The Courting Campaign

“This is an outrageously romantic place, Patrick.”About the AuthorTitle PageCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCopyright

“This is an outrageously romantic place, Patrick.”

“I know,” he said smugly. “Why do you think I brought you here?”

She looked at him and laughed. “A softening-up process?”

“Yes,” he said shamelessly. “I’m doing all I can to establish myself in your good books. And,” he added, his voice deepening, “I’m somehow managing to keep at arm’s length when you know perfectly well my instincts urge me otherwise. In the interests of truth I’m warning you—it’s all a plan of campaign.”

“Campaigns usually mean battles,” she said thoughtfully. “What, exactly, do you intend to gain?”

“Victory,” he said promptly, and took her in his arms and kissed her.

Catherine George was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading, which eventually fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the U.K. And instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings she began to write the first of her romances. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera, browse in antique shops and walk her dog.

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CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS the slight bow to the bench which caught Hester’s attention. The man was a stranger—tallish, slim, wearing the kind of baggy tweed jacket which could have been Armani or Oxfam. Probably the former, she thought, glad that the next case was the last of the session. The courtroom was hot. June sunshine blazed down from high windows onto a newly refurbished decor of cream-painted walls, crimson tip-up seats and flowered curtains—very different from the old, beautiful oak-panelling of pre-refit days. Now the entire courthouse was light and bright, but lacked its former gravitas. There was nothing here to intimidate the offenders brought up before the magistrates, most of whom, like Hester Conway, felt nostalgia for the courtroom in all its previous Victorian splendour.

So far the morning had provided the usual quota of summary offences involving traffic, excess alcohol and breaches of the peace, and the sentences had been straightforward. Hester was a relatively new magistrate, and at thirty-four the youngest in the district. In consequence she tended to dress down for her days in court. Despite the heat of the day her suit was unrelieved navy, and her dark hair was caught back in a severe twist with no escaping wisps. A large pair of horn-rimmed spectacles provided the finishing touch for the role she took very seriously. On her mettle to prove she possessed the intelligence, common sense, integrity and fair play required of her as a lay magistrate, she had, as usual, paid meticulous attention to every shred of evidence presented during the morning by both prosecution and defence. Today the three magistrates consisted of herself, Dr Tom Meadows—senior partner of the local medical practice—and Mr Philip Galbraith—retired headmaster of the local boys’ school, and President of the Bench.

Before the break most of the defendants had pleaded guilty and accepted whatever penalties, compensation and fines had been handed out. But the defendant about to be tried was pleading not guilty, which meant a lengthier, contested session to round off the morning.

Hester noted a reporter from the local paper, plus a sprinkling of spectators in the seats provided, including the man in the tweed jacket, who stood out from the rest. She registered thick fair hair, a deep-dyed suntan, and a clear-cut cast of feature which combined good looks with intelligence. Attractive, she thought, returning to her notes.

‘Who’s the fair man at the back?’ muttered Philip Galbraith, who always assumed Hester knew everyone in the entire neighbourhood.

‘No idea,’ she returned in an undertone. ‘Ask Dr Meadows.’

But the doctor was no wiser.

‘Dominic Anthony Barclay,’ announced the usher, and a tall youth entered the court and took a seat in the last of the three rows in the body of the court.

‘Stand up, Mr Barclay,’ said the President without emphasis, and the boy shot to his feet.

Hester eyed him with interest. During the morning all the defendants, male and female, had been dressed with a certain uniformity. Gaudy sweatshirts, jeans, sneakers and multiple earrings on both male and female had been the order of the day. Dominic Anthony Barclay, however, was in grey flannel trousers, crisp white shirt, striped tie and navy blazer. His fair hair—instead of hanging down his back, cropped cruelly short or shaved off entirely—was expertly cut, allowing one shining lock to flop slightly over his forehead.

He gave his name and address in educated, accentless tones, and despite obvious nerves firmly stated his plea of not guilty to the offence of driving while disqualified.

When asked what had happened on the night in question he informed the bench that his brother had been driving his car.