been the owner of Fairfield, unknown to herself, as soon as her poor father’s car had smashed into that lorry. But her mother’s wretched relatives had swooped down and carted her off to New York right after the funeral. Victoria had not put up much of a fight. She blamed Christy and her fast ways for Robert’s death. The baby would only remind her of her hated sister-in-law, with those large green eyes and that mop of blonde, un-Lancaster-like hair. Victoria was good with dogs and horses, but not with babies. Certainly not one that didn’t even belong to her. So for Jack and Mindy Rogers to take their sister’s baby seemed a natural choice. If Rebecca inherited Christy’s aggressive American ways, Victoria reflected, America was the best place for her.
But now she was twenty-one, and the trust had matured. Victoria and her cousin William, the head of Lancaster Holdings PLC, were no longer the executors. Fairfield Court, the family company, and everything that went with it had passed into the teenage hands of the Hon. Rebecca Lancaster. Everything except the title. That was Rupert’s, and Victoria shuddered anew and decided not to think about that particular problem just yet.
‘She should be up around six. Barkin was to pick her up at the Ritz by two, so not later than that, I’d say.’
Henry Whitlock regarded his wife nervously. Her steel-grey hair and thick tweed skirt were especially crisp and unforgiving today. A bad sign. When Victoria dressed like this, you didn’t want to be in her way. Whitlock just liked his port, his Times crossword and being left alone. Of course it was too bad to be turfed out of Fairfield, but it wasn’t as if they hadn’t known it was coming.
‘Did you tell the maid to make up the master bedroom?’
He nodded.
‘And did you have her put roses in the vase?’
‘She picked some red ones from the garden, from the large bush as one goes into the kitchen garden.’
Victoria’s skin prickled as she remembered what those roses were called. ‘American Beauty’. An omen. As though Christy’s brat were already laughing at her.
‘Everything’s ready, then,’ she said.
Barkin glanced behind him at Miss Becky. She’d asked him to call her Becky, but he thought, for the sake of his job, it would be safer to stick
59
with ‘Madam’, at least when Mrs Whitlock was in earshot. She was staring out of the window at the Cotswold countryside and didn’t seem to notice him discreetly checking her out. She was too young, too rich and too posh for him, and if his Maisie could see him now she’d be furious. But Maisie wasn’t around, was she? He was free to check out those amazing, coltish legs that poured out of a tiny white miniskirt into itsy-bitsy, strappy white leather heels, pale against her golden brown skin, and the rigid, tight white military-style jacket on top, buttoned up against the chilly English summer evening, with gold buttons and that all over it. Barkin wasn’t big on fashion but he knew when a girl looked amazing. Hair the colour of melted butter spilled all over the soft leather of the passenger seat. He couldn’t see her eyes, they were hidden behind oversized Jackie O. sunglasses. And it was a pity she was wearing that rose-scented perfume … he wanted to smell her natural skin. She was so clean and flesh, her plucked, styled eyebrows complementing her delicate hands. And no tights on those endless legs. She looked like Twiggy, but prettier. He wondered what kind of underwear a girl like that had on. If she’d shift in her seat maybe he could see it. That skirt was so damn short, but somehow she always managed to keep her legs together or at some infuriating angle so he couldn’t see. Soft lace, he was sure, a little wisp of something pink or peach …
Barkin felt himself getting hard. He swallowed and focused on the road ahead. The last thing this lass needed was another car crash. Besides, she was a nice chick. Asked him to put the radio
But now she was twenty-one, and the trust had matured. Victoria and her cousin William, the head of Lancaster Holdings PLC, were no longer the executors. Fairfield Court, the family company, and everything that went with it had passed into the teenage hands of the Hon. Rebecca Lancaster. Everything except the title. That was Rupert’s, and Victoria shuddered anew and decided not to think about that particular problem just yet.
‘She should be up around six. Barkin was to pick her up at the Ritz by two, so not later than that, I’d say.’
Henry Whitlock regarded his wife nervously. Her steel-grey hair and thick tweed skirt were especially crisp and unforgiving today. A bad sign. When Victoria dressed like this, you didn’t want to be in her way. Whitlock just liked his port, his Times crossword and being left alone. Of course it was too bad to be turfed out of Fairfield, but it wasn’t as if they hadn’t known it was coming.
‘Did you tell the maid to make up the master bedroom?’
He nodded.
‘And did you have her put roses in the vase?’
‘She picked some red ones from the garden, from the large bush as one goes into the kitchen garden.’
Victoria’s skin prickled as she remembered what those roses were called. ‘American Beauty’. An omen. As though Christy’s brat were already laughing at her.
‘Everything’s ready, then,’ she said.
Barkin glanced behind him at Miss Becky. She’d asked him to call her Becky, but he thought, for the sake of his job, it would be safer to stick
59
with ‘Madam’, at least when Mrs Whitlock was in earshot. She was staring out of the window at the Cotswold countryside and didn’t seem to notice him discreetly checking her out. She was too young, too rich and too posh for him, and if his Maisie could see him now she’d be furious. But Maisie wasn’t around, was she? He was free to check out those amazing, coltish legs that poured out of a tiny white miniskirt into itsy-bitsy, strappy white leather heels, pale against her golden brown skin, and the rigid, tight white military-style jacket on top, buttoned up against the chilly English summer evening, with gold buttons and that all over it. Barkin wasn’t big on fashion but he knew when a girl looked amazing. Hair the colour of melted butter spilled all over the soft leather of the passenger seat. He couldn’t see her eyes, they were hidden behind oversized Jackie O. sunglasses. And it was a pity she was wearing that rose-scented perfume … he wanted to smell her natural skin. She was so clean and flesh, her plucked, styled eyebrows complementing her delicate hands. And no tights on those endless legs. She looked like Twiggy, but prettier. He wondered what kind of underwear a girl like that had on. If she’d shift in her seat maybe he could see it. That skirt was so damn short, but somehow she always managed to keep her legs together or at some infuriating angle so he couldn’t see. Soft lace, he was sure, a little wisp of something pink or peach …
Barkin felt himself getting hard. He swallowed and focused on the road ahead. The last thing this lass needed was another car crash. Besides, she was a nice chick. Asked him to put the radio
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