Elizabeth Oldfield - Dark Victory

Cheska hissed out an impatient breath. ‘Come on, Rupert, you know you don’t enjoy having lots of people around. You know how you hate any upheaval, any disruption.’

‘To watch how a film is made will be mindbroadening,’ he declared, his narrow face taking on an uncharacteristic stubbornness. ‘And the manor isn’t being lent out—not for free. The production company are paying a most generous rent. One which, because they’re using the premises in total, amounts to several thousands of pounds.’

‘Presumably their monopolising the place was Miriam’s idea?’ she asked.

As he poured himself a second cup of tea, her stepbrother frowned. ‘ Well…yes.’

Had Miriam made the suggestion with the aim of getting Rupert into her home and more firmly into her clutches? Cheska wondered, as she ate her toast. After two years of friendship, did she hope that six weeks together, when she could pamper to his every need and make herself even more indispensable, might push him into a proposal? Tall and slim, with the air of a public school housemaster, the middle-aged bachelor was an attractive man. Over the years, various females had fluttered their eyelashes in his direction, and yet, although he might have had the occasional liaison, he had never taken much real notice. But the references in his letters had made it plain that he was noticing the widowed Mrs Shepherd. Cheska sighed. After devoting so many years to looking after her, Rupert deserved to have someone look after him, and she had hoped he might meet someone and fall in love. But why, if he was falling in love, did it have to be with Miriam?

‘You’re in urgent need of those thousands of pounds?’ Cheska enquired.

‘Not at all,’ Rupert said hastily, ‘but—’ he

stroked a hand over his thinning blond-grey hair ‘—a little extra is never to be sneezed at.’

‘Where are the snuff bottles?’ she asked.

Whether it was an association of ideas—sneeze/ snuff—she did not know, but Cheska had abruptly realised that the shelves in one of the mahogany cabinets which flanked the fireplace were bare. For as long as she could remember, there had been twenty or so antique bottles on display. Made of coloured glass, some of them were Chinese and extremely rare. They had been collected by Rupert’s mother, Beatrice Finch, a pompous woman, who had apparently amassed them to impress visitors rather than for their beauty.

Rupert hesitated, making her wonder if he could not remember—which would be typical. Unless it concerned butterflies, he could be amazingly vague.

‘They’ve been put away, like some other bits and pieces. They were valuable and, as there are going to be strangers in the house, Miriam and I thought ’ His voice trailed off. ‘It’s quite an honour, having Lawson Giordano make a film at the manor,’ Rupert declared. ‘His previous three films were Hollywood productions, Quality productions, mind. The last one hasn’t been released in this country yet, but it’s breaking box-office records in the States.’

Cheska laughed, and shaking her head. What her stepbrother knew about the entertainment world could be written on a postage stamp, and the few facts he did know were invariably confused.

‘You’re getting him mixed up with someone else,’ she said. ‘Five years ago, Lawson Giordano was directing TV commercials.’

Rupert’s brows soared. ‘Fancy that.’’

She cast him a look. He had known of her involvement in the car commercial and, at the time, she would have told him the director’s name, but he had forgotten. Cheska took a sip of coffee. She could see no point in reminding him now and neither was she eager to remind herself. It was not only the night spent with Lawson which she had erased from her mind, but she preferred to black out the entire unfortunate episode.

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