Stepping out into the woods with his bassoon, Hector was hardly an inconspicuous presence as he paced around the cottage perimeter playing Telemann.

'Dad is devastated,' Legs cried, anger rising alongside the bassoon arpeggios.

'You've spoken with him?' Lucy gasped, unprepared for such directness after her long sabbatical in the woods, as naked truths and naked hideaways clashed.

Legs backed down a little, not wanting to shout her way out of the opportunity to talk. 'You know Dad. He won't say anything, but he's obviously in pieces.'

Lucy looked surprised. 'I was rather under the impression that he relished the time out.'

At this moment Hector appeared at the window, tooted his way through a couple of arpeggios as he checked mother and daughter were faring OK, then wandered out of sight again.

'Do you really love Hector?' Legs inclined her head towards the music in the woods.

'I've always thought him the most amazing man I have ever met.' Lucy clasped her shaking hands together in front of her and raised her eyes, making Legs blanch as they blazed with tormented honesty. 'It's been the longest of longings, so getting what's been desired for so long is quite overwhelming. We are both terribly infatuated.'

Legs remembered feeling like that about Francis once, but now her passion was muddled up with remorse and nostalgia. It felt all wrong to make believe not make love, she realised. However much she hated what was going on within her family, it was no excuse to inflict more hurt. She was determined to tell him that staging a comeback was simply not an option.

Beyond its formal griffin and unicorn entrance gates and high stone walls, tucked behind veils of oak woods, sculptured yew and rhododendron hedges, kitchen gardens, rose borders, geometric parterres and a lopsided topiary maze, Farcombe Hall was a bullish slab of pewter-grey Elizabethan stone honed into a castellated mansion by an eighteenth-century makeover. The flinty walls beneath crenellated towers and roofs were softened by festoons of red Virginia creeper on its southern and western sides, and its arched windows wore the pretty brown eyeliner of dressed stonework, but there was no denying its tough, rebellious face, especially the north elevation which gazed out to sea with battered, bare-cheeked gall, a mighty ship-head to the Farcombe Peninsula that had defied brutal North Devon storms for four centuries.

This was the face that watched Legs as she climbed up from the wooded cliffs, through the sheep-grazed parkland towards the formal gardens beyond the ha-ha.

She was waging a moral war with her conscience, which had told her she should make no effort whatsoever, and her vanity which had forced her to redeem her tear-puffed eyes with a lick of mascara and to tease out the blonde hair that had dried into a horrible rat-tails helmet while she was having her heart to heart with her mother. But she'd deliberately and forcibly dressed down in blue cotton crops that bagged unflatteringly around her bum, deck shoes and a creased white shirt, which was all she could salvage from her combined car cast-offs and her nephew's weekend bag.

Legs had been quite tempted to walk up the tunnel from the cove and burst into Farcombe Hall via the cellars, but she doubted Francis would see the joke, and it might just finish off neurotic Poppy, who was convinced a ghost of a drowned child haunted the sea passage. Now she was grateful for the sun on her skin as she cut left through the parkland to meet up with the rear wall of the churchyard, trailing her left hand along the black cast-iron spikes embedded there, which she and Daisy as macabre children had convinced themselves had once been dotted with the heads of smugglers, highwaymen and traitors.

Francis was waiting in the cloistered rear courtyard, dressed in navy chinos, deck shoes and a white shirt. They looked ridiculously cloned, right down to the zipped fleeces tied around their shoulders in case the wind picked up.

Legs hastily removed hers and tied it around her waist, which made her bum look even bigger.

'Thank you for coming.' He stooped to kiss her on the cheek, and all the delicious fizzy, squeezing sensations coursed back through her unscrupulous body.

'You smell lovely.' Francis breathed in deeply at her throat, making her skin almost melt. 'Is that a new scent?'

Legs bit her tongue to stop herself pointing out that it was his father's Douro Eau de Portugal which she'd nicked from the Spywood bathroom earlier.

He stepped back reluctantly. 'The others are waiting in the palm house.'

'Let's go.' Taking a firm grip on herself, Legs marched inside with rather more gusto than she'd intended so that she strode along the cloisters and in through the door like an eager tour guide.

This part of the house, forming the rear half of the east wing, had been fashioned like a Moorish palace and was heavy with Moroccan arches, mosaic work, gold relief and vast, intricately carved marble fireplaces. At one time, Hector had covered the huge expanse of blue and white tiled floors with exotic cushions and rugs Legs seemed to recall a buffalo hide in one corner, a zebra in another creating an opulent chill-out zone for house guests to gather during the festival, when the hall was inevitably filled with bohemians and academics who thronged into the ancient stone-columned rooms like endangered species gathering around a watering hole.

Now, the rugs had all gone and Poppy's sculptures dotted the floor, distorted fibreglass, stone and bronze blobs that were one part Henry Moore to five parts giant amoeba. She had produced so many over the years and sold so few that they were crammed all over the house and garden, even in the guest bathrooms and downstairs loos.

There were no fewer than eight in the conservatory including one the size of a small hatchback but thankfully the room (which the Protheroes always grandly referred to as the 'palm house') was the size of a car showroom and could accommodate dozens of Poppy originals without appearing crowded.

Not so easy to accommodate was the original Poppy herself, who might have been barely five feet tall and as skinny as a tightly rolled umbrella, but could make an empty Royal Albert Hall feel claustrophobic from across the gods. She swept out from behind a vast fern like a brightly coloured bird putting on a display, thin arms flung wide, screeching with delight. For all her pretty plumage, she had a hug like eagle talons landing on prey.

'My darling, beautiful girl how wonderful to see you again!'

Poppy gushed at everybody it was her default position. Big, doeful brown eyes lapping everyone up, she would ask endless questions, lavish endless praise, stroke cheeks, link arms, laugh at jokes and then assassinate one's very being the moment one left the room. She was so duplicitous, it was almost admirable.

Poppy genuinely liked very few people, although she pretended to love everyone and many loved her as a consequence. Incredibly short-sighted, she refused to wear glasses or contact lenses, which meant that she lived in a blurred world where anybody more than six feet away looked the same, and so she had developed a grand, theatrical way of addressing rooms at large, matched with intimate tete-a-tetes with those who came within her focal range. Needy and neurotic yet fabulously funny and welcoming, Poppy had struggled with increasing agoraphobia for over a decade and now rarely ever left the house, relying upon a small army of visiting friends and house guests to entertain her lively mind. She loved to meet new people, she claimed, but one so rarely met the right sort these days. Obsessed with class, weight and intelligence, Poppy's entry criteria for friendship was strict. A lack of education was unforgivable, anybody with an ounce of flesh on them was highly suspect, the obese were an absolute disgrace to themselves and should be locked away behind bars until thin enough to slip through them. Equally, an appreciation of mass culture was a gross moral weakness akin to paedophilia.

And yet, if introduced to a twenty-stone soap star who had left school at sixteen, she would be charm personified and seem unendingly fascinated by their life, their achievement and their talent.

Which was why, Legs guessed, right now she had a vice-like arm around Legs' waist (assessing the muffin top, no doubt) and was asking all about her career, London life, her sister and her 'gorgeous' nephew. Her dark eyes glowed with affection and interest.

'I gather you are Gordon Lapis's confidante.' She emphasised the word with such luscious cadence that it suggested inamorata or concubine might be just as appropriate.

'He's a client,' she said carefully.

'I can't believe he wants to come here to our little backwater,' she cooed. 'So thrilling. I have never read any of his work, but I gather he is very well liked.' Again, the insinuation was clear: 'popular trash'. 'I've even heard his oeuvre described as "magical realism", which I'm sure is kinder than "fantasy", and one does feel that genre authors still get very marginalised. I gather he's compared to Pullman and even Tolkien by many. The harnessing of suspended adolescence in literature has always been a terribly clever trick, and from what I gather Ptolemy Finch has quite extraordinary charm ...' She proceeded to give a brief lecture that revealed a great deal of knowledge about Gordon's work for one who had purportedly never read any of his books.

Then she suddenly stopped, as though realising this, and hastily redirected herself: 'Yolande should have consulted with me when she heard that this was no ordinary request from an agent for his client. Of course Mr Lapis is not Farcombe's usual fayre, but Francis assures me that if we host this personal appearance, it will make us all wonderfully rich and bring Hector back home to me.'

Legs shot Francis a wary look. She could never have anticipated Poppy accepting the Gordon proposal this easily, and still had an unpleasant feeling she was missing something. 'He'll certainly generate a great deal of public interest,' she said cautiously.

At the mention of the great unwashed, Poppy shuddered slightly. Her bony fingers dug deeper into Legs' waist and she dropped her voice so only she could hear. 'Francis says we must all make sacrifices until order is restored, you two more than most. I know he is so grateful that you are prepared to help us save Farcombe.'

'I'm not sure that I-'

'Your dedication to your job is admirable, Allegra. I'm sure your boss is terribly proud of you.' The barbed comment hung in the air briefly before the turbaned one raked her nails affectionately across Legs' small spare tyre and asked her who she thought would win the Booker Prize this year.

Legs was well aware that Poppy had never liked her very much, having once nicknamed her 'the Guinea Pig', a sobriquet dating back to the squeaking laugh she'd possessed as a small girl. When Legs and Francis's childhood romance had blossomed into adult cohabitation, his stepmother had confided to family friends that she thought the girl rather plain, very lazy and highly profiteering, and that she was lucky to have him. She predicted Legs would run to fat, like her ghastly sister.

It was therefore with great caution and carefully measured charm that Legs now replied to a barrage of questions about the London literary scene as she was steered between potted ferns and giant stone amoebas.

Behind them, Francis cleared his throat. 'This is Kizzy, Allegra.'

Positively vibrating with emotion, Kizzy stepped from behind the beautifully laid table, sea-green eyes soaking in Legs' face. She was absolutely stunning, dressed in a silver-grey chiffon dress that hugged wispily to her narrow body, matched with glass beads at her neck in shades of fox, bracken and moss, her flame-red hair snaking over her shoulders almost to the elbow. She looked like Klimt's Danae. Legs' heart sank.

But then Kizzy lunged forward and shook her hand, bestowing eager kisses on both her cheeks. 'I am sooo excited to meet you!' she gushed. 'I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to it. I just know we'll be friends. We even went for the same job once, can you believe it? Is that shirt Stella McCartney? It's beautiful.'

Legs reeled back in surprise. The bony fingers that gripped hers were ice cold, the fire in her eyes a direct contrast. Kizzy looked genuinely thrilled. Legs felt her own face flame under such scrutiny, although she was switched on enough to do a quick check of the ring finger to reassure herself it was empty.

'You are just as I remember,' Kizzy said in a curiously lisping, girlish voice, the accent softest Scottish. This confused Legs on two counts; firstly because she had no recollection of ever meeting Kizzy, and secondly because she recalled Yolande as a raven-haired import from NW3 complete with flat vowels, married to Howard, a boffish Canadian academic. Their daughter's Scottish accent seemed totally out of context.

'Let's eat lunch!' Poppy demanded theatrically, and then proceeded to eat practically nothing of the delicious spread of freshly baked bread rolls, smoked fish and salads prepared by Filipina housekeeper, Imee.

Equally, Kizzy pushed a few lettuce leaves around her plate, her eyes barely leaving Legs' face.

Having not eaten anything for twenty-four hours, Legs was ravenous and tucked in with gusto. Across the table Francis matched her, cheeks bulging.

Their eyes kept catching, like searchlights set in diametric corners of a top security prison wing, crossing one another to create a white-out. And even though felons were gambolling about shooting off high grade gun-power between them, they still beamed blindly.

Poppy did almost all the talking, the first half-hour of which was dedicated to deriding her husband, then Legs' mother, as though their children were not sitting directly in front of her: 'How that dreadful little pudding of a woman could catch the eye of Hector I have no idea, although he's practically blind these days as well as deaf, which explains something of it, up until the moment he pressed flesh.'

'Enough, Poppy!' Francis flashed at last, watching Legs' ever-reddening face.

'Hector must be made to see sense,' Poppy carried on acidly. 'Once he learns that Francis has forsaken darling Kizzy for Allegra once more, he'll come straight home.'

Legs stole a glance at Kizzy, but that pretty face remained fixed on Poppy's, the expression trusting and adoring.

For once Legs was reticent, not exploding in defence of one she loved and heard bad-mouthed. Poppy naturally assumed this was because she thought the relationship between her mother and Hector as distasteful and shallow as the rest of them did, but in fact Legs' silence was due to far less noble factors: she had her mouth full of both food and her own heart, knowing Francis was so close. The presence of Kizzy also made her hopelessly tongue-tied. It was all she could do to try to follow the conversation; the heartbeat pounding in her ears meant she was constantly fighting to catch up with what was being said. She found her gaze drawn again and again to Francis, who had no half-smiles, just a look of fear and need, the big blue eyes imploring.

For her part, Kizzy said little, but those soft Scottish bon mots came at precisely at the right time for their ranting hostess and the two exchanged many half-smiles of complete understanding. They obviously adored one another.

The only time she showed any strong reaction was when Poppy mentioned her younger stepchild.

'You must have a tete-a-tete with edith when she arrives,' she told Legs. 'Hector's behaviour is making her more cynical than ever. She'll be so relieved you're here to sort it all out. It's such a shame you dropped her when you dropped Francis. She cherished you.'

'You and edith were close?' Kizzy's green eyes bored into Legs' face.

'She and Jax came to lunch quite often when ...' She cleared her throat, not looking at Francis, 'when we had the flat in Notting Hill.' Legs had been instrumental in building bridges between Francis and his half-sister.

edith pronounced 'eedit' was Hector's pretty, dark-eyed daughter from a brief second marriage to tempestuous French model and animal rights activist, Ines. Brought up between her mother's wildlife sanctuary in Corsica and the English boarding school paid for by her father, edith was a rebellious mix of Mediterranean heat and British cool. After many Masters degrees and much travelling, she had now commandeered the Protheroe family's London house, where she devoted herself to running Hector's charitable trusts between therapy, theatre and holidays. She and Francis had loathed one another until Legs intervened. Their relationship remained difficult, with both sparring for their father's attention, but these days they were allies more often than rivals. edith was also a close ally of Poppy, who had supported her earnestly when she came out several years ago and revealed her long-term lover to be a motorcycle courier called Jax (redeemed from the working classes in Poppy's mind by a whip-thin physique, an appreciation of Allyson Mitchell and a terrific ability to keep quiet and look charismatically blank in company).

'So edith is coming down this weekend?' Legs feigned enthusiasm.

'Jax can't resist a ringside seat at any Farcombe drama,' Kizzy muttered with a flash of anger.

'They are amongst those in the know,' Poppy said smoothly, 'and this crisis calls for many a good nose.' She laughed at her pun as she tapped her tiny button snout. Among her eccentricities was a love of word play quite at odds with her hatred of all things populist. 'I spoke with edith on the telephone this morning and told her that you were back, Allegra. She guessed straight away that you're after Francis, so we already have our first witness lined up for the "showmance".' Her deep voice made the word sound almost paranormal.

'edith knows everything?' Legs was wary of edith's habit of playing people off against one another. She had been amongst the first to guess at Legs' love affair with Conrad a year earlier, and had urged her to leave Francis for him. Yet it was edith who had dropped their friendship like a stone the moment the engagement was broken. 'I thought Francis said the fewer who knew the better?'

'edith doesn't know!' Kizzy's voice shook, making Legs start back. 'She thinks Francis is mad about me!'

Francis placed a reassuring hand on Kizzy's fine-boned shoulder. 'What Poppy is saying is that if edith sees Legs deliberately stealing me back from you, she will believe it to be true.'

'Only we four know that this is fake.' Poppy flashed her warm smile across the table at Legs. 'You are in the Farcombe camarilla again, Allegra. Well done.'

Legs swallowed uncomfortably. An untouched fresh fruit salad was sitting in front of her. She half expected a serpent to sidle out of it and offer her a slice of apple. Her eyes sought out Francis again, but at that moment Poppy clapped her hands together and they both turned to her like musicians to a conductor.

'Let us embrace the task at hand!' She harnessed the two ex-lovers in her dark and potent gaze. 'We all know it's going to be tough for you two to pretend to be back together, and terribly hard on darling Kizzy here.' She stretched out a jewelled, bony claw to squeeze the girl's arm. 'But it is quite essential for the future of the estate to break this union between Hector and Mrs North as quickly as possible.' She sounded like an old dowager queen discussing the succession.

At last, Legs felt her tongue let loose from its stays. Unfortunate that she had just put a large spoon of fruit salad into her mouth and spat passion fruit pips everywhere.

'I can't do it!' she cried, earning horrified looks all round.

There was an awkward pause. Poppy carefully picked off the passion fruit seeds that had landed on her smock. Across the table, Francis's blue eyes were as wide as two Delft changers. Byron helpfully filled the silence by snuffling up the grapes that had just fallen from his mistress's spoon, then spitting them out and making doggy 'bleuch' noises at ankle height.

Poppy was first to regain her composure, readjusting her turban smoothly. 'You must do what is required to save Farcombe.'

'I can't "showmance",' Legs said in a panic, stealing another glance at Francis and instantly regretting it. He looked as though he was about to cry. She tore her eyes away and levelled her gaze at Poppy, who had always frightened her like the Ice Queen in Narnia, and did so now more than ever.

She was looking irritated. 'Why ever not?'

'I can't "pretend" to love Francis again,' she said firmly. Her eyes involuntarily sought his across the table, then raced away. 'I can't possibly fake something that has never st-'

'Stop!' Poppy screeched, covering her ears. 'This is no time for sentiment. I've spent all morning planning this. It's all arranged. You and Francis will get back together tomorrow evening. I've invited the Keiller-Myleses to kitchen sups, along with Kizzy's parents. Darling edith and Jax will be here, of course. There's even a charming beard lined up for you, Allegra. We must have an objective outsider after all.'

'As witness to the crime?' Legs stuttered, watching her with mounting alarm.

'If you like.' The dowager queen beamed back, her stage set. 'I prefer to think of Jay Goburn as Everyman.' She looked rather skittish. 'Superb prose style; reminiscent of Fitzgerald at his best. He's researching a book set in the peninsula, and we've been exchanging emails for some months now. Turns out he's in the area this weekend and would like to visit the house and gardens, so I invited him to tea and on to supper.'

Lined him up for yourself more like, thought Legs, observing Poppy on a mission. She had a penchant for last minute entertaining, which Hector rather cruelly called her 'asks'; or 'agoraphobic spontaneity kicks'. Poppy, who had always found long-term commitments like the festival terrifying, loved nothing more than rustling together dinner for twelve or a cocktail party for fifty with just a few days' notice. Few who were invited ever dared to refuse an invitation, even if it meant cancelling other commitments and hastily arranging babysitters. There was something about Poppy that defied conformity, and her parties were famously lavish, generous and entertaining. She was always utterly in control, and held court throughout, with great force and compelling charm. Despite their eleventh hour conception, they were never casual; 'Kitchen Sups' was a well worn euphemism for 'Formal Dining'.

The minstrels' gallery players found themselves demoted from courtly dance to farce as Poppy now gave notes like an amateur theatre director at the first cast read-through: 'The American will be your blind date, Legs, but of course you are still in love with Francis,' she ordered so forcefully that Legs and Francis locked eyes again, and again got stuck there, grey clouds and blue sky converging. 'Tomorrow evening, you two will be unable to resist your mutual attraction,' she breathed in her deep alto, 'you will be publicly reconciled, and Hector will be told. After that, he and that fat-' She flashed her guilty-sweet smile as she corrected herself. 'Hector and your mother will see the error of their ways. You must cooperate, Legs.'

She looked at them all in wonder, certain this was a conspiracy to humiliate her. Francis was studying his fingernails fixedly, as though hoping they'd sprout Edward Scissorhands blades to claw himself out of this situation. Beside him, the reddest head in the room was tilted to heaven as though in prayer.

'And you're OK with all this?' Legs appealed directly to Kizzy.

Two glittering green eyes fixed upon her, as bright as a rainbow trout's scales. 'I'm cool if Poppy is,' she purred in her best Kirsty Young tones.

Poppy was staring straight at Legs, Ice Queen to subject.

'I won't do it.' She tried one last protest.

Francis swallowed with a loud gulp.

'In that case,' Poppy said flatly, 'the festival must be cancelled.'

Kizzy and Francis briefly united with a cry of 'no!'

'What's that got to do with it?' Legs laughed in surprise.

But Poppy's dark eyes glittered, knowing that she had played a trump card. 'Without Hector, there is no festival.'

Legs stared at the passion fruit seeds scattered around her plate, already staining the white tablecloth with little blood-red pinpricks. 'You can't do that.'

'I certainly can. I'm the Chair and majority shareholder.'

Legs looked at Francis for confirmation and he nodded almost imperceptibly.

'Gordon Lapis won't get his moment in the sun,' Poppy said breezily, enjoying the obvious panic in Legs' face. 'His desire to appear here is rather extraordinary, but this whole summer has been far from ordinary. I was rather warming to the idea of an enigma in our midst but now I have quite gone off the prospect of the festival entirely. We cannot possibly host a public event amid such family anarchy. It will be a great relief to cancel it this year.'

Looking at Francis again, Legs could see his blue gaze eating into hers, begging her not to let him down. She quickly closed her eyes, only to find Conrad in her head, along with Gordon Lapis whom she had never even met, yet his presence burned brightest of all in her mind, like young Ptolemy Finch with his white hair and wings. How she longed for the little hero's nerve right now.

'Can I have some time to think about this, please?' She gulped.

'You have until tomorrow evening,' Poppy said darkly.

Chapter 9.