Page 67 of The Love Letter

‘Package delivered to York Cottage.’

‘Okay. He’s insisting on privacy, wants the area kept clear. We’ll cover from here. Report at twelve hundred hours tomorrow. Night, Warburton.’

‘Night, sir.’

Forty-eight blissful hours later, they were standing in the entrance hall of York Cottage, with Zoe ready to leave for London.

‘Zoe, it’s been wonderful.’ Art kissed her gently on the lips. ‘It’s gone so quickly. When are you back in Norfolk?’

‘I’ll be back on Tuesday. I’m in London until then.’

‘I’ll call you, but I might be able to pop round to see you before then. I’m going back to town later tonight.’

‘Okay. And thank you for a really lovely time.’

They walked out to the waiting Jaguar together. The chauffeur had already stowed her holdall in the boot, and he opened the door for her.

‘Take care.’ Art waved as the chauffeur started the engine. Zoe watched as he receded through the trees and the car eventually passed through the gates of the estate.

‘I’m taking you to Welbeck Street. Is that correct, Miss Harrison?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Zoe stared unseeingly out of the window. The past forty-eight hours had left her emotionally and physically drained. The intensity of Art’s presence for so long had exhausted her. She closed her eyes and tried to doze. Thank God she had a couple of days off to recover, tothink. Art had mentioned plots and plans he’d dreamt up to let them spend time together alone. He wanted to tell his family of their love, and then, perhaps, the country . . .

Zoe sighed heavily. Fine thoughts, but how could there ever be a future? The effect of the attention Jamie would have to deal with could be catastrophic.

What have I started?

‘Are you too warm, Miss Harrison? Let me know and I’ll turn the heating down.’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ she answered. ‘Did you have a nice weekend?’

‘Yes, it was pleasant enough, thank you. Yourself?’

‘Pleasant, yes,’ she nodded in the gloom of the car.

The chauffeur remained silent for the rest of the journey. She was grateful that he’d sensed she was not in the mood for small talk.

They arrived in Welbeck Street at just after three o’clock. The chauffeur carried her holdall to the front door as she unlocked it.

‘Thank you. What’s your name, by the way?’

‘I’m Simon, Simon Warburton.’

‘Night then, Simon, and thank you.’

‘Night, Miss Harrison.’

Simon got back into the car and watched as Zoe shut the front door behind her. He radioed in that she had been delivered safely and headed back to the car pool to hand in the Jag and pick up his own car.

To say he had lied to Zoe when she’d asked him if he’d had a good weekend was an understatement. When he’d arrived back at his flat from Norfolk on Friday afternoon, he’d spotted the letter from New Zealand immediately. As he’d read it, Simon had realised that somewhere deep inside he’d never really expected Sarah to come back to him. But the actuality of her telling him she wasn’t was no less devastating. She’d met someone else, she’d explained. She loved this new man –andNew Zealand – was engaged to marry him and would stay there. She was sorry, of course, guilty . . . the usual platitudes which read hollow to Simon’s devastated heart.

Simon had cried very few times in his life. Friday night had been one of them. After waiting for her all this time, stalwartly resisting other offers, the bitterness he felt that she should leave it until just before she was due to return ate into him.

The one person he wanted to comfort him – his oldest friend – was either out or ignoring his calls. And to cap it all, he’d had to spend his Sunday chauffeuring a lovesick film star back to London.

What on earth was he doing anyway, being a bloody chauffeur, after all his years of special training? When they’d briefed him last week at Thames House for his ‘special assignment’, he had been told he was ‘helping out’ as the Royalty Protection Branch were understaffed, but it really hadn’t washed with him. If he was minding one of the royals, that would have been different, but to draft him in just to chauffeur the mistress of the prince third in line to the throne seemed ridiculous. And the protocols on how to address the royals seemed endless, as if they weren’t simply human like everyone else, but an entirely different species.