Free False Pretences by Veronica Heley Page B

in the week and put the phone down.
    She was restless. Although she didn’t usually work on Sundays, Bea decided to go down to her office and record everything she could remember of her visit to the manor house, of the gossip Oliver had extracted from the woman selling apples and plants, and finally, what she’d learned from young Kylie.
    Something was bothering her. The front doorbell. Someone was leaning on it. Now who . . .? Ah. Piers, her ex. He did sometimes pop round on a Sunday when he was in town, but he usually telephoned first. Of course – here she shot a guilty look at the winking light on the answerphone – she hadn’t picked up her messages recently, had she?
    It was indeed Piers, his shock of dark but greying hair a trifle too long, his over-thin body dressed in expensive casual clothing. Piers, dancing with energy. He gave her a hug and a kiss on her cheek, and she laughed out loud. He nearly always had that effect on her.
    Sometimes she wondered how they’d ever got together, the up and coming young artist and the naive girl straight out of school. They’d married young and produced Max, but Piers’ tomcat ways had finally made Bea face the fact that he’d never keep his marriage vows. And so she’d divorced him, even though she didn’t in theory agree with the practice. Still didn’t. Still felt slightly guilty about it.
    As a single parent, life had not been easy. Piers had not then been earning enough to support her, and she’d worked all hours at all sorts of jobs until at last she’d met and married Hamilton. Her dear second husband had adopted Max and given them both stability, and a deep, abiding love.
    After Hamilton’s early death, Piers had reappeared in her life. Apparently Hamilton had made Piers promise to keep an eye on her! An idea which made her laugh and shake her head. She didn’t believe Piers could be trusted to look after her now, any more than he had ever been. However, now she’d accepted that he’d never change, they’d become friends of a sort.
    â€˜Was I expecting you?’
    â€˜No, no. At least, I did phone and ask if you were going to be free tonight. Thought we might go out into the country somewhere for a bite to eat.’
    She thought of Kylie, wondered how she was getting on and whether she’d accepted another sugar daddy yet. ‘Twice in one weekend? I had a pub lunch in the country yesterday. Would you mind if we went somewhere local?’
    She looked around for her handbag. Where had she left it? ‘Piers, you mix in the very best society. You haven’t come across someone calling herself Lady Honoria, have you?’
    â€˜Not the Graves-Bentley woman?’
    â€˜Dunno. Manor house in Buckinghamshire. Husband died recently.’
    â€˜A square head on top of a square body, on top of thick legs? Single-minded and ferocious. Reminds me of a pit bull. I believe she used to breed them at one time. They say owners get to look like their dogs. Or perhaps it’s the other way round and owners choose dogs which look like them?’
    â€˜That’s her. So her name’s Graves-Bentley?’
    â€˜Something like that. I met her at some “do” or other. Fixated on her ancestral home. Husband made noises about having his portrait painted but she put a stop to that, saying that if anyone was to have their portrait done it would be her, because it was her family home, not his. An odd argument. Fortunately she didn’t want to pay my prices. I try not to prejudge when asked to paint the notoriously nasty, but in this case I was happy she didn’t want me. I heard the husband had died. Not that I knew him at all. Not my type.’
    â€˜If you don’t want to go out to eat, I could rustle up something here. The youngsters are both out.’ Normally he could sit down and relax with her, but today he seemed jumpy, avoiding her eye.
    â€˜What?’