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Adrien couldn’t help wishing that Piers had kept some of his uncle’s furniture. Much of it was old, and she suspected valuable, and it had suited its surroundings.
But he’d insisted on a clean sweep. And since then, of course, she’d found the bed.
She’d discovered it at a country sale, lying in pieces in an outbuilding. A genuine four-poster bed, needing a lot of restoration work, admittedly, but she’d got it cheaply and handed it over to Fred Derwent, who specialised in such things and who’d received it with a delight bordering on reverence.
Soon, Adrien thought dreamily, it would be installed—the centrepiece of the room—and of their marriage.
And Zelda had unearthed some fabulous fabric, incorporating a heavily stylised pattern in blue, green and gold, from which she was making the hangings for the bed and the windows.
Three months from now, she thought, I’ll be sleeping in that bed with Piers.
Happy colour rose to her face, and she laughed softly to herself.
She would still keep this morning tryst with the house, however. Only she’d wear the peignoir in ivory silk and lace that she’d bought on her last trip to London instead of the jade towelling robe which had seen better days, she thought, giving it a disparaging look.
And her dark auburn hair would be cascading over her shoulders instead of hauled up into an untidy topknot.
She would save this room until last, as she’d always done. Keeping it special. And once the new window curtains were pulled back, and she’d looked out over the wide lawns at the rear of the house, she’d go over to the bed and kiss Piers awake. And he would draw her down into the shadowed softness, back into his arms.
So far it was only a fantasy that stirred her blood and brought her senses to trembling life. But very soon now it would be reality.
She walked slowly to the window and looked out at the view she’d come to love.
And stopped, gasping, her hand flying to her mouth.
A man was standing in the middle of the expanse of grass, looking up at the house. A man dressed all in black, with an overcoat hanging from his shoulders like a cloak and early mist coiling round his legs, giving him an air of unreality, as if he’d come from another age and been caught in a time slip.
He was so still that for a moment she thought he wasn’t human at all, but a statue that someone had placed there during the night as some kind of bizarre joke.
But then she saw the breeze lift the skirts of the coat and ruffle the dark blond hair, and realised that, whatever else, she was confronted by flesh and blood.
She thought, But not Piers, and her heart plummeted, shock replaced by disappointment. Piers wasn’t quite as tall as the figure below, and his hair was raven-dark. And yet—just for a second—she’d experienced this curious sense of familiarity.
Who is he? she asked herself. And what is he doing here?
The Grange had its share of visitors, most of them driven by curiosity to see how the work was progressing. But they didn’t come at sunrise, and usually they asked first.
Adrien swallowed. A visitor who came unannounced this early in the day had to be an intruder. Someone who was up to no good. A potential burglar casing the place? she wondered frantically. She’d heard of empty houses being stripped to the bone, their fixtures and fittings carried off. And downstairs there was a brand-new kitchen, as well as Angus Stretton’s library, its walls still lined with books.
She said fiercely under her breath, ‘But this house isn’t empty. And you’re not taking anything.’
She turned and ran to the door, tearing along the corridor to the wide oak staircase, launching herself downwards.
The drawing room was also at the rear of the house, to take advantage of the view, and French windows led on to the terrace. She ran towards them, grabbing the keys from the pocket of her robe.
It was the stark chill of the stone flags under her bare feet that startled her into awareness of what she was doing. She hesitated, staring around her, scanning the now-deserted lawn, recognising that the black-clad intruder was nowhere to be seen.
And at the same time she heard in the distance the sound of a departing car. He must, she thought, have parked at the side of the house, where he wouldn’t be seen. But how had he known that?
Adrien realised she was holding her breath, and released it, gulping as common sense belatedly intervened.
What on earth did she think she was doing? she asked herself. Charging down here like a maniac, with only a bunch of keys for protection. Quite apart from wearing nothing except an elderly robe. Hardly confrontation gear, she acknowledged, tightening the belt protectively round her slim waist. And just as well the stranger had disappeared.
But why the hell hadn’t she stayed in the house and used her mobile phone to call for assistance? How could she possibly have taken such a stupid risk?
After all, he could have been violent, and she might have ended up badly injured, or worse.
He must have assumed she wasn’t alone, or else he’d have stood his ground.
Because he’d known she was there. She was convinced of it. Certain that he’d seen her, somehow, standing in the window. And that his dark figure had stiffened.
But that’s crazy, she thought, beginning to shake inwardly at the realisation of her narrow escape. He couldn’t possibly have picked me out from that distance. I’d have simply been another shadow inside the house.
And I couldn’t have noticed such a detail either. I’m letting my imagination run away with me.
She straightened her shoulders and stepped back into the drawing room.
It was over, she reassured herself, and nothing had happened. But she would play safe and report the incident to the local police station, although there wasn’t much they could do without a detailed description of a car number.
He’d invaded her privacy, she thought, as she trailed back upstairs to shower and dress. Spoiled that first golden hour of her day. Made her feel edgy and ill at ease, as if a storm was brewing.
Oh, pull yourself together, she adjured herself impatiently. You’re reacting like a spoiled child. And you’ll have tomorrow and all the days to come to treasure, so you’re hardly deprived.
And he was probably some poor soul who’d been driving all night and had turned in at the wrong gate through tiredness.
She gave a small, fierce nod, and turned on the shower.
She dressed for action, in a tee shirt under a pair of denim dungarees, and secured her hair at the nape of her neck with an elastic band.
Over a breakfast of toast and coffee, she reviewed what the workmen would be doing when they arrived, making notes on her clipboard as she ate.
There was some tiling to complete round the new Aga in the kitchen, and plumbing to install in the laundry room. They’d converted the old flower room into a downstairs cloakroom, and if the plaster was dry that could be painted. The panelling in the dining room was finished, but the ceiling needed another coat of emulsion.
Most of the bedrooms were finished, apart from the one with the camp bed that she was occupying at the front of the house.
She decided she would make a start on that, peeling off the layers of old wallpaper with the steam stripper. It was a messy process, but she enjoyed it.
Remembering how immaculately the house had been kept in Mr Stretton’s time, Adrien could have wept when Piers had taken her back there to see what needed to be done. The plaster had been flaking, and there had been damp patches on some upstairs ceilings. In addition, her practised nose had warned her that dry rot was present.
‘My God,’ Piers had muttered. ‘It might be easier just to pull the place down.’
‘No.’ She’d squeezed his hand. ‘We’ll make it beautiful again. You’ll see.’
And she’d been as good as her word, she reflected, with satisfaction. The Grange was looking pretty wonderful already. Most of the work that was left was cosmetic—adding finishing touches—so that the final bills should be relatively modest.
At least compared with the last batch that she’d just paid, she remembered, shuddering.
She was making good progress with the steam stripper when it occurred to her that her small workforce was un-characteristically late. She finished the section she was working on, then unclipped her mobile from the belt of her jeans.
But before she could dial it rang, making her jump and swear under her breath.
She said crisply, ‘A to Z Design. Good morning.’
‘Is that Miss Lander?’ It was the boss of the building firm she was using. ‘It’s Gordon Arnold here.’
She gave a sigh of relief. ‘I was just about to call you, Gordon. No one’s turned up yet. Is there some reason?’
‘You could say that.’ His voice was slow and deliberate. ‘We’ve had a bit of a problem.’
Not another vehicle breakdown, Adrien thought with a faint irritation. Gordon should get himself a van that worked.
She said briskly, ‘Well, try to get it sorted quickly. There’s still plenty to do here.’
‘That’s it, you see, Miss Lander.’ He sounded odd, embarrassed. ‘We did the work, and you paid us for it, same as always. Except this time the bank sent the cheques back.’
Adrien was very still for a moment. This was a room that caught the early sun, yet she felt suddenly deathly cold.
Rallying herself, she said, ‘There must be some mistake.’
‘That’s exactly what I said.’ He sounded almost eager. ‘A mistake. So I got on to the bank, but they wouldn’t talk to me. Said I had to refer to you.’
Adrien groaned. ‘I’ll get on to them myself,’ she said. ‘It’ll probably be a computer error,’ she added confidently.
‘Dare say it will,’ he said. ‘Generally is. I’ll leave it with you, then, Miss Lander. Only, we can’t really do any more work until we know we’re going to be paid, and there’s other jobs waiting.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll have it put right by this afternoon, Gordon. Cheers.’
But she didn’t feel very cheery as she switched off the phone and put it back on her belt.
Something had gone badly wrong, she thought, as she went to her room to retrieve her bag and, because she was still feeling cold, a jacket.
It was a mistake. It had to be. Yet somehow she kept getting an image of that dark, silent figure standing unmoving in front of the house, like some symbol of ill omen.
Don’t be silly, Adie, she reproved herself, using the childish version of her name she’d coined when she was small. Just go to the bank and get it sorted.
It was a simple enough system that she and Piers had devised. He’d opened an account at a local bank, with a chequebook in her name, and each month she sent him an itemised account of her spending and he deposited sufficient funds to cover it.
‘You’re too trusting,’ she’d told him.
‘I love you,’ he’d returned. ‘Love can’t trust too much.’
For the past four months the system had worked like a charm. But this time, when some of the heaviest bills had to be paid, a hiccup had developed.
I suppose it had to happen eventually, Adrien thought, as she set her Jeep in motion. Nothing’s perfect, especially when it’s automated. But why did it have to be this month?
The bank was busy, but as Adrien waited at the enquiry desk she had the curious feeling that people were watching her. That a couple of the cashiers had exchanged glances as she walked in.
They probably realise they’ve screwed up in a big way and are wondering how to apologise, she decided, with an inward shrug.
The enquiry clerk looked nonplussed when she saw her. ‘Oh—Miss Lander. The manager has been trying to contact you at home, but we only got your answer-machine.’
‘That’s right.’ Adrien’s brows lifted in slight hauteur. My God, she thought, she sounds almost accusing. ‘I’m staying at the Grange so that I can oversee the final stages.’ If it’s any business of yours.
‘Oh—that explains it. Will you take a seat for a few moments? Mr Davidson needs to talk to you urgently.’
Adrien was glad to sit down, because her legs were trembling suddenly and her stomach was quaking.
Because those were not phrases that indicated grovelling on the bank’s part. On the contrary…
She wished that she’d taken the trouble to change, to put on a skirt and blouse, or even a dress, some heels, and some make-up. Because she had the oddest feeling she was going to need all the help she could get. She was also aware that in her present gear she looked about sixteen.
‘Miss Lander?’ Mr Davidson was standing beside her. ‘Come into the interview room, won’t you?’ His smile was pallid and his gaze slid away. A very different reaction from his enthusiasm when the account was being set up.
She wished, not for the first time, that Piers had used her own bank, where she was a known and valued customer.
While he closed the door, Adrien took the chair he indicated. ‘Mr Davidson, I understand you’ve returned some of my cheques.’
‘I’ve had no choice, Miss Lander. There are no funds to meet them.’
Her throat tightened, and her heart began to pound. She heard herself say with unbelievable calmness, ‘Then payment must have been delayed for some reason. Perhaps you could give me a little leeway here, while I contact my fiancé.’
‘I’m afraid not, Miss Lander. You see, we’ve been notified that no further deposits will be made. Did Mr Mendoza not warn you of his intentions?’
‘No more deposits?’ Her lips felt numb. ‘But that’s impossible.’
‘I fear not.’ He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. ‘I have some other bad news which I must pass on to you. I have just learned that Mr Mendoza is no longer the owner of Wildhurst Grange. That he has sold it to a property development company.’
There was a strange buzzing in Adrien’s ears. The room seemed to be swimming round her.
She said hoarsely, ‘No—it’s not true. It can’t be. He—he wouldn’t do that. Not without telling me—discussing it…’
‘I’m afraid it is perfectly true. I have the head of the company in my office now, and…Miss Lander—where are you going?’
The metal handle slipped in her damp grip, but she wrenched the door open and ran out.
The door to the manager’s office had been left slightly ajar. She pushed it wide and went in, knowing what she was going to see. Fearing it…
A man was standing by the window. He was tall, and dressed in beautifully cut black Italian trousers and a matching rollneck sweater in fine wool. The long overcoat had been discarded, and was lying across a chair. His dark blond hair, expertly layered, reached the collar of his sweater. His face was lean, with a beak of a nose and strongly marked mouth and chin. The eyes that met hers across the room were as grey as a northern sea, and about as warm.
And at the edge of one cheekbone there was a small triangular scar.
Adrien recognised that scar, because she’d put it there. She’d been just nine years old, and she had been cold, hungry, and hysterical. Because he’d deliberately left her on a flimsy platform in a tall tree for hours. To punish her. To make her think that she’d be left there for ever. That she’d die there.
So she’d picked up a stone, and flung it at him. He’d gasped and thrown back his head, but it had hit him, and she had seen a small trickle of blood on his face and been glad, because she’d hated him. She’d wanted to hurt him.
He’d looked at her then with those cold grey eyes just as he was looking at her now. With contempt and a kind of icy arrogance. And without pity.
She’d been frightened then, and she was frightened now. Too scared to speak or to run. Although she was no longer a child. Or an eighteen-year-old whose birthday had been ruined by theft and betrayal.
