‘It came this morning.’ She yawned and leaned back against the leather arm of Benedict’s huge sofa. She was lying lengthways on it while he sat sprawled at the other end.
‘No kidding!’ he said. ‘Who?’
‘Jarvis Larne. A lord, no less. He lives in Larne Castle in Yorkshire.’
Benedict took the letter from her and scanned it hilariously. ‘He’s very upfront about his poverty,’ he noted. ‘Castle falling down, cracks everywhere, whisky running out—heiress urgently required.’
‘It’s a joke. I bet he doesn’t exist at all.’
‘He does,’ Benedict said unexpectedly. ‘I’ve seen the name in a book of English peerages I bought in case I ever get any titled customers. It’s on that table.’ She gave it to him and he began flicking through the pages. ‘Here we are. Viscount Larne of Larne Castle. Hmm! Quite a pedigree.’
He began to read aloud, “‘Jarvis, Lord Larne, twenty-second viscount, age thirty-three, inherited the title when he was twenty-one.” Hey, fancy being a lord at twenty-one. All that droit de seigneur.’
‘What?’
‘The ancient feudal right of the lord to have any virgin on the estate.’
‘You made that up!’
‘No way. It’s the tradition. It goes back centuries. That’s why half the estate workers look alike. When you give him a son you won’t be able to tell him from the others.’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course I’m not going to marry him. I put that advertisement in because I was mad at Larry, but I’ve cooled down now.’
‘Goodbye ten million dollars,’ Benedict sighed.
‘Nope, I’ve sorted that,’ Meryl announced triumphantly. ‘I’m getting a bank loan. The Lomax Grierson isn’t the only bank in New York. Any one of the others will be glad of my business. I’d have done it before but it seemed so silly when I didn’t need to.’
‘Bless you. Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?’
‘I was waiting for the call to confirm it, but that’s just a formality. When the phone rings—you’ve got it!’
Right on cue her mobile shrilled and she seized it up, giving Benedict a delighted wink. But then he saw her smile fade, replaced with a look of outrage. When she spoke it was through tight lips.
‘You said there’d be no problem—what’s Larry Rivers got to do with anything? He doesn’t run your bank—yes, I know he’s my trustee but—legal action?’
By the time she hung up Benedict had a tolerably exact idea of what had happened. ‘I guess Larry’s tentacles spread further than we thought,’ he sighed.
‘He actually dared warn them off—’ Meryl seethed. ‘Well, there are other banks—’
‘Which he will also have warned off,’ Benedict pointed out.
‘He threatened them with law suits,’ Meryl fumed. ‘Oh, I could—’
The mobile rang again. Benedict got quickly out of the way.
‘Larry,’ Meryl said sulphurously, ‘I’m warning you—’
‘Warn away if it amuses you, my dear,’ came her godfather’s complacent voice down the line. ‘Try your wiles elsewhere if you like wasting your time. Then tell Benedict Steen that he won’t get a cent out of you for the next three years. Bye.’
He hung up.
‘Oh, won’t he?’ Meryl breathed. ‘Right! That’s it! Benedict, how do I get to Yorkshire?’
He stared. ‘You mean tomorrow?’
‘I mean today!’
What on earth was she doing?
And why hadn’t her guardian angel made sure there wasn’t a flight until next morning, thus giving her a night to see sense?
But the angel must have been off duty, because there had been a flight at nine that very evening to Manchester. Before she knew it she was on her way.
A belated attack of conscience had made Benedict try to argue her out of it.
‘You don’t know anything about this place. It’s isolated up there and you’ll be on the edge of the North Sea—gales and—and things.’
‘Stop fussing like an old hen and find me a hotel at Manchester Airport. I’ll need a room if we land at three-thirty in the morning.’
‘England is five hours ahead of us. It’ll be eight-thirty.’
‘Not in here,’ she said, pointing to herself. ‘For me it’ll be the early hours.’
She was glad of her decision when she landed and could zonk out on a comfortable bed. But after only a couple of hours she awoke feeling fine, and a shower followed by a hearty breakfast completed her recovery.
She was humming as she dressed in Benedict’s latest creation, an elegant olive-green trouser suit in a silk mo-hair blend, with a tawny sweater and matching silk scarf.
‘I suppose I should have called Lord Larne first,’ she mused, putting the finishing touches to her make-up. ‘Well, I would have done if I really meant to marry him. As it is, I just had a temper tantrum, and serves me right! Oh, Larry, the things you make me do! This is all your fault!’
Briefly she thought of catching the next flight home, but outside her window the day was glorious, and an adventure beckoned.
At the car rental firm she picked up an open-topped red sports two-seater that reminded her of her beloved car back home. A few minutes getting used to having the steering wheel on the left, and the traffic on the ‘wrong’ side of the road, and she was away on the hundred and twenty miles to Larne.
Driving carefully, she reached York without mishap, and went for meal in an oak-beamed restaurant. As she ate she studied her map, noting that the castle was on a small island just off the coast. But the road travelled straight across the water, so obviously there was a bridge.
She read Lord Larne’s letter again and was charmed by its light-hearted air. He spoke of poverty but with a humorous touch that suggested he might be pleasant to know.
It was getting late when she restarted her journey. By the time she’d reached open country the light was already fading and there was a nip in the air.
The map informed her that she’d reached North York Moor. Luckily there was a clearly marked road across it, and twenty miles would bring her to the coast and the bridge to Larne Castle.
As she headed across the moor the sun vanished and black clouds began to scud across the sky. The road had no lighting, and she soon had to switch on her headlamps. Outside their glowing circle the bleak land stretched away for miles. She was totally isolated, and beginning to feel a tad dismayed. All around
