Chapter Twenty The Rehearsal Dinner
Hartington Hall rose from the Cotswolds landscape like something out of a period drama: honey-coloured stone, Georgian symmetry, the kind of effortless grandeur that came from three centuries of family money and the ruthless exploitation of agricultural workers.
It was beautiful, in the way that old money was always beautiful: confident, understated and profoundly indifferent to whether anyone approved or not.
The family had gathered for the rehearsal dinner, which was not so much a rehearsal as it was an opportunity for Elizabeth to demonstrate the full scope of her vision. Tomorrow was the wedding. Tonight was the preview.
Anastasia stood in the Long Gallery, watching the preparations with the detached professionalism of someone assessing an operational environment.
Exits: three. Staff: fifteen, all hired through an agency, none of whom knew each other well enough to notice an interloper.
Security: minimal, consisting primarily of Uncle Peregrine’s ancient gamekeeper, who was currently asleep in a chair by the service entrance.
She had been doing this unconsciously for months: mapping rooms, noting vulnerabilities, cataloguing the small details that might matter if things went wrong. Old habits. Training that never quite went away, no matter how much you wanted it to.
‘Darling!’ Elizabeth swept toward her, dogs trotting in perfect formation behind. ‘There you are. We need to discuss the receiving line. I’ve made some adjustments to the order.’
Of course she had.
‘The original arrangement had you and James greeting guests together, but I’ve been thinking: it’s really much more elegant if you receive separately. James with the family at the main entrance and you’, a pause, barely perceptible, ‘with your brother, in the secondary receiving area.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s nothing personal, of course. Simply a matter of flow. The guests will move more smoothly if there are two receiving points rather than one. Seb agrees completely.’
Seb, hovering nearby with his ever-present clipboard, nodded with the enthusiasm of a man who had learned that agreement was the path of least resistance when dealing with Elizabeth Ashworth-Pemberton.
‘Absolutely. Much better flow. Very elegant.’
Anastasia said nothing. There was no point in arguing. Elizabeth had spent sixty years perfecting the art of the social slight disguised as practical consideration and Anastasia had neither the energy nor the inclination to fight battles she couldn’t win.
‘Now,’ Elizabeth continued, consulting what appeared to be a small novel’s worth of notes, ‘the ice sculpture will be positioned in the entrance hall...’
‘There’s an ice sculpture?’
‘Of course there’s an ice sculpture. It’s a swan. Very traditional. And the string quartet will begin playing at precisely three forty-five...’
‘I didn’t know we had a string quartet.’
‘The Pemberton Quartet. They’ve played at every family wedding since 1987. A distant cousin is the cellist. Well, second cousin. Or possibly third cousin once removed, it depends on whether you believe the rumours or not. Anyway, they’re marvellous. Very discreet. They know all the old pieces.’
Anastasia felt the smile on her face becoming fixed, frozen, the rictus grin of a woman who was being systematically erased from her own wedding.
‘And the menu,’ Elizabeth continued, oblivious or indifferent to Anastasia’s expression, ‘has been finalised. Foie gras to start; Jean-Francois is doing something absolutely divine with figs, followed by lobster thermidor, then the cheese course, then the cake. I’ve arranged for a proper cake, of course.
None of this modern nonsense with towers of macaron or whatever it is people do now. Five tiers. Very classical.’
‘It sounds lovely,’ Anastasia said, because what else was there to say?
‘It will be perfect.’ Elizabeth’s tone suggested that imperfection was not an option. ‘Now, I believe your brother wanted to speak with you. He’s in the library, I think. Something about family photographs for the display.’
Anastasia’s smile didn’t waver. ‘Thank you. I’ll find him.’
???
James found her twenty minutes later, standing by a window in an empty corridor, staring at the grounds without seeing them.
‘There you are.’ He slid his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.
‘I’ve been looking everywhere. Mum’s got Seb running around like a headless chicken and Freddie’s already into the champagne and I think Uncle Peregrine might be teaching Tariq how his vintage gatling gun works, which seems unwise. ..’
He stopped. Pulled back slightly. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Something. You’ve got your face on.’
‘My face?’
‘Your polite face. The one you wear when you’re pretending everything’s fine but actually you want to murder someone.
You had it at the engagement drinks when Mum asked about your parents.
You had it last week when the florist changed the bouquet without asking.
You’ve had it rather a lot lately, actually. ’
She turned to face him. ‘Have I?’
‘Yes. And I’ve been a coward about it. Pretending not to notice because noticing would mean doing something and doing something would mean...’ He stopped, took a breath. ‘This isn’t what you wanted, is it? The wedding, I mean. All of this.’
‘James...’
‘It’s Mummy’s wedding. Not ours. I’ve let her take over because it’s easier than fighting, because she always wins anyway, because...’ He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. ‘Because I’m a coward. I’ve always been a coward where she’s concerned.’
‘You’re not a coward.’
‘I am. But I don’t want to be anymore.’ He took her hands.
‘I saw your face just now, when she was talking about the ice sculpture and the string quartet and all the things she’s planned without asking you.
You looked like you were disappearing. Like every decision she makes erases a little bit more of you. And I can’t, I won’t, let that happen.’
‘It’s fine, James. Really. It’s just one day.’
‘It’s not just one day. It’s our day. The start of our life together. And I want it to be ours, not hers.’
His jaw set in a way she had never seen before, determination where there was usually accommodation, steel where there was usually softness. ‘I’m going to fix this.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know yet. But I’m going to fix it. I promise you that.’
He kissed her passionately, full of sudden purpose and strode off down the corridor with the determined gait of a man about to do something brave and possibly stupid.
Anastasia watched him go, feeling something complicated move through her chest.
This man. This ridiculous, trusting, suddenly courageous man.
She loved him. She hadn’t expected to, hadn’t planned to, but she did. Completely. Irrevocably.
Which made what she had to do next even harder.
???
Viktor was not in the library.
Anastasia found his room instead, a guest suite in the east wing, well-appointed but impersonal. Viktor’s luggage sat unopened on the stand, his jacket hung precisely in the wardrobe. Everything in order. Everything controlled.
She shouldn’t be here. She knew that. But something had been nagging at her for days, a sense that Viktor was more focused than he should be, more present, more watchful.
James had mentioned offhand that Viktor had been ‘very interested in the wedding plans at the stag.’ And Seb in a rare moment of talking to her, had gushed about Viktor’s ‘detailed questions about the venue and timeline.’
Detailed questions and timelines, Viktor never asked detailed questions unless he was planning something.
She moved through the room quickly, professionally: checking the obvious places first, then the less obvious. Behind the wardrobe. Inside the lining of the luggage. The false bottom of the overnight bag that Viktor thought no one knew about.
Nothing.
But then her fingers found the seam in the jacket lining, a hidden pocket, expertly concealed, the kind of thing only someone who had been trained to look for it would notice.
Inside was a phone. Not Viktor’s regular phone, a burner, cheap and disposable. The kind you used when you didn’t want calls traced.
She powered it on. The screen lit up, asking for a passcode.
She tried the obvious combinations. Birthday, the date he’d been ‘killed.’ Nothing worked.
Then she tried her own birthday, the one from her forged documents, the identity Viktor had created for her years ago.
The phone unlocked.
There were only a handful of messages. Most were in Russian, brief and businesslike: confirmations of payments, threats about missed deadlines, the clinical language of debt collection.
But one thread was different. This one was in Ukrainian and as Anastasia read, the blood drained from her face.
The package must be delivered before the end of the month. No more extensions.
Understood. The timing is set. After the ceremony, before the departure.
Both packages?
The primary first. The secondary as needed.
Confirmation of inheritance?
Documents are in order. Next of kin established.
Anastasia stood very still, the phone cold in her hand.
Packages. Primary and secondary. After the ceremony, before the departure.
She knew Viktor’s language. She had been trained in Viktor’s language. She understood exactly what those words meant.
James was the primary package. James was going to die after the wedding.
And she, she was the secondary. As needed.
If James died after the ceremony, she would inherit everything. And if she then died...
Viktor was next of kin. Viktor had the documents. Viktor would inherit.
The blackmail had never been about money. It had been about positioning, getting close, establishing the brother cover. Setting up the inheritance.
Viktor wasn’t here to extort her, Viktor was here to kill her husband.
And then to kill her.