Master of the House

He shrugged, pulled out a chair for me and sat down at his desk.

‘Thanks for that – now I don’t have to ring the speaking clock.’ With an air of defiance, he uncapped the bottle and put it to his lips.

‘So you’re an alcoholic,’ I said, recalling how he had had a bottle to himself at the meal last night, plus his champagne cocktail and a liqueur in place of pudding. I’d thought nothing of it – he had always been a bon vivant. But whisky at this time of day was a different proposition.

‘I do what I have to to get through the day,’ he said, putting the bottle aside. ‘I’ve had some disappointments in my life, Lucy. It’s medication.’

‘You mean having to let the Hall?’

He gave me a chilly little smile.

‘That’s right,’ he said.

‘What happened?’

‘Pa left me this pile, but he didn’t leave me anything else. Not a bean. He spent the lot on yachts, apparently.’

‘You could sell up.’

‘No, I bloody couldn’t.’ Joss nearly spat the whisky over me. ‘Willingham Hall has to stay in the family. It has to. I can’t be the one who flogs it to a Russian oligarch, Lucy. I just can’t.’

‘You’re attached to this place.’

‘Well, I see that you might not understand having a sense of home, but I do. This is my place, my domain. But it costs a fucking fortune to maintain. The heating bills alone are probably more than your annual salary. Or they would be, if I ever turned the heating on. I keep it just high enough to stop the pipes freezing, because I’m not going through that nightmare again. You should have seen me last winter, Lulu. Three jumpers, five pairs of socks. I got through half the peat stocks of the Highlands in whisky.’

‘So it’s expensive, and that’s why you’ve let it. Not much of a story there, really.’ His catty remark about my upbringing, coupled with his use of his pet name for me, had turned me into Ms Uber-Professional Bitch like a charm.

‘No, but the story’s in what it’s being used for,’ he said, lowering his voice. Again, he looked around the office as if he thought it might be bugged. ‘And by whom.’

‘So? Is he here now?’

‘No. He comes here one weekend a month. He brings … friends … with him.’

I shook my head, still not seeing the whole picture.

‘Hookers?’ I hazarded.

‘No, not hookers. He uses the place for extravagant parties. Catering to a particular kind of guest.’

‘Swingers, then?’

‘Do you always think in tabloid-speak these days, Lucy? It’s so unrefined.’

‘I do beg your pardon.’ We gave each other bitter smiles. ‘Go on then. Tell me how elegant and sophisticated it all really is. I’m sure it’s not just rich people shagging on luxury furnishings.’

‘The thing is, Lucy, I’ve never been to one of these parties. I’ve never been invited.’

‘How rude.’

‘Yes, isn’t it? But he likes to keep me in my place. He says he’ll invite me when I have a … guest … of my own to bring.’

‘Joss, could you stop talking in riddles and get to the point? Please?’ I looked at my watch. I was supposed to be in an editorial meeting in an hour.

‘You know, perhaps you should call me Lord Lethbridge. It is my name now, after all.’

‘Might I enquire when His Lordship intends to spill the precious bloody beans?’

Joss hesitated. Actually, I think he was nervous. He was talking to a journalist about something he shouldn’t, after all. He always went all stiff and princely when he was nervous.

‘Please?’ I said, more softly. ‘I promise I won’t blab. It’ll be our secret.’

‘This is serious,’ he said, entreating me with his darkest look.

‘I know. I know it is.’

‘Willingham Hall is at stake. And that’s not all. My life might depend on your discretion.’

‘Wow.’

He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath.

‘I met … this person … at a party. The kind of party he likes to throw, albeit on a slightly smaller scale. It was in London. At a dungeon.’

‘The London Dungeon?’ I said, a little confused. Were they all mad-keen on grisly murders?

‘No, Jesus, Lucy, are you being deliberately dim? A dungeon. In London. Not the London Dungeon.’

Light dawned, albeit of a murky nature.

‘You mean a kinky fetish type of thing?’

‘That’s what I mean.’

I paused and stared at him.

‘Oh.’ It was all I could think of to say.

‘Yes,’ he said, inspecting his fingernails, with the odd surreptitious glance at my expression.

Joss in a dungeon. Was it such an outlandish thought? I mean, there had been nothing weird or fetishy going on when we were together, but we were young, and … actually, looking back, perhaps there had been signs.

A memory popped into my head, of him pushing me up against the tree he had used to tie me to in childhood, holding my wrists above my head, thrusting into me, his eyes like coals. Always that tree. Every time.

‘Whips and chains?’ I said, just for clarification.

‘Whips and, indeed, chains,’ he confirmed. ‘Although I prefer a more subtle approach myself.’

‘You do?’