Andrew jogged up the steps of Argyll Estate.

He slammed the brass knocker on the door, rocking back on his heels. It was an usually hot May morning; he was sweating through his jacket. Scotland's flowers were in full bloom now, a riot of lemon, flamingo pink and lavender.

Andrew glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. Good. Digby would be back for lunch — he might even be able to nick a sausage roll, if he was lucky.

Of course, Digby wouldn't know to have an extra one ready; Andrew's visit was unexpected, to say the least.

They hadn't spoken in the last five days. As far as Andrew was aware, Digby had left London shortly after breaking up with Ophelia, claiming that there were several things on the estate that needed tended to. Mostly his wounded pride, Andrew suspected.

Andrew hadn't been planning to come. But he had woken up just after dawn, irritable and restless, hopped in his car, and somehow wound up in Scotland.

So here he was.

At Argyll.

The door swung open.

Digby blinked, shielding his face against the sunlight. There were dark bruises under his eyes — eggplant and sickly green — and his dark hair was unkempt. Andrew could smell antiseptic clinging to his clothes. Or maybe it was booze.

"Scott," he said, surprised. "What the bloody hell are you—?"

"Did you love her?"

It came out in a rush; Digby slumped against the door frame, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You could have just rung me, you know."

"Well, did you?"

Digby sighed, pushing the door open wider. "You want to come in?"

"Fine."

Digby showed him into the library. He directed Andrew to a seat and then reappeared a few minutes later, carrying two sausage rolls and a decanter of brandy.

"Figure we'll need it," Digby muttered, pouring two fingers of the caramel-coloured liquid into a glass. He offered it to Andrew.

Digby took a long slug of the whisky. Then he topped himself up again, using tongs to add two ice cubes to his glass. "Do you remember our CCF course?" he asked abruptly. "When we were at Eton?"

Andrew blinked. Whatever he had been expecting him to say, it certainly wasn't that. "The one taught by the Irish man?"

"That's the one."

"Vaguely."

Andrew hadn't really paid much attention to their cadet force training at school, to be honest. He had been far too busy painting. Or reading about painting. Or sneaking into London to see the latest David Hockney exhibition.

Digby tipped the whisky back. "You were always so damn good at everything. Rope tying. Abseiling. Building a fire. It all just came so naturally to you."

"You weren't bad."

"No," Digby agreed. "But you were better."

Andrew took a sip of whisky. The liquid burned his throat, but it was a pleasant sensation. Almost soothing in its intensity.

"I don't understand," he said. "What does this have to do with Ophelia?"

Digby stared into the empty grate. "You don't know what it's like to grow up second best, Andrew," he said quietly. "To live in the shadow of another person."

"When you gave up polo this year, I thought that I might finally be the best. But it wasn't enough, was it? People kept asking after you. Hell, even Henry kept banging on about getting you back on the team. So I took it even further."

Andrew felt a sense of foreboding. Pieces were beginning to slide into place, and he gripped his whisky, feeling the cool glass against his hot skin.

"I knew you fancied Ophelia," Digby continued. "Anyone with eyes could see it. I'm not proud of it, but I wanted to beat you. Just once."

"So, what?" Andrew's fingers were numb. "You dated her for the hell of it?"

"At first." Digby's eyes were haunted. "But things changed after I came back from Ibiza in January. I really thought..." He trailed off, staring into his empty glass. "Anyway. It hardly matters now; I'm sorry, mate."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not." Digby poured another two fingers of whisky. Or maybe it was four; it was hard to say. "If it's any consolation, I think she always had feelings for you. Even when we were together."

A memory niggled at his brain. "That day in the kitchen—when you kissed her—"

"I heard you coming in." Digby's eyes were dark. "I'm not proud of myself, Andrew. I'm just trying to explain."

Andrew rose from his chair, crossing to the empty grate. He wanted to hate Digby; really, he did. But Digby had seen him through the worst of his father's illness. He had lied to the other boys at Eton when Andrew had night terrors, claiming that their pipes squeaked so that they wouldn't tease Andrew. He had given dozens of pep talks, and listened to hundreds of complaints over the years.

No. Andrew could no sooner hate Digby than he hated the ugly black mole on the back of his hand, or the way his left canine tooth was slightly crooked. For better or worse, Digby was a part of him. He always would be.

"What about Scotland?"

Digby frowned. "What about it?"

"When you spoke with Ophelia at breakfast," Andrew prompted. "You said she was taking the piss when she slept with me."

"I said what?"

"Exactly that."

Digby looked indignant. "I bloody well did not!"

"Yes, you did," Andrew insisted. "You said..."

He trailed off, his brow furrowing. Christ. What had Digby said? Oh, right.

She told me some story about getting with a bloke for practice. She sounded like she found the whole thing quite funny, actually.

He repeated this to Digby.

Digby stared at him for so long that Andrew thought his face might permanently freeze in that position. "You idiot," he sighed. "Ophelia was talking about some boy she kissed in primary school." He shook his head. "For god's sake, Scott, get your head out of your arse; not everything is about you."

Andrew set his whisky down on the mantel. He had only drank a few sips, but he could feel his hands shaking slightly. Wait. If what Digby said was true — if Ophelia really hadn't been talking about him that day—

Dear god.

He had fucked things up. Majorly.

Andrew gripped the mantel for support, staring into the ashes. They were rather peculiarly shaped ashes, actually, now that he was looking at them. More like black lumps of coal than grey dust. As if someone had burned a magazine, or a—

Andrew froze.

Hang on.

He crouched down by the fire, digging frantically through the ashes. He heard a creaking noise as Digby leaned forward.

"Er, mate? What are you doing?"

Andrew ignored him. Digby's voice became more alarmed.

"Andrew?"

He twisted around, holding up a blackened lump of worn brown leather. Even now, he could make out some of the golden letters on the front. "A Tale of Two Cities."

"Digby," he growled. "What the bloody hell is this?"

Eleanora admired her nails.

They were the perfect shape, really; a French-tipped almond shape, not too round and not too square. Classy. Elegant. The sort of nails that would look fabulous with a sparkly diamond ring of them, especially on a social media post.

She glanced at the clock.

Ten minutes.

Andrew hadn't said exactly when he would arrive at her flat, of course, but she had done the math; he had slept at Argyll Estate and then left early this morning. He had been driving through York when he rung her, saying that he wanted to speak with her.

"Today," he said urgently. "Now."

"Now?"

"As soon as I'm in London."

Eleanora was lucky that her manicurist was available today. At least, she was after Eleanora posted an anonymous message on a website warning clients that the salon had an issue with rats recently. But these things had to be done. For the greater good.

She crossed to the mirror, adjusting her blonde curls. There was also no guarantee that Andrew would propose today, but Eleanora was hedging her bets. She had most of the jewelers in Cornwall on standby by now, and Tutton's Jewelers had rung her this week to say that a gentleman of her description had recently purchased a four-carat ring.

Which, you know.

Not a shining example of customer confidentiality.

Eleanora sighed, swiping on pink lipstick. It was amazing what people would do for a generous donation and a set of Napoleonic pearls.

She pursed her lips, imagining Andrew proposing. Then she raised a hand to her mouth, widening her eyes. Oh, god, no; too many wrinkles. She looked disgusting. She tried to act surprised again, and then scowled.

Oh, to hell with it.

She'd just wing it.

The doorbell rang. Eleanora brushed down her skirt, hurrying to the door. Andrew was standing in the threshold, holding a plastic shopping bag. No flowers.

She frowned.

Never mind; maybe they were in the car. She squared her shoulders, trying to look like a blissful bride-to-be.

"Andrew!" Eleanora beamed. "Do come in."

Eleanora led him into the kitchen, scooping a slice of homemade pear cake on to his plate. Well, "homemade" was a loose term — she had picked the cake up from the bakery down the road. But it had made in someone's home; it was really the same thing.

"How was the journey?" she asked, pouring some tea. "Did Digby drive down, too?"

Andrew's face was impassive. "Sit down, Eleanora."

Eleanora blinked. Oh. Alright. Straight to the proposal, then. That was fine by her; her nails looked better in the daylight, anyway.

She sat. Andrew sighed.

"I want to break up," he said.

In the end, Eleanora didn't need to act surprised at all.

"You what?"

"I want to break up," Andrew repeated calmly. "You know what that is, don't you, Eleanora? As a wise woman once said, it's when two people consciously uncouple—"

"I know what it is, Andrew," she snapped.

"Oh, good."

"Why?"

Eleanora was trying to remain calm, but her heart was racing. This couldn't be happening. Maybe Andrew had an evil twin. Or he had collided with a Highland cow and hit his head hard on the steering wheel. Yes. That was it.

Andrew reached into the plastic bag, pulling out a hard black lump. She shrieked as he threw it on to the table.

"Recognize this?" he asked.

"Andrew!" Her hand flew to her mouth. "For god's sake, that table is from Italy. Bespoke tile. Do you know how much something like that—?"

"Answer the question," he snapped.

Andrew's face was calm, but there was a slight tremor in his hand that terrified her. She had never seen him anything but composed. Carefully in control. She leaned closer to the object, squinting at it. Worn brown leather, gold lettering—

Oh.

Shit.

"I don't know," Eleanora said dismissively. "It looks like a pile of dirty ash to me. Honestly, Andrew, the way you're behaving—"

"Don't lie to me."

Eleanora flinched. He had half-risen from his seat, and even though she knew Andrew would never hit a woman — Jane would have castrated her son — she couldn't help but shrink back slightly.

"This is Ophelia's book," Andrew continued tightly. "Her grandmother gave it to her. And somehow, it wound up in Digby's fireplace, burned to ashes." His blue eyes were chilly waters. "Any thoughts on that?"

Eleanora swallowed.

As her manicurist would say, the polish had well and truly dried; it was too late.

"Yes, alright," Eleanora said, nettled. "I burned it." She shoved the pear cake aside, her stomach roiling. "But you have no idea what it feels like, Andrew. When I heard the two of you sleeping together—"

"You heard that?"

"Unfortunately."

Andrew winced. "I'm sorry for that. Really, I am. But we weren't even together, Eleanora; you can't just go around—"

"It doesn't matter," Eleanora snapped. "You invited me up to Argyll Estate, and then you slept with her. What was I supposed to do?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said, sounding exasperated. "Not libricide, perhaps?"

There was a long pause. Eleanora shoved her pear cake around viciously, chopping small bits off with her fork. Stupid cake. Stupid Ophelia. How the hell had today gone so wrong?

She heard Andrew rise from the table.

"Do you have anything else to say?" Andrew asked.

She shook her head.

"Okay." He squeezed her shoulder, more gently this time. "I'll see you around, Eleanora."

She heard his footsteps retreat, and then the click of the door. She stared down at the pear cake, mocking her with its delicious cinnamon scent. A sudden wave of weariness hit her. What if she just changed into pajamas? She could pop open a bottle of wine. Eat the cake in front the telly while bingeing a reality television show.

God, it sounded good.

But, no; Eleanora squared her shoulders. She was Eleanora sodding Bollingbroke, after all; she wasn't about to be defeated by a man. She would rise above this just like she always had — with grace and dignity and poise.

She stomped to the bin, scraping the untouched cake into it.

Besides.

Eleanora had paid a criminal amount for her manicure; she would bloody well show it off. She fished out her phone, punching in a series of numbers.

"Bennett?" She twirled her hair around her finger. "Yes, hello. It's Eleanora. I've changed my mind about dinner. How's today for you?"

Andrew drove like a maniac.

He was vaguely aware of London cab drivers honking at him, but he no longer cared. He glanced at his watch. Ophelia would be at Heathrow by now. He muttered a string of colorful expletives, swerving around a slow-moving bus filled with tourists.

He needed to get to her. To apologize.

He just hoped that he wasn't too late.

Andrew blew out a breath, picking up his phone. He dialed a number in his contacts — a man named John Cartwright, one of his father's oldest friends — and waited.

John picked up on the third ring. "Andrew! Good to hear from you."

"John. Hi." Andrew gripped the steering wheel. "Listen, I know this is a bit out of the blue, but are you at work right now?"

"Yes," John said slowly. "Why?"

"I need a favour. A big one." Andrew braced himself. "Look, do you have access to the airport intercom system?"

A/N: Here we goooooo!

I've always loved a big, dramatic ending and this one was so much fun to write — I can't wait for you guys to read it on Saturday :)

What did everyone think of Andrew and Eleanora's break-up? What does Andrew have planned for his romantic gesture?

Can't wait to hear your thoughts!

Affectionately,

J.K.

p.s. readers of "No Two Are Alike" — do you recognize John Cartwright? Hint: he appears in the first chapter ;)