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‘Which is exactly why I’m here,’ said Tati. ‘To put things right.’ Her fixed smile was starting to give her jaw-ache. God, Mrs Worsley was a dragon, as humourless as a Glasgow drunk after the whisky’s run out. ‘Where is Daddy, by the way?’
‘Out,’ the housekeeper said coldly.
‘In that case I’ll have a bath and a nap,’ said Tati, giving up on the charm offensive. It clearly wasn’t working, so what was the point? ‘Ask Jenny to bring my bags up and unpack them for me, would you? And please don’t wake me. I’ll be down when I’m ready.’
Mrs Worsley watched Mr Flint-Hamilton’s wayward daughter as she skipped upstairs, as gloriously unaccountable as any spoiled child. With her flowing, honey-blonde hair, high cheekbones and endlessly long legs, Tati had the wild beauty of a racehorse, and the stubborn temperament of a mule. She could be charming when she wanted something, and generous, and on occasion Mrs Worsley had known her to be capable of great kindness. But she was also vain, insecure and deeply, deeply selfish, swanning through life with all the entitlement of the very rich and very beautiful. Most of all, she entirely lacked any sense of duty. As duty was her father’s lifeblood, this naturally made for strained relations between the two of them.
Rory Flint-Hamilton had hidden his feelings when he received Tati’s angry letter informing him that she would boycott this year’s ball. But Mrs Worsley could see how saddened and embarrassed he was, mortified by the prospect of having to explain his daughter’s absence to so many important guests.
Now, she’d ditched the royal playboy, and apparently divested herself of the unsuitable footballer too. With no new plaything to distract her, she’d decided to show up at the last minute and grace Furlings with her attendance after all.
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