The Commoner and the Correspondent: A sexy British spy enemies-to-lovers romance (The Royal Agents of MI6 Book 3) by Heather Slade

Author:Heather Slade [Slade, Heather]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sparrow Publishing
Published: 2021-10-20T16:00:00+00:00

22

Esland

When Axel asked a second time whether I’d be okay on my own, I assured him I would. Before he left, he told me to let him know when I was finished at the main house, and he’d come and get me.

After another hour of reading, I was having as hard a time keeping my eyes open as I was hungry.

“Hello, Miss Cartwright,” the clerk who’d greeted us earlier said when I came upstairs. “May I help you with anything?”

“I’d fancy some tea if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“It would be my pleasure,” the man answered.

“Wait, before you go, what is your name?”

“Hodges, miss.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hodges.” I held out my hand, and we shook.

“If I may be so bold, you do look quite like your mum.”

“Do I?” I didn’t see it, personally. I didn’t think I looked much like either my father or mother.

“Quite. She’d be so pleased that you’re staying on here.”

“Sadly, we must leave tomorrow. It was such a joy to be here again after so many years.”

The man cleared his throat. “There is the matter of the trust to be discussed, as well as your intentions, miss.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I believe the solicitor hoped to talk with you this afternoon if you were available. I told him you were visiting the archives.”

“No one has said a word about a meeting.” What was it Axel had told me? If my instincts were telling me something was wrong even when everything appeared on the up-and-up, to listen? Something about this didn’t feel right.

“May I have the solicitor ring you?”

“Yes…no, wait.” Axel had destroyed my mobile, which meant that there was no way for the solicitor to reach me directly, nor was there any way for me to reach Axel to tell him I was finished. “I’ll get back to you on that. Best to skip the tea, Hodges, but thanks.”

I put on my jacket and went out the front entryway of the main house. The walk to the cottage would do me good. Perhaps I could shake off some of the lingering effects of what I’d read about the footballers and the alleged sexual abuse.

At the same time, I had a lot to think about in regard to my mother. The woman I’d seen in the diaries today was vastly different than the perception I had of my mother when I was growing up.

For one, my mother certainly never saw me as a third wheel, not that it sounded as though my father had, either. Curious that I’d always believed they had.

Secondly, I’d never respected my mother as a journalist, because I’d believed she took the easy way out—reporting fluff rather than hard-hitting news. I couldn’t have been more wrong in that regard. My mother was more of an investigative reporter than I could call myself.

The work she’d done on the football league would’ve changed the course of the sport in the UK and perhaps throughout the world. What had I done that would make an equal impact? Nothing.

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