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Hayefield Manor
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THE DOOR SLAMMED open and the head of security stormed out, red faced. He glared at Edwina as she jumped out of his way.
“Intolerable!” He flicked his hand at the doorway. “I have thirty years’ experience. Thirty. I have never, in all that time, been so . . . belittled.”
Edwina held up her hands. “Now, John, calm down. I’m sure we can work this out.”
“Work it out?” He threw his hands in the air. “She is blaming me for the incident. Me?” He balled his fist and shook it at the door. “How is it my fault?”
“I’ve just spent the morning in a police station,” Sophie oozed in her deep, smooth voice. “It is your fault.”
He turned. “You were the one who threw her out at three in the morning.” He scowled through the doorway. “No one heard a thing, let alone a gunshot. If you didn’t let people hunt in the forest, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.”
Sophie smiled a knowing smile. “Huntsmen have used the forest since the thirteen hundreds. No one has been shot before.”
Edwina folded her arms. That was a blatant lie. She knew of at least ten deaths from hunting accidents.
John shook his fist at her again. “Mick was the one on duty and I don’t see you reprimanding him. How was I supposed to know the girl would get killed?”
“You are also supposed to be in charge . . . and thirty years’ experience or not, you failed.” Sophie’s voice was so cold, so detached, so utterly haughty that Edwina gripped her own arms to stop herself snapping.
“I quit.” John threw his keys onto the floor. “Find someone else to enslave.”
Sophie smiled a cold smile. “Leave your coat. Don’t expect payment.”
Edwina closed her eyes. Of course. Sophie made sure every head of security signed a waiver. If they didn’t complete six months satisfactorily, no huge pay packet.
John wheezed out a breath. “Bitch.” He ripped off his jacket and threw it on the floor. “I hope they send you down. I hope you rot.” He turned to Edwina. “I don’t know how you put up with that.”
He stormed out, slamming the door as he went. It rattled the seven hundred year old portrait of Lord De Breton in his victory in battle.
Sophie met her eyes. “Problem?”
“It wasn’t John’s fault the girl was killed. There was no need to treat him that way.” Edwina picked up the jacket and keys. “Your father would be appalled.”
“My father is dead.” Sophie gazed out the floor-to-ceiling window. “I doubt he felt much when he wasn’t.”
“He was a good man.” Edwina cuddled the coat. Sophie’s parents, her brother, they had all been so wonderful. Sophie, she was . . . more like her ancestors the De Bretons: Arrogant, cold, tyrants.
“So you say.” Sophie turned back to the room.
“But you haven’t said what happened at the station.” Edwina brushed over the fluorescent strips.
“They arrested me. I’ve been released on bail.” Sophie said it as if that was of no consequence at all. “Clean up the mud.”
“They what?” Edwina stared at her. “They arrested you?”
“For murder, yes.” Sophie strolled into her office and shut the door.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” she snapped. What did they do? If Sophie was sent to jail, what would happen to the estate?
The door opened.
Sophie strolled back out, peered down at her, and raised her dark eyebrows.
Edwina tensed, unease crawling over her.
“No,” Sophie said, her voice deep and curt.
Edwina swallowed and hugged the jacket.
Sophie turned, strolled back into her office, and shut the door.
Edwina yanked the jacket tighter to herself and scurried through the high ceiling corridor. Tapestries as old as the building lined the walls, busts and portraits of every Haye that had resided there all the way back to the De Breton family who built the magnificent castle. They built a priory nearby which housed monks for hundreds of years. It was stately, grand, and, if the local tales were anything to go by, spooky. A bit like Sophie.
She stopped next to the portrait of Michael De Breton who was every inch where Sophie gained her genes. He had that tanned olive complexion, striking looks as if forged in battle, black hair wild around him, and those smouldering charcoal eyes. He raised his sword in triumph, his smile as razor like.
Every story of the family told of their coldness, their power-hungry attitude and vicious nature when it came to love. They had made perfect knights, soldiers, and yes, they had the looks to match their inner ice. Servants, staff, locals were loyal to them. They made them feel safe . . . or were supposed to.
Edwina hugged the jacket tighter still. She was loyal too. Her family had served the Haye family for generations. Sophie was no different but—Edwina looked back at the door. Her father had been such a nice man, her mother, her brother. They wouldn’t have treated John or any other member of staff like she did. They wouldn’t have been so unmoved at the woman being shot or been so dismissive of being arrested for murder.
Who would look after the estate? It would be sold, that’s what. Sold to some hyena waiting to flatten it or build on it. Where would all the servants go? Hayefield Estate was home.
Edwina scowled. It was home and someone had to fight for it. She wandered into her office and smiled at a maid having a cup of tea. “Could you clean up in the office corridor when you’ve finished your break?”
The maid beamed. “Yes, Ms. Clarke.”
Edwina placed the jacket to the side. Sophie would be as dismissive and cold . . . as unhelpful to anyone who tried to help. What to do?
“Could you clean Lady Sophie’s office too, please?” she asked, tidying her hair. John would have trailed mud in there too.
The maid tensed, and her cup rattled.
Edwina sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” The maid scurried out, leaving her tea cup still rattling away.
Yes. Sophie was much like the De Breton family. She made people . . . uneasy. Edwina rubbed the back of her neck. What she needed was someone who could deal with “different.” She picked up the phone and dialled her niece. If anyone knew who could help, it would be her.