Mansfield Lark. Katie Oliver

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      ‘Oh, I’m quite sure Holly doesn’t want me intruding on your afternoon together,’ Camilla objected.

      And of course there was nothing Holly could say to that except, ‘Oh, I don’t mind at all,’ even as she sent dagger eyes at Camilla. And Alex.

      But neither of them noticed; they were too busy talking about something called ‘fiduciary law’ to care.

      ‘I thought perhaps the Black Dog for lunch,’ Alex told Holly. ‘It’s not far. Camilla will ride with me so we can discuss things on the way over. We’ll meet you there.’

      ‘But…doesn’t Camilla have a car?’ Holly managed to ask.

      ‘I do,’ she interjected, ‘but it’s at the garage. Alex was kind enough to give me a lift to the surgery this morning.’

      ‘So very kind,’ Holly agreed through gritted teeth.

      Alex bent forward and kissed her. ‘I knew you’d understand. Isn’t she amazing?’ he beamed at Camilla.

      ‘Amazing,’ she echoed, oozing with insincerity.

      ‘We’ll see you in a few minutes, darling.’ Alex turned back to Camilla and held out his arm. ‘Ready, Ms Shawcross?’

      ‘I’m ready,’ Camilla purred, and took his arm.

      And that, to Holly’s everlasting fury, was pretty much how the rest of the afternoon went.

      He really shouldn’t have had that second pint of lager.

      As Dominic Heath lifted the tarnished brass knocker and let it fall against the door with a clang, he realized he needed the loo, and soon. He’d forgotten just how bloody long the drive was that led from the road up to Mansfield Hall.

      After a couple of minutes, the door swung open. A short, stout housekeeper, feather duster in hand, regarded him with suspicion. ‘Yes?’

      ‘Is his lordship at home?’

      ‘No, sir, he’s not.’ She moved to close the door.

      Dominic thrust out his forearm to keep the door open. ‘When do you expect him back?’

      ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say.’ Disapproval was plain on her face as she took in his snakeskin trousers and spiky dark hair. ‘You look like one of them rock stars in the Mirror.’ She sniffed. ‘And I don’t mean that as a compliment, mind.’

      ‘As it happens, I am one of those rock stars in the Mirror.’

      ‘I knew it! I know my tabloids, I do.’

      ‘Well, that may be, but you don’t know the Locksley family very well. Kindly tell Lady Mary that her oldest son Rupert is here to see her.’ He took off his Cartier sunglasses to glare at her. ‘She’ll know who I am, even if you don’t.’

      She blanched. ‘R-Rupert?’ she echoed, stunned. Her free hand flew to her throat. ‘Lawks a-mercy, I’m that sorry, sir. Please, come in, do.’ She swung the door wide.

      He stepped into the same entryway he’d left behind so abruptly eleven years before. Little had changed since then. The same black and white tiles covered the floor, the same round pedestal table stood in the centre of the foyer; even the Meissen vase sitting on the table, with its half-hearted bouquet of wildflowers, hadn’t changed.

      Dominic knew that the vase had a hairline crack at the top – the result of swordplay with his brother Liam (they’d used cricket bats in lieu of swords) one long-ago rainy afternoon.

      ‘His lordship is away from home at the moment, sir,’ the housekeeper apologized. ‘I’ll let Lady Mary know you’re here.’

      ‘Thanks.’ Dominic’s lips relaxed into a smile. ‘Have you been here long?’

      ‘Oh, bless, I’ve worked here at Mansfield since I married Mr Sutton, going on ten years now.’

      ‘Indeed? Well, I’ve no doubt you’re a treasure on both fronts, Mrs Sutton.’

      She blushed like a schoolgirl and hurried up the stairs, feather duster still in hand.

      Dominic returned his attention to the foyer. There was a veneer of neglect over everything. The tapestry hangings and upholstered chair cushions were faded and threadbare; moths had eaten tracks in the Oriental carpet under the table. An ugly brown water stain marred the crumbling plaster medallions of the Robert Adam ceiling.

      He let out a short breath. Evidently his father – and Mansfield Hall – needed his help even more than he’d imagined.

      He was just about to make a detour to the loo when the housekeeper returned, puffing a bit as she hurried down the stairs. ‘Your mum says she’ll meet you in the rose garden. She’ll be down shortly. This way, please.’

      Dominic followed her through 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.

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