Lord and Master

Kait Jagger

Copyright © 2015 Kait Jagger

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

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or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

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ISBN 978 1784629 472

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‘Luna! Luna, I need you!'

Even through the heavy oak panel door that separated Lady Wellstone's office from the small adjacent anteroom where she sat, Luna Gregory could hear the note of anxiety in her employer's voice. That the interruption came at an inopportune moment—Luna was on the phone and in the middle of drafting an email—made no difference.

‘Sorry, Nigel, I'll have to ring you back.' Luna dropped the receiver on her phone and grabbed her notepad. Standing and smoothing her black pencil skirt, she glanced out of her first floor window onto the portico and great lawn below, currently a hive of activity as uniformed house staff raced in and out, preparing for the Visitor Centre opening later that morning.

Luna pushed open the door next to her desk and entered into a scene of barely controlled panic. Lady Wellstone sat at her Queen Anne desk, eyes fixed on a clutch of papers on her lap as a jittery stylist stood at her side attempting to apply powder to her cheek. Arborage House's press officer, Caitlin Murray, sat across the desk with an identical set of papers, reading from her notes. And under the desk, oblivious to the chaos around her, Regina, Lady Wellstone's King Charles Spaniel, slept in her usual spot close to her owner's feet.

‘…remember he's a keen hunter. He bagged three pheasants at last year's shoot, so you should mention that,' Caitlin was saying.

Even wearing reading glasses with only half her makeup applied, Augusta, Lady Wellstone, Marchioness of Lionsbridge, was a commanding presence in the room. At age sixty, she cut a trim figure in a simple but expensive navy suit, her silver hair cut in a tidy bob. Only the enormous emerald ring on her ring finger, a family heirloom that she always claimed she'd accepted only with great reluctance, struck an off-key note in a look that otherwise spoke of old-school elegance. ‘Impossibly posh' was how Luna described Lady Wellstone to her friends. With equal amounts of affection and exasperation.

Noting her PA's entrance, Lady Wellstone waved the stylist away impatiently.

‘Luna. Caitlin and I were just going through the guest list for this morning and…' she trailed off, snapping her fingers at Caitlin.

‘Thomas Jefford,' Caitlin prompted.

‘Yes, Tom Jefford. He came to the country fair last year and I promised him that when our first batch of rare breeds bacon was ready I'd send him some.'

Luna nodded, scribbling furiously in her pad.

‘Completely forgot, of course. And he's here this morning for the Visitor Centre opening…'

‘So you want to give him some to take away,' Luna finished.

Caitlin smiled and explained, ‘He writes a column in the
Telegraph
.'

‘A proper foodie,' Lady Wellstone interjected, raising her index fingers. ‘He's always going on about' – index finger curl – ‘“localism” and' ‘“provenance”.'

‘Leave it with me,' Luna said, glancing at her watch. Only half an hour to go till the event started. She cast a quick accusatory glance at their petite blond press officer, who grinned apologetically.

As Luna made a swift exit, shutting the door behind her, she could just hear Lady Wellstone addressing the stylist with a sigh. ‘Right then, do your worst.'

‘Leave it with me' had been Luna Gregory's watchwords during her time as Lady Wellstone's personal assistant. When she first interviewed two years ago for this, her dream job, she'd correctly ventured that what the Marchioness required was a PA who could make problems disappear, and it was this that had gotten her the position. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, Luna was rich in experience of dealing with emergency situations like these.

But she already knew the bacon would be a big ask. Arborage Rare Breeds bacon had been a runaway success in their farm and online shop since they launched it earlier that spring, and the farm shop frequently sold out.

Rounding her desk at a sprint, Luna pulled up her internal phone list on the laptop and rang the farm shop. Sounding slightly harassed, Laurie, the shop manager, picked up after eight rings and, to Luna's relief, confirmed they had the bacon in stock.

‘I can't bring it up to you, though. One of my girls phoned in sick so I'm short-staffed.'

‘Don't worry. If you can just have the bacon ready – and an Arborage cool bag, yes? –I'll get them picked up.'

As soon as she put the phone down, however, Luna looked at her watch: 9.35, and the opening started at 10. It would be easier and faster to just go get it herself.

And so it was that minutes later Luna came to be pedalling along the gravel path towards the farm shop, almost a mile from the house itself. She'd reckoned that borrowing one of the staff bikes and taking a shortcut through the gardens would be faster than driving down to the gatehouse and along the B road.

She looked ridiculous, she knew, in her black skirt, black silk polo neck and heels. She was grateful Tours Manager Roland White had been too busy barking orders at his staff to see her hitching up her skirt before climbing atop the bike. Grateful, too, that the forecast rain, which would have wrought havoc on her carefully coiffed French twist, so far was holding off.

Still. Despite the fact that she was on another of Lady Wellstone's crazy, last-minute missions, she couldn't resist the swell of pride she felt as she cycled past the formal gardens, the evocative scent of box hedges in her nostrils. ‘Dream job' didn't really cover how lucky she felt every day to be working at Arborage.

The house, the oldest parts of which dated from the Tudor period, was one of the largest privately owned historic homes in England, with 112 rooms split between its baroque east wing and a later, Gothic Revival west wing, where the family still lived today. Located close enough to London to be a fixture in the capital's tourist trail, Arborage House had played host to no less than eleven prime ministers, three US presidents and scores of other foreign dignitaries during its 500-year history. Working for the Marchioness, Luna had gotten into the habit of viewing Arborage as a miniature kingdom unto itself, with its 500 staff and several hundred acres of gardens and parkland, plus a further 10,000 acres of adjacent agricultural estate. And she, Luna liked to believe, was its most loyal subject.

After five minutes of furious pedalling, the farm shop, a wooden new-build A-frame on the edge of the estate grounds, loomed into view. Luna hopped off her bike at the entrance and ran in, nonplussed to discover that the shop was relatively quiet, with only two or three customers browsing aisles full of Arborage produce. She experienced a fleeting stab of annoyance at Laurie for making her trek out here on a Monday morning, when the house was closed to visitors and footfall in the shop was correspondingly low.

As she made her way through a display of potted Arborage greenhouse herbs toward the till, Luna was surprised to hear Laurie, standing behind the counter, laughing almost girlishly. The redhead's cheeks were even redder than usual, a frightening combination with her dark green jumper emblazoned with the Arborage logo. Luna could swear she was batting her eyelashes at her customer.

Not that Luna could entirely blame her. For Laurie's customer was a fine figure of a man, even Luna had to admit that. Tall, maybe 6 foot 2 or 3, and lean, with close-cut dark blond hair. Nice suit too, expensively cut and clearly tailored for him. Maybe a little Nordic looking, Luna mused in passing. The kind of man who probably did a lot of cross-country skiing and drank Aquavit. Luna tried to catch Laurie's eye, to no avail.

‘Her Ladyship prefers the tomato chutney,' the shop manager was saying. ‘That's what she stocks up in the house. It's a slightly less sweet taste.' Luna frowned. Laurie was not alone among the staff in her frequent name-dropping of the Marchioness and Luna found it…inappropriate. Unseemly.

She cleared her throat to get Laurie's attention and the Nordic God turned to look at her. Gracious, he really
was
good-looking. Bright blue eyes and chiselled cheek bones with a slight, and not unattractive, hint of stubble on his cheeks. Not her type at all, of course. His expression as he looked down at her was vaguely amused, as if he sensed her disapproval of Laurie's gossipy tone. He smiled at her and – whew, not her type, yes, but
my
, what a smile. Like honey on toast.

And…familiar somehow. She'd seen him somewhere before, she was sure of it. Maybe he was some kind of television presenter. He was certainly attractive enough for it.

Laurie seemed to think so because despite Luna's best efforts, she barely cast her a glance. Keeping her eyes firmly fixed on her customer, she held out a cool bag with one hand and waved absentmindedly with the other toward the refrigerated section. ‘Help yourself, Luna.'

Luna returned the Nordic God's smile coolly –
sorry to have interrupted
– and quickly made her way to the meat display.

‘How many different types of chutney do you stock?' the Nordic God asked, and Luna was pleased to detect a slight accent. She was right, Scandinavian for sure. And that, too, was familiar. If she'd been less distracted she'd have tried to put a finger on where she'd seen him. Some TV cooking programme, maybe?

‘Oh, at least twelve,' Laurie reported enthusiastically.

Luna's heart began to thump as she scanned the meat section. Plenty of Arborage free-range chicken, plus more unusual offerings like wood pigeon and pheasant, but the pork display was worryingly empty. A few packs of Cumberland sausage and that was it.

Luna stalked back to the counter. ‘Laurie, there's no bacon back there,' she said tersely.

Laurie blinked, finally giving Luna her full attention. ‘Really? I checked our stock list while I was on the phone with you. There should be…'

Luna felt the Nordic God scrutinising this exchange and interjected smoothly, ‘Why don't you get your assistant to help this gentleman while we sort it out?' She smiled apologetically at him as Laurie waved over her junior and accompanied her to the chilled section.

‘I don't know how this could have happened. My list clearly showed five packs of bacon left.' Laurie's voice was rising and Luna put a quick hand on her shoulder, glancing at the counter where the Nordic God was now chatting with the teenage till girl, though Luna could swear he was cocking an ear in their direction.

‘It doesn't matter,' Luna said quietly. ‘Is there any chance you have some in back?'

‘I'll look, but…' Luna found herself grinding her teeth as Laurie trailed back to the stockroom. The hapless expression on the manager's face when she emerged moments later said it all. Luna quickly whipped out her mobile, finding the number for the local shop in Deersley two miles down the road. The only other place within a five-mile radius that stocked Arborage bacon.

Seconds later, Luna raced out of the farm shop and hitched up her skirt again, scarcely bothering that she was in full view of the entire shop, including the Nordic God. Needs must, she silently reasoned, swinging off down the path towards the main gatehouse.

A battered Morris Minor van was waiting for her when she rolled up beside the gatehouse.

‘I owe you,' Luna said to the shopkeeper as she leaned forward in the saddle of her bike to deposit a pack of unsmoked back bacon and another of smoked streaky in her bike basket.

‘No worries, flower,' he replied. ‘I'm just glad it was you ringing, rather than her Ladyship.'

As the van pulled away, Luna considered her options. She could go back the way she came, which would take around ten minutes. Time she didn't have. Or she could take the main road to the house and risk being witnessed by arriving trustees, pedalling along like the Wicked Witch of the West, pre-twister.

There was nothing for it. Luna took the main road – and almost immediately regretted it as within 300 yards she heard the sound of a car approaching behind her. The road was only wide enough for a single vehicle, so she quickly pulled onto the grass verge and waited as a bright yellow Lamborghini moved past.

A little bit flash for one of our trustees, Luna thought to herself, though their guest list for the morning extended beyond the immediate board to press and ‘friends' of Arborage.

The tinted driver's side window of the Lamborghini rolled down as it purred past…to reveal none other than Nordic God.

‘Hello again,' he smiled warmly, tipping his head. Luna nodded gravely and climbed back aboard her bike, re-joining the road in the Lamborghini's wake. Who the hell
was
he?

It was ten past ten by the time Luna finally rolled up to the main portico, weaving her way through the assembled Bentleys, Jaguars and Land Rovers. The Lamborghini, too, was parked off to the left of the entrance.

Arborage House's main hallway, with its massive marble staircase and baroque ceiling painting of cherubs and nymphs in various states of undress, was virtually empty as Luna entered. Which had been the whole idea of relocating the Visitor Centre, previously situated in a small cloakroom off the main hall, to the east wing of the house. Decades of foot traffic and prams had taken a toll on the hallway's inlaid marble floor, and moving the tourist entrance to the east wing would allow essential renovation work to commence later that year. It had the added benefit of quadrupling the space available for the centre, meaning they could add a video screening room and expand the gift shop.

For Luna, this meant a trek through the main reception rooms on the tour. Passing quickly along a carpeted, cordoned path through the formal sitting room and the music room with its assorted pianos and harps, she entered the portrait gallery, the jewel in Arborage House's crown. Two stories high, with a balustraded balcony on the second level and a frankly jaw-dropping vaulted ceiling, it contained portraits of the Wellstone family stretching back over five centuries.

Luna could hear a swell of voices coming from the Visitor Centre, just visible through a door slightly ajar at the far end of the gallery. She assumed with some chagrin that Lady Wellstone must already have given her opening speech and cut the ribbon. But as she walked under the impassive gaze of the first Marquess as painted by van Eyck in 1435, the hum abruptly receded. Luna skidded to a halt as the sound of her heels, those blasted heels which had made riding the bike nigh on impossible, became audible against the marble chequered floor.