Tempted by Trouble

—Rosie’s Diary

ELLE, hot, flustered and decidedly bothered from her encounter with Sean McElroy, found her concentration slipping, her ears straining to hear the van start up, the crunch of tyres on gravel as it drove away.

It was all nonsense, she told herself, mopping up the suds, sitting back on her heels. She’d never heard of anyone called Basil Amery. It had to be a mistake. But the silence bothered her. While she hadn’t heard the van arrive, she hadn’t been listening. She had, however, been listening for it to leave.

The sudden rattle of the letter box made her jump. That was the only reason her heart was pounding, she told herself as she leapt to her feet. She wasn’t in the habit of racing to pick up the post—it rarely contained anything but bills and she could wait for those—but it was an excuse to check that he’d gone.

There were two things on the mat. The brown envelope Sean McElroy had been holding and a bunch of keys. He couldn’t, she told herself. He wouldn’t … But the key fob was an ice cream cornet and she flung open the door.

Rosie was still sitting on the drive, exactly where he’d parked her.

‘Sean McElroy!’ she called, half expecting him to be sitting in the van, grinning at having tricked her into opening the door.

He wasn’t and, in a sudden panic, she ran to the gate, looking up and down the lane. Unless he’d had someone follow him in a car, he’d have to walk, or catch a bus.

She spun around, desperately checking the somewhat wild shrubbery.

Nothing. She was, apparently, quite wrong.

He could.

He had.

Abandoned Rosie on her doorstep.

‘If you’re looking for the van driver, Elle, he rode off in that direction.’

Elle inwardly groaned. Mrs Fisher, her next door neighbour, was bright-eyed with excitement as she stepped up to take a closer look at Rosie.

‘Rode?’

‘He had one of those fold-up bikes. Are you taking on an ice cream round?’ she asked.

The internal groan reached a crescendo. The village gossips considered the Amery family their own private soap opera and whatever she said would be chewed over at length in the village shop.

‘Sorry, Mrs Fisher, I can hear my phone,’ she said, legging it inside, pushing the door shut behind her. If she’d left it open the woman would have considered it an invitation to walk in.

She sat on the bottom of the stairs holding the envelope, staring at the name and address which was, without doubt, hers.

Then she tore it open and tipped out the contents. A dark pink notebook with ‘Bookings’ written on the cover. A bells and whistles cellphone, the kind that would have her sisters drooling. There were a couple of official-looking printed sheets of paper. One was the logbook for the van, which told her that it was registered to Basil Amery of Keeper’s Cottage, Haughton Manor, the other was an insurance certificate.

There was also a cream envelope.

She turned it over. There was nothing written on it, no name or address, but that had been on the brown envelope. She put her thumb beneath the flap and took out the single sheet of matching paper inside. Unfolded it.

Dear Lally, it began, and her heart sank as she read her grandmother’s pet name.

Remember how you found me, all those years ago? Sitting by the village pond, confused, afraid, ready to end it all?

You saved me that day, my life, my sanity, and what happened afterwards wasn’t your fault. Not Bernard’s either. My brother and I were chalk and cheese but we are as we’re made and there’s nothing that can change us. Maybe, if our mother had still been alive, things would have been different, but there’s no point in dwelling on it. The past is past.

I’ve kept my promise and stayed away from the family. I caused enough heartache and you and Lavender’s girls have had more than enough of that to bear, losing Bernard and Lavender, without me turning up to dredge up the past, old scandals. The truth, however, is that I’m getting old and home called. Last year I took a cottage on the Haughton Manor estate and I’ve been working up the courage to write to you, but courage was never my strong point and now I’ve left it too late.

I have met your lovely granddaughter, though. I had lunch at the Blue Boar a couple of months ago and she served me. She was so like you, Lally—all your charm, your pretty smile—that I asked someone who she was. She even has your name. And here, I’m afraid, comes the crunch. You knew there would be a crunch, didn’t you?

Rosie, who by now you’ll have met, is a little hobby of mine. I do the occasional party, public event, you know the kind of thing, just to cover the costs of keeping her. The occasional charity do for my soul. Unfortunately, events have rather overtaken me and I have to go away for a while but there are people I’ve made promises to, people I can’t let down and I thought perhaps you and your granddaughter might take it on for me. A chance for her to get out of that restaurant once in a while. For you to think of me, I hope. Sean, who brings this to you, will show you how everything works.

I’ve enclosed the bookings diary as well as the phone I use for the ice cream business and, in order to make things easier for you, I’ve posted the change of keeper slip to the licence people so that Rosie is now registered in your name. God bless and keep you, Lally. Yours always, Basil

Elle put her hand to her mouth. Swallowed. Her great-uncle. Family. He’d been within touching distance and she’d had no idea. She tried to remember serving someone on his own, but the Blue Boar had a motel that catered for businessmen travelling on their own.

Haughton Manor was only six or seven miles away but she had to get ready for work and there was no time to drive over there this evening. Find out more. Neither could she leave it and she reached for the phone, dialled Directory Enquiries.

‘Lower Haughton, Basil Amery,’ she said, made a note of the number and then dialled it.

After half a dozen rings it switched to voicemail. Had he already left? What events? Scandal, he’d mentioned in his letter … She left a message, asking him to call her—he’d pick up his messages even if he was away—left her number as well, and replaced the receiver. She was rereading his letter, trying to make sense of it, when the phone rang. She grabbed for it, hoping that he’d picked up the message and called back.

‘Elle?’

It was her boss. ‘Oh, hello, Freddy.’

‘Don’t sound so disappointed!’

‘Sorry, I was expecting someone else. What’s up?’ she asked quickly, before he asked who.

‘We’re going to be short-staffed this evening. I was wondering if you can you drop everything and come in early.’

‘Twenty minutes?’ she offered.

‘You’re an angel.’ Then, ‘Would your sister be interested in doing a shift? She’s a smart girl; she’d pick it up quickly enough. I’m sure she could use the money.’

‘I’m sorry, Sorrel isn’t here, but I was hoping for some more hours myself,’ she added, taking advantage of a moment when he was the one asking for something.

‘You already do more than enough. I’ll have a word next time she drops in to the use the Wi-Fi. It wouldn’t hurt her to help out.’

‘She needs to concentrate …’ But Freddy had already hung up and she was talking to herself.

She read the letter again, then replaced it in the envelope and put everything in the hall drawer. She didn’t want her grandmother seeing the letter until Elle knew what the heck was going on.

There was nothing she could do with Rosie, but she’d be at work before anyone came home. She had until tomorrow morning to think of some good reason why it was parked in the drive.

Sean told himself that it was none of his business. That Basil was just a tenant who’d asked if he could keep Rosie at the barn since there wasn’t a garage at the cottage.

He’d only got dragged into the situation because he’d stayed overnight in London on the day Basil decided to do his disappearing act. And if Lovage Amery had been a plain middle-aged woman Sean wouldn’t have given the matter a first thought, let alone a second one.

Why Basil hadn’t just decided to leave Rosie with him was the real mystery. She was safe enough locked up in the barn.

Unless, of course, he didn’t intend to come back.

Or hadn’t actually gone anywhere.

He swore, grabbed a spare set of keys from the estate safe and drove across the park to Keeper’s Cottage.

He knocked, called out, then, when there was no answer, let himself in. Nothing seemed out of place. There were no letters ominously propped up on the mantelpiece. Only a photograph of a young woman wearing an outrageously short mini dress, white knee-length boots, her hair cut in a sharp angular style that had once been the height of fashion. Her large eyes were framed with thick sooty lashes and heavily lined. The gloss and polish, the expensive high fashion were as far from Lovage Amery as it was possible to be, and yet those eyes left him in no doubt about the family connection. Shape, colour were a perfect match.

So that was all right, then.

Basil must have had some bookings for Rosie that he couldn’t cancel and was lumbering his family with the responsibility. If they weren’t keen, it wasn’t his problem.

The light was flashing on the answering machine and after a moment’s hesitation he hit ‘play'.

Lovage Amery’s liquid voice filled the room. ‘Mr Amery? My name is Lovage Amery and I’ve just read your letter. I don’t understand. Who are you? Will you ring me? Please.’ And she left a number.

Genuinely had no idea who Basil was? On the point of reaching for the phone, the phone in his pocket rang.

He checked the caller ID. Olivia.

‘Sean, I’m at the barn,’ she said before he could say a word. ‘Where are you?’

The leap-to-it tone of the Haughton family, so different from the soft voice still rippling through him, evoking the memory of hot eyes that you could drown in. A dangerously appealing mouth. It was the kind of complicated response that should have sent up warning flares—here be dragons—but only made him want to dive right in.

Bad idea.

‘I’m on the far side of the estate,’ he said.

‘It’s nearly six.’ His half-sister’s pout was almost audible.

‘You know how it is, sis,’ he said, knowing how much she hated to be called that. ‘No rest for younger illegitimate sons. Why are you here? ‘

‘It’s my home?’

‘Excuse me? The last time you were here was Christmas. You stayed for two days, then abandoned your children with their nanny for the rest of the holidays while you went skiing.’

‘They had a lovely time,’ she protested.

Of course they had. He’d made sure of it, sliding down the hill on old tea trays in the snow, building dens, running wild as he had, in ways that were impossible in their urban lives in London. But they would still have rather been with their parents.

‘Look, I don’t want to fight with you, Sean. I wanted to talk about the stables. I want to convert them into craft workshops. I know all kinds of people—weavers, candle-makers, turners, who would fall over themselves for space. Visitors to the estate would love to see demonstrations. Buy stuff.’

He laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’ she demanded.

‘The idea that you would know what a turner did, let alone be acquainted with one.’

‘Wretch. Henry thinks it’s a good idea.’

‘That would be Henry who visits his estate twice a year. At Christmas …’ also to abandon his children before jetting off, although in his case to the Caribbean ‘… and for the shooting.’ And for the occasional extramarital weekend in the same cottage his father had used for the purpose. Like father, like son.

‘It’s his estate, not yours,’ she pointed out.

‘So it is. And he pays me to run it professionally. At a profit. Not as occupational therapy for women whose marriages are falling apart.’

Clearly 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?’ he asked.

Well, she’d seen that one coming. Was ready for it. ‘No lovage, no basil.’ She waited, pencil poised.

‘A pity. I’ll have the salmon.’

She made a note, moved on. It was just another table, she told herself as she brought a jug of water, went around the table with a basket of warm rolls.

‘Roll, madam?’ she asked the blonde.

She shook her head.

She moved on ‘Roll, sir?’

Sean looked up, his face so close to hers that she could see a thin jagged scar just above his eyebrow. Had he fallen off his bike when he was little? Been cut by something? Been hand-bagged by some woman he’d seriously annoyed?

He took his time deciding, then, when she’d finally picked out his choice with the tongs and she was congratulating herself on keeping her cool when all she wanted to do was crown him with them, he murmured, ‘Tell me, Lovage, who is Bernard?’ At which point the roll shot out of the tongs, knocked over a glass of water and in the confusion most of the rolls landed in his lap.

‘One would have been sufficient,’ he said, rescuing the basket and picking warm bread out of his lap, while she scrambled on the floor for the rest.

‘Fetch fresh rolls, Elle. Quickly as you can.’ Oh, no, Freddy would have to be looking … ‘And replace this glass,’ he added, handing it to her. ‘I’m so sorry, everyone. Can I offer you fresh drinks? On the house, of course.’

‘How about a fresh waitress. Someone in control of her hands. And her eyes,’ the girl in the linen dress suggested, pointedly brushing away a few drops of water. ‘My dress is ruined.’

‘There is nothing wrong with the waitress,’ Sean said as Freddy mopped up the spill, straightened the table.

‘We can all see what you think of her—’

‘The accident was entirely my fault,’ he continued, speaking to Freddy, ignoring the woman at his side. ‘And there’s no need for fresh drinks. We’re fine.’

Sean watched Lovage—Elle—Amery walk away and discovered that he wanted to go with her. Take her hand and walk out into the dusk with her. Walk across the village, along the towpath by the Common. Walk her home and kiss her on the step, ask her out on a date, just like they did in the old days.

‘What did you say to her?’ Charlotte demanded, intensifying the feeling.

‘I asked for the roll with pumpkin seeds,’ he replied.

‘And you certainly got it,’ someone chimed in. Everyone laughed except Charlotte.

‘I don’t believe you. You were flirting with her from the moment she came to the table,’ she accused.

Sean realised that the restaurant owner was still hovering. Listening. ‘If I was, then I am one hundred per cent to blame, because she certainly wasn’t flirting back.’ He forced himself to smile at the man. ‘We’re okay, really. Thanks.’

It was a dismissal and he took the hint, leaving them to their meal. Another waitress brought a fresh glass, a new basket of rolls, and served their meal, but he only had eyes for Elle as she weaved with drinks and trays of food between smaller tables on the far side of the room.

Reassigned out of the danger zone by the restaurant manager and no doubt happy to go.

What on earth had got into him?

He’d just taken his seat at the table when he’d looked around the room and seen her, hair restrained in a French plait, luscious curves neatly encased in a black shirt and trousers, a long black pinafore tied with strings around her waist.

She’d been laughing over a friendly exchange with a family she was serving at another table and he’d experienced another of those breath-stopping moments, just like the one he’d had when she’d opened the door to him.

He should have guessed this was where she worked.

There were a fairly limited number of jobs where she’d be working at this time of night, or on a Sunday lunchtime. A late-night garage, a twenty-four hour supermarket or a restaurant. And the Blue Boar—a rambling restaurant with bed and breakfast facilities for businessmen—was within walking distance of Gable End.

As he’d watched her, he saw the guy who’d shown them to their table, the one who’d come to see what the fuss was about, stop her with a hand to her arm as she’d passed him.

It looked familiar. Possessive.

As did the way the man’s eyes had followed her as she came towards their table.

It was none of his business, he told himself. None at all. But then she’d looked up, seen him, and he just hadn’t been able to stop himself.

Elle walked into the kitchen the following morning, gritty-eyed, heavy-limbed, late after a restless night with a head full of pink ice cream vans and blue-eyed men, to find it blissfully silent.

Sorrel had presumably walked her grandmother to church before going on to take advantage of the free Wi-Fi at the Blue Boar. And Geli would be doing an early turn, dog walking at the animal sanctuary.