Authors: Lucinda Riley
“Of course, and I shall slink next door to my comparative broom cupboard of a bedroom, as you’re taken off to sleep like a princess in your tower. I’ll say good night here, shall I?” He smiled. “I don’t want any lurking photographers outside getting the wrong idea.”
“Yes, thanks,” Rebecca said as she stood up. “See you tomorrow on set.”
James kissed her gently on both cheeks. “And seriously, Rebecca, if you ever need to talk, I’m here.”
“Thanks, good night,” she whispered. She took the stairs down, rather than risking being caught coming out of the elevator, then hurried through the front door of the hotel. Spying Graham waiting in the Mercedes outside, she climbed swiftly into the back of it.
Fifteen minutes later, Rebecca opened the door to her bedroom and closed it behind her. Mrs. Trevathan had switched on the bedside lamp and turned back the bedcovers. Undressing and slipping in between the sheets, Rebecca decided that she did indeed feel like the princess James had described.
Sometime during the night, Rebecca awoke with a start, sure she’d heard a sound in the room. After switching on the light, she saw it was empty. She sniffed the air, which seemed to be filled with a smell of heady floral perfume. It wasn’t unpleasant, just oddly strong. Rebecca shrugged, turned off the light and eventually drifted back to sleep.
• • •
“You’re on set in five minutes, Miss Bradley,” said the runner, entering the makeup room.
“And she’s ready to go,” said Chrissie the makeup artist, placing a last dash of powder on Rebecca’s forehead. “There,” she said as she removed the protective apron from around Rebecca’s shoulders.
“Wow,” said the runner as Rebecca stood up and turned around. “You look amazing, Miss Bradley,” he added admiringly.
“She does, doesn’t she?” agreed Chrissie.
“Thank you,” said Rebecca, still trying to get used to her newly blond, bobbed hair, the heavily painted eyes, the alabaster-white skin and the dark red lipstick. She hardly looked like herself at all. Following the runner along the corridor and emerging into the main hall, she saw Anthony walking down the wide marble staircase.
She looked up at him and smiled. “Good morning.”
As Anthony caught sight of her, he paused on the stairs, a look of shock on his face.
“My God,” he breathed.
“What is it?”
Anthony didn’t reply, he just continued to stare at her.
“We’d better go, Miss Bradley,” urged the runner.
“Good-bye,” Rebecca said uncomfortably to the stationary figure on the stairs, and then followed the runner out of the entrance hall.
James was waiting inside the drawing room as the crew set up camera positions on the terrace.
“Love the hair, darling,” he said with a broad smile, “and is that you under all that makeup?”
“Somewhere, yes,” she quipped back, as they were called on to the set.
“Well, as I’m sure everyone has told you, you look simply ravishing. But personally, I prefer you naked . . . I mean your face, of course,” James whispered cheekily as he offered her his hand and they stepped outside.
Robert Hope, the director, came over and put an approving arm around her shoulders. “You look perfect, Rebecca. Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” she breathed nervously.
“You’re going to be wonderful, I promise you,” he reassured her. “Now, you two, let’s take a run through from the top of the scene.”
Two hours later, Rebecca stepped back inside the drawing room with James. She flopped into a chair, exhausted from the tension. “Boy, am I glad that’s over.”
“You were great, really,” James commented as he lit up a cigarette by the open door and smiled at her. “Your accent was perfection.”
“Thank you,” Rebecca said appreciatively. “You really helped me feel comfortable.”
“I think we make a good team, don’t we? And I really enjoyed that kiss,” he added with a wink.
Rebecca reddened and stood up. “I’m going in search of a cool drink. See you later.” She left the room before he could follow her, not wanting to give him any encouragement that their on-screen relationship had any chance of developing off it. She’d seen that look in a number of her costars’ eyes before. James was a lovely guy, but she needed him as a friend, not a lover.
“Rebecca.” Steve caught her as she made her way to the location catering van. “The production office has just had an irate call from your agent, saying that your fiancé has been in touch with him. They both want to know where you are. Can you contact them?”
“I did leave them both a message to tell them I was fine,” Rebecca countered. “But I have no cell service here.”
“I know. It’s causing a real problem for everyone, so we’ve asked Lord Astbury if we can use his landline. We’re picking up the bill, of course, so by all means, go and use it. We don’t want any scare stories in the press about how you’ve been kidnapped, do we?” he added, and walked swiftly away.
Sighing, Rebecca began to mount the stairs to her room to retrieve her cell phone for the numbers.
“Rebecca?”
She turned around and looked below her. Lord Anthony was standing in the entrance hall.
“Hello,” she said uncertainly. Again, he was staring at her, and she felt distinctly uncomfortable under his piercing gaze.
“Have you got a few minutes?” he asked. “I want to show you something.”
“Of course,” she answered. She could hardly say no.
Anthony reached out his hand, signaling that she should make her way back down the stairs toward him. He smiled at her as she arrived next to him, his eyes never leaving her face. “Follow me.” He led her
along the corridor that accessed the formal rooms overlooking the garden at the back of the house. Stopping outside one of them, he turned to her. “Prepare yourself for a surprise.”
“Okay,” Rebecca replied as he opened the door and they entered a spacious library. Pulling her into the center of the room, Anthony put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face the fireplace.
“Look at the painting above it.”
Rebecca found herself staring at a portrait of a young, blonde woman, dressed similarly to herself, with a jeweled headband across her forehead. But it wasn’t just what the woman was wearing that struck her, it was her face.
“She—” Rebecca found her voice. “She looks like me.”
“I know. The likeness is”—Anthony paused—“extraordinary. When I saw you this morning, with your hair blond and dressed as you are, I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
Rebecca was still taking in the huge brown eyes, the heart-shaped face as pale as her own, the small retroussé nose and the full lips. “Who is she?”
“My grandmother Violet. And, what’s even stranger, she was American. She married my grandfather Donald in 1920 and came to live with him here at Astbury. She was regarded both in England and America as one of the great beauties of her day. Sadly, she died very young, so I never met her. And my grandfather died only a month after her.” Anthony paused, then sighed heavily. “You could say it was the beginning of the end for the Astbury family.”
“How did Violet die?” Rebecca asked him gently.
“Hers was the fate of many women in those days; she died in childbirth . . .” Anthony’s voice trailed off miserably.
“I’m so sorry,” said Rebecca, at a loss.
Recovering himself, Anthony continued. “Subsequently my poor, sainted mother, Daisy, grew up an orphan, in the care of her grandmother. That’s my mother there.” He indicated another portrait, showing a stern-lipped, middle-aged woman. “I apologize for sounding maudlin, but it’s strange that the Astburys have been blighted, one way or the other, ever since Violet’s death.” He turned his attention suddenly from the portrait to Rebecca. “You’re not in any way related to the Drumner family of New York, are you? They were a very rich and powerful clan in the early twentieth century. In fact, it was Violet’s dowry that saved this estate from ruin.”
Anthony looked at her, waiting for an answer. Her past was not something Rebecca wished to reveal to anyone, and certainly not to a stranger.
“No. My family hails from Chicago, and I’ve never heard the Drumner name mentioned. The likeness must be simply coincidence.”
“Still”—Anthony offered her a tight smile—“odd all the same to have you here at Astbury, playing a character from the era Violet lived in.
And
resembling her so strongly.”
“Yes, it is, but I can assure you there’s no family connection,” Rebecca repeated adamantly.
“Well, there we are. As you can imagine, it was rather a shock to see you in the hall this morning. Please do forgive me.”
“Of course.”
“Well, I won’t hold you up any longer, but I felt I must show you Violet’s portrait. And perhaps you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner tonight?” he added.
“Thank you, I’d be delighted to. And now I really have to go. I’m due back on set in an hour.”
“Of course.” Anthony walked to the door, opened it and let Rebecca pass through ahead of him. They walked in silence back to the entrance hall. Rebecca smiled good-bye and once again mounted the stairs to retrieve her cell phone. When she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom, she closed the door, her legs suddenly feeling weak underneath her. She sat down quickly in the armchair next to the fire, put her head forward to rest on her hands and took some deep breaths.
She had lied to him. The only thing she knew about her parents was her mother’s name—Jenny Bradley. And the fact that Jenny had put her daughter into foster care when she was five years old.
The people she regarded as her parents were Bob and Margaret—a kind couple who had fostered Rebecca when she was six. Over the years, they’d tried to adopt Rebecca, but her mother had always refused to sign the paperwork, assuming that one day she would be well enough to care for Rebecca herself.
Emotionally, the situation had been difficult for her to cope with; the permanency and security she so craved was not available to her. When she’d been a young girl, fear had coursed through her on many a night at the thought of her mother coming to claim her, and taking her back to the life she dimly remembered before she’d gone into care.
Finally, when Rebecca was nineteen, Bob and Margaret told her gently that her mother had died of an overdose.
She’d never known who her father was. She had no idea whether Jenny had either. She guessed she’d probably been conceived when her mother was turning tricks to buy alcohol and drugs.
Rebecca stared forlornly across the room. Who knew if her father
had
been related to Violet Drumner? It was as good a possibility as any. But as there was no name for him on her birth certificate, it was one she would never be able to investigate.
Rebecca felt the first pang she’d experienced since her arrival here for the familiar comfort of Jack’s arms. She grabbed her cell, which contained his number, and took herself down to Anthony’s study to call him on the landline.
Yet again she got his voice mail but knew that Jack never answered calls from numbers he didn’t recognize for security reasons.
“Hi, honey, it’s me. There’s no signal here so I’m using the landline again. I’ll try again later. I’ve got an hour until I’m back on set. Hope you’re okay. Bye.”
Ending the call, she then dialed Victor’s number; this time he answered.
“How are you, sweetie? I was about to send the CIA to hunt you down.”
“I’m good. We’re filming in an amazing old house and because of all the media attention, the guy who owns it, Lord Astbury, has let me stay here. Don’t worry at all, Victor, I’m perfectly safe,” she reassured him.
“Good. So, what is all this about you and Jack getting engaged? You might have discussed it with me first before you went ahead and said yes.”
“Really? I kind of think who I want to marry is my decision, Victor, don’t you?” Rebecca drummed her fingers on the table, irritated.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that, honey,” Victor soothed. “All I’m saying is that it might just have been easier if you’d told me you were going to announce it and we could have managed it for you.”
“As a matter of fact,” she retorted, “between you and me, I haven’t even said yes to him yet.”
There was a momentary pause at the other end of the line. “What? Are you kidding me, Rebecca?”
“No, I’m not.” Rebecca could hear the panic in Victor’s voice and wanted to laugh. “I told Jack I needed time to think about it. And I
do,” she emphasized. “It’s not my fault he decided to go ahead and confirm it before he got my answer.”
“Jesus, Rebecca. The world has been besieging me for a quote from you. You can’t retract now; you’d have an army of Jack’s fans sending you hate mail and boycotting your movies.”
Rebecca could feel her blood pressure rising further.
“Victor, I need time to think about it, okay?” she stated firmly.
“Well, this time, can I be the second guy you tell your decision to? And I hope the answer will be in the affirmative. Hey, kiddo,” he added, lowering his voice, “you can always divorce him if things don’t work out. This is a crucial moment in your career and I don’t want you to jeopardize it with any negative publicity.” There was another pause on the line before Victor said, “There isn’t anyone else, is there?”
“Jesus, Victor! Of course not.” Rebecca felt herself losing patience with him.
“Well, that’s something, I guess. Just don’t you be getting nice and cozy with that young British guy playing your lover. His reputation with women stinks.”
“Is the lecture over?” Rebecca asked bluntly. “Do you want to hear about how filming went today or not?”
“Listen, baby, can we speak another time? I’ve got to get moving for a breakfast meeting.”
“Sure.”
“Good girl. Call me later, okay?”
“I will. Bye, Victor.”
Rebecca ended the call and stared disconsolately at the pretty satin shoes on her feet. She knew Victor meant well—he was a very good agent and had built her career perfectly. But sometimes, his protectiveness went too far. He didn’t own her, nor was he her father.
Rebecca stared at the array of old photos in silver frames on Anthony’s desk, envying him for having the stability of a proper family he could trace back for generations. They were all taken in black and white, and Rebecca immediately recognized Anthony’s mother from her portrait in the library. In the photograph, she was holding the hand of a pretty young girl with blond ringlets. The resemblance to Anthony was marked, and Rebecca surmised the child must be his sister. Rising from the desk, Rebecca glanced at the old travel alarm and saw that she had only twenty minutes left to eat something before the afternoon shoot.