Page 13 of Duke It Out
“That should be all,” he says, standing up and shaking both mine and Charlotte’s hands. “I’ll see myself out, don’t worry.”
Amy reappears with a packet of lemon-scented wipes and hands one to me with a cheerful smile. I feel like a messy toddler.
“This is your chance to shine,” Charlotte says, shuffling the last papers into a neat stack, then dropping them into a folder, closing it with satisfaction. She looks delighted, as if I’ve just won a prize instead of signing over any sense of autonomy. “It’s a bit different this time because you’re dealing with a family history as much as a memoir, and of course the duke isn’t with us anymore, so you’ll have to put your historian hat on. You’ll be in heaven.”
Charlotte tops up our coffee.
“So, the late duke was a dear friend of Annabel, it transpires. He was a bit of a character by all accounts, but not quite organised enough to fulfil his side of the family bargain. There was some… confusion, apparently, around parts of the estate and finances.”
I frown at her, but she carries on.
“Nothing scandalous.” She sips her coffee and gives me a benign smile. “Let’s just say the paperwork isn’t quite pristine. And each Duke of Kinnaird for hundreds of years has left behind a sort of generational history. Very dynastic. Bloodlines, duty, all that stuff. It’s like something out ofGame of Thrones.”
Dragons again, I think, but don’t say it out loud for obvious reasons.
“He died before he could get it all done, and it seems that he left instructions in the will that he wanted a writer and historian to come in and do the job. Annabel put in a good word, rang me, and here we are.”
“And you think I’m up to the job?” I ask, as casually as I can manage.
Charlotte nods, already moving on. “I wouldn’t put you forward if I didn’t.”
I open my mouth to say something, but she’s taken a dainty bite of her cookie and speaking again.
“You’re more than capable. In fact, it’s the perfect contract for you. You can get the history bug out of your system, spend a couple of months lost in the archives digging through the diaries, then we can have a think about what we’re going to do next.”
I have a feeling that whatever moving forward means, it probably involves bloody dragons or another ghost-writing job. Or Charlotte gently removing me from her books because I’m never going to make her any money at this rate.
“Okay, I’ll be ready for that,” I say, hiding my lack of conviction behind my coffee cup.
Charlotte claps her hands. “Excellent! Then we’re all set.”
Amy offers me another wet wipe, and I shake my head.There’s not muchwein all this. I glance at the signed contract, thick as a novel, sitting neatly in its folder. It’s official. There’s no backing out now.
“Just think,” says Charlotte, beaming. “You’ll be living in a Scottish castle, breathing in history, surrounded by centuries of secrets.”
“Can’t wait.”
I hear a buzzing and turn around to see a bumblebee trapped against the window, bashing its fuzzy head repeatedly against the glass in a fruitless attempt to escape. And I realize that’s what I feel like.
I love history, and I should be grateful for an all-expenses paid trip to some mystery destination in Scotland. But there’s a nagging voice at the back of my head.
It’s not my book. It’s someone else’s story, again.
6
EDIE
My name isEdie Jones and once again I am… wearing the wrong clothes.
I’m pretty sure that this is what a full-blown fashion crisis looks like. We’re hurtling at an alarming speed in a sleek Range Rover along narrow single-track roads through mist covered hills. But instead of taking in the shifting grey skies and the scenery, I’m looking at my reflection in the window and wondering what on earth Past Me was thinking.
Dress codes have never been my strong point. I’m in a wool coat in the perfect shade of trying-too-hard grey, and a thick turtleneck sweater which makes me feel like I’m being strangled. The scraped-back bun and minimal makeup are giving ginger Miss Trunchbull, and let’s not even get started on the knee-length boots and sensible skirt. This is not a good look by anyone’s standards.
The driver who picked me up at Inverness Airport didn’t seem to notice my internal panic. Once I spotted him holding a sign, he checked my ID, loaded my bags, and since then, he hasn’t said a word for the ninety minutes and counting we’vebeen traveling. I reapply my lipstick for the fifth time and check my phone. There’s no service. I really hope this isn’t an extremely complicated way of taking me hostage.
The roads are narrow now, single tracked with little passing places. The moorland is dotted with sheep who stop grazing as we pass and stare at us, as if they’re not used to seeing people. We are a very long way from London.
I sway as we take a sharp left and start heading uphill. The only hint that we might be getting somewhere is a discreet navy-blue sign tucked between gorse bushes. White lettering picked out on the navy spells out the words:
