‘Call me Arkady. I suppose Papa would be a little strange in the circumstances.’
‘Yes, it would,’ I said warmly. ‘With respect, Arkady, throwing money and property at me isn’t the way to make up for twenty-seven years of neglect.’
‘It’s a start, though, no? You and Karen can live here, no financial worries, everything paid for, for the rest of your lives. You don’t need to work if you don’t want to. She neither.’
‘Well, she certainly deserves a break, but I like my work, actually.’
All the same, my brain was ticking over at double speed. Wouldn’t this solve all Joss’s problems at a stroke? He could keep the house – it would just be my name on the deeds.
‘You don’t want this house, then?’
‘It’s up to Joss. It’s his.’
‘I can take care of him.’
I didn’t like the sound of that.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Supposing I say yes …’
‘You are saying yes?’
‘I might.’
‘Say yes. It will be good, Lucy. I can visit you and Karen whenever I am in the UK, and, when I am not, I know that you are provided for. And we will restore the place. It needs a lot of work and money put into it – I can do that.’
Voronov, it was clear, was the sort of man who thought love could be bought. But why not use that to our advantage, if he was willing?
‘OK,’ I said slowly. ‘That sounds like an interesting plan.’
‘Good, good.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘I ask only one thing of you.’
‘Oh?’
‘You have no more to do with Lethbridge.’
Ah. There it was, then. No deal.
‘But why?’
‘I don’t like him. I don’t want him for you. You can do better than that. You are my daughter.’
‘You don’t like the idea of me marrying into the English aristocracy?’
‘He won’t marry you. And he isn’t real aristocracy. His family might have the title and the land but they are losers, Lucy. Serious losers. Believe me.’
I heard the clink of glasses on a tray. Joss was coming back.
‘I won’t. You can’t ask me. I love him.’
‘You can love whoever you put your mind to.’
‘No, you can’t. It’s him or nobody, for me. If that’s your offer, go back to your helicopter and leave us.’
Joss rounded the corner of a red rosebush, pausing to snap one off at the stem and lay it on the tray, along with the iced water jug, the whisky bottle and the glasses. He put them down on the bench and stood looking from one of us to the other, trying to gauge the mood. He must have recognised that it was not good, because he busied himself mixing drinks.
‘Should I have brought champagne?’ he asked, without glancing at either of us. ‘There’s some in the cellar, if anyone –’
‘No champagne,’ said Voronov, then, after a pause, ‘Lucy tells me this place is worth twenty million.’