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  None of the new faces looked as though they belonged to a stinking rich foreign businessman. Winding through the room, she found herself at the quieter end, standing by the fireplace just as she had the night before. And there was Harry, a glass of whisky in his hand.

  ‘Hello, my darling wife!’ he said loudly as she came up to him.

  ‘Hello,’ she said stiffly. ‘Good day out?’

  ‘Splendid. Splendid. You were sorely missed. Shame you didn’t ride today – we were all looking forward to seeing your fantastic arse in a pair of jodhpurs, weren’t we, Rollo?’

  ‘Harry!’ hissed Jemima, as Rollo turned to face them.

  ‘Shall I just freshen your drink, Jemima?’ asked Rollo smoothly, as he took her glass and moved away.

  ‘What did you say that for?’ She noticed Harry’s eyes were a little glazed. ‘Oh my God, you’re drunk. Why are you drinking whisky at this hour? We haven’t even eaten yet.’

  ‘Because I bloody feel like it, sweetheart, that’s why. You look pretty. New dress? What am I saying? Course it’s a new dress! When isn’t it a new dress? You kit the local charity shop out like a bloody boutique, don’t you, with the amount of cast-offs you send their way. How much did it cost you? Looks very pricy.’

  ‘Harry, shut up,’ growled Jemima. ‘I don’t know why you’re talking this way. Stop being so loud, everyone can hear you.’ She had noticed ears pricking, subtle sideways looks. People were tuning in to what Lord and Lady Calthorpe had to say to each other.

  ‘Am I? We can’t have that.’ Harry grinned at her as he steadied himself against the fireplace. ‘They might think we’re not very happy together. That would be … well, terrible.’ He took a final slug from his glass and the ice clinked against his teeth. ‘You look very pretty,’ he slurred. ‘But you’d better take care of that dress. There might not be much more where that came from.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Harry, everyone’s listening.’

  ‘Why be ashamed of it? You’d better start preparing everyone for the news that you’re going to be broke. No more money in the Trevellyan chest. All gone. No more pennies for the little heiresses.’

  There was a definite frisson as people caught these words. Jemima clutched Harry’s arm. ‘Shut up!’ she whispered fiercely. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘It’s just the truth, darling. You’re going to be stony broke. And then what are we going to do? Looks like we might have to face some unpleasant truths, doesn’t it?’ He leaned towards Jemima, lowering his voice. ‘Looks like you’ll have to come back to Herne. Just as well you can have your own wing, isn’t it? We wouldn’t want to do anything as upsetting as talk to each other, would we?’

  Jemima stared at him, fighting the urge to scream at him and at the same time feeling terrified that she might break down at any moment in front of him and a room full of people just desperate to witness firsthand the cracks in their marriage. Harry was hardly ever drunk. She had no idea how to control him. What was he going to say next? Was he going to announce to this roomful of people exactly what he thought of her?

  ‘Harry, old man, come and take a look at this amazing picture I’ve just bought.’ It was Rollo back with her drink, calm and unruffled. He handed the glass to her. ‘Do excuse us, Jemima.’ He led her husband away.

  She turned back to face the fireplace, wishing she could just disappear up it. ‘Oh God, what an awful mess,’ she whispered.

  She could hear the muffled conversation start up again behind her. She was about to lift her head and face the room once more when the drawing-room door opened and Emma came in with a new guest. He looked so different to everyone else in the room that there was an almost audible intake of breath as he entered. Instead of black tie, which every other man in the room was wearing, he wore a crisply cut grey, double-breasted suit, quite wrong for the occasion and yet unashamedly fabulous. He was dark, with skin like coffee mixed with honey, jet-black hair and very brown eyes, and he moved with an easy grace that expressed confidence and toughness.

  Emma began to move among the guests, introducing her companion. They swapped pleasantries but did not linger long with many of them, until they got to a pretty young girl Jemima had not noticed before. She must have arrived that afternoon, as she certainly hadn’t been at dinner the night before.

  ‘This is my sister, Letty,’ she heard Emma saying. ‘Letty, this is Richard Ferrera.’

  Letty could be no more than twenty, and a delightful example of fresh young English womanhood. She looked just like Emma, with perfect rose-petal skin and a mass of blonde hair, but there was something even more enchanting about her – a kind of gawkiness that spoke of youth and sweetness and wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘How charming to meet you,’ she heard Richard Ferrera say in a smooth American accent.

  Of course, he had to be American, thought Jemima. What’s Emma’s game, inviting her sister along like this? She can’t be trying to set her up with a rich husband, can she? The girl’s hardly more than a teenager. Wouldn’t put it past her, though – there’s no one so keen to get everyone else married as someone who’s only just got up the aisle herself, and very successfully at that.

  She watched the man as he chatted to the two girls. He had not a trace of self-consciousness, she noticed, even though many might feel cowed at this countrified, aristocratic gathering – particularly if they were wearing the wrong thing. But somehow, Richard Ferrera managed to convey the impression that it was the people around him who were all very strange, dressing up in dinner jackets and bow ties, and that they amused him, rather than the other way round. His confidence sat on him lightly but with the strength of steel. There would be no denting it.

  Jemima was fascinated by him.

  Really, he’s rather attractive, she thought to herself. A bit shorter than I usually like them, but he’s definitely very muscular under that suit. No one can carry off a jacket like that, no matter how well cut, unless they have some excellent definition underneath.

  And, of course, she reminded herself, he was in the business that she needed to learn all about, preferably before Monday. How brilliant if she could swan in first thing and start telling everyone what they needed to do and how.

  This fantasy was rather appealing and she was just losing herself in it when she realised that Emma was leading the very man she was fantasising about towards her.

  ‘Jemima, may I introduce Richard Ferrera? He’s our neighbour. He’s just moved into the old Brettington estate and he has big plans for it. Richard, this is Jemima Calthorpe.’

  Richard Ferrera shook her hand lightly and smiled. ‘Lady Calthorpe. I’ve heard of you, of course. It’s a great honour to meet you.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Oh, Jemima, your drink is empty. Let me go and fetch you a fresh one,’ Emma put in and slid quickly away.

  Jemima smiled at Richard Ferrera. He was even more handsome close up. She’d always preferred dark men, they seemed so sophisticated – it was an aberration when she’d fallen for Harry. She liked that warm-looking skin, the melting brown eyes, so different from that chilly English look, all pale and pallid.

  ‘Are you enjoying life in Gloucestershire?’ Jemima asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, it’s beautiful. The house is extraordinary. It was built six hundred years ago. It’s everything I imagined an English country house to be. But there is a drawback.’ Richard Ferrera frowned.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s extremely cold here, isn’t it?’ He leaned towards her fractionally, as though confiding a naughty secret, and smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.

  Jemima laughed. ‘Oh dear, yes. If you’re not used to it, the British weather can seem very bleak. But I promise you, it does get warm here. The summers are lovely. Where are you from?’

  ‘In the States, I live in New York.’

  ‘Then you must be used to cold. I’ve never been so freezing in my life as I was in New York one winter
. The snow was six feet deep!’

  ‘Yes, but we have this marvellous thing called heating. You wouldn’t believe how it improves the quality of life.’

  ‘I doubt many of the buildings in New York are six hundred years old, though. It’s always a little more difficult to heat old houses, they’re inherently draughty.’

  ‘Fair point. But when I’m in New York, I’m working. When I’m relaxing, I go to my place in Mexico. It’s amazing – my paradise. No need for heating there. I’ve got a place on the coast, looking out over the ocean.’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘I’d love to be there right now.’

  ‘Sounds perfect bliss.’

  ‘It is. I’ll have to show you some day.’

  ‘I’d adore that.’ She smiled back flirtatiously. These little invitations were just part of social chit chat. They never meant anything. Still, a hacienda in Mexico, or whatever it was called, sounded divine. She’d never been to that part of the world. ‘So what brings you to this chilly isle?’

  ‘Work, of course. I’m looking for business opportunities.’

  ‘What is your line of work, Mr Ferrera?’ enquired Jemima disingenuously.

  The man stared at her, as if trying to work out whether she really was ignorant of him. He had a fiercely direct stare, unafraid and absolutely uncowed. ‘Call me Richard, please. I am in the business of luxury,’ he said at last. ‘Something I think you must know something about.’

  ‘Really? Why?’ Jemima said coyly, enjoying the low buzz of flirtation she could feel between them. How much did this man know about her, exactly?

  ‘Look at your dress – it is Oscar de la Renta, isn’t it? It’s fresh off the catwalk. Your shoes are Gina, the pearls look very similar to some I saw in a Garrard’s catalogue recently and you have the aura of a woman who looks after herself very well. I’ve seen you photographed at the best restaurants, the most expensive hotels in the world. It’s obvious that you live surrounded by luxury every day. You are no doubt an expert on the subject.’

  ‘It’s true I like the nice things in life, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t have them if I can afford them. But true luxury? I don’t know. I still have frustrations and difficulties in my life, problems that money can’t allay. Then my life doesn’t seem anywhere near as luxurious as people think.’

  ‘Ah.’ Ferrera raised his eyebrows at her. ‘You are confusing luxury with some kind of perfect existence in which nothing happens, like lying on a huge bed all day long, served with iced grapes and wafted by fans. That’s the wrong way to think of luxury. It’s what provides comfort and sustenance to your soul while you make the difficult, treacherous and sometimes boring journey through life. Think about it – don’t cool Egyptian cotton sheets of the highest thread count bring you pleasure and soothe you at the end of a long day? Doesn’t the best luggage, handcrafted from superb leather, piped with beautiful colours, printed with your own monogram, make that endless journey a little easier to bear? Wouldn’t you rather drink one glass of Château Lafite Rothschild 1982 than a whole bottle of some cheap Bordeaux? Do you see what I mean? Luxury is where the soul and the body meet to be caressed.’

  Jemima laughed again, a little surprised at his fervency. ‘How funny. Yes, I suppose so. I’ve never heard it described in quite that way though.’

  ‘I feel passionate about it.’ Ferrera smiled. ‘When you come from a background like mine, you think very hard about what the world can offer you, and what luxury means.’

  ‘A background like yours?’

  Ferrera shrugged lightly, his dark eyes glinting. ‘I wasn’t born to all this. I’m from a big, poor, immigrant family and I grew up in New York. My dad died when I was little and my mom brought us up on her own. It was tough, I guess. But it made me all the more determined to make something of myself and to get a little of the good things in life.’

  ‘And now you’ve got quite a lot of the good things,’ rejoined Jemima. ‘It’s very admirable. I’m impressed.’ She couldn’t help but feel the contrast with her own background. ‘You obviously worked hard and made a success of yourself.’

  ‘Yes, I did. I admit it, I’m very rich and very successful. But I’m not finished yet, not by a long way.’ He stared at her intently.

  Jemima looked up from under her lashes. He’s flirting with me, I can feel it. Well, he’s very attractive …

  Emma glided up. ‘Are you two having fun? Jemima is one of our most dazzling society figures, Richard. She’s in huge demand so we’re terribly lucky to have her here. Don’t you agree that she’s absolutely delightful?’ She smiled that saccharine smile that Jemima mistrusted so much.

  Richard bowed slightly in her direction. ‘Charming. A very lovely lady.’

  ‘You’re so kind.’ Jemima smiled at him.

  Emma gave Jemima her drink. ‘Here you are, darling. I’m so glad you two are getting on. I’ve put you next to each other at dinner. I’m sure you’ve got tons to talk about.’

  When they were all seated, she noticed that Emma had put her sister Letty on the other side of Harry, so that he was locked in by blondes.

  She saw Letty lean in confidentially towards her husband, revealing a great deal of cleavage and the tops of her breasts as she did so, and heard her say breathily, ‘Oh, Harry, I used to love hacking home from the pony club on a Thursday afternoon, with Mummy driving behind ever so slowly to make sure I didn’t get into trouble.’

  She rolled her eyes. Christ, what’s she up to? Don’t tell me that ridiculous little thing is making up to Harry. Well, she’s on a hiding to nothing with that one. She was quite sure that Harry was not the type to be unfaithful, although she didn’t know why – they had never talked about it. It was quite possible, she supposed, that he was finding some comfort elsewhere, since he had found out about her own indiscretion, but she found it hard to imagine. He was old-fashioned, so proper. But still – she regarded the young thing shamelessly flirting with her husband, and watched her toss her mane of golden hair, pout her pretty lips and lean towards him, and felt a stab of something unpleasant in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘That’s your husband, isn’t it?’ A soft voice sounded in her ear. It was Ferrera leaning in close to her. She smelt a warm gust of his cologne. It was a fresh, clean scent but with a masculine undertone, a spicy blend of citrus and sandalwood.

  ‘Yes. That’s Harry.’

  ‘Is it a British custom to treat married couples as if they’d rather be at opposite ends of the room?’

  She laughed. ‘We don’t put married couples next to each other. They are expected to sing for their supper by amusing other people for once.’

  ‘By the look of things, it’s that little girl who is doing her best to amuse him.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jemima lightly. ‘We don’t mind about that kind of thing either. It rather spices things up. There’s nothing so boring as a hopelessly devoted married couple.’

  ‘Really?’ Ferrera turned his dark eyes towards Harry and Letty. ‘Where I come from, such blatant flirting might be considered a little impolite.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Jemima turned towards him. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’ The staff began to move quietly around the table, putting down the hors d’oeuvre. ‘Tell me more about your business.’

  ‘All right. Have you heard of FFB?’

  ‘No. Should I have?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Let’s try another. Have you heard of LVMH?’ Jemima shook her head.

  ‘OK. But you’ve heard of Möet champagne, haven’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Veuve Clicquot and Krug. And Louis Vuitton and Givenchy and Marc Jacobs. And Guerlain perfumes, Dior perfumes … I could go on.’

  ‘Of course I’ve heard of them all. They’re very famous.’

  Ferrera nodded. ‘Right. And they are all owned by LVMH, a French company that owns over fifty famous names and luxury brands. Richemont is another similar company – they own Cartier, Chloé, Montblanc and Dunhill, among many others. It’s owned by
a South African family, the Ruperts. The other major player is PPR, another French company. Those French love their luxury, that’s for sure. They own Gucci, which in turn owns a host of famous names, mostly designers such as Yves Saint Laurent.’

  Jemima frowned. ‘I had no idea. How strange that one company can own so many different things. I suppose I’ve never thought about the business side of shopping all that much – how it all works behind the scenes.’ She picked up her lemon half in its little muslin bag and squeezed it over the pink Scottish smoked salmon on her plate.

  Ferrera speared a piece of fish on the end of his fork as he continued. ‘No – but a lot of us do. Most of these companies operate by allowing their subsidiaries to work independently, using their talents and going in the direction they see fit. There is an incredible amount of money involved in it – the owners of those companies are billionaires. One of the wonderful things about quality is that people are prepared to pay great sums for it, not just because of the inherent worth of the thing itself, but because it’s a source of prestige. Throughout history, humans have tried to impress one another, to give the impression that they have that touch of something special, something that puts them above the rest of the crowd. A man drives, let’s say, a Porsche. It says many things about him, not least that he can afford a Porsche, which we all know is very expensive. It also expresses his style, his taste, his class. It is the choice he’s made. It tells you almost everything you need to know about him.’

  ‘Almost?’

  Ferrera gave a dark, half-smile. ‘You would also need to look at his shirts, his shoes and his suits – and perhaps his pen.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t have a pen?’

  ‘That in itself says something that chills the blood.’ Jemima laughed, amused. ‘And what make is your pen? You obviously set a lot of store by it!’

  ‘I’m lucky enough to have one custom-made for me by Cartier.’