Page 135 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘That was thoughtful.’

‘Whoever sent it chose well.’ He gestured to the chair. ‘Take a seat.’

Sammy sat, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

‘Your handling of Madam’s dog earlier was . . . very effective.’

‘Thank you.’

‘There are, however, other matters. It has come to my attention that an undesirable man . . . Jimmy Morgan,’ his nose twitched as if the mere mention of the name was distasteful, ‘has been present on the estate. I warned you about him, didn’t I?’

Sammy flinched. She wasn’t taking the blame for that. ‘I didn’t invite him.’

‘And Miss Chloe remains in residence at your cottage.’

Sammy’s hands clenched. ‘She’s staying with me, yes.’

‘She has been doing so for some time.’ His tone did not alter. ‘Your contract is explicit. No overnight visitors without prior permission.’

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly as if marking time on Sammy’s mounting errors.

‘I must advise you that Miss Chloe’s stay has exceeded what could reasonably be considered temporary.’ He paused. ‘Please deal with the issue as a matter of urgency.’

Sammy’s fingernails dug into her palms. ‘I will.’

‘Standards must not slip.’ He paused. ‘And professional distance must always be maintained.’

Aware of her heart rate spiking, she fought to keep her face still. Nate’s mouth on hers flashed through her mind. She crushed the memory down, battling to keep her expression neutral, while trying to decipher Magnus’s. No eyebrow clues today.

He reached into his waistcoat. The pocket watch appeared, opened with a click. He checked the time, closed it and set it down. He leaned away from the desk and pulled the middle drawer open. A soft rasp of wood on runners – metal caught the light. Her key.

He’s giving it back. The remembered weight round her neck, the freedom of coming and going without asking.

Magnus turned it once between his fingers.

His gaze shifted to the photo of Mr Wetherby. ‘We’ll see,’ he said as he returned the key to the drawer.

Sammy drew a breath through her nose. ‘Of course,’ she said.

Outside, somewhere down the corridor, a door closed, the sound carrying through the walls. Valerie.

Sammy was so close. Next time, he wouldn’t hesitate.

Sammy nudged the cottage door shut with her hip and stood, listening. Music pounded overhead. Something bass-heavy, thumping through the ceiling.

She bunched her hands by her side, then climbed the stairs. Each step felt heavier than it should have. Near the top, the smell hit – toast, something greasy she couldn’t identify.

The spare room door was half open.

She knocked once and pushed it wider.

Chloe lay sprawled across the bed, scrolling on her phone, one leg kicking lazily in time with the music. Clothes were everywhere – a half-unpacked bag tipped open, shoes in a pile by the radiator, a bikini drying on the windowsill, a dress hanging off the chairback as if it had given up halfway through being hung in the closet.

‘You’re back,’ Chloe said, her eyes on the screen. ‘I was starting to think you’d moved into that big house full-time.’

Sammy reached past her and turned the music down. ‘Oi . . .’ Chloe pushed herself up onto her elbows. ‘That was a good bit.’

‘We need to talk.’