www.ariafiction.com
 |
As the new custodian of the ancestral home, Treweham Hall, Tobias Cavendish-Blake soon discovers exactly what he’s inherited. Instant financial action is needed if the Hall is to survive the mounting debts it’s racking up. Adding insult to injury the family is forced to sell the Gate House on the estate to lottery winners Gary and Tracy Belcher – not the kind of neighbours Tobias was hoping for.
Megan Taylor inherits her grandmother’s country cottage in the village of Treweham and decides to make a fresh start there, taking a job at the local country pub.
When Megan meets Tobias, the attraction is clear, but she is determined to resist his charms, put off by his reputation and that of his best friends - the rakish Seamus Fox, son of a millionaire race horse trainer and dastardly jockey Dylan Delany. But Tobias is a hard man to resist…
Welcome Page
About Scandal
Dedication
Cast of Characters
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
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Acknowledgements
About Sasha Morgan
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
For my dad, who enjoyed a flutter on the horses.
‘C’mon my son!’
Tobias Cavendish-Blake – the new custodian of Treweham Hall with a wild-child reputation.
Megan Taylor – bequeathed her gran’s cottage in Treweham and decides to make a new start after her boyfriend cheats on her.
Dylan Delany – Champion Jockey and lovable rogue, unable to resist any temptation.
Flora – stable girl at Treweham Hall, falls madly for Dylan’s charm.
Ted – old gentleman living next door to Megan.
Seamus Fox – childhood friend of Tobias and Dylan, with a matching reputation.
Nick Fletcher – local vet who has a rather curious side to him. Archenemy of Tobias.
Sebastian Cavendish-Blake – gay younger brother of Tobias, quite dramatic.
Finula – local barmaid, becomes a good friend of Megan’s.
Dermot – Finula’s father, landlord of The Templar.
Gary Belcher – lottery winner from the North with a happy-go-lucky attitude.
Tracy Belcher – Gary’s wife, with a quiet, caring side to her.
Lady Cavendish-Blake (Beatrice) – Tobias and Sebastian’s rather cosseted mother.
Aunt Celia – sister to Lady Cavendish-Blake, a no-nonsense, tell-it-like-it-is old tartar.
Sean Fox – race-horse trainer and bullying father to Seamus.
Adam – Megan’s cheating boyfriend, with a self-regarding attitude.
Chris Taylor – Megan’s older brother.
Mr and Mrs Taylor – Megan’s parents.
Carrie – Tobias’ late fiancée.
Jennifer Goldsmith – Adam’s very efficient secretary.
Samantha Tait – rich wife with horses, takes a shine to Dylan.
Sadie Stringfellow – a kiss-and-tell opportunist, who also takes a shine to Dylan.
Sharon – Tracy Belcher’s jealous friend.
Wifrid – Aunt Celia’s holiday companion.
Kate – Megan’s old friend from the office.
Marcus Devlin – Irish TV producer with an eye on Finula.
It was day break. A rosy, warm sunrise glowed over the valley. Galloping through the early morning mist, Tobias Cavendish-Blake finally slowed his horse to survey the sight before him. Treweham Hall stood proud and majestic against the smooth, rolling hills. The imposing building was made of sandstone with four corner turrets and sturdy buttresses that gave it a castle-like appearance. Gothic windows with stained glass twinkled in the sunlight. He sighed heavily: would it always remain so resilient, the fortress of his family?
That seemed dubious, going through the estate accounts. His father, the late Lord Richard Cavendish-Blake, had looked after the place well – too well. All the contingency funds had haemorrhaged, bled completely dry relentlessly maintaining the upkeep of the Hall. The outgoings far outweighed the incomings. The payroll of the staff alone made Tobias’ eyes water, not to mention the colossal energy bills. Tobias had suggested shutting down the many vast unused rooms, but his mother wouldn’t hear of it. Lady Cavendish-Blake had been sheltered by her late husband, leaving her totally oblivious to the fact that her home was a money pit and the current state of affairs could only be described as dire. As the new custodian, it was down to Tobias to keep the place running. He was responsible not only for the staff, but the village tenants too. Feeling the burden weighing down on his broad shoulders, he realised it was time to grow up. Time to settle down. The future meant kissing goodbye to the wild parties for which he was notorious.
His thoughts turned back to his thirtieth birthday bash, making him wince. It hadn’t been so much a party, more a two-week brawl around Europe with a few friends, including his oldest childhood chum, Seamus Fox, son of a millionaire racehorse trainer. The two of them together had been a lethal combination, each egging the other on, the more daring and outrageous the exploits the better, resulting in the occasional brush with the tabloids. The picture of him and Seamus plastered over the front page of a newspaper showing them tumbling out of a St Tropez nightclub, legless (and trouserless) with a beauty on each arm, was one he couldn’t forget. His father wouldn’t let him. They’d been dubbed ‘the Heir and the Fox’. Ironically, Tobias wasn’t a natural wild child, the opposite in fact.
His one true love, Carrie, had been a local girl from the village. They’d always been close. Even when he had been sent to Eton they’d written, phoned and constantly made arrangements to meet. When Tobias had turned twenty-one he had proposed, claiming she was the only thing he wanted. Both families had been happy with the arrangement. Carrie’s parents were glad that being married to Tobias meant she would stay in the village close to them and obviously be well looked after. Tobias’ parents were just plain relieved he wanted to settle down with a sensible, local girl, instead of turning to drink and drugs like so many of his peers. Then one year after their spectacular engagement celebration, Carrie had been hit by a drunken driver and killed instantly. Tobias had been inconsolable; not even the Fox could calm him. He turned his back on society and locked himself away, refusing to talk or open up to anyone. His mother had been sick with worry, every attempt to reach him futile. Then, as if overnight, he completely changed. After twelve months of grieving, Tobias stopped being angry with the world and everyone in it and decided to rip the hell out of it instead. He forced himself to live life to the max, which meant spending his considerable allowance on any substance necessary to get the highs he craved, not to mention a string of stunning girlfriends who were more than happy to be showcased on the arm of a lord.
*
But now those days were over. Treweham Hall needed him and life had to be different. Even Seamus had grown up and settled down with Tatum, a red-haired beauty, with a red-hot temper, to boot. If anyone could tame the Fox, Tatum could; and he adored her for it, along with their two daughters, whom he worshipped. Tobias envied them. Deep down that’s what he wanted, too, but how? Instead he would have to face some difficult choices alone. The one and only love of his life was gone for ever. She was lying in the village graveyard next to his own family crypt.
Adam narrowed his eyes and settled further back into his office chair. His secretary was sporting a pale, see-through blouse today, revealing a black, lacy bra, along with a short, tight pencil skirt. He leant forward slightly, certain he couldn’t see a visible panty line, so he assumed she must be wearing a G-string. He admired her long brown legs, slim ankles and red-painted toenails, revealed by stiletto sandals. She was playing a game and they both knew it.
At first he’d been quite shocked at her behaviour, brushing past him so her breasts gently stroked his arm, bending over his desk to expose a more than generous glimpse of ample cleavage, dressing more provocatively by the day as the dresses and skirts got shorter and tighter, the neckline lower, the material more transparent. Her body language was open, the innuendos grew a little more risqué, and she was definitely giving him the green light. He’d gone from being shocked to amused, to burning-hot curious as to what was under that damn sexy outfit. Now she was standing to the side of him by the filing cabinet. She dropped a file and slowly picked it up, revealing two pink nipples peeking out from the black lace cups. He watched her pert buttocks bend over, making the skirt ride further up her endlessly long legs. ‘Clumsy me,’ she smirked, seeing the lust in his eyes, then licked her lips.
He got up and sidled behind her, playfully slapping her bottom. ‘Ready for some dic-tation, Moneypenny?’ he asked. She giggled, liking the nickname. Good job, seeing as he couldn’t for the life of him remember her name. Was it Fay or Kay? Or maybe May? Well, he couldn’t remember everything, could he, with his high-powered new job as a partner? Recalling the name of his temporary secretary wasn’t at the top of his list of priorities. She certainly helped to pass the long, stressful days, though. His hands reached round to cup her large breasts, which felt firm and heavy. More giggles.
‘Adam, we can’t. What if someone comes in?’
‘But that’s what makes it so exciting,’ he whispered thickly in her ear, as his thumbs slowly circled her nipples, transforming them to hard buttons. She let out a sigh of pleasure, and he sniggered; that’s how much she wanted him to stop. His hands slid to her waist, then down again over her hips and thighs and began slowly to hitch the skirt up, uncovering two smooth, brown cheeks, one of which was decorated with a red love heart tattoo. He was wrong about the G-string, though – she wasn’t wearing any knickers at all.
He laughed under his breath. ‘Well, someone came prepared, didn’t they?’
She sighed again. He gently pushed her legs apart and explored between them. He gasped at how warm and ready she was. The gasp was returned, but it seemed to come from the doorway…
‘Megan!’ He shot up. ‘I can explain…’ he began, with his hands up his secretary’s skirt.
Walking straight backed, with her head held high, Megan Taylor weaved through the busy office, ignoring the smirks and sniggers that followed her. Did everyone know but her? She hurtled out of the building, tears stinging her face. Traffic whizzed by, headlights illuminating puddles of rain as the passing cars threatened to drench her. Walking home wasn’t an option. She dug out her mobile and rang the voice of reason, who would always offer the comfort and reassurance she badly needed.
‘Dad, can you come and get me?’ she choked.
*
Adam and her relationship had been good in the beginning, she reflected, once she was sitting silently in her dad’s passenger seat. Luckily he could read his daughter well enough to know just what to say and, more importantly, when not to say anything. On first meeting Adam, Megan had been struck by his boyish good looks and charm. She liked the way his copper hair flopped into his blue twinkly eyes, the way his full mouth smiled mischievously, his ability to make her laugh with his quirky sense of humour, but all that seemed gradually to vanish over the months and was slowly replaced with an air of confidence bordering on contempt, assuming he could take his girlfriend for granted. So what if he appreciated other girls, there was no harm in looking, was there? Well, yes, there was, conceded his friends when they could see how blatantly he flirted with them in front of Megan. Even they were perplexed at why she tolerated him. Well, not any more. His lovemaking had gone from tender and caring to an almost mechanical, cold act, which had left Megan feeling lost and lonely. It was over. Thankfully she hadn’t properly moved into his flat, so there was no need to call and retrieve her possessions, just a few bits and pieces that she could do without, or at least replace easily enough; she thought of her Ed Sheeran CDs, her Bridget Jones DVD, her collection of Jane Austen books and Cath Kidston toiletries, which all looked so out of place in Adam’s modern, black and white apartment, with chrome fittings and wooden flooring.
Her dad cast a sideways glance. ‘You all right love?’
‘No,’ she sobbed, ‘I can’t face having to work with him.’
‘Hmm,’ he replied by way of agreement. She could just imagine the gossip this would cause. The girls in her admin team often told Megan to dump Adam, but funnily enough it didn’t deter them from fluttering their eyelashes at him every time he entered their office. It didn’t help either that Adam was particularly good at his job as a solicitor. He had a way with words and knew exactly how to pitch his spiel and work his charm. Whether it be with a senior partner of the firm, or a rich client, he always extracted everything he wanted from them. As a result he was the golden boy, inevitably going places. Whereas Megan wasn’t going anywhere, she conceded. She was one of the many faceless admin staff that quietly went about their business. In fact, it was a miracle to her that Adam had even noticed her in the first place.
It had been a rainy Monday morning and Megan had forgotten her umbrella. She was rushing to the office, dodging the puddles, when suddenly the huge canopy of a golf brolly had covered her head. Sharply turning round, she was greeted by the most beautiful blue eyes and engaging smile.
‘Here, let me,’ Adam had said easily, walking alongside her. ‘We work in the same building, don’t we?’
‘Y… yes,’ stammered Megan, not quite believing the office heart-throb was actually talking to her. Droplets of rain ran down her cheeks, and she quickly wiped them away. He smiled again. That big, confident grin was beginning to melt her. Reaching the stone front steps to the solicitors’ office building, he casually held out his hand to guide her in, and for a second he touched her arm and it sent electric pulses through her.
‘Would you like to go for a drink after work?’ he simply asked, whilst pulling down his umbrella and opening the large glass door for her. Megan couldn’t believe it. The delayed reaction caused him to look quizzically at her, but still with an air of assurance.
‘Er… yes, thanks,’ Megan had finally replied.
‘Great. I’ll meet you here at six o’clock then,’ and with a final winning smile he took the lift to the second floor, where his office was and where a one-shot skinny latte was waiting for him on his desk.
All that seemed a lifetime ago now, Megan sadly reflected. It was impossible to believe that the Adam she had just caught fondling his secretary had been the handsome, charming man that had gallantly offered cover that bleak morning.
Turning to her dad, she noticed that his eyes were tired and swollen. ‘Dad?’
He put one hand over her clenched ones. ‘I’m sorry, love, I know this is bad timing, but it’s Gran.’
‘Gran?’ she interrupted urgently. ‘What’s happened?’
‘She passed away, love, early this morning.’
A dull, sickening force hit Megan full in the stomach. No, not Gran.
Tobias knocked back the malt whisky in one. Feeling the hot liquid shoot through his system, he ducked down under the bubbles and shut out the world and its worries. Under the warm water he relaxed momentarily before resurfacing, pushing his long black hair away from his face. He rubbed the dampness out of his greenish hazel eyes, laid back in the roll-top bath and contemplated.
He would have to talk to his mother after dinner: she had to know the position they were in. After the initial grief of her husband’s death, Beatrice had carried on as before, spending money like it was going out of fashion. Tobias shook his head – no wonder they were in this state. His father had totally indulged her, never giving her reason to stop and think just how much she was getting through. Luxuries were everyday things to Beatrice. The grand flower displays gracing the Hall, the running of her Mercedes and Daimler, her regular foreign holidays, designer clothes, the exquisite antiques she collected as well as the impressive art work – it all had to stop. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Tobias grimaced and poured himself another malt from the bottle propped up by the bath. Having given himself a few more minutes to soak, he stood up, letting the water run off his muscular torso and down his long, lean legs. He wrapped a towel loosely round his hips and made his way into the master bedroom. It was tastefully decorated with pale walls and heavy tapestry drapes, and a large four-poster bed stood in the middle of the room.
There was a knock on the bedroom door. Entering, the butler hesitated on seeing Tobias dressed only in a towel round his slim hips, revealing a dark hint of hair. He coughed and averted his gaze. ‘Excuse me, Lord Cav—’
‘Henry, how many times? Call me Tobias. You have known me since I was three years old.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, it’s just that the late Lord Cavendish-Blake always insisted—’
‘Well, the current one doesn’t,’ cut in Tobias.
Henry handed over a freshly pressed dinner suit. Tonight was to be a formal affair with guests representing his mother’s charities. It struck Tobias as rather paradoxical, believing charity should begin at home. Instead, his mother headed up various charitable organisations, and Tobias feared Treweham Hall could well be the next charity case if he didn’t put plans in place immediately.
‘Sir, Mr Fox rang earlier.’
‘Did he indeed, and what does the old Fox want now?’ replied Tobias with a smile, dropping his towel and stepping into boxer shorts.
‘Er… asked if you would be available tomorrow, sir.’
‘And am I, Henry?’ Tobias slid his pressed black trousers over firm, shapely thighs.
‘I… believe you have an engagement with English Heritage, sir.’
‘Ah, yes, so I do.’ Now his biceps were inserted into a crisp white shirt, he began buttoning the front over his wide, dark chest. ‘Could you assist?’ Tobias looked directly at Henry, sticking his arms out. ‘Cuff links.’
‘Ah, certainly, sir.’
Once dressed and prepared, Tobias braced himself to face the evening. This was going to demand some effort, but, as he was learning fast, when duty called he must respond.
*
Dinner had been a long drawn-out affair. Finally the last of the visitors had left, leaving Tobias alone with his mother. He tried to be as sensitive and diplomatic as he could, but the message had to hit home: the family were in grave financial difficulties. Beatrice sat and listened, dumbfounded, and a tear trickled down her pale, powdered cheek.
‘I had no idea,’ she eventually whimpered.
Tobias took a deep breath; it killed him to see her like this. ‘I will do everything possible to keep us afloat, but we’ll all have to make drastic sacrifices, Mother,’ he warned gently.
‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ll cancel my Caribbean cruise?’ she offered, arching a hopeful eyebrow.
‘That’s a start. We really need to draw in the purse strings and expand where we can to generate income.’
‘But how?’ replied a confused Beatrice.
‘We’ll have to sell some of the paintings, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, but not the Turner? That was a present from Daddy,’ she pleaded.
Tobias held back the retort they were all bloody presents from Daddy, which is why they were in this fucking mess. His patience was wearing thin.
‘I’m sorry, Mother, the Turner’s the most valuable.’
She looked down to her gold court shoes and chewed a quivering lip. ‘You mentioned expanding…’
‘We’ll need to invest more in the land. At the moment our vegetable gardens and orchards only provide produce for local businesses. We have to grow, develop new products, market them, brand them with the Treweham Hall name, give them a logo, our coat of arms, perhaps. I propose we renovate the old stable block into a farm and craft shop, maybe a country café, too.’ Beatrice looked horrified. ‘I believe the Prince of Wales has done something similar at Highgrove,’ Tobias added quickly, thinking on his feet. That seemed to appease her.
‘Has he really? Well, putting it like that…’ Her gaze was distant, considering, then her shoulders straightened and she forced her chin out. ‘Yes, it’s what Daddy would have wanted, to battle on through adversity.’
The corners of Tobias’ mouth twitched. ‘The family is renowned for its fighting spirit,’ he encouraged.
‘Absolutely, darling, absolutely.’ Then, pausing, she turned to face him. ‘But not the Turner.’
Megan was functioning on autopilot, dully going through the motions and trying her utmost to be strong for her mum. Megan had always had a close relationship with her gran, being the only granddaughter, and had played a central role in her life. The quietly spoken old lady had had a gentle air about her and was aptly named Grace. Megan pictured her gran’s cosy cottage deep in the Cotswolds, with its crackling open fire. Often she would sit and watch its flames dance whilst listening to Gran humming peacefully to the radio in the kitchen. Megan remembered being tucked up in the bedroom under the eaves, being read bedtime stories. She had loved staying at Gran’s. It made a refreshing change to be in the heart of the lush countryside, in sharp contrast to the suburbs of the Midlands. It had been a magical hideaway to her as a youngster, where she and Gran would walk along the leafy lanes, through the verdant forests that smelt of wild, earthy garlic, and pick bluebells. Megan smiled, remembering toasting bread on a long fork by the open fire and stacking chopped wood by the front door for it to season. As she grew up, the pull of staying there grew stronger, the cottage acting as a bolt hole in which she could hunker down and pour out her troubles to Gran, who would always listen patiently, nod her head at the right times and then offer sensible advice, which Megan undoubtedly took.
She only once brought Adam to see her gran, cringing at the impatient way he had been desperate to leave, obviously never intending to stay long as he drank his coffee quickly and started to drum his fingers edgily on his knees. They were staying at a nearby country inn for the weekend and Megan couldn’t resist calling at Gran’s on the way. Adam, begrudgingly appeased her, but made it patently obvious he considered it an inconvenience. Grace easily saw behind the false smiles and niceties, as for once his charm hadn’t worked. After that embarrassing meeting, Megan never took him back and in turn her gran never asked after or even mentioned Adam.
Grace’s funeral was desperately sad, yet so poignant. She had lived a long and eventful life, which her family were determined to celebrate. Her ninety-three years had seen her survive a world war in which she had been a land girl. Gran often regaled them with stories of the scrapes she and a close-knit group of girls had had living in their land hut. Megan recalled the sepia photographs of them huddled together on haystacks, laughing, wearing overalls and polka-dot headscarves. Soon after the war she had married Michael, Megan’s granddad. There they had stood, outside on the registry office steps, Granddad in uniform and Grace elegant in a turquoise satin tea dress. Megan’s mum had been born very shortly after, a honeymoon baby, they would proudly announce. Little Molly was their absolute joy. Gran had a habit of hoarding, which interested Megan; she enjoyed searching the memorabilia that evidenced her gran’s life. Grace had had a spell in a cotton mill, in a grocery store, on a farm and, later in life, had trained to be a corsetière. Megan recollected the full-length mirror she used to measure her ladies and often wondered what else it had seen: Granddad in his smart, one and only navy-blue suit standing proudly with his daughter on his arm, ready to give her away on her wedding day; Mum looking radiant in white lace, full of happiness, yet maybe a touch apprehensive at leaving her childhood home and her parents. Perhaps that’s why Mum married rather later than average for her generation, thought Megan, such was her reluctance to part from her doting parents. A fire at the brewery where Granddad worked had tragically cut short his life. The raging flames that had been started so carelessly by a discarded cigarette had soared through the hops store and surged mercilessly through to the brewing room, catching the busy working men unawares until it was too late to escape. The rampant fire had not only robbed five men’s families of their husbands and fathers, but had also devoured their bodies, leaving the bereft without even graves to visit. Megan vaguely remembered the memorial service, clutching her mum’s hand and staring in bewilderment at all the crying people wearing black.
Now here she was again, only this time she was also dressed in black, staring into her fine bone-china tea cup. Gran would have approved of the small country hotel that was hosting her funeral tea.
She suddenly became aware of her brother talking. ‘Megan, they want a word with us.’ He gently tapped her arm.
‘Oh, right.’ She blinked back the tears that threatened and quickly followed Chris into a small anteroom where her parents and an official-looking man in a dark suit were sitting beside a bureau. Megan assumed, from the papers that lay scattered in front of him, that he was the solicitor overseeing her gran’s will. He had obviously spoken to her parents before summoning her and Chris.
‘Please, do all take a seat.’ He ushered them towards the table and chairs. Once they were all seated he cleared his throat. ‘I act as the executor for Grace and I’m here today to explain her will and its contents. Your mother and father were already aware of what Grace wanted for her family, in fact they had previously discussed it together at length, so I am able to inform you both today of exactly what has been agreed.’ He coughed rather piously. ‘Christopher, you are to inherit her shares, to the value of £150,000.’
Chris’s jaw dropped. ‘But I never thought she had…’ he stammered.
‘She didn’t want you to know, Chris,’ Mum interrupted quietly, then glanced towards the solicitor to continue.
‘Megan, you are to inherit Bluebell Cottage.’
‘We’d rather you both have everything. Me and your mum don’t need it and Gran wanted to give you two the best start she could,’ Dad explained.
Megan stared in disbelief. Bluebell Cottage, the beautiful, cosy little safe haven that had acted as a refuge throughout her childhood, was now hers. Megan’s eyes swam until slowly the tears began to tumble down her pale cheeks. It was Gran’s last gesture of love, providing a fresh base, a new future, away from Adam and the office, with all its whispers and gossip and a job that she had gradually grown to hate. Megan glimpsed freedom, the tightening in her chest slowly released and she began breathing deeper. Hesitation mingled with excitement, as she dared to dream about the beginning of a new chapter in her life. A fresh start in the village of Treweham.
‘Mr Fox and Mr Delany to see you, sir,’ announced Henry to Tobias, who was busy perusing paperwork behind his desk. Seeing his old friends made a welcome break from all the depressing figures stretched out before him.
‘And what brings you two here?’ he smirked, then added, ‘Thank you, Henry, that’ll be all.’ Henry nodded and left the study. Tobias got up to join the two men. Seeing these close friends he’d known since childhood lifted his spirits. They’d never changed, in their ways or looks: Seamus, with his swept-back copper-red hair, freckles and ready grin; Dylan with his dark gypsy looks, black curls and piercing blue eyes. Together they had made a formidable force, forever challenging the authorities of their public schools, earning them early reputations, which had carried on into adulthood.
‘Good to see you, Tobias.’ Dylan Delany slapped him on the back.
‘Surveying the estate?’ enquired Seamus Fox with a raised eyebrow.
‘What’s left of it,’ answered Tobias drily. His eyes fixed on the brandy sitting on the sideboard. ‘Fancy a drink?’ It was 11o’clock in the morning.
‘Why not?’ Seamus sat down on the sofa and stretched his legs out, whilst Dylan sat in the Chesterfield chair, rubbing his hands together.
‘Yeah, never too early for a snorter.’
Tobias collected cut-glass tumblers from the side and poured three generous brandies, handing two to his friends. He plonked himself next to Seamus Fox. ‘Cheers,’ he saluted them, and downed it in one. Seamus frowned, sensing all was not well with his best friend.
‘What’s wrong, Tobias?’
Tobias looked gloomy for a moment then stated flatly, ‘We’re broke. The estate’s fucked.’ A short silence followed, until Dylan spoke.
‘Listen, I can lend you—’ He was interrupted by Tobias’ harsh laugh. Though Dylan Delany was Champion Jockey, not even his money would touch the colossal funding that the Hall desperately needed. It wasn’t thousands, it was millions.
‘Thanks, Dylan, but there’s a Third World-size debt to clear. I can’t believe my father has got us into such a state.’
Seamus frowned again. ‘But it all looks fine, everything as it always was.’ He was commenting, of course, on all the plush surroundings and well-tended grounds, the staff quietly going about their duties. To all intents and purposes it did look like business as usual, but Tobias knew full well what lay beneath the façade.
‘That’s because he borrowed so much money to keep the Hall ticking over. My business alone can’t support it.’ He shook his head in despair. Tobias had started his own company years ago, buying old, dilapidated buildings, renovating and selling them at astronomical prices. Freshly renovated barns with a modern twist – skylights, mezzanine balconies, streamlined, sleek fittings – were all the rage in areas such as the Cotswolds, as were the crumbling historical houses that were transformed into high-class apartments. It amazed Tobias just how quickly and expensively these properties sold. But even the profits that he had stacked up could hardly touch the debts Treweham Hall was accumulating. He paused, then turned to Dylan. ‘But thanks for the offer anyway.’
Dylan looked troubled. He hated to see his old mate like this, so glum, a far cry from the lovable rogue he knew so well. Seamus was racking his brains to find a solution to his friend’s dilemma.
‘What can you sell to raise emergency funds?’ He, too, had thought of giving Tobias support. His family owned a racehorse training yard, with stables of top thoroughbreds earning them thousands. However, he knew Tobias too well to offer him money. It wasn’t the way he operated. Beneath the playboy exterior that the media had been so keen to portray lay a gentleman at heart.
‘Paintings. I’ve arranged for five pieces to be auctioned, which should raise immediate cash.’
Seamus nodded in acknowledgment.
‘I’m due a race soon,’ Dylan chipped in. ‘A substantial wager would bring in the bacon.’
Tobias grinned. ‘What if you lose?’
‘I never do, not when it matters,’ replied Dylan with confidence and a wink. Dylan’s ocean-blue eyes twinkled with mischief. He was fiercely competitive and his athletic physique made him the hugely successful jockey he was. His ancestry dated back to Romany travellers, and he attributed his gift of the gab to this, as well as his success with the ladies. Dylan Delany was a real catch, everyone knew that, but the trouble was he refused to be caught. He weaved his way through various relationships, ducking and diving, avoiding any commitment. The more unobtainable he became, the more he was desired.
Dylan had a reputation and it took some upholding. He couldn’t help it if he loved women. He genuinely did like their company. He appreciated their femininity, the way they dressed so elegantly, their fragrance, their beautiful shiny, long hair, or sassy short hair, for that matter – he liked both. He was a sucker for any damsel – he was only human, after all. But deep down Dylan was a decent man and hated to see one of his close friends in any kind of trouble. Seamus was equally protective of his best friend.
‘True,’ agreed Seamus, ‘but it’s too much of a risk in the current climate.’
Dylan looked at him. ‘Says the Fox for whom I’ve made a fortune.’
‘True again,’ said Seamus with a laugh. Fox was a fitting name for him, with his ginger hair and sly, cunning wit.
‘Sometimes I feel like selling the whole bloody place, lock, stock and barrel to some rich American… throw in the title, too,’ moaned Tobias.
‘Surely it’s not that bad,’ sighed Seamus. He’d grown to love Tobias’ home, spending many a childhood summer there, and he smiled wistfully remembering the scrapes they’d got into. He’d also grown to love the family, who always made him feel so welcome. In later years Treweham Hall had acted as a temporary retreat when he had fallen out with his father. Sean Fox was a formidable force. He had a driving ambition where his horses were concerned, and ran his stables with a cast-iron fist. Although he loved both his sons, he wouldn’t tolerate any form of subordination and treated them as he would any other member of staff, strictly but fairly. A young Seamus didn’t agree with his father’s authoritarian methods and his defiance had got him booted out of the Fox household. The Cavendish-Blakes came to the rescue, giving him the full use of the Gate House on their estate. This had proved to be the perfect solution, especially to Seamus’ mother, whose desperate pleas to bring Seamus home had been totally ignored by her hardened husband.
‘Do you remember my stay in the Gate House?’ Seamus chuckled.
‘No, I remember when you lived in the Gate House,’ retorted Tobias.
‘Well, yes, perhaps I did rather outstay my welcome.’
‘You were there for two years, Fox.’
Then suddenly Tobias’ face lit up with a flash of inspiration. ‘The Gate House! That’s it.’
‘What?’ replied Seamus and Dylan in unison.
‘Combine my business with the estate. Renovate the Gate House and sell it. It could fetch a fortune.’
‘Bloody hell, you’re right,’ agreed Seamus.
‘Sounds like a plan to me,’ said Dylan. He’d always loved the Treweham Hall estate and its many places they had played in as youngsters. It was here, right in the old stables, that he had first developed his love of horses. After encountering the Cavendish-Blakes’ thoroughbreds, he had been bitten by the bug and had longed for a career involving these magnificent animals. His grit, pure determination and natural competitive streak had led him to the world of horseracing. On impulse, he longed to go back to where it had all started.
‘Do you mind if I take a look at the stables?’ He also couldn’t resist sizing up other people’s horses. Plus there was a rather nice blonde he’d noticed earlier, sweeping up in the yard. Not waiting for a response, Dylan stood up and left the room, leaving Tobias and Seamus looking at each other in amusement.
As luck would have it she was still there tending to the horses when he jumped over the fence and made his way to the stables. She recognised him immediately. ‘Hello, Mr Delany,’ she gushed.
‘Please, call me Dylan,’ he smiled, giving her the full benefit of his white teeth and gleaming eyes. She blushed.
Embarrassed, she blustered, ‘Would you like a ride? Erm, my name’s Flora.’ He looked at her pert bottom in tight jodhpurs, and cleavage spilling out of a partially unbuttoned check shirt.
‘I’d love a ride,’ he answered, looking her full in the face. Flora gazed back in admiration; Dylan had been her hero since Pony Club. Now, at twenty, she was working in the stables as a groom and loving every minute, especially with the chance of meeting Lord Cavendish-Blake’s close friend the one and only Dylan Delany. And he was here! He moved closer and asked quietly, ‘Anyone in those stables?’
The penny dropped. Startled yet thrilled, she slowly shook her head.
‘No,’ she replied huskily. He pulled the band out of her hair, making it tumble over her face. She pulled it back hastily. ‘But I’m expecting Lord Cavendish-Blake to arrive any moment.’
Dylan, however, knew better. ‘Not for some time yet. He’s busy at the moment.’ Flora turned her head sharply towards the Hall, as if willing Lord Cavendish-Blake to suddenly appear, and her hair swung over her face again in a silky blond wave.
He found it incredibly sexy. He could just about see her eyes through the blond waves, her pupils had dilated and she was breathing deeply, making her chest heave up and down. He was home and dry.
‘Could you show me inside the stables?’ he whispered in her ear, gently licking her lobe. Flora’s sensations swam, totally mesmerised, yet she tried to hesitate.
‘I’m not sure, what if…’ But Dylan gently took her hand and guided her inside.
It was dark and warm. Hay bales were piled up against the walls. He took two and placed them on the floor. Turning to her, he slowly began unbuttoning the rest of her shirt, sighing with delight at the creamy breasts bursting out of a red silk bra. He dipped his head and kissed one, his tongue seeking the nipple and flicking it hard, making her gasp. His hands found their way inside her jodhpurs and stroked the pert bum he had so admired earlier.
‘Now, about that ride…’
Megan’s Fiat Panda had actually made the journey all the way to the Cotswolds, much to her surprise. Packed to bursting with her belongings, complete with a roof rack creaking with the weight of suitcases, the little car had chugged along gently until it reached its destination, Treweham village. Staring at the stone cottage, with its pretty front garden packed with daffodils, Megan still couldn’t believe all this was actually hers. Her heart longed for Gran to come scurrying out of the front porch and up the cobbled pathway to greet her. But no, everything stood still, except for the soft, gentle sway of the conifer trees and the overgrown pampas grass. The trickle of the nearby stream and a wood pigeon calling in the distance were the only sounds. Taking a deep breath, Megan got out of the car, reached her suitcases down from the roof rack and began to heave them up to the front door.
She had been given a key to the cottage, but on impulse she bent down to the flowerpot standing at the side of the porch, bursting with purple, white and yellow crocuses. As always, a spare key was buried underneath it, amongst the gravel and soil. A lump suddenly appeared in Megan’s throat that she couldn’t swallow. The key still had the familiar key ring attached to it, a copper heart, all tarnished and worn now from years of being hidden under the terracotta pot. Megan turned the key and slowly opened the door. The hinges creaked and the place smelt slightly of damp.
Everything was just as she remembered it: the tiny kitchen with the white ceramic butler sink, brass taps and wooden draining board, the stone floor and oak table and chairs, the Welsh dresser displaying various pieces of crockery, the cosy inglenook fireplace in the lounge, the floral wallpaper that was now blotched with damp patches, the steep, narrow staircase with squeaky wooden boards.
Upstairs, her gran’s bedroom was exactly as she’d left it, with her patchwork quilt cover neatly spread over the bed, patiently waiting to be pulled back and to keep its occupant warm, the French-polished dressing table stood at the side with photo frames containing pictures of Megan and Christopher, and bottles of perfume. Megan walked towards it, picked up a round, lilac bottle and sprayed it into the cold air. A comforting memory seared through her immediately: Parma violets, the smell of Gran. Her knees buckled and she quickly sat on the edge of the bed, taking steady breaths. After a few moments her eyes searched the room, and she smiled when they rested on the cast-iron fireplace, then stopped when she noticed the pile of ash at the bottom of the grate. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. A chill hovered over her momentarily. This was ludicrous, Megan chastised herself. There was no need to feel uneasy here. This had been Gran’s home, and now it was hers. This was a safe place, away from everything that had caused her pain. The only communication she had had from the office was a phone call from Kate, whom she had worked alongside and had grown close to. Megan had told her she wasn’t coming back, despite Kate’s pleas for her to return. Megan hadn’t needed to ask if she was the subject of office gossip – she knew damn well she would be. Kate had kept her word and not told a soul where Megan was, especially Adam, who had come sniffing round her for information. She allowed herself a moment to picture Adam, slouched in his chair, hands behind his head, swivelling behind his desk, oozing confidence that once she had fallen for. She shuddered, then with determination hauled herself up and made her way back down to the kitchen. She could almost hear Gran’s voice saying, ‘It will all seem much better after a cup of tea.’
‘Yes, Gran, I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said aloud.
In a little terraced house tucked away in the back streets of an industrial town in Lancashire, Gary Belcher was settling down for the evening. He’d had a very long and tiring day at the supermarket and his hands were red raw from stacking the freezer cabinets. Although he was only in his mid-twenties, and in good shape, his body still ached. He’d done a double shift and was knackered. His crew-cut hair was wet with sweat and he longed for a hot bath to ease his aching muscles, but had opted for a quick shower, knowing how much it cost to heat the water. Tracy, his wife, was still working at the care home, but would be back soon. As it was Saturday he’d treated them to a curry on the way home, just one portion, but they’d share it along with some oven chips and bread to spread the meal out. He opened a can of lager and swigged it back. After gulping the last drop he burped loudly and reached for the remote control.
Flicking through the channels, he rolled his eyes at the talent competitions that dominated Saturday night TV. Call that singing? He could do better down at the club. He smiled to himself, remembering how he had serenaded Tracy on their wedding day. It had been a small but intimate affair in the local church, then a big booze-up in the hall next door. Tracy and her sister had decorated it with bunting and balloons, and used two wallpaper pasting tables covered with pink plastic tablecloths on which to lay out the buffet. Later a couple of his mates from the club had set up a karaoke machine and Gary had set the ball rolling with his rendition of ‘Lady in Red’, which he changed to ‘Lady in White’, gaining him a collective ‘Ah’ from the wedding party. Tracy had been bowled over. She’d never heard him sing before. He could just picture her now, looking slim and tanned in the off-white meringue dress she had snapped up in a charity shop, her long, blond hair all done up by Sharon from ‘Cut Above’ on the corner. She looked beautiful and he’d never felt so proud or happy as he serenaded her, meaning every single word.
He turned the television off, then pulled out his phone from his pocket to check the lottery numbers, as he routinely did on a Saturday night. Six figures stared at him. He screwed his eyes, shook his head then looked again. He’d recognise those numbers anywhere: 27 his age, 25 Tracy’s age, 11 the number of the house, 2 because they’d got married on 2nd February, 30 the age Tracy wanted children and 13 as it had always been a lucky number for him. And tonight, if his eyes weren’t deceiving him, he had been bloody lucky, absolutely fucking lucky… Surely not? He sat up straight and gaped at the six numbers lit across the screen. Yes, there they were, plain as day, numbers 27, 25, 11, 2, 30 and 13. He sat still, frozen on the settee.
He heard the door bang shut, then Tracy’s voice call out. ‘Hi, Gaz, I’m home!’ He was motionless, all he could hear was the pounding of his heart in his chest, boom, boom, boom.
‘Gary? Are you all right, love?’ asked Tracy, full of concern at seeing her husband still as a statue, perched on the edge of the settee. Oh my God, he’s had a stroke. She dashed towards him. ‘Gaz! Talk to me!’ She slapped his face in panic. This seemed to shake him out of his reverie. He gave her a lopsided smile. Had he been drinking? She looked around her and noticed only one can of lager on the coffee table.
‘Trace, we’ve done it, we’ve bloody done it, love,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘Done what, love?’ she asked gently. Something was definitely wrong. He wasn’t himself at all. She stroked his face tenderly. ‘Gary, you’re shaking, love. What’s the matter?’ He pointed to his phone. Frowning, she turned to look and then she too saw the numbers, each one holding some small significance to them. Now they held so much more. Those six numbers held their destiny, their fate, their future. She faced her husband and they gazed into each other’s eyes before screaming and jumping in the air. ‘We’ve won the lottery, Gaz!’
‘I know, I know Trace, we’ve won the fucking lottery!’