About the Author

LIZ FIELDING was born with itchy feet. She made it to Zambia before her twenty-first birthday and, gathering her own special hero and a couple of children on the way, lived in Botswana, Kenya and Bahrain. Seven of her titles have been nominated for RWA’s RITA®; and she has won the Best Traditional Romance in 2000, the British Romance Prize in 2005 and the Best Short Contemporary Romance in 2006.

Tempted by Trouble

Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-408-91746-6

TEMPTED BY TROUBLE

© 2011 Liz Fielding

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

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

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Life is like ice cream: you have to take it one lick at a time.

—Rosie’s Diary

‘LOVAGE AMERY?’

If ever there had been a moment to follow Gran’s example and check her reflection in the mirror before she opened the front door, Elle decided, this was it.

On her knees and up to her rubber gloves in soapy water when the doorbell rang, she hadn’t bothered to stop and fix hair sliding out of its elastic band. And there wasn’t much she could have done about a face pink and shiny from a day spent catching up with the housework while everyone was out, culminating in scrubbing the kitchen floor.

It was the complete Cinderella workout.

She couldn’t afford a fancy gym membership and, as she was always telling her sisters, cleaning was a lot more productive than pounding a treadmill. Not that they’d ever been sufficiently impressed by the argument to join in.

Lucky them.

Even sweaty Lycra had to be a better look than an ancient shirt tied around the waist with an equally geriatric psychedelic tie. Sexier than the jeans bagging damply around her knees.

It wouldn’t normally have bothered her and, to be fair, the man standing on the doorstep hadn’t made much of an effort, either. His thick dark hair was sticking up in a just-got-out-of-bed look and his chin was darkened with what might be designer stubble but was more likely to be a disinclination to shave on Saturday, when he didn’t have to go into the office.

Always assuming that he had an office to go to. Or a job.

Like her, he was wearing ancient jeans, in his case topped with a T-shirt that should have been banished to the duster box. The difference was that on him it looked mouth-wateringly good. So good that she barely noticed that he’d made free with a name she’d been trying to keep to herself since she’d started kindergarten.

Swiftly peeling off the yellow rubber gloves she’d kept on as a ‘Sorry, can’t stop’ defence against one of the neighbours dropping by with some excuse to have a nose around, entertain the post office queue with insider gossip on just how bad things were at Gable End, she tossed them carelessly over her shoulder.

‘Who wants to know?’ she asked.

Her hormones might be ready to throw caution to the wind—they were Amery hormones, after all—but while they might have escaped into the yard for a little exercise, she wasn’t about to let them go ‘walkies'.

‘Sean McElroy.’

His voice matched the looks. Low, sexy, soft as Irish mist. And her hormones flung themselves at the gate like a half-grown puppy in a let-me-at-him response as he offered his hand.

Cool, a little rough, reassuringly large, it swallowed hers up as she took it without thinking, said, ‘How d’you do?’ in a voice perilously close to the one her grandmother used when she met a good-looking man. With that hint of breathiness that spelled trouble.

‘I’m doing just fine,’ he replied, his slow smile obliterating all memory of the way she looked. Her hair, the lack of make-up and damp knees. It made crinkles around those mesmerisingly blue eyes and they fanned out comfortably in a way that suggested they felt right at home there.

Elle had begun to believe that she’d bypassed the gene that reduced all Amery women to putty in the presence of a good looking man.

Caught off guard, she discovered that she’d been fooling herself.

The only reason she’d escaped so far, it seemed, was because until this moment she hadn’t met a man with eyes of that particularly intense shade of blue.

A man with shoulders wide enough to carry the troubles of the world and tall enough not to make her feel awkward about her height, which had been giving her a hard time since she’d hit a growth spurt somewhere around her twelfth birthday. With a voice that seemed to whisper right through her bones until it reached her toes.

Even now they were curling inside her old trainers in pure ecstasy.

He epitomised the casual, devil-may-care, bad-boy look of the travelling men who, for centuries, had arrived on the village common in the first week of June with the annual fair and departed a few days later, leaving a trail of broken hearts and the occasional fatherless baby in their wake.

Trouble.

But, riveted to the spot, her hand still in his, all it needed was for fairground waltzer music to start up in the background and she’d have been twirling away on a fluffy pink cloud without a thought in her head.

The realisation was enough to bring her crashing back to her senses and, finally letting go of his hand, she took half a step back.

‘What do you want, Mr McElroy?’

His eyebrows lifted a fraction at the swift change from drooling welcome to defensive aggression.

‘Not a what, a who. I have a delivery for Lovage Amery.’

Oh, no …

Back to earth with a bump.

She hadn’t ordered anything—she couldn’t afford anything that would require delivery—but she had a grandmother who lived in a fantasy world. And her name was Lovage, too.

But all the questions tumbling out of her brain—the what, the who, the ‘how much?’ stuff—hit a traffic jam as his smile widened, reaching the parts of her that ordinary smiles couldn’t touch.

Her pulse, her knees, some point just below her midriff that was slowly dissolving to jelly.

‘If you’ll just take this …’

She looked down and discovered that this delectable, sinewy package that had those drooling hormones sitting up and begging for whatever trouble he had in mind was offering her a large brown envelope.

The last time one of those had come calling for ‘Lovage Amery’ she’d taken it without a concern in the world, smiling right back at the man offering it to her.

She’d been younger then. About to start college, embark on her future, unaware that life had yet one more sucker punch to throw at her.

‘What is it?’ she asked, regretting the abandonment of the rubber gloves. Regretting answering the door.

‘Rosie,’ he said. As if that explained everything. ‘You are expecting her?’

She must have looked as blank as she felt because he half turned and with a careless wave of the envelope, gestured towards the side of the house.

She leaned forward just far enough to see the front of a large pink and white van that had been backed up towards the garage.

She stared at it, expecting to see some disreputable dog sticking its head out of the window. She’d banned her sister from bringing home any more strays from the rescue shelter. The last one had broken not only their hearts, but what remained of their bank balance. But Geli was not above getting someone else to do her dirty work.

‘Where is she?’ she asked. Then, realising this practically constituted an acceptance, ‘No. Whatever Geli said, I can’t possibly take another dog. The vet’s bills for the last one—’

‘Rosie isn’t a dog,’ he said, and now he was the one looking confused. ‘That’s Rosie.’

She frowned, stared at the picture of an ice cream sundae on the van door, little cones on the roof, and suddenly realised what she was looking at.

‘Rosie is an ice cream van?’

‘Congratulations.’

Elle frowned. Congratulations? Had she won it in one of the many competitions she’d entered in a fit of post-Christmas despair when the washing machine had sprung a leak on the same day as the electricity bill had arrived?

Surely not.

She hadn’t had any warning of its arrival. No phone call. No letter informing her of her good fortune. Which was understandable.

This would have to be the booby prize because, desperate as she was, she wouldn’t have entered a competition offering a second-hand ice cream van as first prize.

She wouldn’t have entered one offering a new ice cream van, but at least she could have sold it and bought a new washing machine, one with a low energy programme—thus dealing with two problems at once—with the proceeds.

While unfamiliar with the latest trends in transport, even she could see that Rosie’s lines were distinctly last century.

Already the sorry owner of an ancient car that had failed its annual MOT test with a list of faults a mile long, the last thing she needed was to be lumbered with more scrap.

‘Congratulations?’ she repeated.

‘You appear to have twenty-twenty vision,’ he teased.

‘A very old ice cream van,’ she pointed out, doing her best to ignore the gotcha grin, the faded black T-shirt clinging to those enticing shoulders and figure out what the heck was going on.

‘Actually, she’s a nineteen sixty-two Commer ice cream van in her original livery,’ he said, without a hint of apology. On the contrary, he seemed to be under the impression that it was a good thing.

‘Nineteen sixty-two!’

It beat the wreck in the garage, which had rolled off the assembly line when she was still in primary school, by thirty years. That was a stripling youth compared to Rosie, which had taken to the road when her grandmother was still in school.

‘The old girl’s vintage,’ Sean confirmed. ‘She’s your Great-Uncle Basil’s pride and joy, but right now she’s in need of a good home.’

As he said this, he looked over her shoulder into the house, no doubt intending to emphasize the point.

He didn’t visibly flinch but the hall, like the rest of the house, was desperately in need of a coat of paint. It was also piled up with discarded shoes, coats and all the other stuff that teenagers seemed to think belonged on the floor. And of course, her rubber gloves.

That was the bad news.

The good news was that he couldn’t see where the carpet had been chewed by the dog that had caused them all so much grief.

‘Vintage,’ she repeated sharply, forcing him to look at her instead of the mess behind her. ‘Well, it would certainly fit right in around here. There’s just one small problem.’

More than one if she was being honest and honestly, despite the fact that the aged family car had failed its annual test and she was desperate for some transport, she wasn’t prepared to take possession of a vehicle that was short on seats and heavy on fuel.

Walking, as she was always telling her sisters, was good for you. Shaped up the legs. Pumped blood around the body and made the brain work harder. And they all had a duty to the planet to walk more. Or use public transport.

She walked. They used public transport.

There was absolutely no chance that either of her sisters would consider using the bike when it meant wearing an unflattering helmet and looking, in their words, ‘like a dork’ when they arrived at school and college, respectively.

‘Which is?’ he prompted.

She didn’t bother him with the financial downside of her situation, but kept it simple.

‘I don’t have a Great Uncle Basil.’

Finally a frown. It didn’t lessen the attraction, just made him look thoughtful, studious. Even more hormone-twangingly desirable.

‘You are Lovage Amery?’ he asked, catching up with the fact that, while she hadn’t denied it, she hadn’t confirmed it either. ‘And this is Gable End, The Common, Longbourne.’

She was slow to confirm it and, twigging to her reluctance to own up to the name, the address, he glanced back at the wide wooden gate propped wide open and immovable for as long as she could remember. The letters that spelled out the words ‘Gable End’ were faded almost to nothing, but denial was pointless.

‘Obviously there has been some kind of mistake,’ she said with all the conviction she could muster. Maybe. Her grandmother might well know someone named Basil who needed somewhere to park his ice cream van, but he wasn’t her uncle, great or otherwise. And, even if she’d wanted to—and she didn’t—she had no time to take on an ice cream round. End of, as Geli was so fond of saying. ‘Please take it away.’

‘I will.’ Her relieved smile was a fraction too fast. ‘If you’ll just help me get to the bottom of this.’

‘Some kind of muddle in the paperwork?’ she offered. ‘Take it up with Basil.’

‘It’s not a common name. Lovage,’ he said, ignoring her excellent advice.

‘There’s a good reason for that,’ she muttered.

One of his eyebrows kicked up and something in her midriff imitated the action. Without thinking, Elle found herself checking his left hand for a wedding band. It was bare, but that didn’t mean a thing. No man that good-looking could possibly be unattached. And, even if he was, she reminded herself, she wasn’t. Very firmly attached to a whole heap of responsibilities.

Two sisters still in full-time education, a grandmother who lived in her own make-believe world, and a house that sucked up every spare penny she earned working shifts in a dead-end job so that she could fit around them all.

‘You don’t like it?’ he asked.

‘No … Yes …’ It wasn’t that she didn’t like her name. ‘Sadly, it tends to rouse the infantile in the male, no matter how old they are.’

‘Men can be their own worst enemies,’ he admitted. Then said it again. ‘Lovage …’

This time he lingered over the name, testing it, giving it a deliciously soft lilt, making it sound very grown-up. And she discovered he didn’t need the smile to turn her bones to putty.

She reached for the door, needing something to hang on to.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ she snapped, telling herself to get a grip.

The man was trying to lumber her with a superannuated piece of junk. Or, worse, was a con artist distracting her while an accomplice—maybe Basil himself—slipped around the back of the house and made off with anything not nailed down. Well, good luck with that one. But, whatever he was up to, it was a cast-iron certainty that flirting was something that came to him as naturally as breathing. And she was being sucked in.

‘If that’s all?’ she enquired.

‘No, wait!’

She hesitated a second too long.

‘Right name. Tick. Right address. Tick—’

‘Annoying male, tick,’ she flashed back at him, determined to put an end to this. Whatever this was.

‘You may well be right,’ he agreed, amused rather than annoyed. Which was annoying. ‘But, while you might not know your Great-Uncle Basil, I think you’re going to have to accept that he knows you.’ He looked down at the envelope he was holding, then up at her. ‘Tell me, are you all named after herbs in your family?’

She opened her mouth, then, deciding not to go there, said, ‘Tell me, Mr McElroy, does she … it,’ she corrected herself, refusing to fall into the trap of thinking of the van as anything other than an inanimate object ‘does it go?’

‘I drove her here,’ he pointed out, the smile enticing, mouth-wateringly sexy. Confident that he’d got her. ‘I’ll take you for a spin in her so that I can talk you through her little eccentricities, if you like,’ he went on before she could complete her punchline, tell him to start it up and drive it away. ‘She’s a lovely old girl, but she has her moods.’

‘Oh, right. You’re telling me she’s a cranky old ice cream van.’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’ He leaned his shoulder against the door frame, totally relaxed, oblivious of the fact that the rose scrambling over the porch had dropped pink petals over his thick dark hair and on one of those broad shoulders. ‘Shall we say she’s an old ice cream van with bags of character?’

‘Let’s not,’ she replied, doing her best to get a grip of her tongue, her hormones, her senses, all of which were urging her to forget her problems, throw caution to the wind and, for once in her life, say yes instead of no. ‘I’m sorry, Mr McElroy—’

‘Sean—’

‘I’m sorry, Mr McElroy,’ she reiterated, refusing to be sidetracked, ‘but my mother told me never to take a ride with a stranger.’

A classic case of do as I say rather than do as I do, obviously. In similar circumstances, her mother wouldn’t have hesitated. She’d have grabbed the adventure and, jingle blaring, driven around the village scandalising the neighbours.

But, gorgeous though Sean McElroy undoubtedly was, she wasn’t about to make the same mistakes as her mother. And while he was still trying to get his head around the fact that she’d turned him down flat, she took a full step back and shut the door. Then she slipped the security chain into place, although whether it was to keep him out or herself in she couldn’t have said.

He didn’t move. His shadow was still clearly visible behind one of the stained glass panels that flanked the door and, realising that he might be able to see her pinned to the spot, her heart racing, she grabbed the rubber gloves and beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the kitchen.

Today was rapidly turning into a double scrub day and, back on her knees, she went at it with even more vigour, her pulse pounding in her ears as she waited for the bell to ring again.

It didn’t.

Regret warred with relief. It was a gorgeous May day and the thought of a spin in an ice cream van with a good-looking man called to everything young and frivolous locked up inside her. Everything she had never been. Even the scent of the lilac, wafting in through the kitchen door, seemed hell-bent on enticing her to abandon her responsibilities for an hour and have some fun.

She shook her head. Dangerous stuff, fun, and she attacked the floor with the brush, scrubbing at the already spotless quarry tiles, taking her frustration out on something inanimate while she tried to forget Sean McElroy’s blue eyes and concentrate on today’s problem. How to conjure two hundred and fifty pounds out of thin air to pay for Geli’s school trip to France.

There was nothing for it. She was going to have to bite the bullet and ask her boss for an extra shift.

Sean caught his breath.

He’d been having trouble with it ever since the door of Gable End had been thrown open to reveal Lovage Amery, cheeks flushed, dark hair escaping the elastic band struggling—and failing—to hold it out of a pair of huge hazel eyes.

Being a step up, she’d been on a level with him, which meant that her full, soft lips, a luscious figure oozing sex appeal, had been right in his face.

That she was totally oblivious of the effect created by all that unrestrained womanhood made it all the more enticing. All the more dangerous.

Furious as he was with Basil, he’d enjoyed the unexpected encounter and, while he was not fool enough to imagine he was irresistible, he thought that she’d been enjoying it, too. She’d certainly been giving as good as she got.

It was a long time since a woman had hit all the right buttons with quite that force and she hadn’t even been trying.

Maybe that was part of the attraction.

He’d caught her unawares and, unlike most women of his acquaintance, she hadn’t been wearing a mask, showing him what she thought he’d want to see.

Part of the attraction, all of the danger.

He’d as good as forgotten why he was there and the suddenness of her move had taken him by surprise. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been despatched quite so summarily by a woman but the rattle of the security chain going up had a finality about it that suggested ringing the doorbell again would be a waste of time.

He looked at the envelope Basil Amery had pushed through his door while he was in London, along with a note asking him to deliver it and Rosie to Lovage Amery.

He’d been furious. As if he didn’t have better things to do, but it was typical of the man to take advantage. Typical of him to disappear without explanation.

True, his irritation had evaporated when the door had opened but, while it was tempting to take advantage of the side gate, standing wide open, and follow up his encounter with the luscious Miss Amery, on this occasion he decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

It would take more than a pair of pretty eyes to draw him into the centre of someone else’s family drama. He had enough of that in his own backyard.

A pity, but he’d delivered Rosie. Job done.

CHAPTER TWO

Take plenty of exercise. Always run after the ice cream van.

—Rosie’s Diary

ELLE, hot, flustered and decidedly bothered from her encounter with Sean McElroy, found her concentration slipping, her ears straining to hear the van start up, the crunch of tyres on gravel as it drove away.

It was all nonsense, she told herself, mopping up the suds, sitting back on her heels. She’d never heard of anyone called Basil Amery. It had to be a mistake. But the silence bothered her. While she hadn’t heard the van arrive, she hadn’t been listening. She had, however, been listening for it to leave.

The sudden rattle of the letter box made her jump. That was the only reason her heart was pounding, she told herself as she leapt to her feet. She wasn’t in the habit of racing to pick up the post—it rarely contained anything but bills and she could wait for those—but it was an excuse to check that he’d gone.

There were two things on the mat. The brown envelope Sean McElroy had been holding and a bunch of keys. He couldn’t, she told herself. He wouldn’t … But the key fob was an ice cream cornet and she flung open the door.

Rosie was still sitting on the drive, exactly where he’d parked her.

‘Sean McElroy!’ she called, half expecting him to be sitting in the van, grinning at having tricked her into opening the door.

He wasn’t and, in a sudden panic, she ran to the gate, looking up and down the lane. Unless he’d had someone follow him in a car, he’d have to walk, or catch a bus.

She spun around, desperately checking the somewhat wild shrubbery.

Nothing. She was, apparently, quite wrong.

He could.

He had.

Abandoned Rosie on her doorstep.

‘If you’re looking for the van driver, Elle, he rode off in that direction.’

Elle inwardly groaned. Mrs Fisher, her next door neighbour, was bright-eyed with excitement as she stepped up to take a closer look at Rosie.

‘Rode?’

‘He had one of those fold-up bikes. Are you taking on an ice cream round?’ she asked.

The internal groan reached a crescendo. The village gossips considered the Amery family their own private soap opera and whatever she said would be chewed over at length in the village shop.

‘Sorry, Mrs Fisher, I can hear my phone,’ she said, legging it inside, pushing the door shut behind her. If she’d left it open the woman would have considered it an invitation to walk in.

She sat on the bottom of the stairs holding the envelope, staring at the name and address which was, without doubt, hers.

Then she tore it open and tipped out the contents. A dark pink notebook with ‘Bookings’ written on the cover. A bells and whistles cellphone, the kind that would have her sisters drooling. There were a couple of official-looking printed sheets of paper. One was the logbook for the van, which told her that it was registered to Basil Amery of Keeper’s Cottage, Haughton Manor, the other was an insurance certificate.

There was also a cream envelope.

She turned it over. There was nothing written on it, no name or address, but that had been on the brown envelope. She put her thumb beneath the flap and took out the single sheet of matching paper inside. Unfolded it.

Dear Lally, it began, and her heart sank as she read her grandmother’s pet name.

Remember how you found me, all those years ago? Sitting by the village pond, confused, afraid, ready to end it all?

You saved me that day, my life, my sanity, and what happened afterwards wasn’t your fault. Not Bernard’s either. My brother and I were chalk and cheese but we are as we’re made and there’s nothing that can change us. Maybe, if our mother had still been alive, things would have been different, but there’s no point in dwelling on it. The past is past.

I’ve kept my promise and stayed away from the family. I caused enough heartache and you and Lavender’s girls have had more than enough of that to bear, losing Bernard and Lavender, without me turning up to dredge up the past, old scandals. The truth, however, is that I’m getting old and home called. Last year I took a cottage on the Haughton Manor estate and I’ve been working up the courage to write to you, but courage was never my strong point and now I’ve left it too late.

I have met your lovely granddaughter, though. I had lunch at the Blue Boar a couple of months ago and she served me. She was so like you, Lally—all your charm, your pretty smile—that I asked someone who she was. She even has your name. And here, I’m afraid, comes the crunch. You knew there would be a crunch, didn’t you?

Rosie, who by now you’ll have met, is a little hobby of mine. I do the occasional party, public event, you know the kind of thing, just to cover the costs of keeping her. The occasional charity do for my soul. Unfortunately, events have rather overtaken me and I have to go away for a while but there are people I’ve made promises to, people I can’t let down and I thought perhaps you and your granddaughter might take it on for me. A chance for her to get out of that restaurant once in a while. For you to think of me, I hope. Sean, who brings this to you, will show you how everything works.

I’ve enclosed the bookings diary as well as the phone I use for the ice cream business and, in order to make things easier for you, I’ve posted the change of keeper slip to the licence people so that Rosie is now registered in your name. God bless and keep you, Lally. Yours always, Basil

Elle put her hand to her mouth. Swallowed. Her great-uncle. Family. He’d been within touching distance and she’d had no idea. She tried to remember serving someone on his own, but the Blue Boar had a motel that catered for businessmen travelling on their own.

Haughton Manor was only six or seven miles away but she had to get ready for work and there was no time to drive over there this evening. Find out more. Neither could she leave it and she reached for the phone, dialled Directory Enquiries.

‘Lower Haughton, Basil Amery,’ she said, made a note of the number and then dialled it.

After half a dozen rings it switched to voicemail. Had he already left? What events? Scandal, he’d mentioned in his letter … She left a message, asking him to call her—he’d pick up his messages even if he was away—left her number as well, and replaced the receiver. She was rereading his letter, trying to make sense of it, when the phone rang. She grabbed for it, hoping that he’d picked up the message and called back.

‘Elle?’

It was her boss. ‘Oh, hello, Freddy.’

‘Don’t sound so disappointed!’

‘Sorry, I was expecting someone else. What’s up?’ she asked quickly, before he asked who.

‘We’re going to be short-staffed this evening. I was wondering if you can you drop everything and come in early.’

‘Twenty minutes?’ she offered.

‘You’re an angel.’ Then, ‘Would your sister be interested in doing a shift? She’s a smart girl; she’d pick it up quickly enough. I’m sure she could use the money.’

‘I’m sorry, Sorrel isn’t here, but I was hoping for some more hours myself,’ she added, taking advantage of a moment when he was the one asking for something.

‘You already do more than enough. I’ll have a word next time she drops in to the use the Wi-Fi. It wouldn’t hurt her to help out.’

‘She needs to concentrate …’ But Freddy had already hung up and she was talking to herself.

She read the letter again, then replaced it in the envelope and put everything in the hall drawer. She didn’t want her grandmother seeing the letter until Elle knew what the heck was going on.

There was nothing she could do with Rosie, but she’d be at work before anyone came home. She had until tomorrow morning to think of some good reason why it was parked in the drive.

Sean told himself that it was none of his business. That Basil was just a tenant who’d asked if he could keep Rosie at the barn since there wasn’t a garage at the cottage.

He’d only got dragged into the situation because he’d stayed overnight in London on the day Basil decided to do his disappearing act. And if Lovage Amery had been a plain middle-aged woman Sean wouldn’t have given the matter a first thought, let alone a second one.

Why Basil hadn’t just decided to leave Rosie with him was the real mystery. She was safe enough locked up in the barn.

Unless, of course, he didn’t intend to come back.

Or hadn’t actually gone anywhere.

He swore, grabbed a spare set of keys from the estate safe and drove across the park to Keeper’s Cottage.

He knocked, called out, then, when there was no answer, let himself in. Nothing seemed out of place. There were no letters ominously propped up on the mantelpiece. Only a photograph of a young woman wearing an outrageously short mini dress, white knee-length boots, her hair cut in a sharp angular style that had once been the height of fashion. Her large eyes were framed with thick sooty lashes and heavily lined. The gloss and polish, the expensive high fashion were as far from Lovage Amery as it was possible to be, and yet those eyes left him in no doubt about the family connection. Shape, colour were a perfect match.

So that was all right, then.

Basil must have had some bookings for Rosie that he couldn’t cancel and was lumbering his family with the responsibility. If they weren’t keen, it wasn’t his problem.

The light was flashing on the answering machine and after a moment’s hesitation he hit ‘play'.

Lovage Amery’s liquid voice filled the room. ‘Mr Amery? My name is Lovage Amery and I’ve just read your letter. I don’t understand. Who are you? Will you ring me? Please.’ And she left a number.

Genuinely had no idea who Basil was? On the point of reaching for the phone, the phone in his pocket rang.

He checked the caller ID. Olivia.

‘Sean, I’m at the barn,’ she said before he could say a word. ‘Where are you?’

The leap-to-it tone of the Haughton family, so different from the soft voice still rippling through him, evoking the memory of hot eyes that you could drown in. A dangerously appealing mouth. It was the kind of complicated response that should have sent up warning flares—here be dragons—but only made him want to dive right in.

Bad idea.

‘I’m on the far side of the estate,’ he said.

‘It’s nearly six.’ His half-sister’s pout was almost audible.

‘You know how it is, sis,’ he said, knowing how much she hated to be called that. ‘No rest for younger illegitimate sons. Why are you here? ‘

‘It’s my home?’

‘Excuse me? The last time you were here was Christmas. You stayed for two days, then abandoned your children with their nanny for the rest of the holidays while you went skiing.’

‘They had a lovely time,’ she protested.

Of course they had. He’d made sure of it, sliding down the hill on old tea trays in the snow, building dens, running wild as he had, in ways that were impossible in their urban lives in London. But they would still have rather been with their parents.

‘Look, I don’t want to fight with you, Sean. I wanted to talk about the stables. I want to convert them into craft workshops. I know all kinds of people—weavers, candle-makers, turners, who would fall over themselves for space. Visitors to the estate would love to see demonstrations. Buy stuff.’

He laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’ she demanded.

‘The idea that you would know what a turner did, let alone be acquainted with one.’

‘Wretch. Henry thinks it’s a good idea.’

‘That would be Henry who visits his estate twice a year. At Christmas …’ also to abandon his children before jetting off, although in his case to the Caribbean ‘… and for the shooting.’ And for the occasional extramarital weekend in the same cottage his father had used for the purpose. Like father, like son.

‘It’s his estate, not yours,’ she pointed out.

‘So it is. And he pays me to run it professionally. At a profit. Not as occupational therapy for women whose marriages are falling apart.’

Clearly she had no answer to that because she cut the connection without another word. That was one of the drawbacks of a mobile phone. You couldn’t slam it down to make your point.

He replaced the photograph, took a thorough look around the cottage to make sure he hadn’t overlooked anything. He found nothing to raise alarm signals but he was still vaguely uneasy. Regretted not staying at the Amerys’ house to check the contents of Basil’s envelope.

He hadn’t taken much notice when Lovage Amery had initially denied any knowledge of Basil. He had family he’d deny in a heartbeat but that message on Basil’s answering machine certainly hadn’t sounded like a family call—even to family you didn’t like. He’d heard enough of those over the years to recognise one when he heard it. She had been polite, businesslike but there had been no emotion. And if he was sure of anything, he was sure that Miss Lovage Amery was packed to the brim with that.

He’d be going that way this evening. Maybe he should call in to see her again. Just to put his mind at rest. Basil was, after all, his tenant and there were implications for the estate if he didn’t intend to come back.

And, just in case Lovage Amery was still denying any family connection, he used his phone to take a picture of the photograph on the mantelpiece.

‘Freddy …’

‘Elle! You must have flown!’ It was a good start but, before she could press her advantage and put her case for another shift, he said, ‘Not now. All hands on deck.’

Rosie was exactly where he’d left her, which wasn’t promising. Sean had hoped that whatever was in the envelope would have made things clear and she’d be tucked up safely behind the doors of what must once have been a carriage house. Taken into the fold, as it were.

As it was, he braced himself before ringing the doorbell. And not just because of the effect Lovage Amery had on his breathing.

Whatever the situation, after his park and ride performance this afternoon he wasn’t anticipating a particularly warm welcome.

The deep breath was unnecessary. The door was opened by a teenage girl who was a vision in black. Black hair, black dress, black painted fingernails.

‘Yes?’ she demanded, with manners to match the clothes. ‘What do you want?’

‘A word with Lovage Amery?’

‘What about?’

‘Tell her it’s Sean McElroy,’ he said. ‘She’ll know.’

She shrugged. ‘Gran, it’s for you!’ she shouted, hanging onto the door, keeping him on the step with the kind of stare that would frighten a zombie.

Gran? ‘No …’

She waited, expressionless.

‘Tall, dark hair, hazel eyes? No one’s grandmother,’ he added.

The green eyes in her deadpan face narrowed suspiciously. ‘You want Elle?’

‘Do I?’ Elle?

‘She’s at work. She won’t be home until late.’

‘In that case, I’ll come back tomorrow,’ he said.

‘Make it before eleven. She starts work at twelve,’ she said, making a move to close the door.

‘What is it, Geli?’

Sean looked beyond the black-garbed teen to the source of the voice. Walking towards him was the girl in Basil’s photograph, over forty years on. Her hair had faded to grey and these days she wore it up in a soft chignon, but the eyes, even without the heavy fridge of false eyelashes, were unmistakable.

‘It’s okay, Gran. He doesn’t want you, he wants Elle.’

‘I hadn’t realised there was more than one Lovage Amery,’ Sean said quickly, bypassing the teen in favour of her grandmother, who was undoubtedly the intended recipient of Basil’s envelope. ‘Did Elle explain to you about Rosie?’

‘Rosie?’ she asked, confused. Which answered that question. ‘Who’s Rosie?’

‘Not who, what. The ice cream van?’

‘Oh, that. I wondered where it had come from. Is it yours?’

‘No …’ This was even harder than talking to Elle. ‘I left a letter for you,’ he prompted. ‘From Basil?’

‘Basil?’ She took a step back, the graceful poise crumpling along with her face. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘He wouldn’t. He mustn’t. Bernard will be so angry.’

‘Gran …’ The girl, a protective arm around her grandmother, gave him a furious look and, for the second time that day, the front door of Gable End was shut firmly in his face.

Freddy stopped her with a touch to her arm. Elle’s instincts were to pull away, but she reminded herself that he’d known her and her family since she was eighteen. That it was avuncular rather than familiar. He was, after all, old enough to be her uncle if not her father.

‘There’s a big party at the corner table, Elle. They’ve got drinks and should have had enough time to sort out what they want to eat by now. Will you take care of them?’

Only one of the backup staff had turned in and it had been non-stop since she’d arrived before six. She was due a break, but that wasn’t going to happen and she pasted on a smile, took her book from her pocket and said, ‘Of course, Freddy.’

The large round table in the corner could take up to a dozen people and it was full, which might mean a decent tip. Or a lot of work for nothing much. You could never tell.

Smile, Elle, smile, she told herself as she approached the table. ‘Are you ready to order?’ she asked. ‘Or do you need a little more …’

The words died away as she looked around the table and found herself face to face with Sean McElroy and her knees, already feeling the pressure from nearly three hours of nonstop action, momentarily buckled.

Since yelling at a diner, demanding to know why he’d dumped Rosie and run, would not improve her chances of a decent tip, she braced her knees, cleared her throat, said to no one in particular, ‘If you need a little more time I can come back.’

‘No, we’re ready,’ the man nearest to her said, acknowledging her with a smile before going around the table, so that she could keep her eyes on her notepad. Everything went smoothly until they reached Sean McElroy. ‘Sean?’ he prompted.

‘Sorry, I can’t make up my mind. I’m rather tempted by the chicken in a herb crust. Can you tell me exactly what the herbs are? Elle,’ he added, proving that his vision was twenty-twenty too, since he could obviously read her name badge across the table.

So much for hoping to avoid another encounter with those blue eyes.

She looked up to find them fixed on her, his expression suggesting that she had some explaining to do which, under the circumstances, was some nerve.

The woman beside him, slender, cool in a linen shift of such simplicity that it had to have cost a mint, straight blonde hair shining like something out of a shampoo advert, turned to look at him and, instantly sensing that there was more going on than just a discussion about food, frowned.

‘I thought you were going to have the steak, darling. You always have the steak,’ she added, declaring herself in possession.

‘Do I? I hadn’t realised I was so boring, darling,’ he said, keeping his eyes fixed resolutely on Elle. The ‘darling’ had sounded like an afterthought. Maybe the woman noticed that too, because she followed his gaze to Elle and her frown deepened.

‘The crust consists of fine wholemeal breadcrumbs,’ Elle rattled off quickly, ‘and a mixture of fresh herbs including parsley, lemon thyme, a touch of sage, seasoned and bound together with egg.’

‘No lovage?’ he asked.

Well, she’d seen that one coming. Was ready for it. ‘No lovage, no basil.’ She waited, pencil poised.

‘A pity. I’ll have the salmon.’

She made a note, moved on. It was just another table, she told herself as she brought a jug of water, went around the table with a basket of warm rolls.

‘Roll, madam?’ she asked the blonde.

She shook her head.

She moved on ‘Roll, sir?’

Sean looked up, his face so close to hers that she could see a thin jagged scar just above his eyebrow. Had he fallen off his bike when he was little? Been cut by something? Been hand-bagged by some woman he’d seriously annoyed?

He took his time deciding, then, when she’d finally picked out his choice with the tongs and she was congratulating herself on keeping her cool when all she wanted to do was crown him with them, he murmured, ‘Tell me, Lovage, who is Bernard?’ At which point the roll shot out of the tongs, knocked over a glass of water and in the confusion most of the rolls landed in his lap.

‘One would have been sufficient,’ he said, rescuing the basket and picking warm bread out of his lap, while she scrambled on the floor for the rest.

‘Fetch fresh rolls, Elle. Quickly as you can.’ Oh, no, Freddy would have to be looking … ‘And replace this glass,’ he added, handing it to her. ‘I’m so sorry, everyone. Can I offer you fresh drinks? On the house, of course.’

‘How about a fresh waitress. Someone in control of her hands. And her eyes,’ the girl in the linen dress suggested, pointedly brushing away a few drops of water. ‘My dress is ruined.’

‘There is nothing wrong with the waitress,’ Sean said as Freddy mopped up the spill, straightened the table.

‘We can all see what you think of her—’

‘The accident was entirely my fault,’ he continued, speaking to Freddy, ignoring the woman at his side. ‘And there’s no need for fresh drinks. We’re fine.’

Sean watched Lovage—Elle—Amery walk away and discovered that he wanted to go with her. Take her hand and walk out into the dusk with her. Walk across the village, along the towpath by the Common. Walk her home and kiss her on the step, ask her out on a date, just like they did in the old days.

‘What did you say to her?’ Charlotte demanded, intensifying the feeling.

‘I asked for the roll with pumpkin seeds,’ he replied.

‘And you certainly got it,’ someone chimed in. Everyone laughed except Charlotte.

‘I don’t believe you. You were flirting with her from the moment she came to the table,’ she accused.

Sean realised that the restaurant owner was still hovering. Listening. ‘If I was, then I am one hundred per cent to blame, because she certainly wasn’t flirting back.’ He forced himself to smile at the man. ‘We’re okay, really. Thanks.’

It was a dismissal and he took the hint, leaving them to their meal. Another waitress brought a fresh glass, a new basket of rolls, and served their meal, but he only had eyes for Elle as she weaved with drinks and trays of food between smaller tables on the far side of the room.

Reassigned out of the danger zone by the restaurant manager and no doubt happy to go.

What on earth had got into him?

He’d just taken his seat at the table when he’d looked around the room and seen her, hair restrained in a French plait, luscious curves neatly encased in a black shirt and trousers, a long black pinafore tied with strings around her waist.

She’d been laughing over a friendly exchange with a family she was serving at another table and he’d experienced another of those breath-stopping moments, just like the one he’d had when she’d opened the door to him.

He should have guessed this was where she worked.

There were a fairly limited number of jobs where she’d be working at this time of night, or on a Sunday lunchtime. A late-night garage, a twenty-four hour supermarket or a restaurant. And the Blue Boar—a rambling restaurant with bed and breakfast facilities for businessmen—was within walking distance of Gable End.

As he’d watched her, he saw the guy who’d shown them to their table, the one who’d come to see what the fuss was about, stop her with a hand to her arm as she’d passed him.

It looked familiar. Possessive.

As did the way the man’s eyes had followed her as she came towards their table.

It was none of his business, he told himself. None at all. But then she’d looked up, seen him, and he just hadn’t been able to stop himself.

Elle walked into the kitchen the following morning, gritty-eyed, heavy-limbed, late after a restless night with a head full of pink ice cream vans and blue-eyed men, to find it blissfully silent.

Sorrel had presumably walked her grandmother to church before going on to take advantage of the free Wi-Fi at the Blue Boar. And Geli would be doing an early turn, dog walking at the animal sanctuary.

She dropped the envelope and van keys she’d retrieved from the hall drawer onto the kitchen table, then opened the back door.

The sun poured in, bringing with it the song of a blackbird, the scent of the lilac and she lifted her face to the sun, feeling the life seep back as she breathed in the day. Breathed out the unpleasantness of last night. That girl with Sean McElroy might have been beautiful, elegant and polished, but beauty is as beauty does, at least that was what her grandmother always said.

She suspected that beauty like that could, and did, do whatever it pleased and Sean McElroy was clearly happy to let her.

Freddy had moved her to another table after the incident with the rolls. He had been quick to reassure her that he didn’t blame her for what happened but, after all, the customer was always right.

It should have been a relief. Was a relief, she told herself. Between Sean and his girlfriend, someone would undoubtedly have had their dinner in their lap.

She had enough on her plate sorting out Rosie, without that kind of trouble. But not before she’d had a cup of tea and got some solid carbs inside her, she decided, picking up an elastic band from the bowl on the dresser and fastening back her hair.

She opened the bread bin.

Nothing but crumbs. And a shake told her that the cereal box on the table was empty.

She was on her knees hunting through the cupboards for the packet she’d bought the day before when a shadow cut off the sunlight.

It was too soon for her grandmother or Sorrel and she looked up expecting to see Geli, ready for a second helping of breakfast before going into Maybridge with her friends. And out of luck because the empty box on the table was the one she’d bought the day before.

But it wasn’t Geli.

The silhouette blocking out the light was that of Pink Van Man himself, but only momentarily, since he didn’t wait for an invitation but walked right in before she could ask him what the heck he thought he was doing.

A fast learner.

CHAPTER THREE

Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first.

—Rosie’s Diary

SEAN MCELROY looked so much bigger, so much more dangerous now that she was on her knees. Maybe he was aware of that because he bent to offer her a hand up, enveloping her in a waft of something masculine that completely obliterated the scent of the lilac.

Old leather, motor oil, the kind of scents unknown in an all female household, and she found herself sucking it in like a starving kitten.

Her eyes were level with a pair of narrow hips, powerful thighs encased in soft denim, closer to a man—at least one she wanted to be close to—than she’d been since she’d said goodbye to her dreams and taken a job working unsocial hours.

‘How did you get in?’ she demanded.

‘The gate was open.’

Oh, great. She nagged about security but no one took her seriously. Except, of course, it wasn’t about that.

Leaving the gate open was Geli’s silent protest against Elle’s flat refusal to take in any more four-footed friends, no matter how appealing. Why bother to shut the gate when there was no dog to keep off the road?

She shook him off, cross, hot and bothered. ‘It’s not an invitation for anyone to walk in,’ she snapped, standing up without assistance.

‘No? Just as well I closed it then,’ he said. ‘It could do with a new lock.’

‘I could do with any number of new things, Mr McElroy. The one thing I don’t need is an old van. Can I hope that your arrival means you’ve realised your mistake and have come to take her home?’

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘You don’t look it.’ He wasn’t smiling exactly, but she was finding it hard to hold onto her irritation.

‘Would it help if I said that I honestly believed you were expecting her?’

‘Really?’ she enquired. ‘And what part of “Go away and take Rosie with you” didn’t you understand?’

He ignored the sarcasm. ‘I thought that once you’d opened the envelope it would make sense.’

‘So why are you here now?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Just a feeling that something’s not quite right. Did Basil leave a note?’ he asked, nodding in the direction of the envelope. ‘I’m a bit concerned about him.’

‘But not about me, obviously. Your little stunt last night could have cost me my job. Did you enjoy your salmon?’ she accused.

‘I have to admit that the evening went downhill right after you dumped a basket of hot rolls in my lap,’ he said.

‘I hope you’re not expecting an apology.’

‘No. I take it you didn’t get the message I left for you?’

He’d left a message? She shook her head. ‘We were rushed off our feet last night. I didn’t hang around to chat.’

‘No?’ There was something slightly off about the way he said that.

‘Would you?’ she asked. ‘After six hours on your feet?’

‘It depends what was on offer.’

She frowned and he shook his head. ‘No, forget it. I’m sorry if you got into trouble but you have to admit that while you might not know Basil, the name Bernard certainly makes you all jump.’

‘All?’

‘Your grandmother nearly passed out when I asked her if she’d had Basil’s letter,’ he explained.

‘Gran? Are you telling me that you came back here yesterday? After I’d gone to work?’

‘I called in on my way to the Blue Boar. I did tell the skinny vampire that I’d come back this morning,’ he said.

‘Geli …’ She smothered a grin. ‘I haven’t seen her this morning. I’ve only just got up. What did Gran say?’

‘She wasn’t exactly coherent, but I think the gist was that Bernard wouldn’t allow her to receive a letter from Basil. She seemed panic-stricken at the thought.’

‘Well, that’s just ridiculous. Bernard was my grandfather but he’s been dead for years,’ she told him.

And yet there was obviously something. It was there in the letter.

‘Tell me about him,’ she said.

‘Basil?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know much. He’s just an old guy with two passions in his life. Rosie and poker.’

‘He’s a gambler? Are you saying that he puts Rosie up as surety for his bets?’

‘He’d never risk losing Rosie,’ he assured her. Then added, ‘Which is not to say that if he got into trouble some of his playing partners wouldn’t take her in lieu if they could get their hands on her.’

‘So, what are you saying? That you’ve been appointed getaway driver and I’ve been chosen to give her sanctuary?’ It … not she. She was doing it now. But it explained why Basil had gone to the bother of registering her grandmother as Rosie’s keeper.

‘That’s about the gist of it,’ he admitted, stretching his neck, easing his shoulders.

‘Don’t do that!’ she said as his navy polo shirt rippled, offering a tantalising promise of the power beneath the soft jersey. Talk about distraction …

Sean frowned. He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, thank goodness.

‘Does he disappear regularly?’ she asked before he had time to work it out.

‘I wouldn’t know. I’m his landlord, not his best buddy. But he garages Rosie with me and I was in London when he took off and he couldn’t get in. It would seem that his need to disappear was too urgent to wait until morning.’

‘So, what? He dropped a note through your letter box asking you to bring her here?’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said, looking slightly uncomfortable, no doubt thinking that she was taking a dig at him for doing the same. ‘I assumed that once you’d read whatever was in the envelope you’d know what to do.’

What to do?

It got worse, she thought, suddenly realising exactly what this was all about.

‘I’m sorry, Sean, but if you’ve come here expecting to be paid your rent, you’re out of luck. I don’t know Basil Amery and, even if I did, I couldn’t help you. You’re going to have to sell Rosie to recover your losses.’

‘Sell Rosie? Are you kidding?’

‘Obviously,’ Elle said, back to sarcasm. ‘Since she’s Basil’s pride and joy.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

‘I can think of more important things to lavish your love on. I mean, how would you react to someone you’ve never heard of expecting you to run an ice cream round for him?’

Sean thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘Why don’t I put the kettle on? I make a mean cup of coffee.’

‘I haven’t got any coffee,’ she said, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

‘Tea, then,’ he said, picking up the kettle, filling it and turning it on. He took a couple of mugs off the dresser and since the tea bags were stored in a tin with ‘TEA’ on the front—life was complicated enough without adding to the confusion—he found them without making a mountain out of a molehill. So far, he was doing better than either of her sisters ever managed. ‘Milk, sugar?’ he asked, dropping a bag in each mug.

She wanted to tell him to go and take the van with him, but he was right. They needed to get to the bottom of this.

‘Just a dash of milk.’

Was there any milk?

‘How about sugar? You’ve obviously had a shock.’

‘Of course I haven’t,’ she said, pulling herself together. ‘This is some kind of weird mistake. It has to be.’

They weren’t the most conventional family in the world, but they didn’t have secrets. Quite the contrary. Anyone would give him chapter and verse …

He glanced back to her.

‘What are you so scared of, Elle?’

‘I’m not scared!’

‘No?’

‘No!’ She’d faced the worst that the world could throw at her, but he was right, something about this put her on edge and, seizing on the fact that the kettle hadn’t come on to divert his attention, she said, ‘You have to give the plug a wiggle.’

He wasn’t diverted, just confused, and she reached behind him.

‘Don’t!’ Sean said as he realised what she was doing. He made a lunge in her direction, but not in time to stop her. There was a bit of a crackle and a tiny shock rippled up her arm, then the light came on and the kettle began to heat up noisily.

Her cheeks lit up to match but the rush of heat that invaded her body, starting at the spot where his hand was fastened over hers was, fortunately, silent.

Or maybe not.

Maybe the hammering of her pulse in her ears was so loud that Sean could hear it too, because he dropped her hand so fast that you’d have thought she was the one with dodgy wiring.

Without a word, he took a wooden spoon from the pot by the stove, used the handle to switch off the kettle and then removed the plug from the socket.

Whatever. Tea had been his idea.

But he wasn’t done. Having disconnected the kettle, he began opening the dresser drawers.

‘Excuse me!’

He held up a screwdriver he’d found in the drawer that contained bits of string, paper bags, the stuff that didn’t have any other home.

‘It’s beyond help,’ she told him. ‘It’s just …’ worn out, past its use by date, just plain old ‘… vintage. Like Rosie.’

‘It’s nothing like Rosie,’ he said, ignoring her protest as he set about taking the plug apart. ‘Rosie is not an accident waiting to happen.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ she retorted.

‘No. It’s a matter of fact. She’s completely roadworthy or I wouldn’t be driving her.’ He looked up. ‘And I wouldn’t have brought her to you.’

‘No?’ Then, realising just how rude she was being, she blushed. ‘No, of course not. Sorry …’

‘No problem.’

‘I’m glad you think so,’ she said, only too aware of the envelope that was lying on the kitchen table with all the appeal of an unexploded bomb.

The Amery family had lived at Gable End for generations. This was the house Grandpa had been born in and it was marked with traces of everyone who’d ever lived there.

Their names were written in the fly-leaves of books that filled shelves in almost every room. Were scratched into the handles of ancient tennis racquets, stencilled onto the lids of old school trunks in the attic.

Their faces as babies, children, brides and grooms, soldiers, parents, grandparents, filled photograph albums.

There was no Basil.

Okay, there were gaps. Photographs fell out, were borrowed, lost.

Or had some been removed?

Gran had recognised the name. According to Sean, she hadn’t acted in the slightly silly, coy way she did when some man from the pensioners’ club chatted her up, and they often did because she was still beautiful.

She’d nearly passed out, he’d said. Panicked. And then there was Basil’s letter. He’d mentioned Bernard and referred to him as ‘my brother'. The connection was definitely there. Maybe she just didn’t want to believe it.

Taking a deep breath, she picked up the envelope—no one called her a scaredy-cat—and tipped the contents out onto the table so that he could see that she wasn’t trying to hide anything.

‘Here’s Basil’s letter,’ she said, offering it to Sean, who was leaning against the dresser, still poking about in the plug with the screwdriver. ‘You’d better read it,’ she said, thrusting it at him before turning her attention to the notebook.

On the first page, where a printed note said ‘In case of loss, please return to:’ the word ‘ROSIE’ had been written in block capitals, along with a mobile phone number. Presumably belonging to the phone on the table.

It was a page-a-day diary, she discovered, as she riffled through the pages, hoping for some clue. To the man. To his whereabouts.

There were appointments with names and telephone numbers by them. The occasional comment. Quotes by the famous, as well as Basil’s own wry or funny comments on the joys of ice cream. There were only a couple of recent entries.

‘He’s written “RSG” on yesterday’s date. Underlined. Do you know anyone with those initials?’

He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head.

‘That’s it, apart from “Service, Sean” written in the space for last Friday. Are you a mechanic? There’s a collection of vintage cars at Haughton Manor, isn’t there? Do you take care of them?’

‘They come under my care,’ he said. ‘Basil asked if I’d change Rosie’s oil, run a few basic checks to make sure everything was in good shape since he had some bookings. His back has been playing him up,’ he added, almost defensively. Doing little jobs on the side that his boss didn’t know about? Not her concern.

‘How much does he pay you?’ she asked. The last thing she needed was an elderly—vintage—vehicle that required high level, high cost maintenance, but she didn’t appear to have much choice in the matter. The mystery remained, but the connection between Basil and her family appeared to be proved.

He shrugged and a smile teased at the corner of his mouth, creating a tiny ripple of excitement that swept through her, overriding her irritation, and it occurred to her that a man like Sean McElroy could be seriously good for her state of mind.

‘Basil prefers to give payment in kind,’ he said.

‘Ice cream?’ She looked at him. The narrow hips, ropey arms. Her state of mind and all points south. ‘How much ice cream can one man eat?’

‘Fortunately, I don’t have to eat it all myself. He brought Rosie along to a family birthday party fully loaded with ice cream and toppings. The brownie points I earned for that were worth their weight in brake liners.’

‘Family? You have children?’

‘No. The party was for my niece. Half-niece.’ He shrugged. ‘I have a complicated family.’

‘Don’t we all,’ she said wryly. ‘But that’s a lot of ice cream for one little girl’s birthday.’

‘It was a big party. My family don’t do things by halves,’ he said.

‘No?’ They had that in common, only in her case it tended to be dramas rather than celebrations. ‘How do you know him?’

‘Basil? He’s a tenant on the Haughton Manor estate.’

‘Keeper’s Cottage. It’s on the vehicle logbook,’ she said. ‘It’s so near. I went there once on a school trip when we were doing the Tudors. It’s beautiful.’

‘So people keep telling me.’

‘You live there too?’ she asked.

‘Live there, work there, for my sins. Or, rather, my mother’s,’ he said, before returning to the letter. ‘Lally? Is that what people call your grandmother?’

‘Yes.’ She’d much rather hear about his mother’s sins, but he’d changed the subject so emphatically that she didn’t pursue it. ‘I doubt many people know her real name.’

‘Or yours?’

‘Or mine,’ she admitted.

‘Well, Basil certainly does, and he’s got a photograph of her on his mantelpiece to prove it.’

‘You’re kidding! A picture of my grandmother?’

He took a phone from his pocket, clicked through it and held it out to her. ‘I took this yesterday when I let myself in. Just to be sure that he hadn’t done anything … foolish.’

‘Killed himself, you mean?’ she said pointedly.

He didn’t answer but that was what he’d meant. It was why he was here now. Why he’d wanted to see the letter.

‘You have his keys?’ she asked.

‘Not personally. There are master keys in the estate safe. For emergencies.’

‘Or when a tenant does a runner,’ she said, taking the phone from him.

‘It is her?’ he asked about the woman in the photo.

She nodded. ‘It was taken in the late sixties, before she married my grandfather.’

Her grandmother had been the height of fashion with her dark hair cut in a sharp chin-length bob by a top London stylist, her huge eyes heavily made-up, her lips pale. And the dress she was wearing was an iconic Courrèges original design.

She handed it back to him. ‘How did you know this was gran?’

‘I didn’t until I saw her last night, but it was obvious she was related to you. The likeness is unmistakable.’

‘But she was …’

She stopped. Her grandmother had been the pampered daughter of the younger son of the Earl of Melchester. A debutante. An acknowledged beauty.

One of the girls in pearls who’d featured in the pages of Country Life.

While the Amerys were a solid middle-class family, it hadn’t been the marriage her father had planned for his daughter. No minor aristocracy to offer inherited wealth, park gates, maybe a title, so Elle’s grandmother had been pretty much cut adrift from her family when she’d married Bernard Amery.

‘I don’t look a bit like her,’ she said instead.

‘Not superficially, maybe, but you have her mouth. Her eyes. Basil recognised you,’ he pointed out. He looked again at the letter. ‘Is your grandmother about?’ he asked.

‘No!’ She shook her head. ‘You can’t bother her with this, Sean.’

‘You haven’t shown her the letter?’

‘Not yet.’ Once her grandmother had read it, Elle would be well and truly lumbered. And not just with an old crock that would cost a fortune to tax, insure, keep running. There were the obligations, too.

Oh, no, wait.

The connection had been made. He knew he’d brought Rosie to the right place and as far as Sean McElroy was concerned there was nothing more to be said.

She was already lumbered.

It was true, nothing good ever came out of a brown envelope. Well, this time it wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t going to let it.

Whatever her grandmother had done for him in the past, Basil was going to have to sort out his own problems. They had quite enough of their own.

‘They seem to have been very close,’ he said, looking again at the letter. ‘He says she saved his life.’

‘He’d have had a job to end it all in the village pond,’ she told him dryly. ‘No matter what time of day or night, someone would be sure to spot you.’

‘Your grandmother, in this case. No doubt it was just a cry for help, but she seems to have listened. Sorted him out.’

Her ditzy, scatterbrained grandmother?

‘If that’s the case, why haven’t they seen one another for forty years? Unless …’ She looked up. ‘If she married his brother, maybe they fell out over her. She was very beautiful.’

‘Yes …’

‘Although why would Grandpa have removed every trace of his brother’s presence from the family home? After all, he got the girl,’ she mused.

‘Of course he got the girl. Basil is gay, Elle.’

‘Gay?’ she repeated blankly.

‘Could that be the reason his family disowned him?’ Sean asked.

‘No!’ It was too horrible to imagine. ‘They wouldn’t.’

‘People do. Even now.’

‘They weren’t like that,’ she protested.

Were they?

Sean was right. Forty years was a lifetime ago. She had no idea how her great-grandparents would have reacted to the news that one of their sons was gay. Or maybe she did. Basil had mentioned his mother in the letter. If she’d still been alive, he’d said …

You could change the law but attitudes took longer, especially among the older generation.

As for her grandfather, Bernard, he’d been a slightly scary stranger, someone who’d arrived out of the blue every six months or so, who everyone had to tiptoe around. Breathing a collective sigh of relief when he disappeared overseas to do whatever he did in Africa and the Middle East.

‘Whatever happened, Gran can’t be bothered with this. She’s not strong, Sean.’

As always, it was down to her. And the first thing she’d have to do was go through the diary and cancel whatever arrangements Basil had made. If she could work out what they were.

‘What does this mean?’ she asked, flicking through the notebook again.

Sean didn’t answer and she looked up, then wished she hadn’t because he was looking straight at her and those blue eyes made her a little giddy. She wanted to smile, grab him and dance. Climb aboard Rosie and ring her bell.

She took a deep breath to steady herself.

‘It says “Sylvie. PRC” Next Saturday'?’ she prompted, forcing herself to look away.

‘PRC? That’ll be the Pink Ribbon Club. It’s a charity supporting cancer patients and—’ He paused as he tightened the final screw in the plug.

‘And their families,’ she finished for him, the words catching in her throat. ‘I know.’

‘It’s their annual garden party on Saturday. They’re holding it at Tom and Sylvie MacFarlane’s place this year.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Longbourne Court.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. I’d heard it was occupied at last.’

‘I saw the signs advertising the garden party when I passed the gates. Basil mentioned it when he asked me to change Rosie’s oil. I got the feeling he’d volunteered to help because it meant something special to him.’

‘He should have thought of that before he bet the farm on the turn of a card,’ she said, suddenly angry with this man who appeared to have absolutely no sense of responsibility. Worse. Didn’t have the courage to face them and ask for help, but left someone else to do his dirty work. ‘But then, from his letter, he appears to have made a life’s work of letting people down.’

‘You’re assuming that it’s a gambling problem.’

‘You were the one who mentioned it as a possibility,’ she reminded him.

‘Grasping at straws? Maybe that was the problem with his family,’ he suggested. ‘Maybe he’d flogged the family silver to pay his creditors.’

‘Not guilty,’ she said, earning herself a sharp look. ‘And I thought you said it was a recent problem?’

‘He’s been living on the estate for less than a year, so what do I know? Maybe he only gambles when he’s unhappy. A form of self-harming?’

No, no, no … She wasn’t listening.

‘I can’t have Gran involved in anything like this, Sean.’

‘All he’s asking is that she—or, rather, you—keeps Rosie’s business ticking over.’

‘Is it?’

‘That’s what he put in the note he left me.’ He looked again at the letter to her grandmother. ‘This does make it sound rather more permanent, I have to admit.’

‘Well, whatever he wants, it’s impossible. I have a job that keeps me fully occupied and Gran doesn’t have a driving licence,’ she protested, clutching at straws. ‘Besides, her concentration isn’t that great. She’d think it was all a wonderful treat and give all the ice cream away. Or just wander off when she got bored.’

‘Is it Alzheimer’s?’ he asked point-blank.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘She always had a bit of a reputation for giddiness but she’s had a lot to deal with over the years. She blamed herself for Grandpa’s death, which is ridiculous,’ she added, before he could start adding two and two and making five. ‘He was killed in a road accident. In Nigeria. And then my mother died. She hasn’t been quite focused since then. Her doctor thinks she simply blocks out what she can’t cope with.’

‘We all have days when we’d like to do that,’ he murmured sympathetically.

‘Yes …’ Then, afraid that she was revealing more than she should, ‘You can see why I won’t have her put under any stress.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But there’s absolutely nothing wrong with your focus, Lovage. Maybe, since you’ve taken charge of the letter meant for her, you could at least stand in for your grandmother on Saturday.’

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