t was a bleak day for April.

Great clouds, curdled and grey, rolled with gathering speed across the lowering sky which merged into the grim and blackened Yorkshire moors. Lonely and implacable, their daunting aspects appalled the eye, cast dark shadows over Fairley this morning. There was not a drop of sunlight to soften those savage windswept reaches, the cold bracing air held a strong hint of rain and a thunderstorm seemed imminent.

Along the moorland road that cut through this great Pennine Chain of hills a line of cars moved slowly, following the funeral cortège. Soon the cortège left the moors, began its slow descent into the village, and within fifteen minutes it was coming to a stop in front of the lovely little Norman church. Here the new vicar, the Reverend Eric Clarke, was waiting to greet the family and friends of the deceased on the ancient porch.

There were six pallbearers to carry Alexander’s coffin. Anthony Standish, the Earl of Dunvale, and Winston Harte, his cousins; Shane O’Neill and Michael Kallinski, and two of his friends from school. They had known him most of their lives and so it was fitting that they were with him at the end, had brought him to his last resting place in this old churchyard.

The six men lifted Alexander’s coffin, shouldered it lightly, carried it through the lych-gate into the cemetery, moving at a slow and dignified pace down the flagged path. Their hearts were heavy and their sorrow was etched on their grieving faces. In their different ways, they had cared deeply about this man they had come to bury.

The pallbearers brought the coffin to the graveside where the vicar was now standing with Alexander’s sorrowing sisters, Emily, Amanda and Francesca, and his distraught and weeping mother, Elizabeth, who was being physically supported by her French husband, Marc Deboyne. At the other side of the grave stood the rest of the family and many friends, all of them dressed in mourning.

Anthony looked burdened down, his face morose and stark as he walked over to join his wife, Sally, and Paula, who was next to her. He hunched further into his black overcoat, shivering in the gusting wind blowing down from the moors. It was making the new leaves on the trees rustle, and ruffling the flowers in the wreaths. Anthony stared at them. They were a reminder that it was spring…tender blossoms, so colourful against the dark earth…the vivid yellow and purple of jonquil and crocuses, the transparent white of pale narcissi…the dark blood-red of tulips. He was barely listening as the vicar began the burial ceremony, his mind awash with troubling thoughts.

Sandy’s funeral was evoking memories of the one he had attended only a few weeks ago in Ireland. He was still disturbed about the way Michael Lamont had keeled over on that dreadful morning in Clonloughlin, when he had confronted him about Min’s death. Lamont had died in the cottage hospital several days later, the victim of a massive stroke. He would have been a vegetable if he had lived. In a curious way, Anthony felt somehow responsible for the death of the estate manager. On the other hand, as Sally kept pointing out, Lamont had been saved the shame, agony and disgrace of a trial, which, she insisted, he would never have survived anyway. Perhaps she was right. He tried to erase Lamont from his mind, partially succeeded.

A long sigh trickled through Anthony, and he turned his head, looked at Sally, gave her a faint smile as she slipped her arm through his, drew nearer to him. It was as if she understood everything. She did, of course. They were very close, as close as two people could ever be.

He stole a glance at his mother, Edwina, the Dowager Countess, wishing she had not insisted on coming over from Ireland with them for Sandy’s funeral. She had not been well lately, and how frail she did look, a white-haired old lady, in her seventies. She was the first born child of Emma Harte, the daughter of Edwin Fairley.

There is so much history in this graveyard, it’s awesome, Anthony thought all of a sudden, his eyes roaming over the gravestones. The ground was full of Hartes and Fairleys. Generations of them. He was both Harte and Fairley, as well as part Standish. It struck him then that it had all begun here in the quaint little church looming up behind him…begun with Emma Harte when she had been christened here in April of 1889. Almost a hundred years ago. Good Lord, his grandmother would have been ninety-three at the end of this month, if she had lived. He continued to miss her even after all these years.

An image of Emma slipped into his mind. What an exceptional, brilliant woman she had been. She had loved each one of her grandchildren, but he was aware she had had a special sort of relationship with Alexander. But then they all had, hadn’t they? And Sandy had managed to bring out the best in them. Yes, they were better people for having known him.

Now his thoughts swung back to his cousin. The letter was in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He had kept it on him ever since he had received it the day after Sandy’s death. He already knew that Sandy was dead before the letter came in the morning post, because Paula had telephoned him from Nutton Priory the night before to tell him and Sally. Nonetheless, the letter had been a shock at first. Until he had understood, and had accepted the words.

He had reread it so many times by now, much of it was committed to memory. He felt as if it were engraved on his mind. It was not a long letter, and it was level-headed, matter-of-fact, really, so like Sandy, and Sandy had meant it only for his eyes. That was why he had not shared it with his wife, close as they were, or with Paula, who, after all, was head of the family. But there was no need for them to see it.

Closing his eyes, he saw Sandy’s handwriting in his mind’s eye…and that particular fragment of the letter which had so moved him.!!!I wanted you to understand why I am doing this, Anthony,’

Sandy had written in his careful script.!!!‘Mostly it is for myself, of course. A chance to go at last. But it will save everyone the agony of my protracted dying. I know none of you could bear to see me suffer. And so before I take my life, I say goodbye dear cousin and friend. Know that I am happy to shed my mortal coil…I escape…I am free…’

And Sandy had scribbled a postscript.!!!‘You have been such a good friend to me, Anthony. You have helped me through my private hells more than once, perhaps without even knowing it. I thank you. God bless you and yours.’

Anthony realized it would be unwise to keep the letter, yet he had been incapable of destroying it. But he must do so. Today. After the funeral, in fact, when he returned to Pennistone Royal. He would go to the bathroom in their suite of rooms and burn it, then flush the charred pieces down the toilet. Only he knew that Sandy had carefully planned his death, had gone out into the woods hunting, and after bagging several rabbits and hares, had shot himself but rigged it to look like an accident. He would never reveal Sandy’s secret to anyone. There had been an inquest, of course, and the coroner had returned a verdict of accidental death, exactly as Alexander had intended. No one suspected the truth.

So be it, Anthony said under his breath, looking out towards the distant moors, continuing to dwell on Sandy, so many memories seizing him…carrying him backwards in time for a few more moments longer.

Unexpectedly, brilliant sunshine burst through the dark clouds with such suddenness the leaden, sombre sky was filled with a most marvellous radiance that seemed to emanate from below the smudged horizon. Anthony caught his breath at the sudden beauty and raised his eyes to the heavens, and smiled inwardly. In the quietness of his gentle, loving heart he said farewell to Sandy. His pain is over, Anthony thought. He’s at peace at last. Gone to his beloved Maggie.

The brief ceremony was coming to an end.

The coffin was being lowered into the rich Yorkshire earth where Sandy’s ancestors lay, and Anthony turned away from the grave as the vicar closed his prayer book.

He took Sally’s arm. ‘Let’s go back to Pennistone Royal for a drink, and lunch,’ he said.

Sally nodded. ‘Yes, we do need something to warm us up. It’s freezing this morning.’

Paula, walking with them, shivered, looked from Shane to Anthony, and muttered, ‘I detest these hearty meals after funerals. They’re barbaric.’

‘No,’ Anthony said in a muted voice. ‘They’re not.’ He linked arms with her as they fell in step, went down the flagged path to the lych-gate and the waiting cars. ‘The lunch today gives us a chance to be together for a while, to console each other…and to remember Sandy as he was. To take comfort from having known him, and known his love. And to celebrate his life.’

Paula was to remember those words.

They were still echoing in her ears a week later, on the morning she was being driven out to Heathrow to take the Concorde to New York.

Amanda sat next to her on the back seat of the Rolls-Royce, sad and withdrawn, hardy speaking. A few minutes before they arrived at the airport, Paula reached out, took her cousin’s hand in hers, squeezed it.

Swinging her head, Amanda frowned slightly, and then she returned the pressure of Paula’s hand.

Paula said, ‘You’re thinking of Sandy, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Amanda whispered.

Patting her hand lovingly, Paula murmured, ‘Grieve for him by all means, and get the grief out. That’s so very necessary…part of the healing process. But also take comfort from your lovely memories of Sandy, the years you had with him when you were growing up. Be glad he was your brother, that he gave you so much love, so much of himself.’

‘You’re very wise, Paula. I will try…’ Amanda’s lip trembled. ‘But I miss him so much.’

‘Of course you do, it’s only natural. And you will – for the longest time. But I also think you should take solace from the fact that Sandy is out of his suffering now.’ Paula paused, then added softly, ‘Let him go, darling, let him rest.’

It was difficult for Amanda to speak, and she simply nodded several times, swung her head, stared out of the car window. She felt too emotional to respond coherently, and she knew that Paula would understand and respect her silence.

But a short while later, when they were sitting in the Concorde lounge, sipping coffee before the flight, Amanda suddenly leaned closer to Paula, said in a low voice, ‘Thanks for being such a good friend. I do appreciate it.’ She looked off into the distance, before murmuring softly, ‘How uncertain life is, isn’t it, Paula? None of us know what might happen to us next…people’s lives can change in the flicker of an eyelash…’

‘Yes…life is tenuous. But it’s also quite marvellous, you know. And life is for the living. We must get on with it.’

‘Grandy always said that!’ Amanda brought her gaze to Paula’s and a smile broke through. ‘I had the most amazing phone call from Francesca last night…she’s pregnant.’

‘That is lovely news! We’ll have to do some shopping for baby clothes in New York.’ Paula picked up her cup, took a swallow of coffee, and eyed Amanda thoughtfully over the rim. Placing the cup in its saucer, she said carefully, ‘Forgive me for prying, but you’re rather keen on Michael Kallinski, aren’t you?’

Amanda looked at her, surprise flashing in her light green eyes. A faint blush tinged her neck, swept up into her pale cheeks. ‘Is it so apparent?’

‘Only to me. Don’t forget, I’ve known you since the day you were born.’

‘He’s not interested in me, though,’ Amanda asserted.

‘We’ll see about that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Michael’s spent a great deal of time with you lately, but always on business, dealing with their takeover of Lady Hamilton Clothes. Now he ought to see you in a different light, in social situations, with other men flocking around you…which they generally do, so don’t shake your head in that way. Whilst you’re both in New York, Shane and I are going to be giving a few dinners and cocktail parties…I want to make certain Michael gets to know you even better. And in a more personal way.’

‘Oh,’ was the only thing Amanda could think of to say.

‘Trust me. Your future looks very bright you know, from my vantage point.’

‘And so does yours,’ Amanda was swift to say. ‘I feel certain you’re going to get the Larson chain.’

‘I sincerely hope you’re right,’ Paula said, and crossed her fingers.

As the British Airways Concorde flight took off for New York, a Qantas flight from Hong Kong was simultaneously landing at Heathrow.

Within an hour the passengers had disembarked, the luggage had come down on the carousel, and Jonathan Ainsley, looking like the prosperous business tycoon he was, walked through customs and out into the arrival hall.

His eyes scanned those people waiting near the barrier, and he raised his hand in greeting when he saw the flaming red hair and beaming face of his smartly-dressed cousin, Sarah Lowther Pascal.

Sarah waved back, and a moment later they were embracing affectionately.

‘Welcome home, Jonny,’ Sarah said as they drew apart, looked each other over appraisingly and with mutual approval.

‘It’s nice to be back. It’s been ages.’ He grinned at her, motioned to the porter to follow with his luggage, and grabbing Sarah’s arm, led her out to the car park.

‘I am glad your trip to London coincided with mine,’ Jonathan was saying some ten minutes later as they rolled comfortably towards London in the large chauffeur-driven limousine Sarah had hired to meet him.

‘So am I,’ she said. ‘Yves wanted me to come to see the gallery that represents him here, and I had some business of my own to attend to this week. So it was perfect timing, Jonny.’

‘And how is Yves?’ Jonathan asked.

‘Extremely well,’ Sarah answered, her voice full of enthusiasm. ‘Painting with great brilliance at the moment.’

‘And selling very well too,’ Jonathan murmured, and glanced across at her. ‘Not stinting you, I see, if the jewellery is anything to go by…and that is a Givenchy suit, isn’t it?’

Sarah nodded, smiled with pleasure at his compliments. ‘He’s very generous, but my own investments have been paying good dividends…’ She gave Jonathan a sidelong glance. ‘And how is Arabella?’

‘Wonderful!’ Jonathan’s face instantly lit up, and he began to talk about Arabella and their life in Hong Kong in great detail, hardly drawing breath.

Sarah wished she had never brought up the woman’s name. She hated her cousin’s wife.

Settling back against the butter-soft, wine-coloured leather of the car, she appeared to give her attention to Jonathan, nodding from time to time, looking as if she was absorbing every word he uttered, but, in point of fact, she was not listening to one single thing he was saying.

She’s innocence, all innocence, Sarah thought, her mind focused on Arabella. But I spotted her type the minute I met her. She’s clever and crafty and out for the main chance. And she’s got a past, that one. I’m sure of it. I just wish I could warn him about her, but I daren’t. She found it hard to believe that Jonathan had been taken in by Arabella Sutton. Even Yves, usually uninterested in other women, had appeared to be bewitched by her when Jonathan had brought her to stay at Mougins earlier in the year. Of course, she was charming. And beautiful. All that silver hair, the sloe eyes, the sensational figure. A sexpot, I bet, Sarah thought disparagingly, loathing her, irrationally. What did it matter to her whom her cousin married. Except that she cared about Jonny, cared about his well being.

She had her own family now, an adoring husband, an angelic and gifted child. But Jonathan represented her past, her ties in England. Her parents were alive and so were Jonny’s, her Aunt Valerie and Uncle Robin. But somehow Jonathan was the one she loved the most, even though he was mostly responsible for her estrangement from their other cousins, and aunts and uncles. The rift in the Harte family had so distressed her. Although she harboured dislike for some of them, she nonetheless felt the sting of banishment, minded that she was no longer a member of that distinguished clan.

Arabella fascinated Jonny, that was quite obvious. Sarah hated competing for his attention. She had had to do that when Sebastian Cross was alive. Bosom chums they had been, Jonathan and Sebastian, from their days at Eton. And they had stayed close. She used to wonder why. Sebastian had not been very nice. Sleazy, in her opinion. And he had had such a strange fixation about Jonny. If she had not known otherwise, she would have sworn Sebastian was gay. But his reputation as a womanizer had preceded him. Now she wondered if that had actually meant anything. Sebastian had been such an odd bird. He had died of an accidental overdose of cocaine. He had had nothing but bad luck after Jonathan left England, had made nothing but disastrous business deals. She had heard that he died flat broke.

Jonathan touched her arm, exclaimed crossly, ‘You seem far away, Sarah, haven’t you been listening to me?’ He peered into her face, his pale eyes narrowing shrewdly.

‘Yes, yes, of course I have,’ she protested, now truly giving him her fullest attention, not wishing to displease him. Jonny had quite a temper, was easily provoked.

‘Is something bothering you?’ Jonathan pressed, as usual attuned to her, as if he could read her mind. He had always managed to unnerve Sarah because of this ability.

‘Actually, I was just thinking about Sebastian Cross,’ Sarah admitted. ‘It was odd the way he died, wasn’t it?’

Jonathan was quiet for a fraction of a second.

‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘Very odd indeed.’ There was another pause, before he volunteered quietly, ‘He was bi-sexual. I didn’t know, of course.’ He looked Sarah fully in the face, confided, ‘He only admitted that to me when he flew out to Hong Kong to see me, the first year I was there…he confessed that I was…er…er…well, the object of his passion, shall we say?’

‘Oh dear,’ Sarah said, not particularly surprised by this sudden revelation. ‘How frightful for you.’

Jonathan smiled narrowly. ‘In all truth, it was, Sarah. But he took my rejection of him very well indeed. Or so I believed at the time.’

Sarah said not a word, watched him acutely.

He asked eventually, ‘Do you think that’s why he died, Sarah? Do you think that the overdose was intentional…you know, an accident on purpose?’

‘It has occurred to me from time to time.’

‘Sad really.’

‘Yes.’

‘How rude of me, darling, I forgot to ask after that adorable child of yours. How is little Chloe?’ Jonathan abruptly changed the subject, not wishing to dwell on Sebastian Cross, to rake over the past. He was only interested in the future, which he had been looking at very closely of late.

‘Chloe is simply wonderful,’ Sarah said, glowing as she launched into a recital about her daughter, one of her two favourite subjects, the other being her husband. ‘She fell in love with her Uncle Jonny…and before I left France earlier this week she made me promise I’d bring you back to Mougins for the weekend. You will come, won’t you?’

‘I’ll certainly try.’

‘Good,’ Sarah half turned in her seat, gave him a long and searching look. ‘What did you mean when you phoned me from Hong Kong and said our day would come, that we’d soon get our own back on Paula?’

Jonathan leaned closer. A wicked and knowing smirk spread across his bland face. ‘I believe that no one is infallible, that even the smartest tycoons can make flawed judgement calls at times. And I have always known, deep down, that Paula O’Neill would make a mistake one day. I’ve been waiting…and watching…and my gut instinct tells me she’s about to do something foolish. The odds are there, you see, she’s had too good and too long a run for her money. And when she makes her fatal error I shall be there. Ready to pounce.’

Sarah gave him a penetrating stare, her green eyes quickening. ‘What do you mean? How do you know? Tell me, Jonny, tell me more!’

‘Later,’ he said, squeezing her arm in the very intimate way he had with her. ‘Let’s wait until we’re in the privacy of my suite at Claridge’s…and then I shall explain how I aim to destroy Paula O’Neill.’

Sarah shivered with pleasure and anticipation at the thought of Paula’s downfall. ‘I can’t wait to hear your plan. I’m sure it’s brilliant…and how I’ve longed to get my revenge on that cold, frigid, thieving bitch. She stole Shane from me, quite aside from everything else.’

‘Of course she did,’ Jonathan concurred, fanning Sarah’s festering hatred of Paula, as he had for years, needing an ally in his scheming, if only for moral support.

He put his hand in his jacket pocket, and his fingers curled around the pebble of mutton-fat jade. His talisman. It had brought him great good luck in the past. He had no reason to doubt that it would do so again.