Tempted by Trouble. Liz Fielding

she had no answer to that because she cut the connection without another word. That was one of the drawbacks of a mobile phone. You couldn’t slam it down to make your point.

      He replaced the photograph, took a thorough look around the cottage to make sure he hadn’t overlooked anything. He found nothing to raise alarm signals but he was still vaguely uneasy. Regretted not staying at the Amerys’ house to check the contents of Basil’s envelope.

      He hadn’t taken much notice when Lovage Amery had initially denied any knowledge of Basil. He had family he’d deny in a heartbeat but that message on Basil’s answering machine certainly hadn’t sounded like a family call—even to family you didn’t like. He’d heard enough of those over the years to recognise one when he heard it. She had been polite, businesslike but there had been no emotion. And if he was sure of anything, he was sure that Miss Lovage Amery was packed to the brim with that.

      He’d be going that way this evening. Maybe he should call in to see her again. Just to put his mind at rest. Basil was, after all, his tenant and there were implications for the estate if he didn’t intend to come back.

      And, just in case Lovage Amery was still denying any family connection, he used his phone to take a picture of the photograph on the mantelpiece.

      ‘Freddy …’

      ‘Elle! You must have flown!’ It was a good start but, before she could press her advantage and put her case for another shift, he said, ‘Not now. All hands on deck.’

      Rosie was exactly where he’d left her, which wasn’t promising. Sean had hoped that whatever was in the envelope would have made things clear and she’d be tucked up safely behind the doors of what must once have been a carriage house. Taken into the fold, as it were.

      As it was, he braced himself before ringing the doorbell. And not just because of the effect Lovage Amery had on his breathing.

      Whatever the situation, after his park and ride performance this afternoon he wasn’t anticipating a particularly warm welcome.

      The deep breath was unnecessary. The door was opened by a teenage girl who was a vision in black. Black hair, black dress, black painted fingernails.

      ‘Yes?’ she demanded, with manners to match the clothes. ‘What do you want?’

      ‘A word with Lovage Amery?’

      ‘What about?’

      ‘Tell her it’s Sean McElroy,’ he said. ‘She’ll know.’

      She shrugged. ‘Gran, it’s for you!’ she shouted, hanging onto the door, keeping him on the step with the kind of stare that would frighten a zombie.

      Gran? ‘No …’

      She waited, expressionless.

      ‘Tall, dark hair, hazel eyes? No one’s grandmother,’ he added.

      The green eyes in her deadpan face narrowed suspiciously. ‘You want Elle?’

      ‘Do I?’ Elle?

      ‘She’s at work. She won’t be home until late.’

      ‘In that case, I’ll come back tomorrow,’ he said.

      ‘Make it before eleven. She starts work at twelve,’ she said, making a move to close the door.

      ‘What is it, Geli?’

      Sean looked beyond the black-garbed teen to the source of the voice. Walking towards him was the girl in Basil’s photograph, over forty years on. Her hair had faded to grey and these days she wore it up in a soft chignon, but the eyes, even without the heavy fridge of false eyelashes, were unmistakable.

      ‘It’s okay, Gran. He doesn’t want you, he wants Elle.’

      ‘I hadn’t realised there was more than one Lovage Amery,’ Sean said quickly, bypassing the teen in favour of her grandmother, who was undoubtedly the intended recipient of Basil’s envelope. ‘Did Elle explain to you about Rosie?’

      ‘Rosie?’ she asked, confused. Which answered that question. ‘Who’s Rosie?’

      ‘Not who, what. The ice cream van?’

      ‘Oh, that. I wondered where it had come from. Is it yours?’

      ‘No …’ This was even harder than talking to Elle. ‘I left a letter for you,’ he prompted. ‘From Basil?’

      ‘Basil?’ She took a step back, the graceful poise crumpling along with her face. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘He wouldn’t. He mustn’t. Bernard will be so angry.’

      ‘Gran …’ The girl, a protective arm around her grandmother, gave him a furious look and, for the second time that day, the front door of Gable End was shut firmly in his face.

      Freddy stopped her with a touch to her arm. Elle’s instincts were to pull away, but she reminded herself that he’d known her and her family since she was eighteen. That it was avuncular rather than familiar. He was, after all, old enough to be her uncle if not her father.

      ‘There’s a big party at the corner table, Elle. They’ve got drinks and should have had enough time to sort out what they want to eat by now. Will you take care of them?’

      Only one of the backup staff had turned in and it had been non-stop since she’d arrived before six. She was due a break, but that wasn’t going to happen and she pasted on a smile, took her book from her pocket and said, ‘Of course, Freddy.’

      The large round table in the corner could take up to a dozen people and it was full, which might mean a decent tip. Or a lot of work for nothing much. You could never tell.

      Smile, Elle, smile, she told herself as she approached the table. ‘Are you ready to order?’ she asked. ‘Or do you need a little more …’

      The words died away as she looked around the table and found herself face to face with Sean McElroy and her knees, already feeling the pressure from nearly three hours of nonstop action, momentarily buckled.

      Since yelling at a diner, demanding to know why he’d dumped Rosie and run, would not improve her chances of a decent tip, she braced her knees, cleared her throat, said to no one in particular, ‘If you need a little more time I can come back.’

      ‘No, we’re ready,’ the man nearest to her said, acknowledging her with a smile before going around the table, so that she could keep her eyes on her notepad. Everything went smoothly until they reached Sean McElroy. ‘Sean?’ he prompted.

      ‘Sorry, I can’t make up my mind. I’m rather tempted by the chicken in a herb crust. Can you tell me exactly what the herbs are? Elle,’ he added, proving that his vision was twenty-twenty too, since he could obviously read her name badge across the table.

      So much for hoping to avoid another encounter with those blue eyes.

      She looked up to find them fixed on her, his expression suggesting that she had some explaining to do which, under the circumstances, was some nerve.

      The woman beside him, slender, cool in a linen shift of such simplicity that it had to have cost a mint, straight blonde hair shining like something out of a shampoo advert, turned to look at him and, instantly sensing that there was more going on than just a discussion about food, frowned.

      ‘I thought you were going to have the steak, darling. You always have the steak,’ she added, declaring herself in possession.

      ‘Do I? I hadn’t realised I was so boring, darling,’ he said, keeping his eyes fixed resolutely on Elle. The ‘darling’ had sounded like an afterthought. Maybe the woman noticed that too, because she followed his gaze to Elle and her frown deepened.

      ‘The crust consists of fine wholemeal breadcrumbs,’ Elle rattled off quickly, ‘and a mixture of fresh herbs including parsley, lemon thyme, a touch of sage, seasoned and bound together with egg.’

      ‘No lovage?’