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‘Did you, indeed? It appears that Heaven’s Cove remains a hotbed of gossip and rumour.’ Charles raised a white eyebrow and set his mouth in a thin line. ‘Oh, do sit down, Ms Merchant.’
That sounded more like an order than an invitation and Rosie was vaguely annoyed with herself when she complied. The fabric of the sofa was rough beneath the palms of her hands.
‘Are the rumours wrong?’ she asked him, aware of a spring pushing into her thigh. These family heirloom sofas were uncomfortable.
‘Rather annoyingly, they’re perfectly correct, but our plans are at a very early stage so I’m surprised and rather perturbed that they’re common knowledge. I appear to have a spy within my ranks.’
‘Please don’t!’ blurted out Rosie, wholly unconcerned about the Eppings’ security levels, and now perched so much on the edge of the sofa she was in danger of toppling to the floor. Though if that happened, she suspected that Charles Epping would simply step over her and continue with his day.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Please don’t what? I’m sorry that you haven’t inherited a valuable property, as you must have imagined you would. But I’m told your mother had lived there alone for some time so you’re not without a roof over your head.’
‘I have a roof, abroad, where I work, and I don’t care about the money. I honestly don’t. But I do care about the house.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s been a part of Heaven’s Cove for generations, up there on the cliff. I’m sure it means a lot to the villagers and it certainly meant a lot to my mum. She loved Driftwood House and it would break her heart if it was destroyed. She’s gone and I’m not sure I can bear…’
The words caught in her throat, strangling her until Rosie could hardly breathe. But she would not cry in front of this cold, unfeeling man. Charles Epping took a step towards her – was he going to throw her out? – but he stopped when the door was flung open.
‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you.’ A whippet-thin woman was framed in the doorway. She stepped into the room and peered at Rosie. ‘I do apologise. I didn’t realise that my husband was entertaining guests.’
‘This is my wife, Cecilia,’ said Charles.
Rosie got to her feet and held out her hand. Cecilia walked forward, trailed by a large grey-haired dog, and gave Rosie’s hand a limp shake. Not an ash-blonde hair was out of place, and her terribly tasteful clothes – brown corduroy trousers, caramel cashmere jumper and paisley silk scarf – contrasted with Rosie’s jeans and T-shirt. Her whole demeanour screamed confidence and old money.
‘And who are you?’ she asked, glancing at Charles.
Rosie cleared her throat. ‘I’m Rosie Merchant from Heaven’s Cove.’
‘Are you, indeed?’ Cecilia moved quickly to stand next to Charles. They made quite the couple.
‘I’m from the village originally, but I’m living in Andalusia now,’ Rosie told her, not wanting to seem too provincial in front of this self-assured woman.
‘Heaven’s CoveandAndalusia. How marvellous.’
Charles gave his wife a tight smile. ‘Ms Merchant is here to discuss Driftwood House.’
‘Is that right?’ The edge to Cecilia’s voice was unmistakeable.
‘Her mother lived in the house until her death.’
‘I’m well aware of that.’ She turned to address Rosie directly. ‘You must have received the letter from our solicitor by now.’
‘I have, and that’s why I’m here.’
‘I feared as much. But I’m afraid the house does not belong to you.’
‘I realise that and I’m not here to question its ownership. I came here to ask you not to demolish the house.’
‘How do you—?’
‘Gossip in the village,’ interjected her husband, staring out of the window at the moors beyond.
‘Do they know about…?’ She trailed off.
‘About your hotel idea? Yes, I’m afraid that also appears to be the subject of gossip.’
‘I see.’ Cecilia’s glittery green eyes hardened. ‘It’s purely a business proposition, Ms Merchant. Driftwood House occupies a prime spot, overlooking the sea, and would make an excellent location for a small, tasteful hotel.’
