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It needed an owner who would look after it, Rafe thought, guiding his mud-smeared Land Cruiser down the twisting lane that led to the house. Though not him, he reminded himself firmly. Whatever the old lady said, she was never going to leave Tregellin to the illegitimate son of an olive farmer.
Not that he wanted her to, he reflected without malice. Now that the studio was up and running, he hadn’t enough time to do what he had to do as it was. Oh, he collected the rents and kept the books, made sure the old lady paid her taxes. He even mowed the lawns and kept the shrubbery free of weeds, but the house itself needed a major overhaul.
The trouble was, he didn’t have the money. Not the kind of money needed to restore the place to its former glory anyway. And if Lady Elinor was as wealthy as the people in the village said she was, she was definitely hiding it from her family.
He knew Cary thought his grandmother was a rich woman. That was why he seldom refused an invitation, ran after her as if her every wish was his command. It was pathetic, really. If Rafe had had more respect for the man he’d have told him the old lady was just using him to satisfy her lust for power. If she did intend to make Cary her heir, she was going to make him work for it.
Whatever happened, Rafe doubted Tregellin would survive another death in the family. Unless Lady Elinor had some hidden cash that no one knew about, when she was gone the estate would have to be sold. It was probably Cary’s intention anyway. Rafe couldn’t see his cousin moving out of London, giving up the life he had there. Nevertheless, with death duties and lawyers’ fees, Rafe suspected he’d be lucky to clear his grandmother’s debts.
Rafe was fairly sure the old lady had been living on credit for some time. The tin mines, which had once made the Daniels’ fortune, had been played out and dormant for the past fifty years. The estate, with its dairy farms and smallholdings, had struggled in recent years. Things were improving but, like everything else, they needed time.
Time they might not have, he acknowledged. It was sad, but the old lady wasn’t as robust as she’d once been. He hated to think of what might happen when she died. Tregellin deserved to be resurrected. Not sold to fund another loser’s debts.
He skirted the tennis court and drove round to the front of the house. Tregellin faced the water. It occupied a prime position overlooking the estuary. When he was a kid he used to love going down to the boathouse, taking out the old coracle Sir Henry had taught him to use.
He pushed open his door and got out, hauling the bag of groceries he’d bought at the local supermarket after him. Lady Elinor wouldn’t approve of him spending money on her, but Josie would. Josie Morgan was the old lady’s housekeeper-cum-companion, and was almost as old as Lady Elinor herself.
Although he’d parked the Land Cruiser at the front of the house, Rafe followed the path that led round to the kitchen door. Hitchins, the old lady’s Pekinese, was barking his head off as usual, but when Rafe came through the door he stopped and pushed his snub nose against Rafe’s leg.
‘Noisy old beast, aren’t you?’ Rafe chided him, bending to scratch the dog’s ears with an affectionate hand. Hitchins was almost fourteen and blind in one eye, but he still recognised a friend when he saw one. He huffed a bit, wanting to be picked up, but Rafe dropped his bag on the scrubbed-pine table and started to unpack it instead.
Josie bustled through from the hall, carrying a tray, and Rafe saw an empty cafetière and two cups, and a plate that still contained three chocolate digestives. He picked up one of the biscuits and bit into it as Josie welcomed him, making light of her thanks as she examined what he’d brought.
‘Fillet steak!’ she exclaimed with some enthusiasm. ‘You spoil us, Rafe, you really do.’
‘If I don’t, who will?’ he retorted philosophically. ‘How is the old girl this morning? I intended to get over yesterday evening, but then I got caught up with something else.’
‘The something else wouldn’t be called Olivia, would she?’ she teased him, putting the steak and other perishables he’d brought into the ancient fridge.
‘You’ve been listening to too much gossip,’ retorted Rafe, stowing a warm loaf in the bread bin. ‘Where is the old lady, anyway? I’d better go and say hello.’
‘Shall I bring another pot of coffee?’ Josie paused in what she was doing, but Rafe just shook his head.
‘I’ll take one of these,’ he said, picking up a can of ginger ale he’d bought for his own use when he was here. ‘No. No glass,’ he deterred her, when she would have taken one from the cupboard. He paused. ‘The conservatory, right?’
‘Oh—yes.’ Josie pulled a rueful face and tucked a strand of iron-grey hair behind her ear. ‘She’ll have heard the car, I don’t doubt for a minute. She may be old but her hearing’s as sharp as ever.’
Rafe grinned, and with Hitchins at his heels he walked across the mahogany-panelled hall and into the morning room opposite. Beyond the morning room, a vaulted conservatory basked in sunlight. It was built at one side of the old house, to take advantage of a view of the river. Weeping willows trailed their branches in water that mirrored their reflection, while kingfishers dived from the river bank, their speed only equalled by their success.
Lady Elinor was seated in a fan-backed basketwork chair beside a matching table. The morning newspaper resided on the table, turned to the crossword that was almost completed. It was the old lady’s boast that she could finish the crossword before eleven o’clock every morning and, glancing at his watch, Rafe saw she still had fifteen minutes to go.
‘Don’t let me keep you!’ she exclaimed shrewishly, noting his momentary distraction, and Rafe pulled a face before bending to kiss her gnarled cheek.
‘I won’t,’ he assured her. ‘I was just checking the time, that’s all. It looks like it’s in danger of defeating you today.’
‘If you’re talking about the crossword, that fool, Josie, has kept me gossiping again. She brings my coffee and then thinks she has to keep me entertained. I’ve said to her a dozen times, I don’t need her company.’
‘You love it really.’ Rafe was laconic. He picked up the Pekinese and walked across to the French windows, gazing out across the river to the meadows beyond. ‘So—what have you been talking about? Or am I not supposed to ask?’
‘Since when has that stopped you?’ Lady Elinor was impatient. ‘I was telling her that Cary’s bringing his fiancée to meet me on Thursday. I’m hoping they’ll stay for a few days. At least over the weekend.’
‘His fiancée, eh?’ Rafe turned, and put the dog down again. Ignoring its complaints, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, a heavy strand of night dark hair falling over his eyes. ‘That must please you. Him settling down at last.’
‘If it’s true.’ The old lady massaged the handle of the malacca cane that stood beside her chair and Rafe thought how difficult it would be for Cary to put one over on his grandmother. Her brain was as sharp as it had ever been, despite the many wrinkles that lined her patrician features. ‘I’ve met the girl, actually. She and her family lived in the same road as Charles and Isabel, when they were alive. Her name is Juliet Lawrence—well, it used to be Lawrence, but she’s a divorcee, so who knows what she calls herself now? She’s younger than Cary. Her father used to work in the City. Her mother died when she was just a baby and I believe her father died five or six years ago.’
‘A comprehensive history,’ remarked Rafe drily, and Lady Elinor gave him a darkling look.
‘I need to know these things, Raphael,’ she said irritably. ‘I don’t want Cary marrying some strumpet. At least this girl is from a decent family.’
Rafe shrugged. ‘You don’t think entertaining Cary and his girlfriend might be too much for you right now?’ he ventured, and saw the look of indignation that crossed the old lady’s face.
‘I’ve had a cold, Raphael. Not pneumonia. It’s the time of year. I always catch a cold in the spring.’
‘If you say so.’ Rafe knew better than to argue. ‘OK. If that’s all, I’ll go and see if Josie needs any help. If you’re putting them in the Lavender Room, I’d better check the bathroom for leaks.’
Lady Elinor looked positively offended. ‘I’m not putting them anywhere,’ she declared, laying great emphasis on the pronoun. ‘Cary will stay in his own room, as usual, and Miss Lawrence can use Christina’s apartments.’
Rafe’s jaw tightened. ‘I’ve never heard you call them that before.’
‘Haven’t you?’ The old lady was dismissive. ‘Christina was my daughter, Raphael. Just because she chose to live the kind of life I could never approve of doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten her.’
‘Or forgiven her?’
‘I’m too old to bear grudges, Raphael.’
‘OK.’ He inclined his head and strolled towards the door. ‘Is there anything else you need?’
Lady Elinor pursed her lips. ‘Josie told me that you had a reception at the studio last night,’ she ventured, with some reluctance. ‘Why wasn’t I informed?’
Rafe sighed, pausing in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested.’
The old lady scowled. ‘And why would you think that?’
‘Why would I think that? Let me count the ways,’ he misquoted mockingly. ‘Because you don’t approve of my painting portraits for a living? Because you don’t want me to turn out like my mother? Because my independence sticks in your craw? Am I getting close?’
‘I don’t approve of some of the people you mix with,’ conceded Lady Elinor testily. ‘But I never stopped your mother from doing what she wanted, and I shan’t attempt to stop you. Remember, it was she who chose to live in all those exotic places, hauling a small boy around whose existence I knew nothing of. When she died, however, I didn’t hesitate in offering you a home here with me.’
Rafe’s shoulders rounded. ‘I know.’
‘Just because we don’t always see eye to eye—’
‘Look, I’m sorry, OK?’
‘—doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Raphael.’
‘I know.’ Rafe closed his eyes for a moment and then said wearily, ‘I should have told you about the reception. You’re right, I was thoughtless. The local paper took some pictures, so when I get copies I’ll show them to you. It wasn’t a very grand affair. Just a glass of wine and a chance to view the studio.’
‘I’m sure it was very exciting,’ said Lady Elinor, but Rafe could hear the reluctance in her voice. ‘Before long, you won’t be spending any time at Tregellin at all.’
‘I’ll always have time for you, old lady,’ retorted Rafe harshly. ‘Look, I’ve really got to get moving. I’m meeting Liv Holderness at half-past twelve.’
‘Olivia Holderness?’ Lady Elinor’s eyes narrowed. ‘Would that be Lord Holderness’ daughter?’
‘Lord Holderness doesn’t have a daughter,’ said Rafe flatly. ‘Or a son either, as you very well know. Liv’s his wife. She wants to discuss having her portrait painted as a gift to her husband on his sixtieth birthday.’
‘I see.’ The old lady frowned. ‘You seem very familiar with her. I seem to remember Holderness hasn’t been married to her for very long.’
‘Eighteen months, I think.’ Rafe’s tone was sardonic. He knew nothing went on in the surrounding area that Lady Elinor didn’t hear about sooner or later. ‘She’s his third wife. The old guy turns them in at regular intervals for a new model.’
‘Don’t be coarse.’ Lady Elinor was disapproving. ‘And you be careful what you’re doing, Raphael. It seems significant to me that she’d choose a local studio over any number of more famous establishments she and her husband must know in London.’
Rafe grimaced. ‘Damned with faint praise,’ he said drily. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve known Liv for a few years. Her father owns the Dragon Hotel in Polgellin Bay.’
‘Ah.’ The old lady nodded. ‘So she’s one of the Melroses?’
‘The youngest daughter,’ agreed Rafe, wishing the old lady didn’t make them sound like the Doones.
‘So she’s a lot younger than Holderness?’
Rafe nodded. ‘About thirty years, I think. But they seem happy enough.’
‘Well, you keep what I’ve said in mind,’ declared Lady Elinor, unexpectedly getting to her feet and coming towards him. She was tall, though not as tall as he was, and leaning heavily on her cane. She was wearing her signature pleated skirt and silk blouse, with a heather-coloured shawl draped about her shoulders, and her once dark hair was now liberally threaded with grey. She laid a hand on his sleeve and looked up at him with eyes as blue as the gentians that grew higher up the valley. ‘You take care,’ she added, reaching up to kiss him. ‘I may not always show it, but I’m very fond of you, Raphael.’
It was the electric bill that had done it.
It had been waiting for her when she’d got back to the apartment and she’d stared at the figure she owed with wide disbelieving eyes. She couldn’t believe she’d used that much electricity. For heaven’s sake, she’d rarely used the oven and she’d religiously turned out lights as she’d gone from room to room.
But she had used the microwave, she’d acknowledged. And the underfloor heating system was expensive. A neighbour had warned her of that. But seeing what she’d owed in black and white had really scared her. The fact that it had been the heaviest season of the year had been no consolation at all.
That was why, when Cary had rung two days later, asking her if she’d reconsidered, she’d given in to his persuasion. The figure he’d offered her for four days work had been impossible to refuse. She’d known it would pay her immediate bills and leave her a little bit over. Possibly enough to survive until she got a proper job.
All the same, as Cary turned off the A30 just beyond Bodmin on Thursday afternoon, Juliet couldn’t deny the butterflies in her stomach that were telling her she’d made a terrible mistake. She liked Cary; of course she did. Or perhaps she’d used to like the boy she’d known all those years ago. These days, she knew very little about him. His attendance at her wedding hardly constituted grounds for a friendship.
And, despite the fact that he kept telling her she was going to love the area where his grandmother’s house was situated, the idea of being introduced to Lady Elinor Daniels as Cary’s fiancée left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. When he’d first broached the idea, he’d said he needed a girlfriend. Now it had metamorphosed into a fiancée, which was a whole different ball game.
‘Not long now,’ Cary said, taking her silence for tiredness. ‘We could still stop for lunch, if you like. That would give us a break.’
Juliet, who didn’t want to spend any more time alone with him than was necessary, managed a faint smile. ‘We don’t want to be too late arriving,’ she said, keeping her eyes on the road ahead. ‘Besides, didn’t you say your grandmother is expecting us for lunch?’
Cary’s mouth compressed and Juliet got the feeling that he wasn’t looking forward to this visit any more than she was. Which was understandable, she supposed, if the old lady kept interfering in his private life. But, let’s face it, she thought, without Lady Elinor’s intervention he could be languishing in a South African prison. She’d read enough stories about rogue dealers who’d almost bankrupted the banks they’d worked for.
‘I suppose it is a bit late now,’ he conceded at last, and she realised he was responding to her question. Then, pointing away to the west, ‘Have you ever seen sea that colour before? In England, I mean. It’s almost tropical. It reminds me of a holiday I had in Mauritius. God, that was some hotel we stayed in. A whole floor given over to our suite.’
‘Expensive,’ murmured Juliet drily, and Cary turned to glance at her.
‘Yeah, I wish I had that kind of cash now,’ he agreed, without a trace of remorse. ‘That’s why I have to be so careful how I treat the old girl. Without her money, I’d be taking a package holiday in Spain every year.’
Juliet’s eyes widened. ‘Does she know you spend the money she gives you on expensive holidays?’
Cary frowned. ‘Hey, that information’s not for public consumption,’ he said. ‘Don’t you be discussing my financial arrangements with her. If she chooses to sub me sometimes, I’m not going to refuse it, am I? The old girl’s loaded! You might not think it to look at the house, but, believe me, I know she’s got a fortune hidden away somewhere.’
Juliet was feeling less and less enthusiastic about her part in this deception. She told herself that if Cary had been totally honest with her from the beginning, she’d never have agreed to come. Or was she being totally honest with herself? she wondered. Damn it all, she was doing it for the money, too.
‘Tell me about your cousin,’ she said, trying to distract herself. ‘What’s he like? Does he look like you?’
Cary scowled. ‘As if.’ And then, when she was obviously waiting for him to go on, he muttered irritably, ‘He looks like a gipsy, if you must know. Swarthy skin, greasy black hair and an attitude you could cut with a knife.’
Juliet’s brows ascended. ‘You really don’t like him, do you?’
Cary shrugged. ‘I’ve told you what he’s like. Always ingratiating himself with the old woman. I’ve no doubt she’ll sing his praises while you’re here. She does it just to wind me up.’
‘Oh, Cary—’
‘I mean it. I’ve got better things to do than mend light switches and plug leaks. I’m a banker, Jules, not a labourer. Or rather I was until the futures market stuffed up.’
Juliet chose her words with care. ‘He probably only does these things to help your grandmother. I mean, it isn’t always easy to find a plumber or an electrician when you need one.’
‘Yeah, well, he needn’t think that doing all these things gives him some claim on the estate when the old lady snuffs it. As soon as the will’s read, I’m going to tell him I don’t want him trespassing on the place in future. Tregellin’s mine. I’m the only legitimate heir and he knows it. But that doesn’t stop him from hanging around, pretending he’s helping her out.’
Juliet shook her head. ‘You’re so bitter!’
‘No.’ Cary wouldn’t have that. ‘Just practical. Anyway, we’re almost there. That’s the chimneys of the house you can see over the treetops. It’s set on a promontory overlooking the Eden estuary. The River Eden, I mean.’ He grimaced. ‘It may be a beautiful spot, but it’s no Garden of Eden.’
They approached the house down a winding track between hedges of rhododendron and acacia. Juliet guessed that in late spring and early summer these same hedges would be a riot of colour. Right now, the glossy leaves hid the buds of any blossoms, and because there were lowering clouds overhead it was rather gloomy.
The grounds of the house seemed quite extensive. A tennis court and a croquet lawn, a vegetable garden behind a lichen-covered stone wall. They circled the building and Juliet saw that it was the back of the house that faced the road. The front looked out across the river estuary, the water shallow now as the tide receded.
There was a big SUV already parked on the forecourt and as Juliet thrust open her door and got out she heard Cary give a grunt of irritation. Turning to see what had caused his annoyance, she saw that a man had just appeared from around the side of the house. He was a big man, tall and powerfully built, wearing a worn leather jacket and jeans that clung to lean muscular thighs. Scuffed boots completed his attire and Juliet didn’t need a sixth sense to know that this must be the infamous Rafe Marchese.
He looked across the width of the courtyard towards her and she felt a disturbing flutter of awareness in the pit of her stomach. But goodness, he was attractive, she thought, realising that Cary’s scornful description hadn’t done the man justice.
His hair was dark, yes, and needed cutting, but it wasn’t greasy. His skin was darkly tanned and there was the stubble of a beard on his jawline, but she wouldn’t have called him swarthy either. He wasn’t handsome. His features were too hard, too masculine for that. And she’d bet her last penny that it wasn’t only for his technical skills that Lady Elinor liked having him around.
‘Cary,’ he said evenly, as the other man got out of the car, and Cary was obliged to acknowledge him in return.
‘Rafe.’ His voice was tight and he turned at once to take their luggage from the back of the car, making no attempt to introduce Juliet.
Which really annoyed her. More than it should, probably, she admitted, but dammit, she was supposed to be his fiancée. Deciding she didn’t care what Cary thought, she walked around the bonnet of the car and held out her hand.
‘Hi,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m Juliet. Cary’s—girlfriend.’
CHAPTER THREE
THE lunch had been cold, but Juliet knew they couldn’t blame the housekeeper for that. They’d been expected at one; they’d actually arrived at a quarter-past two. However expert the cook, no one could have kept a mushroom risotto hot indefinitely.
Not that she’d been particularly hungry. The encounter between Cary and Rafe Marchese had robbed her of her appetite somewhat. The two men obviously disliked one another, but Cary had behaved like a boor and she’d been sucked into his game.
Perhaps some of the blame was hers. She’d initiated his anger when she’d introduced herself to his cousin. But, dammit, she’d been angry with Cary for ignoring her and she hadn’t thought about the possible consequences of her actions when she’d approached the other man.
The truth, however unpalatable, was that she’d wanted Rafe Marchese to notice her. Which was weird, considering that since David had walked out on their marriage over a year ago she’d had no interest in other men.
Not that she flattered herself that Marchese had felt the same way. He’d been polite, but distant, his first words succinctly delineating her reason for being there. ‘Ah, yes,’ he’d said. ‘Cary’s fiancée.’ He’d paused. ‘Lady Elinor was beginning to think you’d changed your minds.’
All the same, when he’d touched her hand she’d reacted as if she’d accidentally touched a hot wire. The heat that passed from his hand into hers shocked her to the core. Then she’d looked up into eyes that were as dark and brooding as the storm clouds massing over Tregellin and known that, whatever happened, she was already out of her depth.
Of course, she’d snatched her hand away, rather rudely, and Cary had come charging over, like some mad bull defending his mate. ‘What’s going on?’ he’d demanded, laying a possessive hand on Juliet’s shoulder. ‘What have you been saying to my fiancée? As you apparently knew we were coming, I thought you’d have had the decency to stay away.’
Rafe Marchese didn’t seem at all perturbed by Cary’s bluster. ‘It’s good to see you, too, Cary,’ he’d said, as faultlessly polite as before.
‘Well…’ Cary had been indignant. ‘Grandmama told me how you’re too busy for her these days. Spending time with your artsy-craftsy friends, was how she put it. But I might have known you’d be around when I was here.’
Rafe’s lips had tilted humorously. ‘I shouldn’t take what the old lady says too seriously,’ he’d remarked, his eyes lingering on Juliet’s now burning face. ‘You know she likes to play us off against each other. If you weren’t such an easy mark, she’d never get away with it.’
‘Oh, and you know her so well,’ Cary had sneered, but Rafe had only lifted his shoulders in a self-deprecatory shrug.
‘I’d say I see more of her,’ he’d declared mildly. ‘Whether that constitutes knowing her better remains to be seen.’
‘Well, don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do,’ Cary had continued. ‘You think that, because I live in London and you live here, you’ve got the advantage.’ His hand had squeezed Juliet’s shoulder. ‘Once we’re married, I think you can kiss any chance of changing her mind goodbye.’
Dear God, Juliet had wanted to die, she thought now as she unpacked her suitcase. For heaven’s sake, it was bad enough pretending to be Cary’s fiancée without him talking about them getting married as if it were going to happen in the next few weeks. She had no idea what Rafe Marchese had thought. If his mocking smile was anything to go by, he was used to Cary’s bombastic behaviour and he didn’t take offence from it. But she wished she hadn’t been a part of it all the same.