CHAPTER THREE

      SOME decisions just weren’t good ones. Lydia glanced over at the cat basket, ridiculously pleased to see that Nimrod was safely locked inside.

      There was no man, or woman, on earth who warranted the kind of self-sacrifice she’d endured today. Wendy’s cottage was an unpleasant place to kick your heels for the best part of a day and Nimrod was the kind of cat who should be certified—and she had the scratches to prove it.

      Lydia changed gear to negotiate a particularly tight bend. She’d gone wrong at the moment when she’d said it would be no problem to stay. She should have cited a mountainous pile of laundry and the possibility of a phone call from her former editor as reasons she had to be back in London.

      Instead, she’d endured hours sitting on an uncomfortable sofa with a laptop perched on a melamine tray before being…well, here…and on her way to Nicholas Regan-Phillips’s domestic empire. Though that part didn’t bother her. She had to admit she had a rabid curiosity to see what it would be like.

      There’d been any number of Internet articles about Drakes but Nicholas Regan-Phillips ‘the man’ had emerged as something of a mystery. It was pure nosiness, of course, but when fate landed you an opportunity like this one she was not the woman to let it go to waste. She was just dying to see what kind of place he called home, considered it reparation for an otherwise completely wasted day.

      Another four miles and an unexpected sharp bend and the gates of Fenton Hall loomed impressively out of a quiet country lane. Lydia pulled the car to a gentle stop. The house itself was completely hidden from view. The gates were well over six feet high, tightly shut and were edged by equally high stone walls. It was taking a desire for privacy to rather extreme lengths.

      She reached into her jacket pocket for his business card and came out empty. Where had she put the blasted thing? She leant over to pull her handbag off the back seat and flipped open the soft leather. His card was tucked in the small front pocket.

      Lydia keyed in the number he’d written on the reverse and within seconds she was answered. ‘Hello. I…er…I need…’ she searched for the name on the business card ‘…I need…Christine Pearman. I’m delivering Nimrod, Wendy Bennington’s cat. Mr Regan-Phillips said he’d phone…?’

      ‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’ The voice on the other end sounded distracted and agitated. ‘I’ll let you in. Can you tell me when you are inside?’

      ‘Okay.’ Lydia tossed the mobile on to her lap as the wide gates started to swing open. ‘Okay, I’m through,’ she said moments later.

      ‘You haven’t seen anyone, have you? No one’s gone out?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘No one at all?’

      Good grief! This was getting rather ridiculous. Lydia looked doubtfully at the receiver. If the voice at the other end belonged to Christine Pearman it sounded as if the other woman ought to be more careful about the films she watched. ‘There’s no one here but me.’

      ‘If you follow the drive up, I’ll meet you at the front.’

      Lydia shrugged. How bizarre. The drive meandered gently until she stopped in front of a spectacular house. It was the kind that had been designed along the established order of what was considered beautiful. There were just the right number of windows either side of an impressive entrance. Wide steps curved up to a front door that would have made Izzy’s artistic heart drool.

      Conservative estimate: upwards of two million pounds worth of ‘Arts and Crafts’ real estate. She leant across to speak softly to Nimrod. ‘Not a bad holiday pad. Quite a contrast from home.’

      Lydia unfastened her seat belt and climbed out, catching sight of a beautifully manicured lawn stretching out to the side of the house. It was a stunning place. Which made it strange, surely, for such a wealthy man to leave a godmother he loved with so little?

      She lifted out the cat basket. Why not set her up with a little cottage in the grounds? There was bound to be one. Probably more than one.

      ‘Lydia Stanford?’

      Lydia spun round. ‘Yes. I have…Nimrod.’

      ‘Mr Regan-Phillips did telephone,’ the other woman said with a nod. Her eyes looked past Lydia and seemed to scan the bushes behind her.

      It was strange, preoccupied behaviour. She’d expected to be asked in for a cup of tea or something—a chance to see inside the inner sanctum of Nicholas Regan-Phillips’s impressive home. A chance to glean some snippet of information she could regale Izzy with.

      Instead the housekeeper seemed completely distracted. Her face was agitated and her eyes were continually darting around as though she were searching for something.

      ‘Are you all right?’ Lydia asked abruptly.

      ‘Yes, I…’ the other woman broke off ‘…that is…’

      There was the sound of tyres on gravel and the housekeeper looked round. ‘Thank heaven!’

      Lydia turned round in time to see Nicholas Regan-Phillips’s dark green Jaguar twist up the drive. She watched as he climbed out of the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut.

      Actually, she thought dispassionately, he was sexier than she’d first thought—if that was possible. He was taller, sharper. He looked as though he was used to the world working exactly as he wished it would. And there was something incredibly attractive about that.

      She watched as his housekeeper surged forward, stopping him, the hapless Nimrod still imprisoned in the cat basket. Lydia caught no more than snatches of their conversation, words carried back to her on the breeze. ‘We thought she was sleeping—’

      Nick looked past her and his eyes locked with Lydia’s. He crossed towards her, his feet scrunching on the gravel. ‘I’m sorry. It seems my daughter, Rosie, has gone missing,’ he explained quietly.

      Instantly Lydia’s mind flew through possible options. Was it possible she’d been kidnapped?

      Something of that must have shown on her face because he added, ‘It’s something she does quite frequently. The grounds are fully enclosed; I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’