But tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow, after church, they’re returning to London for Alessia’s audition that will take place on Monday. She’s been studying for that in the afternoons. Losing herself in the colors of her music in the great music room.

  Maxim, too, has been busy. As well as the new still idea, he’s been preoccupied with the concept of regenerative farming. He’s holding a meeting of all the tenant farmers at the Hall this evening, with a farmer who’s come from a place called Worcestershire—which she finds impossible to pronounce—to share ideas. Snacks and drinks are being provided—Danny, Jessie, and Melanie, one of the part-time staff who helps Danny, are serving, but Alessia will also be on hand. She’s looking forward to it, as it’s the first time they’ve entertained at the Hall, and she, too, wants to learn about these new farming practices.

  Alessia’s only concern is Maxim. He seems a little distracted sometimes. And she’s not sure if it’s the estrangement with his mother or something else. She’s asked him about it, but he says he’s fine. In fact, he says he’s never been happier.

  It’s all good.

  We’re here together.

  And I’m loving life right now.

  Thanks to you. I love you.

  Alessia feels the same, but she wishes he’d reconcile with Rowena because, deep down, she suspects he’s hurting.

  * * *

  Sitting at my desk, I read through my notes for the meeting this evening. I’m excited. Michael, our estate manager who’s in charge of the Home Farm, has lit a fire under me. My father was ahead of his time when he went organic. Michael’s father, Philip, who ran the Home Farm back then, helped persuade all our tenants to go the organic route too. Today, with Michael’s help, I hope to convince our local tenant farmers that regenerative farming is the next step in our ecological journey. Sustainable, regenerative farming is the way forward—it helps the estate, our producers, our land, the locale, and the planet. It feeds and repairs the soil, sequesters carbon and increases biodiversity. Through all my research, I’ve become a passionate fan. We have an advocate in a farmer from Worcestershire, Jem Gladwell, who will join us this evening. His substantial farm uses the latest regenerative techniques, and he’s enough of a convert that he wants to spread the word and talk to fellow farmers using language that they understand.

  I’m looking forward to meeting him, and he’ll stay the night.

  Our first guest!

  And if tonight is a success, I hope we can repeat this process at Angwin and Tyok.

  Once I finish my notes, I check my email, and my thoughts turn to Caroline, and from her to Kit’s journal. I have squirreled it into the safe and pocketed the key. I haven’t read any more pages, but I’m torn. I don’t know if I want to find out more or if I should leave Kit to his secrets. After all, he’s no longer with us.

  I should let him rest.

  But it gnaws at me… Caroline, faithless.

  Is it any wonder we fucked when he died? I thought it was some grieving alchemy that got us together. It probably was, but as I look back, there was no restraint from either of us.

  Hell.

  Was she faithless throughout their marriage?

  She said she loved him.

  She was devastated when he died.

  Devastated enough to sleep with me?

  Fuck.

  I hate that these thoughts plague me. Neither one of us behaved well.

  Caro’s sent me her interior design ideas for the mansion blocks. There are three options, all of them good. But I haven’t picked up the phone to discuss them with her. Oliver wants the cheapest option, but that’s no surprise. We’ll be back in London for a few days from tomorrow evening—I’ll arrange to speak to her then.

  There’s a soft tap on the door, and Melanie, one of Danny’s protégés from the village, peeks around the door.

  “Good afternoon, your lordship. Sergeant Nancarrow is here to see you.”

  What! Shit!

  Anxiety rises like the tide in my chest. What does he want? To interview Alessia? On a Saturday? I thought we’d avoided all that.

  “Offer him some refreshment and show him into the main drawing room. I’ll be with him shortly.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  I blow out a breath. What could he possibly want?

  When I enter the room, Nancarrow is sipping a cup of tea and examining the family photographs displayed on one of the Queen Anne tables. Notes drift from the music room, where Alessia is at the piano.

  Keep it together, dude.

  “Sergeant Nancarrow. Good afternoon.”

  He turns, and I extend my hand.

  “My lord. It’s good to see you.” We shake, and I usher him over to where Melanie’s set up tea, and we both take a seat.

  “Congratulations on your recent marriage,” he says and offers me a kind smile.

  So far, so good.

  “Thank you. What can I do for you?”

  He blows out a quick breath and sets down his teacup, his expression now grim. “I’ve brought news, my lord. Unfortunate news. Earlier this week, the two men we apprehended at your rental property were murdered while on remand.”

  My scalp tightens, and I’m suddenly a little dizzy; I’m sure all the blood is draining from my head.

  What the fuck? “How?”

  “Details haven’t yet been released,” he mutters, watching my expression intently.

  I sit back, utterly stunned… and a memory of the Arsehole showing me the newspaper clipping looms large and ugly in my head.

  “I thought I should come and inform you. The case against them will lie on file but neither you nor Lady Trevethick will need to testify in court.”

  “Yes,” I breathe as my mind goes into overdrive.

  Did Anatoli murder them?

  Does he have that kind of capability?

  Was it someone else at his behest?

  Fucking hell. Should I tell Nancarrow?

  “So I wanted to return this.” His voice has softened, and he hands me a large Tesco’s shopping bag. In it are my laptop and sound mixers.

  “How did you come by these?”

  “The gear was in the back of their car. The BMW. We were holding the car and these as evidence—but now the case is defunct.” He shrugs. “The serial numbers match those of your missing items. I thought I’d return them.”

  “Thank you.”

  His eyes darken, and I don’t know what that heralds. “And there was this too.” He reaches into a pocket, pulls out a brown envelope, and hands it to me. “We were waiting for the Met to ask for all the evidence, but they hadn’t got around to it. And now, well, there’s not much point.”

  Intrigued, I open the envelope. Inside is a passport—Alessia’s old one.

  Shit.

  My eyes meet his, and I have no idea what he’s going to say or what my response should be.

  “I thought Lady Trevethick might want this back, my lord.”

  I’m stunned into complete silence.

  He smiles at my expression. “And let that be the end of it.”

  I gape at him, not sure if I quite believe what he’s implying. “Thank you,” I blurt.

  “I hear she’s made quite the impression here, my lord.”

  “Maxim. Please.”

  He grins. “Maxim.”

  “She has. On all of us. That’s her, playing now.”

  “The piano?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do love a bit of Beethoven.”

  “Come and meet her. She doesn’t mind an audience.”

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “It’s fine. Come.”

  “Goodbye, Sargent Nancarrow,” Alessia says as they shake hands.

  “My lady, such a pleasure.” His face flushes, and I know my wife has captured yet another heart.

  “My lord. Maxim,” he corrects himself, and with a nod, he heads out toward his squad car.

  I blow out a breath. He didn’t mention the death of the traffickers to my wife, and I decide to keep that information to myself for now—I know how unsettling it is for her to hear about that part of her life.

  “He seems very nice,” she says but sounds uncertain. “Why did he come here?”

  “He was returning some of the gear that the arseholes who were arrested at the Hideout stole from my flat and also to return this.” I retrieve Alessia’s old passport from my pocket.

  “O Zot! He knows!” She bites down on her bottom lip, her eyes wide with worry.

  “He does, but he’s chosen to give us both the benefit of the doubt. He’s not going to pursue it.”

  Alessia frowns. “But when Dante and Ylli go to trial…” Her voice fades, and I shift my focus to Nancarrow’s car as it disappears down the lane. “Maxim. What is it?”

  Fuck.

  “Tell me!”

  I turn to face her, and her jaw is set in grim determination.

  Hell.

  “They died in custody.”

  “What? Dante and Ylli? Both of them?” Her voice is barely audible.

  I nod. “That’s the main reason Nancarrow came to see me… us.”

  “They’re dead,” she whispers again as if she can’t quite believe it.

  “It would appear so.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  Her gaze scans my face, and I watch as a dozen emotions cloud her eyes, until they harden. Frigid. Callous. Unlike my girl. “Good,” Alessia says, with such passion that I’m a little shocked. “I hope they rot in hell.”

  Whoa. But yeah. I hope so too.

  “It also means there’ll be no trial. We’re free from all that,” I whisper.

  Tears well in her dark eyes.

  Shit. No. “Please don’t cry. Not for them.” I circle her in my arms, pulling her close and kissing her hair.

  “No. Not for them,” she responds. “For their victims. But I am relieved. We are free.”

  “We are.”

  She exhales, and her body relaxes in my arms as if a great weight’s been lifted. “It is a relief.” She tilts her head up, offering her lips, and I kiss her, falling under her spell as her fingers twist and tug my hair.

  She pulls back, rewarding me with her sweet smile. “Now. We just need you to talk to your mother.”

  I scoff and shake my head. “What? That’s a change of subject. And it’s my mother who needs to talk to me. I have texted her.”

  “You have? Good. She will. She loves you. She wasn’t ready to tell her story. Only the shocking…um…headlines. And you weren’t ready to listen.”

  I stiffen. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to listen, and I don’t know if she ever loved me. She loved Kit.”

  Alessia caresses my face. “Of course she loves you.” She draws my lips to hers. “How could she not? You’re her son… and I love you,” she whispers.

  There’s a cough in the corridor behind us, and we straighten up and release each other.

  “Danny?”

  “My lord. Jem Gladwell is here to see you.”

  “Great. Show him into the main drawing room.”

  * * *

  We’re stretched out on our bed when we should be sleeping. “Can we come back here?” Alessia asks, her head resting on her pillow, and I face her as she traces the outline of my tattoo with her finger. It tickles… but I love the attention.

  “Of course we’ll come back here. It’s our home.”

  “But soon.” Her hand cups my face.

  “Once you’ve done your auditions. Sure.”

  “Good. I love it here.”

  “Me too. I feel hopeful in this place. And now more hopeful for the future of it and for the estate as a whole. I thought Gladwell was inspiring.”

  “Yes. And funny too. He is good…um…company?”

  “Yes. That works. He is good company. I look forward to seeing him again when he comes to Angwin.” I haul her into my arms. “I think he liked you.” I nuzzle that pulse point beneath her ear.

  Alessia squirms and giggles in my arms. “That tickles.”

  I stop torturing her and gaze at her beautiful face. “We should sleep. I have to do my reading in church tomorrow morning, and then there’s the long drive back to London.”

  “Are you nervous about your reading?”

  I lean against the pillows while considering my response, and Alessia snuggles against me. “No. I’m not nervous at all. I feel a little hypocritical, to be honest. I’m not religious. Never have been. But Trewin is right. He’s here for the community, and I need to step up and be here for the community, too, whether I like it or not.

  “Tonight, listening and watching all our tenants and estate workers, I realized that all of us bind together to make a cohesive whole. We all work for the good of the community. And you and me, we’re a part of that. I never thought about it before… when Kit was in charge here.

  “Now, I want to be part of it more than ever. It’s important to keep this place together and thriving for us and everyone who lives in and around Trevethick. We are its beating heart.”

  Alessia’s dark eyes are luminous. In them, I see her hope and… dare I say it, admiration. “I want to be part of it too,” she whispers.

  “Oh, baby, you are. More than you know already.”

  “I have loved our time here. I can’t believe that this is my life now. It is like a dream. Thank you.”

  I skim my fingers over her cheek. “No, my love. It’s I who should thank you. This place has come alive with you here.”

  Alessia shakes her head as if she doesn’t believe what I’m saying and kisses me. Properly, her hand skimming down my body… waking everything.

  Again? Oh boy!

  Chapter Thirty

  “Do you want me to wait?” Maxim asks. They’re standing on an ornate mosaic floor in the impressive foyer of the Royal College of Music, and Alessia’s audition is in forty minutes.

  “I don’t know how long this will take. But I’ll be okay.” Alessia ignores her racing heart to reassure him. “You have work to do. I’ll come to your office afterwards.”

  He frowns, unsure, and she places her hand on his chest, feeling the heat from his body through his shirt.

  Comforted by his warmth, her heart rate slows to something approximating its usual rhythm. “I’ll be okay,” she repeats and tilts her head back for a kiss.

  “Okay. I’ll see you at the office. Good luck,” he says and brushes his lips against hers. “As we say here, break a leg.”

  Alessia’s brow creases and she looks down at her feet.

  Break a leg?

  Maxim cups her chin with his thumb and forefinger, and lifts her gaze to bright green eyes that sparkle with humor. “It’s just an expression of good luck.”

  “Oh.” Alessia returns his smile.

  “Go. Warm up. You’ve got this.”

  Alessia takes her bag, and with a final glance at her handsome husband, she follows the young student who’s been patiently waiting for her.

  They head up two flights of stairs and along a corridor. The student introduces himself as Paolo and welcomes her to the college. He’s casually dressed in jeans and a sweater, and Alessia hopes she’s not too smart in her black trouser suit. He stops and opens one of the doors to a small rehearsal room. “You can warm up here. I’ll be back to take you to the audition in about twenty minutes.”

  “Thank you,” Alessia says, looking around the intimate space but, more importantly, at the upright Steinway and stool. They’re the only pieces of furniture in the room. Paolo closes the door, and Alessia places her bag on the floor and sits on the stool.

  This is it. She’s here. She’s practiced and practiced and practiced some more. She knows her pieces backward. She’s watched YouTube video after YouTube video on audition techniques and what to expect. She’s ready.

  Taking a deep breath, she places her hands on the keys and launches into her warm-up… loving that the piano’s tone is warm and immediate in this soundproofed cocoon.

  * * *

  In the cab on the way to the office, my phone buzzes, and I think it might be Alessia. No. It’s another text from Caroline. She’s sent me a few over the last few days begging for feedback on her designs.

  For heaven’s sake, we’re meeting later this morning. I didn’t know she was professionally so needy! Now she’s trying a different tack.

  How was Cornwall?

  A303 or M5/M4?

  In spite of myself, her text makes me laugh.

  You know I hate the A303

  It’s for pensioners!

  See you later

  My eyes stray to the battered briefcase beside me on the seat. Within it are my notes from our meeting with Jem Gladwell, which I want to share with Oliver, and also Kit’s journal—its mere existence searing a hole in my conscience and nagging me.

  Should I read it?

  Fuck.

  Maybe I should burn it?

  * * *

  Alessia dampens down her nerves and steps into the audition room to meet a flank of the faculty, two men and a woman, sitting behind a long table. This room is airier than the last—big enough to house the Steinway grand piano in the center of the room—and there’s a large sash window that looks out over the Royal Albert Hall.

  The older man rises from behind the table. “Alessia Trevelyan. Welcome. I’m Professor Laithwaite, and I’m joined by Professors Carusi and Stells.”

  Alessia takes his offered hand. “Good morning, Professor. Good morning,” she says to the other staff, who offer her smiles in greeting.

  “Do you have your music?”

  “Yes.” From her bag, she retrieves all the scores and places them on the table in front of the tutors.

  “Please take a seat at the piano.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh. What’s this?” Professor Carusi asks as she looks at one of the scores. “Valle e Vogël?”

  “Yes. By an Albanian composer. Feim Ibrahimi.”

  “Please. It’s short. Let’s hear it. And then move onto the Liszt.”

  Alessia nods, pleased that they want to hear from one of her country’s leading composers. She takes a deep breath and places her fingers on the keys, the familiarity of the ivories calming her, and starts to play. The music is bright and expressive, an homage to an Albanian folk song darting through the room in shades of purples and blues, morphing into paler blue colors. Once the final notes fade, Alessia places her hands on her lap, takes another deep breath, and begins the Liszt… the notes taking her back to the apartment in Chelsea, with the snow swirling through the window as she played for Maxim that first time.