Bluebell Castle

Having abandoned her husband and children before the triplets’ third birthday, Iggy’s mother had flitted in and out of her life at irregular intervals. They’d last heard from her on New Year’s Eve when Helena had called to berate Arthur for cutting off her allowance. She’d had three subsequent husbands to support her, but she somehow expected their father to continue to fund her from beyond the grave. Arthur had stuck to his guns-surprising Iggy as he’d never quite seemed to give up on their mother in the same way she and Tristan had-and told her there was no more money to be had. It was to be hoped that might be the end of it and she’d finally leave them in peace, but Iggy somehow doubted it. In twenty-six years, Helena had never done anything of benefit for her children, so why would she start now?

Iggy reached for the handle on the closed door of Arthur’s study, then paused. She’d almost caught him and Lucie in flagrante when they’d been trying to keep their relationship a secret. Given the soppy way they’d been looking at each other earlier, it might be best to approach with some caution. Raising her hand, she rapped her knuckles on the aged oak, entering only once Arthur bade her to do so.

As she approached the empty chair on this side of her brother’s desk, it occurred to Iggy that Arthur had finally shed the discomfort he’d had over assuming their father’s mantle. At first, he’d seemed at pains to keep the room exactly as it had been, but though the changes made had been subtle, the study felt like it belonged to him now. The heavy marble bust of their grandfather had been moved from the corner of the desk to a less prominent position on one of the bookshelves. In its place sat a docking station for Arthur’s phone with a set of speakers attached. Raucous laughter emanated from them, no doubt from one of the many sporting podcasts her brothers were great fans of.

A large, rumpled blanket softened the classical lines of a wingback chair by the window, a stack of the red ledgers the estate’s record keepers had used for generations piled haphazardly on the floor beside it. Iggy knew they’d been sitting there since before Lucie had fled the estate and wondered what on earth her brother had said to Maxwell to prevent the butler from tidying them up. Their poor butler, a stickler for neatness, had been as devastated as any of them when they’d thought she’d left them forever, so perhaps it’d been him leaving the spot untouched like a little shrine.

‘I had several meetings with the bank whilst I was in town.’ Arthur said, drawing her attention away from the empty chair.

‘About the painting?’

He nodded. ‘Amongst other things. Although there’s still a lot of work to do, with Lucie’s assistance I was able to get an interim valuation assessment from Witherby’s for it. Needless to say, our account manager was a lot more accommodating than when I was sorting out all the probate stuff.’

‘I can imagine.’ Iggy didn’t try to keep the bitterness out of her voice. Where had the account manager been when their father had been investing in the dubious investment scheme which had brought them to the edge of ruin? Now they had a masterpiece from one of the most famous Pre-Raphaelite painters the country had ever produced, the staff at the bank must be salivating over the value of it.

‘Quite.’ Arthur lounged back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. ‘Lucie’s opened talks with a number of galleries about putting on a pre-auction exhibition here at the castle. A number of them are amenable to loaning out their Viggliorentos in return for a chance to study our painting before it hits the auction block. The bank like the idea as there’s never been a definitive exhibition of his works before, and as well as being something to draw people through the gates, it’ll help to cement the profile of the painting-and its price tag.’

‘You’re definitely going to sell it then?’ It made sense, but she couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret-though she quickly shook it off. Good fortune didn’t smile often on the Ludworths, and it wasn’t as though any of them had known the painting even existed until Lucie had followed the trail of breadcrumbs hidden in old Thomas’s long-forgotten journals.

‘I have to.’ The guilt in Arthur’s voice twisted her insides. The money from selling one item would help keep them afloat and allow them breathing space to put their longer-term plans for the castle into place.

Leaning forward, Iggy stretched her hand across the desk towards him. ‘It’s the right thing to do. Tristan will tell you the exact same thing.’

Arthur sighed. ‘I know, but it’s going to break Lucie’s heart.’ He closed his eyes for one long moment before sitting up straight and taking her hand. ‘It can’t be helped, and she’d leave me for good, I reckon, if I tried to hang onto the damn thing for her sake.’

Iggy gave his fingers a sympathetic squeeze before sitting back. ‘So, is that what you wanted to tell me? That the pressure is off with the bank?’

‘It’s more than off, they’re very much on board with our plans to secure the future of the castle and have extended me a decent line of credit.’ Folding his arms, Arthur rested them against the desk, hazel eyes a match for hers twinkling. ‘Tell me what you need.’

Taken aback by the question, Iggy frowned. ‘In terms of what?’

‘In terms of getting the gardens into shape. You’re the one with the vision, so tell me what you need to bring it to life.’

Vision? Ha! At the moment it felt like there were so many ideas competing in her head, she was stumbling around in circles and getting precisely nowhere. Lucie had uncovered some of the original plans from when the gardens had been laid out in the eighteenth century. Rather than adding the clarity Iggy had hoped they would, they’d only added to her confusion as it had become clear to her that subsequent generations had altered many of the original set pieces. Trying to recreate the original plans on a shoestring would be next to impossible so she’d been straggling from one part of the garden to the next, tidying some bits but ignoring the later alterations because she might decide to dig them up later. She wasn’t a designer, or a visionary-Tristan had got all the creative genes. ‘I don’t know where to start,’ she confessed. It was a horribly deflating admission, but one she’d been hiding from for too long.

Surprise widened Arthur’s hazel gaze. ‘I thought you had it all in hand, you always act as though you’ve got everything under control.’

She screwed up her nose. ‘When it comes to the land management stuff, I can do that standing on my head. I assumed sorting out the gardens would be easy, but it’s such a bloody mess and I’m terrified I’ll change the wrong thing and ruin it. There’s so much riding on it …’

‘Why the hell didn’t you say something? You’re not alone in this, Iggy, we succeed or fail together.’ Arthur’s admonishment stung all the more because it was the very same words she’d said to him not six months ago flying back in the other direction.

‘God, you enjoyed that, didn’t you?’ She was laughing as she said it, rubbing her chest to acknowledge the accuracy of his verbal strike.

His grin was unrepentant. ‘I did, rather.’ He grew serious. ‘Look, if you’re worried about the money, don’t be. When I felt overwhelmed with everything after Dad died, I found the only way to get through it was to finish a single task on the to-do list. Forget the big picture. Stop panicking about what you might or might not get wrong and tell me one thing right now that will make a real difference.’

He was probably expecting her to request a fancy piece of equipment, but there was really only one answer. Iggy might not have the vision to turn the gardens at Bluebell Castle from their current disaster zone to a visitor’s paradise, but someone did. ‘I need Will Talbot.’

Chapter 2 (#ua583fcff-fd26-5094-9e27-8df36c182ae2)

‘You’re on the wrong side again,’ Melody Atkins hissed at Will Talbot as he reached down to help her out of the back of the white stretch limousine their talent agency had sent to collect them for yet another interminable evening out. Film premiere, nightclub opening, reality TV show party, after a while they all blurred into the same old bollocks. A scrum in front of the banks of paparazzi, warm alcohol and half-hearted attempts at conversation shouted over too-loud music. This was their third outing in four nights, and he’d lost track of what this evening’s event was supposed to be celebrating. He’d been told to wear a tuxedo tonight, so probably a film premiere. Once the lights went down, he might even manage to fall asleep during the movie and catch up on some rest.

‘Sorry.’ Trying to rein his temper, Will stepped to the other side of the door and offered Melody his left arm. Melody hated the scar on the right side of his face, and had visibly shuddered in the past when she’d felt the puckered skin brush against her own. It was why she always insisted she stand on his left, why she’d made him practise the correct angle to pose at when they faced the banks of cameras outside these events.

At the first click of a camera shutter, her scowl of impatience shifted to a beaming smile that displayed her laser-whitened teeth. The brace she’d worn to straighten some non-existent imperfection had been removed a few days ago, leaving her free to dazzle the press pack with her brand new smile. Knowing the effort it’d taken her to get into the limo in the skintight gold sheath dress, Will braced his feet and gave her a good pull so she could propel herself upright without bending her legs too much.

‘Hold on a minute.’ Melody turned into him, lifting a hand brushing away a non-existent speck of dust from the satin lapel of his black dinner jacket. A solicitous gesture, the kind any girlfriend might make. Taking his cue, Will bent to kiss her cheek, making sure his left cheek touched hers. A barrage of camera flashes exploded, and he held himself in position a few extra moments as he waited for the shadows across his eyes from exposure to the harsh white light to fade.

Melody beamed up at him as though he held all the answers to her prayers. She might have started out on a reality show, but there was no sign these days of the sweet, pretty girl who’d won the nation’s admiration and first prize in last season’s series of Bootcamp Babes. Her naturally wavy blonde hair had been dyed a dazzling platinum almost as white as her shiny new smile and there was not so much as a hint of curl in the sleek curtain it had been ironed flat into. ‘Ready?’ he whispered, and when she nodded, he hooked his hand around her waist and steered her towards the waiting cameras.

When she’d signed with the same talent agency as him six months ago, Will had been happy to accept his manager’s suggestion that he escort Melody to a couple of events until she found her feet. Having her on his arm had proved a welcome buffer against the scores of girls who tried to pick him up-not that Will was averse to the attentions of a pretty girl-especially after a couple had sold lurid stories to the papers about him.

Once they’d got chatting, Will had discovered for himself that the smart, funny person who’d been such a hit with the public was very much the real Melody. The outside might have changed, but that was all, and in a world where appearance was everything he couldn’t blame her for submitting to the stylists’ pressures to change up her look for something sexier.

In an effort to gain control of the narrative, they’d hatched a plan one night and decided to pose as a couple. Will could keep the trophy-hunters at bay, and at the same time offer some protection to Melody from the more persistent types who wanted a favour in return for promising to assist her career. They’d let their manager in on the secret, and he’d been over the moon with the plan. They got on well enough together-he just wished she didn’t make such a big deal about the scar on his cheek.

The camera flashes were starting to give him a headache. In a practised gesture, Will turned his face as though pressing a kiss to Melody’s temple. ‘Enough, yeah?’ he murmured, low enough for her ears only.

Leaning back a little more into him, Melody spoke through her unshifting grin with a skill that any ventriloquist would be proud of, ‘A few moments more.’

Will flexed his fingers on her hip but didn’t protest as he straightened up and resumed his supporting man pose. Melody had mentioned on the way there that she had a couple of auditions lined up, so he stood his ground and gave the cameras a moody glare. It was the kind of stuff they lapped up. According to the press, Melody was the girl next door who’d tamed Will’s wild lad-about-town ways.

It was true, to some extent, but not in the way the press imagined. When he’d first got a taste of fame it had gone to Will’s head somewhat, and the gossip columns had been full of pictures of him stumbling out of nightclubs. There was even one notorious shot of him snarling at a photographer who’d shoved a camera in his face and nearly blinded him. With his scar twisting his angry expression into something fierce and ugly, he’d looked like the archetypal thug they liked to infer he was. He’d been moaning about the press hassling him that night when he and Melody had hatched their plan.

‘Stop giving them what they want, then,’ she’d said, rolling her eyes at him as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

‘What I want is for them to leave me the hell alone,’ he’d muttered into his vodka and coke.

‘You’re in the limelight now, so that’s not going to happen. Not unless you become a hermit and stay home every night, and you can’t afford that when you’re building your brand.’

‘You make it sound like I’m selling myself, but I’m just out to have a good time.’

The pitying look she’d given him had fairly withered him on the spot. It shouldn’t be possible for a woman who barely reached his shoulder to look down on him, but she’d done a bloody good impression of it. ‘You’re an idiot, then.’ With a quick move she’d switched their glasses around. ‘Take a sip.’

When he did, he’d realised she was drinking straight coke. ‘But you always act like the life and soul of the party.’

‘Exactly,’ she’d retorted. ‘It’s all an act. Nobody here cares about the real me. They want a certain image and so that’s what I give them-but I do it on my terms, enough to catch their interest, but nothing scandalous.’

She was right. He was an idiot. ‘And it’s as easy as that, is it?’

‘You know it’s not. I can’t do anything about it if some ex of mine decides to make a few quid by selling some holiday snaps, but I can manage my response to it.’ Reaching for the glass she’d swapped, she took a big gulp of his vodka and coke. ‘I won’t say it doesn’t hurt getting betrayed like that, but now I know not to trust anyone.’

‘You’re trusting me, though.’

She laughed. ‘The way I see it, this is about mutual risk. What do either of us gain out of betraying the other over this arrangement? However we spin it, people will be mad because we’re basically setting out to manipulate them.’

She had a point. ‘So, how do we play this?’

They’d laid down a set of basic ground rules, and so far it’d worked to their mutual benefit. The press loved the idea of them together, and Will had got his act together regarding drinking in public. His reputation had improved, and people had started to pay more attention to his work and less to his personal escapades. The relentless merry-go-round was growing tiresome now, and Will had started to wonder about whether it was time for him to get off the publicity ride completely. He had a good stable of clients, and several of his projects had been featured in the weekend supplements. Their order book was full for the next twelve months, with enquiries coming in daily. The balance of those enquiries had also shifted from people attracted to his celebrity, to word-of-mouth recommendations from previous clients.