Sean told himself that it was none of his business. That Basil was just a tenant who’d asked if he could keep Rosie at the barn since there wasn’t a garage at the cottage.
He’d only got dragged into the situation because he’d stayed overnight in London on the day Basil decided to do his disappearing act. And if Lovage Amery had been a plain middle-aged woman Sean wouldn’t have given the matter a first thought, let alone a second one.
Why Basil hadn’t just decided to leave Rosie with him was the real mystery. She was safe enough locked up in the barn.
Unless, of course, he didn’t intend to come back.
Or hadn’t actually gone anywhere.
He swore, grabbed a spare set of keys from the estate safe and drove across the park to Keeper’s Cottage.
He knocked, called out, then, when there was no answer, let himself in. Nothing seemed out of place. There were no letters ominously propped up on the mantelpiece. Only a photograph of a young woman wearing an outrageously short mini dress, white knee-length boots, her hair cut in a sharp angular style that had once been the height of fashion. Her large eyes were framed with thick sooty lashes and heavily lined. The gloss and polish, the expensive high fashion were as far from Lovage Amery as it was possible to be, and yet those eyes left him in no doubt about the family connection. Shape, colour were a perfect match.
So that was all right, then.
Basil must have had some bookings for Rosie that he couldn’t cancel and was lumbering his family with the responsibility. If they weren’t keen, it wasn’t his problem.
The light was flashing on the answering machine and after a moment’s hesitation he hit ‘play'.
Lovage Amery’s liquid voice filled the room. ‘Mr Amery? My name is Lovage Amery and I’ve just read your letter. I don’t understand. Who are you? Will you ring me? Please.’ And she left a number.
Genuinely had no idea who Basil was? On the point of reaching for the phone, the phone in his pocket rang.
He checked the caller ID. Olivia.
‘Sean, I’m at the barn,’ she said before he could say a word. ‘Where are you?’
The leap-to-it tone of the Haughton family, so different from the soft voice still rippling through him, evoking the memory of hot eyes that you could drown in. A dangerously appealing mouth. It was the kind of complicated response that should have sent up warning flares—here be dragons—but only made him want to dive right in.
Bad idea.
‘I’m on the far side of the estate,’ he said.
‘It’s nearly six.’ His half-sister’s pout was almost audible.
‘You know how it is, sis,’ he said, knowing how much she hated to be called that. ‘No rest for younger illegitimate sons. Why are you here? ‘
‘It’s my home?’
‘Excuse me? The last time you were here was Christmas. You stayed for two days, then abandoned your children with their nanny for the rest of the holidays while you went skiing.’
‘They had a lovely time,’ she protested.
Of course they had. He’d made sure of it, sliding down the hill on old tea trays in the snow, building dens, running wild as he had, in ways that were impossible in their urban lives in London. But they would still have rather been with their parents.
‘Look, I don’t want to fight with you, Sean. I wanted to talk about the stables. I want to convert them into craft workshops. I know all kinds of people—weavers, candle-makers, turners, who would fall over themselves for space. Visitors to the estate would love to see demonstrations. Buy stuff.’
He laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ she demanded.
‘The idea that you would know what a turner did, let alone be acquainted with one.’
‘Wretch. Henry thinks it’s a good idea.’
‘That would be Henry who visits his estate twice a year. At Christmas …’ also to abandon his children before jetting off, although in his case to the Caribbean ‘… and for the shooting.’ And for the occasional extramarital weekend in the same cottage his father had used for the purpose. Like father, like son.
‘It’s his estate, not yours,’ she pointed out.
‘So it is. And he pays me to run it professionally. At a profit. Not as occupational therapy for women whose marriages are falling apart.’
Clearly she had no answer to that because she cut the connection without another word. That was one of the drawbacks of a mobile phone. You couldn’t slam it down to make your point.
He replaced the photograph, took a thorough look around the cottage to make sure he hadn’t overlooked anything. He found nothing to raise alarm signals but he was still vaguely uneasy. Regretted not staying at the Amerys’ house to check the contents of Basil’s envelope.
He hadn’t taken much notice when Lovage Amery had initially denied any knowledge of Basil. He had family he’d deny in a heartbeat but that message on Basil’s answering machine certainly hadn’t sounded like a family call—even to family you didn’t like. He’d heard enough of those over the years to recognise one when he heard it. She had been polite, businesslike but there had been no emotion. And if he was sure of anything, he was sure that Miss Lovage Amery was packed to the brim with that.
He’d be going that way this evening. Maybe he should call in to see her again. Just to put his mind at rest. Basil was, after all, his tenant and there were implications for the estate if he didn’t intend to come back.
And, just in case Lovage Amery was still denying any family connection, he used his phone to take a picture of the photograph on the mantelpiece.
‘Freddy …’
‘Elle! You must have flown!’ It was a good start but, before she could press her advantage and put her case for another shift, he said, ‘Not now. All hands on deck.’
Rosie was exactly where he’d left her, which wasn’t promising. Sean had hoped that whatever was in the envelope would have made things clear and she’d be tucked up safely behind the doors of what must once have been a carriage house. Taken into the fold, as it were.
As it was, he braced himself before ringing the doorbell. And not just because of the effect Lovage Amery had on his breathing.
Whatever the situation, after his park and ride performance this afternoon he wasn’t anticipating a particularly warm welcome.
The deep breath was unnecessary. The door was opened by a teenage girl who was a vision in black. Black hair, black dress, black painted fingernails.
‘Yes?’ she demanded, with manners to match the clothes. ‘What do you want?’
‘A word with Lovage Amery?’
‘What about?’
‘Tell her it’s Sean McElroy,’ he said. ‘She’ll know.’
She shrugged. ‘Gran, it’s for you!’ she shouted, hanging onto the door, keeping him on the step with the kind of stare that would frighten a zombie.
Gran? ‘No …’
She waited, expressionless.
‘Tall, dark hair, hazel eyes? No one’s grandmother,’ he added.
The green eyes in her deadpan face narrowed suspiciously. ‘You want Elle?’
‘Do I?’ Elle?
‘She’s at work. She won’t be home until late.’
‘In