in between without any problems.’
‘Three days sounds perfect. Okay, I’ll get the press release straight back. Speak later.’
‘Give me a call when you’re fully briefed and settled in. I’m sorry you had to head out on another job without coming home first.’
‘It’s fine. It’s what we’re here to do. It’s a good sign, Amber. A sign we’re where we want to be.’
Alex finished the call and opened her laptop, connecting it to her phone’s data so she could access the press release Amber had mentioned. And then, she reminded herself, it would be time to investigate her new employers and check just why her every hackle was up and sensing danger.
But the press release needed far more work than she had anticipated, and between the pull of her work and the lull induced by the car’s steady process she soon got lost in it, any thought of research flying out of her head.
She didn’t notice the car turn off the motorway long before Swindon, and nor was she aware as they drove through a succession of idyllic villages, more like a film set than real places, with a succession of village greens, quirky pubs and thatched cottages.
It wasn’t until the car slowed and turned in at a pair of elaborate gates that she realised she’d arrived at her destination.
‘Already?’ she muttered, glancing at the time on her laptop.
Only an hour had passed. There was no way they had made it to Swindon in that time. Which meant they were somewhere else entirely; somewhere an hour west of London. Inhaling slowly, Alex looked up. There was no need to worry. She was in control; she was always in control.
Repeating the mantra, she looked straight ahead at the gates, taking in every detail of the ornate gilt-covered iron, the curlicues and symbols, time stilling as she noted every familiar detail. Her breath caught painfully in her throat, and her mouth was dry as the old, unwelcome panic, banished for a decade, thundered through her.
She hadn’t just arrived. She’d returned. She was at Blakeley. Ten years after swearing never to set foot here again. Ten years after renouncing her way of life and starting anew.
Calm deserted her. She couldn’t do this. Wouldn’t. The car would have to turn around and take her straight back to London.
Hands shaking, she began to bundle her phone back into her bag, snapping her laptop shut. But she couldn’t find the words to tell the driver to stop. Her chest was too tight, her throat swollen with fear and long-buried memories.
And still the car purred inexorably on. Every curve of the drive, every tree and view was familiar. More. It was part of her soul. Alex sat transfixed, fear giving way to nostalgic wonder, and for a moment she saw the ghost of a fearless long-limbed girl flitting through the trees.
But that girl was long gone. Lady Lola Beaumont had disappeared the day the Beaumonts’ fortunes had crashed and in her place Alexandra Davenport had appeared. Any resemblance was purely superficial.
Besides, who would recognise flamboyant Lola in demure Alex? Alexandra didn’t party or flirt, she didn’t dance through life expecting favours to be bestowed upon her, and she didn’t try to shock or crave publicity. She worked hard; she lived a quiet existence. Her clothes were fashionable and stylish, yes, but on the sensible side. Her hair was coiled neatly, her jewellery discreet. And it was Alexandra Davenport who had been employed to do a job. The fact that the job was at her old family home must be one awful coincidence.
It had to be. After all, no one knew who she once had been. Not even her best friends.
Alex sat frozen, still undecided. Turning tail and running wasn’t her style, but she had stayed clear of this entire region for a reason. She might not feel like Lola any longer, might not act like her, but what if someone recognised her?
Her hands folded into fists. She managed the story; she was no longer the story herself. She’d left her tabloid headline existence in the past, where it belonged, but she knew her reappearance at her childhood home would create nothing but speculation and the kind of publicity she’d spent a decade avoiding.
If she turned around now she wouldn’t be running away, she’d be making a prudent retreat. She could claim a double booking and send one of her many capable temps in her stead, with a discreet discount and an apology. It was the right—the only—thing to do.
Only at that moment the car swept round the last bend and there it was, gleaming gold in the winter morning sun. Blakeley Castle. Alex could only stare transfixed at the long, grand façade, at the famous turrets, the formal gardens, now autumnal in browns and oranges and red, the trees bare of leaves, their spindly branches reaching high to the grey-blue sky. Her breath quickened and she leaned forward as if in a trance.
Blakeley Castle was beautiful. There was nowhere like it. Nowhere as steeped in myth and legend and history. Kings had fallen in love within its walls; queens had fallen from favour. Dukes had lost their hearts, and sometimes their heads, and the Beaumonts had gambled their fortunes, their titles, their freedom, their looks and their marriages on games of chance, of love, of treason.
Until one had gambled too much and lost it all. His freedom, his family, his home.
And now his daughter, the last Beaumont, was returning to Blakeley. But as an anonymous employee, no longer the spoiled darling of the house.
Alex took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. She might have changed her name and changed her destiny but the old ancestral cry of ‘Semper porsum’, always forward, ran through her veins. This was just a job. And Blakeley was just a house—well, a castle. But it was still bricks and mortar. There were no ghosts here apart from the few that still haunted her dreams. And she made sure they vanished in the cold light of day.
She wasn’t Lola Beaumont. She was Alexandra Davenport. She was calm and capable and she always saw her commitments through. Her life was sensible and measured and it was ridiculous to think of upsetting any aspect of it because of an old link to a mere place. A link that had been severed ten years ago. Nobody here knew her. She would do her job to the best of her ability and leave without looking back once. No regrets. She’d had too many of them.
Mind made up, Alex sat back as the car swept into the parking area at the side of the house, checking herself in her mirror. Her lipstick was in place, her hair neat, her expression coolly inscrutable. All was as it should be. The panic had gone. It was back in the past where it belonged. Nothing fazed her, nothing touched her, and her walls were firmly back in place.
She couldn’t help noticing the changes in the familiar. Everything looked better cared for, and the flag flying from the highest turret bore a bird of prey, not the Beaumont crest. The car park was freshly laid, not a pothole to be seen, shielded from the castle by a tall hedge. She glimpsed the grand front entrance as the car turned. Doors stood open, the old faded steps were now gleaming, and the rug half covering them sported the same golden bird as that flying overhead on the flag.
Alexandra Davenport had never been to Blakeley Castle before. She would wait for the driver to open the door and then look around her in curiosity as she exited the car, asking if she should go in through the back door or report somewhere else. All would be unfamiliar, all new. She would be focussed on the task ahead. The beauty of the old house and grounds were of secondary importance, and her curiosity about the new owners confined to a moment’s idle speculation before work took over, as it always did.
One deep breath and any dangerous
