The flight from London to Edinburgh goes fairly smoothly. Ian and I spend most of it studying the paperwork, so there's not much talking and even less chitchat. Exactly the way it should be.
The journey by car is more problematic, as we argue over who's going to drive (I win after exhausting negotiations), who should read the map (he wins that one), and whose fault it is that we get lost. Is that the driver’s or the navigator’s responsibility?
About two hours later, we are driving up towards Beverly’s property – a large, slightly tasteless villa.
Despite being the son of a marquis and the daughter of a duke, neither of the Beverlys seems to have inherited any stately old piles, just modern fakes like this one.
The garden is huge and extremely well kept, with a lake in front of it that looks like something out of the BBC's latest version of Pride and Prejudice. But the villa is really quite tacky, to put it mildly.
Ian gets out of the car and shakes his head.
“Hmm—” I say, sceptically.
“I know,” he mumbles, perplexed. But we have no time to say anything else, because at least five of the staff appear out of nowhere to give us a warm greeting. Or, at least, to give one of us a warm greeting. Of course, there’s a butler, as the best British tradition demands. The best nineteenth-century British tradition, that is. Somebody should point that out to Beverly. If my mother was here, she'd be having a heart attack.
“Lord Langley,” they all greet Ian with great reverence. I’m surprised they don't lay down a red carpet to protect his delicate Italian moccasins from the harsh Scottish dust.
“Miss Percy,” they say to me, with much less emphasis.
The butler even gives me sniffy look. Alright, so I’m not an aristocrat – what exactly is the problem?
A few moments later, a majestic Beverly appears by the entrance, the same old smug expression plastered over his face. It’s nice not to have any surprises: my client is behaving exactly the way I would have expected.
“Ian, my dear! Did you have a pleasant journey?” he asks sweetly, while shaking my colleague’s hand and totally ignoring yours truly.
“Very pleasant, thank you, Lord Beverly.”
“Well, since you will be officially taking care of the management of my properties and companies, you’d better start calling me Charles,” he says in a friendly tone. Oh, come off it! Who does he think is going to buy all this bonhomie?
I can't help thinking that the fact he shares a name with my ex speaks volumes, and a quick, derisive smile appears on my face.
Beverly quickly orders his personnel to take our luggage from the car, while Ian moves over to me.
“Something funny?” he asks quietly, so no one else can hear him, and I give him an eloquent look.
“I mean, something apart from the house, the staff and the atmosphere?” he asks sarcastically. Ian is unbearable, yes, but if I had to choose a positive side of his personality, it would be his sarcasm. He has a direct, cutting way of making fun of things, and I must admit it’s usually about things that deserve it.
“He’s got the same name as my ex,” I whisper. “Don’t you think there are too many 'Charles's in the world?” I ask innocently.
Ian makes a sly face, and is about to say something, but refrains when he sees Beverly walking back towards us.
“Please, follow me. My governess, Miss Shrop, will show you to your rooms.”
And so we enter the house, which I can only describe as a sort of bizarre cathedral. There’s a schizophrenic mixture of styles and periods, and whoever the architect was who designed it ought to be struck off, or whatever the architectural equivalent is, for having built such a monstrosity.
The entrance hall is not just impressive, I think – it’s deliberately crazy. There are two huge, neo-classical staircases which meet on the first floor, just in front of a statue, which, being a well mannered person, I would limit myself to calling 'interesting'.
The 'governess', a lady of about sixty years of age with grey hair and a very mean look, stops and points to the sculpture.
“This is a recent addition. It shows Miss Elizabeth, Lord Beverly’s daughter,” she says proudly. Ok, now I get it.
I turn to look at Ian and see that he looks perplexed, to say the least. He actually seems speechless, which is highly usual.
“Miss Elizabeth must be a real beauty,” I comment, not knowing what else to say. I am clearly lying through my teeth, but it’s what these people are expecting from me.
“Oh, more than you can imagine. But you will meet her tonight for dinner, so you can judge for yourselves. She’s a rare beauty,” says Miss Shrop, her eyes becoming dreamy.
Ian and I shoot each other a worried look.
Miss Shrop leads us along a semi-hidden corridor behind the stairs, only to stop after a few metres in front of a door, saying, “Miss Percy, this will be your room.” She then turns to look at Ian. “Lord Langley, we have prepared a room for you on the first floor. Please come with me.”
And she heads off back towards the stairs, leaving me standing in front of the door without any further instructions.
For a moment Ian looks as astonished as I am, and doesn’t seem to know if he should leave me in that dark corridor and follow the governess or wait to make sure my room is not some sort of Bluebeard-style trap.
“Go,” I say, resignedly, “if you lose her, you’re in trouble.”
“Looks like I'll have to,” he answers, sounding worried.
“See you later.” I wave goodbye and turn the door handle.
“Ok, see you later,” he says, having apparently decided that it's safe to let me enter my room.
The first thing I think upon entering is that Beverly put me in here deliberately. He's probably still punishing me for keeping him waiting for an hour the other week.
I can’t, in fairness, say the room is in any way ugly, but it is as spartan and aseptic as a hospital. And grey. Very, very grey.
The scene brings a smile to my face, though. I'm a born fighter. Beverly obviously hasn't yet realised who he’s dealing with.
*
A few hours later I’m sitting on a majestic copy of a Louis XVIII sofa sipping a glass of Pimms and waiting for the arrival of Beverly's much sighed over daughter. And she is scandalously late. Too late even for such a rare beauty.
I’m onto my third glass and if I keep knocking it back like this on an empty stomach, I’m afraid I won’t be sober for much longer.
Ian must be of the same opinion, since he keeps shooting me nervous glances from his perch on the other equally horrendous sofa.
I lift one eyebrow to try and tell him that he doesn't need to worry about me, but get the feeling the message doesn’t really get across.
Beverly, meanwhile, is delighting us with a monologue about his hunting exploits. Since I’m totally opposed to hunting, I try to concentrate my attention on Ian so I can avoid listening to all the bloody details. I am the daughter of two greener than green pacifists, after all!
Ian notices my alarmed expression and is looking at me worriedly. I'm glad I'm not in his shoes, stuck between Beverly and the hated Miss Percy. I’m sure he's had better weekends.
Our host has announced that he doesn’t want to talk shop ‘on an empty stomach,’ and the star of the evening, Miss Elizabeth Beverly, finally makes her appearance just when we have totally run out of things to talk about.
One look at her is enough to understand why Beverly insisted on having Ian as a consultant.
It's nothing to do with Beverly not trusting me or my skills. Deep down, he knows very well that I’m good at my job.
He asked for Ian because what he really wants is a duke for a son-in-law.
For the first time in many days, I smile a proper, honest, real smile.
Ladies and gentlemen, things are about to get entertaining.