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 Eau de Toilette which was their aunt’s signature perfume. Finding Iggy already seated to Morgana’s left, Arthur bent to brush a kiss to the powdered cheek of his aunt before taking the empty chair to her right. Tristan repeated the greeting and slid into the seat beside Iggy.
Clad in her usual unrelieved black, Morgana cast an eye from Arthur to Tristan before nodding once. At the gesture, a maid stepped forward and began to pour tea into the bone china cups placed before each of them. As he waited for the maid to serve everyone, Arthur studied the silver stands laden with finger sandwiches, slices of Victoria sponge and fresh-baked sultana scones. Though it hadn’t been that long since he’d wolfed down a bowl of soup for his lunch, Arthur felt the stirrings of appetite in his stomach at the fine spread before them.
Only once the maid had set the silver teapot down and left the room, did their aunt speak. Fixing Arthur with an expression that said she would brook no nonsense, she asked, ‘What did the inspector have to say?’
That she knew who Arthur had been on the phone to surprised him not at all. Very little happened behind the stone walls of Camland Castle that didn’t reach Morgana’s ears sooner or later—usually sooner. ‘We have to assume the money’s gone for good.’
Iggy’s sharp intake of breath told Arthur he wasn’t the only one who’d been pinning his hopes on a different result. Morgana, however, showed no reaction. ‘It’s done then. The silly fool’s scuppered your ship good and proper.’
‘Morgana.’ Iggy sounded pained, and Arthur saw Tristan reach beneath the table to give their sister’s leg a comforting pat.
‘Don’t Morgana me, girl, when I’m only speaking the truth. Your father was as foolish with money as he was generous with his heart. Remember that race horse he bought for a fortune only for it to go lame the next week? Or that holiday resort in Dominica that got demolished by a hurricane and then it turned out the developers weren’t insured? And what about—’
‘Enough!’ Arthur wasn’t sure who was more shocked, Morgana at being cut off mid-flow or himself at having the balls to raise his voice to her. His great-aunt recovered first, raising her teacup to her lips and taking a sip as though nothing had happened.
Leaping in to fill the silence, Iggy reached for the stand of sandwiches and placed it next to her aunt’s plate. ‘Egg and cress, Morgana, your favourite.’
‘I’m not a child to be mollified, Igraine,’ Morgana said stiffly, but reached for a sandwich none the less.
Arthur and Tristan
