Diana Hamilton - Threat From The Past

Threat from the Past

Diana Hamilton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

THERE was something wrong. Very wrong. Something she wasn’t being told, she was sure of it. Selina changed down and turned the Volvo on to the narrow lane that led towards Lower Otterley Hall, mindful of the brittle crust of ice beneath the tyres, her golden gaze clouded under strong, arching eyebrows.

But what? She flipped down the sun visor, shading out the low, slanting rays of the pale afternoon sun as they shimmered through the bare branches of trees and hedgerows, spangled now with ice as pure as crystal. She sensed undercurrents and she didn’t usually imagine things. She was far too level-headed to worry about anything until it actually leapt up and hit her between the eyes.

So why the decidedly uneasy and definitely uncharacteristic sensation of looming disaster? Selina shook her head unconsciously, setting the riotous mane of tawny, gold-streaked hair flying around her face. It wasn’t the current recession which was hitting the King’s Ransom chain of boutiques as hard as every other high street business in the land, that was for sure. They had ridden the last and they would come out of this one, too.

True, her buying budget had been slashed, but all that had achieved had been to provide her with the sort of challenge she thrived on. She had only just returned from a two-week buying trip to the Continent, picking up fine leather accessories, summer silks and cottons at knock-down prices. Haggling was the name of the game when times were tough, she assured herself, her wide mouth quirking upwards in a wicked grin. And if the suppliers wanted to keep the goodwill of the ultra-successful, entirely family-owned King’s Ransom chain then they had to bend a little, cut profits as the family itself was having to do in order to safeguard jobs and keep shops open and cleverly stocked for when boom-time came again, as it surely would.

As always, when the oddly pitched lichen-covered roofs, the tall, intricate chimneys and the mellow stone walls of the Hall came in view Selina’s normally prosaic heart performed a lilt of sheer delight. Swinging the sturdy car on to the long, tree-lined drive, she suffered a sudden, stabbing remembrance of the day when she had first come here to live. Ten years old, her features too bold for her pale little face, her unruly hair tamed into a single thick pigtail, she had been bewildered, battered by the grief of losing both her parents in a motorway pile-up, the cruel waste of which could still leave her shaking with anger even now, sixteen years later.

Her mother’s much older sister, Aunt Vanessa, Selina’s only remaining blood relative, had offered to take care of her, but it had been her aunt’s husband, Uncle Martin, who had given her the affection and patient attention her grieving young heart had so desperately needed. Her cousin, Dominic, a year older than herself, had openly resented her presence. An only child, a precious child, he hadn’t been prepared to share his parents with anyone. Which was probably why, Selina thought wryly, his doting mother had been especially careful to impress on him that he came first in everything.

Vanessa, astute businesswoman that she was, brilliant hostess and calculating socialite, had a blind spot where Dominic was concerned. The fact no longer troubled Selina—she knew her own worth—but it did, and always would, quietly amaze her.

And it had been this house itself, Lower Otterley Hall, that had helped her come to terms with her awful loss. Her uncle and aunt had recently moved in at that time, and Selina had never visited the place before. Bought at the time when the chain of boutiques had been expanding, the house had been far less opulent than it was now. But the young Selina had seen beyond the neglect to the enchanting home it could and had become, packed with so much character that it made the mock-Georgian house in Watford which they had recently sold, and where Selina had visited with her parents, look like a cardboard doll’s house.

The gradual and careful restoration had fascinated the young Selina and the choosing of suitable period furniture from auctions around the country had been the one thing to bring her and her aunt closer. But it had been Martin King’s patience, his gentle, caring support—even more than her increasingly passionate devotion to the beautiful old house—which had helped her come to terms with the loss of her parents and emerge into the well-balanced, confident young woman she was today.

As she garaged the Volvo next to Dominic’s snarly red Porsche she sat for long moments softly drumming her gloved fingers against the steering-wheel, wondering if her uneasy premonitions had anything to do with Martin’s health.

But surely not. He had a heart condition, diagnosed a couple of years ago, but he was in the care of one of the most prominent cardiologists in the country and, following his advice, was readying himself for retirement, grooming Dominic to take over his position as financial director for the King’s Ransom chain.

No— Her restless fingers reached for her handbag as she let herself out of the car and collected her luggage from the boot. Everything was under control as far as Martin’s health was concerned; he was taking things much more easily and, in fact, for the past six months Dominic had taken his place in the company. Even his birthday celebration tonight, which was responsible for Selina’s dash from Heathrow instead of doing as she normally would at the conclusion of a buying trip—staying in town overnight and spending the next day at head office—was to be low-key, just the family for a quiet dinner and not the usual glittering thrash Vanessa organised so well.

So there was nothing to worry over, was there? she questioned herself severely as she cut across the cobbled courtyard at the side of the house and headed for the main door, her stride long and purposeful, the hems of her white trench coat brushing her leather-booted ankles.

And any lingering forebodings were quickly dispelled as she entered the huge, softly lighted hall and the familiar welcome of the old house wrapped her in security. The cast-iron woodburner set into the massive stone hearth radiated a comforting warmth, enticing the maximum scent from the bowls of white hyacinths clustered on every available table-top and window-sill.

Dropping her case at her feet, Selina’s wide mouth curved into a slow smile as she felt herself relax, truly relax, and Meg, her aunt’s housekeeper, walking through from the kitchen regions, called out, ‘I thought I heard you arrive. Good trip?’

‘Great, thanks.’ Selina’s smile broadened into the breathtaking grin that, quite apart from her tall, lissomly feminine body, her striking features and untameable riot of tawny hair, had the power to stop the male of the species in their tracks. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Out. Except for Dominic and he’s shut up in the study with orders not to be disturbed.’ Meg’s bony shoulders rose in a throw-away shrug. ‘Dinner’s at eight, as usual. You haven’t forgotten it’s your uncle’s birthday?’

‘What do you think?’ Selina was used to Meg’s need to organise everyone and everything around her and, as she shrugged out of her trench coat and smoothed the lapels of the rich brown fine wool suit she was wearing, she did some organising on her own account. ‘Be a love and bring a tray of tea to my room, would you, please? I need to shower and crash out for a couple of hours if I’m to be fit company for anyone this evening. Oh—’ She paused, halfway up the wide oak staircase, her suitcase in one hand, her coat hooked over her arm. ‘If Dominic surfaces, tell him I want to talk to him, would you?’ He would be able to set her mind at rest as to the state of the business and then she could finally rid herself of the last remnants of the niggling unease which had begun to infect her three days ago. And then, her voice studiedly casual, she added, ‘Everything been all right here?’