Bluebell Castle

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Sarah Bennet 2019

Sarah Bennet asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008314804

Version: 2019-03-18

For Phillipa – always an inspiration x

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader

Extract

Keep Reading…

Advert

About the Author

Also by Sarah Bennett

About the Publisher

‘Arthur? Arthur!’

The bellowing of his name roused Arthur Ludworth from a most pleasant snooze in front of the fireplace in the family room. Giving several of the castle’s mob of unruly dogs a gentle shove, he fought his way free from the cosy depths of one of the matching burgundy leather sofas and stood. Scrubbing a hand across his eyes, he frowned as Lancelot yelled his name once more. His normally placid-tempered uncle sounded furious.

‘Lord, what’s he shouting about?’ Tristan, Arthur’s younger brother by a matter of minutes, protested from the opposite sofa, one arm draped over his eyes, the other holding a brandy balloon which was in serious danger of spilling its precious contents onto the worn and faded Aubusson rug stretched out before the fire. Pippin, Tristan’s scruffy little border terrier, raised his head briefly from his master’s chest to grumble about being disturbed before settling back down again.

‘Mrs W’s probably hidden the whisky from him again,’ Igraine, the eldest of the three Ludworth triplets, said from her cross-legged position next to the fire, eyes still fixed on the screen of her e-reader. Thanks to an ancestor’s obsession with the Knights of the Round Table, it had become tradition for subsequent generations of Ludworths to be named after characters from those legends. Arthur felt like he and his brother had gotten away lightly—considering his grandfather had gone full-bore ridiculous in naming his sons Uther and Lancelot—but their sister hadn’t been so lucky. Refusing to be saddled with such a flowery name, she’d shorted it to Iggy, and woe betide anyone who forgot it.

‘Arthur!’ Lancelot’s roar was closer this time. ‘The hellbeast is on the phone for you.’

The last of Arthur’s post-dinner good mood evaporated at the mention of his uncle’s nickname for their mother. His soft groan was echoed by the other two. ‘Perhaps she’s called to wish us Happy New Year,’ he said, more out of hope than expectation.

‘Perhaps hell has frozen over,’ Iggy muttered, as she played her fingers over the thick dark plait of hair curling over one shoulder and almost into her lap. The self-soothing gesture was a hangover from their childhood, and one of those unconscious habits she’d never quite managed to break.

Arthur wanted to reach out and stop her, to take her hand and offer the comfort she obviously needed, but he stopped himself. There was too much to say—nothing he hadn’t already said a million times since he’d first become aware of the anachronistic inheritance rules attached to the Baronetcy of Ludworth that made him the rightful heir over her simply because he was their father’s first-born legitimate male issue—but tonight, of all nights, was not the one. He’d try again, soon, before the gulf he could sense between them split any wider.

Using one hand to hold his beloved pup in place, Tristan sat up then drained the last of the cognac in his glass. ‘If she asks after me, tell her I’m dead.’

‘Tris…’ Arthur hated himself for the soft admonishment the moment it left his lips.

Tristan shrugged, then checked his watch. ‘It’s nearly eleven, I’m going to sort Dad’s stuff out.’ Placing Pippin on the floor, he stood. The terrier cast him a baleful look at being so rudely disturbed then wandered over to jump up on the sofa Arthur had abandoned and wriggled his way into the centre of the dog pile still occupying most of it.