LITMIR.BIZ

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shook hands. ‘So where are you from, Flora Fitzwilliam? And what are you doing here? I detect an American accent.’

      ‘How do you do it, Holmes?’ Lucy teased him from across the table.

      ‘I’m from New York,’ said Flora. ‘Well, I live in New York. With my fiancé,’ she heard herself blurting, unnecessarily.

      ‘Git,’ said Richard. ‘I hate him already.’

      ‘Leave the poor girl alone, Rich,’ said Lucy, adding to Flora, ‘If he annoys you, just hit him.’

      ‘Let’s eat,’ said Henry, leaning over and helping himself to a large scoop of Jansson’s Temptation, a delicious Swedish dish of potato and onion with cream and anchovies that was one of Eva’s specialities.

      ‘Shouldn’t we wait for Robert and George?’ asked Eva.

      ‘Definitely not,’ said Henry, kissing her on the mouth. (Rather too ostentatiously in Barney Griffith’s opinion, although nobody else seemed to mind.) ‘If they’re rude enough to show up late, we can be rude enough to start without them. Besides, I’m starving.’

      Christ, he’s arrogant, thought Barney. He wasn’t sure why exactly, but there was a vibe about Henry Saxton Brae that he didn’t like one little bit. The cut-glass accent didn’t help. But it was more than that. Something to do with the possessiveness of that kiss, as if Eva were a car or a diamond necklace, a trophy to be paraded. There was just a certain assumption, an entitlement to all of Henry’s gestures, looks and words that spoke of a deeply ingrained sense of superiority. He didn’t seem like Eva’s type at all.

      Still, it was all good stuff for the novel, Barney thought, knocking back his second glass of better-than-decent claret: dinner in a castle, Henry being dastardly, Eva being good and wholesome and bewitching, an exquisite but fragile glass doll.

      Barney had been astonished last week when Eva Gunnarson had tracked down his cottage, knocked on the door and invited him to dinner. (Why did that sort of thing – random dinner invitations from supermodels – never happen when other people were around? Like his ex-girlfriend Maud, for example?) So astonished that he almost said no, on some sort of weird, self-defeating autopilot. The thing was, Barney barely knew Eva. They’d bumped into each other once or twice walking the dogs, and somehow he found she was wonderfully easy to talk to, but that was it. Astonishing as it seemed, this stunning girl was clearly lonely.

      She needs a friend, Barney told himself. And it wasn’t as if he had so many better things to do on a Saturday night.

      In any case, he was delighted he’d got over himself and agreed to come, as it turned out he wasn’t the only singleton invited. Eva, God bless her, had sat him next to the new interior designer for Hanborough, an absolute cracker of a girl and very much Barney’s type: petite, blonde, curvy, and with the sort of boobs that frankly made a man happy to be alive. She was American (nobody’s perfect), but so far at least she seemed to have a very English sense of humour, not to mention a wonderfully unexpected, raucous laugh that made her sound like a French truck driver.

      Flora. Fabulous Flora.

      He’d only met her five minutes ago, but Barney was already infatuated.

      The first course was almost over by the time a clattering in the hallway announced that the last two guests had finally arrived.

      Eva got up to go and greet them but Henry put a hand on her arm.

      ‘Leave it. They know where to go.’

      He seemed angry at George, which was odd as he was the one who’d invited her, and he never normally minded about lateness, being perpetually late himself. Still, Eva had long ago given up trying to figure out Henry and Georgina’s relationship. They clearly worked well together in business, although outside of work they fought. A lot. Eva had always had the feeling that George didn’t like her very much, but Henry was at pains to deny this.

      Glancing up she smiled at Flora, who smiled back. What a great girl she had turned out to be! Having her around the place these past two weeks had been like a breath of fresh air. For the first time, Eva felt involved in the changes being made at Hanborough.

      ‘It’s going to be your home too, you know,’ Flora told her. ‘Your children’s home. If you don’t like something we’re doing, or you’ve had an idea we haven’t thought of, you need to speak up.’

      Perhaps it was odd to put it in these terms, but for the first time Eva felt as if she had an ally against Henry. Not that Henry was the enemy, of course. Eva loved him more than anything, more than life. But he had such a strong personality, such a forceful way of expressing himself. Sometimes it was easy to get lost in his shadow.

      On the other side of the table, poor Lucy Smart was being talked to death by Sebastian on the only subject he ever spoke about – hunting. Eva saw the look of relief and gratitude on Lucy’s face when the Saviles walked in, mercifully stemming the flow.

      ‘So sorry we’re late,’ George announced, not looking remotely sorry. ‘Traffic was just ghastly.’ She’d pulled out all the stops tonight and looked utterly ravishing in skin-tight black leather biker trousers, a ribbed vest that showcased her perfectly toned and slender arms, and sexily spiked Gucci heels that tap-tapped on the flagstone floors like metallic raindrops whenever she moved. Hovering behind her in the Fulham uniform of green jeans and checked Hackett shirt, and looking chinless and awkward, was her husband Robert. He reminded Barney of a nervous zookeeper presenting some exotic but dangerous animal to the crowds.

      Just as this thought entered his head, Barney felt Flora’s hand in his. Before he had time to feel ecstatic about it, she started digging her nails painfully into his palm.

      ‘No!’ she whispered. ‘Oh God, please no!’

      ‘What?’ Barney asked, wincing, but loath to reclaim his hand. ‘What’s wrong?’

      Before Flora could answer, George let out a little shriek.

      ‘I don’t believe it!’ She pointed at Flora. ‘It can’t be! Flora Fitzwilliam? What on earth are you doing here?’

      ‘You two know each other?’

      Henry scowled at George. It was bad enough that she’d showed up late, dressed like a slut and doing everything possible to divert every ounce of attention in the room onto herself. But now she was claiming some sort of connection with Flora. He didn’t know why that should annoy him so much, but it just did.

      ‘We were at school together,’ Flora said through gritted teeth.

      ‘Old school friends?’ Seb piped up. ‘How marvellous. Where was it?’

      ‘Sherwood,’ said George, tossing her long blonde hair backwards luxuriantly.

      ‘And we weren’t friends,’ Flora added meaningfully. ‘Not at all.’

      Henry looked at Flora with increased respect.

      ‘Well, we barely had time to be, did we?’ trilled George, tap-tapping her way over to the empty seat closest to Flora’s. ‘Poor old Flora got chucked out after her daddy was caught with his hand in the till. How long did they give him again?’

      ‘Eight years.’ Flora’s face was frozen. Under the table she tightened her grip on Barney’s hand.

      ‘Oh, so he’s been out for ages now then,’ George said breezily, adding, ‘Pass the wine would you, Henry darling? I’m parched.’

      ‘He never got out. He died in prison.’

      Flora’s voice was like a funeral bell, ringing out across the table. Everyone looked at one another awkwardly. Only Henry met Flora’s eyes, with an unexpected flash of sympathy.

      ‘I was eleven when my mother died,’ said Henry. ‘You never get over it.’

      ‘No,’ Flora agreed, surprised and touched that Henry would

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