Nor did the beauty of the surrounding countryside hold any enchantment for him. Tom didn’t like old things, the smell of mustiness and the accumulated dust of centuries, the worn carpets, the ripples and distortions of antique window glass panes. The ancient Jacobean house had the typical dilapidated-but-luxurious look of an ancestral country manor. No one at these gatherings ever discussed business, politics, or anything else Tom might have found interesting. That meant the conversation consisted of subjects Tom couldn’t give a rat’s arse about. With the exception of a few guests such as Rhys Winterborne, a Welsh department store owner, this was an aristocratic crowd. Outside, guests congregated at the front entrance to cheer for the newly married couple as they departed for their honeymoon. He wandered through the ancient Jacobean manor house, looking for a quiet place to sit and close his eyes. The air had been so thick with perfume that it had given Tom a mild headache. At the ceremony this morning, the tiny estate chapel of Eversby Priory had been stuffed to the rafters, as if the entire Covent Garden Flower Market had disgorged its contents there. Nothing but romantic drivel, lukewarm food, and far, far too many flowers. But he should have anticipated the Ravenel wedding would be an utter bore, as weddings always were. He liked barging into places where he hadn’t been invited, knowing he was too rich for anyone to dare throw him out. Not that Tom Severin gave a damn about politeness or etiquette. IT HAD BEEN A mistake to invite himself to the wedding.

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