Why didn’t the alarm go off?
Did I set it? Shit! I left in such a rush. I don’t know.
“Maxim.” He’s surprised to hear from me. “Everything okay?”
“Good morning. My neighbor’s just called me. She says I’ve been burgled.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Precisely.”
“I’ll get around there right away. Shouldn’t take me more than fifteen minutes at this time.”
“Great. I’ll ring you back in about twenty.”
I hang up. My mood has nosedived, and I start to think about what I’d really miss if it was taken. My cameras. My decks. My computer…
Shit! My father’s cameras!
What a fucking pain in the arse this is—some fucking lowlife addict or maybe some feral teenage kids wrecking my place.
Fuck. A. Duck.
I had plans to spend the day with Alessia, maybe go down to the Eden Project. Well, I might still be able to do so, but I need to assess the damage—and I don’t want to do it from my phone. If I FaceTime Oliver from the iMac up at the great house, I’ll get a better view; he can show me via his phone what’s happened.
Feeling fucked off and with a heavy heart, I head back into the bedroom, where Alessia is still in bed.
“What is wrong?” she asks, sitting up, her hair falling over her breasts. She looks rumpled and sexy and eminently fuckable. The sight of her is a balm that immediately makes me feel better. But, sadly, I’ll have to leave her for a short while. I don’t want to burden her with this news. She’s had enough to deal with over the last few weeks.
“I’ve got to pop out and take care of something. We may even have to go back to London. But you stay in bed. Sleep. I know you’re tired. I’ll be back soon.” She pulls the quilt up, her brow furrowed in concern. I give her a swift kiss and go grab a shower.
When I come out of the bathroom, she’s gone. I dress quickly in jeans and a white shirt. I find her downstairs in the kitchen, wearing only my pajama top and clearing up our dishes from the night before. She hands me a cup of espresso. “To wake you up,” she says with an adoring smile, though her eyes are wide, wary. She’s anxious.
I swallow it down. It’s hot, strong, and delicious. A little like Alessia.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.” I kiss her once more, grab my coat, and I’m out the door, dodging the raindrops and bolting up the steps. I climb into the car and speed off along the lane.
* * *
Alessia watches Maxim vault up the steps and close the gate behind him. He looks worried, and she wonders where he’s going. Something bad has happened. A frisson skitters up her spine, but she’s not sure why. She sighs. There’s so much she doesn’t know about him.
And he said they might have to return to London. She will have to face the reality of her situation.
Homelessness.
Zot.
She’s pushed it all aside for the last few days, but so much is unresolved in her life. Where will she live? Will Dante have given up looking for her? How does Maxim feel about her? She sucks in a breath as she tries to shake off her concerns and hopes that he can deal with whatever the problem is quickly and return. Even now the house feels empty without him. The last few days have been blissful, and she hopes they don’t have to go back to London. She’s not ready to return to reality yet. She’s never been happier than she is here, with him. In the meantime she’ll finish loading the dishwasher. Then she’ll shower.
* * *
I take a shortcut along the back roads to the great house that is Tresyllian Hall because it’s faster than going up the main drive. The rain is growing heavier, drumming on the car windscreen and roof as I slice through the narrow lanes. Passing the gatehouse at the southern entrance to the estate, I slow as the car rattles over the cattle grid, then accelerate up the driveway through the south pasture. In this winter rain, the landscape is dreary and damp and dotted with the occasional sheep. Come spring, the cattle will be out to graze again. Through the leafless trees, I catch sight of the house. Nestled in the wide dale, slate gray and Gothic, it dominates the landscape as if plucked from a novel by one of the Brontë sisters. The original house was built on the site of an old Benedictine priory. But the land and the abbey were seized by Henry VIII during the dissolution of the monasteries. Over a century later, in 1661, following the restoration of the monarchy, the estate was bestowed, along with the title Earl of Trevethick, to Edward Trevelyan for his services to Charles II. The great house he built was all but destroyed by fire in 1862, and this neo-Gothic monstrosity, with all its finials and fake molded battlements, was built in its place. It’s the seat of the earls of Trevethick, a huge rambling pile, and I’ve always loved it.
And now it’s mine.
I am the custodian.
The car rocks over a second cattle grid as I drive around the back of the great house and pull up outside the old stables where Kit’s car collection is housed. Abandoning the Jag, I dash up to the kitchen door, and I’m pleased to find it open.
Jessie is in the kitchen cooking breakfast, with Kit’s dogs at her feet. “Good morning, Jessie,” I call as I dash through. Jensen and Healey both jump up and scramble after me.
Jessie’s voice follows me out into the corridor. “Maxim! I mean, my lord!”
I ignore her and head into Kit’s study. Fuck. My study. The room feels and smells as if my big brother is still in residence, and I halt as an intense pang of grief bubbles up from nowhere.
Damn you, Kit. I miss you.
The truth is, the office looks as though my father is still in residence. Kit had not changed a thing apart from installing an iMac. This was my father’s refuge. The walls are painted blood-red and covered with his photographs, landscapes and portraits, even a couple of my mother. The furniture dates back to before the war, the 1930s, I think. With canine enthusiasm—tails wagging and tongues licking—the dogs jump up at me while I make my way to the desk.
“Hello, boys. Hi. There. Hi. There. Steady.” I pet them both.
“Sir, it’s great to see you, but is everything okay?” Jessie asks as she enters behind me.
“The Chelsea flat has been burgled. I’m going to sort it out from here.”
“Oh, no!” Jessie’s hand flies to her mouth.
“No one’s hurt,” I reassure her. “Oliver’s there and assessing the damage.”
“That’s terrible.” She wrings her hands.
“It’s a pain in the arse, is what it is.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“I’d love some coffee.”
“I’ll fetch some straightaway.” She bustles out of the room, and Jensen and Healey, with mournful looks at me, follow her out. I sit down at Kit’s—no, my desk.
Firing up the iMac, I log in and open FaceTime, then click on Oliver’s contact link.
* * *
Alessia stands under the powerful shower enjoying the hot water streaming over her. She will miss this when they leave to go back to London. As she washes her hair, the thought depresses her. She’s loved this magical time in Cornwall, just the two of them. She will always treasure the memory of her stay in this extraordinary house with him.
Maxim.
As she soaps her hair, she opens one eye, unable to shake her anxiety. Even though she’s locked the bathroom door, she’s nervous. She’s not used to being alone, and she’s missing him. She’s become accustomed to his presence. Everywhere. She blushes and smiles.
Yes. Everywhere.
Now, if she could just work up the courage to touch him…everywhere.
* * *
Much of my flat is unaffected by the burglary. The darkroom is undisturbed, so my camera gear is intact, and more important from a sentimental point of view, I still have my father’s cameras. And I’m lucky the thieves didn’t find t
he safe. They’ve stolen some of my shoes and some jackets from my wardrobe, though it’s difficult to tell, as there are clothes thrown around my bedroom.
The drawing room, on the other hand, is a mess. All my photography has been ripped off the walls. My iMac is smashed on the floor. My laptop and mixing consoles are gone, and my vinyl is all over the floor. Fortunately, the piano is untouched.
“That appears to be the extent of it,” Oliver says. He’s holding up his phone and using the camera so I can inspect the damage on my computer screen.
“Fuckers. Any idea when they broke in?” I ask.
“No. Your neighbor didn’t see anything. But it could have been anytime over the weekend.”
“It could have been after I left on Friday. How did they get in?”
“You saw the state of the front door.”
“Yeah. They must have forced it with something heavy. The fuckers. I must have forgotten to set the alarm in my haste to leave.”
“It didn’t go off. I think you probably did forget. But I don’t think that would have deterred them.”
“Hello…?” A disembodied voice from somewhere else in the flat interrupts us.
“That will be the police,” Oliver says.
“You called them? That was quick. Good. Let me know what they say. Call me back.”
“Will do, sir.” He rings off.
I stare despondently at the screen. I don’t want to go back to London. I want to stay here, with Alessia.
There’s a knock on the door, and Danny appears in the doorway. “Good morning, sir. I hear you’ve been robbed.”
“Morning, Danny. Yes. Though it doesn’t look like I’ve lost anything irreplaceable. It’s just a mess.”
“Mrs. Blake will be able to tidy up any mess. What a nuisance this is.”