Christmas At Pemberley: And the Bride Wore Prada

‘Easier on you, you mean.’ Scorn coloured her voice. ‘I’m sure you’d like it best if I never came home at all, wouldn’t you, Wren?’

‘That’s not true!’ Wren snapped. ‘There you go again, Caitlin, putting words in my mouth—’

‘No, I’m only putting the thoughts in your head into words, so that everyone might know how bloody jealous you are of me!’

‘What’s going on here? I heard the two of you shouting all the way across the hall.’

Tarquin, his face a study in anger, stood in the doorway. ‘Can’t I leave you alone with Wren for five minutes without starting trouble, Caitlin?’

His sister gathered Coco up and thrust herself to her feet. ‘Right, blame me, Tark, as you always do. But it was your wife who demanded I keep Coco in a bloody kennel!’

‘That little beast has done nothing but upset the entire household,’ Wren flung back. ‘Just like you!’

‘That’s enough.’ Although Tarquin’s words were calm, even quiet, his fury was unmistakable. ‘This isn’t the time or place for such behaviour,’ he said, eyeing both women with a flinty grey gaze. ‘We have guests to consider. Caitlin, kindly take yourself upstairs, please.’

‘What?’ she exclaimed. Hectic spots of colour rose on her cheeks. ‘Are you sending me to my room, like a...like a wayward child being packed off to bed without her supper?’

‘I’m simply asking you to remove yourself from the present company until you can behave appropriately.’

‘There’s no need for Caitlin to leave,’ Wren cut in, her voice unsteady. ‘I’ll go.’ Her gaze, bright with angry, unshed tears, swept over the assembled houseguests. ‘My apologies, everyone,’ she choked out, and left.

There was an awkward silence. No one moved or knew quite what to do or say.

Natalie got to her feet. ‘I’ll just go and check she’s all right,’ she said, and patted Tarquin’s shoulder as she hurried after her friend.

She caught up to her halfway down the long gallery. ‘Wren – wait, please.’

Wren stopped and turned around. Her face was damp and blotchy with tears. ‘Natalie.’ She groped in her pocket for a handkerchief. ‘You should be downstairs with the others.’

‘I wanted to make sure you’re all right,’ she said, and slipped a comforting arm around Wren’s shoulders. ‘That awful girl!’

With something between a sob and a laugh, Wren nodded. ‘She really is dreadful, isn’t she? Come in here, we can talk privately.’ So saying, she led Natalie into a small but charming morning room done up in shades of palest celadon and shut the door.

‘Have things always been so...strained, between you and Caitlin?’ Natalie asked hesitantly.

Wren dropped into a chair and nodded. ‘Yes. She resents my being here; she has done from the start. She’s terribly possessive of Tarquin. Things invariably go topsy-turvy whenever she’s here.’

‘Have you talked to Tark about it?’

‘Yes. But what can he do, Nat? Caitlin’s his sister. As long as he and I live here at Draemar, I have no choice but to put up with her.’ She reached out on the desk for a tissue and blew her nose. ‘At least she’s only here in the summer and during the school holidays.’

‘Have you tried talking to Caitlin?’

Wren sighed. ‘I’ve tried everything. I’ve talked to her, I’ve invited her shopping; I even helped Tarquin’s mother and father put a surprise birthday party together for her. Nothing works. She despises me. She’ll be the bane of my existence,’ she finished bitterly, ‘for all eternity.’

‘Oh, I hardly think so,’ Nat reassured her. ‘Caitlin’s young, and she’s in, what – her second year at university?’ When Wren nodded, she went on, ‘She’ll meet someone and fall madly in love eventually, mark my words. Then you won’t have to worry. It’ll be her turn to try and fit in with a whole new family – who’ll probably dislike her as much as you do.’

With a laugh, Wren stood and threw her arms around Natalie and hugged her fiercely. ‘It’s no wonder Tark counts you among his very best friends, Nat,’ she said as she drew back. ‘What would either of us do without you?’

Chapter 13 (#ulink_0c472cb2-eea7-57fc-9092-e5fd24f8c42d)

The sound of raised voices caught Helen’s attention. She uncurled herself from the window seat in the library and got to her feet. What in the world was going on? Putting her book aside – A History of Yellow Journalism – she left the library to investigate.

Halfway across the entrance hall, she ran straight into a solid, immovable wall...

‘Colm!’ she exclaimed, disconcerted.

He put his hands on her upper arms to steady her, then dropped them away like he’d been scalded. ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’

‘I heard shouting from the drawing room. I’ve been in the library, reading. What are you doing here?’

If he noticed the challenge in her words, he gave no sign. ‘One of the dogs got loose outside. I came to let laird Campbell know.’

They fell silent as the sound of Tarquin’s raised voice, uncharacteristically tight with anger, rang across the hall.

‘Perhaps it’s best if you go,’ Helen suggested in a low voice. ‘I’ll let Tark know what happened.’

He nodded. ‘The dog’s run off before; he’s a wanderer, but I reckon he’ll be back when he gets hungry enough.’

‘Like most strays.’ Helen smiled briefly and turned to go.

Colm caught her arm. ‘Wait. We didn’t finish our conversation last time, as I recall.’

Her heart quickened from a canter to a gallop. ‘No, we didn’t,’ she said tightly, and pulled away, ‘because there was nothing more to say.’

‘Aye, there’s plenty left to say. And plenty more explaining for you to do.’

‘Is that right? And if I remember correctly,’ Helen retorted, ‘the last time we spoke, you threatened me.’

‘Threatened you?’ His laugh was incredulous. ‘And how d’ye figure that?’

‘You said you knew who I was. That’s a threat, of a kind, isn’t it?’

‘Only if you’ve something to hide.’

‘I’ve nothing to hide. And how do you even know who I am? You went through my wallet, didn’t you?’ she said suddenly, answering her own question. ‘You went through it when you fetched my handbag and laptop from the car, that first night I spent at the gatehouse.’

He eyed her, his gaze unrepentant. ‘Your wallet was on the floor. It must’ve come out of your purse when you went down the embankment. I picked it up, and your photo ID fell out. I had a quick look afore I put it back.’

‘How dare you,’ Helen breathed, furious. ‘You’d no right to go through my bloody things!’

‘You’re a reporter, Ms Thomas, for that London rag, the Probe. Yet you’ve not told anyone. Why is that, I wonder?’

Helen opened her mouth to deny it. But what was the point? He already knew who she was; he’d seen her press ID. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘I work for the Probe. I’m after an exclusive story on Dominic and Gemma’s wedding.’

‘You’re writing a story on that twit of a rock star?’ he repeated, unconvinced. ‘And is that all you’re after?’

‘What else would I be looking for?’ she retorted.