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A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperImpulse an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016
Copyright © Zara Stoneley 2016
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cover layout design by HarperCollinsPublishers
Cover design by Cherie Chapman
Zara Stoneley has the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © May 2016 ISBN: 9780008194390
Version 2016-05-10
Praise for Zara Stoneley’s Books
‘A great treat for readers who love their books jam-packed with sexy men and horses’
Bestselling author Fiona Walker
‘Jam packed with horses, dogs, beautiful countryside, crazy characters and a wonderful sense of community.… .… … please let me live in Tippermere!’
Brook Cottage Books
‘Packed with fun, frolics, and an unforgettable cast of characters, Country Affairs is a must-read this summer!’
Victoria’s Pages of Romance
‘Delicious,naughty, fabulous, hilarious.’
Jane Linfoot
‘Hilarious, sexy and so much fun!’
Mandy Baggot
‘It’s fast, it’s funny, it’s deliciously naughty and it’s a bloomin’ good read!’
Ginger Cat Blog
‘Country Affairs packs a whole lot of plot lines, and depth into its compact bundle, and is a joy to read.’
Rachel’s Random Reads
For Alex
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Zara Stoneley’s Books
Dedication
Tippermere
The Residents of Tippermere
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgements
Coming Soon From Zara Stoneley
Also by Zara Stoneley
Zara Stoneley
About the Publisher
Tippermere
Welcome to tranquil Tippermere, set deep in the Cheshire countryside. Home to Lords and Ladies, horsemen and farmers.
Set on the highest hill, keeping a close eye on the village and its inhabitants, lies Tipping House Estate. In pride of place is the grand Elizabethan style mansion, sweeping down in front of her are immaculate gardens, well-kept parkland and rolling acres that spread as far as the eye can see.
Follow the stream down to the flat below, and nestling between copses and lakes, you find Folly Lake Manor and the sprawling grounds of the bustling Equestrian Centre. The country lane in front wends its way between high hedges to the village green, the church and two village pubs. Then fans out into tributaries, follow them further and you find a small eventing yard, a scattering of country cottages and rambling working farms.
Take the road north eastwards, travel on a few short miles and soon the elegant village of Kitterly Heath unfolds before you - a village whose origins were recorded in the Domesday Book. At one end of the ancient high street a solid 14th Century church stands sentry, with an imposing school at the other, and all around sprawl the mansions old and new that house the rich and famous …
The Residents of Tippermere
Charlotte ‘Lottie’ Steel (nee Brinkley) – disorganised but loveable daughter of Billy. In line to inherit the Tipping House Estate.
Rory Steel – devilishly daring and sexy three day eventer. Lottie’s husband.
Tilly – head of the terrier trio that accompany Rory everywhere.
Harry – Lottie’s spaniel.
William ‘Billy’ Brinkley – Lottie’s father. Former superstar show jumper, based at the equestrian centre.
Victoria ‘Tiggy’ Brinkley – wife of Billy. As friendly, shaggy and eternally optimistic as a spaniel.
Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe – owner of Tipping House Estate, lover of strong G&T’s. Meddler and mischief maker. Lottie’s gran, Dominic’s mother.
Bertie – Elizabeth’s black Labrador.
Dominic ‘Dom’ Stanthorpe – dressage rider extraordinaire. Uncle to Lottie, son of Elizabeth, slightly bemused and frustrated by both. Husband to Amanda.
Amanda Stanthorpe – Elegant and understated, delicate and demure. Owner of Folly Lake Manor and Equestrian Centre.
Alice Stanthorpe – Dom and Amanda’s 3 year old daughter.
Tabatha Strachan – Rory and Lottie’s groom. Horse mad, smitten by Rory, but suitably unimpressed by most other things.
David Simcock – England goalkeeper, resident of the neighbouring Kitterly Heath.
Sam Simcock – wife of David. Lover of dogs, diamonds and designer delights.
Roxy Simcock – Sam and David’s 3 year old daughter
Rupert – Roxy’s pony
The Film Stars & Crew
Pandora Drakelow – scheming, sneaky, man-eating star of the film. Seb’s wife.
Seb Drakelow – Pandora’s husband. Producer/Director. Hates the countryside, all things four legged and furry, or feathered, and anything North of Stratford-Upon-Avon.
Jamie Trilling – intern, location scout and general dogsbody.
Xander Rossi – Pandora’s half-brother. Dashingly handsome polo player. Adviser on the film set.
Ella – Xander’s Wire-Haired Dachshund.
Chapter 1
Jamie Trilling had worked on enough film sets to know the sound of a shotgun being closed. It was a heavy clunk. Distinctive. The type of sound that vibrated in the still night air.
His fingers froze mid text.
Before he even had time to look up from his mobile phone there was the metallic echo of a safety catch being released and he knew he had to move. He couldn’t. His tongue stuck to the parched roof of his mouth, and his throat – along with the rest of his crouched body – tightened with fear.
The shotgun barked out an unmistakable message, peppering his hands, his face, his hair with a shower of dark, peaty earth, and sending a rush of adrenalin that shocked him out of his stupor.
Jamie dived straight into the nearest rhododendron bush, catching a brief flash of a ghostly figure shimmering in the moonlight before his body hit the ground and the breath was knocked out of him.
For a moment all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, then the crisp snap of twigs told him that whoever, or whatever, had shot at him was about to get a second chance.
He was too young to die, and if he did have to go he’d not planned on it being under a bush in the middle of nowhere. His mother would never forgive him.
Jamie swallowed hard. If this was the movies he’d be rolling his way out of trouble and have his assailant in an arm-lock and disarmed before the next bullet had been loaded. But it was real life and his arm bloody hurt from landing on an exposed root. Lying paralysed in the greenery was so pathetic though. And for what? If he hadn’t relied on bloody Pandora he’d have arrived in daylight and knocked at the door, not been skulking in the undergrowth, in the middle of night, with only a camera for company.
There was another crack of brittle wood, alarmingly close this time, and a rustle of leaves and Jamie shut his eyes.
‘Damned ramblers. I’ll give you the right to roam, you buggers.’ The unmistakably posh, and female, voice was unexpected. ‘Think you own the blasted countryside.’ There was the sound of a path being hacked out between him and her. He opened one eye, and through the shrubbery could just make out a green wellington boot. Not a ghost, then. ‘Come out and show yourself, man, before I pepper your backside with shot.’
It was a turn of events he really hadn’t expected, and it was all beginning to feel a bit surreal. A bad dream. Except it would take a better imagination than his to conjure up the painful throb in his elbow.
Jamie groaned. Two minutes earlier he’d been crouched in the undergrowth gazing at the image on his camera display like some self-satisfied goon who’d won the lottery. Now he was about to die. Or worse.
* * *
If he was honest, it had been a pretty weird kind of day, the strangest part being that his boss’s wife, Pandora, was actually being helpful.
‘Ignore Seb, dear. He’s just anxious,’ she’d remarked, swanning into the room just as Seb Drakelow had stormed out, after ripping a strip off him with the type of sarcasm you had to be born with. ‘I can help you get back in his good books, if you like?’ She’d said it disarmingly enough, but it still made him feel uneasy. Pandora was never nice to anybody. Feeling he hadn’t really got much choice, he’d nodded. ‘I do rather like you. It would be a shame if you were sacked so soon after starting, like the last boy.’ She smiled, as sympathetically as her Botox-frozen features would allow. ‘He’s rather impulsive. It’s his artistic side, I’m afraid. Now, what was it he asked you to do?’
Without Pandora’s help Jamie would have been in trouble. Location scouting was fine when you had time on your side and knew what you were looking for. But he’d been dropped in at the deep end, with a ridiculously tight deadline, after the site his predecessor had arranged had fallen through at the last minute.
‘Don’t worry, I know exactly what type of place we need.’ She held a hand out for his tablet. ‘We did have a shortlist of places before, let me just look … Something like this maybe? Or this one? Oh yes, I can just imagine filming here, can’t you? Although it’s probably way outside our budget. Now this one,’ she tapped on an image that linked to a newspaper report, ‘Oh dear, they’ve had a fire and it looked ideal.’
Jamie looked over her shoulder. ‘But that’s what it looks like after the fire, isn’t it? The outside still looks fine.’
‘So it does, aren’t you the clever one? And I suppose it might be a reasonable price if … Well, I’ll leave it with you. I must admit though, it does look rather nice. You have a closer look and let me know.’ She’d dropped the tablet on his lap, one finger to her lips. ‘This can be our little secret, I won’t tell Seb I helped. I presume you do want a permanent job with us?’
He did. He stared at the images, hardly noticing as Pandora left, shutting the door quietly behind her. She was right. From the few details he knew about the film it seemed to fit the bill. In fact, the more he looked at the Tipping House Estate, the more he was convinced it was exactly what Seb Drakelow was looking for. He scanned the newspaper report, a fire, closed for business, broke landowners …
‘You are a fucking genius, man.’ An unexpected surge of triumph had flooded through him. ‘A bloody genius, even if I say so myself.’
Two hours later Pandora had willingly (in her husband’s absence) authorised expenses for his train ticket and practically pushed him out of the office. ‘And if you fuck this up you’re on your own. Seb really doesn’t like failures,’ had been her parting words as she’d signed the form without even looking at him.
The train journey had been a nightmare, and by the time he’d arrived at the nearest station to Tippermere it had been dark. The taxi rank had been deserted and when the station master had taken pity on him and offered the loan of a bike and directions to the estate, which was ‘impossible to miss’, it had seemed ideal. It would be a doddle – how hard could it be to find a whacking big country estate in a village?
It turned out to be harder than anticipated. There were no signs, no street lights and the names of the country lanes mysteriously changed at what appeared to be random points. He’d needed a map and he couldn’t get a signal on his mobile, and his hands felt like they were about to drop off from the combination of freezing cold and juddering handlebars.
When he’d finally spotted the entrance gates to the Tipping House Estate he’d dropped the bike, punched the air and done a jig. Then he’d realised that he couldn’t get in, which was slightly sobering. But with the promise of a well-paid job hovering just out of reach on the horizon he’d decided he had to be resourceful.
He’d clambered over a stone wall, torn his jeans on a barbed-wire fence, had brambles wrapped round his crotch (thank God for thick denim) and stood in more than one pile of smelly fox poo. He stank and was frayed at the edges, but he’d been proved right.
As he’d absentmindedly brushed a hand down one long denim-clad leg, his blue-grey eyes never leaving the image, he had to admit it. Tipping House was awesome. The perfect country pile. Full, no doubt, of stuck-up toffs and their horse-faced wives, but what the hell? It was the building he was interested in, not its inhabitants.
From his vantage point in the woods there was no sign of the fire damage that had caught his attention online, and even with the heavy cloak of night time, pierced only by the silver-white slivers of winter moonlight, the grand old building seemed to glow with a grandeur that spoke of majesty and pride. It shouted out, well murmured in a very upper class way, ‘country estate’. It was all about what ho’s, stiff upper lips, hunting parties and Hooray Henrys. Even the lawn was bigger than a bloody football pitch. Which was exactly what film-maker Seb Drakelow, and his demanding bitch of a wife, were after.
Jamie wasn’t really into stately homes and all the pretentious crap that went with them. What he was into was ideas. And this idea was going to pay off big time. The Tipping House Estate was going to win him some points and a permanent job. Pandora had more or less said as much – although whether he trusted her word or not was debatable. But he did trust Seb, and Seb was going to be impressed.
The world might have been his oyster since leaving university, but it was a pretty cramped shell when all you were getting was the word ‘intern’ to slap on your CV along with an endless supply of cheap coffee and the kind of pay that didn’t cover a week’s worth of train fares. He desperately needed to get a place of his own. Urgently. Living with a librarian was seriously cramping his style, even if he was very fond of her. His mother. How the hell was he ever going to get a girl to take him seriously if he had to admit he’d moved back home?
It wasn’t that there was any shortage of girls in his line of work, and with his loose-limbed frame, generous smile and earnest gaze Jamie had always had his admirers. But they tended to mother him rather than show any desire to strip off their clothes and drag him into bed.
There was a subtle change in the quality of the light as the clouds drifted, and Jamie focused back on the job. The clouds were clearing from over the moon – which was his sole source of light. The photographs he’d already got weren’t bad, but this was his chance to get the winner. The perfect moonlit mansion. He lifted his camera to get one more shot. And that was when it all started to go wrong.
‘Shit.’ It was a ghost.
His mouth dried, his throat constricting, his gaze locked on the viewfinder. The figure was lit by the moon, as white as death, smack bang in the middle of his line of sight.
Except this was a solid mass, not the watery, wispy apparition he’d imagined a ghost would be. Some part of his brain told him that he should still be able to make out the mansion, through a shadowy form. That a ghost should be elusive.
Jamie knew he should run or take a photograph. But he couldn’t do either. He couldn’t even glance up to take it in with his own eyes. Second-hand, through the camera, was enough. He was mesmerised. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck. As he stared, transfixed, the auto focus in the viewfinder of the camera flickered, trying to fix onto and sharpen the apparition.
Which was the precise moment when his mobile phone had beeped its way into his conscience and he’d picked it up with trembling hands to find an irate ‘Well?’ text message from an impatient Pandora. The sight of her profile picture had rather brought him back to reality. Then he’d heard the clunk of the shotgun.
* * *
Jamie stared at the wellington boot, which didn’t appear to have moved.
‘Show yourself, man, or I’ll send the dogs in after you.’
‘No fucking chance, you loony.’ He stayed where he was, one hand clutching his precious camera to his chest. A ghost would have been easier to handle than this trigger-happy harridan.
Another shot rang out, alarmingly close, splinters of bark bouncing off the canopy of leaves that covered him, and Jamie froze. His ears picked up the clunk of the gun being reloaded, or at least that’s what his imagination told him it was. In his world nobody carried shotguns or fired at strangers.
He supposed he should wriggle his way, commando style, to freedom. Not easy with a camera like a brick in one hand. And she’d probably pepper his arse with shot, or send the hounds in to drag him back. Christ, he was going to need new jeans after this. His inner action hero had obviously abandoned him.
‘After him, boy, flush him out.’
‘Well, Mum, I’m not quite sure this was what you had in mind when you said a degree would broaden my mind,’ he muttered under his breath as the sound of snapping twigs heralded the oncoming dog. The Hound of the Baskervilles meets Miss Havisham, was his second thought as the snuffles and panting got closer. Although Havisham Hounds sounded more like a pub than a horror film. He had to breathe, calm down. Think rationally.
There was a rustle immediately to his left, the smell of sweet doggy breath, and Jamie opened his eyes – which he hadn’t realise he’d shut. Whiskers tickled his cheek, above them a black, wet, shiny nose. Jamie all but giggled in relief as he realised that it was a Labrador grinning down at him. It plonked itself down on its haunches by his shoulder, tongue lolling, tail swishing through the leaves.
Jamie, who’d never heard of anybody being eaten alive by a Labrador, even though they’d eat more or less anything, offered a hand. The dog sniffed, then licked him with a noisy slurp.
‘Bertie stop that, you bloody traitor.’ Bertie stopped and glanced up guiltily over his shoulder, and so did Jamie. Straight into the barrel of a very old shotgun, gripped by even older, liver-spotted hands. ‘And don’t even think about running off. Darned safety catch, sticking again.’
Jamie wasn’t even sure he could get up without help, let alone run. ‘Do you know what you’re doing with that thing?’ He nodded at the barrel, which was a damned sight steadier than his wavering voice.
‘I’m perfectly competent.’
Which he took as a yes. Despite the firearm pointed at his heart he could feel the blood returning to his extremities with a rush. His fingertips started to throb. ‘It might be nice if you pointed it somewhere else.’ She didn’t. ‘I thought you were a ghost.’
‘A ghost?’
It was laughable now, but had seemed a real possibility only minutes ago. If it was minutes. He’d lost track of time, along with the feeling in one arm.
She was, he decided on closer inspection, quite an old lady. But one with a steady hand and a much firmer voice than most grannies he’d come across. More Clint Eastwood than Lady in a Van.