Jessica Hart - Hitched!

‘Hey—’ I began, but Saffron was already clapping her hands.

‘I love it! Think of the costumes! I’ve always wanted to wear one of those lovely evening gowns. I could wear long gloves!’

Buffy’s treachery was forgotten. Saffron was positively bouncing on the sofa in excitement. ‘Ooh, and we could make it a proper Edwardian house party...assignations in the conservatory, croquet on the lawn, dance cards...dancing!’ Her eyes lit up as the idea caught hold. ‘We could have a ball!’

‘Now see what you’ve done,’ I said to George with a severe look.

‘We’ll have to ask men too,’ Saffron was bubbling on. ‘We can’t have a ball with just girls. But that’s all right. Jax would look super hot in a DJ. A house like this must have a ballroom, right?’

I had heard enough. I held up my hands like a traffic cop. ‘Stop!’ I said so forcefully that Saffron was startled into silence. ‘Now just hold on a minute,’ I said more calmly. ‘We are not having a ball here. Or a dinner. Or anything at all. This is Lord Whellerby’s home. It’s not open to the public.’

‘Yet,’ said George.

‘What?’ I said, thrown by his calm interjection.

‘The conference centre is just part of our strategy to turn Whellerby Hall into the leading venue for events in the north,’ George said, with a glance at Roly, who nodded encouragement. ‘Eventually, we’ll turn the east wing into top-of-the-market accommodation for weddings and parties using the state rooms.’

‘George says we’ll be able to ch-charge an arm and a leg,’ Roly confided.

‘Of course, the east wing needs a lot of renovation before we can do that,’ George added, ‘but as that’s the long-term plan, why don’t we take advantage of Saffron’s celebrity?’

My chest swelled with unreasonable resentment as he sat there, talking persuasively while Saffron and Roly lapped it up. I had had George down as a lightweight, a playboy down on his luck just playing at estate management. He wasn’t supposed to be talking about strategies or long-term plans.

‘You’ve both been too discreet to mention it,’ he went on, ‘but I think we all know how famous she is. Saffron Taylor is the ultimate party girl, and she’s a social leader. Where she goes, others will follow.’

I closed my eyes in despair.

‘We couldn’t ask for better publicity. If Saffron and her closest friends have a private party up here, you can bet your bottom dollar everyone else will be clamouring to do the same. We don’t need to do anything so vulgar as advertise. Word will get round—especially if we ask your friends not to give away the secret location of the party. Before we know where we are, we’ll be beating people off with a stick.’

And so it was decided. I not only had to build a conference centre, I had to organise a costumed house party for a load of spoiled socialites.

I looked out of the window. It had started to rain in earnest.

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