Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle. Sarah Bennett

      Tristan shrugged. ‘We might be, but it’s got to be worth a shot. If we can show the bank and the other creditors a viable business plan it might take a bit of the heat off you, at least for a little while. And as Iggy said, if we’re going down let’s go down fighting. We can call it Arthur’s Last Stand,’ he said with a wink.

      ‘You and me on the drive wielding broadswords at the bailiffs? Lord, can you imagine it?’

      ‘Morgana wouldn’t need a weapon, she’s already a battle-axe.’ They both laughed, then glanced around guiltily. Their aunt had a habit of appearing at the most inconvenient of times, a bit like the witch some of the children from the village suspected her of being.

      Only once they were sure the coast was clear did Tristan speak again. ‘Look, worst-case scenario we’re going to lose this place, so it won’t do any harm to know what all this stuff is worth—separate the tat from the treasure, you know?’

      Arthur nodded. He did know. He also had a sinking feeling in his stomach that there was more tat than treasure to be found hanging on the walls and littering the dusty surfaces of old bits of furniture. He took a breath. One thing he’d promised himself when he’d inherited the place was that he would face whatever came head on. No hiding behind dreams of a miracle, no banking on a deal that would never come off.

      He’d loved his father, would always be fond of the fantastic memories his spirit of adventure had created for the three of them. But Arthur couldn’t afford to be like him. Much as the responsibilities of his position might weigh on his shoulders and keep him tossing and turning in the middle of the night, he couldn’t afford to show it. He was Baronet Ludworth and the people around him were depending on him. Not just his nearest and dearest, not even the direct employees who worked in the castle. If Arthur failed, it would cost the entire community.

      He set his jaw. Failure just wasn’t a bloody option, was it?

       CHAPTER FOUR

      ‘Lucie, darling, time to wake up. I’ve made you a cup of tea.’

      The coaxing tones of her mother’s voice penetrated the foggy edges of sleep, and Lucie forced one eye open. ‘I’m not thirsty,’ she grumbled before rolling away to face the wall, but not before catching a glimpse of the worry lines etched into her mother’s features. An unwelcome stab of guilt burrowed under the musty covers on her bed, making Lucie feel even more miserable. Why couldn’t her mum just leave her alone as she’d asked?

      Since walking out of the door at Witherby’s two weeks earlier, a dull kind of fog had settled over Lucie leaving her unable to do anything. After attending a formal investigative interview where it had been clear nobody on the panel her employer had put together believed her protestations of innocence, she’d crawled under her covers three days ago and had barely shifted since. They hadn’t gone to the police so far, hoping to keep the whole thing quiet to protect the company’s name and reputation, but it was only a matter of time. Lucie had none of the answers they’d demanded, and a very valuable artwork was still missing.

      ‘Well, I’ll leave it here on your cabinet just in case, darling.’ Silence hung long enough in the air for Lucie to believe her mother had left the room before Constance Kennington placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and said in a firmer tone than Lucie had heard in years. ‘It’s a lovely day, you might feel better for a little bit of fresh air…?’

      Shrugging off the touch, Lucie wormed her way deeper under the quilt, knowing she was being a brat but unable to help herself. It was about fifteen years too late for Constance to start worrying about her. If she’d only bothered to take an interest when it had mattered, they’d neither of them have been in the mess they were in now. As though on cue, the baby next door started wailing, the shrill sound penetrating the paper-thin walls of their twelfth floor flat in a rundown council block.

      ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ Constance’s voice was back to its usual hesitant whisper, making Lucie feel lower than a slug. With Mr Hazeltine’s warning over the non-disclosure agreement still rattling around in her head, Lucie had been afraid to go into detail over what was happening. Her refusal to say anything beyond that she’d been suspended pending an investigation was driving a wedge between them. She could tell her refusal to confide was hurting her mum—it was hurting Lucie, too—but aside from her worry over being found in breach of her contract on top of everything else, how on earth was she supposed to explain it without dragging her father’s past crimes up?

      Her mother had always been quiet and contained, the complete opposite of the brash, confident figure her father had cut through her childhood. Content to reside in the sheltered comfort of her husband’s shadow, Constance had left everything to him. Like some Fifties’ throwback to the image of the perfect housewife, she’d kept house and made sure she always looked nice. Any spare hours had been spent turning their back garden into a little slice of paradise.

      Whenever she pictured her mum from those days, it wasn’t in one of her neat Chanel suits as she clung to her husband’s arm on the way to some function or another. It was in a simple day dress, a large straw sunhat shading her pale complexion as she tended the immaculate borders bursting with roses, foxgloves and lupins. She’d never seemed to care about the trappings, her world had been her husband and her daughter and the lovely haven she’d created for the three of them.

      Lucie’s gaze strayed to one of her favourite pictures in the frames that littered her bedside cabinet. Dressed in a mint-green pair of short dungarees over a white T-shirt, 6-year-old Lucie beamed with pride as she held up the first carrots she’d grown in the little vegetable patch her mum had created for her. One arm around Lucie’s waist, the other held up to shade her eyes from the sun, Constance knelt beside her, smiling up at the taker of the photo. Such an innocent image of domestic perfection, would either of them ever feel that carefree again? A hot tear trickled down Lucie’s cheek.

      Lucie loved her mum, had never wanted for affection or attention from her, but at heart she’d been a daddy’s girl. Oh, how she’d adored Paul Kennington with his bright smile and booming laugh, his generous nature and ever-flowing wallet. Nothing had been too good for Paul’s girls as he’d referred to Lucie and her mum. Summer holidays in exotic resorts, winter skiing trips in exclusive mountain-top lodges, all the newest fashions—though Constance had never been one to put herself on show, sticking to timeless, elegant classics which suited her willowy frame. Though Lucie had been grateful for the wonderful presents and gifts, what she’d craved beyond anything was more of her father’s time. Those holidays could’ve been in Bournemouth as easily as Disneyland as far as she had been concerned, as long as the three of them had been together. But it had always pleased her daddy to treat her like the princess he called her, so she’d gone along with things. Even when he’d sent her away to a private school, when all she’d ever wanted was to stay at home and be close to the two of them.

      It had been a struggle at first to make new friends, but she’d just started to find her feet when it had all come crashing down around them. A few of the friends she’d made had tried to keep in touch afterwards, but Lucie had been too embarrassed and ashamed to return their calls or reply to the cards and letters they’d sent in the aftermath of her father’s downfall. If the scandal of it all hadn’t been devastating enough for her 13-year-old self to cope with, the seizure and sale of the Kennington’s assets certainly had. The grand house where she’d enjoyed her own little suite of rooms—bedroom, bathroom and a huge playroom which had been converted into an entertainment and games room as she’d entered her teenage years—had been mortgaged up to the rafters and worth next to nothing when it was sold.

      All the fancy clothes stuffing her wardrobes had gone too, declared to be profits from illegal activities and sold off, along with all the gadgets and devices as the police attempted to claw back at least some of the money her father had embezzled from his clients, friends and neighbours. Not that she’d cared about any of those things. It was the loss of security, of her little island of safety in the world being torn away much as her father had been torn from her sobbing