pleasure. Shall I come over to the Hall at ten o’clock, then?’
‘Um…if you don’t mind I’ll pop over to the Manor. I have to go out around that time anyway,’ she said hurriedly.
‘As you wish. I shall expect you at ten.’
‘And again, I’m very sorry about your bumper.’
‘Don’t be. The damage is done, so there is little use in being sorry. Until tomorrow.’
He hung up and glanced at the picture of Copacabana Baby, his favourite filly, wondering why the woman had so definitely not wanted him to go over to Taverstock Hall. Maybe she had a difficult husband who would give her hell because she’d had an accident.
Then he let out a sigh and got up to pour himself a whisky before settling down to study the future of two of his horses which he kept at his stud near Deauville.
‘Who on earth was that odd-sounding man on the phone?’ Lady Drusilla demanded, gazing in a speculative manner at the platter of fresh scones baked earlier in the day by Olive.
‘Oh, he’s our new neighbour at the Manor. He sounds rather autocratic.’
‘Hmm. Very odd indeed. Foreign, if you ask me. A. Dampierre, indeed. What a strange way to ask for you.’
‘It wasn’t his fault. I left a note for him on his windscreen and I must have signed it A. Dampierre.’
‘A note on a strange man’s windscreen?’ Lady Drusilla raised horrified brows. ‘Really, Araminta, whatever were you thinking of?’
‘I bumped into his car by mistake,’ Araminta explained patiently, sweeping her long ash-blonde mane off her shoulders and leaning over to pour the tea.
‘How extremely careless of you.’
‘I’m very well aware of that,’ she said tightly. ‘Actually, he was very nice about it.’
‘So he should be. It’s not every day he’ll have the privilege of being bumped into by a Taverstock, as it were.’
‘Mother, why must you be so pompous?’ Araminta exclaimed, her dark blue eyes flashing at her mother’s ridiculous statement.
‘I shall have to find out from Marion Nethersmith who he is, exactly, and what is going on at the Manor,’ Lady Drusilla continued as though her daughter hadn’t spoken. ‘It’s been quite a mystery. Nobody knew who was moving in. I think it’s too bad that one doesn’t know anything about one’s neighbours any more. They might be anybody.’
‘Well, I’ll know soon enough,’ Araminta said shortly. ‘I’m due over there with my car insurance information to settle this matter tomorrow at ten.’
‘Really, Araminta, I find it hard to believe that you, a married woman—a widow, rather—who should know better, are belittling yourself in this manner. Why didn’t you tell him to come here?’
‘Because—’ Araminta had been about to say, I wouldn’t subject anyone, let alone a stranger, to your intolerable manners. But instead she shut up and shrugged. ‘I have to go into the village anyway.
‘Oh, very well. Pass me a scone, would you, dear? I know I shouldn’t, but I don’t suppose one can do much harm.’
CHAPTER TWO
AT TEN o’clock precisely, Araminta, clad in a pair of worn jeans, an Arran sweater, a Barbour rain jacket and Wellington boots, pulled up on the gravel in front of Chippenham Manor, noting that the gardens which for ages had run wild were carefully weeded, the hedges neatly trimmed and the gravel raked. Whoever Mr Santander was, he obviously liked things in good order.
For some reason this left her feeling less daunted. It was reassuring to see the Manor—abandoned and forlorn for so long after Sir Edward’s death, ignored by the distant cousin who’d inherited and whose only interest in the property had been to sell it—being properly looked after by the new owner.
Jumping out of the old Land Rover, Araminta winced at the sight of the crushed bumper on the smart new Range Rover parked next to a shining Bentley. With a sigh she walked up the steps and rang the bell. It was answered several moments later by a tanned man in uniform.
‘Mr Santander is expecting me,’ she said, surprised at the man’s elegance. Chippenham Manor was a large, comfortable English home, but one didn’t quite expect uniformed staff answering the door.
‘Mrs Dampierre?’ the man asked respectfully.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Please follow me.’ The manservant stood back, holding the door wide, and bowed her in.
Araminta stood and stared for a full minute, barely recognizing her surroundings. The hall had been completely redecorated. She’d heard there was work going on at the Manor, but nobody knew much about it as all the firms employed had come from London.
She looked about her, impressed, enchanted by the attractive wall covering, the contemporary sconces, the bright flashes of unusual art. A particularly attractive flower arrangement stood on a drum table in the centre of the dazzling white marble floor which in Sir Edward’s day had looked worn and somewhat grubby, and which his housekeeper had complained bitterly about.
‘This way, madam,’ the servant said, leading her down the passage towards the drawing room.
When she reached the threshold Araminta gasped in sheer amazement. Gone were the drab, musty Adam green brocade wall coverings, the drooping fringed curtains and the gloomy portraits of Sir Edward’s none too prepossessing ancestors. Instead she was greeted by soft eggshell paint, white curtains that broke on the gleaming parquet floor, wide contemporary sofas piled with subtly toned cushions, and the walls—the walls were a positive feast of the most extraordinarily luminous paintings she’d ever set eyes on.
‘You seem surprised at the way this room looks.’
Araminta spun round, nearly tripping on the edge of the Arraiolo rug, then swallowed in amazement as her eyes met a pair of dark, slightly amused ones. The man who had come in through the door that linked the drawing room to the study next door stood six feet tall. His jet-black hair was streaked with grey at the temples, and his features—well, his features were positively patrician.
‘I hope it is admiration and not disgust that has you eyeing this room so critically,’ he said, raising a quizzical brow and giving her the once-over. Then he moved forward and reached out his hand. ‘I am Victor Santander.’
‘Araminta Dampierre,’ she murmured, pulling herself together with a jolt. ‘And, no, I wasn’t being critical at all—simply marvelling that Sir Edward’s dull drawing room could be transformed into something as wonderful as this.’
‘It pleases you?’
His hand held hers a second longer than necessary. Surprised at the tingling sensation coursing up her arm, Araminta withdrew her hand quickly.
‘Yes. It’s—well, it’s so unexpected, and bright, and so—well, so un-English. Yet it doesn’t look out of place,’ she ended
