Mansfield Lark

Chapter 2

On Saturday, Holly woke to find Alex’s side of the bed empty. She sat up, blinking in the early morning light that slanted through the blinds, and stretched.

She heard the shower running. Alex had come in late last night; she remembered him reaching for her, sharing a few urgent, whisky-flavoured kisses before they made love. Then he’d rolled over and fallen asleep.

He emerged from the shower, his hair damp and a towel wrapped around his waist. He bent forward to kiss the top of her head. ‘Good morning, darling.’

‘Morning,’ she mumbled, and yawned. ‘You came in late last night.’

‘Yes, sorry. A few of us went on to Mahiki.’

Holly pressed her lips together but said nothing. She had no doubt that Camilla had gone right along with him.

‘After this morning’s surgery,’ he added, ‘I thought we might spend the afternoon together. Have lunch in the country, perhaps.’

‘That sounds great.’ Holly wrapped her arms around her legs. ‘We never see each other anymore.’

‘Summer’s nearly here,’ he reminded her as he pulled on a shirt, ‘so the House won’t be sitting. Which means,’ he added as he pulled on his trousers and tucked in his shirt, ‘more time for us. No more late Mondays, no more PMQs on Wednesday…’

‘PMQs?’

‘Prime Minister’s Questions.’ Alex adjusted the knot of his tie and studied his reflection in the mirror. ‘We have the chance to grill the PM every Wednesday on whatever topics we choose. Terribly nerve-wracking the first time you do it.’

‘Like the first time you have sex?’

‘Exactly. But much less fun.’ He leaned down to kiss her. ‘I’ll meet you in Barnet later. Love you.’

‘Love you.’

As she popped two slices of bread into the toaster and brewed a pot of coffee a few minutes later, Holly switched on Radio 1. Maybe she and Alex could find a festival after lunch. There was always a festival on somewhere.

She buttered her toast with a generous hand and took a bite, savouring her moment of carbohydrate bliss. She’d wear jeans, she decided; nice dark-washed ones, not the ratty faded ones; and her new booties with the spiky heels.

And she’d top it off with her ‘Up the Monarchy’s Arse’ t-shirt, the one Dominic Heath had given her when she’d interviewed him last year, and her old Chanel jacket with three-quarter sleeves. Chic, trendy – perfect!

Holly finished the last of her toast and licked the butter and jam from her fingers with satisfaction, then headed to the bedroom closet with a smug smile on her face.

Not only would she and Alex have a brilliant afternoon together; she’d look so fabulous that he’d forget all about quid pro quo and habeas corpus… and Camilla Shawcross.

And she’d make Alex fall in love with her all over again.

It was nearly twelve-thirty, and still Alex hadn’t emerged from his constituency office on the high street. Holly frowned and thrummed her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. Where was he? She was starving.

Damn his constituents and their concerns. Didn’t they know that Alex Barrington had a life of his own? Didn’t they think that he might like to sleep in on a Saturday and spend the day with his girlfriend, lazing on the sofa reading the papers and watching rubbish TV? Did they think he liked to get up early and listen to them drone on about their petty little issues?

And, she wondered with narrowed eyes, why were so many of Alex’s constituents young, attractive women? What were they really doing in there?

Holly was just on the verge of slamming out of the car to stalk up the pavement and into the building across the street, when the doors finally opened.

At last! All her annoyance melted away as Alex emerged, looking gorgeous in his navy suit and yellow tie, smiling back warmly over his shoulder at someone.

Holly let out a little sigh of pleasure. He was handsome. He was sexy. And he was hers.

And – her smile froze – he was not alone.

The recipient of Alex’s warm smile was Camilla Shawcross, Conservative MP and all-around perfect woman. She wore a pencil skirt, a royal-blue silk charmeuse blouse, and kitten heels.

What the devil was she doing here?

Holly glanced down at her jeans and her ‘Up the Monarchy’s Arse’ T-shirt with misgivings. Suddenly her outfit didn’t seem nearly as chic or iconoclastic as it had done this morning.

Compared to Camilla, she looked like something the cat had dragged in… and spat back out, like a regurgitated hairball.

She slid down, very slowly, behind the wheel. Perhaps she could keep a low profile until Camilla said goodbye and left.

But no… damn it, Alex had just spotted her. He waved and said something to Camilla, who glanced in Holly’s direction with a bright, false smile.

Shit. There was nothing for it now but to get out of the car and go and say hello to Ms Shawcross.

‘Holly, there you are,’ Alex called out as she emerged from the car and crossed the street to join them. He leaned forward to give her a brief kiss. ‘You remember Camilla, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do.’ How could I not remember someone who always makes me feel underdressed and overly stupid? She smiled and held out her hand. ‘Hello, Camilla.’

‘Miss James,’ Camilla murmured, eyeing her outfit with a raised brow as she returned a limp handshake and a pained smile.

‘I hope you don’t mind, darling,’ Alex said as he turned back to Holly, ‘but I’ve invited Camilla along to lunch with us. An issue’s come up that we really need to discuss further.’

Holly opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

‘Oh, I’m quite sure Holly doesn’t want me intruding on your afternoon together,’ Camilla objected.

And of course there was nothing Holly could say to that except, ‘Oh, I don’t mind at all,’ even as she sent dagger eyes at Camilla. And Alex.

But neither of them noticed; they were too busy talking about something called ‘fiduciary law’ to care.

‘I thought perhaps the Black Dog for lunch,’ Alex told Holly. ‘It’s not far. Camilla will ride with me so we can discuss things on the way over. We’ll meet you there.’

‘But…doesn’t Camilla have a car?’ Holly managed to ask.

‘I do,’ she interjected, ‘but it’s at the garage. Alex was kind enough to give me a lift to the surgery this morning.’

‘So very kind,’ Holly agreed through gritted teeth.

Alex bent forward and kissed her. ‘I knew you’d understand. Isn’t she amazing?’ he beamed at Camilla.

‘Amazing,’ she echoed, oozing with insincerity.

‘We’ll see you in a few minutes, darling.’ Alex turned back to Camilla and held out his arm. ‘Ready, Ms Shawcross?’

‘I’m ready,’ Camilla purred, and took his arm.

And that, to Holly’s everlasting fury, was pretty much how the rest of the afternoon went.

He really shouldn’t have had that second pint of lager.

As Dominic Heath lifted the tarnished brass knocker and let it fall against the door with a clang, he realized he needed the loo, and soon. He’d forgotten just how bloody long the drive was that led from the road up to Mansfield Hall.

After a couple of minutes, the door swung open. A short, stout housekeeper, feather duster in hand, regarded him with suspicion. ‘Yes?’

‘Is his lordship at home?’

‘No, sir, he’s not.’ She moved to close the door.

Dominic thrust out his forearm to keep the door open. ‘When do you expect him back?’

‘I’m sure I couldn’t say.’ Disapproval was plain on her face as she took in his snakeskin trousers and spiky dark hair. ‘You look like one of them rock stars in the Mirror.’ She sniffed. ‘And I don’t mean that as a compliment, mind.’

‘As it happens, I am one of those rock stars in the Mirror.’

‘I knew it! I know my tabloids, I do.’

‘Well, that may be, but you don’t know the Locksley family very well. Kindly tell Lady Mary that her oldest son Rupert is here to see her.’ He took off his Cartier sunglasses to glare at her. ‘She’ll know who I am, even if you don’t.’

She blanched. ‘R-Rupert?’ she echoed, stunned. Her free hand flew to her throat. ‘Lawks a-mercy, I’m that sorry, sir. Please, come in, do.’ She swung the door wide.

He stepped into the same entryway he’d left behind so abruptly eleven years before. Little had changed since then. The same black and white tiles covered the floor, the same round pedestal table stood in the centre of the foyer; even the Meissen vase sitting on the table, with its half-hearted bouquet of wildflowers, hadn’t changed.

Dominic knew that the vase had a hairline crack at the top – the result of swordplay with his brother Liam (they’d used cricket bats in lieu of swords) one long-ago rainy afternoon.

‘His lordship is away from home at the moment, sir,’ the housekeeper apologized. ‘I’ll let Lady Mary know you’re here.’

‘Thanks.’ Dominic’s lips relaxed into a smile. ‘Have you been here long?’

‘Oh, bless, I’ve worked here at Mansfield since I married Mr Sutton, going on ten years now.’

‘Indeed? Well, I’ve no doubt you’re a treasure on both fronts, Mrs Sutton.’

She blushed like a schoolgirl and hurried up the stairs, feather duster still in hand.

Dominic returned his attention to the foyer. There was a veneer of neglect over everything. The tapestry hangings and upholstered chair cushions were faded and threadbare; moths had eaten tracks in the Oriental carpet under the table. An ugly brown water stain marred the crumbling plaster medallions of the Robert Adam ceiling.

He let out a short breath. Evidently his father – and Mansfield Hall – needed his help even more than he’d imagined.

He was just about to make a detour to the loo when the housekeeper returned, puffing a bit as she hurried down the stairs. ‘Your mum says she’ll meet you in the rose garden. She’ll be down shortly. This way, please.’

Dominic followed her through the drawing and reception rooms to a set of French doors that led out to the gardens. The drapes tied back at the windows were bedraggled ghosts of their former splendour, and he saw that moths had made serious inroads on the drapes as well as the rugs.

Mrs Sutton threw the doors open and stood aside as he stepped out. ‘I’m sure you know the way from here, sir.’ She hesitated. ‘Can I fetch you a drink?’

He shook his head. What he’d like was a loo, pronto. Barring that, a tree or a bush would serve nicely… ‘I’ll just ramble down to the garden and have a quick smoke.’ He held up a pack of Player’s. ‘Care to join me, Mrs S?’

‘Oh, thank you, sir, but I’ve a million things to be doing. This place takes a lot of looking after, you know,’ she confided. ‘With only myself and cook – and Mr Sutton, of course – and a local girl in twice a week, it fair runs us off our feet, it does.’

‘Well, I won’t keep you, then. Thanks.’ He rewarded her with another smile and wandered off across the south lawn in search of a likely-looking tree or bush.

As he made his way down the gravelled path that led to the rose garden, he wondered how Mum managed to keep twelve bedrooms and ten loos clean with such a small staff. Not to mention the library, drawing and morning rooms, study, and the great hall…or the dozens of mullioned windows and fireplaces that made up the rest of this Jacobean money-pit.

Dominic passed by the knot garden and cast a quick glance around to reassure himself that no one was in the vicinity. He unzipped his fly. He was saving poor, overworked Mrs S from cleaning another lav, after all. And no one need ever know…

He’d just finished whizzing into the cottage roses when he heard a sound – the crackle of a twig, followed by the flap of a bird’s wings – and he looked up, startled.

A young woman stood rooted to the path, a look of shock on her face. She wore a white cartwheel hat on her blonde head, and the kind of elegant, understated-but-expensive dress ladies wore to Ascot or the Henley Regatta.

She stared at him. He stared at her. Her eyes, Dominic noted irrelevantly, were cornflower blue.

He lifted his eyebrow. ‘Sorry. Looks like you caught me watering the old rose bushes.’ He grinned and unhurriedly tucked himself back up inside his trousers. ‘Dominic Heath, at your service.’

Unable to find a suitable response, she glared at him, turned on one well-shod heel, and stalked away.

Chapter 3

Twenty minutes later, his mother appeared, her arrival heralded by a trio of boisterous, yapping terriers. She wore a T-shirt and jeans tucked into a pair of muddy riding boots.

‘Rupert? You came home!’ she exclaimed as she embraced him. ‘I knew you would.’

‘Why not? I needed a break from London, anyway. Where’s my father?’ he asked warily as he drew back.

She tucked a strand of glossy dark hair behind one ear and indicated a wrought-iron table and chairs. ‘He’s gone to London with Liam to meet with his solicitor.’ She hesitated. ‘He wants to disinherit you.’

‘I’m surprised he hasn’t done already.’

‘What a nasty business…I’ve missed you, Rupert. Why has it been so long since you came home?’

‘You know why.’

‘Yes, of course…your father.’ She sat down with a sigh in the chair he held out for her. ‘I wish I could say he’s changed, but he hasn’t. The responsibility of running Mansfield Hall weighs heavily on Charles. It makes him… difficult, at times. And, of course, there’s the money situation…’ She fixed Dominic with a hopeful gaze. ‘Please tell me you’re here to patch things up with him.’

‘I mean to try…and to offer my financial help, if he’ll have it. But I doubt I’ll have much luck in either case.’

‘He wants Liam to marry Bibi Matchington-Alcester, you know. She’s a very eligible, very rich, ball-bearings heiress.’

‘And what does my brother say to that?’

‘He refuses, of course. Says he doesn’t love her and won’t “whore himself out” for her money, as he so indelicately puts it, even if it means saving Mansfield.’

Dominic reached in his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘Can’t say I blame him; she probably looks like the back end of a horse. Heiresses usually do.’

‘She’s actually quite lovely. When did you take up smoking? Never mind, I’ll blame your bad habits on all those musicians and models you keep company with.’

Dominic snorted. ‘Oh, please. Nobody eats or drinks or does drugs like they used to. They’re all disgustingly healthy.’ He thought of Gemma and her endless succession of diets. ‘Mum,’ he added, choosing his words carefully, ‘I’ve brought someone with me. Her name’s Gemma. I left her behind at the hotel in the village.’

‘Well, why on earth didn’t you bring her here?’ his mother demanded. ‘Is she someone special, or just another of your flings? I know all about them,’ she added, ‘because I follow your exploits in the tabloids.’

‘That stuff’s all crap, Mum.’ He leaned forward. ‘Gemma is…she’s someone I—’ he stopped. ‘The truth is, I love her,’ he said in a rush. ‘And I want you to meet her. But I have to deal with my father first. I don’t want Gemma dragged into the middle of all the family drama.’

‘Where is she from?’ Lady Mary enquired.

‘London,’ he hedged. Gemma Astley had grown up over a kebab shop in Essex, to be exact, and her father had done a runner when she was ten. But there was no need to tell Mum all that.

‘London? Whereabouts, exactly? Who are her people?’

‘Lady Mary? Excuse us. I do hope we’re not intruding.’

Dominic turned to see a woman of middle age and dumpy figure standing at the entrance to the garden. She clutched a handbag against the wide expanse of her floral skirts in the manner of the Queen and beamed at them.

Behind her stood a young woman – the same tall, slim young woman who’d so recently caught him watering the rose bushes.

‘Mrs Norris! Of course you’re not intruding. Hello, Bibi.’ Lady Mary stood. ‘Come, both of you, and meet my eldest son.’

She turned to him. ‘Rupert, this is Bibi Matchington-Alcester and her mother, Mrs Norris. Bibi, this is Rupert, Liam’s older brother.’ She smiled at him indulgently. ‘I’m rather proud of him. He’s the black sheep of the family.’

‘Lovely to meet you,’ Mrs Norris simpered as Dominic took her hand. ‘I’ve always favoured the black sheep, myself.’

‘We’re much more fun,’ he agreed with an insouciant smile.

Recognition, followed by shock, registered on Bibi’s face as Dominic turned to her. ‘You’ll forgive me,’ she told him icily, ‘if I don’t take your hand.’

He choked back a laugh. ‘I completely understand.’ He drew her aside. ‘Listen, I don’t mean to pry, Bibi – but why’s your last name different from your mum’s?’

‘She recently remarried and took my stepfather’s name. I,’ she added pointedly, ‘did not.’

Lady Mary invited them to sit down.

‘I’ll just go and fetch us some wine,’ she announced. ‘It’s a perfect afternoon for an impromptu garden party.’

‘I’ll go,’ Dominic offered. He had no desire to stay and make conversation with Liam’s girlfriend or her battleaxe of a mother. He could all but see their collective disapproval of him.

‘Nonsense. Stay and chat with our guests, darling. I won’t be a moment.’

Before he could protest, his mother departed. Dominic waited until the women were seated before he sat down himself. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, ladies?’

‘I wondered if Lady Mary would oversee the kissing booth at the village fête next month,’ Mrs Norris replied.

‘A kissing booth? Sounds like fun.’ His glance flickered deliberately to Bibi. He was pleased to see her blush.

‘Oh, it will be. And all for a good cause, of course.’ Mrs Norris leaned forward, her amble bosom preceding her. ‘May I ask what brings you back home after all these years, Rupert?’

He gave her a bland smile. Nosy old cow. ‘Well, I’ve been a bit busy in the interim. Touring makes it hard to get away.’

‘Touring?’

‘Yes. Dominic and the Destroyers world tour, to be exact.’ He raised a brow. ‘You’ve heard of Dominic Heath, I presume? Rock star, guitar-smasher, and defiler of young women?’ He smirked. ‘That’s me.’

Mrs Norris drew back. ‘You…you’re Dominic Heath? You’re that dreadful rock musician? Oh my word.’

Bibi frowned in confusion. ‘I don’t understand. Lady Mary introduced you as her son, Rupert Locksley.’

‘So I am. But I’m also Dominic. In fact,’ he confided, filled with a wicked desire to tease her, ‘you’ll soon see that I’m much more Dominic than I am Rupert.’

She glared at him. ‘I already have.’

Lady Mary and Mrs Sutton returned, bringing wine, glasses, and to Dominic’s relief, assistance on the conversation front.

‘I was just telling your son,’ Mrs Norris said as she accepted a glass of wine from Mrs Sutton, ‘that there’s to be a kissing booth at the fête this year. Might you run it for us?’

‘Of course,’ Lady Mary agreed. ‘Have you any candidates to sit in the booth?’

‘Well, Bibi’s put herself forward; but I hardly think it appropriate,’ Mrs Norris sniffed.

‘On the contrary, that’s a marvellous idea!’ Lady Mary beamed. ‘Bibi’s a lovely girl, she’ll be very popular. And raising money for the local children’s ward is our goal, after all.’

‘True,’ Mrs Norris said, doubt plain on her face.

‘What about you?’ Bibi said suddenly, and turned to Dominic.

He nearly choked on his Pouilly-Fuissé. ‘Me?’

‘You’re a rock star, after all. You’d make a fortune for us. All the girls will line up to kiss Dominic Heath.’

‘That’s brilliant!’ Lady Mary exclaimed. ‘You must do it, darling.’

‘No,’ he said mulishly. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘But you’d be helping the village,’ his mother coaxed, ‘and you’d be helping the children’s ward of the local hospital.’

‘Think of the publicity,’ Bibi pointed out. ‘“Rock Star Aids Local Children’s Ward”.’

Dominic hesitated. He could certainly do with a bit of good publicity. Besides, how hard could it be, getting paid to kiss a bunch of local teenage girls?

‘All right, I’ll do it. But only for a couple of hours.’

Although it clearly pained her to do so, Mrs Norris thanked him for his generosity. ‘I’ll let you know the details later, Rupert…I mean, Mr Heath.’

She did not allude again to his regrettable musical career, nor did she address him further. Loathing emanated from her like heat shimmering above a barbeque grill.

And Dominic was glad. It meant he could sit back, get pleasantly fuzzed, and let the conversation eddy and swirl around him without the bother of joining in.

Shadows grew long on the east lawn as he and his mother finished off the bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. Bibi and Mrs Norris, after a few more minutes of polite conversation, murmured their apologies and left. Neither Liam nor his father had returned from London.

‘Well, Mum, it’s time I left as well.’ Dominic stood and bent forward to kiss his mother‘s cheek. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow, and I’ll bring Gemma.’

‘I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, darling. It might be best if we all meet for tea at the hotel instead.’

His expression darkened. ‘Why can’t I bring her here?’

‘Now, Rupert, don’t spoil things by scowling at me like that! Of course you must bring Gemma here. Just…not yet. Your father will be in too much of a strop over your return to deal with any more drama.’

He scowled, fully prepared to be mulish, but thought the better of it. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he agreed grudgingly.

‘Of course I am. Let’s plan for lunch at the tearoom tomorrow at noon, shall we?’ Her words were brisk. ‘I’ll get to meet Gemma, and she can meet me.’ Lady Mary eyed him shrewdly. ‘And we can take one another’s measure.’

Dominic said his goodbyes and made his way through the rose garden and around the side of the manor house, back to his Maserati. Shadows stretched across the drive as he thrust on his sunglasses and climbed in and started the engine. Although he’d wanted to get the meeting with his father over with, he was relieved it hadn’t happened.

It was sure to be unpleasant. Anything to do with Lord Locksley invariably was.

Dominic manoeuvred the car around the front sweep of the drive and headed back to the hotel. His old man could trace his lineage to the Elizabethans, and he had Mansfield Hall, his title, and the family herald to prove it. He was aristocratic to the bone.

He was also intolerant, close-minded, prejudiced, and elitist. And those were his good qualities.

Moodily, Dominic changed gear as he rounded a bend in the drive. He decided to open the Maserati up. Driving in London, the car seldom moved above a crawl; it needed a good, hard run. He floored the gas pedal and the sleek red car leaped forward.