“Skint. Brassic. Broke,” Laurence said, just in case she didn’t follow. He’d looked close to tears as he’d said it. “Angel, I can’t pretend anymore; I’ve got to be honest. You’ve come to mean too much to me for there to be any secrets.” He hung his head. “The truth is, although I might create the opposite impression, I am struggling to be solvent.”
She’d stared at him. “I don’t understand. You live here, in this huge house! You’re a viscount… aren’t you?”
Laurence nodded. “The last in a long line of hard-living, hard-spending Elliotts with all the debts and responsibilities that come with inheriting an estate this size.” He raked a hand through his hair and his shoulders slumped as though the weight of all those responsibilities was sitting on them. “Can you imagine what the death duties were like when Pa died?”
Angel couldn’t – she struggled enough when Mr Barclaycard came knocking – but suddenly the patches on the wall where portraits had been removed, the freezing-cold rooms and the Aldi bags were starting to make a lot more sense. It was like looking at the back of a tapestry, all tangles and knots, before turning it over and seeing the true picture. The lack of ready cash. The cards that constantly got declined. The pennies were dropping. Maybe she should offer them to Laurence?
“But what about your house in Rock?” she whispered, once her vocal cords had recovered. “Your beautiful car?”
He closed his eyes in defeat. “Neither one is mine. They’re both Travis’s. He’s my oldest friend from school; he’s been really good about bailing me out but I can’t expect him to do it indefinitely. I think he wants his house back too. He’s seriously got the hots for your sister.”
Personally Angel thought Trav had more hope of flying to Mars than he did of getting lucky with Andi. Her sister was more interested in the moody handyman. Andi might deny it but Angel could tell; her sister used to get that soppy look on her face when she looked at her Busted posters. Still, it was all making sense. No wonder Travis hadn’t taken the hint and pushed off to a hotel. Why should he if it was his own house?
“But you’ve got all this,” she said, gesturing at the room and the gardens beyond. “What about all the land? Surely you don’t need it all? Couldn’t you sell some?”
Laurence looked horrified. “Angel, the estate’s been in our family since the conquest; I can’t be the one who breaks it up. Christ. I’d be the Elliott who went down in history as losing Kenniston.”
Angel gave him a stern look – the kind that Andi often gave her when she pleaded poverty but went out and bought some Gina sandals on her credit card.
Laurence sighed. “Yes, I know it sounds crazy but there has to be another way. Besides, the land’s all tied up with all sorts of codicils and entails.”
“So it’s either sell the lot or nothing?”
The expression on his face said quite clearly that selling the lot wasn’t an option.
“What about antiques?” Angel suggested. Having skived off work quite a bit in her time she was pretty much an expert on Car Booty and Cash in the Attic. Since Laurence had a bloody big attic, there had to be something useful hidden there, surely? Maybe a Monet they’d all forgotten about, or a tiara? She herself had often stemmed her overdraft by selling a (fake) LV bag or pair of shoes on eBay, which was practically the same thing.
But Laurence wasn’t leaping at this genius idea. “Anything that can be sold has already gone to Christie’s. We’ve closed up most of the house to save on heating and you’ve seen how frugal Ma is.”
Angel certainly had. She’d thought Spam went out at about the same time Winston Churchill left Number Ten. Come to think of it, the dusty tins that Lady Elliott had fished out of the pantry probably dated to around then. Her stomach lurched at the thought.
“I’m in an impossible position,” he continued, starting to pace up and down the room in agitation. “I’m the trustee of a priceless mansion and millions of pounds worth of prime land, but I can’t release equity from any of it. The roof is starting to fall in, there’s dry rot in the grand stairwell and two of the estate cottages have to be renovated. The Munnings has gone, Ma sold two Chippendales last week and I’ve sent our last Stubbs to auction. It’s the law of diminishing returns, though, because once those have gone that really is it. I can’t think of anything else that could help.”
Angel nodded. This made her maxed-out credit cards look like nothing. Wonga.com wouldn’t be much help to Laurence either. Her mind started to wrestle with the problem. Angel might look like a lost member of the TOWIE cast but her intellect was straight out of University Challenge and she was usually very good at thinking her way out of trouble. While Laurence continued to explain about inheritance tax and insurances and the Lloyd’s of London crash, her brain was shuttlecocking the problem about. There had to be an answer; she just needed to find it.
“What about the National Trust?” she suggested finally when Laurence paused. Her mother had loved visiting stately homes; as a child many of her weekends had involved exploring castles and moated manors. Andi had lapped it up but Angel had been bored, wishing instead that they could go to the West End. The National Trust shop was fine but there were only so many tea towels and lavender sprays a ten-year-old could appreciate.
Laurence laughed despairingly. “They’re turning people away. There’s so many of us in the same boat that they can take their pick now. Besides, they state that the property has to be financially self-supporting, which Kenniston isn’t – we’re haemorrhaging money.”
Angel filed this information away. No to the National Trust then, but there had to be another way. She thought hard and her brain, which hadn’t really thought much beyond bodycon dresses and leg waxes for quite a while, started to whirl. A flicker of an idea flashed through her mind like a fish flitting near the surface of a lake; there one second then gone the next. She’d dive for it later when she had a bit of time to reflect. Besides, she had her own cash-flow issues to address now that Project Rich Guy had crashed and burned in such spectacular style.
“Are you angry?” Laurence asked quietly when she didn’t speak. His dark grey eyes were troubled and could hardly meet hers. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were but, Angel, please believe me when I say that I never meant to deceive you, not seriously anyway. That was never part of the plan.”
Angel felt gutted that her gorgeous millionaire had been nothing but an illusion, and a little bit stupid for taking everything at face value rather than stopping to question the disparities that now, with the gift of twenty-twenty hindsight, were glaringly obvious. But a small part of her was also whispering that, actually, hadn’t she done something very similar to Laurence? Angel was at heart an honest person and she wasn’t afraid to admit that, by leading Laurence to believe that she lived in the Alexshovs’ house and cleverly rotating the few designer pieces she owned, she was doing exactly the same to him.
But a plan? What did he mean by that? She pinned him with a bright blue stare. “And what exactly was this plan?”
Laurence couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if she’d thrown him face down onto a bed of nails and jumped up and down on his back.
“It sounds really crass now,” he groaned. “Oh, who am I trying to fool? It was really crass before, but somehow I convinced myself that it was perfectly acceptable. Travis pointed it out to me actually, so I should have known it wasn’t going to be genius.”
Angel nodded. Since this was the same Travis who had nearly drowned them all it stood to reason that he probably wasn’t the best person to take advice from.
“I’ve got a title and a stately home,” Laurence continued apologetically, “and a family seat that goes back centuries. What I don’t have is cash. So Trav thought—” he paused, “or rather, we thought, that if I found myself a rich wife it might solve a lot of problems. There wasn’t time to hang about; something had to be done, and done quickly before Kenniston Hall is just a pile of mouldering rubble – or, even worse, snatched up by some footbal
ler and his WAG, who’ll paint it pink, lay shagpile all over the mosaic floors and turn the chapel into a fitness studio.”
Angel took this in. To be honest, shagpile wasn’t such a bad idea, since the house was so bloody cold, and as for the fitness studio… That silver flickering fish idea surfaced again.
“Why Rock?” she asked. “Surely you’d have had more choice in London?”
Laurence looked shamefaced. “There are too many people there who know the truth. Everyone who goes to Boujis or Annabel’s knows everyone else. It’s actually a very small pond. Besides, you’d be surprised just how many of us are in the same boat. And,” he gave her a self-deprecating grin and, in spite of everything, her heart cartwheeled, “I was tired of competing with Prince Harry! Trav had a place in Rock and it’s where the new as well as the old money plays for the summer. So I came here. It was either that or sit at home and count the holes in the roof. Rock seemed like the perfect place to start.”
Angel couldn’t argue with this. Hadn’t she already figured that much out for herself? And wasn’t she doing exactly the same thing? Then a dreadful thought occurred to Angel, and to her horror her throat grew tight and her eyes began to prickle. Did this mean that Laurence was only spending time with her because he thought she was rich? Didn’t he like her just a tiny bit? To her distress, Angel had started to realise that she liked Laurence much more than just a bit, and not because she’d thought he was wealthy, either.
“So you’ve only been spending time with me because I’m financially viable?” she said, and her voice wobbled. Was she going to cry? Over a man? Angel hadn’t even been this upset when her LV bag was outed as a fake. What was going on?
“Christ, no!” Laurence strode across the room and swept Angel into his arms. She held herself rigid for a moment but as his grasp tightened, pulling her against his chest, her senses were overwhelmed by his delicious scent and the joy of being so close to his warm skin.
Laurence was pressing kisses into the crown of her head. “I feel like such a shit,” he murmured into her hair.
Angel said nothing. She’d decided to let him suffer for a bit. Hadn’t the nuns at school said something about suffering being good for the soul? Angel had certainly suffered when they’d said her skirts were too short and had made her lower the hems. But still. The principle was surely the same.
“I noticed you straight away,” Laurence said. “Who wouldn’t? And, I’ll admit, the fact that you’re wealthy got my attention too, but if I’m honest that was only an added bonus. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. When I bumped into you in the bank that day I could hardly believe my luck.” He stepped back and tilted her chin up with his forefinger so that those storm-grey eyes could stare into hers. “Angel, I don’t know what I was expecting to happen, but it wasn’t this. I never thought I’d feel this way about anyone.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Angel, I’ve fallen head over heels in love with you. That’s why I couldn’t let things go any further between us without telling you the truth.”
Angel’s eyes were blue circles of surprise. “You’re in love with me?”
Laurence nodded. His forefinger traced the curve of her cheek, the slight touch enough to make her knees wobble and her pulse break into a canter.
“Totally and utterly.”
“Me?” Angel said slowly. “Or my money?”
He groaned. “You, Angel! Funny, clever, gorgeous you! I couldn’t care less about your money.”
That was just as well, thought Angel – although she had better make certain.
“So if I was penniless, just a girl on holiday in Rock who was renting a tatty caravan and working as a beautician for a wealthy Russian woman, and pretending to look rich herself, you’d still be head over heels in love with me?”
“Of course I would!” declared Laurence and then, as Angel started to laugh, he registered the full impact of her words. His mouth fell open. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
But Angel couldn’t reply: she was too busy laughing and crying all at the same time. What a muddle! And what a time to realise that in spite of all her very best intentions and stern pep talks to herself she was in love with Laurence too!
“Oh. My. God.” Laurence breathed. “We’re as bad as each other!”
Half sobbing, half laughing, Angel nodded her agreement.
“But Laurence,” she said, when she finally managed to recover enough breath to speak. “I feel exactly the same way about you! In spite of everything, it’s you I’m crazy about. I couldn’t care less about Kenniston or the title, or even the money. Only you.”
Laurence’s face was still.
“Do you really mean that?”
All the Aston Martins and designer clothes and handbags dissolved like a dream, but Angel found she no longer cared at all. All that mattered to her now was being close to Laurence. It was very strange and, Angel realised to her surprise, rather nice.
“With all my heart,” she said.
Laurence’s face, so taut with worry only seconds before, split into a huge smile. Now those eyes weren’t battleship grey at all but sparkling like a frosty morning. Exhaling slowly, he raised them towards the ceiling, where the dimpled cherubs and sex-crazed inhabitants of Mount Olympus looked down indulgently.
“I think somebody up in the heavens is having a bit of a laugh right now,” he said wryly, his arms tightening their hold.
Angel nodded. What were the odds that they had both been playing the same game and had both inadvertently fallen for somebody penniless? Fate certainly had a sense of humour.
But moments later humour was no longer the emotion on Angel’s mind – because Laurence was kissing her, a kiss of such joy and passion and tenderness that she thought she would dissolve. Then he’d picked her up (refusing carbs was worth it!) and carried her up the steps to the ancient bed, where they’d spent the rest of the night making the gods and goddesses on the ceiling blush.
Recalling it now, and in the cold light of day that was seeping through the moth-eaten curtains, Angel’s cheeks turned quite pink. Money no longer seemed half as important, she decided as she snuggled into Laurence. She’d found treasure of a very different kind. God, she hoped this hadn’t just been some kind of amazing dream!
To make sure, she peeled open her eyes, the lashes still claggy with last night’s mascara, and sure enough there was Laurence out cold, with a dusting of dark stubble across his jaw and an expression of utter contentment on his chiselled features. Angel stared at him for a moment and her heart did the most ridiculous twisty-turny thing before deciding to dive into her belly. Oh God! But he was gorgeous. Even fast asleep and with his treacle-coloured hair all tousled and while snoring gently, he turned her bones to jelly. Angel didn’t think she’d ever wanted somebody so badly in her entire life. Her fingers longed to reach out and touch him, trace the sharp planes of his face and linger over the smiling curve of his mouth, but she managed to resist.
Angel was not a morning person at the best of times. Unless she had her complete Clarins kit and a good dollop of Crème de la Mer before bedtime she was loath to let anyone see her first thing, especially anyone she might have done that with. In the past she had been known to slip out of bed, leaving her partner sleeping and oblivious, to tiptoe to the bathroom and apply the full works – mascara, false eyelashes, foundation, lip gloss – before sliding back into bed. Yet somehow with Laurence this didn’t seem to matter in the slightest. He’d already seen her stripped of all her designer gear and the borrowed patina of wealth, and he still liked her. Loved, her even. Angel realised that the concept of love no longer scared her. Laurence too had laid himself bare, both literally and metaphorically, and trusted her enough to tell her the truth about Kenniston. That had taken courage.
Kenniston. Now that was a problem. As she glanced around the room, even the gloom of closed curtains couldn’t disguise the mould that was blooming on the ceiling or the peeling paintwork. It would be fitness suit
es in the chapel in no time if something wasn’t done soon. Even Sarah Beeny would struggle to put this one right…
And there it was! A silver fish of an idea flickering through her mind again, and this time Angel wasn’t going to let it slip away. Not when it was an idea this simple, this obvious and this bloody brilliant.
Oh my God! Oh course! The solution to Laurence’s problems was so easy it was untrue! It had been right in from of them all the time…
When Angel got an idea into her head there was never any time to waste – and this idea needed action. Reaching over, she shook Laurence’s shoulder.
“Laurence! Wake up!” Angel said. “I think I know how we can save Kenniston!”
Chapter 37
Andi was having a very surreal day. Not only had she, for reasons she wasn’t quite ready to admit, agreed to go on a date with Travis Chumley, but also when she arrived back at the caravan Callum South was baking bread with Gemma.
“Hi, Andi,” said Gemma, as though it was the most normal thing in the world to find a Premier League footballer in the caravan.
“Hi, Andi,” echoed Cal.
“We’re baking,” added Gemma, just in case this wasn’t evident from the yeasty smell and globs of dough that spattered the tiny kitchen. It looked as though Tesco’s bread aisle had exploded.
Baking? For a split second Andi almost asked what on earth was going on, but when she saw the way that Gemma was looking at Cal, as though she could gobble him up and never mind the buns, it all fell into place.
Oh dear; she really hoped Gemma knew what she was getting into. Back in the days of Dukes Rangers, Callum South’s womanising had been notorious. Had he changed? Andi hoped so; physically Gemma might look like a robust girl, but her heart was as tough as cotton candy.
“Cal’s been demonstrating his bread-making skills,” Gemma told her proudly.
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