by Emma Newman
“I need to go out.” Leanne said from the door a minute later. “There’s a big function on tonight and Marcus had someone else lined up to go but they’ve called in sick–”
“So he wants some other bird to hang off his arm?”
“I happen to be the assistant director of the EMEA region,” Leanne said, storming over to the oven to switch off the hob. “Not just some bit of skirt to wheel out for the clients. Bloody hell, you just can’t accept that I have a career, can you?”
“Bollocks! What I can’t accept is how that arsehole runs your life. It’s Saturday night! This was supposed to be a special night in and now you’re just going to drop everything to go and laugh at his jokes and look pretty for the fat businessmen there who don’t give a shit about how clever you are.”
“‘Special night in’? Says the man who couldn’t even be bothered to buy a bottle of wine?”
“I forgot!”
She pushed past him, heading for the stairs. “That says it all, doesn’t it? And now when I have to go to work, you get on the high horse. You can’t have it both ways.”
“Go to work? You’re off to some swanky hotel aren’t you? You’re gonna be drinking wine and eating canapés and making Marcus feel like he’s got a bigger dick than everyone else, when, let’s face it, he is the biggest dick in the room.”
“It all comes down to dicks for you, doesn’t it?” she was marching into the bedroom now. “You just can’t handle the fact that I have some direction in my life. It isn’t my fault you don’t know what you’re doing with yours!”
“I thought I was being married to you,” he said and she stopped.
“We just want different things,” she said. “If you don’t want to be a high flyer, can’t you at least support me?”
“Not if being a high flyer means you spend more time with that cock than with your own husband.”
She groaned and went to the wardrobe. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might like to spend time with ambitious, dynamic people?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She pulled a dress off a hanger and started to take her jeans off.
“So you’re saying you prefer to see him than me? Is that what this is really about?”
“No, for God’s sake, Sam, just…just let me get ready will you?”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
She froze, one foot in the jeans, one foot out. “What did you just say?”
“I was just wondering how ambitious you are. Are you shagging your boss?”
He saw the tears well and felt awful. The balloon of anger inside him popped.
“You know what? I’m going to stay at the hotel tonight. I don’t want to come back here.”
“Lee, I’m sorry, I’m a twat.”
“Then you can lie there,” she pointed at the bed, “thinking about whether I’m shagging Marcus and why on earth I may well want to do that! Now sod off and let me get ready!”
She pushed him out of the bedroom and slammed the door in his face. “Lee,” he called through it but she didn’t reply. “Leanne, I’m sorry.”
“Piss off, Sam.”
“I didn’t mean–”
“Piss off!”
He banged the door with his palm. “Fine!”
He went back downstairs, took another forty out of her purse and threw on his jacket. Keys grabbed, he banged the door as loud as he could as he left.
By the time he got to the pub he’d worked himself into the perfect amount of self-righteousness to get completely slaughtered. It wasn’t his fault, it was Marcus.
“Pint, please,” he said to the landlord.
“Argument with the missus again?”
“It’s her prick of a boss,” Sam said, passing over the first of the notes, wondering whether he could get drunk on sixty quid. “Honestly, I’m royally fucked off with it all, you know?”
“Yup.”
“We were supposed to be having a night in, then he calls and it’s all out the window.”
“Yup.” The pint was set down, Sam took a long drink and pulled out his mobile to text Dave.
The reply was quick enough. “Sorry m8 at wedding free wine free beer nuff said.”
“Bollocks,” Sam muttered and took the pint over to a table to nurse it by himself.
The place was starting to fill up. Halfway through the second beer a hen party came in, all feather boas and raucous laughter. Sam sank lower in his chair, worried that a miserable bloke on his own would just be impossible for them not to ridicule.
“Excuse me.”
A damn ugly man holding a trilby and wearing a dodgy raincoat was standing in front of him. He looked like a noir fan who took it too far.
“Samuel James Westonville?”
“…Yeah.”
The man sat down, dropped the hat onto the table. “I have your wallet.” He pushed it across the table.
“Blimey!” Sam opened it. The cards were still there and more money than he remembered too. “You’re an honest bloke, thanks. Let me buy you a drink!”
“Orange juice, please,” the man said, pointing at a bust leg. “The painkillers don’t agree with whisky.”
Sam got the drink and went back to the table. “Where did you find my wallet?”
“I wanted to talk to you about that,” the man said.
Something about this guy wasn’t quite right. “Who did you say you are again?”
“I didn’t. My name is Max. I’m a private investigator.”
Sam nearly choked on his beer. “You’re shitting me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A private investigator, eh?” Sam hurried on, seeing that the guy had no sense of humour. With a face like that it was no surprise. “Is that how you found me?”
“I saw you leave your house and followed you here.”
That spooked him. “OK. How did you know where I live?”
“It’s printed on your driving licence.”
“Oh. Yeah. OK.”
“So, Mr Westonville, I found your wallet in the grounds of the Holburne Museum, which is currently at the centre of my investigation.”
“You did? How the arse did it get there?”
Max stared at him. “You don’t remember being there?”
Sam shook his head.
“When did you realise your wallet was missing?”
“Tuesday morning, on the way to work. I thought I’d lost it at the pub round the corner. That’s near the museum actually. I was a bit worse for wear, woke up with a sore head. But it wasn’t at the pub when I checked. I don’t remember going into the museum though. It would have been closed by then.”
“It was in the grounds.”
Sam shrugged. “Sorry, mate, no idea how it got there.”
“Could it have been stolen?”
“Maybe.”
“So you were at the pub on Monday evening?”
“I…yes, I must have been.”
The detective leaned forwards. “You don’t remember? Think carefully. It’s very important, Mr Westonville. What was the last thing you recall about Monday night?”
“I was at work…I met up with Dave, he’s my best mate and we were planning to have a couple of jars.”
“Jars?”
“Beers. I wouldn’t normally on a Monday night but my wife called and said she was going to be home late and then up, up and away, Mary had a little lamb its fleece was white as goosey goosey gander, where shall I–”
Max held his hand up as Sam blinked at the beer. “Let’s go over that last part again, Mr Westonville.”
“Call me Sam, please,” he said after another drink. He placed his palms flat on the table. “OK. So…Leanne called and I was a bit pissed off with her so I twinkle, twinkle little star, how I sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye!”
He clamped a hand over his mouth, sucking in deep breaths through his nose. “What the fuck is in this beer?” he said once he’d stopped, pushing
it away from him.
“Mr – Sam, I need to ask you a few more questions, but we need to talk in private. Would you come with me, please?”
Sam looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “I want to see some ID first.” Nothing about the way the man acted made Sam want to be anywhere private with him.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any you’d recognise.”
“Well then, sorry, but no. No offence, but you could be anyone. Thanks for bringing my wallet back. I’ll buy you another drink if you like, but if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to stay here, in a public place.” He glanced at the beer. “And I’m going to move off the beer and onto spirits.”
“I understand,” Max said, standing up. He didn’t seem offended. “Have a good evening, Mr Westonville.”
Sam leant back in the chair watching the PI leave. He wondered whether he should just go home, but the thought of returning to an empty house with a failed romantic dinner half cooked in the oven made him miserable. He flipped through his wallet, double-checking everything was there, then ordered a whisky. Sam smirked at the memory of Max, glad to have the wallet back and well on the way to drunken oblivion, judging by his fuzzy head and the gobbledegook he’d spoken.
The hen party left, the regulars got more drunk, and one of Leanne’s favourite songs came on the jukebox. Just as he was sinking into the maudlin phase, berating himself for losing his temper with her, he saw a slender hand rest on the back of the chair opposite.
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
The blonde looked like she had stepped out of a movie. She was too beautiful for his local pub; her blonde hair shone despite the dingy lighting, her lips were deep red and eminently kissable.
“Um…no,” he said. “Are you waiting for someone?”
She smiled, and it made him want to rest his chin on the table and drool. “Looking for someone,” she said.
She was wearing an old-fashioned suit and it reminded him of the detective for some reason, though through the lust and drunken fog he couldn’t work out why.
“Anyone in particular?”
“A man.”
“A particular man?”
“Someone to keep me company.”
He swallowed. This was the moment he’d dreamt of all his teenage years. Then he thought of Leanne. He looked down at the table, feeling a pang of guilt.
“It’s just that I need to walk home, and I don’t like walking alone at night.”
“I suppose I could do that,” he said.
“If it’s not too much trouble?”
He shook his head. It was a bit weird, but he wasn’t going to do anything contrary to what a married man should. Even so, it felt dangerous.
“Thank you so much,” she said, standing as he struggled with his jacket, trying not to sway. “I was hoping a friend would meet me but he didn’t show.”
He’s a pillock, Sam thought, necking the last of the whisky. “Do you live very far away?”
“Not too far. Too close for a taxi and too far to walk it alone at night.”
“My name’s Sam, by the way.”
She smiled again. He had an urge to keep finding ways to make her do that, and he struggled to repress it. “I’m Petra. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
20
As his valet tied his cravat, Will prepared himself for the meeting ahead. To everyone else it was a candlelit dinner with his fiancée, but to him it was simply business negotiations with a difficult party.
Catherine Papaver was proving to be tougher to win over than he’d thought. For any other woman in Aquae Sulis – no, the entirety of Nether Society – being the belle of the ball would have been a dream come true. Not for her. They would have been delighted to have been treated like the most beautiful woman in the world by a son of a powerful family, soon to be husband. But for Catherine it simply wasn’t enough.
Every time he had complimented her it was thrown back in his face. Every time he danced with her and gave her the opportunity to win the admiration of her peers, she rejected him, and made no effort to engage in small talk. She’d wasted an incredible opportunity to be launched onto the Aquae Sulis social circuit.
He’d been convinced that making a plain woman feel admired would win her over; after all, wouldn’t that be what she’d want the most? Especially after all those years in her younger sister’s shadow. Elizabeth was one of the beauties of her generation and made her pretty peers look plain.
When he’d got back from the ball, exhausted by his efforts, he’d doubted whether it was worth the trouble. It wasn’t as if her dislike of him would jeopardise their marriage; the engagement contracts had already been signed by their fathers. But a woman in love was so much easier to keep in line. With the alliance between the families being so critical, it made sense to try to make the marriage as successful as possible. Her being a surprise favourite of Lord Poppy meant Catherine’s favour could have other benefits. He decided to persevere. Besides, he’d never shied away from a challenge.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”
“No, thank you, Jones,” Will replied, inspecting himself in the mirror. “I think a cape and cane for this evening if–”
The door opened without a warning knock and Will took a breath to berate the intruder for such poor manners. But then he saw Sophia standing in the doorway, sniffing.
“What is it?” he asked, bending down onto one knee and opening his arms to her.
She ran into them. “Imogen said I’ll be sent away into Mundanus forever!”
He chuckled. “No, just until you’re all grown up. That’s what happened to all of us. When you’re a nice young lady, you’ll move out of the nursery wing in Mundanus and into the main house in the Nether with us all the time, that’s all. If you stayed in the Nether, you’d never grow up.”
She pulled back, her bottom lip wobbling. “No, Will-yum,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Imogen said I’ll be left in a wood and wolves will eat me up because there’s only allowed to be three children.”
“Take no notice of her,” he said, kissing her forehead. Even though he’d only been home for three days, he was already quite fond of the strange little thing. He’d never known such an affectionate child. “I know a secret, would you like me to share it with you?”
She forgot about her misery in a moment, nodding eagerly as the tears dried on her cheeks.
“Cook has made me some custard tarts as a special treat, but she hasn’t told anyone else. Would you like to have one?”
She nodded, making the gentle ringlets bounce on her shoulders. “Yes, please.”
“Jones will show you the way. Go on now, I have to go out for dinner with the young lady I’m going to marry.”
“Can I be a bridesmaid?”
“If Mother says so, yes. Go on now.”
She squeezed him tight and kissed his cheek, then extended her hand to Jones, who looked at it awkwardly for a moment before taking hold and walking out of the room with her.
When she was downstairs, he went to Imogen’s room and rapped on the door.
“Come in.”
Imogen was seated at her dressing table, holding a necklace up against her dress.
“Is it true you told Sophia she’d be eaten by wolves?”
“I may have said something along those lines.”
“You really are a heartless specimen, aren’t you?”
“She broke my favourite bracelet.”
“She’s only three!”
“She’s almost four and should know better. Besides, there should only be three of us, everyone knows that.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone important. Why do you think we’re not allowed to talk about her outside the house? Why do you think the housemaid is looking after her in Mundanus and not a nanny from the Agency? Father is embarrassed and if the Patroon finds out, that’s it.” She twisted around to face him. “Don’t get attached to her, Will. She shouldn’t be here.”
>
“How can you speak like that about a little girl?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m just pragmatic.”
“Pathetic more like, upsetting a child because she broke a bracelet when you have dozens of the things. Besides, I don’t know of any such rule. Father only has one brother.”
“Don’t you know anything? They had a sister but she died of a fever when she was small.” She spoke as if it were common knowledge. “Where are you going dressed up like that?”
“I’m meeting Catherine for dinner,” he replied, adjusting his collar, wondering what else he didn’t know about his family.
“Why on earth would you want to do that? You’ll be seeing her every day soon enough.”
“Call me a fool, as you doubtless will, but I thought it would be wise to at least try to get to know the woman I’ll be married to by the end of the season.”
“You are a fool. I’d make the most of your freedom whilst you can and have dinner with someone pleasant to look at instead.” She dropped the necklace into her lap, frowning. “By the end of the season? That’s rather quick, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “Is it?”
“They want to palm her off onto you as soon as they can. Don’t forget what I told you, William. She’s trouble.”
“Have a good evening playing with your baubles,” he said. “Do try not to traumatise any other small children.”
He closed her door and headed for the stairs, hearing voices in the lobby below. He recognised his Uncle Vincent’s low rumble instantly.
“How is she?”
“Fine, Vincent, absolutely fine.”
His mother was talking to him, but something about her voice made him slow down and peep over the handrail. Uncle Vincent was in his coat and hat and Mother was looking up at him, standing closer than Will imagined she would be. The way they looked at each other made him uncomfortable, but then he pulled himself up. They’d known each other for decades, of course they were close.
“Uncle Vincent!” he called as he descended the stairs. “How are you?”
“Fine, Will m’boy.”
“Join me for a drink at the club later?”
“I’ll do my best.”
