‘That’s better,’ said Rupert. He looked a bit pale after yesterday’s excesses, but seemed in excellent spirits.
‘Hullo,’ he said to Caitlin. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’ Caitlin beamed. ‘I was just quoting the Bible to my sister to keep her on the straight and narrow.’
‘Cait
Rupert went over to Taggie and, putting a hand on the back of her neck, drew her towards him. With most women, he would have dropped a kiss on the tops of their heads, but Taggie was so tall, he was able to rest his lips for a second against her temple.
‘There, angel, you mustn’t worry about your papa. Frederico, the whizz kid, and I will sort him out.’
‘I’ll get you a drink,’ stammered Taggie. ‘What would you like? Daddy’s in the library.’
‘I’d like a Bacardi and Coke, love,’ said Freddie, ‘and if Rupe ’ere can keep it down, he’d like a whisky and soda.’
‘If there isn’t any Malibu, I’ll have a Vod and Ton, Tag,’ added Caitlin.
Fleeing into the larder, Taggie paused before she got down the bottles. Unbelievingly she touched her left temple where Rupert had kissed it, then, moving her fingers to her lips, kissed them in ecstasy. What was happening to her? She wondered if Caitlin’s welcome-home chicken would stretch to six.
‘’Ullo, Declan,’ said Freddie, as they went into the library and found him slumped at his desk. ‘I’ve just seen that fucker Tony on the news. You’re well shot of the smarmy bastard.’
Sitting down on the window seat, Rupert waited until Taggie had brought in the drinks. Then he shut the door behind her and said, ‘Look, Frederico and I have been talking about you for some time. To put it bluntly, both being hard-nosed businessmen, we hate to see a hot property like you being wasted.’
‘We’ve decided to form our own independent production company,’ said Freddie, ‘an’ employ you to make programmes for the network, Channel 4 and the overseas market.’
It took a lot of tough talking to persuade Declan they weren’t just being kind. He looked at his untouched glass for a second; then a real gleam of excitement came into his eyes. ‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we pitch for the Corinium franchise, and boot out Tony.’
Freddie and Rupert looked at each other. ‘Aren’t we too late?’
‘Not at all,’ said Declan. ‘If we step on it. The applications don’t have to be in until the beginning of May.’
‘We know all the right people,’ said Rupert. ‘So there won’t be any problems getting our Board together.’
‘And we won’t have any trouble getting the backing,’ said Freddie, jumping up and down with excitement. ‘An’ I can provide you wiv all the technical know-how.’
‘And I know the Corinium Programmes backwards,’ said Declan, ‘so we can submit better programme plans standing on our heads.’
Taggie popped her head round the door: ‘Anyone want more drinks?’
Too excited to be deflected, Declan shook his head. So did Freddie, who’d hardly touched his glass. Only Rupert handed out his. ‘Please, angel,’ he said with a grin, ‘and could I have soda this time?’
‘Oh goodness, did I give you Coke? I’m really sorry, and poor Mr Jones must have had Bacardi and soda.’
‘I don’t think he’s noticed,’ said Rupert.
As Freddie and Declan got more and more excited over their plans, Rupert thought about Taggie, how she’d trembled when he kissed her, and how adorable she’d looked with her long legs in those black boots, and her hair tied back like a boy soldier. But he mustn’t think about her, he told himself grimly. She was Declan’s kid daughter, totally out of bounds. Wrenching his mind back, he heard Declan saying: ‘In fact Tony’s only trump card with the IBA is Cameron Cook, and the staff are in a state of uproar about her as it is.’
‘How would it be if I seduced her on to our side?’ said Rupert idly.
‘We don’t want
‘Not once I’ve sorted her out,’ said Rupert. ‘I was always good with difficult horses. I guarantee to have her eating out of my hand in a few weeks.’
25
Overwhelmed by the day’s vicissitudes, Declan went to bed and didn’t emerge for thirty-six hours, waking on Saturday morning to thank God he wouldn’t ever have to work for Tony again, before falling back to sleep. On Sunday he woke to a glorious day and apologized to his darling Maud for being such a bear. She apologized for being such a bitch and, after he had explained about bidding for the franchise and selling the wood to Rupert to raise some cash, they vowed that things would be better between them and made passionate, ecstatic love. Replete, tranquillized, Maud wondered why she had ever wanted to look at anyone else. Taggie, as she cooked lunch later, listened to her mother singing and playing Schubert
Rupert, having spent Saturday hunting and on constituency business, rose early on Sunday and tried out each of a new intake of horses that had arrived from Ireland earlier in the week. One dark bay mare was really exceptional, incredibly quick off the mark with a huge wild jump. In a couple of years he could have made a world- class horse out of her. He felt, as always, that reluctance to sell her on, that temptation to have one more crack at show-jumping, then put the thought sternly behind him. An election was in the offing this summer and there was the franchise to be won. He was seeing Declan and Freddie that afternoon to work out a plan of campaign. They had arranged to meet at Freddie’s house because they wanted to keep their bid secret until the applications went in, and because the press were still hanging around Penscombe Court and The Priory hoping to get some juicy story about Declan’s exit from Corinium.
Handing the mare back to one of the grooms, Rupert mounted his old Olympic gold medal horse, Rocky, for a ride round the estate, as he always did if he was at home on a Sunday. The pack of dogs raced ahead putting up pheasants, chasing rabbits, snuffling down badger sets and foxes’ earths. Rocky loved these outings, and to prove they were both still great, Rupert put the old horse over the occasional wall and any streams or fallen logs in their path. Rupert’s eagle eye missed nothing, a loose wire here, a tree blown across a fence there, which would have to be repaired before sheep were moved in, how poor or good the grass was in each field, and how the winter barley was spreading in an emerald-green haze over the rich brown earth.
In the distance he could hear Penscombe church bells ringing, and the rattle of a clay shoot. Across the valley The Priory was in shadow with the sun behind it. The beech trees in front were a crimson blur as the buds thickened. Soon the leaves would be out and he wouldn’t be able to see the house any more. Taking the muddy track that wound high above the Frogsmore, he noticed the first primroses blooming happily and safely under wild rose and bramble bushes, the spiky branches keeping the predatory grazing horses and cattle away.
In their sweet pale trusting innocence, the primroses reminded him of Taggie, who, he felt, could only blossom in life if she were fiercely protected. He suddenly wished he could be those spiky powerful branches keeping away anyone who threatened her. He imagined putting her on his gentlest horse, showing her all over his land, pointing out his favourite places, then making love to her among the wild flowers, as he had done to so many other women before — but with Taggie it would be different. Christ, he must get a grip on himself and get stuck into someone else very quickly. Thank goodness Nathalie Perrault was arriving this evening for a few days, and there was still the conquest of Cameron Cook to be orchestrated.
Back at Penscombe, stripped for a bath, Rupert got on to the scales and winced. Twelve and a half stone: at six feet two, no one could call him fat, but it was a far cry from the honed muscular leanness, the eleven stone, produced by eight hours in the saddle, which he’d trained down to before the Olympic Games and the World Championship. Too many dinners, too much booze, not enough exercise, he was hopelessly unfit. If he was going to seduce Cameron, he’d have to knock off a stone first — that meant no alcohol, and just meat, fish and vegetables
