Mansfield Lark. Katie Oliver
the drawing and reception rooms to a set of French doors that led out to the gardens. The drapes tied back at the windows were bedraggled ghosts of their former splendour, and he saw that moths had made serious inroads on the drapes as well as the rugs.
Mrs Sutton threw the doors open and stood aside as he stepped out. ‘I’m sure you know the way from here, sir.’ She hesitated. ‘Can I fetch you a drink?’
He shook his head. What he’d like was a loo, pronto. Barring that, a tree or a bush would serve nicely… ‘I’ll just ramble down to the garden and have a quick smoke.’ He held up a pack of Player’s. ‘Care to join me, Mrs S?’
‘Oh, thank you, sir, but I’ve a million things to be doing. This place takes a lot of looking after, you know,’ she confided. ‘With only myself and cook – and Mr Sutton, of course – and a local girl in twice a week, it fair runs us off our feet, it does.’
‘Well, I won’t keep you, then. Thanks.’ He rewarded her with another smile and wandered off across the south lawn in search of a likely-looking tree or bush.
As he made his way down the gravelled path that led to the rose garden, he wondered how Mum managed to keep twelve bedrooms and ten loos clean with such a small staff. Not to mention the library, drawing and morning rooms, study, and the great hall…or the dozens of mullioned windows and fireplaces that made up the rest of this Jacobean money-pit.
Dominic passed by the knot garden and cast a quick glance around to reassure himself that no one was in the vicinity. He unzipped his fly. He was saving poor, overworked Mrs S from cleaning another lav, after all. And no one need ever know…
He’d just finished whizzing into the cottage roses when he heard a sound – the crackle of a twig, followed by the flap of a bird’s wings – and he looked up, startled.
A young woman stood rooted to the path, a look of shock on her face. She wore a white cartwheel hat on her blonde head, and the kind of elegant, understated-but-expensive dress ladies wore to Ascot or the Henley Regatta.
She stared at him. He stared at her. Her eyes, Dominic noted irrelevantly, were cornflower blue.
He lifted his eyebrow. ‘Sorry. Looks like you caught me watering the old rose bushes.’ He grinned and unhurriedly tucked himself back up inside his trousers. ‘Dominic Heath, at your service.’
Unable to find a suitable response, she glared at him, turned on one well-shod heel, and stalked away.
Twenty minutes later, his mother appeared, her arrival heralded by a trio of boisterous, yapping terriers. She wore a T-shirt and jeans tucked into a pair of muddy riding boots.
‘Rupert? You came home!’ she exclaimed as she embraced him. ‘I knew you would.’
‘Why not? I needed a break from London, anyway. Where’s my father?’ he asked warily as he drew back.
She tucked a strand of glossy dark hair behind one ear and indicated a wrought-iron table and chairs. ‘He’s gone to London with Liam to meet with his solicitor.’ She hesitated. ‘He wants to disinherit you.’
‘I’m surprised he hasn’t done already.’
‘What a nasty business…I’ve missed you, Rupert. Why has it been so long since you came home?’
‘You know why.’
‘Yes, of course…your father.’ She sat down with a sigh in the chair he held out for her. ‘I wish I could say he’s changed, but he hasn’t. The responsibility of running Mansfield Hall weighs heavily on Charles. It makes him… difficult, at times. And, of course, there’s the money situation…’ She fixed Dominic with a hopeful gaze. ‘Please tell me you’re here to patch things up with him.’
‘I mean to try…and to offer my financial help, if he’ll have it. But I doubt I’ll have much luck in either case.’
‘He wants Liam to marry Bibi Matchington-Alcester, you know. She’s a very eligible, very rich, ball-bearings heiress.’
‘And what does my brother say to that?’
‘He refuses, of course. Says he doesn’t love her and won’t “whore himself out” for her money, as he so indelicately puts it, even if it means saving Mansfield.’
Dominic reached in his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘Can’t say I blame him; she probably looks like the back end of a horse. Heiresses usually do.’
‘She’s actually quite lovely. When did you take up smoking? Never mind, I’ll blame your bad habits on all those musicians and models you keep company with.’
Dominic snorted. ‘Oh, please. Nobody eats or drinks or does drugs like they used to. They’re all disgustingly healthy.’ He thought of Gemma and her endless succession of diets. ‘Mum,’ he added, choosing his words carefully, ‘I’ve brought someone with me. Her name’s Gemma. I left her behind at the hotel in the village.’
‘Well, why on earth didn’t you bring her here?’ his mother demanded. ‘Is she someone special, or just another of your flings? I know all about them,’ she added, ‘because I follow your exploits in the tabloids.’
‘That stuff’s all crap, Mum.’ He leaned forward. ‘Gemma is…she’s someone I—’ he stopped. ‘The truth is, I love her,’ he said in a rush. ‘And I want you to meet her. But I have to deal with my father first. I don’t want Gemma dragged into the middle of all the family drama.’
‘Where is she from?’ Lady Mary enquired.
‘London,’ he hedged. Gemma Astley had grown up over a kebab shop in Essex, to be exact, and her father had done a runner when she was ten. But there was no need to tell Mum all that.
‘London? Whereabouts, exactly? Who are her people?’
‘Lady Mary? Excuse us. I do hope we’re not intruding.’
Dominic turned to see a woman of middle age and dumpy figure standing at the entrance to the garden. She clutched a handbag against the wide expanse of her floral skirts in the manner of the Queen and beamed at them.
Behind her stood a young woman – the same tall, slim young woman who’d so recently caught him watering the rose bushes.
‘Mrs Norris! Of course you’re not intruding. Hello, Bibi.’ Lady Mary stood. ‘Come, both of you, and meet my eldest son.’
She turned to him. ‘Rupert, this is Bibi Matchington-Alcester and her mother, Mrs Norris. Bibi, this is Rupert, Liam’s older brother.’ She smiled at him indulgently. ‘I’m rather proud of him. He’s the black sheep of the family.’
‘Lovely to meet you,’ Mrs Norris simpered as Dominic took her hand. ‘I’ve always favoured the black sheep, myself.’
‘We’re much more fun,’ he agreed with an insouciant smile.
Recognition, followed by shock, registered on Bibi’s face as Dominic turned to her. ‘You’ll forgive me,’ she told him icily, ‘if I don’t take your hand.’
He choked back a laugh. ‘I completely understand.’ He drew her aside. ‘Listen, I don’t mean to pry, Bibi – but why’s your last name different from your mum’s?’
‘She recently remarried and took my stepfather’s name. I,’ she added pointedly, ‘did not.’
Lady Mary invited them to sit down.
‘I’ll just go and fetch us some wine,’ she announced. ‘It’s a perfect afternoon for an impromptu garden party.’
‘I’ll go,’ Dominic offered. He had no desire to stay and make conversation with Liam’s girlfriend or her battleaxe of a mother. He could all but see their collective disapproval of him.
‘Nonsense.