Free A Dangerous Deceit by Marjorie Eccles Page A

her not in the least – and poured some tea from the Thermos prepared by Mrs Jenkins for what she called her Ladyship’s ‘elevenses’, along with a plate of the sweet biscuits she knew Maude loved. Sitting on her stool to drink her tea she began to review the present situation – principally, whether or not it was time to face the disagreeable task of speaking to her son Julian next time he came down to Maxstead.
    Lady Maude was small of stature, but what she lacked in inches she more than made up for in presence. She had commanding bright dark eyes and a way of putting her head a little to one side while she considered how best to deal with people or situations. Sir Lancelot had fondly called her his little sparrow, though in fact, running now to plumpness, she more resembled a purposeful thrush, intent upon the juiciest worm for the next meal.
    She was a capable woman, and after the shock of Sir Lancelot’s death she had taken refuge in attempting to run the estate at Maxstead as he had done, and had found that with the continuing help of their excellent land agent, an ex-army officer, she could do it very well. But Giles Frith had just produced a bombshell. His wife, a domineering Scotswoman, had suddenly found that after twenty-five years away from the grouse moors and glens of her old home, she was homesick for them and nothing would do but that he should accept an offer which had come out of the blue to act as the local laird’s factor. Maude was dismayed, but Frith – who was under his wife’s thumb but proprietary about Maxstead and did not really want to leave – had negotiated terms with the laird that meant he could stay here until someone had been found to replace him.
    Which was all very well, but it would not solve her long-term problems. These were worrying times: increased taxation on land revenues had hit the Scroope finances hard, while the house was showing its age and was in urgent need of attention. Amongst a great number of other things the roof needed drastic repairs: damp was getting in and a horde of squirrels had been found nesting in the attics, and though they’d been summarily dealt with, the basic problem remained. Already, shooting rights and two farms on the estate had been sold off. The pictures and works of art in the house were undistinguished, most of them not worth selling. She couldn’t think of anything else she could do alone – her heart was not strong and she had been warned not to overdo things. Scroope blood did not run in her veins, but she loved Maxstead with a passion. In deference to the memory of Sir Lancelot and for those still living, as well as for future generations, the house and estate must be kept up. It would break her heart if Maxstead were to become an insurmountable burden, especially one unshared. It was time – more than time – that Julian gave her some help and faced up to his responsibilities.
    Julian, now Sir Julian after the death of his father, had never expected to inherit, but so it had turned out after Piers, elder son and heir, had died of wounds sustained at Verdun, giving his life for his country and leaving his mother bereft. Julian was a reluctant heir, seldom down here to see to what was rightfully now his property, preferring to live what Maude considered an aimless life in London – aimless apart from some sort of nondescript job in an art gallery, where she assumed he was valued more for his connections than his knowledge – and quite content to leave Maxstead Court and its concerns to her.
    As if her restless thoughts had communicated themselves to Henry, the old dog at her feet, he woke and opened one eye, not lifting his chin from his paws. He was an ugly old animal of uncertain ancestry, born accidentally to one of Sir Lancelot’s retrievers and kept because Piers had pleaded for him. She snapped a chocolate digestive in two and gave him half, but she didn’t encourage