‘You shouldn’t,’ said Rupert appalled. ‘You might have strained yourself or got knocked over.’
‘I’m fine, and it’s the sweetest little calf. Come and see it.’
‘I know sweeter calves.’ Rupert ran his hands down her thighs. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a shit. Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day.’
‘I know. I love you so much.’
‘And we’re going to Paris tonight.’
‘Wow,’ squeaked Taggie in excitement. ‘Can we leave the yard?’
‘Of course we can, for thirty-six hours.’
‘Have I got time to wash my hair and have a bath?’
‘More important, we’ve got time to go to bed,’ murmured Rupert.
Peering round the door, Lysander felt a great wave of longing and loneliness as he saw them locked in each other’s arms. They looked so beautiful, straight out of
58
Clive, Rannaldini’s leather-clad henchman, intercepted both Valentines which Lysander had drawn himself. The first was of a leopard with tears pouring down its face as it tried to scrub off its spots, in the second the same leopard tried desperately to climb into a washing machine. Clive hid them in a file with all Lysander’s other letters he’d whipped and any press cuttings that had appeared about him. Rannaldini had instructed him to tail Kitty, so on Valentine’s Day he followed her into Rutminster when she did the week’s shopping.
The moment Rupert and Taggie left for Paris Lysander sloped off to London where he picked up Maggie’s puppy and enlisted Ferdie’s help in writing Kitty a letter. Next morning, Valentine’s Day, he had to crawl back to Rutshire because the whole West of England was blanketed in fog. Risking his neck by missing the morning’s gallops, he prayed that none of the grooms would grass on him. As he reached Paradise his heart started jumping and his hands became so sticky he could hardly swing the wheel enough to navigate the winding lanes. A florist’s van was parked outside Rachel’s cottage. Delivering Rannaldini’s roses, thought Lysander savagely. Avoiding the electric gates and guard-dogs at the main entrance to Valhalla, he bumped up a little-used ride through the woods, stretching a hand back to steady the little creature on the back seat beside Jack.
Only the passionate hope that one day he and Kitty would be together enabled him to part with Maggie’s puppy. Pale fawn, striped like a tiger, she had a white belly, speckled paws and a sweet frowning striped face with a very direct stare. Despite long legs, her tail practically trailed on the ground. A cross between a flying fish, a bird and a deer, she glided into rooms and leapt on to chairs with the grace of a ballet dancer.
It was clear that neither Jack nor Dinsdale, nor even Tabloid had a paw in her parentage. Lysander put his money on a greyhound.
‘You’re going to cheer up my Kitty,’ he told the puppy who cocked her head on one side, ‘for not having a baby, and don’t let her get pregnant. Sleep on her bed and bite Rannaldini’s willy whenever he comes near her.’
The silence was eerie. Valhalla was strangled by thick veils of floating grey fog. At the edge of the park Lysander could distinguish rusty iron railings and ancient trees looming up like bison or great horned stags. His heart was pounding his rib cage, a lunatic trying to escape from a padded cell. Then Jack and the puppy started yapping furiously as the fearsome Prince of Darkness in a New Zealand rug galloped out of the mist and thundered away. Ahead the woods reared up like cliffs, treacherous to mariners, and there was the house, greyer than the fog itself, with its gables, tall chimneys and small secretive windows, as though the stonework between the panes formed prison bars.
Gathering up the puppy, Lysander went up to the great front door, resting against it for a second before setting the rusty bell jangling mournfully. If Kitty answered the door, he was tempted to kidnap her. But the nose that peered out was long and red-veined.
For a second Mrs Brinscombe’s face lit up, then she looked terrified.
‘You mustn’t come here, it’s more than my life’s worth. Oh, the sweet little duck.’ She put up a red, roughened hand to stroke the puppy.
‘Where’s Kitty? Please, please, Mrs B, I’ve got to see her.’
‘She’s gone shopping in Rutminster.’
‘Then I’ll wait.’
‘No.’ She shrank from him. ‘Clive’s being paid to follow her and he’s a villain. Please don’t risk it. Rannaldini’ll sack me and Mr B, and he’ll take it out on Kitty.’
‘Is she OK?’
Mrs Brimscombe loved Lysander and hated to see him so thin and ghost-pale. She had endured enough of Mr Brimscombe’s indiscriminate lechery to have huge sympathy with Kitty.
‘She’s all right on the surface.’ Mrs Brimscombe thought for a second. ‘But she reminds me of one of those prisoners of war that Saddam Hussein keeps parading on TV, that looks all bruised and beaten and dazed, but keeps on telling you what a good man Saddam is, and how wicked the Allies are to fight him. She don’t seem natural.’
‘Oh, God!’ Lysander was frantic. ‘Poor little Kitty. Is he bullying her?’
‘No. That’s what don’t seem natural either. He’s being so nice.’
‘Well, give her this, and this.’ Lysander shoved the puppy and his letter into Mrs Brimscombe’s unwelcoming hands. ‘Tell Clive she’s a stray wandered in from the wood, but please see that Kitty gets her.’
Stumbling in despair back to his car, he reminded Mrs Brimscombe of one of those poor wretched seabirds, helpless and paralysed by oil in the Gulf. With no other thought but oblivion, Lysander headed for The Pearly Gates.
Returning from Rutminster, Kitty was greeted by a very over-excited Mrs B, who managed to slip her the letter. ‘Put it in yer bra, m’duck,’ and whispered that the puppy came from Lysander before Clive walked in buckling under the two trays of Bounce for Rannaldini’s guard-dogs.
‘What’s this?’ he said, as the puppy padded trustfully towards him. ‘Gorgeous little thing.’ He put out a hand ringed like a knuckle-duster. ‘Where’s it come from?’
‘It’s a stray. Mrs B found it wanderin’ outside,’ said Kitty quickly.
‘Doesn’t look like one.’ The puppy yelped as Clive picked it up by the scruff of the neck. ‘It’s well fed, and its paws aren’t marked. I’ll pop it down to the local rescue kennels.’
‘No you won’t,’ said Kitty with surprising sharpness.
‘You’re scared of dogs,’ said Clive rudely.
‘Not this one. Give it to me.’
‘Rannaldini don’t like dogs in the house.’ Clive’s pale fleshless face was alight with malice, his pale grey eyes had the innocence of a psychopath. ‘Canine dogs, that is.’
‘I’ll deal with Rannaldini.’ Kitty was fired with sudden courage.’
‘And it over. Now clear off.’
As she grabbed the puppy from Clive, it covered her face with little licks. Shutting her eyes, Kitty breathed in its sweet, fresh oatmeal smell. It was the first Valentine she’d ever had.
Only when the puppy had been fed and watered and they’d both retreated to the safety of her bedroom did she open Lysander’s letter kindly dictated by Ferdie. She read:
