by James, E L
She grins.
What does he have planned?
* * *
“Where are we going?” Alessia asks. She’s wearing her green hat, her new coat, and I know she’s wearing layers beneath. I think she’ll be warm enough.
“It’s a surprise.” I give her a sideways look, then ease the car into gear.
Before she woke this morning, I called the Hall and spoke to Michael, the estate manager. It’s a crisp, bright day, perfect for what I’ve arranged. After all our rigorous activity yesterday, we need a break and some fresh air.
Rosperran Farm has been part of the Trevethick estate since Georgian times. The Chenoweth family has been tenant farmers there for more than a hundred years. The present incumbent, Abigail Chenoweth, has given us permission to set up in one of the fallow southerly fields. As we get nearer, I wish I were in the Discovery. My Jag isn’t good with fields, but we can park on the road. When we pull up, the gate is already open, and inside I spy Jenkins and his Land Rover Defender. He gives me a cheery wave.
I flash an enthusiastic grin at Alessia. “We’re going to shoot clays.”
Alessia looks bemused. “Clays?”
“Clay pigeons?”
She appears to be none the wiser.
I’m now less certain that this is a good idea. “It’ll be fun.”
She gives me a worried smile, and I get out of the car. It’s a cold day, but not so cold that I can see the condensation of my breath. Hopefully we’ll be warm enough.
“Good morning, my lord,” Jenkins says.
“Hi.” I check to see if Alessia has overheard, but she’s climbing out on her side of the car. “ ‘Sir’ will do, Jenkins,” I mutter as she approaches us. “This is Alessia Demachi.” She takes his outstretched hand.
“Good morning, miss.”
“Good morning.” She gives him a charming smile, and Jenkins flushes. His family has served the Trevelyans for three generations, though mainly at Angwin, our Oxfordshire estate. Jenkins flew the family coop four years ago and has been working at Tresyllian Hall as an assistant gamekeeper. He’s a little younger than me and a keen surfer. I’ve seen him on a board—he put Kit and me to shame. He’s also an excellent shot and an expert gamekeeper. He runs many of the shoots on the estate. Beneath his flat cap and shock of sun-bleached hair, he has a good brain and a cheerful, easy smile.
Alessia looks up at me with a puzzled expression. “We are hunting birds?”
“No. We’re shooting clays.”
She looks nonplussed.
“They’re discs made of clay.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve brought a couple of shotgun choices for the lady. I have your Purdeys, and Ms. Campbell insisted I bring your shooting jacket, sir.”
“Great.”
“And coffee. And sausage rolls. And hand warmers.” Jenkins smiles.
Trust Danny.
“The traps are set. Teals,” he says.
“Excellent.” I turn to Alessia. “Good surprise?” I ask her, feeling doubtful.
“Yes,” she says, but she doesn’t sound certain.
“Have you shot a gun before?”
She shakes her head. “My father has guns.”
“He does?”
“He hunts.”
“Hunts?”
She shrugs. “Well, he will go out with his gun. He will go out overnight. To shoot wolves.”
“Wolves!”
She laughs at my expression. “Yes. We have wolves in Albania. But I have never seen one. I’m not sure my father has either.” She smiles at me. “I would like to shoot.”
Jenkins gives her a warm smile and directs her to the back of the Defender, where he has our guns and all the necessary equipment.
She listens intently to what he has to say. He takes her through a safety briefing and shows her how the gun works and what she needs to do. While he does, I change quickly into my waistcoat and jacket. It’s chilly, but I’m warm enough in these old clothes. I open my gun case and remove one of the Purdey twelve-bore shotguns. It’s a rare vintage piece that belonged to my grandfather. He commissioned a matching pair of Purdey Over-and-Under shotguns in 1948. The silver engravings are exquisite and bear the charges from the Trevethick coat of arms intricately interwoven, with Tresyllian Hall in the background; the stock is a rich, gleaming walnut. The pair of guns were handed down to my father on my grandfather’s death, and when Kit turned eighteen, my father gave him one of the guns as a birthday gift. When my father died, Kit gave me this one—the one that belonged to my dad.
And now, with Kit gone, I own both of them.
I’m hit by a sudden wave of sadness. A vision of the three of us in the gun room, my father cleaning this gun, my brother cleaning his then twenty-bore, and me looking on, as an excited eight-year-old finally allowed in the gun room. My father calmly explained how to dismantle the gun, how to oil the stock, grease the steels, clean the barrel and the action. He was meticulous. And so was Kit. I remember watching them with wide-eyed fascination.
“All set, sir?” Jenkins pulls me out of my reverie.
“Yes. Great.”
Alessia is wearing protective eyeglasses and ear defenders. She still manages to look lovely. She cocks her head to one side.
“What?” I ask.
“I like this jacket.”
I laugh. “This old thing? It’s just Harris tweed.” I grab some cartridges, protective glasses, and some ear defenders and break open the barrel of my gun.
“Ready?” I ask Alessia.
She nods, and with her Browning shotgun open, we all walk over to the makeshift shooting area that Jenkins has set up with some hay bales.
“I have the traps set just beyond that ridge for a low driven target,” Jenkins says.
“Can I see a bird?”
“Sure.” Jenkins presses his remote, and a clay flies into the air about one hundred meters in front of us.
Alessia gasps. “I will never hit that!”
“Yes you will. Watch. Stand back.”
And I feel like showing off. She’s a better pianist than me, she can cook better than me, and she beat me at chess….
“Give me two birds, Jenkins.”
“Yes, sir.”
I put on my glasses and ear protection. Then open and load the barrel with two cartridges and mount my gun. Ready. “Pull!”
Jenkins releases two clays that soar up in front of us. I squeeze the trigger and pop off the top barrel, then the second, hitting both clays so that they shatter, the shards falling to the ground like hail.
“Shot, sir,” Jenkins says.
“You hit them!” Alessia exclaims.
“I did!” I can’t help my smug grin. “Okay, your turn.” I open the barrel and stand aside for her.
“Feet apart. Your weight on your back foot. Good. Look at the trap. You’ve seen the trajectory of the clay, you’ll want to follow it up in a smooth movement.” She nods vigorously. “Mount the stock as hard against your shoulder as you can. You don’t want any recoil.”
“Okay.”
I’m amazed that she’s following what I’m saying.
“Right foot back a bit, miss,” Jenkins adds.
“Okay.”
“Here are your cartridges.” I hand her two, and she loads them into the chamber and charges the gun. I stand back.
“When you’re ready, shout ‘Pull.’ Jenkins will send up one clay, and you have two chances to hit it.”
She gives me an anxious glance and mounts her gun. She looks every bit the country woman, even in her woolly hat, her cheeks rosy and her plait hanging down her back.
“Pull!” she shouts, and Jenkins releases a bird.
It sails up before us, and she fires first one, then the second shot.
And misse
s.
Both times.
She pouts as the clay smashes on the ground several feet away from us.
“You’ll get the hang of it. Have another go.”
A steely glint appears in her eye, and Jenkins steps forward to give her some pointers.
On the fourth clay, she hits it.
“Yes!” I shout in encouragement. She dances over to me.
“Whoa! Whoa! Barrel down!” both Jenkins and I exclaim simultaneously.
“Sorry.” She giggles and opens the gun. “Can I have another shoot?”
“Of course. We have all morning. And it’s ‘shot.’ ”
She beams at me. Her nose is pink, but her eyes are bright and lively with the thrill of a new experience. Her smile could melt the hardest of hearts, and mine fills with elation. It’s so gratifying to see her enjoying herself after all she’s been through.
* * *
Alessia and Maxim sit in the trunk of Mr. Jenkins’s car, their legs hanging over the back, sipping coffee from a thermos and eating pastries with some kind of meat inside. Alessia thinks it’s pork.
“You did well,” Maxim says. “Twenty out of forty clays isn’t bad going for a first time.”
“You did much better.”
“I’ve done this before. Many times.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Yes. I’d like to do it again. Maybe when it is not so cold.”
“I would like that.”
She smiles as her heart skips a beat. He wants to do this again, too. That’s a good sign, surely. She takes a sip of coffee.
“Ay!” She grimaces.
“What is it?”
“No sugar.”
“Is it that bad?”
She takes another cautious sip and swallows. “No. It’s not that bad.”
“Your teeth will thank you. What would you like to do now?”
“Can we walk by the sea again?”
“Sure. And then we can go for lunch.”
* * *
Jenkins returns. “The trap’s all packed, sir.”
“Great. Thanks for this morning, Jenkins.”
“It’s a pleasure, my—sir.”
“I’d like to take my guns back to the Hideout and give them a clean there.”
“Of course. You’ll find all you need in the case.”
“Excellent.”
“Good day, sir.” We shake hands. “Miss,” he says, and he touches his fingers to his cap as a slow flush spreads across his cheeks.
“Thank you, Jenkins,” Alessia says, and when she gives him a brilliant smile, his cheeks redden more. I think she has a new conquest.
“Shall we go?” I ask her.
“It is your gun?”
“Yes.”
She frowns.
“Jenkins keeps it for me. By law, it has to be locked up. We have a gun cabinet at the Hideout.”
“Oh,” she says, her confusion obvious.
“Ready?” I ask to distract her.
She nods.
“I’ll have to take this home.” I hold up the gun case. “And we can go for a walk on the beach, then somewhere nice for lunch.”
“Okay.”
I open the car door for her, and she gives me a fleeting smile as she climbs in.
That was close.
Just tell her.
Every day I don’t tell her who I am, I’m lying to her.
Fuck.
It’s as simple as that. I open the boot and place the gun case inside.
Just fucking tell her.
I get in beside her, close the car door, and glance across at her.
“Alessia—”
“Look!” she exclaims, and points through the windscreen. Before us stands a magnificent buck deer, its coat gray and long, appropriate for the winter months, its usual white spots hidden in among its fur. Where the hell did it come from? It’s less than four years old, judging by its size, but it sports an impressive set of antlers, which I know it’ll shed over the next couple of months. I wonder if it’s from the fallow deer herd we have at the Hall or if it’s wild. If it’s from the Hall, how did it get out? It peers down its imperious nose, fixing us with black eyes.
“Ua,” Alessia whispers.
“Have you ever seen a deer?” I ask.
“No.”
We stare at the beast as it flares its nostrils and sniffs the air.
“Maybe the wolves ate them all,” I whisper.
She turns to me and laughs, head back and free. It’s such an endearing sound.
I made her laugh!
In the nearby field, Jenkins starts his Land Rover, spooking the buck. It rears back, turns, and bolts over the drystone wall into some scrubland.
“I didn’t know there were wild animals in this country,” Alessia says.
“We have a few.” I start the car, feeling that the moment to tell her is lost.
Bollocks.
I’ll tell her later.
And deep down I know the longer I wait, the worse it’s going to be when I finally spill the beans.
My phone buzzes in my jacket. It’s a text, and I know it’s from Caroline.
That’s another issue I have to deal with at some point. But right now I’m going to take my lady for another walk on the beach.
* * *
Alessia holds up the little dragon, a lantern in the darkness as they lie in bed. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For today. For yesterday. For this.”
“It’s my pleasure, Alessia,” Maxim responds. “I’ve had a wonderful day.”
“I did, too. I don’t want it to end. This has been the very best day.”
Maxim strokes her cheek with his index finger. “The very best day. I’m glad I got to spend it with you. You really are lovely.”
She swallows, glad that the fading light will hide her blush. “I’m not sore anymore,” she whispers.
Maxim stills, his eyes searching hers.
“Oh, baby,” he says and suddenly his mouth swoops down on hers.
* * *
It’s after midnight, and Alessia dozes beside me. I must tell her about who I am.
Earl of Trevethick.
Fuck.
She deserves to know. I rub my face.
Why am I so reluctant to come clean?
Because I don’t know how she feels about me.
And also, apart from my title, there’s the small matter of my wealth.
Bugger.
My mother’s suspicious nature has left its mark.
Women will only want you for your wealth, Maxim. Remember that.
God. Rowena can be such a bitch.
Gently, in order not to wake her, I lift a strand of Alessia’s hair and wind it around my finger. She was reluctant to let me buy her clothes, reluctant when she has nothing. She doesn’t want me to buy her a phone, and she always chooses the cheapest item on the menu. This is not the modus operandi of a gold digger.
Is it?
And the other day she said that I have no rivals. I think she cares for me. If she does, I wish she’d tell me. It would make this so much easier. She’s talented, bright, and brave—and eager. I smile thinking about her carnal appreciation. Yes. Eager. I lean over and kiss her hair.
And she can cook.
“I love you, Alessia Demachi,” I whisper, and I lay my head on my pillow and gaze at her…this beguiling woman. My beautiful, precious girl.
* * *
I’m woken by my phone. It’s morning, and too bloody early judging by the dim light seeping through the space between the blinds. Alessia is wrapped around me as I reach across and pick up my phone. It’s Mrs. Beckstrom, my neighbor in London.
Why the hell is she calling me?
“Hello, Mrs. Beckstrom. Is everything all right?” My voice is low so I don’t wake Alessia.
“Ah, Maxim. There you are. I am sorry to call you so early, but I think you’ve been burgled.”
Chapter Twenty
“What?” A chill sweeps across my skin as every hair on my body stands to attention, and suddenly I’m fully awake. I run my fingernails over my scalp.
Burgled? How? When?
My mind and heart are racing.
“Yes. I was taking Heracles for a morning walk. I do so love a walk beside the river early in the morning, whatever the weather. It’s so quiet and restful.”
I roll my eyes. Get on with it, Mrs. B.
“Your front door is open. It may have been open for a few days. I don’t know. But I thought it odd. So today I had a peek inside, and of course you’re not there.”
Did I lock the flat in my panic to leave and go search for Alessia?
I can’t remember.
“I’m afraid the place is a frightful mess.”
Fuck.
“I was going to call the police, but I thought I’d call you instead, dear.”
“Well. Thank you. I appreciate it. I’ll deal with this.”
“I am so sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. B. Thank you.” I hang up.
Shit! Fuck! Bollocks!
What have the fuckers stolen? I don’t have much—all the important stuff is in the safe. I hope they haven’t found that.
Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.
What a fucking nuisance. I may have to go back to London, and I don’t want to go. I’m having way too much fun with Alessia. I sit up in bed and look down at her. She’s blinking up at me sleepily, and I give her a reassuring smile.
“I’ve got to make a call.” I don’t want to worry her with these details, so I get up, wrap the throw around my waist, and head into the spare room with my phone. I call Oliver as I pace the floor.
