by Kait Jagger
As she skirted the exterior of the maze, running her hand along the neatly trimmed yew hedge that formed its ‘walls’, Luna became aware of a presence behind her, matching her pace. Just a feeling, a sense she had, for her silent shadow was walking on cat feet and all she could hear was the sound of a nightingale singing from somewhere within the maze.
She slowed to a halt beside a break in the hedge marking the maze’s entrance, and felt a heat radiating into her back, a whisper of breath on her bare shoulders. ‘Unadvisable,’ came a voice directly behind her, ‘a beautiful young woman like you, walking alone at night.’
‘Yes,’ Luna agreed, smiling down at her bare toes. ‘These parts are riddled with brigands and horse thieves, I’ve heard.’
‘Brigand,’ the voice echoed. ‘I like the sound of that.’ Luna shivered as fingertips ran up the side of her neck, lifting a tendril of hair. She turned to look at her brigand, lean and dangerous in jeans and a black zip-up running top.
‘Good night?’ she enquired.
‘Mmm. You?’
‘I wouldn’t exactly describe it as good,’ she replied. ‘My preferred dance partner wasn’t available, so I had to make the best of things.’
He lowered his head toward hers and inhaled next to her ear.
‘You smell very good,’ he said softly. ‘Much better than my own dance partner this evening.’ He reached for her, but Luna glided backward, just out of his grasp.
‘We are very much in James and Nancy’s debt,’ she said. He moved toward her and again she backed away, onto the darkened path that led into the maze.
‘And Ashley’s,’ he concurred. She could just see his lips curving in the moonlight as he closed the gap between them, only for her to take another step backward.
They continued in this way, feinting with each other in the darkness, moving further and further into the labyrinth of yew hedges, telling each other about their respective evenings.
‘And there was no one guarding the stables?’ Luna asked sometime later, hesitating next to a fork in the hedge.
‘Dereliction of duty,’ Stefan said, nodding toward the right fork. As Luna reversed in that direction, he elaborated, ‘Florian spent most of the night at the pub. By the time he came to check on the horses, Ashley and I were halfway to Hickstead. Probably just as well, because if I’d gotten my hands on him…’
They reached the centre of the maze, a rectangular patch of camomile lawn dominated by a statue of a lion rearing on its two hind legs, just as Luna was finishing her description of the auction and its aftermath. She chose to edit out much of her exchanges with Helen and Isabelle, deflecting further questioning from Stefan by launching into a humorous account of Lord Peter and Harriet’s undercover activities.
‘I’m a little worried Nancy has designs on your auctioneer,’ she concluded.
A flash of white teeth in the darkness. ‘Believe me, James can look after himself.’ And a pause. ‘I’m sorry, älskling, that I wasn’t with you tonight.’
Luna’s turn to smile. ‘You had brigand duties to attend to.’
‘Indeed.’ He reached for her and this time she allowed it, lowering her head as he rested his fingers lightly on her shoulders. ‘All this banditry and horse thievery,’ he said. ‘It’s exhausting work. What would you say, Miss Gregory, if I told you that right now I want nothing more than to lie down on the grass, looking up at the moon and the stars and my naked betrothed?’
Luna made a show of looking around. ‘I’d say your betrothed doesn’t fancy being witnessed by a member of your security team, out on their rounds.’
‘Lucky thing half of them are guarding the stables, then,’ Stefan said, his hands slipping to the back of her dress, unzipping it. ‘And the other half are down at the pub enjoying a thank you drink from their employer.’
‘Stjärna och måne,’ he sighed moments later as Luna descended upon him, sheathing his hardness. He placed his hands on her hips, preparing to thrust himself up into her, but Luna shook her head.
‘Lie still,’ she instructed. ‘Let me please you.’ And began to slowly move above him, eyes half-closed, face tilted upward into the moonlight. So Stefan dropped his hands, allowing them to fall onto the camomile lawn beneath them.
‘I—aahh,’ he exhaled as she angled her hips to take him more deeply in. ‘I remember the day we met, in Augusta’s office. You holding your hand out to me and me thinking…’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘She is so cold, this one.’
The nightingale began to sing again, somewhere very close. Luna looked from Stefan’s face, brow creased in pleasure, to the statue of the lion overhead, its teeth gleaming, claws extended to strike.
‘And then, you and I walked Augusta to her car. She was flying to Venice to see John and you were fussing over her, the way you always did.’ Stefan smiled, and Luna slowed her pace, focused, and tightened herself around him. ‘Mmm… you watched her car drive away and your eyes, just for a second, they softened.’
He reached for her waist, rocking her backward as he ascended from the ground, rising to meet her. ‘And I thought, what would it be, to have those eyes soften for me.’ Their torsos met and his arms wrapped around her. And all talking ended.
Much later, they walked back to the house together across the lawn, holding hands.
‘By the way, I’ve booked us a holiday,’ Stefan said. A pause, and a smile in his voice. ‘How would you like to see the Northern Lights with the Marquess of Lionsbridge?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Stefan moved swiftly and ruthlessly to consolidate his grip on the estate in the days that followed. A demolition crew descended on the equestrian centre within hours after the charity ball, and by Monday morning the entire site was levelled. Two staff members found to have actively abetted Helen’s insurrection had their redundancy packages revoked and were instead summarily dismissed. And an equestrian supporter of hers who was also a supplier to the estate was summoned for a short, sharp meeting with the new Marquess.
Later in the week, when Isabelle phoned the kitchen to say she’d invited guests to the house that weekend and could Marta whip up one of her special hampers, she was informed that these requests would henceforth require the prior approval of his Lordship. Who sent her away with a flea in her ear when she confronted him about it.
Voicing her concern that Isabelle would interpret this as punishment for her stunt during the auction, Luna was taken aback when Stefan confirmed that was exactly what it was. ‘Isabelle is a stakeholder in the Lionsbridge business, Luna,’ he explained patiently. ‘There are rules of behaviour I expect her to adhere to, and the sooner she learns this, the better.’ How to argue in the face of his implacable, Swedish logic?
Not all of Stefan’s actions in the wake of the ball were motivated by calm rationality, however.
On Thursday morning, as he sat on the edge of the bed in the apartment tying his shoelaces, Luna mentioned that she was meeting a friend for lunch. Rafe Davies, as it happened. To her secret guilt, all Stefan knew about him was that he was a mutual friend of hers and Mika’s; she’d told him nothing about Rafe’s connection to her father, and this was something she wanted to put right.
‘You could join us, if you have time,’ she suggested sleepily, reaching her hand out from under the covers to rub the small of his back.
‘Not today, I’m afraid,’ he replied, his tone clipped.
Luna’s hand stilled on his back. Rising from the bed without another word, she went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Stefan joined her in front of the mirror and Luna glanced at his reflection briefly, then turned away. She spat out in the sink and made to move past him, but he reached out an arm, pulling her against him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, kissing the top of her head. ‘I have a lot on my mind today and I’m taking it out on you.’
‘You could just,’ she replied, voice muffled against his chest, ‘talk to me, you know.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘You’re right. Let’s g
o out for dinner tonight and we’ll talk.’
*
She met Rafe at a restaurant near Lincoln’s Inn Fields, just around the corner from Derwent & Co. He had a meeting with Elijah Noakes that afternoon, the two of them having formed an unlikely friendship following their introduction in February.
‘Elijah’s helping me with some legal stuff, I’m helping his granddaughter with a work placement,’ Rafe explained as they sat drinking cappuccinos at the end of a long, chatty lunch. To Luna’s shy delight, he’d been genuinely excited to learn of her engagement, insisting that he wanted to meet Stefan at the earliest opportunity. They also talked at length about Mika.
‘A bit of a rogue, our Finnish friend,’ Rafe noted.
‘Oh, you don’t need to tell me that,’ Luna chuckled, pulling out her phone to show him an image of Mika’s mobile sitting on a beach chair in the Maldives, a little washcloth wrapped around it in the manner of a towel around the waist, with a message reading, Left behind by Mika AGAIN :-( One of a series he’d sent her including shots of his phone in bed next to an unidentified naked woman, one of it sitting on a park bench with a Great Dane, even one in a Parisian jazz club propped against a bottle of Pernod.
After lunch, they walked arm in arm to Derwent & Co’s offices and she was preparing to take her leave when Elijah Noakes himself walked out of the entrance. He was dressed in his customary pinstripe suit and had his pipe in hand, clearly on his way out for a smoke.
‘Miss Gregory,’ he said in surprise. And glanced behind him into the building.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not staying,’ Luna laughed, standing on tiptoe to give the septuagenarian a kiss on the cheek.
At that moment, the heavy wooden door behind them opened suddenly to reveal Florian Wellstone in a rumpled linen suit, hair askew. The tall, thin young man from reception was ushering him out with an air of intense trepidation, like a gazelle herding a jackal. Florian, meanwhile, took in the convivial scene before him and misinterpreted its cause.
‘Here to gloat, Princesss?’ he enquired, eyes scouring her.
Luna involuntarily shrunk from him, looking toward Mr Noakes in confusion. Rafe, who knew nothing about any of this but who clearly didn’t like the looks of Florian, moved to step between him and Luna.
‘Should I phone the police, sir?’ the receptionist asked worriedly.
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary,’ Mr Noakes said.
‘No,’ came a voice behind him. Stefan, emerging from the building like an avenging angel. ‘Mr Wellstone is just leaving.’ Bearing down on Florian, he essentially forced him to keep walking, propelling him toward a taxi rank down the street. As the two men moved away, Rafe caught Luna’s eye and, in a moment of completely unscripted comedy, pointed toward Stefan and mouthed, ‘Is this him?’
Luna didn’t wait for Stefan to return. After assuring Mr Noakes that she was perfectly fine and giving Rafe a hug and a kiss, she headed to the nearest Tube station. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room, staring out across the Thames toward St Paul’s when he got back to the apartment that evening. Striding straight over to her, he held out his hand.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
They walked around the corner to a Turkish restaurant they’d frequented since the night she first told him she loved him. The maître d’ knew them well and immediately ushered them to their favourite table in the corner, bustling off to fetch a bottle of red wine. Once he’d poured two glasses for them and retreated to his station at the front of house, Luna sat in silence, fingers on the stem of her glass.
‘You are angry with me,’ Stefan said.
‘That depends,’ she replied. ‘I thought we agreed that secrets involving Florian are bad for our relationship. Is this what you were going to talk to me about tonight?’
‘It was, I promise.’ He ran a hand through his hair and drained half his glass. ‘What I intended was to come to you having resolved the matter.’
‘What matter? You mean him conspiring with Helen?’
‘Partly that,’ he said. ‘But there is another thing. Three days ago a business acquaintance of mine phoned to tell me about a property scheme he’s been approached to invest in. Luxury apartments and villas in the south of France. A Ponzi scheme, was his first thought when he went through the marketing materials. One of those things where investors are expected to put up money for properties that haven’t even been built yet, that likely never will be built.’
Luna nodded, with an ominous feeling about where this was going.
‘The reason my friend sent it to me is because the scheme is being marketed as Lionsbridge Chateaus, using the family’s coat of arms. The literature implies that this scheme has the backing of the estate.’
‘And Florian is behind this.’
Stefan nodded. ‘I asked the lawyers to arrange today’s meeting to… remind him of his obligations, and inform him of the consequences if he fails to observe them.’
Luna took a sip of her wine, mulling over this revelation. ‘I guess I don’t need to ask how the meeting went.’
‘Very badly, from his perspective,’ Stefan said. ‘I have also given him notice to vacate the flat in Mayfair.’
Luna sat back in her chair, genuinely surprised. ‘You think that’s wise?’ she asked.
‘Wise?’ Stefan snarled. ‘This man abused teenage girls and got away with it. He almost raped you and got away with it.’ Leaning across the table toward her, blue eyes sparkling dangerously, he said, ‘Augusta has tied my hands and I may never be able to bring him to justice, but if I can make him pay in other ways, it is my responsibility and my pleasure to do so.’
If she had ever doubted that Stefan could fully inhabit the role of Marquess, seize his place as lord and master, Luna doubted it no longer. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘You’re right, I’m sure.’
He nodded, then reached for her hand and exhaled heavily. ‘But what I most wanted was to avoid involving you in all this.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I see fear in your eyes when he’s near you, Luna, and…’ His face darkened. ‘…I cannot have that. I will not have that.’
*
Luna’s displeasure with him had dissipated the minute he’d explained his reasons for secrecy, and they spoke no more of Florian that night. Unsaid things hung between them, however, and, perhaps because he sensed it, Stefan decided to work from home the following day.
The two of them staked claims to opposite ends of the sofa first thing and got on with their respective tasks, occasionally exchanging a few words but for the most part tacitly ignoring each other. Late that morning, Luna’s phone buzzed while Stefan was in the middle of a conference call. To avoid disturbing him, she stood and moved toward the hallway.
Stefan popped his head in the bedroom shortly thereafter, only to find his fiancée hurriedly loading her backpack, pulling on a cardigan. ‘What are you doing, Luna?’ he asked sharply, coming to stand in front of her.
‘I need to get to Heathrow,’ she said, slipping her feet into her trainers. ‘My grandmother has asked to see me.’
‘Your… grandmother.’
‘My father’s mother. We’re estranged, she and I, but there are occasions when I have to…’ Luna trailed off, ‘wait upon her.’ Her lips curved at this old-fashioned turn of phrase, but her eyes remained sombre.
‘Where does she live?’
‘Manchester.’
Stefan picked up her backpack and slung it over his shoulder. ‘I’m coming with you.’ Before Luna could fashion a rebuttal, or even open her mouth, he said firmly, ‘No arguments, Luna.’
She’d have liked to show him Manchester under different circumstances. To take him past her old student digs in Fallowfield, and the curry mile in Rusholme. But it wasn’t that kind of visit. So instead they rented a car at the airport and made the short drive to Chorlton, the neighbourhood in south Manchester where her grandmother lived. Luna parked a block away from her grandmother’s
brick terraced house and turned to face him.
‘I need you to let me do the talking in there,’ she said. ‘Can you do that?’ Stefan nodded slowly, watching as she removed her engagement ring. ‘I don’t want her to know you, what you are to me,’ she explained, and put the ring in her pocket.
Marika Gregory’s small front garden was ablaze with colour, lush with carefully tended plants and flowers. Even by Chorlton’s gentrified standards, her hanging baskets and tubs overflowing with lavender and aromatic herbs stood out like a beacon to horticulture. The latch on her wrought-iron gate was rusty, however, and the gate groaned on its hinges like the gate in a story Luna’s mother used to read her when she was little, Baba Yaga. Baba Yaga the witch, the child eater.
Luna knocked on the red painted door and waited, checking her watch. Lateness was a punishable offence here at her grandmother’s house; on a previous visit, Luna had been unavoidably detained, arriving forty-five minutes past her allotted hour only to find the house dark, no reply to her repeated knocks. Though she was certain, very certain, that her grandmother was at home.
The door opened to reveal a thin, angular woman with long steel-grey hair and white-blue eyes, the mirror of Luna’s own.
‘You’re here then,’ she said unsmilingly, scanning Luna up and down. A quick glance at Stefan and a frown. Like tardiness, additional guests were unwelcome, an unwonted distraction in Marika Gregory’s eyes. The older woman’s gaze returned to Luna’s, found no quarter there, so she stood aside and wordlessly invited them both in.
The air inside her grandmother’s house was, as ever, redolent of mothballs, Luna’s second most hated smell after lilies. Marika led them into a small front room with an electric fire in the fireplace and a large, intricate Persian rug on the floor. The furnishings in the room were all antique, some of them family heirlooms.
