The Inheritance: Racy, pacy and very funny!
Welcome to Tilly Bagshawe’s Swell Valley, where the scandal is in a class of its own.Tatiana Flint-Hamilton’s gilded cage is torn away when her estranged father dies. As the beloved family estate slips through Tati’s fingers, the portraits of her ancestors look down disapprovingly.The new Lord of the Manor is just as ruthless as Tati. The old-world status of Furlings is everything the wealthy, self-made Brett Cranley has ever wanted. Luckily his wife Angela is the perfect homemaker, happy to fall into line with whatever Brett desires. Along with her two children, Furlings soon becomes Angela’s lifeline, a place she can finally belong. And one she’s not going to give up easily.Losing everything has made Tati realise that her rightful inheritance is all that she now lives for… and she will do anything to get it back.But the fate of Furlings lies in the hands of the villagers.Let the Fittlescombe fireworks begin!
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The Inheritance
Tilly Bagshawe
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by Harper 2014
Copyright © Tilly Bagshawe 2014
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Tilly Bagshawe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of 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 authorâs 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, down-loaded, 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.
Source ISBN: 9780007472512
Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007481385
Version: 2018-02-16
For Sarah and Kris Glynn
Contents
Dawn broke late over the Swell Valley. The May sun rose sleepily into a cloudless sky, streaking it first red, then pink, then a gorgeous, deep, burnished orange, like melted rose gold. Bathed in this magical light, Furlings House shimmered above the village of Fittlescombe, tranquil and magnificent. The family seat of the Flint-Hamiltons for over three hundred years, Furlings was frequently referred to as the most beautiful estate in Sussex, if not the whole of England. Certainly it lived up to that accolade this morning, a study in Georgian splendour, with nothing to puncture the peace of its rolling parkland and idyllic views except the occasional whinny of a pony in the top fields, or plaintive bleat of a lost lamb somewhere on the Downs.
âYou fucker!â
A loudly slamming door sent a slumbering heron soaring into the air above the river.
âYou lying, shallow lowlife! Go to hell!â
Each word was screamed at deafening volume. It was a womanâs voice, delivered in a cut-glass accent, and it was followed seconds later by the woman herself, crunching over the gravel. She was striking for two reasons. The first was that she was young, blonde and stunningly beautiful. And the second was that she was stark naked (unless one counted the pair of Wellington boots sheâd slipped on as she exited the kitchen; or the heavy, cast-iron frying pan she was brandishing menacingly above her head, like a Zulu warrior with a machete).
âFor Godâs sake, Tatiana, calm down. Youâll wake up half the village.â
Her intended victim, a much older man with dishevelled salt-and-pepper hair, was half running, half limping towards his car. Barefoot, heâd only managed to partially dress himself before the Amazon had beaten him out of doors. In an unbuttoned evening shirt, with his suit trousers slipping repeatedly towards his knees, he cut a pathetic, cowering figure. Only the keenest of political observers would have recognized him as Sir Malcom Turnbull, Secretary of State for Trade & Industry, married father of three and tireless champion of family values.
âYou think I give a flying fuck about the village?â the girl hissed at him like a snake. âIâm Tatiana Flint-Hamilton. I own this village. Besides, why shouldnât people know what a lying, cheating scumbag you really are?â
Sir Malcom had only just managed to scramble into his Porsche when Tatiana caught up with him. Lifting the frying pan high above her head, she brought it down with a deafening thwack on the carâs roof, leaving a dent the size of a small meteor strike and missing the ministerâs skull by inches.
âJesus Christ.â Shaking, Sir Malcom rammed the key in the ignition and turned it, but the bloody thing was jammed. âHave you lost your mind?â he stammered. âYou knew I had a wife.â
âYes. And you told me you were going to leave her! At least twenty times.â
âMy dear girl, I will. But itâs not that simple. Henriettaâs terribly fragile at the moment. And Nickâs got his GCSEs this summer â¦â
