The drawing room door opened again to admit Mrs Pelham, back upright, but walking with the aid of a stick. ‘Mr Hargreaves is here, madam. I have shown him into the study.’

Rosina nodded. ‘I’ll join him presently.’

She and Cilla disappeared upstairs to tidy their hair and no doubt freshen their make-up. Ginny, content that she looked neat and tidy enough in her grey skirt and cream polo-necked sweater, remembered the unexpected arrival and grabbed an extra chair on her way through the hall.

As she entered the study, she saw him deep in quiet conversation with Mr Hargreaves, who immediately broke off to come across and relieve her of her burden.

His normally calm face was creased in worry. He said quietly, ‘I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Mason. I know how close you were to your stepfather. Even now, it hardly seems possible...’ He paused, patted her arm and went back to the desk, placing the chair beside his own.

Then there was the sound of voices and Rosina and Cilla entered, their blonde hair in shining contrast to their black dresses.

Mr Hargreaves’s unknown companion glanced round and paused, his attention totally arrested by the exquisitely melancholy vision being presented, particularly by Cilla, who was even carrying a handkerchief, and whose dress clung to every delectable contour of her exquisite figure.

Don’t even think about it, Ginny advised him under her breath. Cilla prefers the smooth, safe type. You don’t qualify on either count.

Rosina paused. ‘What is that dog doing in here? Virginia, you know quite well that he should be in the kitchen quarters. Must I do everything myself?’

The stranger spoke. ‘Why not a compromise?’ He snapped his fingers, and Barney got up from the rug and ambled across to curl up under the desk, out of sight.

Which was not a thing a country solicitor’s clerk should do in front of his boss, thought Ginny, startled. And that was definitely a foreign accent. So who was he?

As Rosina began an indignant, ‘Well, really,’ she took her mother’s hand, giving it a warning squeeze and led her to the big chair by the fireplace, herself perching on its arm, hoping that her sixth sense, so often a warning of trouble ahead, was wrong in this instance.

Mr Hargreaves began in the conventional manner, dealing first with the small bequests, to the gardener, and various charities. There was also a generous pension for Margaret Jane Pelham ‘in recognition of her years of devoted service’, and the use of one of the village properties Andrew owned for the whole of her lifetime.

She should have been here to hear that for herself, Ginny thought wearily, but her mother had vetoed the idea.

‘Now we come to the major provisions in the will,’ Mr Hargreaves continued, and Rosina sat up expectantly.

‘For my wife, Rosina Elaine Charlton,’ he went on. ‘I direct that she receive an annuity of forty thousand pounds, payable on the first of January each year, and the use of Keeper’s Cottage during her lifetime, its repair and maintenance to be paid from my estate.’

‘An annuity—a cottage?’ Rosina, her voice shaking, was on her feet. ‘What are you talking about? There must be some mistake.’

‘Mother.’ Ginny guided her back into her chair, aware that she too was trembling. ‘Let Mr Hargreaves finish.’

‘Thank you, Miss Mason.’ He cleared his throat, awkwardly. ‘There is one final and major item.’ He paused. ‘All other monies and property of which I die possessed, including Barrowdean House and my shares in Charlton Engineering, I bequeath to my natural son, Andre Duchard of Terauze, France.’

There was an appalled silence. Ginny stared at the man sitting beside the solicitor, his dark face expressionless. Andre, she thought. The French version of Andrew. And, while she’d been aware of some faint familiarity, Barney—Barney had known in some unfathomable way. Barney had recognised him as family.

Then: ‘Natural son?’ Rosina repeated, her voice rising. ‘Are you telling me that Andrew has left everything—everything—to some—some bastard? Some Frenchman none of us have heard of until now?’

‘But I, madame, have heard a great deal about you,’ Andre Duchard said silkily. ‘I am enchanted to make your acquaintance at last.’

‘Enchanted?’ Rosina gave a harsh laugh. ‘Enchanted to think that you’ve robbed me of my inheritance, no doubt. Well, don’t count your chickens. Because I intend to fight this outrage if it takes everything I’ve got.’

Which at the moment, thought Ginny, is forty thousand a year and the use of a cottage. Damn all else. As for me—well, I can’t think about that now. The priority is damage limitation.

She put an arm round her mother’s shoulders. She said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hargreaves, but I think we’re all in a state of shock. As my mother says, we hadn’t the least idea that Monsieur Duchard existed. But I imagine Andrew arranged for his heir’s credentials to be thoroughly checked.’

Mr Hargreaves took off his glasses and wiped them carefully. He said, ‘Indeed, yes. Mr Charlton always knew he had a son, and obtained legal recognition of his paternity according to French law. He also has letters and photographs going back to the time the boy was born, which my father kept for him in a box at our offices.’ He paused again. ‘This was a matter of discretion as Mrs Josephine Charlton was still alive at that time, and our client was anxious not to distress her.’

‘And what about my feelings?’ Rosina demanded tearfully. ‘He wasn’t so caring about them. Ten years of devotion rewarded by a pittance and the use of a hovel!’

Ginny groaned under her breath, stingingly aware of Andre Duchard’s sardonic smile, as he absorbed every word and gesture, then froze as he looked directly at her, the dark brows drawing together as if he’d been presented with a puzzle he had yet to master.

Hastily, she averted her gaze.

‘Mother, why don’t you come upstairs and lie down,’ she suggested gently. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Pelham to make you some tea and...’

‘I want nothing from that woman. Don’t you realise Andrew has treated me the same as her—a servant—in this disgusting will? Oh, how could he do such a thing? He must have been quite mad.’

Her eyes suddenly sharpened. ‘But of course, that’s it. Something must have disturbed the balance of his mind. Isn’t that what they say?’

‘I think you are referring to suicide, madame,’ Andre Duchard corrected gently.

‘Well, whatever.’ Mrs Charlton waved a dismissive hand. ‘We can still have the will overturned. You hear about such things all the time.’

‘I strongly advise against any such action,’ Robert Hargreaves said gravely. ‘You have no case, Mrs Charlton. Your husband was a sane and rational man, who wished to openly recognise his son born outside wedlock. The will I have just read was drawn up two years ago.’

‘But if this man is really Andrew’s son, why is he called—Duchard or whatever it was? It sounds bogus to me.’

The Frenchman spoke. ‘Duchard, madame, is the family name of my stepfather, who adopted me when he married my mother. I hope that sets your mind at rest,’ he added silkily.

Seeing that Rosina’s face had reddened alarmingly, Mr Hargreaves intervened. ‘I suggest you take Virginia’s advice, Mrs Charlton, and rest for a while. We will speak again in a day or two, when you’re feeling calmer. There are other important matters that need to be discussed.’

‘You mean I still have a bedroom in this house?’ Rosina glared at both men. ‘Your client isn’t proposing to move in here and now?’

‘I would not put you to such trouble, madame.’ There was a thinly veiled note of amusement in Andre Duchard’s cool tones. ‘I have a reservation at the hotel in the village, while I too have discussions with Monsieur Hargreaves.’

‘May I offer you a lift, monsieur?’ Robert Hargreaves was thrusting documents back into his briefcase, his relief palpable. ‘I see you dismissed your taxi.’