Читать книгу No Place For Love - SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER that unpleasant experience, Lacey would have liked nothing better than to be able to shut herself in her room and hide. But if there was one thing guaranteed to take her mind off her troubles, it was the youngsters at the day centre where she worked part-time as a drama therapist. All of them had been classified as having severe learning difficulties, but their enthusiasm for the Christmas play they were preparing was enormous.

‘It’s really coming on,’ remarked Hilary, the centre manager, watching as some of the cast earnestly rehearsed a scene. ‘And they really seem to be enjoying themselves.’

Lacey nodded. ‘They wrote most of the script themselves, by improvising,’ she explained quietly. ‘It’s about Jesus coming back in the present day, as one of the homeless in London.’

Hilary looked impressed. ‘Who thought of that?’

‘They did,’ Lacey responded proudly.

‘Very good. Let me know what you’re going to need in the way of props and scenery, and I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks,’ Lacey whispered. ‘That was very good, Tom,’ she added, raising her voice to the characters on the makeshift stage. ‘Maria, I like the way you’re sitting, but could you just turn a little this way, so we can see your face properly?’

‘Was I really good, Lacey?’ Tom queried excitedly, his eyes alight with pride.

‘You were very good,’ she asserted with emphasis. ‘And you’ve learned your lines really well. Well done.’

‘I know my lines too, Lacey,’ Maria put in eagerly, coming over to take her hand.

Lacey smiled down at her with warm affection. ‘Do you? You have been working hard. We’ll come to your bit in a minute. I want you all to practise your song first, OK? Come on, gather round the piano.’

It made her feel warm inside to see all their bright, happy faces as they clustered around her. Sometimes it made her really angry that life seemed so unfair to them, but when she thought about the way that people who apparently had so much more could be so arrogant and rude, she was inclined to the conclusion that they were the ones to be envied.

The day centre was only a short distance from the flat she shared with Hugo, and with a speculative glance at the grey November sky she decided to walk home instead of waiting for the bus. It took her rather longer than she had expected—she had lived in this part of south London all her life, and it was inevitable that she would keep bumping into people she knew. By the time she had stopped to chat, nodding in sympathy at the story of someone’s recent spell in hospital, congratulating someone else on the birth of a new grandchild, it was beginning to rain.

She had to pop into the small supermarket on the corner to get a bottle of milk and some dog food for Khan, and then hurried the rest of the way home, struggling with her umbrella and her shopping, cursing mildly at a car that splashed her as she waited to cross the road.

As she turned the corner, she noticed with surprise that the same car was drawn into the kerb outside her block of flats. She frowned, puzzled. It was a sleek dark blue Aston Martin—who on earth could be visiting around here, driving a car like that? At least she could be fairly sure it wasn’t another reporter.

The driver was still at the wheel, and as she drew closer an uncomfortable suspicion began to dawn in her brain. A glimpse of a dark head and a pair of wide shoulders in an immaculately cut jacket confirmed it; it couldn’t be anyone else but Jon Parrish.

Well, he needn’t think she was going to stop and speak to him, after the way he had behaved last night! Ignoring him completely, she climbed the flight of steps to her front door on the first floor, irritated at her own uncharacteristic clumsiness as she struggled with her umbrella and her shopping and fumbled for her keys.

She heard him open the car door. ‘Miss Tyrell?’

Her umbrella was slipping, and instinctively she tried to catch it, succeeding only in dropping the bottle of milk. It smashed on the step, spilling broken glass and milk in the rain. ‘Oh...drat!’ she muttered, juggling with the tins of dog food as they too began to slip out of her hands.

He came quickly up the steps and took them from her before she dropped them.

‘Oh...Thank you,’ she responded, automatically polite, but instantly jumped back on to the defensive before he could think she was making any concessions. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ she demanded, glowering up at him in undisguised suspicion.

Those dark eyes glinted, warning that he hadn’t come to apologise. ‘We need to talk,’ he answered tersely.

‘We have nothing to talk about,’ she insisted, trying to reach the lock with her key while still holding on to all the things she was carrying.

‘Unfortunately we do,’ he ground out, taking the key from her. ‘As you may be aware, the newspapers have discovered your relationship with my stepfather.’

‘I told you last night, I don’t have a relationship with your... Look out!’

He didn’t heed her warning, and as he pushed the door open he found himself mobbed by an overexcited bundle of fur, not sure whether to attack him or try to lick his face.

‘Khan—down!’ Lacey instructed sharply, afraid that if her dog ran to meet her he would cut his paws on the broken glass. She hurriedly shooed him back inside, catching her open umbrella on the door and muttering more impatient curses.

Jon calmly took it from her, shaking off the raindrops and closing it down as he followed her into the passage. ‘Sit,’ he instructed Khan imperiously.

To Lacey’s absolute astonishment, the delinquent hound immediately responded by plopping his back end down on the floor, his front paws neatly together, his whole expression conveying smug pride in his own uncharacteristic obedience.

‘Good lord—how on earth did you get him to do that?’ she queried, forgetting all her wariness in her surprise.

Just for a moment; a smile flickered at the corners of his hard mouth, and Lacey felt her heart give an odd little flutter; that smile was quite startlingly attractive. But she couldn’t afford to let herself think like that, she reminded herself sharply.

‘Well, you’d better come in,’ she remarked, the inflection of sarcasm in her voice acknowledging that he had already done so.

‘Thank you.’ He closed the front door behind him. Khan, evidently deciding he was a friend, was fawning at his feet, his rump in the air, his curly tail wagging wildly. ‘What exactly is this?’ he enquired, restraining the exuberant hound as he reared up to seal their relationship with his floppy pink tongue.

‘He’s an Afghan hound,’ she informed him, dumping the dog food on the kitchen table.

‘Is that a fact?’ He followed her into the kitchen. ‘I’d have taken him for a mobile hearthrug.’

Lacey had to suppress ruthlessly the inclination to feel that anyone who could win Khan’s adoration so swiftly couldn’t be all bad—she could hardly rely on that brainless mutt as a judge of character, she reminded herself with a flash of wry humour.

She slanted him a wary glance from beneath her lashes. The memory of last night was still all too vivid in her mind, and although nothing in his manner now suggested that he was planning a repetition, she wasn’t at all sure she should have let him across the threshold. She was going to have to handle the situation very carefully, avoid doing anything that he might take as further confirmation of the conclusion he had leapt to so readily last night; at least having her own clothes on should give her a little more confidence.

‘Take a seat,’ she invited stiffly.

‘No, thank you,’ he responded in clipped tones. ‘I won’t be staying more than a few moments.’

Biting back a sharp retort, she shrugged her slender shoulders in a gesture of pure indifference. ‘Suit yourself,’ she returned breezily. ‘But first I’m going to have to go and clear up that mess outside, before someone hurts themselves.’

Without waiting for him to answer, she took the dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink and, stepping briskly past him, went out to the step to sweep up the broken glass. The rain had already washed the milk away, and it was running down into the gutter in a long white stream. She was going to have to go out and get another bottle now, or there wouldn’t be enough for breakfast—thanks to that damned man.

But at least those few minutes had given her some valuable time to compose herself. When she went back inside, he was sitting at the kitchen table, and although she tried to ignore him she was conscious of those dark eyes following her as she carefully tipped the shards of glass into an empty cornflake packet so that the sharp edges wouldn’t be dangerous, before stowing them neatly in the dustbin, and putting the dustpan and brush away.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she offered, shrugging off her outdoor coat and tossing it across a chair.

He shook his head. ‘No, thank you.’

‘I could make you coffee instead?’ If he was going to be churlish, she would retaliate with an excess of good manners.

His eyes flickered with something that could almost have been amusement, and he conceded a terse nod. ‘Black, no sugar.’

She smiled sweetly, reflecting that he was fortunate she had no arsenic to put in it. She took her time about making the drinks, forcing herself to maintain that façade of cool indifference to his presence. It wasn’t easy; she was quite used to having the kitchen filled with handsome hunks of male—Hugo’s friends from the polytechnic, or the others in his all-male dance troupe. But there was something distinctly different about this man; he seemed to dominate his surroundings without any conscious effort.

The kettle boiled, and she made the drinks, bringing them over to the kitchen table, and sitting down opposite him. ‘So—what was it you wanted to talk about?’ she enquired, regarding him levelly across the table.

‘Have you spoken to any reporters from the Sunday Beacon?’ he demanded without preamble.

‘They’ve been here,’ she responded cautiously.

‘I see.’ His expression was grim. ‘And did you give them an interview?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

He eyed her with frank scepticism. ‘Did they offer you money?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact they did,’ she informed him loftily. ‘And I turned it down.’

That hard mouth curved into a faint sneer. ‘Not quite enough for you, was it?’ he taunted.

Her violet-blue eyes flashed with anger. ‘Just what do you think gives you the right to come round here insulting me?’ she exploded hotly. ‘Just because I’m not rich and powerful like you, that doesn’t mean you can treat me like a piece of dirt.’

‘You placed yourself in that position when you chose to begin an affair with my stepfather,’ he countered scathingly. ‘You can hardly expect me to treat you like a lady.’

She felt a sudden urgent desire to throw her hot tea in his face, and had to force herself to put down her cup, her hand shaking slightly. ‘Have you asked Clive about this so-called affair?’ she asked, her voice very controlled.

‘Naturally—and, like you, he denied it. Unfortunately, my stepfather’s denials tend to have a rather hollow ring after all these years. And if I had had any remaining trace of doubt,’ he added, letting his eyes drift down to the firm, round swell of her breasts and linger there with deliberate insolence, ‘it would have been very thoroughly eliminated last night.’

Lacey could feel her heart beating faster, and was uncomfortably aware that beneath her pale blue sweater her tender nipples were ripening to hard nubs, as if in some kind of instinctive response to his dominating male presence. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference what I’d done,’ she countered defensively. ‘You’d already made up your mind about me before you even came to the theatre.’

‘True,’ he conceded, a cynical twist to his mouth. ‘I’d already heard a great deal about you from Ted Gardiner’s wife—she happens to be my cousin. You really don’t care what sort of harm you do, so long as you get what you want, do you? I have to admit, you’re a very tempting baggage. But if you had any ideas of adding me to your list of conquests, I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment—the thought of touching you after Clive’s had his paws on you is rather more than I can stomach.’

‘Oh? You didn’t give that impression last night,’ she threw at him in ragged desperation.

He laughed without humour. ‘Put that down to... curiosity,’ he conceded. ‘I can assure you I had no intention of allowing it to go any further.’

‘Neither did I!’ she snapped.

‘No?’ he enquired, coolly mocking. ‘Well, we won’t debate that one. But I don’t imagine that a woman who could go to bed with a man old enough to be her grandfather can afford to possess a great deal of discrimination.’

‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ she demanded, her temper boiling over. ‘I was not having an affair with him! I’ve met him maybe half a dozen times. He came backstage at the theatre, he took me out for coffee once or twice, and bought me flowers—that’s all. What do I have to do to convince you?’

He leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes regarding her levelly across the table, and she found it impossible to read their expression. What was he thinking? Under that cool scrutiny she felt her cheeks flushing a hot pink, and had to look away from him. Why should she care whether he believed her anyway? He meant nothing to her; so far as she was concerned, she would be heartily glad if she never saw him again.

‘Actually, it really doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not,’ he pointed out with cool indifference. ‘My only concern is what the newspapers will be able to make of it. Once the Beacon breaks the story, the rest’ll be swarming all over this place, offering you the sort of money that’ll make the Beacon’s opening bid look like chicken-feed.’

‘Then I shall tell them exactly what I told the Beacon,’ she countered tautly. ‘That I have no intention of speaking to any of them.’

His hard mouth twisted into a cynical smile. ‘Oh, they can be pretty persuasive with their cheque , books—especially when they think they’ve caught a whiff of scandal in high places. I could really hardly blame you for being tempted. That’s why I don’t want you here where they can work on you—you’re going to have to disappear for a few weeks, until the heat dies down.’

She shook her head, her thoughts flying instantly to Tom and Maria, and the other young people at the day centre. ‘I can’t do that—I’m involved in a play.’

He waved her objection aside with a dismissive gesture. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to pull out of it—I doubt if they’ll have much trouble finding a replacement.’

She glared at him, infuriated by his high-handed arrogance. And of course he had believed she was talking about her magnificent role in that paltry comedy. Well, she wasn’t going to enlighten him—she was too angry with him, and she didn’t want to give him the chance to mock at something that was so important to her.

‘I don’t care,’ she asserted forcefully. ‘I’m not going. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, and I’m not running away.’

Those dark eyes glinted in sharp annoyance; clearly he wasn’t accustomed to having his commands disobeyed. ‘I thought I had made myself clear, Miss Tyrell. I don’t want you talking to the press—’

‘And I thought I had made myself clear, Mr, Parrish,’ she retorted, refusing to be intimidated by his high-handed manner. ‘I’m not budging from this flat, and there’s nothing you can do about it—unless you’re planning to have me... What’s the term they use in the security services? Taken out?’

He conceded a flicker of sardonic amusement. ‘I’m not connected with the security services, Miss Tyrell—nor was I proposing to use violence. If you insist on staying, I cannot prevent you. Although you could find yourself regretting your decision come Sunday,’ he cautioned drily. ‘You’re likely to find the gentlemen of the Press less than gentle in their attentions.’

She tilted up her chin in haughty defiance. ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,’ she declared, with a confidence she didn’t quite feel.

‘I don’t think I need to remind you of my warning,’ he remarked, his voice quite cordial but unmistakably laced with steel. ‘If I find that you’ve been playing games with me, I shall make sure you regret it for the rest of your life.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of trying to play games with you, Mr Parrish,’ she responded in saccharine tones. ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t feel that this sort of cheap publicity would be of any use to my career.’

He seemed to weigh up her words, his dark eyes regarding her in narrowed calculation, but apparently she had at least partially convinced him. ‘Very well,’ he conceded, finishing his coffee and rising easily to his feet. ‘If you should change your mind about my suggestion—’

‘I won’t.’

He took a small white business card from his pocket, and dropped it casually on to the table. ‘If you should change your mind,’ he reiterated with restrained impatience, ‘call me.’

She glanced at the card with studied lack of interest. ‘Even if I do decide to go away, I won’t come to you for help.’

That hard mouth curved into a taut smile. ‘Believe me, Miss Tyrell, your distaste for our brief acquaintance can hardly be stronger than my own; nothing would please me more than the assurance that we would never have to meet again. Unfortunately, however, I fear that things aren’t going to prove quite that simple.’

‘So far as I’m concerned they are,’ she returned with a snap. ‘I wish I’d never met you—or your stepfather.’

‘It’s a little late for regrets now.’

‘I never expected all this trouble to come out of it,’ she maintained crossly. ‘I just felt sorry for him—he seemed so lonely.’

‘No doubt he told you that his wife didn’t understand him?’

‘He told me she wasn’t interested in politics, and didn’t like living in London,’ she returned with dignity.

‘So you offered to comfort him?’

‘No! I just... I thought we could be friends, that’s all.’

He laughed without humour. ‘Spare me the protestations, Miss Tyrell. No one could be so naïve as to think a man of Clive’s age would be interested in mere friendship with such a nubile young thing as yourself. You knew full well what he was after.’

Lacy felt her cheeks flush a heated pink—she had been that naive. If Clive had been younger... But if the thought had even crossed her mind, she would have dismissed it as ludicrous.

‘At least you have the grace to blush,’ he taunted, taking her embarrassment as proof of her guilt. ‘And

I trust you’ll heed my warning—it would be very unfortunate if you should force me to take action against you. Good afternoon.’ He bid her farewell with a terse nod.

Khan, suddenly realising that he was leaving, scampered out into the hall after him, wistful brown eyes shamelessly imploring him to stay and play. He indulged him briefly with a tickle in just the right spot behind his floppy ear, leaving him besotted, gazing in abject despair at the front door as it closed.

‘Khan, don’t be stupid—come here,’ Lacey called, her voice shaking slightly.

The dog padded back to her, as miserable as if the bottom had fallen out of his whole world, and pressed his drooping head against her knee. ‘You daft mutt,’ she comforted him softly. ‘You really took to him, didn’t you? But he’s not a very nice person, I’m afraid. I thought dogs were supposed to have some kind of instinct about these things?’

The intelligent hound lifted his head, eyeing her rather doubtfully, and then slurped her cheek with his pink tongue.

‘Ugh! Get off!’ she protested, laughing as she pushed him away. ‘How many times do I have to tell you not to lick my face?’

But though she wouldn’t care to admit it, even to her four-legged confidant, she felt a strange sense of dejection herself. What was wrong with her? She had never met such an insufferably rude and arrogant man in her entire life. The very last thing she wanted was to be forced to have to see him again.

Vanessa was back in the role of French au pair by Saturday—however ill she might be feeling, she would never dream of allowing a mere understudy to take her place for the main performance of the week. So Lacy was relegated once again to helping out with the props and making coffee for the stage manager and the director. Which was probably just as well, she acknowledged wryly to herself—it would be difficult to cope with even such an unexacting role when she was fretting herself ragged with worry about what the Sunday papers were going to contain.

If only she could disappear! But where could she go? Apart from an elderly aunt who lived in Tooting, she and Hugo had no other relatives that they knew of. And she couldn’t impose on the hospitality of her friends—she had no idea how long this was going to last, and if the Press found out where she’d gone it could cause all sorts of problems.

Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she reared, she tried to reassure herself over and over. After all, they didn’t exactly have much of a story, based on the facts, and there were laws of libel to prevent them publishing outright lies—weren’t there?

The rest of the cast were going off to a party after the show, but she couldn’t bring herself to join them, pleading a headache. Ted, the producer, was there, waiting to convey them off in his Rolls-Royce, and he drew her to one side.

‘You do look a little pale,’ he agreed, a note of agitation in his voice. ‘Are you worrying about this thing with Clive getting into the papers?’

She nodded. ‘It’s probably stupid—there’s nothing they can make anything of.’

‘You didn’t tell them anything about me, did you?’ he asked anxiously.

She shook her head angrily, exasperated by his self-centredness. ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t tell them anything.’

He beamed in relief. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to take you home and tuck you up in bed?’

‘No, thank you,’ she asserted quickly—she could all too readily guess that his idea of tucking her up was likely to include tucking himself up with her!

‘Well, see you next week then,’ he conceded, drifting off reluctantly with the others.

She smiled wanly to herself. She was quite sure that if things turned out as badly as she had feared he wouldn’t hesitate to dump her from the production. Well, it wouldn’t be much of a loss, she assured herself wryly—there had to be something better than playing understudy to French au pair!

The flat was in darkness when she got home—Hugo was performing with Les Sauvages at some nightclub in Croydon. She undressed, and went straight to bed, but she couldn’t sleep—there were too many unwelcome thoughts buzzing in her brain. After tossing and turning restlessly for several hours, she finally threw back the bedclothes and, reaching for her dressing-gown, padded out into the kitchen to make herself a mug of hot cocoa.

It was there that Hugo found her when he came in half an hour later—sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. ‘Hi, sis,’ he greeted her with a wry grin. He tossed a copy of the Sunday Beacon on to the table in front of her. ‘I picked it up on the way home,’ he explained. ‘You ain’t gonna like it.’

The banner headline screamed out at her: ‘Minister in Blackmail Plot.’ Beneath it was a picture of Clive in Downing Street, looking as kindly and respectable as a bishop, and one of herself taken the other morning, carefully cropped to make it look as if she had been a willing subject, posing provocatively in her underwear, displaying a more than generous amount of cleavage, pouting for the camera. A cold chill wrapped around her heart as she picked it up and read the story.

‘I don’t believe it!’ she gasped, stunned. ‘How can he have said this? It’s the most awful pack of lies I’ve ever heard! He’s told them that I approached him, that I kept pestering him, that he was only friendly with me because he felt sorry for me—and that I started demanding money from him, and threatened to claim we’d been having an affair if he didn’t pay up!’

‘It looks as if he’s decided to try and make a last-ditch attempt to save his own skin by throwing you to the wolves,’ Hugo remarked caustically. ‘I did warn you.’

‘Yes, but... this! How can a person be so... dishonest? And he seemed such a nice old man.’

Hugo laughed drily. ‘You’re such an innocent!’ he teased with gentle affection. ‘I don’t know how you manage it in this dirty old world, but you never seem to be able to think badly of anyone.’

Lacey’s soft mouth twisted into a wry smile. There was one person she thought badly of—but she had been doing her best to forget about Jon Parrish for the past few days. Not that it was easy; the unwelcome memory of their two brief encounters tended to flit back into her mind far too frequently for comfort.

Khan, sensing something was wrong, had heaved himself up from his beanbag in the corner and came over, laying his long nose in her lap and gazing up at her from beneath his yellow fringe with liquid brown eyes that held nothing but simple adoration. She stroked his tousled head absently.

‘Why can’t people be more like dogs?’ she questioned wistfully. ‘They’re so... uncomplicated. I’m sure the world would be a better place.’

Hugo snorted. ‘Not if they were all like that stupid mutt—he hasn’t an ounce of brain in his whole body. Do you know he got hold of a packet of cotton-wool while you were out yesterday afternoon, and ripped it up all over the sitting-room floor? It took me ages to pick it all up.’

‘Oh, is that where it went? You naughty dog!’ Khan accepted the compliment with delight, jumping up to lick her face and trying to climb on to her lap. ‘No—hey, you can’t do that! You’re much too big,’ she protested, laughing in spite of her distress. ‘Ow! Your claws are digging in me! Get down!’

‘Is that cocoa you’re drinking?’ Hugo enquired with a wide yawn. ‘I think I’ll have some too.’

She slanted him a teasing look, struggling to be brave. ‘Going to bed with a mug of hot cocoa? Whatever would all those girls who’ve been screaming all evening for your hunky body say if they knew?’

He chuckled with laughter. ‘It would ruin my image! I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t get out.’

Lacey cast a wry glance at the newspaper on the table. ‘A couple of days ago, I would have laughed at that,’ she mused with dejection. ‘But now...’ She picked up the paper again. ‘They’ve called you my “mystery lover” in this, and they’ve got a picture of you chasing those reporters down the steps. It’s a bit fuzzy, though—I don’t think anyone would recognise you. I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell them you’re my brother?’

He shook his head grimly. ‘I doubt it.’

‘Could I sue them for libel, do you suppose?’

He sat down opposite her, taking the paper from her and scanning the page. ‘I don’t know. It would be pretty difficult, with that old git having told them all this rubbish—it would be your word against his.’

‘And they’d be much more likely to believe him.’

‘Exactly. And it would cost a fortune.’ He put the paper down. ‘It doesn’t look as if there’s much you can do.’

‘That’s what I was afraid of.’

It was a couple of hours before Lacey could get to sleep, and it seemed as though she had barely closed her eyes when there was a knock on the door. ‘Who the... ?’ She groaned, rolling over to peer sleepily at the clock. It was a quarter to six. Who on earth... ?

There was another loud rap on the door, and the letterbox rattled. She sat up sharply. Khan had woken, and raced out into the hall, barking ferociously and scrabbling at the door. And that would have Mrs Potter complaining, she realised with weary resignation, dragging herself out of bed and putting on her dressing-gown.

She knew who was at the door. Reporters. No doubt all the other papers had picked up on the story, and now they would all be trying to get their oar in. Well, she had no intention of opening the door to them—she had learned that much at least during her short period of notoriety.

‘Lacey?’ Someone was calling through the letter box as she stumbled out into the hall. ‘Come on, love—we know you’re in there. Just let us in.’

‘No—go away,’ she protested, her voice choked with angry tears. ‘I’m not going to speak to you.’

‘Ah, come on—be a sensible girl. We’re not from the Beacon—that’s just a comic anyway, no one’s going to believe what they print. We’ll give you a chance to tell your side of the story. And we’ll pay you. Come on, what do you say?’

‘I said no,’ she reiterated raggedly. ‘Go away.’

‘How much did they offer you? Fifty thousand? Sixty? We’ll give you eighty. That’s eighty thousand quid, right in your hand. And you can tell us whatever you like.’

She didn’t even deign to answer, grasping hold of Khan by his collar and dragging him back to the kitchen.

‘A hundred thousand, Lacey,’ followed her as she walked away from the door.

Hugo had woken too, and came storming out into the hall, his temper close to snapping. ‘You get away from that door,’ he bellowed, ‘or I’ll come out there and really give you something to write about, you lying bastards!’

There was a muffled scuffle outside, and it seemed the reporters had decided that discretion was the better part of valour. But they didn’t retreat far. The next call was from downstairs, outside the window. ‘Lacey...? What are you afraid of? If you’ve got nothing to hide, you’ve got nothing to lose by coming out and talking to us.’

‘Oil What’s going on down there?’ Lacey sighed, and sank her head into her hands. Mrs Potter was awake, and not best pleased about it. ‘Go on, be off with you—waking decent people from their beds in the middle of the night. If my George—God rest him—was still alive, he’d give you a piece of his mind. Now get away with you, before I come down there with my broom!’

‘My lord! They don’t know what danger they’re in!’ chuckled Hugo, strolling into the kitchen and putting on the kettle. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to this, love—lord knows how long they’ll be camping out there. We might as well have a cup of tea.’