The Art of Betrayal by Connie Berry

Author:Connie Berry
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Mallorys’ house stood on the edge of Saxby St. Clare, set back from the road about a hundred yards. The wooden gate was latched. Reluctant to go further without Tom, I parked my car on the street and checked my phone for a message. There wasn’t one. He was probably driving.

Lowering the car window, I leaned back against the head rest and breathed in the mild evening air. Liz Mallory was not going to push my buttons again. She had no power over me that I didn’t give her, and I wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. I’d keep my cool no matter what she said or did. What was the term? Noncomplementary behavior. I’d break the cycle by not reacting as she expected.

Five minutes later Tom pulled his silver Volvo into the drive. Stopping the car, he got out to open the wooden gate. I hurried to meet him.

“Kate,” he said, gathering me in his arms. He took a deep breath, and I felt him relax against me. “What did you get up to today?”

“I may have cracked the mystery of wagon bell—or at least made a start.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain everything later. Let’s get inside before your mother wonders what we’re doing out here.”

“You ready?” he asked.

“Absolutely.” I tried to sound brave and cheerful.

He bent down to look me in the face. “Remember, whatever happens, I love you and I’m on your side.”

“I know. Shall I follow you in?”

“No—leave your car where it is.”

He pulled back the gate, and we drove in his car toward the entrance to the Grade Three–listed flint-and-chalk farmhouse that Tom and his wife, Sarah, had renovated.

“Does your house have a name?” I asked. Just about every house in England had a name, it seemed to me—from stately homes like Finchley Hall to the humble River’s Edge Cottage in Dunmow Parva.

“Some people still refer to it as Scoggins’ Farm after the family that lived here before the Second World War. The land was sold off long before we bought the house.”

I smiled at him. “You were happy here, weren’t you—you and Sarah?”

“We were.” He pulled into a parking area near the side of the house. A blue BMW was parked near the walk. “Looks like we have company.”

Liz Mallory opened the door. “Tom. Kate, darling. Welcome.” She was wearing slim white jeans with a chic black leather jacket—flattering with her trim frame and thick silver hair.

I was feeling less than chic in a plain beige sleeveless dress I’d worn in an attempt to convince myself I wasn’t trying to impress her. I know, I know.

“It’s absolutely wonderful to see you again.” Liz gave me a little side-squeeze. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”

The large, beamed sitting room was as lovely as ever. Glossy white woodwork, soft butter-yellow walls, comfortable furniture covered in loose, rose-striped slipcovers. The last time I’d been here, there’d been a Christmas tree in the corner and a fire blazing in the brick hearth. Now the hearth was filled with an arrangement of dry flowers.

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