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‘Like the one about Charles II’s illegitimate children?’ She had actually read his book a couple of years ago on Rose’s recommendation. In fact, she’d also read his book on Richard III and his exposé of the myths surrounding Anne Boleyn, the book that had catapulted him into the bestseller lists. But she couldn’t think how to tell him without exposing herself. What if he asked for her opinion and her answers exposed just how ignorant she really was?
Or what if he didn’t think her capable of forming any opinion at all...?
‘Exactly! Those children are actually utterly pivotal to our history. We all know about Henry VIII’s desperate search for an heir and how that impacted on the country but Charles’ story is much less well known beyond the plague and the fire and Nell Gwyn.’ He was pacing now, lit up with enthusiasm. Several tourists stopped to watch, their faces captivated as they listened to him speak.
Daisy snapped him again. Gone was the slightly severe Seb, the stressed, tired Seb. This was a man in total control, a man utterly at home with himself.
‘He actually fathered at least seventeen illegitimate children but not one single legitimate child. If he had the whole course of British History might have changed, no Hanoverians, no William of Orange. And of course the influence and wealth still wielded by the descendants of many of those children still permeate British society to this day.’
‘Says the earl.’
It was a full-on smile this time, and her stomach tumbled. How had she forgotten the dimple at the corner of his mouth? ‘I am fully aware of the irony.’
‘Is it personal, your interest? Any chance your own line is descended through the compliant countess?’
‘Officially, no. Unofficially, well, there is some familial dispute as to whether we can trace our descendants back to the Norman invasion or whether we are Stuarts. Obviously I always thought the latter, far more of an exciting story for an impressionable boy, the long-lost heir to the throne.
He began walking along the quad and she followed him, brain whirling. ‘A potential Stuart! You could be DNA tested? Although that might throw up some odd results. I wonder how many blue-blooded households actually trace their heritage back to a red-blooded stable boy?’
The glimmer in his eye matched hers. ‘Now that would make an interesting piece of research. Not sure I’d get many willing participants though. Maybe the book after this, if I ever get this one finished.’
A book about Hawksley. Such a vivid setting. ‘It would make a great TV show.’
‘What? Live DNA testing of all the hereditary peers? You have an evil streak.’
‘No.’ She paused as he turned into a small passageway and began to climb a narrow winding staircase. Daisy looked about her in fascination, at the lead-paned windows and the heavy wooden doors leading off at each landing.
They reached the third landing and he stopped at a door, pulling a key out of his pocket. The discreet sign simply said Beresford. This was his world, even more foreign to her than a castle and a grand estate. Academia, ancient traditions, learning and study and words.
Daisy’s breath hitched as he gestured for her to precede him into the room, a rectangular space with huge windows, every available piece of wall space taken up with bookshelves. A comfy and well-loved-looking leather chesterfield sofa was pulled up opposite the hearth and a dining table and six chairs occupied the centre of the room. His surprisingly tidy desk looked out over the quad.
She felt inadequate just standing in here. Out of place. Numb, she tried to grasp for something to say, something other than: ‘Have you read all those books?’ Or ‘Doesn’t your desk look tidy?’
She returned gratefully to their interrupted conversation. ‘I was talking about Hawksley, of course. It’s the answer to all your problems. Just think of the visitor numbers, although you’d have to rethink the ridiculous weekends only between Whitsun and August Bank Holiday opening times.’
‘What’s the answer?’ His face had shuttered as if he knew what she was going to say and was already barricading himself off from it.
‘Your book about Hawksley, how you can see England’s history in it.’
He walked over to his desk and picked up the pile of letters and small parcels and began leafing through. ‘The book I haven’t actually written yet.’ His tone was dismissive but she rushed on regardless.
‘You should do it as a TV series. You would be an amazing presenter. Why aren’t you? You’re clever, photogenic, interesting. I’m amazed they haven’t snapped you up.’
‘Good God, Daisy.’ There was no mistaking the look in his eyes now. Disgust, horror, revulsion. ‘Despite everything you’ve been through that’s your solution...’ He paused and then resumed, his voice cutting. ‘I suppose once a celebrity offspring, always a celebrity offspring. You don’t think they’ve offered? That I haven’t had a chance to sign myself and my life over? Do you know what it would mean, if I went on TV?’
