The Bride's Baby

The trees were breaking out in new leaf and the parkland surrounding Longbourne Court had the timeless look of a set for some boobs-and-breeches costume drama, an illusion rudely shattered as he crested the rise.

The house was standing golden and square in the bright sunshine, just as it had for the best part of three centuries, but the only horsepower on show was of the twenty-first century variety. Trucks, cars, vans.

The nearest belonged to a confectioner who, according to the signage on her faux vintage vehicle, proclaimed to the world in copperplate script that she specialized in bespoke wedding cakes. One glance confirmed that there were caterers, photographers, florists-in fact, anything you could think of-ditto.

The kind of scene he’d so narrowly avoided six months ago, when Candy had decided that mere money wasn’t enough to compensate for his lack of breeding and had traded up to a title. Not that ‘Hon’ was that big a deal but if she hung in there she’d make it to Lady eventually.

She could, with advantage, have taken lessons from her good friend Sylvie Smith. She hadn’t messed about, she’d gone straight for the big one; she’d made damn sure that the ‘childhood sweetheart’, the one who’d make her a countess, didn’t get away a second time.

CHAPTER FOUR

TOM parked his Aston in the coach house, alongside Pam’s zippy BMW coupe and a black and silver Mini that he didn’t recognise, but which presumably belonged to one of her staff. Inside the house it was all noise and chaos as the owners of the vehicles milled about, apparently in the process of setting up shop in his house.

He didn’t pause to enquire what the devil they thought they were doing, instead hunting down the person responsible. The woman he’d left to keep his company ticking over while he put as much distance between himself and London as possible.

He found her sitting behind an antique desk in the library, looking for all the world like the lady of the manor.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he asked.

She peered over the top of her spectacles. ‘Nice tan,’ she said. ‘Shame about the manners.’

‘Pink ribbons,’ he countered, refusing to be diverted.

‘Maybe coffee would help. Or would you prefer tea? Better make it camomile.’

He placed his hands on the desk, leaned forward and, when he was within six inches of her face, he said, ‘Tell me about the ribbons, Pam.’

‘You are supposed to grovel, you wretch,’ she said. ‘Six months! You’ve been away six months! I had to cancel my trip to South Africa and I’ve totally missed the skiing season-’

‘What’s to miss about breaking something vital?’

She almost smiled.

‘Come on, Pam, you’re the one who made the point that the honeymoon was booked so I might as well give myself a break.’

‘What I had in mind was a couple of weeks chilling out on a beach. Or raising hell if that’s what it took. As I recall, you weren’t that keen.’

‘I wasn’t and I didn’t. When I got to the airport I traded in my ticket for the first flight out.’

‘And didn’t tell a soul where you were. You did a six-month disappearing act!’

‘I wish. You can’t hide from email.’

She shrugged. ‘I kept it to the minimum.’

‘You’re not fooling me, Pam Baxter. You’ve had absolute control while I’ve been away and you’ve loved every minute of it.’

‘That’s not the point! Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?’ Then, presumably to distract him from the fact that she’d backed down before he’d apologised, she said, ‘And, as for the ribbons on the gate, I don’t know anything about them. But if I had to make a guess I’d suggest that the Pink Ribbon Club put them there.’

Okay.

He was distracted.

‘What the hell is the Pink Ribbon Club when it’s at home?’ he asked, but easing back. He’d known she’d worry, but hanging around to offer explanations hadn’t been appealing. ‘And, more to the point, why are they hanging the damn things from my gate?’

She offered him a brochure from a stack on the desk. ‘I’ve given them permission to hold a Wedding Fayre here-that’s Fayre with a y and an e-so I imagine they’re advertising the fact to passing traffic. That’s why I’m here this week,’ she explained. ‘The couple who are caretakers of the place do a good job, but I can’t expect them to be responsible for the house and its contents with so many people coming and going.’

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Why did I give the PRC permission to stage the Fayre here? It’s a local charity,’ she said. ‘Founded by Lady Annika Duchamp Smith?’

He stared at the wedding bell and horseshoe bedecked brochure for a moment before dropping it and subsiding into an ancient leather armchair.

‘The Duchamp family owned the house for generations,’ she prompted when he didn’t respond. ‘It’s their coat of arms on the gate.’

‘Really. Well, that covers the Duchamps. What’s the story on the Smiths?’ he asked, remembering a Smith with that hallmark English aristocratic cool and a voice that told the world everything they needed to know about her class, background.

A Smith with silvery-blue eyes that not only looked as if they could cause chaos if they had a mind to, but had gone ahead and done it.

Pam shrugged. ‘Presumably Lady Annika married a Mr Smith.’

‘For his money rather than his name, apparently, since she chose not to relinquish her own.’

For a moment there, when the word charity had been invoked, he’d found himself on the back foot but he quickly rallied. These people stood for everything he loathed.

Privilege, inherited wealth, a belief in their own innate superiority.

People for whom charity meant nothing more than another social event.

For a while he’d been dazzled too. Then completely blinded. But he had both feet firmly back on the ground now.

‘It’ll take more than playing charity queen to get Lady Annika back inside Longbourne Court,’ he said.

‘Well, actually Lady Annika-’

‘I mean it,’ he cut in, not interested in her ladyship. ‘Give the Ribbon mob a donation if you think they’re doing a good job, but get rid of her. And her Fayre with a y and an e.’ He snorted with disgust. ‘Why do they spell it like that?’

‘Beats me,’ she replied, ‘but I’m afraid you’re stuck with it. Even if it wasn’t far too late to ungive permission, I wouldn’t. Celebrity magazine are covering the event-which is why we need a dress rehearsal so that they can get photographs. Your conference centre is about to get the kind of publicity that money just can’t buy.’

‘You didn’t know I was planning a conference centre.’

‘Oh, please! What else are you going to do with it? Live here? On your own? Besides, our favourite architect, Mark Hilliard, sent me a sheaf of forms from the Planning Department.’

‘He didn’t waste any time!’ Then, realising that Pam was looking at him a little oddly, ‘Which is good. I stressed the need to get on with it when I spoke to him.’

‘Oh? You managed to find time to speak to your architect.’

‘It was a matter of priorities. The sooner we get started on this, the better.’

‘In that case, the publicity is good news.’

‘You think? This may come as a surprise to you, Pam, but the people-the women-who read gossip magazines, who go to Wedding Fayres, spelled with a y and an e, do not organise conferences.’

‘I arrange conferences,’ she pointed out.