She’d done what she could to make the house look presentable – it had taken hours to scrub and polish a house that had been cared for by a young boy, and the effort had left her exhausted. Truly, arranging all those cleaners and paying them almost minimum wage had been quite the trial. But it didn’t really matter – the house would most likely be destroyed and she would be toasting the wreckage with a glass of champagne when it was.

Patricia went through her final checks. Fresh flowers on the tables? Check. (After all, how were all those dead people going to enjoy them on their graves? Such a senseless waste.) Smell of freshly baked bread? Check. (It was extraordinary what twenty seconds in the microwave could do to a Spendapenny Budget Loaf.) Legal paperwork in order? Ch—

‘I’m going to give you once last chance, Patricia.’

‘Sweetie-pops,’ she chimed, facing her unwelcome guest. ‘So lovely to see you again!’

She locked stares with Dave Hooper. It wasn’t the first time this week.

‘I mean it, Patricia,’ said Dave. ‘If you go ahead with this auction, I’ll . . .’

‘Do what exactly?’ said Patricia. ‘I’ve told you already, Davey-poos: I’m sorry if you’ve changed your mind, but . . .’

‘I haven’t changed anything,’ Dave growled. ‘I’m telling you – the man who sold you this house wasn’t me.’

Patricia fixed the grin to her face. She knew something strange was afoot. The man she’d dealt with a few days ago had been years younger than this one. All right, so he was a bit concerned about the brat, but no one aged that quickly. And she should know – she hadn’t aged a day in twenty years.

The David Hooper before her was definitely the one she remembered from years ago. Upstanding. Reasonable. Annoying. Not like the two-faced smug Dave Hooper she’d dealt with last week. She’d rather liked that one. No, this was a different man – in every sense. But that was his problem. The legal paperwork said that Home Farm was hers and that David Hooper had sold it to her. Anything else didn’t trouble her absent conscience one bit.

‘I understand you’re a little . . . attached to the place, poppet,’ she continued. ‘But it’s mine now. Briefly, anyway. It will be sold the day after tomorrow. Unless you’ve had any luck with the lawyers . . .’

She revelled for a moment in David’s proud discomfort. The man didn’t have two pennies to rub together. He had nothing. There was no way he could afford a legal challenge – and even if he could, it would be far too late. There was nothing he could do. And she was loving it.

‘Oh, dear,’ she pouted. ‘Well, then, let’s say no more about it. Let’s talk about happier things. Have you found . . . the boy?’

David’s jaw twitched. This was just too, too sweet.