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  Mixed emotions coursed through her. Today she had buried her mother. Today she had discovered the final twisted trick the old woman had been hiding up her sleeve. Today she had had to face what life might be like without her juicy allowance from Trevellyan.

  No. That will never happen! I won’t let it!

  She stared at her white face and wide blue-grey eyes. Was that fear she could see in them? It couldn’t possibly be. Jemima Trevellyan was rarely cowed by anything. She laughed at authority and courted danger. She was a risk-taker, a game player. Wasn’t she?

  But suppose, for a moment, she lost it all. Suppose she lost the independence that her Trevellyan money gave her … what would she be left with? A life at Herne with Harry. No Eaton Square flat to escape to. No more shopping, parties, excitement. Perhaps the press and media, which she had always scorned, would lose interest in her and there would be no more diary pieces or two-page spreads on her fabulous life and celebrity friends. Or worse, perhaps they would write fake sympathy pieces about her fall from grace and publish photographs of her in last season’s clothes, shopping in the village without make-up on.

  She shuddered.

  The worst of all was that if it was all taken away from her, it would be given to Jecca.

  Evil, fucking, despicable Jecca, who’d done her best to destroy the family.

  Jemima felt her fist clench. How could Mother have done it? She hated Jecca more than any of us! What made her decide to give her Trevellyan?

  She blinked at her reflection. But only if we fail, she reminded herself.

  Her iPhone chirruped from her bag. She scrabbled inside and picked it up. Tara’s name was illuminated.

  ‘Hello, Tara.’

  ‘Mimi, where are you?’

  ‘Herne.’

  ‘When are you coming back?’

  ‘Tonight, I think.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Tara sounded worried. ‘It’s so late already. Are you going to drive?’

  ‘I was planning to.’

  ‘Mimi, I don’t think you should. You’ve had an incredibly exhausting day; you can’t drive from Dorset to London, it’s too much for you.’

  ‘You know how I feel about staying here. I can’t bear it.’

  ‘I know, darling … but really, you can come back first thing tomorrow. What’s another twelve hours? You’ll be asleep for most of that.’

  Jemima thought of the four-hour drive ahead of her and then of the beckoning bed in the mirror behind her. ‘All right. I’ll stay till tomorrow. But I’ll be off first thing.’

  ‘Good. That’s what I was ringing you about. We need to meet with the Trevellyan board urgently. I’ve summoned Victor and his team, and the finance and account directors. We’ll meet in the boardroom tomorrow afternoon at four. Can you be there?’

  ‘Darling, all I have is an oxygen-blast facial, very easy to cancel. What about you? Your diary is a tiny bit more difficult, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. This is an emergency. Roz has cancelled everything for me. We have to get this mess sorted out right away.’

  ‘For once, I’m in complete agreement.’

  ‘Good. Poppy will be there too. I’ll see you at Trevellyan House tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Bye, darling.’

  ‘Bye. Sleep well.’

  6

  POPPY TREVELLYAN STOOD in the middle of the chaos in her bedroom and wondered what on earth she would wear.

  She was spoiled for choice, that much was certain. Like her sisters, she adored clothes, but while Tara and Jemima took their pick of the most exclusive designers in the world, Poppy’s tastes were somewhat different. Her outfits came from market stalls, second-hand shops, antique markets and junk outlets. She loved the thrill of rifling through a rail or a pile of garments, and discovering the treasure that might lie under a mountain of forgotten nylon and Crimplene.

  Who do I want to be today? she wondered. Bearing in mind that she was going to an office, perhaps she ought to be suited in tailored lines and sober tones.

  No. I saw enough of that yesterday at the funeral. And Jemima and Tara do suits all the time. I need something else …

  She began to search through her wardrobe, flicking through dresses, shirts, skirts and trousers. She found what she was looking for: some tweed shorts, jaunty and sexy with cute little turn-ups. To go with these she found a seventies canary-yellow polo neck and a black swing cardigan fastened with three giant buttons down the left side. To finish it off, she selected her favourite purple patent knee-high boots with stack heels.

  When she was dressed, she twirled in front of her long mirror. Just the thing for a lady of property, she thought.

  She laughed out loud. The very idea that Loxton Hall and everything it contained belonged to her was ridiculous. While all Jemima and Tara worried about were things like the furniture and jewellery, Poppy could only think about the stupid practicalities of the whole thing.

  What kind of council tax would she be liable for on a twelve-bedroom Victorian Gothic mansion? She daren’t even imagine.

  Would she be expected to pay the staff wages? There was Alice, their housekeeper since they were children, and her husband Tony who’d always looked after the maintenance of the house. Then there were various cleaners, the gardeners and the temporary help from the village.

  What kind of insurance was required? How often would the drains have to be checked and the radiators siphoned, or whatever it was that happened to radiators?

  These silly questions floated into her mind before all the others. But in reality she knew that she would never have much to do with the house. It was part of her mother’s contrary nature that she had given it to her youngest daughter, the only one she could be sure didn’t really want it, just as she had probably taken pleasure in denying it to Tara, the one who yearned to be acknowledged by their mother, to be given the responsibility for something their mother cared about. As for Jemima – she probably couldn’t care less about the house but doubtless wouldn’t have minded some more cash and the family diamonds!

  Poppy scrunched her dark hair into a loose ponytail, and finished the look off with some oversized dark glasses.

  I know what I’m going to do. As soon as I’m in that boardroom with all those lawyers, I’m simply going to give Loxton back. I don’t want the damn house. I’ve spent my life trying to escape the trappings of the family name and all that it stands for. Mother’s not going to force me back now.

  Grabbing her vintage Dior pouch bag, she closed the door of her flat and ran quickly down the stairs. The one thing she had allowed her money to buy her was this flat, in an area she couldn’t possibly have afforded if she really was the poor artist she pretended to be.

  She’d always loved London’s Bloomsbury, with its faded Georgian grandeur and atmosphere of creativity and learning. It was the old stomping ground of Virginia Woolf, Dylan Thomas and other literary greats, and it was full of old bookshops and antiquarian print galleries. Close to the British Museum, the British Library, and university and hospital buildings, it seemed to house the heart of the city’s intellect. Its aura of old glamour had a distinctly artistic air, being home to the Courtauld Gallery, the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, and many distinguished music and literary venues. But it was an extremely expensive place to live. So Poppy had allowed herself to dip into her trust fund far enough to buy a two-storey flat at the top of a Georgian townhouse in an old square built around an enchanting private garden.

  The upstairs floor had a spacious attic room with a glass ceiling that let in masses of daylight and Poppy used this as her design studio. She felt that having this work space justified the money she had spent on the basis that she could now begin to achieve her ambition of making her own way in the world without needing to use her famous Trevellyan name.

  But it had been four years now since she had graduated from the Royal Academy Art School and she was no closer to finding what she really wanted to do in life. She had studied fine art but after gr
aduating, she’d decided that she didn’t want to spend her life painting pictures at an easel. She had flirted with lots of other artistic outlets, and still painted from time to time, but she was drifting.

  It didn’t help that her painful break-up from Tom, her boyfriend of almost five years, had completely stifled her creativity.

  Poppy pulled the front door closed behind her and looked up at the sky. The rain clouds of yesterday had completely vanished and it was a bright, blue spring day. She would walk to Trevellyan House, she decided. She couldn’t bear using the Underground on such a beautiful afternoon and she was strict with herself about using taxis too often. It was something she and Tom always used to argue about.

  ‘Why do you bother?’ he would say, exasperated. ‘Considering how much money you’ve got, it’s ridiculous to say it’s expensive.’

  ‘But it is,’ Poppy would retort. ‘And besides, it’s bad for the planet. We’re all going to have to get used to using our legs a bit more in the future, so why not start now?’

  Tom would grumble about it but he wasn’t about to change Poppy’s mind. She didn’t like the fact that Tom knew about her money. She had managed to keep it quiet all the way through her college course by enrolling as Poppy Thompson. She and Tom had been on the same course and she had noticed him the moment he walked into the art school on their very first day. He had a confidence and air of command about him that attracted her, and she was in awe of his artistic sensitivity. He seemed so knowledgeable for his years and he critiqued her painting in the kind of language that impressed her. She was utterly bowled over, but it wasn’t until the second term that they finally got together after a night out pub crawling through Kentish Town. Only after they’d graduated did she finally tell him her real name and the fact that she was worth several million.

  Their relationship had never been the same after that. First, there was the awkward issue that she had lied to him – or, at least, not confided in him sooner. Then there was the cold reality of her wealth. It seemed to drain Tom of all his previous generosity towards her. Suddenly, she was expected to pay for everything and not only that, Tom’s tastes changed as well. No longer was he happy with breakfast at the local caff. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t go to the Wolseley and have eggs Benedict and champagne. A wonderful vintage shirt found by Poppy at a market stall was no longer a great birthday present. He wanted something from Paul Smith or Dolce & Gabbana – after all, she could afford it, couldn’t she? The happy, balanced nature of their relationship became uneven and tense. Whatever she did irritated and annoyed him, and he was constantly snapping at her. And yet, he said he loved her. He still made love to her, passionately. And she still loved him, just as she always had. But gradually she’d become sure in her heart that there was no future for them.

  I always knew my Trevellyan money would kill something beautiful, she thought bitterly. And now it has.

  Tom had not taken the news well. He had become addicted to the luxuries her wealth could provide, just as she had feared, and he didn’t want it taken away from him. Eventually, after trying to persuade her to come back to him, he’d turned on her in anger.

  ‘If you hate your bloody money so much, why don’t you stop bloody well whining about it and give it away!’ he’d yelled, red-faced.

  ‘Don’t you think I want to?’ she shouted back. ‘It’s not that easy. It’s all in trusts and controlled by lawyers and directors and my parents. I can’t just give it away. Perhaps one day, when I’ve got more control, I’ll be able to. Until then, there’s not much I can do about it.’

  ‘Oh poor little rich girl!’ sneered Tom, his eyes scornful. ‘My heart bleeds for you. You know what I think? You’re a fucking hypocrite. You could just walk away from it all if you really wanted to. But you like pretending to be better than it all, pretending you despise money, but actually it’s there for you like a lovely big feather bed, ready for you to fall on when things get tough.’

  His words stabbed her like a knife but she remained calm, her voice only trembling slightly. She stood up resolutely. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. It’s over. If I didn’t really think so before now, you’ve definitely made me sure. Goodbye.’ With that she walked out, leaving him fuming impotently, while she hid the tears behind her sunglasses, hitched the handles of her bag over her shoulder and left with her head held high.

  That was over a year ago. She’d heard from mutual friends that Tom was going out with someone else now. An American girl called Chandler or Chelsea or something. Apparently her daddy was someone powerful in Washington and exorbitantly rich, so Tom had obviously got a taste for girls with money. Perhaps she would make him very happy by spending all her money on him, or just handing him armfuls of cash.

  Poppy went down the stairs of her building, thinking hard. Last week, when she’d heard the news about her mother, she’d felt as though she were on the verge of collapse. It was yet another blow, after losing Tom and feeling that her creative juices were drying up. She’d begun to wonder how much more she could take.

  Now this extraordinary bequest had landed on her – not just the house, but the business as well. No matter how bad she felt, she was going to have to summon all her strength and deal with it.

  Feeling as though she were on the brink of something unknown, Poppy walked out of the elegant Georgian square and headed west.

  7

  LONDON MIGHT BE one of the most expensive cities in the world to live in, but Poppy still loved it. Every time she walked through it, she was seduced again by its charm. Yes, it was noisy, dirty and crowded, and there were buildings of such hideous monstrosity that she could only hope future generations would forgive their creation. But it was so rich in beauty and history and glamour that it would take more than a few nasty steel and concrete horrors to dent its attraction.

  Leaving behind the faded delights of Bloomsbury, she headed towards the more affluent part of town. Skirting Oxford Street with its High Street chains – although admittedly the biggest and most impressive versions – and throngs of tourists and shoppers, she veered towards Marylebone, with its chic little shops and boutiques and trendy bars and restaurants. She liked this part of town and might have lived here if the Bloomsbury garden square hadn’t taken her heart first. She wandered down past Harley Street and Wimpole Street and crossed Oxford Street almost at Marble Arch. Now she was heading into Mayfair, where every car was a giant SUV, a sleek black Daimler or a jaunty Porsche, and where the streets seemed to smell of money. Here, although Poppy did not feel she belonged, she was certainly less conspicuous. Trusta-farians with bank accounts at least as big as hers mooched about, wondering what to spend their money on today. Russian wives with bright blonde hair and excessive fur coats climbed into chauffeured Rolls Royces, off to spend more of their husbands’ billions in Harrods and Harvey Nichols. Short men with gold jewellery and suits whose vast expense could still not conceal the size of their bellies trotted from glossy black front door to glossy silver Lamborghini and Poppy knew that their money made her inheritance look like a drop in the ocean.

  Trevellyan House was in the exclusive area of Mayfair just before Piccadilly. Here could be found the kind of shops that only those in the know frequented, such as Thomas Goode, the exclusive china and glass shop that had been making fine china and porcelain for the crowned heads of Europe since the seventeenth century, or Purdey, where dukes and earls and all manner of gentry bought guns and hunting gear. Here were the galleries exhibiting old masters for sale; the most exquisite Persian rugs, held up like paintings for their superb workmanship, texture and colour to be admired; jewellery, glittering in the windows of the most expensive shops in the world. In nearby Bond Street were the famous fashion names: Chanel, Tiffany, Gucci, Versace, Prada, Ralph Lauren, Asprey and a host of others. On the more discreet streets of Mayfair, luxurious boutique hotels nestled next to the kind of shops that cater to the needs of the very rich. And here was Trevellyan House, the hub of the Trevellyan empire, one of the last grea
t luxury brands to remain in private hands.

  On the ground floor was the shop. It was not the original Piccadilly barber shop that Samuel Trevellyan had walked into over a hundred and fifty years before – as Trevellyan fragrances had begun to grow in fame, the premises had quickly become too small and this large Mayfair house had been purchased. On the ground floor was the shop, a beautiful room where the many fragrances, soaps, oils and accessories were displayed in walnut cabinets. The polished floorboards were covered in dark red Turkish rugs while leather armchairs and a Chesterfield club sofa gave the clients somewhere to rest while they absorbed the delights of the Trevellyan fragrances and made their choices. Lamps and antique mirrors created a subdued, elegant atmosphere.

  On the floor above had been the old workrooms, where the fragrances had been made by hand. Once, there had been long tables where white-coated craftsmen followed Farnese’s recipes to conjure up the delicious aromas used to scent the perfumes, oils and soaps sold downstairs. Now all of that had been moved to a factory in the Midlands where bottles were filled and packaged on a conveyor belt, then boxed up and sent to destinations all over the world.

  The shop was just as Poppy had always remembered it. It had never changed – still as scrupulously tasteful and as quietly restful as a gentlemen’s club. She looked in for a moment before heading upstairs to the Trevellyan offices where the real action took place. Despite its importance in her life, she had only visited Trevellyan House a few times, mostly when she was young and her mother had brought them all to London on a shopping trip. They’d come by to visit her father in his imposing office where he sat behind a vast leather-topped desk, making what seemed to young Poppy to be terrifyingly important decisions. That was all she knew of Trevellyan House, apart from the odd glimpse of the boardroom, with its long table and stiff-backed chairs.