Her Master's Servant (Lord and Master Book 2)

by Kait Jagger

  She was utterly enamoured of her boyfriend.

  For whom she had numerous nicknames, including Freyr (not, as Luna had assumed, his name, but the name of the Norse god of love), Mr Big, and something in Swedish that Luna couldn’t quite catch that sounded like ‘Store of Car Lick’. Rather coyly, Karoline declined to reveal many details regarding her paramour, and this was par for the course, according to Stefan. ‘Mother is nothing if not dramatic,’ he informed Luna in extremely jaded tones. Instead, Karoline insisted on staging a reveal; her boyfriend, who had a mansion in Essex, was hosting a soirée in a few weeks’ time, ‘which Stefan and you must attend,’ she insisted.

  She loathed Christian.

  Or ‘the boy toy’, as she disparagingly referred to him. In a display of maternal ire worthy of Medea, Karoline held Sören’s partner accountable for virtually every display of weakness she observed in her son. Paradoxically, this made Luna think better of Christian, and feel more than a little sorry for Stefan, who stoically bore the brunt of his mother’s jibes, some of which struck Luna as dangerously close to the bone.

  Perhaps Karoline took Luna’s silence on the matter to signify her concurrence, for over dinner on the second night of her stay, when Stefan left the table to take a call from Sören, she leant forward to Luna and sniffed, ‘It’s as though he has two mothers, the way his father smothers him…’ In response, Luna rested her chilliest gaze upon her, wordlessly imparting, You have misjudged your audience. Karoline’s rant sputtered to a halt and she stared back at Luna. And there was a moment of clarity between them.

  On the fourth day of Karoline’s visit, Luna was forced to cry off further shopping expeditions. She had a full diary that day, including a brainstorming session with Jem and some of her Rod Studios team about possible Remainers-themed excursions to the estate.

  It turned out to be a less-than-satisfactory meeting. Roland inexplicably opted to delegate it to Alex, who proved incapable of providing insight into how Tours would incorporate the excursion into its existing portfolio. Instead, he spent the entire meeting exchanging style notes with Jem, fidgeting with his hair, and generally making a nuisance of himself. Luna was trying to come up with an excuse to send him on his way when Karoline sailed into the office, looking for Stefan.

  ‘He’s not here, I’m afraid,’ Luna smiled.

  ‘But this is his office, yes?’ Karoline said. And looked around the room with pointed perplexity.

  ‘He’s in the gardens right now, talking to one of our contractors.’ Luna consulted her watch. ‘Actually, I think their meeting may be just finishing. Alex, I don’t suppose I could trouble you to take Mrs Lundgren to the Jubilee fountain?’

  ‘Karoline,’ Stefan’s mother corrected her, gracing Scott the programmer with a smile of such solar ferocity that Luna swore she heard him gulp. Alex, only too happy to escape, immediately stood and offered Karoline his arm, and off they went.

  ‘That one’s trouble,’ Jem said later, as the two of them were chatting on the settee.

  ‘Yes,’ Luna agreed. ‘I’ll have a word with Roland and make sure he isn’t involved in this project.’

  But Jem just smiled a sympathetic little smile, and Luna realised it wasn’t Alex she was talking about. ‘Karoline has a… forceful personality, that’s for sure,’ Luna said diplomatically.

  ‘She reminds me of Mama Okuyo,’ Jem said.

  ‘Ah, no,’ Luna objected laughingly. Rod’s Kenyan mother was a dreaded presence in Jem’s life, one of the few people her normally sweet-tempered friend had a bad word for. Eager to divert the conversation away from Karoline, she quoted, ‘“No woman is good enough for my mtoto!”’

  Jem grimaced and feigned tearing her hair out.

  ‘“You are so thin, mtoto,”’ Luna went on. ‘“Who is feeding you?”’

  ‘I’m not kidding,’ Jem persisted. ‘The way she looked around the office just now, like, what are you doing in my son’s domain, you, you… English hussy.’ The pair of them cracked up, and Luna pressed a palm to her forehead and groaned, powerfully glad to have Jem at her side, helping her navigate these uncharted waters as Stefan’s fiancée.

  Jem’s final comment on the matter gave her pause, however. ‘Let me ask you this: has she ever called you by your name?’

  Luna’s brow wrinkled quizzically.

  ‘I mean, actually spoke your name,’ Jem said. ‘As in, “What do you think, Luna?” or, “Stefan, what are you and Luna doing tonight?”’ Jem studied her fingernails, currently a shocking shade of emerald green, observing, ‘That’s how they get you, show you where you stand: they never say your name.’

  After Jem left, Luna headed to the gardens in search of Stefan and his mother. Making her way down the gravel path under an arbour draped in wisteria, she could hear children laughing and playing inside the maze, and ahead of her saw Stefan walking slowly with Karoline, her arm linked with his. Had her future mother-in-law ever said her name? Luna couldn’t remember.

  She got to within ten feet of them and was about to announce herself when she heard Karoline’s voice raised in agitation.

  She was speaking in Swedish, and in the normal course of events, much of what she was saying would have gone straight over Luna’s head. But Karoline had an extremely animated way of expressing herself, and Luna’s powers of comprehension were temporarily, magically enhanced following her talk with Jem. To her surprise, she seemed able to understand every word Stefan’s mother was saying to him. And the words went something like this:

  What do you even know about her? How do you know it’s the truth? No parents, no family…

  Luna immediately slowed her gait, matching it to theirs, hanging back.

  All I am saying is you should think about what you’re getting yourself into. When I think of all the nice Swedish girls you could have. Astrid, she is a lovely girl, perfect for you. With her own business. And so pretty…

  Suddenly a little boy of no more than three came barrelling out of the maze, bouncing off Luna’s legs and falling back onto the grass. She squatted down to him, dusting him off. ‘Okay?’ she asked. And felt Stefan turning his head, seeing her there.

  The little boy sat up and held out his fist to her, opening it to reveal a tiny buttercup. ‘Do you like butter?’ he enquired cheekily.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Luna replied, raising her chin for him. ‘Why don’t you find out?’

  Moments later, when the boy had run off again, she stood and rubbed the pollen off her chin. Rejoining the path, she was careful, this time, to make her presence known, drawing up beside them on the path. Karoline glanced sideways at her, but didn’t so much as pause for breath as she continued her diatribe.

  …just like Elin Nordegren. Or worse, Sofia Hellqvist. Otch, I shouldn’t be surprised that your father likes her. He has always been easily deceived. But you, I expect more of you. She is cold, this one.

  Stefan had had, at last, enough. Removing his mother’s hand from his arm and clasping it firmly between his own, he smiled tightly and said with deceptive lightness, ‘She also speaks some Swedish, Mother.’ At this, Karoline turned to Luna, looked her straight in the eye. And laughed a girlish, guilty laugh.

  Thank God, at this point a member of the household staff approached with a matter that needed Luna’s attention and she seized the opportunity to beat a retreat. Sitting slightly shell shocked on the portico steps shortly thereafter, Karoline’s guilty yet thoroughly unrepentant laugh still ringing in her ears, Luna decided she had some questions that needed answering. And only one person she could ask them.

  ‘Hallå, Luna!’ came Dagmar’s voice down the phone. ‘I have been wanting to ring you—’

  ‘I need your help with something,’ Luna interrupted. ‘Swedish stuff. First, what does, hmm, I think it’s something like ‘min sto-RAH ka-LICK’ mean?’

  A deadly silence on the other end of the line. Then, ‘Please tell me Stefan does not make you call him this.’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘It
means “my big love”,’ Dagmar said, sounding like she’d just been a little sick in her mouth.

  ‘And who is Sofia Hellqvist? And Elin Nordegren?’

  Another silence. ‘Where did you hear these names?’

  ‘Stefan’s mother said them while she was talking to him,’ Luna said. And bit her lip, admitting, ‘About me, I think.’

  ‘Ah, Karoline…’ Dagmar whistled, actually whistled on the other end of the line. ‘She is a total bitch.’

  ‘So, what does—?’

  ‘I do not joke,’ Dagmar went on. ‘She comes to the office to see Sören and everyone goes running.’

  ‘But these women, who are they? Did Stefan used to date them?’

  ‘No.’ Dagmar hesitated, then conceded, ‘Maybe, I don’t know. But she is not saying their names for that. They are… what is the English word for women who marry rich men?’

  Luna thought for a moment. Then said, heart sinking, ‘Gold diggers?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dagmar said. ‘Gold diggers, that’s it.’

  Ten minutes later, Stefan burst into their bedroom to find Luna standing in front of the bed, her backpack open in front of her, a pile of clothes beside it. He was winded, as if he’d run all the way from the garden.

  ‘Luna!’ He rushed toward her, grabbing her by the arms. ‘Don’t do this.’

  Luna frowned up at him. ‘What is it you think I’m doing?’

  When he didn’t respond, she gestured toward the clothes. ‘I’m putting together a load of washing from last weekend.’ She stood aside to reveal his leather holdall, also open on the bed. ‘See? Your things too.’

  Stefan exhaled loudly and sat down on the edge of the bed, as if his legs couldn’t support him anymore.

  ‘Are you—?’ Luna stopped. ‘Did you think I was going to leave you, because of what your mother said?’

  He didn’t reply, but his ashen countenance spoke volumes.

  ‘What, do you think I’ve just been waiting for my opportunity to walk out on you again?’ she asked, feeling both insulted and injured all at once. ‘That the minute something went wrong, I’d up sticks and run?’

  But, oh, the look on his face – she couldn’t be angry with him, not when he was sitting in front of her like this, heart laid bare. Luna reached for his cheek, stroked his hair, and said reassuringly, ‘Your mother will learn to like me.’ At his dubious expression, she shrugged. ‘Or not. It really doesn’t matter. The only person whose opinion of me I care about is you. Do you understand?’

  He nodded uncertainly, and Luna stamped her foot. ‘You’re stuck with me, right? I’m not going anywhere.’

  Still he said nothing. It would need more than this, she could see that now. Lowering her hands to her sides, she balled them into fists, searching for words.

  ‘When I left you last winter, do you think I did it out of strength?’ She shook her head. ‘I did it because I was weak. All that talk about needing to come first in your life… if I’d stayed, I’d have convinced myself to live with being third. Or thirtieth. Anything, just to be with you. What Kayla said, about me putting you in a box marked “dead to me”, I could never have done that. There isn’t a box big enough to hold you.’

  She was shaking now, praying for him to say something. ‘Min älskling,’ she implored, and that was all it took. Stefan stood in a rush and dragged her toward him, his mouth colliding with hers.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Luna said to her tablet.

  It was just over two weeks since Stefan’s conversation with his mother in the garden and, in spite of everything, she was preparing to attend the soirée at Karoline’s boyfriend’s house in Essex. Stefan had been all for skipping it; having delivered a stern dressing down to his mother, he’d claimed to be nothing but relieved when she chose to decamp from Arborage the very next morning.

  Luna didn’t want to be the cause of a rift between mother and son, however, so when Karoline subsequently phoned to beg her to convince him to come to the party, she’d agreed. ‘Honestly, I’m fine with it,’ she’d assured him, joking, ‘Besides, I want to meet your mum’s stora kärlek.’

  Strange, but Karoline’s declaration in the garden appeared to have had the opposite effect to what Stefan had feared. Luna’s recent run-ins with Helen and Isabelle had reminded her of a truth she’d chosen to forget: she could live with being disliked. Indeed, if Karoline Lundgren had concluded that she was just a bit of skirt, a parvenu after her son’s money, Luna was prepared to fight fire with fire, show her how this English gold digger rolled. So she’d called in the big guns, the Essex Godfather and his East End Enforcer.

  ‘Show us what you look like in the mirror,’ came Patrice’s voice from her tablet. Luna flipped the tablet around and held it toward the standing mirror in her and Stefan’s bedroom at Arborage.

  ‘Higher,’ Kayla directed.

  The woman in the reflection was dressed in a close-fitting white chiffon dress. Featuring a heavily bejewelled Grecian neckline and a matching integral belt, it was infinitely more ‘bling’ than Patrice’s usual choices for her. It was also very, very short. ‘This is Essex, dearie,’ he’d assured her when she expressed reservations. ‘We need to dial you up to eleven.’

  As instructed, Luna lifted the tablet higher, angling it down to reveal the Swarovski-encrusted Louboutin sandals Kayla had loaned her for the occasion.

  Kayla’s verdict: ‘Shag that.’

  And if Luna suspected her friend was being kind, trying to boost her confidence, it got another lift when she broke her self-imposed no-selfie rule and sent Stefan an over-the-shoulder shot of her posterior in the mirror.

  ‘You are killing me here,’ he complained sotto voce from his office in London.

  ‘Hurry up and finish your meetings, then,’ Luna replied saucily. ‘Come give your fiancée a good seeing to.’

  Stefan groaned. ‘Stop, please. Or I’ll never get rid of this hard-on.’

  ‘Would you like me to send a photo of my knickers?’ she enquired sweetly. ‘They’re very… mmm, lacy. I could just lift up my skirt and…’

  ‘No!’ he shouted. Another groan, and a brief silence. ‘Yes.’

  The selfie rule went entirely out of the window when a chauffeured Rolls Royce Phantom arrived at the portico early that evening to transport her to Essex. Sitting in the opulent, white leather back seat, Luna surreptitiously sent a whole series of photos to the girls and even one to Mika. She was just taking one of the headlining, dotted with what appeared to be actual diamonds, when a heavily accented voice came over the intercom.

  ‘Night sky in Ural Mountains.’

  It was her driver, who she could just see through the tinted glass separating the front and back of the car. She looked back up at the ceiling and saw that the glittering stones were, indeed, arranged in a pattern of constellations. ‘Are these…’ She cleared her throat. ‘…real diamonds?’ Perhaps the driver didn’t understand her, or the intercom only worked one way, because he didn’t respond. Luna stopped taking selfies after that.

  After a long, uninspiring drive along the M25 to where it dwindled into the A282 south of Brentwood, and then out to the east past one gated property after another, the Rolls pulled onto a drive leading to what Luna could only describe as a McMansion. Built entirely of unlovely blond brick, the house mimicked English Baroque style but had none of its charm and whimsically curving details.

  What it lacked in grace, however, it made up for in sheer scale and brash, unashamed aspiration. Luna climbed out of the Rolls to be met by twin concrete statues of lions that looked like something straight out of Disney, surrounded by an assortment of potted topiary crudely shorn into various geometric shapes. And row upon row of reproduction sash windows made from uPVC – unplasticised polyvinyl chloride window frames, Roland White’s bête noir, ‘the sworn enemy of architectural aestheticism’, to use his words. Whoever Karoline’s boyfriend was, it appeared that he had more money than taste.

  Odd, th
ough. She felt a fleeting sense of… what? Not recognition, because she’d never been here before. Luna could only suppose that it had graced the pages of some gossip magazine, or served as a backdrop for a television programme she’d watched and forgotten.

  Inside, a couple hundred guests were spread out across a large hallway floored with a mosaic of travertine, under an enormous crystal chandelier and a frescoed ceiling awash with maniacally grinning cherubs. Among the partygoers, Luna recognised a few reality TV stars and other Z-list celebrities drinking cocktails and scoffing canapés.

  In general, the party guests were young, though there was a sizable minority of older men in expensive suits standing in groups of three or four, not eating but drinking steadily. There for business, not personal reasons, Luna intuited. There were also clutches of women of a certain age, nipped and tucked and injected and sucked to within an inch of their lives, also eating nothing, but studying the food and men hungrily. And finally, numerous beefy security guards, rather more than Luna thought were needed for such a tame crowd, dressed in black and talking constantly into their earpieces.

  It all felt a little tribal to her, like an assortment of completely disparate groups with nothing in common save for their eagerness to accept free hospitality.

  Snobbery. Luna half-smiled to herself as she joined the drinks queue, having decided that alcohol was her first order of business. She was slightly chagrined to admit it, but much of her disapproval was down to pure snobbery. Were these people really any different than the hundreds, nay thousands, she’d seen attend events at Arborage in the past, all bent on currying favour with the Wellstone family? The only real difference was Arborage itself, its majestic beauty lending a grace to all that entered it, herself included.