A loud honk woke me and I bolted upright, only to be dragged back by the seat belt fastened around me. It took me a moment to remember where I was. Looking out the window, I gasped to see myself surrounded by traffic and buildings and people. The streets outside the car were teeming with activity. How long had I been asleep? A quick check of my phone told me that it had been over an hour. Panic gripped me as I realized the bustling scene outside the car was London. We were already here, and I hadn’t done a thing to prepare.
After coaxing the belt to loosen, having panicked itself when I jolted forward and locked me in place, I leaned forward and called to the driver, “Are we close?”
“Nearly there, but it will be a bit with traffic,” he said over his shoulder. “I trust you had a nice nap.”
“Too nice,” I muttered, wishing I had a breath mint. I tapped a few more consoles and found some. I guess I wasn’t the only one who had fallen asleep back here.
“We had to make a small detour due to road work, but we should be in Hampstead shortly.”
“We’ve reached London, though?” I asked, peering outside. The city was starting to give way to quieter stretches.
“Kinda,” he said with a shrug. “That was Watford. We don’t have to go into the city proper, thankfully. It would be hours, but they reopened the M25. This construction makes getting anywhere impossible, but we’re nearly to Hampstead.”
We hadn’t even been in London proper? My memories of London were loud and jarring, full of flashing colors and swarms of people. I was surprised we’d only passed through a suburb, but I was also grateful for the construction delays. It gave me time to cram some of the information I’d neglected to study.
Grabbing my mobile from the console, I opened the folder marked Kerrigan on the home screen and began to scan through the notes. A sinking feeling dragged at me. This wasn’t just a few collected facts, there were pages and pages of information. It was like someone had been writing her autobiography. Instantly, I regretted sleeping. I’d promised myself I would arrive as prepared as possible. According to Mr. Belmond, only a few people were to know the facts of my arrangement with him. Even his new wife was being kept in the dark. Given that she was nearly my age and had barely known him a year—thank you, Google—he didn’t seem worried about my ability to fool her. Considering that I was expected to live in the same house as her, I didn’t share his certainty.
I was only on the second file—a play-by-play of Kerrigan’s private primary school days—when the car slowed in front of a gate.
The driver rolled down his window and spoke into a callbox, “Miss Belmond is home.”
I ignored the shivering thrill that raced through me at that proclamation and turned my attention to the gates. The wrought iron groaned and began to swing open, affording me a glimpse of the place I’d agreed to call home.
Chapter Seven
When I’d been told I would move to London and live in the Belmond family home, I hadn’t expected a mews but I wasn’t prepared for an estate. It wasn’t the sort of place I pictured people living when they claimed to live in London. Hampstead wasn’t full to bursting with people, houses and shops stacked on top of one another. Nor was it a sleepy village. It was practically a different world. I thought only the King and Queen lived in large residences with gardens and endless rooms. Apparently, I was wrong—very wrong.
I swallowed back the gasp that threatened to escape my mouth as I took in the behemoth before me, reminding myself that the real Kerrigan would never be so impressed by a place she’d been tens of thousands of times. But it wasn’t easy. The house, if it could be called that, sat behind a tall brick wall, which afforded privacy by obscuring the estate from view. Panels had been cut and secured to the iron gates to block out even the nosiest of passersby. Considering what lay beyond those gates, I could understand why. Most people in the city lived in cramped flats and visited parks to enjoy green space. That wasn’t necessary for the Belmonds, it seemed. They had space both inside and out.
The Mercedes continued, once the gates were fully open, down the private drive. Behind me, I heard the gates close with an ominous rattle as we were swallowed into a lush garden. It was a riot of flowers, blooming in colorful masses. Large trees towered along the perimeter of the wall blocking the residence from the street leading to it. We continued along the drive only a short way, even the wealthiest Londoners had to put up with some limitations, I supposed. Maneuvering the long car around a fountain, the driver parked and got out to open my door.
I did my best not to get caught staring as I stepped into the afternoon light and took in the grand expanse in front of me. Neatly trimmed hedges ran the length of the house, a large brick Edwardian home greeted me, complete with a small tower, circled with windows, overlooking the front garden. It was imposing: far grander than any place I’d ever been. My pulse quickened as I studied it.
“I’ll bring this inside,” the driver said, holding up the bag he’d retrieved from the boot.
“I can do—” But he was gone before I could tell him I would handle it. Quickly, I realized it would be a mistake to carry my own bag. I assumed Kerrigan didn’t do such things. She had probably never carried anything heavier than a Chanel handbag in her life.
I found myself frozen to the spot, staring at the house and listening to the tinkling spray of water from the nearby fountain. I’d expected someone to be there to greet me. Did Tod Belmond just expect me to walk inside, kick off my shoes, and make myself at home? I took a cautious step forward as if I might discover I’d simply found myself in a mirage. The paving stones were firm under my foot. Solid. Real. As real as I was, but I was playing a part. Perhaps, that’s why I couldn’t get a grip on my new reality.
As I took a second step, the front door burst open and a statuesque woman appeared.
“Kerrigan!” she called, and my stomach flipped.
I’d seen her photo in the files I’d skimmed through quickly. Tod Belmond’s third wife. My stepmother. I knew a few facts about her. She was only four years older than Kerrigan and me, which made me a little nauseous. They had married less than a year ago after a whirlwind romance. She’d been a dancer, ballet or something respectable. I’d thought she’d look pretty in her picture. In real life, she was gorgeous. Easily the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. Her dark, yet luminous eyes were set over regal cheekbones. Her deep brown skin was flawless, made all the more striking by the ivory silk she wore. The clothing draped over her with sophisticated ease, rippling across her flawless figure as she strode toward me.
“I’m so delighted you’re back at Willoughby Place,” she said, and then, to my shock, she threw her arms around me. “I feel certain we’re going to be the best of friends.”
“I’m glad to be home,” I murmured, feeling more confused than ever. “It’s been…” I cursed myself for napping instead of preparing.
“Too long,” she said. “You didn’t even come home for Christmas.” She looped her arm through mine and continued, leading me inside, completely oblivious to my discomfort, “I was concerned that you might be angry—about the elopement, I mean. It was so last minute, and Tod felt—”