True Colours (19 page)

Then, as abruptly as the conversation had started, it finished.

Deliberately trying to look like she wasn’t listening, Alex hovered beside the fireplace, the heat from the flames warming her legs, Dodo flopped down on the hearth rug at her feet, her stub of a tail twitching. The mantelpiece was crowded with photographs, silver frames polished, gleaming. Sebastian in his school uniform; his parents at the bottom of the Grand Staircase like a picture from Homes and Gardens, a pair of spaniels at his father’s feet – tweed jackets and cords, his mother’s favourite Hermes scarf, a basket of holly hanging on her arm.

‘
I hadn’t realised your grandfather was ill.’

Sebastian bit back a retort you wouldn’t would you? Instead he shrugged, pulling his tie loose, unbuttoning his collar, ‘He had a stroke. He’s paralysed down one side – well, you could see – he’s hanging in there but he’s almost blind now, is beginning to lose interest.’

Blind? No wonder he hadn’t recognised her.

‘
It’s a shame, he was always so active.’ It’s a shame, Alex cringed at the platitude, in her head a voice crying out, he deserved it: he was a mean manipulating bastard. She bit her tongue. Behind her, Sebastian sighed audibly.

‘
Your dad must be really busy now, running the estate, trying to keep everything going.’

‘
My dad?’ the harshness in Sebastian’s tone cut through Alex like a mugger’s blade. He was standing by the window now, his hands thrust into his pockets, staring at her, his face frozen, eyes wide with shock. She continued hastily what had she said?

‘
I mean running Wingfield Holdings, as well as the whole estate.’

Alex’s words fell into a silence that gaped between them like a rocky chasm. It took a moment for Sebastian to answer, like he was struggling to find the words. In the end he went for the bald facts.

‘
My dad’s dead. Both of them are.’

‘
What? How?’ It was Alex’s turn to look shocked.

‘
Didn’t you know?’

She shook her head vigorously, pulling a chunk of hair behind her ear as it threatened to fall into her eyes, her face drained of colour, ‘When?’

Sebastian bit his lip, his face tortured. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper,

‘
A month after...’ he cleared his throat, ‘a month after you left.’ There, he’d said it. AFTER YOU LEFT. It bounced off the walls ricocheting between them like a bullet.

‘
A month?’ Alex was aghast, her voice pitchy, betraying the surge of emotion that was bubbling up inside, threatening to drown her. She’d loved his mum; she had been there for her after her own mother died, not pushy, not prying, just there for a chat when she needed it. She’d been the lady of the manor but she’d always made time for Alex, listening to her worries as they tied up the orchids in the Palm House, or arranged flowers in the morning room. How could her dad not have told her? He’d never mentioned the estate after she left, must have taken it that she didn’t want to know – he wasn’t wrong there. Why hadn’t he told her?

And suddenly she understood. She’d chosen to leave, to leave Sebastian, to leave Kilfenora, and if her dad had told her, she would have had to come back for the funeral. He must have understood how hard it was to leave once, without coming back and then having to do it all over again.

What Tom Ryan didn’t know was that coming back just wasn’t an option…

Alex’s voice was quiet when she replied,

‘
I didn’t know. Oh God, I’m so sorry.’ She could feel a tear pricking the corner of her eye,

‘
What happened?’

Sebastian’s voice was gruff, ‘It was a road accident. They were in South Africa looking at a vineyard, buying wine for Dad’s collection, they’d just arrived in Cape Town; some bastard jumped a red light and ran them down.’

She turned away, the sense of loss, the whole sense of loss, just too much to grasp.

‘
And your grandfather?’ The words caught in Alex’s throat.

‘
He had the first stroke about three years later. The second was the big one. I’ve been looking after everything since then.’ His voice was thin, practical but drained.

A pang of sadness welled up inside Alex like water on the boil, threatening to bubble over. To the outside world he looked like he had it all: the looks, the money, the title, the successful business, but when you scratched the surface, went below the veneer, he was just like everyone else, he had had his own share of pain and loss.

She was on the back foot again. Well and truly.

Before she could say anything, the door burst open to reveal Caroline hanging on the doorknob as she finished her conversation with the wedding planner who was obviously standing behind her in the hall.

‘
I thought a pink carpet up to the front door. Red’s just, well, just a bit icky… And starting from the gravel. You’ll have to measure it.‘ Turning back into the room, oblivious of the tension, she started talking to Sebastian like Alex wasn’t there.

‘
It’s going to be so pretty. Sylvia wants to put a gazebo down by the lake, covered in flowers. We can serve the champagne for the toast down there before the fireworks.’

Sebastian’s brow creased, ‘I thought we were going to do the toasts by the fountain in the Palm House. Isn’t that why it’s being repainted? It’s a bit of a trek down to the lake.’

‘
Oh no, it’ll be perfect. Soo beautiful, and the fireworks will reflect in the water, everyone will see them if they’re down there.’

‘
If it rains, it’ll be a mud bath.’

‘
She’s going to carpet it, all around the gazebo.’

‘
Carpet the grass?’ Sebastian sounded incredulous.

‘
Isn’t it just the best idea?’ Caroline was glowing, her face animated.

‘
Have you discussed the budget with her? It’ll come out of her fee if she goes over.’

‘
Oh, tsh, we want it to be beautiful. After all, you only get married once don’t you?’

Sebastian didn’t answer, shook his head in disbelief, looked out the window again. Alex could see the tic under his eye beginning to flick.

Apparently not noticing, Caroline continued, ‘And I had the most marvellous idea. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to organise a shooting party for the guests who are staying on? We can have lunch on the Long Ridge, go after that stag.’

‘
In June? Don’t be ridiculous the season doesn’t start until the first of September.’

Caroline pursed her lips, her eyes narrowed as she tried to come up with a solution.

‘
Clay pigeons then. We can ride up to the Long Ridge, set up the clay machine thingy up there and we’ll have full silver service for lunch. What do you think?’

Sebastian didn’t reply, continued to watch whatever it was that he was looking at outside. Caroline didn’t seem to notice, but went to cuddle up behind him, putting her arms around his waist from behind, tucking the fingers of one hand into the top of his trousers. ‘It’ll be such fun, so Victorian. And at least there’s no chance of you shooting the gamekeeper this time!’

For a moment Alex wasn’t sure she’d heard right, but as her eyes jerked up from their contemplation of Dodo’s slumbering form, they met Sebastian’s in an appalling moment of clarity. He was looking at her sideways, his face pale.

‘
The gamekeeper?’

Caroline looked around at Alex as if she had forgotten she was standing there, still grinning from the memory of what was obviously a funny incident. For her at least.

‘
It was such a terrible shot.’

‘
Thanks Caroline, I think Alex has to call her office now.’ Interrupting, Sebastian turned around, unwrapping himself from her, trying to physically usher her towards the door. ‘We’ve got a lot to get through before lunch. Need to talk about the budget with this Sylvia woman of yours.’

But Caroline didn’t stop, kept talking, her face serious, like she was imparting vital information, ‘Sebastian missed the beast completely, and then when we went after him for the next shot, there was the gamekeeper, what’s his name?’ Caroline looked back at Sebastian for confirmation, but, his face closed, appalled at her indiscretion, it was Alex who answered, her voice low, dangerous.

‘
Tom Ryan.’

Caroline didn’t seem to notice, or wonder for that matter, how the interior designer happened to know the gamekeeper’s first name – she was too wrapped up in the story.

‘
It was lucky really that the stag ran the way he did or we’d never have found him.’

‘
Thank you Caroline. I really don’t think we need to tell everyone estate business do you?’

Incensed now, the tic in his face on overdrive, his jaw clenched, the scar on his chin bright white against the flush of his skin, Alex could tell Sebastian was fighting to keep his voice calm.

‘
A bit out of season weren’t you Sebastian, after a stag at the end of February? Surely the season finishes at the end of December doesn’t it?’ Alex’s mouth was pursed, her eyebrows raised in question.

‘
It wasn’t a stag, we’ve been having trouble with the hinds; we’d agreed we needed to cull a few.’

‘
But we got the gamekeeper instead,’ Caroline giggled at her own joke, ‘He was checking some traps or something. He was out cold when we found him; Seb had almost blown his leg off.’

‘
That’s enough Caroline. Quite enough.’ Sebastian’s voice was steel-edged.

But it wasn’t enough for her – she obviously found the whole episode highly amusing, ‘it really was his own silly fault, lurking around in the bushes like that.’

TWENTY TWO

The Plan. He had to focus on The Plan. Had to get Caroline out of his head and get on with business. Peter pulled his laptop towards him across the bar and re-read the email. It wasn’t good news. He clicked to reply:

There’s more there if you look. That fire was deliberate – for the insurance – did you check the policies? This will be the scoop of your life if you get it. The guy who died, it was murder, no question.

Peter didn’t sign it, hit send. It was going from a dummy Hotmail account, linked to a Gmail, linked to a holding site. Not untraceable, but bloody hard for an amateur, and he wasn’t doing anything illegal, so there was no way the big boys would be interested. He knew how to cover his tracks.

But Christ if the journalist bitch couldn’t find something to start the ball rolling, to get the press going, how the hell could he get the share price down? He’d already told her about the gamekeeper, had been checking the papers every day but there had been nothing. Had someone got to her, persuaded her to keep quiet?

Peter shook his head half to himself and picked up a biro lying on the glossy mahogany bar. Playing it through his fingers, he banged the tip off the counter top, flipped it over and began again. He’d given the journalist enough to start her own fire, enough hints, paperwork even, but she seemed to have lost interest. What the hell was going on? He flipped the pen again, this time ramming it into the wood so hard it made a mark.

The barman interrupted his thoughts,

‘
Can I get you anything else sir?’

It took Peter a moment to think. Behind him he could hear a group of men coming into the Shelbourne’s famous Horseshoe Bar, jovial after lunch in the Saddle Room restaurant, the scraping of chairs, sighs as they settled down for an afternoon session.

‘
Another Americano. Better stick a brandy in it.’

The barman whisked away his empty cup but Peter hardly noticed, his concentration back on the laptop screen.

He had to find some dirt that would stick to Sebastian, something to really shake him. But what?

And he didn’t have much time.

The members of the consortium were starting to make noises, grumbling that if the shares in Wingfield Holdings didn’t take a dip soon, their cash wouldn’t be available. Feck it anyway. Peter threw down the pen, sat back on his stool, biting his lip, scowling.

The only bloody good thing to come out of this so far was Caroline. They’d had some real fun together, were, he’d felt for a moment or two there, actually soul mates. But he couldn’t let emotion cloud the issue, not at the moment at any rate. Afterwards, when it was all done and dusted, then he’d be able to hook up with Caroline again, with no strings. See if she really was all she seemed to be.

Christ he hoped this came together – he’d been working on it for so long it just had to. It had to.

Peter could feel the muscles in his upper arm beginning to twitch. Shit, he was getting stressed – the medics had told him not to get stressed. Post-traumatic stress was unpredictable, could be dangerous they’d said, avoid difficult situations – you don’t know how you will react. Peter felt a twinge of pain in his back, brought on by the muscular contraction. There was still shrapnel buried in his shoulder, pieces of the car bomb that had killed seven of his comrades and left him as good as dead.

Jesus Christ. The moment he acknowledged the pain, the memories came right back at him. The burning flesh, the petrol, and he could feel the heat of the explosion that had ripped through their SUV all over again. He shook the pictures from his mind. The bone-crunching cold, lying on the frozen ground more dead than alive reliving every scene of his life, reliving the moment he’d woken to the sound of his mother’s sobs, had slipped out of bed to find her at the foot of the stairs, crumpled like a marionette, her strings lying cut around her. He knew he’d passed out then, had woken in the field hospital, a doctor leaning over him, mask already in place, a scalpel in his hand.