Looking round the beautiful room with its peachy walls, corn-coloured carpet, yellow-and-pink-striped silk curtains on the four-poster and at the windows, and rose-pink silk chaise-longue, Cameron felt she was waking in the middle of a sunrise. It was an incredibly feminine room for a man. Then she remembered the pale-blue hall and the pale-yellow drawing-room, and decided it must all be Helen’s taste. On the dressing table, amid Rupert’s clutter of betting slips, silver-backed brushes, cigar packets and loose change, were photographs of his children. The girl, exactly like Rupert, had the same arrogant blue-eyed stare; the boy had very dark red hair and large dark wary eyes. Having met Rupert’s pack last night, Cameron felt seven step-dogs might be an easier proposition to take on than two step-children. Helen must have been spectacular to produce kids like that. Mad on sight-seeing, she was plainly a sight herself.
Outside, through a frame of rampant, budding clematis, lay the valley, pale green except for the occasional wild cherry tree in flower, or the blackthorn breaking in white waves over the hedgerows. From an ash grove by the lake she could hear the haunting, sweet cry of the cuckoo. How could Helen have walked out on such a view and such a man?
Having showered and dressed, Cameron went downstairs. The dogs lying in the hall thumped their tails and followed her into the kitchen. There the housekeeper, Mrs Bodkin, was friendly but unfazed by her presence. Perhaps, like people in trains, she could afford to be friendly, knowing Cameron wouldn’t be in situ for long. She mustn’t get jealous and paranoid. Tony was turned on by rows. Rupert, she suspected, would be bored, and walk away from them.
She took some orange juice and coffee out onto the terrace. That must be Declan’s house across the valley, still just visible through the thickening beech wood.
She wondered what he’d been up to since his fall from grace. How strange that on 1st January with Patrick she’d looked across at Rupert’s house and thought, What a kingdom, and now, four months later, here she was.
She stopped only briefly to glance at the library and the first editions, which could be examined at length on a less lovely morning, then set out with the dogs to explore. There was a wonderful untamed beauty, rather like Maud O’Hara, about the garden. Green leaves were uncurling on the tangled old roses, the peacocks and crowing cocks once clipped out of the yew hedges were looking distinctly shaggy. The swimming-pool was full of leaves, the beech hedge round the tennis court was in need of a cut, the lawns dotted with daisies were still lit along the edges by pools of dying daffodils. Rupert and this place need a woman, thought Cameron, to cherish and sort them out.
The stables, on the other hand, were immaculate, and filled with beautiful, well-muscled horses. More horses were out in the fields. The girl grooms treated Cameron with the same we’ve-seen-them-all-come-and-go politeness displayed by Mrs Bodkin.
I’ll show them, thought Cameron, as she set out through the beech woods. I’m the one who’s going to hang in.
The ground was still carpeted with bluebells. Only when she pressed her face close could she distinguish their faint sweet hyacinth scent from the rank sexy stench of the wild garlic. The dogs charged ahead, but the shaggy lurcher called Blue kept bounding back solicitously to check she was all right, shoving his wet nose in her hand, giving her a token lick. It was all so beautiful; she had never felt so happy or so right anywhere.
She had wandered for a mile or two when suddenly she breathed in a sticky, sweet familiar scent that made her tremble. Ahead, a copse of poplars, rising like flaming amber swords, was wafting balsam down the woodland ride towards her, evoking the times she used to inhale Friar’s Balsam under a towel as a child, reminding her all too violently of her mother and Mike. Instantly her euphoria evaporated. She glanced at her watch. It was half past twelve. She must get back. Grey clouds were creeping over the sun; it had become much cooler. She even felt a spot of rain. As she dropped down the wood towards the house an owl hooted. Surely it shouldn’t hoot at midday? Through the trees she could see the lake grey and blank now as a smudged mirror, and as she reached the big lawn she gave a moan of horror. Last night’s deluge had stripped all the petals from the magnolia, scattering them over the grass. Last night’s bride was naked now.
The dogs converged, barking, as a car drew up at the front door. Cameron hoped it was Rupert, but it turned out to be a youth delivering some boxes of T-shirts, who gazed at Cameron in admiration.
‘This is the first lot. Mr C-B wanted them in a hurry,’ he said. ‘Tell him the stickers, the posters and the badges’ll be ready by Monday.’
Cameron couldn’t resist having a look. The T-shirts were a beautiful cerulean blue, with a dark bronze drawing of a boy shading his forehead on the front and the words Support Venturer on the front and the back. They must be for some sporting event. Taking one upstairs, Cameron stripped off and put it on. It fell just below her bush. Suddenly feeling incredibly randy, she hoped Rupert hadn’t got anything planned for the afternoon. As it was much colder, she shut the window, trapping a tendril of clematis which was already wilting and bruised from being trapped on previous occasions. Trying to insinuate its way into Rupert’s bedroom, like her and every other woman, thought Cameron wryly.
Next minute the front door banged. Very slowly she walked downstairs. Rupert was looking at the boxes in the hall.
‘They’re great,’ she said. ‘Can I keep one?’
Rupert glanced up and froze for a second.
‘Hullo, angel. Did you sleep well?’
‘So well,’ murmured Cameron seductively, ‘that I’m ready to be exhausted again.’ She lifted the T-shirt to show him her bush. Then, when he didn’t react as she’d expected and come bounding up the stairs, she said, ‘What is Venturer, anyway?’
Rupert’s eyes seemed to have gone a darker, more opaque shade of blue and lost all their sparkle. ‘Come and have a drink,’ he said.
Disappointed, Cameron followed him into the drawing-room. Suddenly he seemed incredibly tense and, when she refused a drink, poured himself two fingers of neat whisky and drank it in one gulp. Then he pulled her down on to the sofa beside him.
‘Look, sweetheart, this is a bit difficult, but there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’
Cameron went white. Suddenly in that baggy T-shirt, she looked as fragile, pale and defenceless as one of the anemones that strewed the paths of Rupert’s woods.
‘You want to pack me in?’ she whispered.
‘No, no, quite the reverse.’ Very gently he smoothed a tendril of dark hair behind her ear and stroked her rigid, quivering cheek.
‘But you may want to pack me in. Freddie Jones, Declan and I are pitching for the Corinium franchise. We’ve called ourselves Venturer.’
At first she was so relieved that he wasn’t trying to end the relationship she couldn’t think straight.
‘You and Declan? How long has this been going on?’
‘Since the day after Declan walked out.’
‘So turning up in Madrid wasn’t only to see a football match?’
‘No.’
‘Or showing such interest in my career and the goings on at Corinium?’
‘No.’
‘Did you read the application in my briefcase?’
‘I photostated it.’
She was trembling violently now and her lips were quite white.
‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her. ‘Declan was so appalled by my skulduggery he refused to read it; so we haven’t pinched anything.’
‘And I suppose you arranged those riots as an excuse to fly straight home once you’d got what you wanted?’
‘Uh-uh,’ protested Rupert. ‘Two stabbed cops, twenty-five people injured and a burnt-down stand is going too far even for me.’