Bradley is expected within the next couple of days?” Armand remarked as Sheena, the waitress, placed the tea on the table.
“Day after tomorrow, I think. Thanks.” She sent Sheena a smile.
“And you’re sure that you will survive in that cottage?” Armand’s lips pursed in distaste. “It seems very rural, ma chère. And quite abhorrent that Bradley should be expulsing you from the château.”
“Armand, you know perfectly well Brad’s not expulsing anyone,” she exclaimed, exasperated. “This is none of his doing, much less his fault. The judge decided Strathaird’s fate, not him. In fact, he begged Mummy and me to stay on,” she added more patiently.
“Then why the move?” he asked, stirring a lump of brown sugar into the strong brew.
“Because,” she said with a sigh, “like it or not, things are going to change. And I know I won’t be able to handle it.” She flexed her fingers nervously. “It wouldn’t be fair to him or me, or the others involved. It’s simply time to move on, Armand, and better to get it done before he arrives.”
“Je suppose.” Armand shrugged doubtfully and patted her arm. “You have much courage, cousine.”
“It’s not as if I’m moving into a cave! The cottage has every modern convenience, hot water, a washing machine. You make it sound as if we’re out on the street.”
“The accommodations appear needlessly common to me.” Armand sniffed.
“Well, you’ve never been inside, so you can’t tell,” Charlotte retorted. “Which reminds me, why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night? That is, if you can bear to eat in such modest surroundings.” She sent him a mischievous grin, then changed the subject and set about recapturing their former lighthearted mood.
When Armand returned from his visit with Charlotte, he was pleased to see that the library was quiet. The local ladies who cleaned Strathaird had finished their ritual morning vacuuming and were having coffee in the kitchen, and Penelope had left for the village. Armand took a deep breath, trying to quell the surge of anticipation. He’d already set one part of his plan in motion this morning, and here was an ideal opportunity to take the next step.
Leaving his jacket carefully folded on the sofa, he moved to the circular wooden ladder at the far side of the room. He would begin here, searching the entire collection shelf by shelf. It would require time and concentration, but he’d already waited so long and time was no longer on his side; he’d have to force himself to go slowly, be methodical. This might be his only chance. But what if he was wrong? he wondered with a sudden pang. He swallowed, throat tight, and tried not to think about it. There were other possibilities, he reminded himself quickly. If he did not find what he was looking for here among the books, then obviously his first deduction was correct. The answer would be where he’d always believed it was.
He glanced at the door, then mounted the steps carefully. He would begin with the French novels, so that if anyone questioned his actions he’d be able to justify the choice. Once they got used to seeing him fiddling in the library, nobody would think anything of it.
Half an hour later his search had yielded little. He passed a white linen handkerchief across his forehead and nervously wiped the perspiration, leaning his right hand on top of a pile of ancient volumes on a higher shelf. As he did so, his fingers met with an object on top of the books. Steadying himself carefully on the library steps, Armand pulled it carefully toward him, amazed when he beheld a small, silver-mounted pistol. He studied it, eyes narrowed. It was definitely of another age, small and elegant, designed perhaps for a woman. The butt was delicate and exquisitely inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
The muffled sound of voices emanating from the hall made him slip the pistol into his trouser pocket and hasten back down the steps, being careful not to trip. Grabbing a book, he ensconced himself once more in one of the leather armchairs before anyone entered the room.
Charlotte turned off the Land Rover’s engine and stared for several moments at the castle’s ancient austere facade, softened by her mother’s terra-cotta pots, spilling pink and white hydrangeas over the shallow stone steps, and thought over what she and Armand had talked about earlier. A sigh escaped her. Paris and the thought of her jewelry parading down the catwalk on Armand’s models was exciting, flattering and very hard not to dream about. It was a long time since she’d dreamed about anything, she realized suddenly. John’s image flashed before her, making her feel immediately guilty, but she swept it aside, determined not to allow the dark cloud to descend upon her. And for the first time in years, she dared to peek into the future.
Biting her finger abstractedly, she stared at the castle walls without really seeing them. Was Armand right? Could her designs really open up a new avenue in her life? Lately it had seemed so bleak. She sat for a minute behind the wheel, pondering, caught between past, present and future. Following the soft orange glimmer caused by the setting sun bouncing off the glistening stained-glass windows like sparks off a live wire, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to dare. Then she jumped out of the vehicle, pulled out the planters her mother had asked her to pick up at Haldane’s Nursery in the village, and carried them up the steps, torn between the budding urge to take the plunge and the overwhelming guilt that just thinking of doing so caused her.
“Ah, there you are, darling,” Penelope said, looking up and smiling as Charlotte entered the hall.
“Hello, Mum. Here’s everything you asked for. I told them to put it on the bill,” she said, thankful for the distraction.
“Thanks.” Penelope frowned doubtfully. “Do you think we should do that, now that Brad…” Her voice trailed off as she gazed down at the plants.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mum! The plants are for Strathaird. Of course you must put them on the estate account,” Charlotte replied, annoyed.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But what if Sylvia doesn’t like them? Perhaps I should have waited and let her choose them herself. She sent me an e-mail this morning.”
“I don’t give a damn what she likes,” Charlotte mumbled crossly. “I’ll set these in the pantry.” They walked down the steps together and along the corridor to the pantry. Charlotte dropped the plants on the counter then moved to the sink and turned on the single tap to wash away the dirt from her hands. “What did she want, anyway?”
“Something to do with Brad and computer programs. She seems terribly efficient.”
“Well, bully for her.” Charlotte gave the tap a sharp twist and dried her hands on an old kitchen towel. “She’ll jolly well have to adapt, Mum, if she’s going to do a half-decent job here. If she thinks she can waft in and turn Strathaird into her fancy Park Avenue digs, she’s got another think coming.”
“Don’t be horrid, Charlie, it’s not like you.” Penelope looked at her, surprised. “By the way, I had a call from Ambassador de la Fuente. He and the twins are arriving straight from Uruguay via somewhere I can’t remember, on—” she leaned over and picked up the agenda that was never far out of reach and slipped on her glasses “—the fifteenth. I suppose they’ll arrive here by helicopter.” She glanced up, shoulders sagging slightly. “I don’t think I can cope with picking anyone up just now. Oh, and Brad phoned to say he’s arriving on his own because Sylvia has some job or other she has to finish. She’ll be following in due course.”
“Good. The longer she stays away the better,” Charlotte muttered, swinging a leg from her perch
