Lord and Master (3 page)

Luna groaned inwardly and got to her feet. Really, this was getting ridiculous.

In her office, the Marchioness was pouring tea into a china cup etched with the Lionsbridge coat of arms, her pique of a few moments earlier apparently forgotten. ‘Stefan and I have been talking,' the Marchioness began. ‘And we think you could be of use to him over the next few days.'

Luna briefly locked eyes with Stefan, lifting an eyebrow as if to say,
oh really
.

‘I'd like you to go with him on some of his visits around the estate, just to introduce him. Perhaps you can do a little homework with him beforehand too.' Addressing Stefan, the Marchioness continued, ‘Luna knows the business almost as well as I do,' and ignoring the slight noise of protest rising in Luna's throat, ‘She's my “representative here on earth”, as it were, and she will be a real help to you.'

To his credit, Stefan's expression didn't reveal what Luna suspected, that Lady Wellstone had essentially foisted her upon him. And Luna couldn't think of a plausible reason to refuse. She was clever that way, the Marchioness.

*

Stefan's meeting with Lady Wellstone continued until Luna was forced to knock on the door and remind her that the car was waiting. So it was Luna and Stefan both who accompanied her to the front drive, where her driver stood beside the Jaguar. The Marchioness still seemed to be in a buoyant mood, but Luna thought she could see the slight thread of tension beginning to build in her that always seemed to accompany these trips to Venice. It bothered Luna, which made her rather more solicitous than usual.

‘Text me if you think of anything you've forgotten,' she said. ‘And I'll give you a quick ring tonight, just to check in.'

Stefan, meanwhile, repeated his Gallic kiss of earlier and helped Lady Wellstone into the back seat.

‘They've got the Dower House ready for you,' Lady Wellstone said to Stefan, clicking her fingers to Regina, who hopped in next to her mistress.

‘Thank you, Augusta.'

Perhaps Luna watched the Marchioness's car depart for a second too long, or perhaps she allowed her face to betray some of the concern she felt toward her employer. Because when she finally turned to face Stefan he was looking at her – approvingly. As though he, too, knew the toll Venice took on the Marchioness.

Luna cleared her throat. ‘Well…'

‘Yes,' said Stefan.

‘I'm at your disposal for the rest of the week, Mr Lundgren.'

He lifted his eyebrows and Luna floundered on, ‘I mean, obviously, you can use me as much or as little as you like.' She frowned. That hadn't come out the way she intended either.

‘I'm sure I can…use you, Miss Gregory,' Stefan smiled. ‘Shall we sit down together tomorrow morning, formulate our plan of action?'

‘Sounds good. I'm in at eight.'

‘I'll look forward to seeing you then.' He extended his hand and Luna reluctantly extended hers – reluctant because, predictably, his remained a good ten degrees warmer than hers. Like a furnace, this man!

*

It was another couple of hours before Luna finally climbed the winding stone staircase to her rooms. She stopped halfway up and gazed out of the narrow, mullioned window. Although the west wing had been constructed in the Victorian era, it was gothic in style, down to the leaded panes of glass in the windows. She had a glorious view of the gardens and setting sun from this height. Late September and the nights were already drawing in – in a few weeks it would be pitch black at this hour. She could just see the lights at the Dower House twinkling in the distance and wondered briefly what someone like him did with his spare time, before continuing her climb.

Luna's suite was comprised of the former schoolroom and an adjacent governess's bedroom. Free accommodation was a massive perk of the job, though Luna knew her predecessor had preferred to live outside the estate in Deersley. For Luna, though, her little bedroom with its brass bedstead and the schoolroom with its Victorian fireplace and assortment of slightly shabby furniture scavenged from elsewhere in the house was a refuge.

Kicking her shoes off in front of the fireplace, Luna collapsed on the dilapidated velvet settee, a little threadbare on the armrests but more cosy for it. Picking up her laptop and quickly logging into her personal email account, she smiled as she prepared to write the email she'd been silently drafting in her head all afternoon.

Luna was gratified at how quickly her computer pinged.

Luna rolled her eyes and hit reply:

Seconds later, two pings in quick succession.

Luna smiled and chose to answer Nancy's email.

Luna laughed out loud. This was just what she needed, after the day she'd had.

Luna rolled out of bed at exactly 6.15am the following morning and stepped straight into her leggings, vest and trainers. Any delays could lead to a day without exercise, she had found, and Marta's home cooking meant she couldn't afford that. Ten minutes later she was running along a path adjacent to the formal gardens, her hair bouncing in a ponytail and her expression grim. Luna hated running – only the combined feeling of relief and virtue she experienced at the end of every run kept her at it.

That and the fact that she had, quite literally, the most stunning running track in the Home Counties at her disposal. In addition to the Capability Brown-designed gardens, maze and topiary, Arborage's estate included over 800 acres of parkland, forest and a fishing lake.

Luna's preferred route took her around the lake and briefly into the forest before swinging back towards the gardens. As she ran downhill towards the water's edge, five or six ducks took off and Luna was reminded that hunting season was now underway, rendering substantial parts of the estate off limits for her morning run.

Tucking her arms into her sides, she got into her stride, gaze focused on the middle distance. Until a movement from the opposite side of the lake caught her eye. She looked across to see a figure in grey sweatpants and t-shirt, also running. It was Stefan Lundgren.

‘Bloody hell,' Luna gasped under her breath. Exercising was hard enough without someone like him showing her up. He was really going, sprinting almost. At this pace he'd catch her up in a few minutes. Choosing the better part of valour, she decided to amend her route on the fly, taking the next path that led away from the lake.

Fifteen minutes on, sweat trickling down her back and her lungs aching, she re-joined the main path back toward the gardens. She could just see the wrought iron gate ahead of her, the landmark at which she usually allowed herself to slow to a walk. Almost home.

Then she heard it. The sound of feet on gravel, coming up fast behind her.

‘Morning,' Stefan said, briefly slowing down alongside her.

Luna nodded once in acknowledgement, but didn't trust herself to speak without gasping. And then off he went, Road Runner to her Wile E. Coyote.

*

‘It's entirely up to you how you want to arrange these meetings, Mr Lundgren. But…it might help if you give me some idea of what you're trying to accomplish,' Luna said, standing beside Stefan Lundgren at the Marchioness's conference table. She had laid out a raft of organisational charts on the table, as well as a list of the managers she thought he might want to see.

‘Contrary to what Augusta fears,' Stefan smiled, taking a sip of coffee, ‘I am not here to interrogate or browbeat. My team and I have looked carefully at the revenue and profit figures and they speak for themselves, but our goal is always to work
with
stakeholders.'

Luna nodded. Wearing her grey shawl-collar dress, with her hair up in a topknot bun, she felt the equal of him. A far cry from earlier that morning when pride prevented her from slowing to her customary walk at the garden gate while he was still in sight.

Stefan was studying the charts, rubbing his chin. He'd dressed down slightly today; no tie, but a crisp white cotton shirt and impeccably tailored slate grey trousers. Luna noted that he'd rolled his shirt sleeves up to reveal just the right amount of tanned musculature on his forearms and she fleetingly wished she could take a snap for the girls before giving herself a mental shake.

Finally Stefan said, ‘I think we start with managers here on the estate proper. So, Tours, Events, Gardens, Garden Centre, Grounds, the Equestrian Centre, and the Farm Shop.'

Luna stifled a smile. Laurie wasn't going to be simpering now.

‘Do you think you can schedule these this week?' he asked.

Luna hesitated. ‘I can. But we're not giving them a lot of notice.'

‘That's the way I like it, Miss Gregory. Any manager worth his salt should be able to talk bottom line figures at the drop of a hat. This isn't an interrogation, but it goes to their competence. Let's start with Tours, shall we? Can you get me time with Roland White today?'

‘I'll check.' Luna began heading out of the office, then paused. ‘Actually, Roland makes a point of leading a tour every Tuesday, to keep his hand in, he says…'

Reading her mind, Stefan snapped his fingers and said, ‘Good thinking. We'll take the tour, you and I. Then go beard the lion in his den.'

‘Bearding the lion in his den' wasn't exactly how she would have put it, Luna thought as she sat down in front of her laptop a few minutes later. But she had to admit she was intrigued by the way Stefan Lundgren worked, the way he pulled you into his plans, made you feel like a…co-conspirator. She was going to have to be careful with him.

Luna decided it was prudent to ring Roland and give him an advance warning. She had been at pains since coming into her role to establish a cordial relationship with the Tours Manager, who could be a little intimidating. His knowledge of Arborage's history was encyclopaedic and his fierce loyalty to the Marchioness was surpassed only by Luna's own.

‘I presume Mr Lundgren won't expect me to abridge my tour,' came Roland's plummy voice over the phone, though Luna thought she could detect a note of pride in his tone.

‘Not at all. He's very much looking forward to it. As am I,' she added for good measure. ‘I always learn something new every time I take one of your tours.' Just enough butter, Luna thought.

It wasn't completely flattery, of course. Standing in the portrait gallery later that afternoon, surrounded by a coachload of Japanese tourists who left her feeling extremely tall and frankly made Stefan look like a blond giant, Roland related the story of the fifth Marquess, an advisor to Queen Mary during the Tudor era who later led the effort to stamp out Catholicism under Queen Elizabeth, despite himself continuing to practise the Catholic faith in secret at Arborage. An act of betrayal, Luna had always thought, but Roland cast it in a different light, as a desperate bid by a father to ensure that his young son retained control of Arborage.

‘On his very deathbed the fifth Marquess negotiated the marriage of his son to one of Elizabeth's ladies in waiting, thus safeguarding his family's legacy at Arborage. It was a pragmatic choice, a very
English
choice,' the balding, bespectacled Tours manager intoned, to the hushed nods of his Japanese audience. Stefan's eyes met Luna's over the head of one smartphone-wielding salaryman.
He's good,
he silently imparted.

To Luna's relief, Roland's grasp of his department's accounts when they sat down with him in his east wing office shortly thereafter was similarly complete. After some initial grumbling about the planned re-siting of the Visitor Centre, Roland had embraced the change, redesigning and expanding the tour of Arborage's east wing, the only portion of the house open to the public. Roland understood the value of marketing better than most of the Marchioness's senior team, and had taken care to work with their external marketing company to publicise the new tour and revamp the bookings page on Arborage's website. As a result, the Tours Department's takings, already healthy, were projected to grow steadily through the following year.

‘And as you can see,' Roland said, indicating a section of the spreadsheet he'd prepared for the meeting, ‘we believe this will have a knock-on effect for the gift shop and the rest of our retail portfolio.'

‘This is very impressive,' Stefan said, before asking a few questions; some of which Luna could tell were purely to show that he had done his research, that he understood Roland's domain. Luna had brought along her laptop and was taking occasional notes on it, but mostly she was watching Stefan, taking the measure of him. She had to admit, the way he'd carried himself thus far was at odds with his ‘Swedish love rat' reputation. He was serious, focused, and he had a winning way of bringing people onside. He was also damnably attractive, the type of man who drew your gaze. Or at least, this is what Luna found, peering out from behind the safety of her laptop at Stefan's profile as he chatted with Roland. His firm jawline and the way his chin crinkled slightly when he frowned, in particular – most watchable.

So much so that she almost missed the cues that the meeting was coming to a close. Suddenly Stefan was on his feet, shaking Roland's hand, and Luna found herself scrambling to shut her laptop and gather her papers. Stefan had one last question for Roland: ‘If I asked you what one thing you would change in order to make Tours more successful, what would you say?'

Roland hesitated, then glanced towards Luna. Stefan turned towards her inquiringly.

Smiling at Roland, Luna said, ‘Monday openings. At least that's what you say at every team meeting.' Roland smiled in return and nodded.

‘The British Museum is open seven days a week, as is the V&A,' he said. ‘If we want to be considered alongside them, and I believe we do, we shouldn't close on Mondays. Or indeed on numerous other dates in the year when weddings are scheduled. To say nothing of blackout days imposed by the family itself. But Lady Wellstone knows my views on this.'

*

Luna was not entirely surprised that the farm shop's manager had no response to the same question when she and Stefan came to see her the following morning.

‘Erm, uh, well…' Laurie said, her face reddening. ‘I think we're ticking along nicely, so there's not much I'd change. More staff would be nice, particularly in the run-up to Christmas.'

It had been a fairly disastrous interview, with Laurie having done no preparation and seemingly completely unaware of the contents of her balance sheets. Luna observed that Stefan took great pains to keep his tone non-confrontational, whereas she personally wanted to throttle Laurie the umpteenth time she said, ‘I don't know.'

Stefan was thoughtful afterwards as they walked back to the main house. Eventually, he asked, ‘So, what do
you
say?'

Luna started. ‘Sorry?'

‘What one thing would you change to make the farm shop more successful?'

Luna bit back her instinctive response – sack Laurie – but one glance at Stefan revealed that he was watching her expression keenly. Luna had the uncomfortable feeling that he'd read her mind. Focusing her eyes on her feet crunching along in the path's fine pebbles, she tried to think of a less provocative answer.

‘I'd think about rationalising their stock. You saw for yourself: they sell twelve different kinds of chutney, which is at least five too many. And then maybe rationalise suppliers, and drive a harder bargain with the ones we decide to keep.'

‘Hunh,' Stefan grunted, and said no more, leaving Luna wondering if she'd overstepped the mark.

‘Of course,' she continued, ‘her Ladyship is sensitive about our relationship with suppliers. Some of ours have been with Arborage for decades, and it's a bit of a hand in glove thing…' She was rambling now and wishing she'd never opened her mouth, so she shut it.

‘How long have you been with Augusta, Miss Gregory?' Stefan asked. Making conversation, Luna hoped.

‘Two years.'

‘And before that? Have you always been a personal assistant?'

‘Yes.' Luna thought about elaborating, but then thought better of it.

‘Never thought about anything else? I imagine you might be suited for…many different roles.' Luna kept her eyes on the path. This entire conversation was starting to feel like a trap.

‘I think I'm suited to being a PA,' she said simply, and then, because that response seemed churlish in its brevity, ‘I work harder when it's someone else's head on the block. It means more to me, helping someone else succeed, if that makes any sense.'

‘It does. I can see that.'

*

Paul Walker took a long drag on his roll-up and picked a piece of tobacco from his teeth.

‘Ah tol her,' he nodded dismissively at Luna, ‘ahm no' the one ye wannay talk wi'.'

Over thirty years in Berkshire hadn't made a dent in their gamekeeper's strong accent, or his Glaswegian abrasiveness. Of all the managers who reported directly to the Marchioness, Walker was the only one Luna privately feared. She still remembered the time over a year ago when she'd been running through the estate forests and he'd confronted her, shouting at her to ‘clear out, ye daft betch'. She'd disturbed his precious pheasants, apparently.

Luna had taken care to steer well clear of him after that, until the previous day when she'd phoned to schedule an appointment with Stefan.

‘Dinnae see the point,' he'd said when she explained the purpose of Stefan's visit. He was a gamekeeper, he said, not an accountant. And Luna had tried to forewarn Stefan, suggesting he might be better off talking to their in-house finance team, which handled invoicing Arborage's hunt clients. But Stefan had insisted.

‘This isn't the nineteenth century, Miss Gregory. It simply isn't acceptable for someone as handsomely remunerated as Mr Walker to claim ignorance of financial matters.'

Luna silently thought differently. She also knew Walker had friends in high places that meant he got away with things others wouldn't dare.

So they had trekked out to his hut in the woods, to Walker's obvious disgust. The grizzled Scotsman, fingers and teeth stained yellow from what smelled to Luna like a two-packs-a-day habit, made no attempt to hide his contempt for Stefan.

‘So ye jes tell folks how tae run their own bezness, do ye?' he said laconically.

‘I try to help them run it more efficiently, yes,' Stefan replied.

Walker grunted and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his none-too-clean flannel shirt. ‘Well, sonny, ah jes hunt. And tek rich folk like you hunting.'

‘And yet,' Stefan responded mildly, ‘your job description says you oversee a staff of twelve, and an annual budget of hundreds of thousands of pounds.'