LITMIR.BIZ

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Masterson’s case had been splashed all over the tabloids. Ponzi schemes were nothing new, but it was the calibre of people who’d been caught up in Masterson’s fraud that had the press pack slavering. Arthur’s father hadn’t been the only notable name to lose a fortune. From members of the peerage to pop stars and actors, the roll call of the duped and deluded had been a gossip columnist’s dream.

      ‘Not at all, and you have our profound thanks for keeping us up to date with developments in the case, I’m sure you have enough on your plate.’

      ‘Well, the times I met your father, I was touched by what a decent man he was. I was very sorry to hear of his passing, and it seemed the least I could do under the circumstances.’

      So, Arthur wasn’t the only one who suspected the stress of the case had contributed to his father’s demise. ‘Thank you. I know he held you in very high esteem, Inspector, as do we all.’ Having ended the call, Arthur dropped the handset into the cradle then let his head fall back. As he studied the brilliant crystal droplets of the chandelier hanging above the desk, he acknowledged how much hope he’d been clinging to—hope that Masterson would have a change of heart and enter some kind of plea bargain deal. The money was gone. And that was all there was to it.

      ‘What are we going to do?’

      Tristan’s question made Arthur sit up straight once more. ‘We’re not going to do anything, little brother. You and Iggy are going to get the hell out of Dodge while you still can. No point in all three of us going down with the sinking ship, is there?’

      Swiping the dark curls of his fringe out of his eyes, Tristan glared at him. ‘Don’t start that nonsense again, or you and I will have a serious falling out.’

      ‘Stubborn fool.’ Exasperation and affection filled the words in equal measures.

      ‘Takes one to know one.’

      He had a point. The two of them were similar in far more than looks, Arthur thought as he smoothed a hand through his shaggy hair, which was well overdue for a cut. He was looking more like Tristan every day, though Arthur was broader thanks to years spent rucking on a muddy rugby field. With his taller, more slender build, Tristan had been better suited to the cricket pitch. It had relieved them both to find their own sport to excel at, as people had tried to pit them against each other for as far back as he could remember. There’d never been any sense of competition between them, though. Their father and uncle had set an example which they’d been only too happy to follow—regardless of whose shoulders the family title rested upon, the Ludworths would succeed, or fail, together. Just lately though, Arthur had begun to regret this, desperate as he was to spare his siblings the pain of witnessing their family legacy collapsing before their eyes.

      Frustrated, Arthur shoved his fringe from his eyes, an unconscious mirroring of his brother’s earlier action. He’d never really bothered much with his own appearance, content with a short back and sides whenever he could be bothered to pop down to the little barbershop in the village, and a basic uniform of cords or chinos and a checked shirt. Tristan had always been the trendy one of the two of them, and he claimed the women loved his Poldark-esque mane.

      Arthur was finding the tangle more hassle than it was worth and made a mental note to wander down to the village sooner rather than later. Besides, he’d never had any trouble attracting women even in his baggy old cords and rugby shirt. Being heir to a title was its own special pheromone, he thought with more than a shade of weariness. It had taken him a while—longer in fact that he was proud to admit—before he’d come to understand his popularity with women had more to do with his title than him as a person. He’d even got as far as considering asking one girl to marry him before the scales had fallen from his eyes when she’d been horrified by his attempts to promote Iggy into the position of official heir to the baronetcy. Now he was officially Baronet Ludworth—his name having entered the official roll the previous week—they’d be crawling out of the woodwork once more. Well, if they were hunting for a fortune, they were going to be sorely disappointed.

      A knock at the study door scattered the random musings his brain was using to avoid thinking about the enormous hole in their family finances. When the heavy wood remained resolutely closed, Arthur rolled his eyes at Tristan and hid a smile as he called out ‘Come.’

      The door opened to reveal Maxwell, their family butler, dressed in an immaculate charcoal trousers and waistcoat over a white shirt. The black tie at his throat was fastened in the same Windsor knot he’d taught both Arthur and Tristan to tie as young boys. ‘Good afternoon, Sir Arthur, Master Tristan, your aunt has requested you join her in the yellow drawing room for afternoon tea.’

      It was all Arthur could do not to let out a snort. Morgana Ludworth had never requested anything in all of her seventy-plus years. As delicate as a bird to look at, she had an implacable will and a tongue sharp enough to slice through steel. And a heart as big and fierce as a lion. She’d remained at home to nurse her ailing father whilst her peers had flown the coop, got married and had babies. ‘I didn’t just miss the boat, I missed the entire regatta,’ she’d told them once with a laugh in her voice that hadn’t reached her eyes. ‘Then your father and Lancelot came along, and I stayed to help out your grandmother.’

      Always a delicate woman, Arthur had few memories of his grandmother other than as someone they were always shushed into silence around. She’d died when they were still very young, and it had been Morgana who’d once again stepped into the void. Arthur adored his paternal great-aunt, as did his siblings, for as stern as she could be at times, she’d not blinked at taking on the three heartbroken, confused children Helena had left in her wake. ‘Thank you, Maxwell, we’ll be along shortly.’

      ‘Very good, sir.’ With the briefest incline of his head, Maxwell pulled the door closed behind him.

      ‘He’s got more starch in his pants than a virginal vicar. Can’t you get him to relax a bit?’

      Arthur shook his head. He’d tried to have a chat with Maxwell when he’d first inherited the title, but the butler had been so offended at the idea he might “move with the times and dispense with a few unnecessary traditions” that Arthur had abandoned the effort. Mrs W, their housekeeper, had been more on board and he’d given her free rein to discuss the issue with Betsy, the cook, and give him a proposal on improvements and updates they would like to make. Together, the three of them were in charge of the day-to-day running of the castle, with an ever-shrinking band of staff to assist them.

      With March just around the corner, they were busy gearing up for the annual spring clean scheduled for next weekend. Mrs W and Betsy had been delighted when Arthur told them he, Tristan and Iggy would be rolling up their sleeves and getting down to it along with the team of paid volunteers gathered from the village. Maxwell had looked as though he were sucking a lemon at the very idea of members of the family dirtying their hands, but had refrained from commenting.

      A building as old and extensive as the castle took a huge amount of physical effort to keep going, never mind the financial cost. They’d closed as many rooms as possible over the winter months, but with the latest utility bill lurking in Arthur’s desk drawer like a malevolent toad, it had been a drop in the ocean. He dreaded to think what damage they were going to find now the weather was improving and they were beginning to pull back the dust covers.

      Feeling suddenly queasy, Arthur swallowed hard then forced himself to stand. ‘Come on, we’d better not keep Morgana waiting.’

      Tristan gestured to the old fisherman’s jumper Arthur had bundled himself into that morning, and then his own designer-branded sweatshirt. ‘We’d better get changed, too, or we’ll never hear the end of it.’

      *

      Hands and faces washed, jumpers and jeans exchanged for collared shirts and dark cords, the brothers entered the yellow drawing room. With a view to the woods behind the castle, it was their great-aunt’s favourite room, and her unofficial domain. As usual, Morgana sat at the head of the small rosewood dining table, closest to the large stone fireplace. A cheery fire filled the room with the scent of pinecones, mingling with the ever-present fragrance of Penhaligon’s Bluebell

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