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  ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry. How frightfully kind of you to ask but I’m afraid I just don’t do things like that.’ Jemima giggled. ‘It’s so funny to think you might want me but really I’d be awful at it. I’m utterly hopeless, everyone knows, far too lazy to be any good to anyone.’

  ‘What a shame.’ The old lady was crestfallen and a little startled by Jemima’s levity. She had obviously been hoping to bag a title as her patron. She glanced eagerly over to where Tara was deep in conversation with a distant cousin. ‘Perhaps your sister might have more of a mind to help us?’

  ‘I’m afraid you haven’t got a hope there either. Tara works all the hours God sends. She literally doesn’t have a minute to give to anyone. When she’s not working, she’s with her children – but she’s working all the time, I promise. I’m sure she’d be good for a donation, though, if you ask her. One thing about working all those hours – she has absolutely stacks of cash.’

  ‘Thank you, Lady Calthorpe. And perhaps you might consider a small token to aid the church?’

  Got to give the old girl marks for persistence, thought Jemima. ‘You’re talking to the wrong sister for that, I’m afraid. Ancestral homes need a great deal of upkeep, I’ve discovered. Now, I’m so sorry, will you excuse me? I’ve seen someone I simply must talk to.’

  Jemima slid gracefully away, careful not to make the mistake of meeting anyone’s eyes. She knew that her path was beset by people desperate to talk to her – relatives, neighbours, snooty ladies keen to be seen with a real, live viscountess – but she had only two goals in mind. One was a glass of champagne and the other was the dark Prada-suited man she had seen in church, who was now standing by one of the windows gazing out at the lawn beyond.

  She picked up a glass of fizzing liquid with a deft gesture as she passed one of the maids and came quickly up behind the man.

  ‘Are you admiring our flora or our fauna?’ she purred.

  The man turned, surprised, and then smiled when he saw she was there, her head cocked on one side, a sweet smile on her face and her eyes wide. ‘I wasn’t aware there was any fauna out there.’

  Jemima looked out of the window and then shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. Sometimes the cats sleep on the terrace when the sun has warmed up the stones. We used to see lots of rabbits, munching up the lawn. My father liked to get out his gun and take pot shots at them from the terrace. We used to beg him not to. We would cry buckets over their little furry bodies.’

  ‘It must be strange having such a big garden. It’s more like a bloody great field, isn’t it?’

  ‘I never knew any different. It’s just a sodding hassle to look after, to be honest. Actually, this all looks rather small and poky to me now.’ Jemima took a sip of her champagne.

  The man laughed. ‘Really? You must be joking.’

  ‘No. The house I live in now is twice the size of this. And twice the bloody expense.’

  He laughed again. ‘I ought to take you home and show you where I’m from. Six of us in a three up, three down. We were considered the posh ones on the street because we had the end house on our terrace and a bigger garden than the rest. By big, I mean about twenty feet long.’

  She gazed up at him coquettishly. ‘I love your accent. Where is it from? Birmingham?’

  ‘Birmingham? I ought to deck you for that. Can’t you tell an honest Liverpool accent when you hear one?’

  ‘No, sorry. I’m not much good on accents further north than Gloucester.’

  The man raised his eyebrows at her. ‘You should be ashamed to admit that. Ignorance is never something to be proud of, as I learned at Cambridge.’

  Jemima raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Well, well. Feisty, aren’t you? You needn’t suppose I’m a snob, you know. I can’t help my upbringing and I’m very well aware of its limitations. Anyway, you ought to be nice to me. After all, it is my mother’s funeral.’

  ‘Yes, I couldn’t help but notice you during the service.’ He bowed his head slightly. ‘May I offer my condolences on this sad occasion, Lady Calthorpe, and my sincere apologies for speaking so impulsively.’

  ‘Yes, you may and apology accepted.’ Jemima looked carefully at him. Now that she stood next to him, she could see that he had a rather beautiful face. His dark looks made him appear aggressively masculine but close up she was startled by the strong, slightly aquiline nose and the long black lashes hovered over deliciously soft brown eyes. The sensual mouth was just too inviting, especially when it spoke in that attractively direct way. ‘So you know who I am.’

  ‘Of course I do. Your social life is not something one can avoid. You seem to have made party-going an art form.’

  Jemima laughed. ‘It’s true, I do like to amuse myself going out. And can I help it if the media seems to take an interest in me? I can’t think why anyone is bothered.’

  ‘Let me see – you’re stunning, titled and wealthy and you know everybody who’s anybody. You’re in the newspapers and gossip magazines every week. I think that rich, beautiful young women with the world at their feet have fascinated people since Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships.’

  She looked at him from under her long lashes. ‘No one’s ever compared me to her before. You’re quite the smooth talker. What’s your name?’

  ‘Ali. Ali Tendulka.’

  ‘Ali. I can see that you’ve done rather well for yourself and, by the looks of your Prada suit and Patek Philippe watch, you’ve managed to escape the slums in Liverpool –’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly call Whitworth Road the slums.’

  ‘No doubt you also drive something very fast in silver and have a modern apartment in London with glass walls and a river view. All very commendable.’ She smiled at him. ‘But why don’t I show you a few old bits and pieces we’ve got here? There’s a real Stubbs in the dining room.’

  He looked at her with mild surprise. ‘Don’t you have to mingle?’

  ‘I loathe mingling. Unless I’m with chums, I’m bad at it, very bad. It’s much better for everyone if I don’t.’ Jemima drained her glass and put it down on the window seat. ‘Come on, I’m sure we can find some fun away from all this dreariness …’

  Ali smiled and lifted two more glasses of champagne from a passing tray. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do.’

  She led him through the throng of people, using him like a piece of armour against the those she knew were clamouring to get to her. There was Aunt Daphne and all the Boyle cousins, always so desperate to oil up to the Trevellyans. She spotted Poppy listening to a long speech from the village doctor, who’d known them all since they were babies and was now silver-haired and somewhat doddery. Where was Harry? She looked across the room for his broad back and the mess of fair hair she knew so well. Oh, there he was, deep in conversation with the man from the estate office. No doubt they were talking about land management, or something equally boring. Well, that would keep him occupied for a while longer, at least.

  ‘This way,’ she said quietly, steering Ali through the double doors at the far end of the ballroom and out into the hall. She opened the door into another large room. ‘The drawing room,’ she announced, letting him pass her. Ali handed her one of the champagne glasses. ‘Thank you.’

  They chinked flutes, their eyes meeting as they sipped from the cool crystal.

  Jemima broke the silence. ‘After Daddy died, Mother did a little bit of redecorating, so you must excuse her rather Madame de Pompadour style. She was very fond of eau-de-Nil silk and porcelain snuff boxes. Bit too chi-chi for me.’

  The drawing room was almost aggressively feminine, with tables draped in taffeta and covered in ornaments, cut glass and silver-framed photographs. The furniture was mostly eighteenth-century antiques with two ormolu cabinets taking pride of place. Somewhat out of place was the modern armchair, a pile of Country Life magazines stacked on the floor next to it, that stood beside a startlingly new white lamp. Jemima remembered how her mother had liked the way it directed its strong beam right on to t
he book or magazine she was reading at the time.

  ‘We didn’t use this room much. It’s too big really. We girls spent most of our time in the back sitting room. It always felt so cosy.’

  ‘The back sitting room.’ Ali raised his eyebrows.

  ‘There or the nursery. We had a television in the nursery, and our nanny would light the fire on cold winter afternoons and let us make toast on it. Have you ever toasted bread over an open fire? It’s just delicious.’ Jemima smiled. ‘I’d like to do that again one day. I can’t think why I haven’t.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because a toaster is just that bit more efficient.’ Ali ran his fingers over one of her mother’s favourite Meissen shepherdesses.

  ‘Maybe. But where’s the romance in that? Come on.’ She led him back to the hall and opened the door to the dining room. ‘Only used for Sundays and Christmas after Daddy died.’ Ali went in and walked slowly around the vast polished oak table. ‘It does look impressive when the silver is out and the candles are lit, I must admit. That’s the Stubbs there, over the dresser. Known as “the horsey picture” when we were children, but apparently it’s one of the finest examples of his work.’

  Ali looked round at her, almost frowning. ‘You know, when I was a boy, I thought only the Queen lived like this. I didn’t imagine that ordinary people could or would.’

  ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ she replied carelessly. ‘Everyone I know does.’

  They looked into the library and the study. Then they returned to the hall. Jemima stopped him in a dark corner by a green baize door.

  ‘I won’t show you the kitchen, they’ll be manic in there at the moment.’

  ‘What about the upstairs rooms? I was hoping for the full tour.’ Ali leaned in to take her empty glass, stroking the back of her hand as he did so.

  Jemima dropped her voice to a husky whisper. ‘Actually, there’s one more room downstairs I’d like to show you first.’

  ‘Yes? Where?’

  ‘Here,’ she purred, and pushed open the door behind him, startling him by thrusting him backwards into the darkness.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked as she entered the room and pushed the door closed behind them.

  She tugged the light pull and revealed what was the downstairs loo, a large room wallpapered in red damask and with heavy green velvet curtains closed at the window. The walls were covered in family photographs and old prints and the lavatory itself was built into a vast wooden bench that ran along the length of the far wall, so that it looked like a throne.

  ‘Jesus.’ Ali gasped. ‘Even the bog is the size of my bedroom.’

  ‘Funny you should say that, darling.’ Jemima pulled at the light again, plunging the room back into darkness. She heard the clink of their champagne flutes as Ali put them down. Then the sound of his breath coming closer and harder. She curled her arms up round his neck, pushing him back against the wall. He moaned appreciatively. ‘I thought we might get to know each other a little better,’ she breathed.

  Jemima pressed her mouth up against his, feeling the scrape of stubble against her face. He responded immediately, as hungry for her as she was for him. They kissed fiercely and deeply. He tasted of champagne and the faint mild tang of cigarette smoke.

  She felt him bulging against her, a sensation that made her tighten with anticipation and she felt her own rush of arousal. He pressed his hand up to her breasts and she quickly unbuttoned the front of her jacket to allow him access to her. She sighed as he touched the lace on her bra and then slid a cool finger inside to rub a nipple.

  She returned to his mouth, attacking his tongue with hers, pushing deeper into him. Excitement bubbled up through her at the pleasure he was giving her as he teased her breasts and also at the illicit nature of their activity. She loved this: the handsome stranger, seduced by her beauty, ravished by her directness and as thrilled as she was by the naughtiness of their situation. She loved the way they were both clothed, reaching only for what they needed of each other, and the sense of urgency and desperation, the animal need that lay beneath their smart clothes and civilised exteriors.

  She reached for his groin, pulling his trousers open with a practised flick and releasing his cock, which was iron hard and throbbing with heat.

  ‘I hate to do this,’ she murmured, ‘but …’

  From an inner pocket in her skirt, she quickly removed a tiny foil packet and ripped it open with her teeth. In one swift movement, she took the condom out and rolled it swiftly down, sheathing him.

  ‘And here I was, thinking how delightfully unplanned this was,’ Ali teased.

  ‘I’m always prepared, darling. I like risks – but not that much.’ She kissed him again and then gasped as he clasped her round the bottom, picked her up and turned her round so that she was against the wall. Then, as he held her with one arm, he reached down, yanked up her skirt and felt for her panties. There was nothing there.

  ‘You see … always prepared … Oh God …’ She sighed and moaned softly as he pushed into her with his fingers, rubbing at her with the pad of his thumb. A moment later he took his hand away and she felt the hard head of his penis pushing against her and then the delightful sensation as he entered her, filling her completely, pushing her back up against the wall as he thrust strongly into her.

  She panted as they began to move together, finding a rhythm that maximised their pleasure. ‘Keep doing that … Yes, just like that. Oh … my … God.’ She pulled in to squeeze him tightly as he reached the peak of his thrust, making him kiss her deeply. He broke away to bite at her neck and shoulders, overcome by the sensations she was giving him.

  Their speed increased as he pounded into her and she bumped against the wall, dislodging some family photographs that fell to the floor. She was barely aware of it, knowing only the waves of pleasure that were building up inside her, pushing her towards the brink, and that Ali was going with her …

  A moment later and they were both gripped by climax, Ali first and Jemima quickly following, propelled over the edge into a spasm of delight by the knowledge that he was coming.

  He was still inside her when they heard the voice getting closer.

  ‘Jemima? Jemima, where are you?’

  ‘Oh Christ.’ Jemima pushed Ali away and pulled her blouse back together. ‘It’s my sister.’ She began to put her clothes in order as she shouted, ‘I’m in the loo, Tara. What is it?’

  ‘I’ve been looking for you.’ Tara came up to the door and called through it. ‘We’re being summoned to the library. The lawyers want to read Mother’s will.’

  ‘All right, all right, I’m coming. Give me five minutes.’

  ‘We’ll see you there.’

  They heard Tara walk off down the corridor. They looked at each other in the gloom, their eyes now adjusted to the darkness.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ Jemima said with a smile. ‘That was exactly what I needed. Now, I hate to be rude, but I really must dash.’

  Ali had already tidied himself up and was smoothing his hair and reknotting his tie. ‘Not at all. I’ve got to hurry myself.’

  ‘Yes, I meant to ask. Who are you, exactly?’

  ‘Me? No one important.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  He grinned at her. ‘You’ll find out, your ladyship. Now, if you’ll excuse me. My guess is that we’d better not to be seen leaving together so I’ll slip out now. And thank you. It was a pleasure all the sweeter for being so unexpected.’

  Then he opened the door and was gone.

  Jemima opened the curtains and went to the mirror. Even in the grey daylight that lit the room, she looked flushed and her eyes were bright. She tidied herself up as best she could without her bag of tricks to hand, and smoothed her hair. At least she was a little more presentable. She knew she was considered the beauty of the family. She hadn’t been much to look at as a child but she’d grown into her looks. Now, in her late twenties, she was at her peak: a soft pink-and-white complexion, wide-spaced blue-grey eyes above well-
defined cheekbones, a straight, narrow nose and lips full enough to guarantee she’d never be tempted by collagen injections. Her blonde hair was just above the shoulder with a long fringe falling prettily down one side. She shook her head a little to make her hair glint in the light.

  ‘Nothing like a good fuck to bring me out of myself,’ she murmured. She smiled at her reflection. ‘And now we’ll find out exactly what kind of revenge Mother has been planning all these years.’

  3

  TARA TREVELLYAN RAN hastily up the carved wooden staircase and padded along the corridor, oblivious to the fine works of art and family portraits that lined the walls. They were so familiar she never noticed them now.

  No one else was about. All the staff were downstairs serving the guests. She went to a door at the far end, paused for a moment to listen at it, and then shook herself.

  ‘Just who do you think is going to be inside?’ she whispered to no one. Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle gently, opened the door and silently slipped inside.

  The room she now stood in was the grandest bedroom suite in the house, a vast chamber with a flat-fronted window of triple Gothic arches, each one festooned with pink taffeta curtains held back by tassels. A pink cream silk velvet chaise longue rested luxuriously in the niche of the window on the thick white carpet. Against the far wall was a 1930s art deco glass dressing table, covered in cut-glass scent bottles, jewellery cases and silver photograph frames – and, of course, a vast decanter of Trevellyan’s Tea Rose. A door at the side of the room led into the dressing room and another opposite led into a white and silver art deco bathroom.

  Tara knew this room had been her mother’s pride and joy. It was strange to be in here without her. Tara could still picture her sitting at the dressing table, powdering her nose with a pink swan’s-down duster, wearing her favourite ice-blue silk robe with the mink trimming, or lying in the magnificent four-poster bed supported by twenty soft white pillows while she answered her correspondence and drank sweet tea from her favourite Sèvres teacup.