‘WE’VE met,’ agreed Dan Armstrong tightly. ‘How are you—Miss Hunter?’
‘Very well.’ She smiled brightly, wondering if he could hear her heart banging against her ribs.
His eyes held hers relentlessly. ‘Francis told me a journalist was coming to do an article on Eastlegh. Quite a surprise to discover it’s you. What paper do you work for?’
‘I freelance, but in this instance I’m working for the Daily Post.’
‘The article Joss is doing will provide some welcome publicity,’ said Francis, and waved Dan to a chair. ‘Stop towering over us and sit down.’ He fetched a tureen of soup from a hotplate and set it in front of Joss. ‘Will you do the honours?’
Joss sent up a silent prayer of entreaty, and managed to fill three bowls without spilling a single drop of steaming vegetable soup, something she was rather proud of with a slanted, hostile gaze fixed on her throughout the operation.
‘I gather you’ve moved to a new flat,’ Dan observed as she passed him his bowl.
So he’d received her message. ‘Yes.’ She smiled at Francis. ‘I’d been living in a flat in Notting Hill, but I moved recently. My new address is less smart, but a lot cheaper.’
‘You forgot to mention the move last time we met,’ said Dan without inflection.
‘Did I?’ said Joss casually. ‘Some friends at the Post bought it.’
‘Have you known each other long?’ said Francis with interest. ‘Dan’s never mentioned you.’
‘No, not long,’ said Joss, her eyes on her soup.
‘Unlike Dan and me,’ said her host. ‘We’ve known each other all our lives.’
‘Really?’ Joss looked up in polite enquiry. ‘Do you still live in this part of the world, Mr Armstrong?’
‘Not any more.’ His eyes met hers head-on. ‘But I was born in a cottage on the Eastlegh estate. My father was head gardener here until recently.’
‘He still is in all but name,’ said Francis, grinning. ‘Dan’s father is Sam Armstrong, the despot I was talking about earlier.’
Dan stiffened visibly. ‘I’m surprised my family is of such interest.’
‘Joss is interested in all aspects of Eastlegh for her article,’ said Francis, looking down his nose. ‘Your father’s name came up due to his famous vegetables, Dan. He’s as much part of Eastlegh as I am. You have a problem with that?’
Dan threw up a hand like a fencer, giving his friend a wry smile. ‘No, milord, so get off your high horse.’ He looked at Joss. ‘But if you plan to mention my father in your article, Miss Hunter, I strongly advise asking his permission first.’
‘I second that,’ said Francis with feeling. ‘All right for you two; you won’t be here when he reads it. I will.’
‘If he makes a fuss just look down your nose like that and remind him you’re Lord Morville,’ advised Dan dryly.
‘Fat lot of use that would be! You know damn well that as far as Sam’s concerned my father was Lord Morville, and that’s that.’
‘Don’t worry, I never write anything without the subject’s permission,’ said Joss hastily. ‘If Mr Armstrong objects I won’t mention him.’
‘No!’ said both men, with such force Joss stared in surprise.
‘If you leave my father out of anything written about Eastlegh he’ll make Francis’s life a misery,’ said Dan, smiling at her for the first time.
‘Then of course I won’t,’ Joss assured them.
To her surprise both men got up, with the ease of long habit: Dan to take the plates, and Francis to serve the main course.
He grinned at her blank look. ‘Did you expect a footman behind every chair?’
She smiled wryly. ‘No, but I didn’t expect you to wait on me in person.’
‘Not much choice these days.’ Francis shrugged. ‘My problem is common among my breed. Asset-rich and cash-poor.’
‘May I quote you on that?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ said Francis cheerfully, slicing a vegetable tart. He served Joss deftly, and offered a platter of rare roast beef. ‘Can I tempt you?’
Joss refused, her appetite diminished by the presence of the man she must now think of as Daniel Armstrong. And think of him she would. She’d been a panicking fool to believe the magic of that night would vanish by daylight. Meeting him again only confirmed her reaction at Ascot. If he wanted to take up where he left off she would have no objection at all. But it was depressingly obvious that he had no such intention.
‘You’re very quiet, Miss Hunter,’ he commented, startling her. ‘For a journalist,’ he added.
‘Now then, Dan,’ warned Francis. ‘Don’t get on your hobby horse.’
‘He means I shun the attentions of the press,’ said Dan, looking her in the eye.
‘Dan tends to be a bit of a recluse,’ explained Francis. ‘Which is an odd trait for someone of his particular calling.’
‘What exactly do you do, Mr Armstrong?’ asked Joss, remembering his mention of construction work. And the picture it had conjured up.
‘He’s a property developer,’ said Francis, grinning. ‘He knocks down beautiful old buildings and puts up modern monstrosities in their place.’
‘I don’t knock them all down,’ said Dan, unmoved.
‘True. You work miracles on some of them,’ conceded Francis. ‘Dan and I went into banking together originally,’ he informed Joss. ‘We were good at it, made a bit of money with some fancy investments in the eighties. Then my father died, I had to come back to Eastlegh, and Dan started up his property company.’
‘This is strictly off the record, Miss Hunter,’ said Dan quickly, his eyes spearing hers. ‘If I read an article on the theme of “gardener’s son makes success in property world,” I’ll sue.’
‘My mission concerns Lord Morville and Eastlegh,’ said Joss loftily. ‘Not,’ she added, ‘that you could sue, if it’s the truth.’
‘Got you there, old son,’ chortled Francis, and rose to his feet. ‘You stay and entertain Joss, Dan. I’ll make coffee.’
When they were alone Dan got up and began transferring dishes from table to sideboard.
‘Do you need any help?’ asked Joss politely.
‘No.’ He sat down again, eyeing her with undisguised animosity. ‘So, Joscelyn Hunter. This is an unexpected pleasure. For me, at least. Obviously not for you.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know damn well. Your message came over loud and clear!’ He leaned forward, no longer troubling to hide his hostility now there was no one to see. ‘It does damn all for a man’s ego to be used like a bloody gigolo,’ he said in a harsh undertone. ‘And found wanting at that. When did you move?’
‘The following day,’ she said, fighting the urge to cower in her seat.
‘So why keep me in the dark?’ he demanded.
‘Isn’t it obvious? After—afterwards I was hideously embarrassed.’ Her eyes fell before the hard glitter in his. ‘It’s not a habit of mine to behave like that.’
‘Credit me with enough intelligence to know that. Look at me!’ he ordered.
Joss raised her eyes reluctantly.
‘The maidenly panic is unnecessary,’ he said abrasively. ‘It was you who asked me to make love to you, remember.’
‘Which is the whole point!’ she said with sudden passion. ‘In the cold light of day I couldn’t believe I’d done that. I just couldn’t cope with meeting you face to face again.’
‘Afraid I’d haul you off to bed the minute you opened the door?’
Her mouth compressed. ‘Of course not,’ she muttered.
He sat back, looking irritatingly relaxed. ‘Or maybe I didn’t come up to scratch as replacement for the absconding lover.’ He shrugged negligently. ‘Not that it matters. I don’t aspire to the role.’
His words acted like a stomach punch. ‘Then there’s no harm done,’ Joss snapped.
‘By the way, I saw you at Ascot, fleetingly,’ he said, startling her. ‘As soon as I could I came after you, but you took off faster than the winner of the three-thirty. And vanished again. Did you see me?’
‘No,’ she lied huskily. ‘I was working—’ She looked up in relief, deeply grateful for the interruption when Francis backed into the room with a tray.
‘Sorry I took so long,’ he apologised. ‘Hope you two managed to entertain each other?’
‘Of course,’ said Dan blandly. ‘It’s a long time since I enjoyed such an entertaining lunch. Thanks, Francis. Excellent meal, as always.’
‘When I go up to his place he gets food sent in,’ said Francis, pushing the tray towards Joss. ‘We make sure he gets some home cooking when he honours us with a visit.’
Joss poured coffee with a gratifyingly steady hand, then smiled at Francis, pointedly ignoring his friend. ‘When we’ve finished this could we make a start?’
Dan pushed his untouched cup aside and jumped to his feet, his eyes cold. ‘I must go. It’s been very interesting to meet you again, Miss Hunter. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ she said politely.
Francis excused himself to see his friend out, then rejoined Joss, looking perplexed. ‘You two obviously don’t get on very well.’
Remembering how spectacularly well they’d got on in one instance, Joss forced a smile. ‘Maybe he didn’t take kindly to breaking bread with a journalist.’
‘Possibly,’ conceded Francis, unconvinced.
Alone in a cloakroom at the back of the hall, Joss ran cold water on her wrists until she’d cooled down. Meeting the man she now knew to be Dan Armstrong had given her such a shock she’d failed to adjust to it right through lunch. Neither man had commented, but the food left on her plate must have given Dan some satisfaction, if he recalled the other meal they’d shared. She ground her teeth in frustration, then repaired her face, brushed her hair into place, and went to rejoin Francis.
Once they were in Eastlegh Hall together Joss soon discovered a shrewd, businesslike streak beneath the easy charm of its owner. Francis Legh, ninth Baron Morville, obviously loved his home with a passion. He was deliberately offhand when describing the fashionable Palladian façade one of his ancestors had thrown up around the original Tudor building, but unashamedly impassioned about his determination to hang on to his home, even if it meant moving out of it to do so.
‘It costs so much to open it to the public it’s better business to offer the entire house to corporations, banks or television companies who want it exclusive to themselves for whatever period their funds run to,’ he informed her. ‘Here, due to my darling Yankee grandma, we have relatively modern plumbing and heating, and some comfortably furnished bedrooms as well as the formal stateroom variety. The package I offer includes a room, dinner, plus early-morning tea and breakfast, supervised by Alan Wilcox in butler mode to impress.’
‘With far more privacy than possible at a hotel,’ said Joss, nodding.
‘Exactly.’ Francis led the way through a door opening off the ballroom. ‘This used to be a music room. It’s still a bit untidy, due to the alterations I mentioned. I’ve put in a new sound system, and at the touch of a button a screen descends from the ceiling.’
‘I’m impressed,’ Joss assured him. ‘If I send a photographer down during the week, would you allow some pictures?’
‘Of course—but only if I can vet them first,’ he added quickly, and grinned. ‘I sound like Dan.’ He shot a searching look in her direction. ‘Talking of Dan, why don’t you like him?’
Joss shrugged. ‘It’s he who objects to me.’
‘Because you’re a journalist?’
‘Your friend can tell you that better than I can,’ she said tartly, then smiled at him in apology. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude, Lord Morville.’
‘My name’s Francis,’ he said gently. ‘If you’ve seen all you want here perhaps you’d like a stroll outside. It’s a beautiful afternoon.’
‘Thank you, I’d like that very much.’
The present Lord Morville of Eastlegh so obviously loved every stick and stone and blade of grass of his property that Joss warmed to him more and more as they strolled through the afternoon sunshine. Eventually they left the gardens behind and made for the hothouses, where plants and shrubs were sold to the public.
‘That’s the house where Dan was born,’ said Francis, pointing. ‘Used to be a tied cottage, but Sam Armstrong owns it now.’
‘You sold it to him?’ said Joss, surprised. ‘I thought people like you—’ She halted, embarrassed.
‘You thought that people like me hang onto every possible bit of land and property they possess,’ he finished for her. ‘They do. So do I, tooth and nail. But in this one instance I yielded to powerful persuasion.’ He waved a hand towards the people milling round the hothouses. ‘Sunday’s a busy day at the nursery. The groundstaff sell Sam’s produce there for him. Would you like to meet him?’
‘Very much,’ said Joss promptly.
But when they reached the cottage she hesitated.
‘On the other hand I don’t want to intrude. Your friend might disapprove if I barge into his father’s house uninvited.’
‘He won’t disapprove of me,’ said Francis, with the assurance of his pedigree. ‘Besides, I mentioned it to Dan when he was leaving.’
The Armstrong home was very different from Joss’s expectations. Tied cottage by name, in actual fact it was a house, and a surprisingly sizeable one. Her preconceived idea of thatch and roses round the door was a long way from the reality of a house built on a smaller scale than Home Farm, but otherwise identical in age and architecture.
The man who answered Francis’s knock was older than Joss had expected, but instantly recognisable. The height and hawk-like features were the same. But the hair was white, and the lined face below it weathered to a hue much darker than his son’s. Sam Armstrong wore a formal white shirt and tie with comfortable old corduroys and a fawn cardigan, and nodded, unsurprised, at the sight of them.
‘Good afternoon to you both. Dan said you were coming over.’
‘Hello, Sam,’ said Francis cheerfully. ‘Hope we’re not disturbing you. This is Miss Joscelyn Hunter, a journalist from the Daily Post. She’s come to do a piece on Eastlegh, so I said she couldn’t possibly leave without talking to you.’
‘How do you do, Mr Armstrong?’ said Joss, holding out her hand.
It was clasped for an instant of contact with a rough, workworn palm. The shrewd blue eyes looked her over, then Sam Armstrong nodded, and stood aside to usher them into a cool, dark hall. ‘Come in and have some tea.’
A small table under the window in the sitting room was laid with fine china and a dish of buttered scones. Dan stood erect by the fireplace, his body language stating very clearly that he was there on sufferance.
‘You go and make the tea, Dan,’ ordered his father. ‘The kettle’s on the boil.’
Stiff-backed, Dan excused himself and went out to do his parent’s bidding, very much aware, by his rigid expression, that Joss was entertained by his role of dutiful son.
‘Sit down, Miss Hunter,’ said Sam.
Francis held out a dining chair for Joss, then perched himself on the stone window ledge and gave Joss time to examine her surroundings by engaging Sam in a conversation centred on asparagus. Two vast leather chairs flanked the fireplace in a room furnished with good, solid wood pieces very much in keeping with the home of a family which had served the masters of Eastlegh Hall for generations. Until Dan had broken the pattern.
‘So you’re going to do a piece about Eastlegh, Miss Hunter?’ said Sam Armstrong.
Dan appeared with a teapot and set it down on the tray in front of Joss. ‘My father doesn’t approve of letting the Hall out to strangers, Miss Hunter.’
‘Lord Morville wouldn’t have liked it,’ said the old man bluntly.
His son shot him a warning look. ‘Lord Morville, Father, is taking tea with us at this moment.’
Sam Armstrong looked discomfited for a moment. ‘I meant no offence,’ he said gruffly.
‘None taken, Sam,’ Francis assured him, and helped himself to a scone. ‘Besides, you know that death duties gave me no choice.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Sam grudgingly. ‘Will you pour the tea, miss?’
Joss complied, finding it no easier to fill cups than soup bowls with Dan looking on. He handed tea to Francis and his father, then took his own to the fireplace and stood there, listening in silence as Joss began to ask questions she soon found were superfluous. Sam was only too glad of an audience for his anecdotes.
He settled back in his chair, letting his tea cool. ‘My forebears were reivers in the Borders—moss troopers, as they were called—’
‘Cattle rustlers, actually,’ interrupted Dan, and won himself a glare from his parent.
‘My grandfather, Adam Armstrong,’ resumed Sam, unaware of the name’s impact on Joss, ‘came down here looking for work. He was given a job in the stables, and eventually became head coachman.’
Adam Armstrong’s son, Daniel, had preferred work with plants and soil to horses, and had worked his way up to the job of head gardener, a post taken over in time by Sam, his own son.
‘Armstrongs have lived in this house for three generations,’ Sam went on bitterly, ‘but not any more. My son prefers London.’
‘And I live in Home Farm instead of at the Hall,’ put in Francis, aware that Dan was silently seething. ‘Times change, Sam. We change with them or we go under.’
Sam turned to Joss. ‘I watched these two run wild, miss. Master Francis—Lord Morville—lost his mother when he was a little lad, so he used to come here to my wife for cakes and spoiling—and bandaging up, often as not. They were always up to mischief, these two.’
‘I don’t think Miss Hunter needs to hear all this, Father,’ said Dan stiffly.
‘Why not? She must be wondering why the gardener’s son is so pally with Lord Morville of Eastlegh,’ said Sam, unmoved. He smiled at Joss. ‘They went to different schools and different colleges, but it never made much difference.’
‘Lacking any brothers of our own, we made do with each other,’ said Francis matter-of-factly.
‘Which is why I can’t understand why the pair of you don’t get married and start families of your own,’ said Sam irritably.
‘You may be retired, Father, but Francis is still Lord Morville. You just can’t say things like that to him. And you forget you’re in the presence of a journalist,’ Dan reminded him. ‘The absence of wives might start her wondering about our sexual preferences—’
‘Speak for yourself, Dan!’ said Francis heatedly.
‘And remember there’s a lady in the room,’ thundered Sam.
Dan shrugged. ‘Miss Hunter’s a journalist,’ he said flatly, making the implication very plain.
Joss swallowed the insult, and looked at Dan levelly. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Armstrong. I don’t write a gossip column. My article centres on the ancestral homes I’m featuring and the commercial facilities offered by their owners. Other than your father, I’m more likely to bring in people like Sarah Wilcox than property developers with no relevance to the subject.’
‘Actually, that’s not true—’ began Francis, then halted at the ferocious scowl Dan turned on him.
Joss got up, bringing Sam and Francis to their feet. ‘Thanks for the tea, Mr Armstrong, and for sparing time to talk to me. It’s been fascinating. I’ll let Lord Morville know when the article’s due to appear.’ She shook Sam’s hand, then turned to Dan. ‘Goodbye, again.’
‘Goodbye,’ he said, looking down at her. He held out his hand. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again.’
Joss put her hand in his for the barest instant, aware that Francis was looking on with undisguised interest. ‘Perhaps,’ she agreed.
Sam Armstrong went with Joss to the door, but Dan called Francis back for a moment, talking to him in urgent undertone. Wildly curious to know what Dan was saying to his friend, Joss duly admired the garden instead of trying to listen, thanked Sam Armstrong again, then walked back to Eastlegh Hall with Francis.
‘Do you have enough for your article?’ he asked as they reached her car.
Joss nodded. ‘I certainly do. You’ve got a good thing going here. Thank you for letting me see it, and for giving me lunch.’
Francis fished out his wallet and took out a card. ‘If you need more information contact me here at the Hall or at Home Farm. Sarah will find me if I’m missing.’
‘Thank you. I’ll let you know about the photographer.’ Joss put the card in her handbag and held out her hand. ‘Goodbye.’
He took it in his. ‘And just in case I need it could I have your home number and address?’
Joss hunted in her bag and handed him a card, then got in the car and, with a final smile and wave, drove back through the parkland of Eastlegh Hall and made for the road to Dorchester. She made no effort to hurry, preferring to enjoy the beautiful summer evening at leisure rather than hurtle back to London. At one stage she stopped off for coffee at an inn roofed in the thatch typical of the area, and sat outside to drink it while she recovered from the shock of meeting Daniel Armstrong. A pity she’d left such a cold message on his phone. Not that it mattered. He’d obviously washed his hands of her when he’d found she’d moved. Nor, thought Joss, trying to be fair, could she blame him. He obviously felt he’d been tried and found wanting. Which was so far from the truth it was ludicrous. But she could never tell him that now.
As Joss neared London later the traffic was heavy, and after the strain of the day she was tired by the time she parked her car on the forecourt outside the house. She switched off the ignition, then gave a screech of fright as her door was yanked open.
‘Where the devil have you been?’ said Dan Armstrong irritably. ‘You took your time.’