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Master of the House
Justine Elyot
Journalist Lucy Miles returns home to her sleepy rural village to chase a potentially career changing story. But after being reunited with the boy who broke her heart, Lucy soon realises that its her own feelings that are under investigation.Lucy Miles is resigned to covering stories for the local newspaper and sharing a flat with her hippy mother, until her first love reappears.She should know better than to trust Joss Lethbridge, even if he is a Lord these days, but he has an intriguing proposition for her and the temptation to land the biggest scoop the Vale of Tylney has ever seen proves too much for her. As does his invitation to rekindle a passion that will set alight her submissive fantasies and untie his dominant tastes.But for how long can playing roles remain pretence before their games become an emotional connection?
Master of the House
Justine Elyot
Table of Contents
Cover (#u49ffae05-da0c-5e26-902f-94dd4e944d1b)
Title Page (#u29ce278c-c32d-5bd1-869a-53f7336bb9cd)
Chapter One (#u868dbf67-d2c0-5caf-9e29-9e55e612c843)
Chapter Two (#u7d3af10d-5175-5a4a-a80d-34d41e7d982c)
Chapter Three (#ue51061ae-7f2c-5387-922b-150ab61ca7e1)
Chapter Four (#u5c171afe-40e7-502a-b2c9-860c5a0d7487)
Chapter Five (#u8a820482-9235-5610-aca1-566087cb41c0)
Chapter Six (#u4cb43a04-053e-5a00-847b-212117082fa9)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
More from Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)
About Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_f5c4178f-599b-51af-a82f-f1deb5c8c630)
A village fete. That was the best they could find for me.
‘It’s being opened by a celebrity,’ the editor had said, as if this made it more like a summit of world leaders.
‘Who?’
‘Forget his name – bloke off that talent show, the one with the mad sideburns.’
‘Right.’
So there I was, with a photographer who looked about twelve, interviewing people who were betting on which would be the first ferret to pop its head out of a length of plastic piping. Me, Lucy Miles, who once had a byline on the international news pages of the Correspondent.
The elderberry fizz I was sipping from a paper cup might have won a prize, but as far as I was concerned it tasted of abject failure.
‘I need a proper drink,’ I told teen-snapper, eyeing up the bunting-strewn beer tent. ‘Before I go insane.’
He happily went along with this, shambling after me into the sanctuary.
‘Not what you’re used to, I s’pose,’ he offered, by way of conversation, once we had our plastic half-pints of Randy Old Shagger, or whatever it was called.
‘Hardly. Back in Hungary I was covering human rights abuses, anti-government protests, racially-motivated murders, political skulduggery and intrigue.’ I enumerated these shiny nuggets on my fingers, then sighed. What was the point of dwelling on it?
‘Shame they cut your budget,’ offered teen-snapper.
‘Yeah. Hungary got lumped in with Romania, Slovakia and the Czech Republic and they gave oversight of the lot to the Prague guy. Even though Prague is nothing like Budapest, and even less like Bucharest. But they don’t care about cultural nuance, so back to the Vale for me.’
‘The Vale of Tears.’ Teen-snapper did a sort of snuffly chuckle at the hoary old local joke. I fished a wasp out of my beer.
‘Vale of Tylney versus Budapest. Not comparable at all. Still, I don’t really envy the guy in Prague. He’s got his work cut out for him with the way everything’s going over there.’
‘You’re better off at the Vale Voice,’ said – was his name Kai? – with a wink.
I didn’t want tiny little boys winking at me, so I gave him a hard look and pushed the rather over-treacly beer aside.
‘Whatever,’ I said. Ugh, there was a lump in my throat. An accordion struck up outside, closely followed by the jingle of bells and clatter of batons. Just what I needed to cheer me up. Fucking morris dancing.
Kai got busy with the camera while I stood at the beer-tent flap, trying so hard not to cry that I gave myself a headache.
I’m twenty-seven and my life is over. Living with my mum in the town that time forgot, back at the paper I did my work experience for. And I hope Károly is having a nice time with that bitch he was shagging behind my back. Fuck him, fuck her, fuck everything.
The morris music mocked me and I stormed away over the grass, intent on hiding out in the car until the prize draw was announced.
‘Lucy! Lucy Miles!’
It took me a moment to work out where the voice was coming from, but eventually I traced it to a bric-a-brac stall, presided over by an old schoolfriend.
‘Jamila. What are you doing in … what’s this place called?’
‘Fossey Bassett,’ she said, laughing. ‘I’m teaching at the village school here now, Key Stage Two. I can’t believe it’s you. Haven’t seen you since A levels.’
‘Ahh, Stalag Tylney. I heard they turned it into an academy.’
‘Yeah. Same building, same teachers, same everything, different name.’
‘So how are you?’
We chatted, in-between serving customers with knitted egg cosies and the like, for a good half-hour. I kept my side of the story light, swerving questions by asking plenty of my own. Jamila was engaged to be married to a doctor, still living in Tylney, still seeing a lot of the old crowd.
‘Aren’t you in touch with anyone any more?’ she asked.
‘Nah. I stayed in London during university holidays and then got the gig in Budapest pretty much straight after graduation.’
‘Your mum must have missed you,’ she said, with a sideways look.
‘My mum? Are you kidding? I don’t think she noticed I was gone until I rang her up to ask her to send on some books.’
‘Is she still …?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You don’t know what I was going to ask!’
‘Well, she’s still a tree-hugging hippy, if that was it.’
‘No, it wasn’t. I was going to ask if she still had that cleaning job up at the Hall.’
I stopped, picked up a china dog and examined it minutely, catching a breath.
‘No, no, she quit that years ago. She’s got a stall in Tylney market now. Crystals, tarot cards, all that kind of thing.’
‘Oh, right. Doesn’t she live in Willingham any more?’
‘No, no. She moved about a year after I went to uni. Why?’
‘Well, you’re a journalist, aren’t you?’ Jamila looked painfully furtive. She was never good at discretion.
‘Yes.’
‘You might know something about what’s going on up there … maybe?’
I put the china dog down. My hands were shaking.
‘At … the Hall?’
‘Dad says it’s been leased to somebody. A very rich person, maybe a famous person. And it’s being used for –’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘– something dodgy.’
‘Dodgy? What sort of dodgy?’
‘You don’t know?’ Disappointment weighted her voice.
‘Give me a chance, Jam, I’ve only been back three weeks.’
‘Dad doesn’t know for sure, of course. But he’s heard so many rumours. Drugs, sex, porn, prostitution, all kinds!’
‘What? Are the family still living there?’
‘You knew Lord Lethbridge died last year, right?’
‘No. Shit. No. I had no idea.’
‘Well …’
The tannoy blasted into life, announcing the prize draw.
I cursed under my breath.
‘Sorry, Jam, got to cover this. Are you free for coffee afterwards?’
She shook her head, her dark eyes sad.
‘No, I’ve got house-hunting appointments with Akram. Really sorry. Can we catch up another time?’
‘Sure.’ I grabbed a business card from my handbag and waved it at her. ‘Sorry to be official. Got to dash though.’
I couldn’t think straight. I wrote the draw winner’s name as Sandy when it was Sadie and got all my shorthand symbols mixed up to buggery. I called the Church of England vicar ‘Father’ and dropped a complimentary scone smeared with award-nabbing jam on the grass.
After kicking Kai out of the scoopmobile (aka 2003 model Fiat Cinquecento) in Tylney, I found myself driving over to the other side of town, back out into the Vale. The road wound past field after field of bursting ripe fruit and vegetables, bordered by high green hedges. Pick-Your-Own signs flourished like native plants beside wooden five-barred gates. Every few miles, a half-timbered village punctuated the lushness, all the schools and church halls turned into holiday cottages and second homes while the local families were priced out to Tylney and, ultimately, Birmingham.
In the distance, high blue hills surrounded the fertile basin, a barrier to be crossed if you ever wanted to look beyond the Vale. But some never did. And then some came back.
‘Willingham’, read the black and white sign, then, ‘Best Kept Village 2010’. It was still looking pretty spruce, the green bordered with summer flowers, even the ducks on the pond exceptionally well-groomed. The little flat-roofed bunker where I learned to read and write still functioned as a school, apparently, and a huge banner across the railings proclaimed that Ofsted had rated it Outstanding.
The Feathers was a gastro-pub now and there was a small estate of new-built houses right on the edge of the village, still dusty from construction and with stickers on some of the windows.
Leaving the village, the grass verge on the right gave way to a high red-brick wall, following the road for more than a mile. The Hall. I passed the gated entrance, catching my quick glimpse of the driveway until it bent to the right, cheating the viewer of any sighting of the house itself. The stone stags still stood atop the gatepost pillars and the little lodge was still occupied, judging by its tidy state of repair.
More wall again, yard after yard after yard, bending round with the road until I came upon the river, sparkling and replete with anglers on both banks and then, beyond it, the caravan site where I grew up.
