Blackmailed by the Rich Man. Julia James

she’s known me since I was thirteen, Helen had thought, troubled. And even then I don’t think I was ever on her A-list.

      Thought it—but hadn’t said it.

      Still, Mrs Hartley’s sensibilities couldn’t be allowed to intrude any longer—or any further. Helen suspected she was the kind of mother, anyway, who believed no girl would ever be good enough for her only son. Nothing useful would be achieved by putting off the announcement any longer.

      Because, whether the committee’s decision was for or against the restoration of Monteagle, she was going to need Nigel’s love and support as never before. And surely, in spite of the demands of his career, he would understand that and be there for her—wouldn’t he?

      It irked her to realise that Marc Delaroche, however despicable his motives, had actually taken more interest in the house than Nigel had ever shown. And he was right about the State Bedroom, too. Her grandfather wouldn’t have wanted it left untouched, like some empty shrine.

      Instead, it should be top of her refurbishment list and opened to the public. She might find the Charles the Second legend distasteful, but a lot of people would think it a romantic story, and let their imaginations free on the use that giant four-poster had been put to during the King’s visit.

      She went up there with a notebook and pen and took a clear-eyed look round. The ornamental plaster on the ceiling was in urgent need of restoration in places, and there were timbered walls waiting to be exposed underneath layers of peeling wallpaper. The ancient Turkish carpet was past praying for, but it was concealing wooden floorboards that the original surveyor’s report had declared free of woodworm or dry rot, and she could only hope that was still the case.

      The silk bed hangings and window curtains were frankly disintegrating, and couldn’t be saved, but their heavy embroidery was intact, and still beautiful.

      Helen recalled that Mrs Stevens at the village post office, who was a skilled needlewoman, had told her months ago that if the elaborate patterns were cut out carefully they could be transferred to new fabric. She’d suggested, too, that the embroidery group at the Women’s Institute, which she chaired, might take it on as a project.

      First catch your fabric, Helen thought, doing some rueful calculations. But at least she knew now what her first priority should be, even though it was galling that she’d been alerted to it by Marc Delaroche.

      But if I get the money from the committee I might even feel marginally grateful to him, she thought. Maybe.

      She was sitting at the kitchen table on Friday evening, going over some of the estimates her grandfather had obtained and trying to work out the inevitable percentage increases for the intervening period, when Lottie arrived with the new batch of guidebooks.

      ‘Hey, there.’ She gave Helen a quizzical glance. ‘Got any good news for me?’

      ‘Not yet.’ Helen gave a sigh. ‘And I was so sure I’d hear this week.’

      ‘Actually,’ Lottie said, ‘I was thinking of something more personal than the grant application.’ She looked around. ‘All on your own?’ she enquired, with clear disappointment.

      ‘Not any more.’ Helen pushed her papers aside and got up to fill the kettle. ‘Who were you expecting?’

      ‘I thought Nigel might be here and had my speedy exit all planned,’ Lottie explained. ‘So—where is he?’

      Helen shrugged as she got down the coffee jar. ‘Arriving tomorrow, I guess. I haven’t heard yet.’

      Lottie frowned. ‘But his car was in the drive at his parents’ place earlier. That’s when I put two and two together about the party.’

      Helen stared at her. ‘Lottie—what on earth are you talking about?’

      ‘Oh, hell,’ her friend groaned. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve put my foot in it. I was so sure…’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s just that Ma Hartley rang me this afternoon, all sweetness and light, wanting me to quote for catering a ‘very special buffet’ next month. She was so pleased and coy about it that I jumped to the obvious conclusion. I’m so sorry, love.’

      Helen spooned coffee into two beakers with more than usual care. ‘Nigel’s probably planning it as a big surprise for me,’ she said calmly, ignoring the sudden churning in her stomach. ‘Although I can’t really imagine his mother turning cartwheels over it. She must like me better than I thought,’ she added, without any real conviction.

      ‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ Lottie said ruefully as she stirred her coffee.

      ‘No, it’s fine,’ Helen assured her. ‘And when I do see him I swear I’ll be the world’s most astonished person.’

      That would be an easy promise to keep, she thought, when Lottie had gone. She was already bewildered and disturbed by his failure to contact her when he must know how she was longing to see him.

      Well, she could do something about that at least, she thought, and she dialled the number of his parents’ home.

      She’d hoped Nigel himself would answer, but inevitably it was his mother.

      ‘Oh, Helen,’ she said, without pleasure. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t a terribly convenient moment. You see, we have guests, and we’re in the middle of dinner.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said. ‘But I do need to speak to him.’

      ‘But not this evening.’ There was a steely note in Mrs Hartley’s voice. She sighed impatiently. ‘Oh, well. Perhaps if there’s something particular, he could call you tomorrow?’

      Oh, nothing special, thought Helen. Only the rest of my life.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘I look forward to hearing from him.’

      But it wasn’t true, she realised as she put down the phone. She had a feeling of dread, not anticipation. And once again Nigel’s mother had succeeded in making her feel excluded—as if she had no place in their lives.

      When she and Nigel finally managed to talk, Mrs Hartley’s attitude was going to be one of the topics of conversation, she thought grimly.

      When she awoke next morning, it was to intermittent sunshine and scudding clouds driven by a sharp breeze.

      Unpredictable, she thought as she dressed. Rather like my life. But a good day for touring historic houses rather than going to the beach, so let’s hope the queues start forming like they did last week.

      Well, not quite, she amended hastily. At least this time Marc Delaroche would not be part of them.

      She was on her way to the kitchen when she saw the post van disappearing down the drive. At the door she paused, and drew a deep, calming breath before entering.

      ‘Any phone calls for me?’ she enquired, making her tone deliberately casual.

      ‘Nothing so far,’ Daisy told her, putting a fresh pot of tea on the table.

      ‘What about mail?’

      ‘A couple of bills,’ Daisy said. She paused. ‘And this.’ She held out an imposing cream envelope embossed with the committee’s logo.

      Helen’s stomach lurched frantically. She wiped her hand on her jeans and took the envelope, staring down at it. Reluctant, now that the moment had come, to learn its contents, slowly she pushed the blade of a table knife under the flap and slit it open.

      The words ‘We regret’ danced in front of her eyes, making it almost unnecessary to read on. But she scanned them any-way—the brief polite lines that signified failure.

      George had come into the kitchen and was standing beside his wife, both of them watching Helen anxiously.

      She tried to smile—to shrug. ‘No luck, I’m afraid. They try to help places that have suffered some kind of terrible devastation, like earthquake