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Just what the serious, puritanical Jarvis saw in the irresponsible Ferdy nobody could fathom. He was as willowy slender as Jarvis was bull massive, his voice as light and reedy as Jarvis’s was deep and resonant. Their friendship had started at school and they were the same age, but Ferdy’s boyish looks and manner made him seem younger.
He was an artist, when he bothered to be anything. He had talent, which he was too lazy to use, treated life as a joke, never troubled about tomorrow, and would probably be shot by an enraged husband before he was fifty. No worries troubled his brain, and perhaps that was the secret of his attraction for the permanently troubled Jarvis.
‘Not a drop of whisky in the place,’ he mourned now. ‘You’re a hard man, Jarvis Larne.’
‘I’m a poor one; I know that.’
A young woman with handsome features and an air of disapproval spoke from the library steps. ‘You’d be less poor if you didn’t let spongers soak up your whisky and live rent-free in your cottages.’
Ferdy surveyed her cynically. ‘If that’s meant for me, sister dear, I’ll thank you to keep your observations to yourself. Jarvis and I settled the rent of my cottage long ago.’
‘I know you settled it, but when did you last actually pay it?’
‘Don’t split hairs. I pay for my cottage and my drink, not in cash, but in the pleasure of my company.’
Sarah Ashton made a noise that was perilously close to a snort. ‘I’d like to see Jarvis pay his bills with the pleasure of your company—such as it is,’ she remarked acidly.
‘Leave him alone, Sarah,’ Jarvis advised amiably. ‘You know he’s incorrigible.’
‘He wouldn’t be if you didn’t encourage him.’
‘Yes, I would,’ Ferdy said at once. ‘I was born incorrigible.’ He went to the drinks cabinet, considered its sparse contents, and returned to his seat empty-handed. On his way he caught his heel in the shabby carpet and almost fell into the chair. He grasped the arms to steady himself, and heard a dismal wrenching sound as the threadbare material tore. ‘I’ve made a hole in your chair,’ he announced with an air of discovery.
Jarvis shrugged. ‘I doubt I’ll notice it among the others.’
‘You know what you could do with, Jarvis lad?’
‘A new chair, probably.’
‘A rich wife.’
Jarvis’s grin returned. ‘To be sure, they’re going begging, aren’t they?’
‘As a matter of fact they are.’ Ferdy picked up the newspaper which he’d been reading a moment earlier. ‘See here,’ he said, jabbing with his finger at an advertisement.
Jarvis took the paper and read, “‘Wanted—one fortune-hunter to marry heiress: Millionairess seeks nominal husband in order to gain control of her own fortune. Generous terms to the right man”.’
He tossed the paper back to Ferdy. ‘Someone’s idea of a practical joke,’ he growled. ‘Either that or a journalist. If you think I’m going to offer myself up to ridicule you’ve taken leave of your senses.’
‘But suppose it’s for real? Why pass up the chance?’
‘Because for one thing I’ve nothing to offer a millionairess—’
‘Nonsense,’ Ferdy ribbed him. ‘You’re a fine upstanding fellow and the answer to any maiden’s prayer.’
‘And you’re incurably vulgar,’ Jarvis said without rancour.
‘I agree,’ Sarah added acidly.
‘And for another,’ Jarvis continued, ‘the last thing I’d ever do would be to offer myself to a rich woman in a meaningless marriage simply to get my hands on her money.’
‘Quite right,’ Sarah announced. She descended from the steps and pointed to a large portrait over the fire. It showed an elderly man with a belligerent face that bore a notable resemblance to Jarvis’s own, standing very upright, in the splendour of a general’s dress uniform. ‘What would your grandfather have said?’ she demanded. ‘I’ll tell you. He’d have reminded you of the Larne family motto—“Let invaders tremble”. Then he’d have shown this woman the door.’
‘But he’d have tumbled her in the hay first,’ her brother said wickedly.
‘Ferdy!’ she snapped.
‘Well, it’s true. He was a terrible man for the women. Father told me there was hardly a family in these parts that didn’t have a little Larne bast—’
‘That’s enough. You’re shocking Sarah.’ Jarvis grinned.
She took up the paper. ‘If this isn’t a journalist but a real woman she must be lacking in all sense of decency.’
‘She’s certainly not a woman I’d ever care to meet,’ Jarvis agreed.
‘You’re a puritan,’ Ferdy rebuked him.
Jarvis nodded. ‘I’m afraid you’re right. Don’t worry. I’ll save the estate, but I’ll do it on my own.’
‘How?’ Ferdy demanded.
Jarvis sighed.
A few minutes later Sarah requested a private conversation with Jarvis, who courteously left the room with her. Ferdy could heard the hum of their voices through the door. ‘So what’s this little chat about, eh, Sarah?’ he murmured. ‘Some earnest advice about nothing? Whatever excuse you’ve found, you’re wasting your time. You’ve given Jarvis a hundred chances to propose to you, and he’s taken none of them. You’re like a sister to him, I’m glad to say. It wouldn’t suit me at all to have you the mistress here.’
He surveyed his empty glass with a sigh. Then a wicked smile spread over his face. He crossed over to the desk, quickly purloined a couple of sheets of estate notepaper, and was sitting by the fire again when the other two returned.
‘Where exactly is Yorkshire?’ Meryl asked Benedict as they shared a bottle of champagne.
‘In England. That’s all I know. Why?’
She chuckled. ‘It’s where my prospective husband lives.’
‘You actually had a reply?’
‘It came this morning.’ She yawned and leaned back against the leather arm of Benedict’s huge sofa. She was lying lengthways on it while he sat sprawled at the other end.
‘No kidding!’ he said. ‘Who?’
‘Jarvis Larne. A lord, no less. He lives in Larne Castle in Yorkshire.’
Benedict took the letter from her and scanned it hilariously. ‘He’s very upfront about his poverty,’ he noted. ‘Castle falling down, cracks everywhere, whisky running out—heiress urgently required.’
‘It’s a joke. I bet he doesn’t exist at all.’
‘He does,’ Benedict said unexpectedly. ‘I’ve seen the name in a book of English peerages I bought in case I ever get any titled customers. It’s on that table.’ She gave it to him and he began flicking through the pages. ‘Here we are. Viscount Larne of Larne Castle. Hmm! Quite a pedigree.’
He began to read aloud, “‘Jarvis, Lord Larne, twenty-second viscount, age thirty-three, inherited the title when he was twenty-one.” Hey, fancy being a lord at twenty-one. All that droit de seigneur.’
‘What?’
‘The ancient feudal right of the lord to have any virgin on the estate.’
‘You made that up!’
‘No way. It’s the tradition. It goes back centuries. That’s why half the estate workers look alike. When you give him a son you won’t be able to tell him from the others.’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course I’m not going to marry him. I put that advertisement in because I was mad at Larry, but I’ve cooled down now.’
‘Goodbye ten million dollars,’ Benedict sighed.
‘Nope, I’ve sorted that,’ Meryl announced triumphantly. ‘I’m getting a bank loan. The Lomax Grierson isn’t the only bank in New York. Any one of the others will be glad of my business. I’d have done it before but it seemed so silly when I didn’t need to.’
‘Bless you. Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?’
‘I was waiting for the call to confirm it, but that’s just a formality. When the phone rings—you’ve got it!’
Right on cue her mobile shrilled and she seized it up, giving Benedict a delighted wink. But then he saw her smile fade, replaced with a look of outrage. When she spoke it was through tight lips.
‘You said there’d be no problem—what’s Larry Rivers got to do with anything? He doesn’t run your bank—yes, I know he’s my trustee but—legal action?’
By the time she hung up Benedict had a tolerably exact idea of what had happened. ‘I guess Larry’s tentacles spread further than we thought,’ he sighed.
‘He actually dared warn them off—’ Meryl seethed. ‘Well, there are other banks—’
‘Which he will also have warned off,’ Benedict pointed out.
‘He threatened them with law suits,’ Meryl fumed. ‘Oh, I could—’
The mobile rang again. Benedict got quickly out of the way.
‘Larry,’ Meryl said sulphurously, ‘I’m warning you—’
‘Warn away if it amuses you, my dear,’ came her godfather’s complacent voice down the line. ‘Try your wiles elsewhere if you like wasting your time. Then tell Benedict Steen that he won’t get a cent out of you for the next three years. Bye.’
He hung up.
‘Oh, won’t he?’ Meryl breathed. ‘Right! That’s it! Benedict, how do I get to Yorkshire?’
He stared. ‘You mean tomorrow?’
‘I mean today!’
What on earth was she doing?
And why hadn’t her guardian angel made sure there wasn’t a flight until next morning, thus giving her a night to see sense?
But the angel must have been off duty, because there had been a flight at nine that very evening to Manchester. Before she knew it she was on her way.
A belated attack of conscience had made Benedict try to argue her out of it.
‘You don’t know anything about this place. It’s isolated up there and you’ll be on the edge of the North Sea—gales and—and things.’
‘Stop fussing like an old hen and find me a hotel at Manchester Airport. I’ll need a room if we land at three-thirty in the morning.’
‘England is five hours ahead of us. It’ll be eight-thirty.’
‘Not in here,’ she said, pointing to herself. ‘For me it’ll be the early hours.’
She was glad of her decision when she landed and could zonk out on a comfortable bed. But after only a couple of hours she awoke feeling fine, and a shower followed by a hearty breakfast completed her recovery.
She was humming as she dressed in Benedict’s latest creation, an elegant olive-green trouser suit in a silk mo-hair blend, with a tawny sweater and matching silk scarf.
‘I suppose I should have called Lord Larne first,’ she mused, putting the finishing touches to her make-up. ‘Well, I would have done if I really meant to marry him. As it is, I just had a temper tantrum, and serves me right! Oh, Larry, the things you make me do! This is all your fault!’
Briefly she thought of catching the next flight home, but outside her window the day was glorious, and an adventure beckoned.
At the car rental firm she picked up an open-topped red sports two-seater that reminded her of her beloved car back home. A few minutes getting used to having the steering wheel on the left, and the traffic on the ‘wrong’ side of the road, and she was away on the hundred and twenty miles to Larne.
Driving carefully, she reached York without mishap, and went for meal in an oak-beamed restaurant. As she ate she studied her map, noting that the castle was on a small island just off the coast. But the road travelled straight across the water, so obviously there was a bridge.
She read Lord Larne’s letter again and was charmed by its light-hearted air. He spoke of poverty but with a humorous touch that suggested he might be pleasant to know.
It was getting late when she restarted her journey. By the time she’d reached open country the light was already fading and there was a nip in the air.
The map informed her that she’d reached North York Moor. Luckily there was a clearly marked road across it, and twenty miles would bring her to the coast and the bridge to Larne Castle.
As she headed across the moor the sun vanished and black clouds began to scud across the sky. The road had no lighting, and she soon had to switch on her headlamps. Outside their glowing circle the bleak land stretched away for miles. She was totally isolated, and beginning to feel a tad dismayed. All around her the earth grew blacker and the wind gusted strongly. The light sports car didn’t hold the road well, and the rain was getting heavy now. She stopped and got out to try to put up the top. It stuck.
She became chillingly aware of her isolation in this bleak place, with no sign of life in any direction. Not a light. Nothing. It was like being the last person left alive on earth.
But this was an adventure, right? A headless horseman might come galloping past. Just now even a headless horseman would be welcome company.
‘So what the heck if I’m alone?’ she demanded of the starless sky.
Incurable honesty made her add. ‘And lost. And confused.’
She abandoned the attempt to raise the top and got back into the car. There wasn’t much further to go. But ‘adventure’ was definitely fraying at the edges.
‘How do I get myself into these situations?’ she muttered. ‘Oh, well, it can’t be far now. All I need is a friendly local to direct me.’
Right on cue a torch gleamed just up ahead, and soon she discerned the outline of a very tall man. In the headlamps’ glare she could make out that he was wearing faded, muddy trousers and a leather-patched jacket that had seen better days. Here was the ‘local’ she’d wanted, except that he definitely wasn’t friendly. He planted himself rudely in her path and waited for her to stop.
Muttering dire curses, Meryl braked. The car responded sluggishly and the gap between her and the stranger narrowed with alarming speed.
‘Move!’ she shrieked, swerving madly and missing him by a whisker. He hadn’t budged.
She vaulted out of the car and placed herself in front of him, furious, terrified and soaked by the downpour. ‘Have you got a death wish?’ she yelled. ‘What’s the idea of just standing in front of me?’
