A Tattooed Heart by Deborah Challinor

could be such a windfall sometimes. ‘When are they off?’
    â€˜Towards the end of the month, I think she said. Why?’
    Friday shrugged. ‘Just wondered. More cake?’
    Lucian patted his considerable belly. ‘Not for me. I was told recently by my physician to watch my weight. Apparently it helps with the gout. I’m not giving up my port, though. A man has to have some pleasures in life. Apart from you, of course, my dear.’
    â€˜Why don’t you come and have a look at our new flogging room?’ Friday suggested. ‘It’s very smart, and discreet.’
    Looking suddenly despondent, and really quite elderly, Lucian said, ‘Have you grown tired of visiting me at home?’
    â€˜Not at all,’ Friday said truthfully. ‘I just thought it’d be something different for you.’
    â€˜I’d rather we kept things the way they are. I very much look forward to your weekly visits, especially our afternoon teas and our little chats.’ Lucian laid a liver-spotted hand on Friday’s arm. ‘You bring a lot of joy to this old man, you know.’
    Unaccountably, Friday felt tears stinging her eyes. ‘Then I’ll keep coming,’ she said.
    â€˜I’m fed up with this miserable weather,’ Sarah said, jabbing viciously at the dining-room fire with a poker. ‘I didn’t get transported to New South Wales just to freeze to death. I could have stayed in London and done that.’
    â€˜If we were still in London,’ Harrie said, amused, ‘you’d think this weather was balmy, for winter. You’ve gone soft.’
    â€˜I have not! That’s the second time you’ve said that.’
    â€˜I didn’t say it last time, Friday did.’
    Friday said, ‘I didn’t exactly say that.’
    â€˜Well, don’t, either of you. I haven’t gone soft.’ Sarah plonked herself back down on her seat. ‘Sorry, Aria. I’m not usually this grumpy.’
    â€˜Yes, you are,’ Friday said. ‘Something’s the matter, though, isn’t it?’
    Sarah turned her teacup around in its saucer three times before she at last replied. ‘I’m bored. Adam’s lovely, the business is going well, and I’m bored.’
    Friday smiled slyly. ‘Well, this’ll perk you up. My cully Lucian Meriwether told me the other day that Henrietta Bloodworth — that’s Clement’s poor missus — is off home to England with the kids.’
    Sarah’s face lit up. ‘When?’
    â€˜Later this month. Don’t know exactly when, but it should be easy enough to find out. I’ll just pay some little guttersnipe a shilling a week to hang around outside the house and find out.’
    Delighted, Sarah said, ‘So if the house is nearly empty, I can finally have a go at getting that bloody letter!’
    â€˜The servants, though,’ Harrie said. ‘And Mr —’
    Aria kicked out under the table and let loose a torrent of what sounded like very vicious invective in Maori. Clifford shot out and stood facing her, head down, ears flat, legs spread, growling menacingly.
    â€˜It bit me!’ Aria exclaimed, outraged. ‘It bit my boot!’
    Snatching Clifford up by the scruff of the neck she marched to the door, opened it and threw the wriggling, furiously barking dog out. Wiping her hands on her skirt, Aria sat down again, and looked around. ‘What? What is wrong?’
    Sarah glanced at Friday. ‘You tell her.’
    â€˜Um, you can’t do that, Aria. Clifford’s special to us.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜She belonged to a very good friend of ours. You’ll get used to her.’
    â€˜I do not want to get used to her.’
    Friday had a flash of brilliance. She wanted Aria to at least tolerate Clifford, because these days Sarah adored the hairy little troll and frowned on people who didn’t like her, which was just about everyone.