uber, but they didn’t do 3G.

The path to her right was the more appealing of the two, with its gentle downward slope, but that’s not what the driver’s instruction had been. Taking a deep breath, Lucie grasped the handle of her suitcase and turned left. Up, the driver had said, and boy, he wasn’t kidding.

CHAPTER FIVE

The yammering and barking of what sounded like every dog in the castle echoed around the great hall, the wild cacophony enough to draw Arthur out of his bedroom where he’d been changing his shirt ready for dinner. With only the cuffs on his navy-blue dress shirt buttoned, he strode along the landing then leaned over the thick oak bannister that edged the top of the stairs. Like a churning maelstrom of black, gold and brindle fur, the dogs circled a small black-clad figure who was edging away towards the side of the room. ‘Sit!’ Arthur bellowed, gratified as the noise cut off in an instant as he bounded down the stairs.

‘What the hell is all the fuss about…?’ He glowered at the now quivering pack of dogs who lay flat on their bellies, all eyes fixed on him.

‘I…I did knock several times, but nobody answered.’

The soft response drew his eyes away from the unruly mongrels he was unfortunate enough to call his pets towards the small woman perched awkwardly on the edge of one of the sofas which lined the room, a large backpack making it impossible for her to sit properly. Beneath a sorry looking beret, he could make out a straggle of dark red hair and a smudge of pale skin. Weaving through the dogs, Arthur moved closer and realised her coat wasn’t black as he’d first imagined, but a paler grey turned dark by the rain pummelling the windows outside.

‘I didn’t mean for you to sit,’ he said, unable to help a grin as he realised it wasn’t only the dogs who’d responded automatically to his harsh command. Offering his hand, he nudged Nimrod, who’d planted himself at the woman’s feet, gently aside. ‘And I’m sorry for the unholy greeting you received from this rabble.’ A whine came from beside his hip, and Arthur dropped his free hand to caress the silken ears of Bella, the other of the pair of greyhounds who’d come over seeking forgiveness.

When the woman continued to gawk up at him, Arthur shook his extended fingers impatiently in her direction. ‘Let me give you a hand up and out of that wet coat, you’ll catch a chill.’

‘I’m not the only one,’ she replied, cheeks flaming with colour.

Following her gaze downwards, Arthur noted the expanse of bare chest showing through the open sides of his shirt and drop his hand to hurriedly button it. ‘Sorry, I was dressing for dinner when these hell hounds started up.’ Once he looked halfway decent, he extended his hand once more. ‘Arthur Ludworth, at your service, Miss…?’

Fingers freezing a couple of inches from his, the woman’s head jerked up, giving him a first full glimpse of her face. And what a face, it was. Like one of the carved marble statues in the long gallery, her alabaster skin was smooth and flawless. Those deep-set green eyes were nothing like the dead stares of those goddesses and nymphs though. Nor the mane of glorious russet red hair, a shade or two deeper than a fox’s pelt, that spilled down her back now she’d tugged off that ugly hat. ‘A…Arthur Ludworth? As in Sir Arthur Ludworth?’

‘That’s right.’ From the startled expression on her face she’d clearly been expecting someone else. ‘I’m sorry, you have me at an advantage.’

‘Oh, yes, I’m Lucinda Kennington, you’re expecting me…’

Ah. The art expert. Bloody Tristan and his stupid idea to post an ad in the paper. Of the dozens of responses to his advert, she’d been one of the few who hadn’t been either a crank or a blatant charlatan. By the time he’d reached Miss Kennington’s email, he’d been about ready to throw his laptop out the window in disgust over so much of his morning wasted.

Her ability to use the correct grammar had been cause enough for celebration even before he’d glanced over the CV she’d attached. Arthur had fired back an immediate response and consigned the remainder of the unread applications to his electronic trash bin. She’d acknowledged his job offer and promised to confirm her arrival date and then he’d heard nothing further. ‘I didn’t know you were arriving today, Miss Kennington, forgive my confusion.’ Mind racing, Arthur wondered how long it would take Mrs W to get a room ready. From the looks of her, their unexpected arrival looked in dire need of a hot shower and a change of clothes.

Russet lashes flickered in surprise. ‘I sent you an email confirming I would be travelling today.’ A warm blush brought colour to her creamy skin, highlighting the delicate arc of her cheekbones, the deep hollows around her vivid eyes. God, she really was quite lovely. The punch of attraction which followed that thought took him by surprise. Delicate porcelain beauties weren’t normally his type. He liked robust girls with laughs as big as their…personalities. He watched, fascinated, as Miss Kennington raised a hand to sweep a stray lock of hair from her forehead. Her wrist was so tiny he found himself wondering if he could span it with his thumb and forefinger. A man his size would have to be gentle around a woman like this. He found the idea oddly appealing.

Giving himself a shake, Arthur pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at the blank space in the top left corner where the signal icon should have been and then rubbed his forehead in frustration. ‘We’ve been having problems with our internet the past couple of days, I didn’t think…’ Problems was putting it mildly. After months of double-billing them because they’d refused to close the old account in his father’s name without a copy of the certificate of probate, their provider had closed off both accounts without warning and was refusing to reinstate the new one Arthur had set up. Unable to get a decent mobile signal for more than a few minutes at a time had resulted in endless dropped calls leaving Arthur ready to scream as he was forced to renegotiate the endless ‘press one for new accounts, press four if you have lost the will to live’ automated menus that served no purpose he could see other than to thwart attempts to speak to an actual human being. Tristan had headed down to the village pub a couple of hours ago to try and use their pay phone in a last-ditch attempt to get the problem resolved.

Miss Kennington visibly shivered, dragging Arthur away from his reverie. Really, he was being the most terrible host, what must she think of him? ‘Here, let me help you with your coat.’ He tugged her to her feet, an action that took almost no effort as she barely seemed to weigh anything, then tried to help her separate the wet wool from the suit jacket beneath it. The material didn’t yield easily resulting in a somewhat undignified tug of war as he pulled her coat one way whilst Miss Kennington wriggled in the other. Thinking it was some kind of game, Nimrod, Bella and a few of the other dogs who’d stayed at his side rather than wander over to bask before the fireplace tried to join in. ‘Get down, Nimrod! You too, Bertie. Bloody hounds, I’ll stick you all out in the stables if you don’t behave.’

‘I’m fine, it’s fine, I can manage,’ Miss Kennington was muttering, her attempts to avoid the dogs and escape her coat more hindrance than help.

‘Just hold still,’ Arthur found himself snapping with more force than he’d intended. Her cheeks flushed red, but at least she stopped faffing around long enough for him to get the soggy coat free. Holding the dripping coat away from himself, Arthur cast a mock-glare over the panting, prancing dogs who seemed delighted he’d won the game and were waiting to see what excitement lay in store for them next. ‘On your beds, go on!’

With expressions that might have broken a softer heart, the mini pack retreated, all apart from Bella who’d taken up station in front of Miss Kennington, seemingly determined to protect her from the others. ‘You’ve won a friend there,’ Arthur said with a grin. When Miss Kennington didn’t return his smile, a terrible thought occurred to him. ‘Unless you don’t like dogs?’

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