Sunshine Over Bluebell Castle. Sarah Bennett

Iggy presenting the prizes instead of Arthur.

      There weren’t many times she was grateful for the words ‘Firstborn, legitimate male offspring’, but from the harassed look upon her brother’s face, now might be one of them.

      ‘They all wanted to take a selfie with me, like I was some kind of celebrity,’ he said, shaking his head in bemusement at the idea.

      ‘Well, you are the king of the castle, so to speak,’ she teased as she followed them up the stairs. The grin he shot her told her he knew she was only joking. Arthur might hold the title, but Bluebell Castle, as the locals had so quaintly nicknamed their ancestral home, was as much hers as it was Arthur’s, and their other brother Tristan’s, too.

      As she and Tristan had told Arthur in more than one showdown when he tried to shield them from the worst of their current financial woes-they’d succeed or fail together. Nine months in the same womb, followed by nigh on thirty years of unshakeable loyalty between them could not be swept away by something as stupid as which one of them got to stick the word Baronet in front of their name.

      As part of their plans to secure the family finances, Iggy had recently taken on the mammoth challenge of putting their overgrown grounds to rights so they could open up the estate to the public.

      Reminded once more of how she’d spent her day, Iggy eased herself from the group hug. ‘I need a shower, I’ve been battling with the brambles all day.’

      ‘Well, I didn’t like to say anything …’ Arthur wrinkled his nose, eyes alight with mischief.

      As Iggy took a playful swing towards his head, she found her arm captured by Lucie. ‘Goodness, look at the state of you, you’re scratched to bits! I’ll go and find Mrs W and see if she’s got some antiseptic cream.’

      Mrs Walters-known affectionately by all as Mrs W-was the castle’s super-efficient housekeeper who, together with Maxwell the butler and Betsy the cook, kept things running. Though staff numbers had been cut to the bone over recent years, the three of them maintained a standard Iggy found frankly breathtaking.

      With a laugh, Iggy gently extracted her arm and smoothed the sleeve of her top down over the mess on her arm. ‘I’ve got a medicine cabinet full of stuff like that. A few scratches come with the territory. Besides-’ she gave the pair of them an arch look ‘-I’m sure you’ve got better things to be doing than worrying about me.’

      ‘Indeed we do!’ Arthur swept a giggling Lucie up into his arms. ‘Miss Kennington here still owes me several more apologies for running out on me.’ The pair’s courtship had been something of a rocky road, and it was only a few weeks since they’d resolved everything between them.

      ‘I said I was sorry, but I’m happy to do so again,’ Lucie murmured, in the kind of tone reserved for whispered intimacies.

      And that was definitely Iggy’s cue to depart. ‘I’ll leave you two to it.’

      After hurrying up the front steps of the castle, Iggy shoved open one half of the enormous studded wooden door, only to find herself besieged by a cacophony of licking tongues and wagging tails as the castle’s pack of unruly dogs charged up to greet her. ‘All right, all right, you’d think I’d been gone for a month instead of a few hours,’ she said, trying to calm them with pats to their heads and affectionate ear rubs. ‘God, you’re soppy bunch.’

      She’d just managed to toe off her filthy wellies and shoo the dogs clear of the door and halfway back towards the jumble of cushions and beds which occupied the space directly before the huge fireplace dominating the back wall of the great hall, when Nimrod, one of a pair of greyhounds let out a huge bark of welcome and swerved around her outstretched hand. Bella, the other greyhound, let out a keening yap and flew after him. The pretty brindle dog adored Lucie almost as much as Arthur did. Knowing she had no chance of holding the rest of the pack at bay now Arthur’s presence had been announced, Iggy stepped out of the way to let them charge pell-mell back across the hall to greet their beloved master, and the new mistress of the castle.

      Taking care not to slip on the tiled floor in her thick woollen socks, Iggy made her way to the curving staircase and began to climb, her knees aching in protest after a day spent bending and crouching in the gardens. She had no plans for the evening-like most other evenings in recent memory-so perhaps she would forgo her planned shower and indulge in a soak in the claw-foot tub which dominated her bathroom. While she was alone she could catch up on the latest gossip about her favourite celebrity, the rock star of the gardening world-Will Talbot. Though she wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it, her fascination with him went beyond his amazing skills with plants and his innovative design skills. With his close-cropped hair and a wicked scar slicing across one cheek, Will was the most attractive man Iggy had ever seen.

      Tristan had been reading one of the tabloids at breakfast that morning and she’d found herself staring at her secret crush as he scowled out from the front page. She’d waited until everyone had gone before filching the paper and hiding it up in her room for later study.

      Yes, a hot bath and a bit of gossip was just what the doctor ordered, she decided.

      Lost in thought, she didn’t notice Arthur was calling for her until he all but yelled her name. Turning as she reached the wide balcony at the head of the stairs, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her brother on his knees surrounded by a mass of wriggling dogs, Lucie was curled up beside him, Bella ensconced firmly in her lap. Leaning on the balcony railing, Iggy called down, ‘What’s all the yelling about?’

      ‘I only said your name five times, cloth-ears,’ Arthur replied, the good-natured grin on his face turning into a startled laugh when Nimrod took advantage of his distraction to swipe a lick under his chin. ‘I wanted to have a chat with you,’ he continued. ‘Can you come and join me in my study before dinner? Say about half seven?’

      Wondering what could be so important he would interrupt his and Lucie’s first-night-home celebrations for, Iggy frowned, before nodding in agreement. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

      ‘Not at all,’ her brother assured her, but didn’t elaborate further.

      She stared down at him for a few more moments as though she might have developed a previously unknown mind-reading ability in the two weeks he’d been down in London, but he remained as opaque as ever. Knowing Arthur as she did, there was no point in pushing him to reveal something before he was ready to talk about it. Might as well bash her head against the thick stone of the castle walls. With a shrug and a wave, she continued along the maze of corridors until she reached her bedroom in the wing traditionally occupied by the family.

      *

      Feeling loose and relaxed after a blissful hour in the bath, Iggy tried not to wince as she applied some antiseptic cream to the wicked-looking scratch stretching across most of the underside of her left forearm. Ignoring the soreness, she pressed her finger carefully along the length of the shallow wound, double-checking there was no remnant of the thorn which had abraded her skin.

      A nasty infection had put her out of action for almost a week the previous year when a thorn tip had become stuck beneath the thumbnail of her dominant right hand. Doing anything had been excruciating, and the enforced period of rest while the antibiotics the doctor had prescribed did their job had driven her to distraction. Lesson learnt, she was scrupulous about wearing thick leather gloves whilst working in the garden, and in checking and cleaning any of the myriad little injuries she incurred.

      With her damp hair secured on top of her head in a scruffy knot, she dressed in a pair of slim-leg black trousers and a loose olive-green silk T-shirt her aunt Morgana had given her for her birthday, claiming the colour enhanced Iggy’s hazel eyes, or some such nonsense. She’d never been a clotheshorse and couldn’t understand the fascination some of her friends at college had had with dressing in the latest fashion. Then again, they’d had their mothers around to whisk them off on shopping trips. Perhaps if she’d had a similar maternal bond, things might have been different. Eyeing herself in the mirror, Iggy let out a snort of derision. If there was a maternal bone anywhere in Helena Ludworth-Mills-Wexford-Jones’s