Country Rivals. Zara Stoneley
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‘I know.’ He shrugged and grinned. ‘Would you mind if I got out of this bush?’
‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you.’
‘If you do, you won’t find out why I’m here?’
‘I said shoot you, not kill you.’
‘Ahh. You wouldn’t hit a man when he’s down, would you?’
‘I am more than happy to give you a five-second start, young man.’
Jamie was just trying to decide if she was kidding or not, as her face was scarily emotionless, when she seemed to come to a sudden decision and straightened up. ‘You don’t look like a lunatic. Come up to the house and make me a drink.’ She lowered the barrel of the gun. ‘And you can explain yourself. Now where’s Bertie wandered off to? Damned sure that dog is going senile. Bertie, Bertie, come here you old fool.’ Breaking open the gun, she hooked it over her arm. ‘Well, come on young man, it’s too cold to stand about gawping.’ And without looking back, she stomped off out of the trees.
Jamie, plucking twigs from his hair and holding firmly onto his camera, ran after her. He caught up just as she reached the edge of the expanse of lawn.
‘Jamie, James Trilling.’
‘I’m sure you are.’ She didn’t even glance his way. ‘Bertie, old boy, don’t you even think of rolling in that excrement or you’ll be sleeping in the stables.’
‘Isn’t it rather late for you to be out walking him?’
‘Couldn’t sleep. Overrated if you ask me, all this lying about. Does your mother know where you are?’
Jamie laughed. ‘Why, are you going to kill me and bury my body?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She chuckled, and he joined in. ‘That is the gamekeeper’s job.’
‘Oh. You’re kidding?’ She didn’t reply. ‘So you live here?’ They were crunching over the gravel that fronted the imposing house, and Jamie slowed his pace and glanced up. ‘It’s incredible.’
‘It is.’ Her tone softened, ‘and I do. I was born in that wing,’ she nodded, ‘and now I live,’ she paused to push open the large door, then gestured across the hallway, ‘in that one.’
Jamie stared. Visiting stately homes as a kid had been part of growing up, but now, standing here in the lived-in version he wondered if he’d cracked his head while climbing over the wall. It couldn’t be real. Close up, it was like something out of one of the BBC bonnet-busters that his mum loved to watch. She hated it when he called them that, or told her that the day a woman came out of the lake with a shirt clinging to her chest was the day he’d start watching them.
He supposed he should be used to places like this, just view it as another location, like the rest of the crew would do. But the only locations he’d been sent out to see since starting this job were sink estates that scared the shit out of him (Seb liked ‘authentic’ and was far more comfortable surrounded by concrete than fields), and deserted stretches of railway track where no doubt somebody would get brutally murdered on film. They gave him the willies, if he was honest, but this was different.
Jamie glanced at his ghostly companion as he followed her in. She couldn’t be real. But with a black Labrador at her feet, the shotgun cracked open over her arm and the Hunter wellingtons on her feet, he had to admit that even in her nightie her resemblance to the portrait at the end of the hall was remarkable. ‘You’re, you’re Lady …’
‘Elizabeth Stanthorpe,’ she finished for him, the hint of a smile twitching at her thin lips. ‘Who the blazes did you think I was? You may call me Lady Elizabeth. Now, are we having that drink or not? You’re not one of those feeble types that doesn’t drink are you? No appetite for anything these days, you youngsters, other than fiddling with those egg box things.’
‘X-box.’
She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Gimmicky what-nots. All that staring at screens and fiddling with knobs. I bet you don’t even have time to fiddle with girls. It’s not natural.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Do those lap-dancing clubs still exist? They were very trendy at one time. I blame that Stringfellow chap for a lot of the shenanigans. And there were gentlemen’s clubs. That kind of thing was guaranteed to raise the blood pressure. Nowadays there are no wars to fight, no hunting allowed, no sex … mark my words the human race will die out if the do-gooders have their way. It’s all about being gay now, isn’t it?’ She pulled a wellington off, then pointed at his feet. ‘Shoes off. Not that I have a problem with gay men. It’s always gone on, that type of thing. Knew some splendid chaps who did it. But they did their duty and married the gals as well. Heir and a spare and all that.’
‘People do still have sex.’ Jamie wasn’t quite sure where the conversation was heading.
‘Jolly good. Bertie do leave those alone, there’s a good chap.’ The Labrador looked at her with big chocolate eyes, a boot held gently in his jaws, which he very carefully laid back down at his mistress’s feet. ‘He misses Holmes, don’t you old man?’ She patted the dog’s head and his tail swung a metronome beat as he looked up expectantly.
‘Holmes?’ Jamie looked around, half expecting a butler to appear.
‘Lab. Like peas in a pod the two of them were. Died of old age, dropped like a stone the other week as he ran out after a pheasant, daft old bugger.’
‘Ah.’
‘Philippa said she expects me to go the same way.’ She shook her head and pursed her lips. ‘Never chased a pheasant in my life though.’
‘Maybe she didn’t quite mean …’
‘I know exactly what she meant. You remind me of her a little.’
He wasn’t quite sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
‘Philippa?’
‘Friend of my granddaughter’s. Philippa, Pip, bright girl, most entertaining. Gone off to Australia with her surfing chap and I have to say I do miss her company. She’s a good girl, but I can’t be doing with this sky chatting, not the same as having her here. Darned new-fangled ideas.’
‘Sky chatting?’ Jamie looked at her blankly. ‘Oh, you mean Skype?’
‘That’s what I said. Do pull your trousers up properly, it’s no wonder you haven’t got a gal when you go around showing your underwear.’
‘I never said …’ He sighed as she marched across the oak-panelled hallway and pushed a door open. What was the point in wasting his breath? It was like some kind of test, to see what his reaction would be, although he reckoned he must have at least passed the first stage. It was a bit like playing an online game. And he hadn’t a clue what her end game was, although he still just about remembered his. Even if things hadn’t quite gone to plan.
Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe propped the shotgun at the side of her chair and took a proper look at the trespasser. He was more youth than man, and an untidy one at that. When he’d lain under the rhododendrons, his dirty-blond hair a splash of colour against the dark mulch, he’d looked impossibly young and innocent. Which was why she’d invited him in. ‘You appear to have been rolling in fox excrement.’
He took a sniff of his jacket and grinned apologetically. ‘Sorry.’
‘Tomato ketchup.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Our old housekeeper used to swear by it. To get rid of the smell.’ She put her hands in her lap and