It’s… hot.

  And takes me by surprise.

  When we move apart, we’re both winded. She pushes open the door, and without a glance at the cheered crowd, she ushers me into the building.

  Wow.

  In the lift, I pounce, hungry for her, and we kiss all the way to the sixth floor.

  “You know, we could play Call of Duty again,” I murmur against the corner of her mouth.

  She tips her head back and laughs.

  * * *

  Alessia toys with Maxim’s hair as they lie in bed, fresh from their lovemaking. Her limbs are boneless as her heart rate settles into a satiated, steady rhythm. Maxim rests his head on her stomach, his favorite post-lovemaking position, and draws a faint circle around her navel. It almost tickles, and she knows he’s preoccupied.

  “My father was always my champion,” Maxim interrupts their easy silence. “Now it makes sense.”

  Alessia stills her fingers, and he turns gleaming green eyes to her. “I’m wondering if my mother overcompensated with Kit because of my father’s… indifference to him. No, indifference is too strong a word. I didn’t notice it then. I was too caught up in my own world, but now, looking back, perhaps he favored me more.”

  “No one suspected?”

  “No. I don’t think so…” He trails off. “No. Wait. My mother and father had a huge falling-out with my uncle Cameron. Perhaps he knew.”

  “He’s never said anything?”

  “No. Never.” Maxim rests his head on her belly once more. “He escaped to LA in the late ’80s. But now I think of it, Kit never felt comfortable with Cameron. We didn’t visit him when we were in the Caribbean last Christmas. Now, I know why.”

  They’re quiet as they each digest this tidbit of information. Alessia realizes that the only person who can shed any light is Rowena.

  “Are you going to talk to your mother?” Alessia asks.

  Maxim snorts. “We had a fractured relationship already. I don’t see us coming back from this.”

  Alessia says nothing but teases his hair once more. She wants to tell him that, in spite of how he and Alessia feel about Rowena, maybe he should listen to his mother’s side of the story. They don’t know all the details, but she doesn’t think Maxim is ready to hear that yet.

  One day.

  Soon.

  After all, Rowena is still his mother.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tabitha makes a beeline for Alessia as soon as she walks into their classroom. “Good morning, Alessia. I’m so sorry about yesterday.”

  Alessia shakes her head. “Don’t worry.”

  “Did you know you’ve gone viral?” Tabitha gushes.

  “No. What? Where?”

  “Here. I Googled you last night after my dreadful faux pas. And look. This is what I found.” She holds up her phone, and there’s a video of Alessia playing the piano at Dimitri’s party. It’s an Instagram reel in the name of GrishaEgonov.

  “You’re very good,” Tabitha says.

  “Thank you,” Alessia says automatically. She’s staggered. She doesn’t remember him filming her—she was too caught up in the music. The post has over eighty thousand likes and thousands of comments. The caption reads Lady Alessia, Countess of Trevethick. Beautiful and talented.

  She gapes at Tabitha, who grins. “Grisha’s not wrong.”

  “Good morning, everyone.” Jennifer Knight brings the room to attention, ending their conversation. “Today, we’ll be discussing written communication and the correct forms of address, whether by email or snail mail.”

  * * *

  Abigail Chenoweth, our tenant farmer from Rosperran farm, and Michael Harris, Tresyllian Hall’s estate manager, are beyond excited at the prospect of making gin. I conclude my conference call with them, pleased that, if we get this project right, we might bring some welcome revenue to the estate and provide employment for the locals from the surrounding villages. There’s a great deal of work to be done to obtain the necessary licenses, planning, and all that bollocks, but I’ve got to say, I’m stoked: my first project for the estate—and all inspired by my wife.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Caroline. “Caro.”

  “Hi, have you seen that video of Alessia?”

  What now?

  “Video? No?”

  “She’s on Grisha’s Instagram.”

  “Well, I’d look at it, but I’m talking to you. What’s she doing?”

  “What do you think she’s doing? She’s playing his grand piano—and don’t worry, darling, that’s not a euphemism.” Caro cackles at her tasteless joke.

  “And?” I know about the piano playing. I was there!

  “The Stepsow has seen it. She wants to know if Alessia has applied to the Royal College of Music.”

  Whoa!

  “Yes. She has applied.”

  “What name did she use?”

  “Alessia Trevelyan.”

  “Good. I’ll let her know.”

  “You two are on speaking terms?”

  “She called. I thought Daddy might be ill or worse, so I took the call. But no, she wanted to know about Alessia, and she was sounding me out about you DJing?”

  “Why?”

  “The Demon Spawn is eighteen this year, and she wants a rave in the grounds at Horston.”

  “Your little sister is eighteen! How the hell did that happen?”

  “Stepsister!” she snaps. “And yes. Cordelia’s of age to spread her demon spawn-ness. The world should tremble.”

  “Caro, my DJ days are over, unless your stepmother gets Alessia into the school. In which case, I might reconsider. It’s the only way I can get her a visa without her returning to Albania.”

  “Ah. I see. No more spinning the decks for you?” Caro sounds surprised.

  “I don’t have the time. Besides, the arseholes who trafficked Alessia stole my decks, and I haven’t found a minute to replace them.”

  “Oh.” Caro is momentarily silenced, but before I can say anything, she continues. “I’ll let her know. Although the Demon Spawn will be terribly disappointed. You know she has a huge crush on you.”

  “Does she now?” What the hell am I supposed to say to that?

  Caroline sighs, and I’m not sure why.

  “Anyway,” she says. “I should have some ideas sketched out for you by the middle of next week.”

  “Great. Thanks, Caro.” I hang up, relieved that she changed the subject from Cordelia’s crush, and open my Instagram app.

  Alessia! Viral.

  Does she know?

  I search for Grisha and find his profile. There are several photos from the party—he’s posing, of course, with many of the famous actors, TV personalities, and models who were present at the party, but on his reels, there’s my wife playing Bach as if that’s what she was born to do.

  Wow. The video has a hundred thousand likes.

  Grisha’s right, though it pains me to say—Alessia is gorgeous and talented.

  And mine.

  I take a moment out of my day and watch the video again. Then again. The fourth time, a movement in the background catches my eye.

  I grin. Something to show my wife.

  * * *

  Their lessons finish early, and Tabitha invites Alessia to take tea. But Alessia politely declines and asks for a rain check; she has plans. She eyes her watch: 3:30 p.m. She has time—she’s researched the journey a few times on the internet. Out on the street, she bids goodbye to Tabitha and hails a passing cab, just like Maxim, and clambers inside.

  “Where to, love?” the cabbie asks.

  “Kew Green, please.” Alessia sits back in her seat and takes out her phone. She texts Maxim.

  Hello My Lord

  We finished today early.

  I am going out.

  Axx

  Alessia wants to see where her great-uncle lives. Maybe even meet him. During her lessons today, she’d written him a letter, and she hopes to post it through his door. Once they’ve made contact, she’ll tell her husband that she’s tracked him down, and only then. After all, Maxim didn’t want her to contact the private detective.

  And she did.

  Her phone chimes.

  It’s a text from her husband.

  Good afternoon, My Lady.

  I love when you text me.

  Out where? Curious minds need to know.

  I’ll come and join you if you wish.

  Mx

  Oh no.

  I am going to Kew.

  I will not be long.

  See you later.

  xxxx

  * * *

  What the hell is Alessia doing in Kew? The last time I was near that part of the world was when I drove out to Brentford after those arseholes showed up at my flat, and Alessia fled. You are your father’s son. A knight in shining armor—a sucker for a damsel in distress.

  The memory of my mother’s words sours my mood and my concern for Alessia mushrooms.

  What are you doing in Kew?

  * * *

  Alessia huffs. Her husband worries too much—she can tell by the brusque tone of his text. She thought she would reassure him by letting him know she was going out, but it appears to have added to his anxiety. She texts back.

  It is a surprise.

  Do not worry!!! :D

  xxxx

  * * *

  Alessia’s text is moderately reassuring.

  For heaven’s sake, Maxim. She’s a grown woman.

  Okay.

  Stay safe.

  Text when you’re coming home.

  Mx

  PS: Not sure I like surprises!

  * * *

  Alessia sighs with relief. This is more like it. He seems to have recovered his sense of humor. Feeling reassured, Alessia stares out the cab window and spots a mother pushing a stroller. She wonders what Maxim would be like if she was with child. He’d probably be a great deal worse.

  Maxim’s child.

  She loves the idea.

  Just not yet. She was shocked when he mentioned it at the weekend, and she’s glad he’s eager for children. But the temptation to study at one of the best music schools in the country is too great a lure.

  Parenthood can wait.

  But if he insisted, she would capitulate. She wants children too.

  Yes. She could see herself doing this.

  Her parents would be thrilled, and so would Maxim.

  But he agreed to wait. He wants to show her some of the world too.

  * * *

  My phone rings, and it’s a number I don’t recognize. “Trevethick.”

  “Lord Trevethick, it’s Ticia Cavanagh.”

  “Hello, Ticia. Please call me Maxim.” Jesus, we’ve bumped uglies, for heaven’s sake. “What gives?”

  “I’m calling to let you know that, as we thought, all your marriage documents are completely bona fide. We’ve done the research. You are legally married.”

  I laugh, more from relief than anything else. “That is good news.”

  After all that, Demachi and Tabaku’s plan worked.

  “I wondered if you’d made any movement on finding a place for Lady Trevethick—”

  “Alessia, please.”

  “For Alessia to study. I’m concerned about the rabid press interest you’re attracting.”

  “Oh. You’ve seen it?”

  “Yes. ‘Oh’ is right. You realize that if the Home Office finds out Alessia was here illegally earlier this year, they could refuse her a family visa. And you may also be in trouble, as you breached immigration rules, given that she was working for you and didn’t have the correct visa in place.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Exactly. I’ll follow up with a colleague to find out how the police investigation into her traffickers is progressing and if they have anything that might connect your wife to the crime. This will all be done anonymously, but the cost will come out of your retainer. So, I’m asking if—”

  “Go ahead. By all means. And if the retainer doesn’t cover it, let me know.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  “I’m hoping we’ll secure a place for Alessia at one of the music conservatoires in London.”

  “I’ve seen the video. She’s very talented.”

  I smile but shake my head. My wife has gone viral! “She is, and she wants to study at the Royal College.”

  “Good luck with that. In the meantime, it might be helpful if you could be a little more under the radar.”

  “Point taken. We may go to Cornwall. We’ll be off the grid there. Thanks for the warning.”

  “You’re welcome… Maxim.” She hangs up, and my brain feverishly starts processing this information. Perhaps going to Dimitri’s was a mistake.

  Of all the times to go viral!

  * * *

  Alessia fingers her grandmother’s cross at her neck. Butterflies are forming in her stomach the closer she gets to Kew. The cab stops at a red light, and Alessia can see Kew Bridge before her and the road to Brentford off to her right. She remembers how happy she was living with Magda and her son for those few precious weeks. Michal has told her via Facebook that he and Magda are doing well in Canada. He has a bunch of new friends and is learning to skate. He has ambitions to play ice hockey like his new stepfather, Logan. From his posts, he looks happy, as does Magda.

  Idly she wonders about grumpy Mrs. Kingsbury, and Mrs. Goode too. Her old clients. Do they have new cleaners?

  Alessia shakes her head. She’s come a long way since then.

  The lights turn green, and the cab moves on, crossing Kew Bridge before stopping and turning into a side road. It draws up outside a large old house that would not look out of place on Cheyne Walk. It’s one of several surrounding a pretty green pasture, flanked by enormous sycamore trees. Alessia pays the exorbitant fare with her credit card and climbs out of the cab.

  It moves off, leaving her facing her great-uncle’s house. The house is immaculate. There’s a neatly trimmed tree at the front, and through the bay window, Alessia can see a baby grand piano.

  A piano!

  He plays too?

  Her heart starts pumping with excitement, anticipation, and also, a little fear, but in that moment, she decides to call on him.

  He might tell her to go away.

  She grips the little gold cross that had belonged to her Nana, his sister, and with her mind made up, she walks the short driveway to the gleaming black door and pushes the doorbell. It rings faintly inside, and seconds later, an older woman, her hair in a tidy bun, answers the door.

  “Hello. Can I help you?” she asks.

  “I am here to see Tobias Strickland.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asks sternly.

  “No. I was hoping he’d see me. I am his sister’s granddaughter. Um…his great-niece.”

  * * *

  Given that Leticia Cavanagh is concerned, I call Tom Alexander to see if he’s made any headway with finding Alessia’s young friend and if he has an update on the police investigation.

  “Trevethick. How goes it? I take it you found your wife.”

  “I did. Grisha offered her his driver, and he took her home.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Don’t you read the press, Tom?”

  “Are you joking? Of course not. I told you. Never bother with that nonsense, unless I have a client who makes headlines. Suggest you do the same. Ignore the arseholes.”

  “You’re right. But if you happen across a lurid headline, Charlotte, my ex—”

  “The actress? Not very good? Always plays herself?”

  I chuckle despite myself at Tom’s bluntness. “Yes. That’s the one. She jumped me.” There’s an awkward pause in the conversation, so I continue, “Alessia witnessed that and got the wrong idea. Anyway, I’m not here to dredge up recent history. I want to know if you’ve made any headway with the police investigation and finding Alessia’s young friend.”

  “Certainly nothing on the girl. But the details that Alessia gave us were so vague, I’d be surprised if we tracked her down. I spoke to Spaffer—he’s actually working the case. They’re still gathering evidence. He says he’s getting inquiries from a private detective about the same case.”

  A frisson of alarm runs down my back.

  “Journalists?” I ask.

  “He doesn’t know. But there was a recent raid on a place in South London; they found four young women there.”

  “Shit. Really?”

  “Yes. They’re now in the care of the Salvation Army.”

  “Any of them Albanian? Any of them Bleriana?”

  “I don’t think so. But without speaking to them directly, we can’t be sure.”

  “What will happen to them?”

  “To be honest. I don’t know.”

  “It’s fucking grim.”

  “It is, old boy. It is. We’ll keep working. See if we can trace these women.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Oh, and while I remember, you don’t need to worry about that journalist who called you.”

  “Really?”

  “No. He’s got nothing.” Tom sounds definitive.

  Okay then.

  “Thanks for the update.”

  * * *

  The lady with the tidy bun must be in her fifties. She peers behind Alessia to see if she’s shielding anyone and then casts a critical eye over her, and Alessia is relieved when the woman steps aside; she seems to have passed inspection. “I’m not aware that Professor Strickland has a niece. Let alone a great-niece. You’d better come in.” She allows Alessia into the hallway.

  The hall is much like Trevelyan House, where Caroline lives, and Alessia concludes they must have been built around the same time. “Follow me,” the woman says, and she leads Alessia down the hall into an airy room with a prominent fireplace, an impressive mantelpiece, and french windows that look out onto a lush back garden. Seated at a desk, in front of a laptop, is a man with a full mane of blondish gray hair, an outrageously curled mustache, and a beard. He looks up with polite interest. His eyes are the same baby blue as her beloved Nana’s, his mouth the same shape and creased from his readiness to smile—it’s her grandmother in male form. Alessia is blindsided; a well of emotion rises from her chest into her throat, and she’s unable to speak.