Книга - A Diamond In The Snow

A Diamond In The Snow
Kate Hardy


When opposites attract…Needing help to organise the Christmas party of the decade, Victoria Hamilton hires unconventional but charming banker Sam Weatherby as her PA. With pressure from their parents Sam is quickly promoted to fake fiancée but could they have found true love.







When opposites attract...

They may find their Christmas miracle!

Needing help to organize the Christmas party of the decade, Victoria Hamilton hires the very unconventional yet very charming Sam Weatherby as her PA. With pressure from their parents, both need each other’s help, and when Sam—normally a banker!—is quickly promoted to fake fiancé until the party is over, neither realizes that in the most unexpected place, they may have actually found true love!


KATE HARDY has always loved books, and could read before she went to school. She discovered Mills & Boon books when she was twelve, and decided that this was what she wanted to do. When she isn’t writing Kate enjoys reading, cinema, ballroom dancing and the gym. You can contact her via her website: katehardy.com (http://www.katehardy.com).


Also by Kate Hardy (#u904fca02-0f6b-51b9-a980-3f41ea6035d4)

Her Festive Doorstep Baby

His Shy Cinderella

The Runaway Bride and the Billionaire

Christmas Bride for the Boss

Unlocking the Italian Doc’s Heart

Reunited at the Altar

Carrying the Single Dad’s Baby

Miracles at Muswell Hill Hospital miniseries

Christmas with Her Daredevil Doc

Their Pregnancy Gift

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


A Diamond in the Snow

Kate Hardy






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07822-1

A DIAMOND IN THE SNOW

© 2018 Pamela Brooks

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Jo Rendell-Dodd, with love and thanks for

coming on my research trip, and Megan, with love and

thanks for putting up with a recalcitrant author! xxx


Contents

Cover (#uffe4f3f6-dec8-583b-b1ac-fcca69a47268)

Back Cover Text (#u9f00a64a-02d5-54af-b916-31a809efdd17)

About the Author (#u6f4fbc17-48df-58b1-ba62-94c456a49e90)

Booklist (#u5759fff0-5d6a-56f2-990a-95e1af924d70)

Title Page (#u2297b861-8d5c-5fa0-8abd-d31322744007)

Copyright (#u18c5157e-75c9-5a79-9707-9f85a441e3fa)

Dedication (#ue34ee83e-575c-54f7-85ff-05c5509b2678)

CHAPTER ONE (#u0ad3de76-e014-5428-b9a9-b39bef32e577)

CHAPTER TWO (#u52ca3d41-651f-51c3-9f23-9d3d7bb3e162)

CHAPTER THREE (#u8dab9512-cc0c-5659-81dc-148540139ee5)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#u904fca02-0f6b-51b9-a980-3f41ea6035d4)


‘VICTORIA?’ FELICITY, THE textile conservation expert who was doing the annual survey of the displays at Chiverton Hall, stood awkwardly in the office doorway. ‘Could I have a quick word?’

Victoria’s heart sank. Felicity and her team were checking for anything that might need conservation work over the winter. The fact that she wanted a word must mean she’d found something. ‘Bad news?’

‘It’s not all bad,’ Felicity said brightly. ‘There are a couple of rooms where you need to lower the light levels a bit more, to limit the fade damage, but those moth traps have worked brilliantly and there’s no evidence of silverfish or death watch beetle—all the holes in the wood are the same as they were last time round and there’s no evidence of frazz.’

Frazz, Victoria knew, were the little shavings of wood caused by beetles chomping through it. And that would’ve meant major structural repairs to whatever was affected, anything from a chair to floorboards to oak panelling. ‘I’m glad to hear that.’ Though she knew Felicity wouldn’t have come to talk about something minor. ‘But?’

Felicity sighed. ‘I was checking the gilt on a mirror and I found mould behind it.’

‘Mould?’ Victoria looked at her in shock. ‘But we keep an eye on the humidity levels and we’ve installed conservation heating.’ The type that switched on according to the relative humidity in a room, not the temperature. ‘How can we have mould?’ A nasty thought struck her. ‘Oh, no. Is there a leak somewhere that’s caused dampness in a wall?’ Though Victoria walked through the rooms every day. Surely she should’ve spotted any signs of water damage?

Felicity shook her head. ‘I think it probably started before you put in the heating, when the humidity wasn’t quite right, and we didn’t spot it at the last survey because it was behind the mirror and it’s only just grown out to the edge. Unless we’re doing a full clean of the wall coverings—’ something that they only did every five years ‘—we don’t take the mirrors and paintings down.’

‘Sorry.’ Victoria bit her lip. ‘I didn’t mean it to sound as if I was having a go at you.’

‘I know. It’s the sort of news that’d upset anyone.’

Victoria smiled, relieved that the conservation expert hadn’t taken offence. ‘Which room?’

‘The ballroom.’

Victoria’s favourite room in the house; she loved the way the silk damask wall hangings literally glowed in the light. As children, she and Lizzie had imagined Regency balls taking place there; they’d dressed up and pretended to be one of their ancestors. Well, Lizzie’s ancestors, really, as Victoria was adopted; though Patrick and Diana Hamilton had never treated her as if she were anything other than their biological and much-loved daughter.

‘I guess behind the mirror is the obvious place for mould to start,’ Victoria said. ‘We don’t use the fireplaces, so there’s cold, damp air in the chimney breast, and the dampness would be trapped between the wall and the mirror.’

‘Exactly that,’ Felicity said. ‘You know, if you ever get bored running this place, I’d be more than happy to poach you as a senior member of my team.’

Victoria summoned a smile, though she felt like bawling her eyes out. Mould wasn’t good in any building, but it was especially problematic when it came to heritage buildings. ‘Thanks, but I’m never going to get bored here.’ Though if Lizzie, the true heir to Chiverton Hall, had lived, she would’ve been the one taking over from their parents. Victoria probably would’ve ended up working in either food history or conservation but with books, rather than with textiles. ‘How bad is it?’

‘Bad enough that we’ll need to take the hangings down to dry them out. We can’t fix it in situ. Hopefully a thorough clean with the conservation vac and a soft brush will get out most of the damage, but if the material’s been weakened too much we’ll have to put a backing on it.’

‘Worst-case?’ Victoria asked.

‘The silk will be too fragile to go back, and we’ll need a specialist weaving company to produce a reproduction for us.’

Victoria dragged in a breath. ‘The whole room?’

‘Hopefully we can get away with one wall,’ Felicity said.

Even one wall would be costly and time-consuming. ‘I know the actual cost and time to fix it will depend on what the damage looks like on the reverse side, and the wall might need work as well,’ Victoria said. ‘I’m not going to hold you to an exact figure but, just so I can get a handle on this, can you give me a ballpark figure for the worst-case scenario?’

Felicity named a figure that made Victoria wince. It was way over the sum she’d allocated for maintenance in the annual budget. And she knew the insurance wouldn’t cover it because mould counted as a gradually operating cause. She’d have to find the money for the restoration from somewhere. But where?

‘Short of a lottery win or me marrying a millionaire—’ which absolutely wasn’t going to happen because, apart from the fact she didn’t actually know any millionaires, she wasn’t even dating anyone, and her exes had made it very clear that she wasn’t desirable enough for marriage ‘—I’m going to have to work out how to fund this.’

‘Start with heritage grants,’ Felicity advised. ‘You’ll have a better case if you can show that whatever you’re doing will help with education.’

‘Like we did when we installed the conservation heating—putting up information boards for the visitors and a blog on the website giving regular updates, with photographs as well as text,’ Victoria said promptly.

‘And, if we pick the team carefully, we can have students learning conservation skills under our supervision,’ Felicity said. ‘The ballroom is a perfect example of a Regency interior, so it’s important enough to merit conservation.’

Victoria lifted her chin. ‘Right. I’d better face the damage.’

Felicity patted her shoulder. ‘I know, love. I could’ve cried when I saw it, and it’s not even mine.’

It wasn’t really Victoria’s, either. Even though her father had sorted out the entail years ago, so the house would pass to her rather than to some distant male relative, she wasn’t a Hamilton by birth. Her parents loved her dearly, just as she loved them; but she was still very aware that their real daughter lay in the churchyard next door. And right now Victoria felt as if she’d let them all down. She was supposed to be taking care of her parents and the house, for Lizzie’s sake, and she’d failed.

Actually seeing the damage made it feel worse.

Without the mirror over the mantelpiece to reflect light back from the windows opposite, the room seemed darker and smaller. And when Felicity turned off the overhead light and shone her UV torch on the wall, the mould growth glowed luminescent.

‘The hangings from that whole wall are going to have to come down,’ Felicity said. ‘With polythene sheeting over it, to stop the spores spreading.’

‘And everyone needs to be wearing protective equipment while they do it,’ Victoria said. ‘And we’ll have to measure the mould spores in the air. If it’s bad, then we’ll have to keep visitors out of the room completely.’

Felicity patted her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get this fixed so the ballroom shines again.’

Victoria was prepared to do whatever it took. Fill out endless forms, beg every institution going for a loan. Or find a millionaire and talk him into marrying her and saving the ballroom. After her ex had been so forthcoming about where she fell short, Victoria was under no illusions that she was attractive enough for an ordinary man, let alone a millionaire who could have his pick of women; but she knew from past experience that the house was a real draw for potential suitors. All she needed was a millionaire instead of a gold-digger to fall in love with it. Which kind of made her a gold-digger, but she’d live with that. She’d be the perfect wife, for the house’s sake.

When Felicity and her team had left for the day, Victoria walked up and down the Long Gallery with her dog at her heels, just as countless Hamilton women had done over the centuries, not seeing the ancient oil paintings or the view over the formal knot gardens. All she could think about was what a mess she’d made. She wasn’t a coward—she’d tell her parents the news today—but she wasn’t going to tell them until she’d worked out a solution.

Pacing cleared her head enough for her to spend half an hour on the Internet, checking things. And finally she went to her parents’ apartment.

‘Hello, darling. You’re late tonight. Are you eating with us? I’ve made chicken cacciatore—your favourite,’ her mother said.

‘You might not want to feed me when you hear the news,’ Victoria said with a sigh. She wasn’t sure she was up to eating, either. She still felt too sick. ‘Felicity found a problem.’

‘Bad?’ Patrick Hamilton asked.

She nodded. ‘Mould in the ballroom, behind the mirror. They found it when they were checking the gilt. Best-case scenario, they’ll take the hangings down on that wall, dry them out, remove the mould and put backing on the weak areas of silk. Worst-case, we’ll have to get reproduction hangings made for that whole wall. We won’t know until the hangings come down.’ She dragged in a breath. ‘Hopefully we can get a heritage grant. If they turn us down because they’ve already allocated the funds for the year, then we’ll have to raise the money ourselves. We’ll have to raise a bit of it in any case.’ And she had ideas about that. It’d be a lot of work, but she didn’t mind.

‘Firstly,’ Patrick said, ‘you can stop beating yourself up, darling.’

‘But I should ha—’ she began.

‘It was behind the mirror, you said, so nobody would’ve known it was there until it reached the edge,’ Patrick pointed out gently. ‘If I’d still been running the house, the mould would still have been there.’ He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You’re too hard on yourself, Victoria. You’re doing a brilliant job. This year has been our best ever for visitor numbers, and your mother and I are incredibly proud of you.’ She could hear the worry and the warmth in her father’s voice and she knew he meant what he said. But why couldn’t she let herself believe it? Why couldn’t she feel as if she was enough? ‘Lizzie would be proud of you, too,’ Patrick continued.

At the mention of her little sister, Victoria’s throat felt thick and her eyes prickled with tears.

‘It’ll work out, darling,’ Diana said, enveloping her in a hug. ‘These things always do.’

‘I’ve been thinking about how we can raise the money. I know we usually close from half-term so we have a chance to do the conservation work before the visitor season starts again, but maybe we could open the house at Christmas this year. Just some of the rooms,’ Victoria said. ‘We could trim them up for Christmas as it would’ve been in Regency times, and hold workshops teaching people how to make Christmas wreaths and stained-glass ornaments and old-fashioned confectionery. And we could hold a proper Regency ball, with everyone in Regency dress and supper served exactly as it would’ve been two hundred years ago.’

‘Just like you and Lizzie used to pretend, when you were little and you’d just discovered Jane Austen.’ Diana ruffled her hair. ‘That’s a splendid idea. But it’ll be a lot of extra work, darling.’

‘I don’t mind.’ It wasn’t a job to her: she loved what she did. It was her life.

‘We can hire in some help to support you,’ Patrick said.

Victoria shook her head. ‘We can’t afford it, Dad. The cost of fixing the ballroom is going to be astronomical.’

‘Then we can try and find a volunteer to help you,’ Patrick said.

‘Yes—I can ask around,’ Diana added. ‘There’s bound to be someone we know whose son or daughter is taking a gap year and would leap at the chance to get experience like this. We could offer bed and board here, if that would help.’

‘Maybe this could be the start of a new Chiverton tradition,’ Patrick said. ‘The annual Christmas ball. In years to come, your grandchildren will still be talking about how you saved the ballroom.’

Grandchildren.

Victoria knew how much her parents wanted grandchildren—and she knew she was letting them down there, too.

The problem was, she’d never met the man who made her want to get married, much less have children. Her relationships had all fizzled out—mainly when she’d discovered that the men she’d dated hadn’t wanted her, they’d wanted the house and the lifestyle they thought went with it. Once they’d discovered the lifestyle didn’t match their dreams, she hadn’t seen them for dust. And she’d been stupid enough to be fooled three times, now. Never again.

She’d fallen back on the excuse of being too busy to date, which meant her parents had taken to inviting eligible men over for dinner. Every couple of weeks they’d surprise her with someone who’d just dropped in to say hello. It drove her crazy; but how could she complain when she was so hopeless and couldn’t seem to find someone for herself?

Maybe the one good thing about the ballroom restoration was that it might distract her parents from matchmaking. Just for a little while.

‘A new tradition sounds lovely,’ she said, and forced herself to smile.

‘That’s my girl,’ Patrick said, and patted her on the shoulder. ‘We’ll find you some help. And we’ll get that mould sorted. Together.’

Sam felt a twinge of guilt as he parked on the gravel outside his parents’ house. He really ought to come home more often. It wasn’t that far from London to Cambridge, and he was their only child. He really ought to make more of an effort.

His first inkling that something might be wrong was when he walked into the house with a large bouquet of flowers for his mother and a bottle of wine for his father, and his mother started crying.

He put everything he was carrying onto the kitchen table and hugged her. ‘If I’d known you were allergic to lilies, Mum, I would’ve brought you chocolate instead.’

‘It’s not that. I love the flowers.’ She sniffed.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘What, then?’ Please, not the unthinkable. Several of his friends had recently discovered that their parents were splitting up and were having a hard time dealing with it. But his parents’ marriage was rock-solid, he was sure.

‘It’s your dad. He had a TIA on Wednesday night—a mini-stroke.’

‘What?’ Wednesday was three days ago. He stared at her in horror. ‘Mum, why on earth didn’t you call me? I would’ve come straight to the hospital. You know that.’

She didn’t meet his eye. ‘You’re busy at work, sweetie.’

‘Dad’s more important than work, and so are you.’ He blew out a breath. ‘Is he still in hospital? Is he all right? And how are you doing?’

‘He’s recuperating at home, and I’m fine.’

The first bit might be true, but the second definitely wasn’t. ‘Mum, I hate that you went through this on your own.’ On Wednesday night, he’d been out partying. Without a clue that his father was in the emergency department with a potentially life-changing illness. ‘What did the doctors say?’

‘That if he wants to avoid having another one, or even a full-blown stroke, he needs to take it easier. Maybe think about retiring.’

Which was Sam’s cue to come back to Cambridge and take over Patrick’s place as the head of the family firm of stockbrokers. Leave the fast-paced, high-octane job he loved in the buzzing, vibrant capital for a staid, quiet job in an equally staid, quiet city.

He pushed the thought aside. Of course he’d do the right thing by his family. He wasn’t that shallow and selfish, whatever his girlfriends liked to claim. There was a good reason why he kept all his relationships light. He’d learned the hard way that women saw him as a golden ticket to their future. Which wasn’t what he wanted.

‘And he needs to cut down on alcohol, stop smoking the cigars he thinks I don’t know about, eat more healthily and take more exercise,’ Denise added.

Sam glanced at the wine: his father’s favourite. ‘So this was the worst thing I could’ve brought him.’

‘It’s not your fault, love.’

‘So, what—porridge rather than bacon for breakfast, no salt, and no butter on his vegetables?’ Which meant his father wasn’t going to be happy.

Denise nodded. ‘But they’ve given him medication to thin his blood and stop another clot forming.’ She bit her lip. ‘Next time, it might be a full-blown stroke.’

Which might affect his father’s speech, his mobility and his ability to think clearly. Sam’s duty was very clear. ‘I’ll call my boss tonight and hand in my notice. I’m coming home to support you.’

‘We can’t ask you to do that, Sammy.’

‘You’re not asking. I’m offering,’ he pointed out, and hugged her again. ‘Mum, I want you to promise me you’ll never deal with anything like this on your own again. You call me. It doesn’t matter what time of day or night. You and Dad come first.’

She blinked away tears. ‘Oh, Sammy. I know you’ve got a busy life in London. I didn’t want to bother you.’

‘It bothers me a lot more that you didn’t tell me,’ he said grimly. ‘Promise me.’

‘I promise,’ she said.

‘Good. Put the wine in the rack, and I’ll think of something else to give Dad. Where is he?’

‘In the living room. He’s, um, not in the best of moods.’

Sam could imagine. ‘I’ll get him smiling, Mum.’

Alan Weatherby was sitting in an armchair with a rug over his knees and a scowl on his face.

‘Hey, Dad.’ Sam patted his father’s shoulder. ‘On a scale of one to ten of boredom, you’re at eleven, right?’

‘Your mother fusses and won’t let me do anything. She says I have to rest.’

But his father wasn’t known for sitting still. Resting would be incredibly frustrating for him. ‘Maybe we could go to the golf club and shoot a couple of holes,’ Sam suggested.

Alan rolled his eyes. ‘It’s play, not shoot. Which just shows you’re a complete rookie and you’ll hack divots out of the green and embarrass me.’

Sam didn’t take offence. He knew how he’d feel in his father’s shoes: cooped up, miserable and at odds with the world. ‘A walk, then,’ he suggested. ‘I could take you both to the university botanical gardens.’ A place he knew his mother loved. ‘And we could have a cup of tea in the café.’ Though without the scones and clotted cream he knew his father would like. ‘A change of scenery might help.’

‘Hmm,’ Alan said.

‘In your shoes, I’d be bored and grumpy, too,’ Sam said. ‘But your health’s important, Dad. You need to look after yourself, especially as you’re—’

‘I’m not old, before you say it,’ Alan cut in. ‘Sixty-three isn’t old. There’s plenty of life in me yet.’

‘And I want it to stay that way,’ Sam said. ‘The medics told you to take things easier, eat well, take a bit of exercise and reduce your stress.’

‘Your mother’s trying to make me eat lentils. Lentils.’ Alan looked disgusted.

Sam couldn’t hide a grin. ‘They’re not as bad as you think.’

‘Don’t you start. I thought you’d bring me contraband.’

He had. But only because he hadn’t known the situation. ‘No chance. I want you about for a lot longer.’

‘Is that why you’re dragging your feet about settling down and having children?’

If only his father knew. But Sam hadn’t told any of his family why he’d broken his engagement to Olivia, two years before. Or why he’d got engaged to her in the first place. Even now it left a nasty taste in his mouth. Nowadays he made sure his girlfriends knew that he was looking for fun and not for for ever. Olivia had broken his ability to trust, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to take another risk with his heart.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Dad, there’s an easy solution to all this.’

Alan frowned. ‘What?’

‘Let me take over Weatherby’s from you,’ Sam said. ‘You’ve more than earned some time off to play golf and have weekends away with Mum. And I’ve spent the last six years in the City, learning the ropes. You’ll be leaving the business in safe hands.’

Alan shook his head. ‘The fund you manage is high risk. It’s extreme. Half of our clients would look at your record, panic, and find themselves another stockbroker.’

‘Apart from the fact that any strategy I recommended to a client would depend on the client’s attitude towards risk,’ Sam said dryly, ‘I’m good at my job, Dad. That’s why they promoted me.’

‘You take risks,’ Alan repeated.

‘Calculated ones.’

‘You’re still young and reckless.’

‘I’m twenty-seven,’ Sam said, ‘and I’m not reckless.’

‘Prove it.’

Sam frowned. ‘How?’

‘Take an ordinary job for three months.’

‘How’s that going to prove anything?’ Sam asked, mystified.

‘It’ll show me that you can connect to people in the real word. That you can see that actions have consequences.’

‘Dad, I already do connect to people in the real world, and of course I know that actions have consequences,’ Sam said, frowning.

‘Take an ordinary job,’ Alan repeated. ‘Show me that you can take directions and listen to other people.’

Which had absolutely nothing to do with running a firm of stockbrokers, Sam thought.

Either he’d accidentally spoken aloud, or his doubts showed on his face, because Alan said softly, ‘It’s got everything to do with running the firm. It’s about listening and relating to people—staff as well as clients. In London, you live in a bubble. You’re insulated from your investors and everyone you mix with is like you—young, well-off and living in the fast lane.’

Most people would consider that Samuel Weatherby had made a success of his career. He’d got a job on his own merits after university rather than expecting to be a shoo-in at his father’s business, he’d shown an aptitude for fund management and he’d been promoted quickly. But it sounded as if his father thought his job was worthless, and that hurt.

‘Not all,’ he said. ‘There’s Jude.’ His best friend was an actor with a growing reputation on the stage, and people were talking about him in terms of being the Olivier of his generation.

‘Right now,’ Alan said, ‘I don’t think you’re settled enough to work at Weatherby’s. If I let you take over from me now, it’d be more stressful than running it myself.’

Sam reminded himself that his father had had a rough week—a mini-stroke that had brought him face to face with the idea of getting old or even dying, the prospect of having to change all the things he liked most about his lifestyle and feeling stuck at home when he wanted to be doing what he always did. Right now, Alan was simply lashing out at the nearest target—his son.

‘Take an ordinary job for three months, and if you can do that then I’ll be happy that I’m leaving the family business in safe hands,’ Alan said.

Sam could tell his father to forget it and stomp off back to London in a huff. But the fear he’d seen in his mother’s eyes stopped him. Alan was at risk of another mini-stroke or even a full-blown one. Sam couldn’t stand by and watch his father drive himself into an early grave. ‘So what sort of job do you have in mind, Dad?’ he asked.

‘Actually, now you mention it, there is one,’ Alan said. ‘Working for one of my clients. Nice chap. He owns a stately home. A building problem’s cropped up in the last week or so and they need to raise some money. He was talking to me about cashing in some investments, but as the market’s just dipped I think now’s not a good time.’

Raising money. Sam was very, very good at turning small funds into big ones. But he had a feeling that this particular client wouldn’t be comfortable with the high-risk strategy he’d need to adopt to do that.

‘The job would be voluntary,’ Alan continued, ‘because they can’t afford to pay anyone. You’d be helping to organise the fundraising events.’

Sam couldn’t help smiling.

‘What’s so funny?’ Alan demanded.

‘You wanted me to get an ordinary job. I thought you meant something in retail or a call centre. Ordinary people don’t own stately homes, Dad.’

‘No,’ Alan said crisply, ‘but their visitors and staff are ordinary and you’ll be interacting with them.’

‘A voluntary job.’ Three months with no salary. But he’d be on garden leave; and even if that didn’t work out, he’d managed his personal investments well enough that he could easily afford to take a sabbatical. Jude was coming back from a tour in rep to a three-month run in the West End and could stay at Sam’s flat; it would save Jude having to find a landlady who was happy to have a theatrical lodger, and in return Sam would know that his flat was in safe hands. ‘OK. I’ll talk to him and see if I’ll be a good fit.’

‘Good.’ Alan paused. ‘The botanical gardens and afternoon tea, you said.’

‘One scone, no cream, and no sugar in your tea,’ Sam said.

Alan rolled his eyes. ‘You’re as bossy as your mother.’

Sam grinned. ‘More like I’m as bossy as you, Dad.’

‘You might have a point,’ Alan allowed. ‘Go and tell your mother to get ready. I’ll have a word with Patrick and see if we can line up a chat for tomorrow.’

And Sam would have a quiet chat with his boss. This was time for payback. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of working in a stately home for three months, but if that was what it took to make sure his father stayed healthy and happy, he’d do it.




CHAPTER TWO (#u904fca02-0f6b-51b9-a980-3f41ea6035d4)


‘SO WHAT DO you actually know about this man who wants to come and help us, Dad?’ Victoria asked.

‘He’s my stockbroker’s son,’ Patrick said.

‘So is he taking a gap year? Is his degree going to be in history?’

‘I don’t know,’ Patrick said, ‘but Alan said he’s very keen.’

He must be, Victoria thought, to arrange an interview for nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. ‘Did you want to interview him, then, as you know his father?’

Patrick smiled and patted her shoulder. ‘Absolutely not, darling. You’re the one he’s going to be working with. It needs to be your decision.’

‘If you change your mind, we’ll be in the office,’ Victoria said.

It was a shame her father had been so vague about the details; he hadn’t even asked for a rudimentary CV. Then again, her father came from the era of the gentleman’s agreement and he didn’t like paperwork. Hopefully the lad would bring his exam certificates with him and she’d be able to get an idea of his education so far and his interests, and whether he’d be the right one to help her.

Part of her thought there was something rude and arrogant about interviewing a volunteer for a job you weren’t actually paying them to do; on the other hand, if he was hopeless, he’d be more of a hindrance than a help because she’d have to double-check everything he did. Plus, even though he wasn’t being paid, he was getting valuable experience that might help him with applications for further study or a job in the heritage sector.

‘Come on, Humphrey,’ she said to her fox-red Labrador, who was curled up on the chair where he knew he wasn’t supposed to be. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’ It was more to clear her head before the interview than anything else. It felt as if she’d spent weeks wrestling with forms.

At the W-word, the Labrador sprang off the chair, wagged his tail and followed her into the garden.

Growing up at Chiverton had been such a privilege. Victoria loved everything about the place, from the mellow golden stone it was built from, through to the big sash windows that surrounded the huge Venetian window at the back of the house, through to the pedimented portico at the front. She loved the gardens that sprawled around the house and were full of daffodils and bluebells in the spring, the way the sunrise was reflected in the lake, and the formal knot garden at the side full of box and lavender. And most of all she loved the ballroom.

Her plans were going to require a lot of organisational skills. But hopefully Samuel Weatherby would fall in love with the place, too, and support her fundraising effort.

Humphrey headed straight for the lake as soon as they were outside and was already swimming after the ducks before she had a chance to call him back.

‘I’m banishing you to the kitchen,’ she said when he finally came out of the lake and shook the water from his coat. ‘I don’t want you scaring off our volunteer.’ Unless he was unsuitable—and then perhaps she could offer him a coffee in the kitchen, and Humphrey would leap all over their volunteer and make him withdraw his offer of help.

She could imagine Lizzie’s soft giggle and, ‘But, Tori, that’s so naughty!’ Lizzie was one of the two people Victoria had ever allowed to shorten her name.

She shook herself. She didn’t have time for sentiment right now. She needed to be businesslike and sort out her questions for her impending visitor to make sure he had the qualities she needed. Someone efficient and calm, who could use his initiative, drive a hard bargain, and not mind mucking in and getting his hands dirty. And definitely not someone clumsy.

In return, he’d get experience on his CV. She tried not to feel guilty about the lack of a salary. So many internships nowadays were unpaid. Besides, as her mother had suggested, they could offer him accommodation and meals; and Victoria could always buy him some books for his course. Textbooks cost an arm and a leg.

She changed into her business suit and had just finished dealing with an email when the landline in her office shrilled. She picked up the phone. ‘Victoria Hamilton.’

‘May I speak to Mr Hamilton, please? It’s Samuel Weatherby. I believe he’s expecting me.’

He sounded confident, which was probably a good thing. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘you’re seeing me. I’m his daughter and I run the house.’ She wasn’t going to give him a hard time about asking for the wrong person. The message had probably become garbled between their fathers.

‘My apologies, Ms Hamilton,’ he said.

He was quick to recover, at any rate, she thought. ‘I assume, as you’re ringing me, you’re at the gate?’

‘Yes. I parked in the visitor car park. Is that OK, or do I need to move my car?’

‘It’s fine. I’ll come and let you in,’ she said.

Humphrey whined at the door as she walked past.

‘You are not coming with me and jumping all over our poor student,’ Victoria told him, but her tone was soft. ‘I’ll take you for another run later.’

The house was gorgeous, Samuel thought as he walked down the gravelled drive. The equal of any London townhouse, with those huge windows and perfect proportions. The house was clearly well cared for; there was no evidence of it being some mouldering pile with broken windows and damaged stonework, and what he could see of the gardens was neat and tidy.

He paused to read the visitor information board. So the Hamilton family had lived here for two hundred and fifty years. From the woodcut on the board, the place had barely changed in that time—at least, on the outside. Obviously running water, electricity and some form of heating had been installed.

Despite the fact that the house was in the middle of nowhere and he was used to living and working in the centre of London, a few minutes away from everything, there was something about the place that drew him. He could definitely work here for three months, if it would help keep his father happy and healthy.

All he had to do was to convince Patrick Hamilton that he was the man for the job. It would’ve been helpful if his father had given him a bit more information about what the job actually entailed, so he could’ve crafted a CV to suit. As it was, he’d have to make do with his current CV—and hope that Patrick didn’t look too closely at it or panic about the hedge fund management stuff.

He glanced at his watch. Five minutes early. He could either kick his heels out here, on the wrong side of a locked gate, or he could get this thing started.

He took his phone from his pocket. Despite this place being in the middle of nowhere, it had a decent signal, to his relief. He called the number his father had given him.

‘Victoria Hamilton,’ a crisp voice said.

Patrick’s wife or daughter, Sam presumed. He couldn’t quite gauge her age from her voice. ‘May I speak to Mr Hamilton, please? It’s Samuel Weatherby. I believe he’s expecting me.’

‘Actually,’ she corrected, ‘you’re seeing me. I’m his daughter and I run the house.’

Something his father had definitely neglected to tell him. Alarm bells rang in Sam’s head. Please don’t let this be some elaborate ruse on his father’s part to fix him up with someone he considered a suitable partner. Sam didn’t want a partner. He was quite happy with his life just the way it was, thank you.

Then again, brooding over your own mortality probably meant you didn’t pay as much attention to detail as usual. And Sam wanted this job. He’d give his father the benefit of the doubt. ‘My apologies, Ms Hamilton.’

‘I assume, as you’re ringing me, you’re at the gate?’

‘Yes. I parked in the visitor car park. Is that OK, or do I need to move my car?’

‘It’s fine. I’ll come and let you in,’ she said.

He ended the call, and a couple of minutes later a woman came walking round the corner.

She was wearing a well-cut dark business suit and low-heeled shoes. Her dark hair was woven into a severe French pleat, and she wore the bare minimum of make-up. Sam couldn’t quite sum her up: she dressed like a woman in her forties, but her skin was unlined enough for her to be around his own age.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Weatherby.’ She tapped a code into the keypad, opened the gate and held out her hand to shake his.

Formal, too. OK. He’d let himself be guided by her.

Her handshake was completely businesslike, firm enough to warn him that she wasn’t a pushover and yet she wasn’t trying to prove that she was physically as strong as a man.

‘Welcome to Chiverton Hall, Mr Weatherby.’

‘Sam,’ he said. Though he noticed that she didn’t ask him to call her by her own first name.

‘I’m afraid my father hasn’t told me much about you, other than that you’re interested in a voluntary job here for the next three months—so I assume that either you’re a mature student, or you’re changing career and you’re looking for some experience to help with that.’

She thought he was a student? Then again, he’d been expecting to deal with her father. There had definitely been some crossed wires. ‘I’m changing career,’ he said. Which was true: just not the whole truth.

‘Did you bring your CV with you?’

‘No.’ Which had been stupid of him. ‘But I can access it on my phone and email it over to you.’

‘Thank you. That would be useful.’ Her smile was kind, and made it clear she thought he wasn’t up to the job.

This was ridiculous. Why should he have to prove himself to a woman he’d never met before, for a temporary and voluntary post?

Though, according to his father, they needed help. Having someone clueless who’d need to take up lots of her time for training was the last thing she needed. In her shoes, he’d be the same—wanting someone capable.

‘Let me show you round the house,’ she said, ‘and you can tell me what you want to get out of a three-month placement.’

Proof for his father that he could take direction and deal with ordinary people. If he told her that, she’d run a mile. And he needed to get this job, so he could stay here to keep an eye on his parents. ‘Experience,’ he said instead.

‘Of conservation work or management?’

‘Possibly both.’ He felt ridiculously underprepared. He’d expected a casual chat with a friend of his father’s, and an immediate offer to start work there the next week. What an arrogant idiot he was. Maybe his father had a point. To give himself thinking time, he asked, ‘What does the job actually entail?’

She blew out a breath. ‘Background: we do an annual survey to check on the condition of our textiles and see what work we need to do over the winter.’

He assumed this was standard practice in the heritage sector.

‘My surveyor found mould in the silk hangings in the ballroom. It’s going to cost a lot to fix, so we’re applying for heritage grants and we’re also running some fundraising events.’

‘So where do I come in?’ he asked.

‘That depends on your skill set.’

Good answer. Victoria Hamilton was definitely one of the sharper tools in the box.

‘If you’re good at website design, I need to update our website with information about the ballroom restoration and its progress. If you’re good at figures, then budgeting and cost control would be a help. If you’ve managed events, then I’d want you to help to set up the programme and run them.’

Help to, he noticed. She clearly had no intention of giving up control. ‘Who fills the gaps?’ he asked.

‘Me.’

‘That’s quite a wide range of skills.’

She shrugged. ‘I started helping with the house as soon as I was old enough. And Dad’s gradually been passing his responsibilities to me. I’ve been in charge of running the house for two years. You have to be adaptable so you can meet any challenge life throws up. In the heritage sector, every day is different.’

Her father believed in her, whereas his didn’t trust him. Part of him envied her. But that wasn’t why he was here.

‘I’ll give you the short version of the house tour,’ she said.

Stately homes had never really been Sam’s thing. He remembered being taken to them when he was young, but he’d been bored and restless until it was time to run around in the parkland or, even better, a children’s play area. But he needed to look enthusiastic right now, if he was to stand any chance of getting this job. ‘I’d love to see around,’ he fibbed.

She led him round to the front. ‘The entrance hall is the first room people would see when they visited, so it needed to look impressive.’

Hence the chandelier, the stunning black and white marble floor, the artwork and the huge curving double staircase. He could imagine women walking down the staircase, with the trains of their dresses sweeping down behind them; and he made a mental note to ask Victoria whether any of her events involved people in period dress—because that was something he could help with, through Jude.

There were plenty of portraits on the walls; he assumed most of them were of Hamilton ancestors.

‘Once they’d been impressed by the entrance hall—and obviously they’d focus on the plasterwork on the ceiling, not the chandelier—visitors would go up the staircase and into the salon,’ she said.

Again, the room was lavishly decorated, with rich carpets and gilt-framed paintings.

‘If you were close to the family, you’d go into the withdrawing room,’ she said.

Another sumptuous room.

‘Closer still, and you’d be invited to the bedroom.’

He couldn’t help raising his eyebrows at her.

She didn’t even crack a smile, just earnestly explained to him, ‘They didn’t just dress and sleep here. A lot of business was conducted in the private rooms.’

‘Uh-huh.’ It was all about money, not sex, then.

‘And if you were really, really close, you’d be invited into the closet. This one was remodelled as a dressing room in the mid-eighteen-hundreds, but originally it was the closet.’ She indicated a small, plain room.

He managed to stop himself making a witty remark about closets. Mainly because he didn’t think she’d find it funny. Victoria Hamilton was the most serious and earnest woman he’d ever met. ‘Surely the more important your guest, the posher the room you’d use?’

‘No. The public rooms meant everyone could hear what you were talking about. Nowadays it’d be the equivalent of, say, video-calling your bank manager about your overdraft on speakerphone in the middle of a crowded coffee shop. The more privacy you wanted, the smaller the room and the smaller the number of people who could overhear you and gossip. Even the servants couldn’t overhear things in the closet.’

‘Got you. So that’s where you’d plot your business deals?’

‘Or revolutions, or marriage-brokering.’

He followed her back to the salon.

‘Then we have the Long Gallery—it runs the whole length of the house. When it was too cold and wet to walk in the gardens, they’d walk here. Mainly just promenading up and down, looking at the pictures or through the windows at the garden. It’s a good place to think.’

She flushed slightly then, and Sam realised she’d accidentally told him something personal. When Victoria Hamilton needed to think, she paced. Here.

‘Next door, in the ballroom, they’d hold musical soirées. Sometimes it was a piano recital, sometimes there would be singing, and sometimes they’d have a string quartet for a ball.’

‘The room where you have the mould problem,’ he remembered. Was she blinking away tears? Crying over a room?

‘We’ve tested the air and it’s safe for visitors—you don’t need a mask or anything,’ she said.

He wasn’t going to pretend he knew much about mould, other than the black stuff that had crept across the ceiling of his friends’ houses during his student days. So he simply followed her through.

‘Oh.’ It wasn’t quite what he’d expected. The walls, curtains and upholstery were all cream and duck-egg-blue; there was a thick rug in the centre of the room, a grand piano, and chairs and chaises-longue laid out along the walls. There were mirrors on all the walls, reflecting the light from the windows and the chandelier.

‘It’s not a huge ballroom,’ she said. ‘Big enough for about fifty, and they’d have supper downstairs in the dining room or they’d lay out a standing supper in the Long Gallery.’

‘Is it ever used as a ballroom now?’ he asked, intrigued.

‘Not for years, but I’m planning to use it as part of the fundraising. It’ll be a Christmas ball, with everyone wearing Regency dress, and dinner will be a proper Regency ball supper.’

Her dark eyes were bright, and it was the first time Sam had seen her really animated. It shocked him to realise how gorgeous she was, when she wasn’t being earnest. When she was talking about something she really loved, she glowed.

‘That all sounds fun.’

‘We’ll attract fans of Austen and the Regency,’ she said. ‘And that’ll be the theme for the week. Craft workshops and decking the house out for Christmas, so visitors can feel part of the past.’

Feel part of the past. Now Sam understood her. This was clearly her favourite room in the house, and she must be devastated by the fact that this was the room with the problem. Now he could see why she’d blinked away tears.

‘Forgive me for being dense, but I can’t see any signs of mould,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it usually black and on the ceiling?’

‘This is white and it’s behind the mirror that usually goes over the mantelpiece, but it’s just come to the edge. You can see it under ultraviolet light.’ She sighed. ‘We’ll have to take the hangings down to dry them out and then make sure we get all the spores.’

He walked over to the mantelpiece and put his fingers to the wall, and she winced visibly.

‘Don’t touch because of the mould?’ he asked.

‘Don’t touch because of the oils on your fingertips, which will damage the silk,’ she corrected.

‘So this isn’t wallpaper?’

‘It’s silk,’ she said, ‘though it’s hung as wallpaper.’

‘Pasted to the wall?’

‘Hung on wooden battens,’ she said. ‘I’m guessing you haven’t covered the care of textiles or paper on your course, then.’

He was going to have to come clean about this—at least partially. ‘Now you’ve shown me round, why don’t we talk about the job?’ he asked.

‘OK.’ She led him through the house without commenting, but he could tell that she didn’t take her surroundings for granted, she loved the place. It was her passion—just as he’d thought that fund management was his, but meeting Victoria had shown him that his feelings didn’t even come close. Otherwise why would he feel perfectly fine about dropping everything to take over from his father?

Stockbroking wasn’t his passion, either. He was doing this to make sure his father had a lot less stress in his life.

Did he even have a passion? he wondered. His best friend, Jude, lit up whenever Shakespeare was mentioned. Whereas Sam... He enjoyed the fast pace of his life, but there wasn’t anything that really moved him or drove him. Since Olivia, he’d shut off from everything, lived just for the moment. He’d thought he was happy. But now he was starting to wonder. Was his father right and he was living in a useless bubble?

He shook himself and followed Victoria through a door in the panelling, and then down a narrow staircase.

‘Shortcut—the former servants’ corridors,’ she said, and ushered him into a room that was clearly her office.

Everything was neat and tidy. Obviously she had a clear desk policy, because the only things on the gleaming wood were a laptop computer, a photograph, and a pot of pens. The walls were lined with shelves, and the box files on them were all neatly labelled.

‘May I offer you some coffee?’ she asked.

Right now he could kill for coffee. It might help him get his brain back into some semblance of order. ‘Yes, please.’

‘Are you a dog person or a cat person?’ she asked.

That was a bit out of left field. Would it affect a potential job offer? ‘I didn’t grow up with either,’ he said carefully, ‘so I’d say I’m neutral. Though I’d certainly never hurt an animal.’

‘OK. Wait here and I’ll bring the coffee back. My dog’s a bit over-friendly and he’s wet—which is why he’s in the kitchen,’ she explained. ‘How do you take your coffee?’

‘Black, no sugar, thanks.’

‘Two minutes,’ she said. ‘And perhaps you can email me your CV while I’m sorting coffee.’ She took a business card from the top drawer of her desk and handed it to him. ‘My email address is here.’

‘Sure,’ he said.

Samuel Weatherby was nothing like Victoria had been expecting. He was older, for a start—about her own age, rather than being an undergraduate or just applying for his second degree—and much more polished. Urbane. Although she wasn’t one for fashion, she could tell that his suit and shoes were both expensively cut. Way outside the budget of the nerdy young student she’d thought he’d be.

So who exactly was Samuel Weatherby, and why had he come for this job?

She put the kettle on, shook grounds into the cafetière and made a fuss over Humphrey, who was still wet and muddy from the lake. While the coffee was brewing, she slipped her phone from the pocket of her jacket and checked her email. Samuel had sent over his CV—and it was nothing like what she’d expected. She was right in that he was her own age, but there was nothing even vaguely historical or PR-based on his CV. His degree was in economics and he worked as a hedge fund manager. Why would someone who worked in high finance, with a huge salary, want to take three months’ work as an unpaid intern in a country house? It didn’t make sense.

Frowning, she poured two mugs of coffee, added milk to her own mug, and was in the process of juggling them while trying to close the kitchen door when Humphrey burst past her.

‘No, Humph—’ she began, but she was much too late.

Judging by the ‘oof’ from her office, thirty kilograms of muddy Labrador had just landed on Samuel Weatherby’s lap. Wincing, she hurried to the office and put the mugs on her desk. There were muddy paw prints all over Samuel’s trousers and hair all over his jacket, and Humphrey was wagging his tail, completely unrepentant and pleased with himself for making a new friend.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘He’s young—fifteen months—and his manners aren’t quite there yet. He didn’t mean any harm, and I’ll pay your dry-cleaning bill.’

‘It’s fine.’ Though Samuel made no move towards the dog. Definitely not a dog person, then, she thought. ‘Thank you for the coffee.’

‘Pleasure. I’m going to put this monster back in the kitchen.’ She held Humphrey’s collar firmly and took him back down the corridor to the kitchen. ‘You are so bad,’ she whispered. ‘But you might have done me a favour—put him off working here, so I won’t have to ask difficult questions.’

But, when she got back to her office, Samuel was the picture of equanimity. He wasn’t on his feet, ready to make an excuse to leave; he looked perfectly comfortable in his chair.

She was going to have to ask the difficult questions, then.

‘I read your CV while I made the coffee,’ she said. ‘And I’m confused. You’re a hedge fund manager. A successful one, judging by your career history.’ There had been a series of rapid promotions. ‘Why on earth would you want to give up a career like that to do voluntary work?’

‘A change of heart from a greedy banker?’ he suggested.

Victoria wasn’t quite sure whether he was teasing or telling the truth. Everyone always told her she was too serious, but she just wasn’t any good at working out when people were teasing. Just as she’d proved hopeless at telling who really liked her for herself and who had their eyes on the money.

She played it safe and went for serious. ‘You’re not into historical stuff. You were surprised by some of the things I told you, which anyone who’d studied social history would’ve taken for granted; and I took you past artwork and furniture in the public rooms that would’ve made anyone who worked in the heritage sector quiver, stop me and ask more.’

Busted. Sam had just seen them as pretty pictures and nice furnishings.

Which meant he had nothing left to lose, because she obviously thought he wouldn’t be right for the job. The truth it was. ‘Do you want to know why I really want this job?’ he asked.

She just looked at him, her dark eyes wary.

‘OK. My dad really is your dad’s stockbroker, and he talked to your dad to set up an interview for me.’

‘But why? Is it some kind of weird bet among your hedge fund manager friends?’

That stung, but he knew she had a point. People in his world didn’t exactly have great PR among the rest of the population, who thought they were all spoiled and overpaid and had a warped sense of humour. ‘No. They’re all going to think I’m insane, and so is my boss.’ He sighed. ‘This whole interview is confidential, yes?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. Bottom line—and I need to ask you not to tell anyone this.’ He paused. At her nod, he continued, ‘My dad’s not in the best of health right now. I offered to resign and take over the family business, so he can retire and relax a bit.’

‘That’s more logical than working here. Fund management and stockbroking have a lot in common.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Obviously he said no, or you wouldn’t be here. Why do you want to be my intern?’

He might as well tell her the truth. ‘Because Dad thinks I live in a bubble and doing this job for three months will prove to him that I can relate to ordinary people.’

‘I’d say you’re switching one bubble for another.’ And, to her credit, her mouth was twitching slightly. So maybe she did have a sense of humour under all that earnestness and could also see the funny side of the situation. ‘I’ve never met your dad, because my dad still handles the investment side of things here.’ She looked straight at him. ‘Does your dad think you can’t take directions from a woman?’

‘Possibly. To be fair, neither can he. I think he’ll be driving my mum insane,’ he said. ‘Which is the other reason I want to come back to Cambridge. Dad has a low boredom threshold and I think she’ll need help to get him to be sensible and follow the doctor’s orders.’

‘That,’ she said, ‘does you a lot of credit. But I’m not sure this is the right job for you, Samuel. You’re way overqualified to be my intern, and frankly your salary is a lot more than mine. Even if you earn the average salary for your job—and from your CV I’m guessing you’re at the higher end—your annual salary, pre-tax, would keep this house going for six months.’

It took him seconds to do the maths. It cost that much to run an estate? Staff, maintenance, insurance, taxes... Maybe he could help there and look at her budget, see if the income streams worked hard enough. ‘Take my salary out of the equation. It’s not relevant. What attributes do you need in your intern?’

‘I want someone who can work on their own initiative but who’s not too proud to ask questions.’

‘I tick both boxes,’ he said.

‘Someone who understands figures, which obviously you do. Someone who’s good with people.’

‘I’m good with people,’ he said. ‘I have project management skills. I know how to work to a budget and a timeframe. I admit I know next to nothing about history or conservation, but I’m a fast learner.’

‘I think,’ she said, ‘you’d be bored. You’re used to living in the middle of London, with an insanely fast-paced job. Here, life’s much slower. If I gave you the job, you’d be unhappy—and that’s not fair on you, or on the rest of my team.’

‘If you don’t give me the job, I’ll be unhappy,’ he countered. ‘I want to be able to keep an eye on my dad. He’s not going to retire until I prove myself to him. The longer it takes me to find a job where I can do that—even though, frankly, it’s insulting—the longer he’ll keep pushing himself too hard, and the more likely it is he’ll have a full-blown stroke. This is about damage limitation. I have most of the skills you need and I can learn the rest. And I have contacts in London who can help with other things—publicity, website design, that sort of thing.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t have the budget for provincial consultancy fees, let alone London ones.’

‘You won’t need it. I can call in favours,’ he said. ‘Give me the job, Ms Hamilton. Please.’




CHAPTER THREE (#u904fca02-0f6b-51b9-a980-3f41ea6035d4)


IN THE HALF-HOUR since they’d first met, Victoria had worked out that she and Samuel had next to nothing in common. He was all about figures and she was about words. He lived in the fast lane and she was more than happy to spend her life here in the country house where she’d grown up, curating the past.

But she needed help to raise funds, and he needed a job to make his father believe in him. As long as they could work together, giving him this job could solve a problem for both of them.

‘Let’s say a week’s trial,’ she said. ‘See if we can work together.’

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘If you hate it here, that still gives me enough time to find another intern before things get really hectic.’

He inclined his head. ‘And if you can’t stand me, then you only have to put up with me for a week.’

‘I wasn’t going to be rude enough to say that.’ But she’d thought it, and she could feel the guilty colour bursting into her cheeks.

‘Lighten up. I was teasing, Vicky.’

‘Victoria,’ she corrected. Not that she’d offered to be on first name terms with him.

As if he’d read her mind, he asked, ‘Do your staff normally call you Ms Hamilton?’

‘No,’ she admitted.

‘But you prefer formality.’

‘Nobody shortens my name. Why are you making it a problem?’

‘I’m not.’ He looked at her. ‘I need to make friends with your dog and meet the rest of your team. At work tomorrow, would you prefer me to wear a suit or casual clothes?’

‘The house is open for visitors tomorrow afternoon,’ she said. ‘But if you’re meeting Humphrey...’ She winced, seeing the mud smeared over his expensive suit.

‘How about,’ he said, ‘I wear jeans in the morning so it doesn’t matter if the dog covers me with mud, but I bring a suit for when the house is open? Or do your house stewards wear period costume?’

‘You’ll need training before you can be a steward. And we don’t usually wear period dress. But I was thinking about it for the events on the Christmas week,’ she added.

‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘It would be an additional visitor attraction.’

She had a sudden vision of him in Regency dress and went hot all over. Samuel Wetherby could definitely be a visitor attraction. He looked good enough in modern dress; in Regency dress, he’d be stunning. She shook herself. ‘Yes,’ she said, striving to keep her voice cool and calm. ‘OK. I’ll see you tomorrow at nine. If you can give me your registration number, I’ll make the sure the stewards know you’re staff so they won’t ask you to pay for parking.’

‘Sure. Do you have paper and a pen?’

She took a notepad from her drawer and passed it to him. He scribbled the number down for her. ‘Nine o’clock, then.’

‘Nine o’clock—and welcome to the team.’ She held out her hand to shake his, and when his skin touched hers it felt almost like an electric shock.

How ridiculous. She never reacted to anyone like this. And it was completely inappropriate to have the hots for her intern. Even if he was really easy on the eye—tall, with neatly cut dark hair, green eyes and a killer smile. To give herself a tiny bit of breathing space and remind herself that she was his boss for the next week, at the bare minimum, so she had to keep this professional, she took a copy of the house guide book from the shelf behind her and handed it to him.

‘Bedtime reading?’ he asked.

Bedtime. There was a hint of sultriness in his tone. Was he doing this deliberately? A twinkle in his eye made her think that he might be teasing her. And now she felt tongue-tied and stupid. ‘I thought it might be useful background,’ she mumbled.

‘It will be.’ He smiled at her. ‘Thank you for giving me a chance.’

Honestly. He could have charmed his way into any job, not just this one. Part of her wondered if it was some elaborate plot between her parents and his to set them up together; but of course not. A man as gorgeous as Samuel Weatherby had probably been snapped up years ago. Not that she was going to ask if accepting this job would cause a problem with his partner. She didn’t want him to think she was fishing for information. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said, hating that she didn’t sound anywhere near as businesslike as she should.

From hedge fund manager to intern. This next bit of his life was going to be like the ancient Chinese curse, Sam thought: interesting. He sent a quick text to his mother to tell her he’d got the job and was just nipping back to London to sort out a few things but would be back later that evening. Then he hooked his phone up to the hands-free system in his car and headed back to London.

His first call was to his best friend.

‘Bit early for you on a Sunday, isn’t it, Sammy?’ Jude asked.

‘I’m in Cambridge, so I had an early Saturday night,’ Sam explained.

‘Is everything okay?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Sam filled him in on the situation.

‘Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. How is your dad?’

‘Grumpy. Worried sick and not admitting it. And I think Mum’s patience with him is going to wear thin pretty quickly.’ Sam paused. ‘You’d do the same, wouldn’t you?’

‘Give up my career and move back home to keep an eye on my parents, you mean?’ Jude asked.

‘I was always going to come back to Cambridge and take over the firm from Dad,’ Sam reminded him. ‘It’s just happening a bit sooner than I expected.’

‘In your shoes, I’d do the same,’ Jude said.

Which made Sam feel slightly better about his decision. ‘I’m not putting the flat on the market until the spring, so I can rescue you from the dragon landladies and give you a key so you’ve got somewhere to stay for your West End run, if you like.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘’Course I’m sure.’

‘I can only afford to give you the going landlady rent towards the mortgage,’ Jude warned.

Sam knew that theatre actors didn’t have the massive salary everyone thought they did. ‘That’s not necessary. I’ll know the flat is being looked after rather than being left empty, and that’s worth more than any rent. But I’m very happy for you to dedicate your first award win to me.’

Jude laughed. ‘You could be waiting a while. Thanks. I accept. And you’ve more than earned that dedication.’

‘I’m heading to London now, to pack. Come and pick up the keys at lunchtime.’

‘Will do. And thanks again.’ Jude paused. ‘Have you told your boss?’

‘Not yet. That’s the next call.’

‘Good luck with that.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ Sam said, with a confidence he didn’t quite feel.

‘Are you insane?’ was his boss’s reaction when Sam told him he was resigning.

‘No.’

‘You were supposed to be visiting your parents for the weekend. And I know you haven’t been headhunted, because that kind of news never stays secret for long. Why the hell are you resigning?’

‘Confidentially, Nigel?’ Sam asked. ‘And I mean it. Not a word to anyone.’

Nigel sighed. ‘All right. Tell me.’

‘Dad was rushed into hospital this week. Mum didn’t tell me until I got home. It was a mini-stroke and he seems OK now, but if he doesn’t slow down he could have a full-blown stroke. I need to be here to keep an eye on them both.’

‘Fine—then take a sabbatical until your father’s well again.’

‘I can’t do that. It’s permanent. I’m not coming back,’ Sam said. ‘If I’d been headhunted, I’d be on three months of garden leave with immediate effect, according to my contract.’ Which gave him the three months in which he needed to convince his father that he wasn’t reckless.

Then it hit him. Of course, his father would know about the clause giving three months’ garden leave; that was obviously why Alan had specified three months working in an ‘ordinary’ job.

‘You haven’t been headhunted,’ Nigel pointed out.

‘But I’m going to take over the family business from Dad,’ Sam said, ‘so that counts as working in the same area and it’s the same thing. I’m pretty sure HR will have me locked out of the computer system at work as soon as you tell them.’

‘What do you want—a pay rise or more responsibility?’ Nigel asked.

‘Neither. This isn’t a ruse to get more money or a promotion. I really do want to keep an eye on my parents.’ The way both of them seemed to have aged twenty years overnight had shocked Sam. As their only child, he knew it was his responsibility to look after them—and, more than that, he wanted to take care of them. They’d always supported him. Now it was his turn to be supportive.

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ Nigel asked.

‘Completely.’ Sam knew that people in his world had a reputation for being shallow, but any decent person would do what he was doing. Wouldn’t they?

Nigel coughed. ‘Well, if things change, you’ll always be welcomed back. And I hope everything goes all right with your dad.’

‘Thanks. Do you need me to do any paperwork?’

‘I’ll sort it out with HR. Email me the address where you’re staying so I can get the paper copies to you.’





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