I stare out of the window, down the gravel drive and out across the park of Blaystock Manor. I'm here filling in with some temp work, while I wait to take up my dream job, my chance of a lifetime working in the Caribbean at a luxury resort as a junior manager. This gig is just cleaning and helping with renovations, donkey work really, but it's all extra money to pay for my new tropical wardrobe.

Actually, it's a free day today. The marquess is pretty good about that. We get plenty of time off, plenty of breaks and other perks, and despite the fact he's strapped for cash and putting everything into this project, we're pretty well paid for our labors. Everyone else has gone off in a minibus to visit a local monastery where they brew apple brandy and make luxury biscuits and stuff, but me, I've got my own diversions here.

I'm alone in the house. Even the marquess drove off a short while ago in his decrepit gray Jag. And I'm free to indulge my wicked secret vice.

I discovered this little sitting room a couple days ago, when I was a bit lost and searching for the Blue Salon, where I was supposed to be polishing the floor. I stumbled in here and found a room that was homely and pretty lived-in, and sort of cozy. And, being irredeemably nosy, when I saw an old VCR and a bunch of tapes, I had to investigate.

Boy, oh, boy, oh, boy! What a shock I got.

And now, while the house is empty, I slip another tape into the machine and settle down in a battered old leather armchair to watch it.

It's a home movie. Filmed, I think, in this very room. And it stars my latest crush, the marquess himself, and