Tempted by Trouble (4 page)

‘Basil? He's a tenant on the Haughton Manor estate.'

‘Keeper's Cottage. It's on the vehicle logbook,' she said. ‘It's
so near. I went there once on a school trip when we were doing the Tudors. It's beautiful.'

‘So people keep telling me.'

‘You live there too?' she asked.

‘Live there, work there, for my sins. Or, rather, my mother's,' he said, before returning to the letter. ‘Lally? Is that what people call your grandmother?'

‘Yes.' She'd much rather hear about his mother's sins, but he'd changed the subject so emphatically that she didn't pursue it. ‘I doubt many people know her real name.'

‘Or yours?'

‘Or mine,' she admitted.

‘Well, Basil certainly does, and he's got a photograph of her on his mantelpiece to prove it.'

‘You're kidding! A picture of my grandmother?'

He took a phone from his pocket, clicked through it and held it out to her. ‘I took this yesterday when I let myself in. Just to be sure that he hadn't done anything…foolish.'

‘Killed himself, you mean?' she said pointedly.

He didn't answer but that was what he'd meant. It was why he was here now. Why he'd wanted to see the letter.

‘You have his keys?' she asked.

‘Not personally. There are master keys in the estate safe. For emergencies.'

‘Or when a tenant does a runner,' she said, taking the phone from him.

‘It is her?' he asked about the woman in the photo.

She nodded. ‘It was taken in the late sixties, before she married my grandfather.'

Her grandmother had been the height of fashion with her dark hair cut in a sharp chin-length bob by a top London stylist, her huge eyes heavily made-up, her lips pale. And the dress she was wearing was an iconic Courrèges original design.

She handed it back to him. ‘How did you know this was gran?'

‘I didn't until I saw her last night, but it was obvious she was related to you. The likeness is unmistakable.'

‘But she was…'

She stopped. Her grandmother had been the pampered daughter of the younger son of the Earl of Melchester. A debutante. An acknowledged beauty.

One of the girls in pearls who'd featured in the pages of
Country Life
.

While the Amerys were a solid middle-class family, it hadn't been the marriage her father had planned for his daughter. No minor aristocracy to offer inherited wealth, park gates, maybe a title, so Elle's grandmother had been pretty much cut adrift from her family when she'd married Bernard Amery.

‘I don't look a bit like her,' she said instead.

‘Not superficially, maybe, but you have her mouth. Her eyes. Basil recognised you,' he pointed out. He looked again at the letter. ‘Is your grandmother about?' he asked.

‘No!' She shook her head. ‘You can't bother her with this, Sean.'

‘You haven't shown her the letter?'

‘Not yet.' Once her grandmother had read it, Elle would be well and truly lumbered. And not just with an old crock that would cost a fortune to tax, insure, keep running. There were the obligations, too.

Oh, no, wait.

The connection had been made. He knew he'd brought Rosie to the right place and as far as Sean McElroy was concerned there was nothing more to be said.

She was already lumbered.

It was true, nothing good ever came out of a brown envelope. Well, this time it wasn't going to happen. She wasn't going to let it.

Whatever her grandmother had done for him in the past, Basil was going to have to sort out his own problems. They had quite enough of their own.

‘They seem to have been very close,' he said, looking again at the letter. ‘He says she saved his life.'

‘He'd have had a job to end it all in the village pond,' she told him dryly. ‘No matter what time of day or night, someone would be sure to spot you.'

‘Your grandmother, in this case. No doubt it was just a cry for help, but she seems to have listened. Sorted him out.'

Her ditzy, scatterbrained grandmother?

‘If that's the case, why haven't they seen one another for forty years? Unless…' She looked up. ‘If she married his brother, maybe they fell out over her. She was very beautiful.'

‘Yes…'

‘Although why would Grandpa have removed every trace of his brother's presence from the family home? After all, he got the girl,' she mused.

‘Of course he got the girl. Basil is gay, Elle.'

‘Gay?' she repeated blankly.

‘Could that be the reason his family disowned him?' Sean asked.

‘No!' It was too horrible to imagine. ‘They wouldn't.'

‘People do. Even now.'

‘They weren't like that,' she protested. Were they?

Sean was right. Forty years was a lifetime ago. She had no idea how her great-grandparents would have reacted to the news that one of their sons was gay. Or maybe she did. Basil had mentioned his mother in the letter. If she'd still been alive, he'd said…

You could change the law but attitudes took longer, especially among the older generation.

As for her grandfather, Bernard, he'd been a slightly scary stranger, someone who'd arrived out of the blue every six months or so, who everyone had to tiptoe around. Breathing a collective sigh of relief when he disappeared overseas to do whatever he did in Africa and the Middle East.

‘Whatever happened, Gran can't be bothered with this. She's not strong, Sean.'

As always, it was down to her. And the first thing she'd have to do was go through the diary and cancel whatever arrangements Basil had made. If she could work out what they were.

‘What does this mean?' she asked, flicking through the notebook again.

Sean didn't answer and she looked up, then wished she hadn't because he was looking straight at her and those blue eyes made her a little giddy. She wanted to smile, grab him and dance. Climb aboard Rosie and ring her bell.

She took a deep breath to steady herself.

‘It says “Sylvie. PRC” Next Saturday'?' she prompted, forcing herself to look away.

‘PRC? That'll be the Pink Ribbon Club. It's a charity supporting cancer patients and—' He paused as he tightened the final screw in the plug.

‘And their families,' she finished for him, the words catching in her throat. ‘I know.'

‘It's their annual garden party on Saturday. They're holding it at Tom and Sylvie MacFarlane's place this year.'

‘Where's that?'

‘Longbourne Court.'

‘Oh, yes, of course. I'd heard it was occupied at last.'

‘I saw the signs advertising the garden party when I passed the gates. Basil mentioned it when he asked me to change Rosie's oil. I got the feeling he'd volunteered to help because it meant something special to him.'

‘He should have thought of that before he bet the farm on the turn of a card,' she said, suddenly angry with this man who appeared to have absolutely no sense of responsibility. Worse. Didn't have the courage to face them and ask for help, but left someone else to do his dirty work. ‘But then, from his letter, he appears to have made a life's work of letting people down.'

‘You're assuming that it's a gambling problem.'

‘You were the one who mentioned it as a possibility,' she reminded him.

‘Grasping at straws? Maybe that was the problem with his family,' he suggested. ‘Maybe he'd flogged the family silver to pay his creditors.'

‘Not guilty,' she said, earning herself a sharp look. ‘And I thought you said it was a recent problem?'

‘He's been living on the estate for less than a year, so what do I know? Maybe he only gambles when he's unhappy. A form of self-harming?'

No, no, no… She wasn't listening.

‘I can't have Gran involved in anything like this, Sean.'

‘All he's asking is that she—or, rather, you—keeps Rosie's business ticking over.'

‘Is it?'

‘That's what he put in the note he left me.' He looked again at the letter to her grandmother. ‘This does make it sound rather more permanent, I have to admit.'

‘Well, whatever he wants, it's impossible. I have a job that keeps me fully occupied and Gran doesn't have a driving licence,' she protested, clutching at straws. ‘Besides, her concentration isn't that great. She'd think it was all a wonderful treat and give all the ice cream away. Or just wander off when she got bored.'

‘Is it Alzheimer's?' he asked point-blank.

‘No.' She shook her head. ‘She always had a bit of a reputation for giddiness but she's had a lot to deal with over the years. She blamed herself for Grandpa's death, which is ridiculous,' she added, before he could start adding two and two and making five. ‘He was killed in a road accident. In Nigeria. And then my mother died. She hasn't been quite focused since then. Her doctor thinks she simply blocks out what she can't cope with.'

‘We all have days when we'd like to do that,' he murmured sympathetically.

‘Yes…' Then, afraid that she was revealing more than
she should, ‘You can see why I won't have her put under any stress.'

‘Of course,' he said. ‘But there's absolutely nothing wrong with your focus, Lovage. Maybe, since you've taken charge of the letter meant for her, you could at least stand in for your grandmother on Saturday.'

E
LLE
should have seen that coming.

‘Didn't you hear me?' she said. ‘I work on Saturdays.'

‘Not until the evening and the garden party will be over by six. There's going to be a concert in the grounds in the evening,' he added, in case she needed convincing. ‘I promise you it'll be more fun than waiting tables.'

‘Really? On my feet all day dishing out ice cream to fractious children? Irritable adults. Nobody with the right change. Can you positively guarantee that?'

He grinned without warning. ‘You're weakening, I can tell.'

It was hard not to grin right back at his cheek, but she made an effort.

‘I'm not, but even if I was beginning to crack, we have another problem. I haven't a clue how to work one of those ice cream machines.'

‘It's not rocket science. I'll show you.'

‘You?'

Her heart gave a little flutter. She hadn't anticipated that he would stick around to help and she was almost tempted.

‘Who do you think was filling the cones at my niece's party while Basil was chatting up all the yummy mummies?'

She rather suspected that the yummy mummies were lining up to flirt with Sean, and she was equally sure that he would have been flirting back.

‘Well, there you are,' she said, trying not to care about the fact that she was simply one in a long, meaningless line of women who had been suckered by that smile. Reminding herself that he was already spoken for by the cool blonde from the restaurant. ‘Problem solved.' He knew how the equipment worked and a smile, a body like that, would be very good for business. ‘If you think it's such fun, then Rosie is all yours.' She offered him the diary and the keys. ‘Have a lovely day.'

He grinned. ‘There's no doubt about it. You and Basil are definitely kin.'

‘Then you must know that you are stuffed. Nice meeting you, Sean. Don't forget to shut the gate on your way out.'

‘Nice try, but I don't think so.' He folded his arms, leaned back. Going nowhere. ‘If you won't do it, I'll just have to wait here until your grandmother comes home. Where is she?' He glanced at his watch. ‘Church?'

‘Sean!'

‘Or I could run you through the basics now,' he said. ‘Give you that spin around the village so that you can get a feel for her.'

So much for appealing to his better nature. Clearly, he didn't have one. ‘This is blackmail,' she said severely.

‘You do drive?'

She was tempted to tell a flat out lie and say no. Perhaps it was as well for her immortal soul that he didn't wait for her to answer.

‘Only I couldn't help noticing that you have a rather lovely old car in the garage and if Grannie can't drive…?'

‘I didn't say she couldn't drive. I said she didn't have a licence. The result of one too many speeding tickets. And it's not a lovely old car, it's a heap of junk beyond help according to
the guy at the garage when it failed its MOT. I'm sorry, Sean, but the last thing I need is more useless transport.'

‘Rosie isn't useless.'

‘She is to me. Or maybe you're suggesting I start an ice cream round to cover the cost of a trip to the supermarket?'

‘Why not?' he asked. ‘I'd stop you and buy one any time.'

The words were out of Sean's mouth before he could stop them.

There were women in this world who, you knew at a glance, you should not just walk, but run away from. The ones who still blushed, who looked at you with everything they were thinking plain to read in their eyes, whose hearts had not yet built up a protective layer of scar tissue.

Old-fashioned women who believed in love and marriage and family. The kind of woman a man, if he believed in none of those things, flirted with at his peril.

He had just stepped over an invisible line and they both knew it.

Elle covered the moment, lifting her arms, removing the band from which her hair was slipping, refastening it in one smooth movement. His fingers itched to reach out and stop her, slide his fingers through it. Tell her she should leave it loose.

One step, two steps…

‘Do you think Basil means to come back, Sean?' she asked, breaking the spell. ‘You said you were concerned about him and that letter did sound very much like goodbye.'

He wanted to reassure her, but the fact that Basil had gone to the lengths of transferring ownership of his most treasured possession to a woman he hadn't seen in forty years had a certain finality about it.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,' he said, meeting her gaze, acknowledging the unasked question. ‘I'm simply following Basil's script.'

‘And you're doing a fine job. Unfortunately, you appear to be in a one-man show.'

‘I'd noticed.'

‘Isn't there some kind of retirement home for old vehicles like Rosie?' she asked a touch desperately. ‘Somewhere you could put her out to grass?'

And, just like that, the tension went out of him and he was struggling to hold back a smile. ‘Like an old donkey?' he suggested.

‘Yes… No! You know what I mean!'

‘I know what you mean,' he confirmed, not bothering to hide his amusement as she dissolved into blushing confusion, ‘but I think you'll find that in automotive circles they're known as scrapyards.'

‘It's all just a joke to you, isn't it?' she demanded and just as swiftly the confusion was gone.

She was still pink, but it was anger driving her now. She was an emotional hotspot. Trouble. Delightful. Dangerous.

‘You told me that she's vintage. Isn't that special?' she demanded. ‘What about a transport museum?'

Elle knew she was clutching at straws but, between Grandpa's old crock in the garage and now the van, she was beginning to feel like a serial vehicle murderer.

‘Somewhere boys—grown-up boys like Basil, and you—can go and drool over her?' she persisted.

‘This is where Basil chose, Elle. He specifically wanted you and your grandmother to have her.'

‘Why? If he thinks Gran is so great, why didn't he come and visit? Ask us for help if he needed it? We haven't got any money and the menu runs to chickpeas more often than chicken but we've got plenty of room. If he's family—' If? Was there any doubt? ‘If he's family, we would have taken care of him.'

‘Would you?'

‘We're not exactly overburdened with relatives. He might not have needed us, but did it never occur to him that we might have needed him? When Grandpa died. When my mother died.' When the sky fell in. ‘What was his
problem
?'

He shrugged again, drawing quite unnecessary attention once more to the kind of shoulders that any red-blooded woman
would be happy rubbing against as she filled cones with cool, sweet ice cream. She could do with an ice right now to cool her off.

‘Sorry,' he said. ‘You'll have to ask the other Lovage to fill you in on the family secrets.'

‘I can't do that.' Who knew what memories would be dredged up from Gran's confused brain if it was brought up now, when it could do no good? What harm it might do. ‘You saw her, Sean. Something really bad happened here decades ago and I'm not going to be the one to bring it all back.'

‘Which answers your question about why Basil hasn't come to you for help in forty years.' She swallowed. ‘She saw Rosie last night,' he said, pushing her. ‘She's going to want to know where she came from,' he warned.

‘No, she's not, because you're going to take her back where she came from.'

Sean took another look at the letter. ‘“Lavender's girls”?' he queried, ignoring her desperate interjection. ‘Lavender is your mother?'

‘Was. She died.'

‘So it's just you and the black moth?' he asked.

‘Geli?' She stifled a laugh at his description. Kinder than ‘skinny vampire', but not by much. ‘Angelica,' she added by way of explanation. ‘She's sixteen. There's Sorrel, too. She's just started at college.'

‘Lovage, Lavender, Angelica, Sorrel… The horticultural theme continues. When did your mother die?'

‘When I was the age Geli is now. It was cancer,' she said before he asked. ‘The virulent kind that comes with the death sentence included in the diagnosis. And, before you ask, there is no on\e else. It's just the four of us.'

Suddenly her throat was achingly thick and her eyes were stinging. Why had he come here, raking up the past? Making her remember?

‘Is there any danger of that cup of tea you promised me?' she asked.

‘Just as soon as I've fixed this kettle. Why don't you go and sit in the garden?' he suggested with a touch to her shoulder. ‘I'll bring it out.'

Elle would rather have stayed right where she was, moving into the comfort promised by that hand, rather than away from it. To be held, feel the warmth of an arm around her, rather than being given another cup of the eternally cheering tea. Maybe he recognised the need in her eyes because he turned abruptly away to plug in the kettle. Elle backed off, fled outside, pulling a heavy raceme of lilac down, burying her face in the sweetness of it, just as she'd seen her mother do. She'd never understood why she did that.

It wasn't an elusive scent that you had to seek out. It filled the garden and up close was almost overpowering but right now she needed it in her lungs, in her heart. Needed it to smother the painful memories that Sean's arrival had stirred up.

Despite what she'd said, she knew she was going to have to take Rosie. Not for Basil. He was no different from every other man who'd touched her life. Just one more man who'd messed up and then run away.

Her grandfather had gone through the motions, done all the right things, but all at arm's length. He'd rarely been home and when he was there were no hugs, only a laughter-dampening gloom.

As for Basil, he hadn't cared enough about them to come and see if ‘Lavender's girls' were all right. To pitch in and be a father figure—a grandfatherly figure—in their lives, when they'd needed one most.

Maybe that was why her mother had subconsciously sought out here-today-gone-next-week men, choosing relationships with built-in obsolescence. Choosing children whose love was unconditional, rather than some man whose presence cast a dark shadow.

Elle had welled up when she'd read that letter but it was phoney self-pitying sentiment. How could it be anything else when she didn't know Basil?

She did, however, know the Pink Ribbon Club and she owed them a lot more than a van full of ice cream.

One day out of her life was little enough in return for the kindness, the care they'd given her mother, easing her through her last days. And not just her mother. They'd been there for her grandmother, for three girls whose lives were falling apart, when there was no one else.

She'd always promised herself she would give something back when she had the time, the money to do so, and here she was, being offered the chance to do something positive to help raise funds so that other families could benefit as hers had done.

‘Watch out!' Sean said as she stepped back, stumbled into him.

‘Sorry.'

‘No damage,' he said, sucking on his thumb where the tea had slopped over, drawing attention to his mouth. The crease bracketing one corner. ‘Come on,' he said, looking up and catching her. ‘I'll introduce you to Rosie.'

She knew what he was doing. It was no doubt what he'd planned from the moment he suggested she sit outside.

This was Geli's stray dog all over again.

‘Just look at her, Elle…'

Her sister had known that once she'd seen the poor wretch she wouldn't be able to say no, and Sean was using the same tactics.

Look at this cute pink van. How can you resist?

He didn't wait, but headed for the gate, taking her tea with him. And the garden seemed emptier, flatter without him, as if he was somehow generating the buzzy atmosphere that raised her heart rate in a way that no amount of scrubbing could match.

At the gate he turned back. ‘I'll give you the guided tour.'

Boom, boom, boom…

A buzz like an electric charge ran up her arm as he placed a hand at her elbow, supporting her over the worn path as if she
didn't manage it all by herself at least twice a day. She should object. Tell him to keep his hands to himself. Except for that she'd have to be able to get her lips, tongue and teeth in a row to form the words. And then make her mouth say them.

Sean, on the other hand, was more likely keeping close contact in case she took the chance to shut and bolt the gate after him. Which was what she should have done. Would have done if she had any sense. But everyone knew that sense wasn't something Amery women were blessed with.

Despite the fact that she hadn't put a foot wrong in the seven years since she'd become the responsible one, she knew that the entire village was watching her. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For years they'd held their collective breath whenever the fair arrived in the village and dangerous young men flexed their muscles at the local girls.

They hadn't a clue…

Sean took the keys from his pocket, opened up the front door and reached in. A loud, slightly tinny rendition of ‘Greensleeves' filled the air.

‘No!' she exclaimed.

Too late. Before he could switch it off, a voice called out, ‘You found him, I see.'

She swung around, her heart sinking as she saw Mrs Fisher peering over the fence, her attention fixed not on Rosie, but on the man at her side. The old witch had probably been keeping watch for him ever since yesterday afternoon. The ice cream chime, brief though it had been, had given her all the excuse she needed to dash out and take a second look.

‘I asked Elle if she was starting an ice cream round,' she explained to Sean with a little laugh.

‘Rosie is a bit too old for that kind of excitement,' he said. ‘She's available for events, though. Parties. Weddings.'