Blackmailed by the Rich Man

But, no matter who was waiting for her, she owed it to herself and no one else to make herself slightly more presentable, even if it was only a matter of washing her face and hands and tidying her hair.

She supposed reluctantly that she’d better sneak in through the kitchen and go up the back stairs to her room.

But he’d forestalled her—the intruder—because he was already there in the kitchen, sitting at the table and tucking into a bacon sandwich with total relish while Daisy fussed round him, filling his cup with more coffee.

Helen halted abruptly. ‘What are you doing here?’ She heard the note of aggression in her voice and saw Daisy glance at her, her lips pursed.

Marc Delaroche got to his feet. In casual khaki pants and a short-sleeved black shirt, he looked less of a business tycoon and more of a tough from the back streets of Marseilles.

‘As you see, mademoiselle, I am having some breakfast.’ He slanted a smile at Daisy. ‘Your housekeeper is an angel who has taken pity on me.’

Helen forced herself to amend her tone slightly. ‘I meant surely you saw everything you needed to yesterday, so why are you still around?’ She pushed a dusty strand of hair back from her face. ‘After all, a village is hardly your kind of place.’

‘I still had some unfinished business here,’ he said softly. ‘So I decided to spend the night at the Monteagle Arms.’

She raised her brows. ‘They don’t do breakfast?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But after the dinner they served last night I was not tempted to try the petit dejeuner.’ He gestured at his plate. ‘May I continue?’

‘Coffee, Miss Helen?’ Daisy placed another mug on the table and waited, coffeepot poised, her expression indicating that her employer had breached quite enough of the laws of hospitality already.

‘Please.’ Helen gave her a swift conciliatory smile, and subsided unwillingly on to the chair opposite him.

She was bitterly aware that she’d neglected to put on a bra that morning—a fact that would not be lost on her unwanted guest, she thought angrily, burning her mouth on an unwary gulp of coffee.

‘You mentioned unfinished business?’ she said after a pause. ‘I presume it’s something to do with the house?’ She forced a smile. ‘After all, why else would you be here?’

‘Why indeed?’ he agreed cordially.

‘So…’ Helen gestured awkwardly. ‘If I can help…?’

‘I was not able to see all the rooms in the house during the tour yesterday, because your charming guide told me they are the private living quarters of yourself and your staff.’ Marc Delaroche paused. ‘Perhaps you could show them to me presently?’

Helen put down her mug. ‘Is that strictly necessary?’

‘It is,’ he said. ‘Or I would not have asked. Your application to the committee covered the entire building, not merely selected sections, as I am sure you understand. And your accommodation includes rooms of historic importance—the library, I believe, and the Long Gallery, and also the State Bedroom.’ He gave her an enquiring look. ‘Is that where you sleep, perhaps?’ He added gently, ‘I hope you do not find the question indelicate.’

‘I have never slept there,’ Helen said coldly. ‘It was last occupied by my grandfather, and I wasn’t planning to make it available to the public.’

‘Even though one of your kings used it for a romantic rendezvous? Charles the First, I think?’

‘Charles the Second,’ Helen corrected. ‘He’s supposed to have come here to seduce the daughter of the house, who’d fled from court to escape him.’

His brows lifted. ‘And did he succeed in his quest?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Helen said shortly. ‘And, anyway, it’s just a legend. I don’t believe a word of it even though I was named after her!’

‘Quel dommage,’ he murmured.

‘Well, Sir Henry always said it was true,’ Daisy interposed from the stove.

‘My grandfather liked to tease people,’ Helen said stonily. ‘He said the room was haunted, too, if you remember.’

‘And you thought if you slept there you might wake to find a ghost in your bed?’ The dark eyes were dancing.

‘Not at all,’ Helen denied. ‘I simply prefer my own room.’

‘Until you are married, hein?’ Marc Delaroche said carelessly. ‘When you have a living man beside you at night, ma belle, there will be no room for ghosts.’

‘Thank you,’ Helen told him, biting her lip. ‘You paint such a frank picture.’

He shrugged. ‘Marriage is a frank relationship.’ He paused. ‘But, legend or not, the State Bedroom and its romantic associations should be available to your public. I hope you will allow me to be its first visitor.’

Helen finished her coffee. ‘Just as you wish, monsieur. Would you like to begin now?’

‘Pourquoi pas?’ he said softly. ‘Why not?’

Oh, Helen thought wearily as she led the way to the kitchen door, I can think of so many reasons why not. And having to be alone with you, Monsieur Delaroche, heads the list every time.

And, heaven help me, I’m not even sure whether it’s you I don’t trust—or myself.

CHAPTER THREE

HELEN was still recovering from that unwelcome piece of self-revelation when they entered the library together. She pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans, trying to compose herself for the inevitable inquisition, but at first there was only silence as Marc Delaroche stood looking round with a frown at the empty oak shelves that still lined the walls.

‘It was a valuable collection?’ he asked at last.

‘Yes—very.’ She hesitated. ‘My grandfather was forced to sell it in the eighties, along with a number of pictures. It almost broke his heart, but it gave Monteagle a reprieve.’

He shook his head slightly, his gaze travelling over the motley collection of shabby furniture, the peeling paintwork, and the ancient velvet curtains hanging limply at the windows. ‘And this is where you spend your leisure time?’

‘Yes, what there is of it,’ she returned. ‘There’s always some job needing to be done in a place like this.’

‘You do not find it—triste? A little gloomy.’

‘In winter it’s quite cosy,’ she retorted defensively. ‘There’s plenty of wood on the estate, so I have an open fire, and I burn candles most of the time.’

‘Certainly a kinder light than a midsummer sun,’ he commented drily. ‘Shall we continue?’

She supposed they must. The truth was she felt totally unnerved by her physical consciousness of his presence beside her. Although he was deliberately keeping his distance, she realised, and standing back to allow her to precede him through doorways, and up the Great Staircase to the Long Gallery. But it made no difference. The panelled walls still seemed to press in upon them, forcing them closer together. An illusion, she knew, but no less disturbing for that.

She thought, I should have made some excuse—asked Daisy to show him round.

Aloud, she said, ‘This is where the family used to gather, and where the ladies of the house took exercise in bad weather.’

‘But not, of course, with holes in the floorboards,’ he said.

She bit her lip. ‘No. The whole floor needs replacing, including the joists.’

He was pausing to look at the portraits which still hung on the walls. ‘These are members of your family? Ancestors?’

She pulled a face. ‘Mostly the ugly ones that my grandfather thought no one would buy.’

Marc Delaroche slanted an amused look at her, then scanned the portraits again. ‘Yet I would say it is the quality of the painting that is at fault.’

She shrugged, surprised at his perception. ‘No, they’re not very good. But I guess you didn’t pay the fees of someone like Joshua Reynolds to paint younger sons and maiden aunts.’

‘And so the sons went off, sans doute, to fight my countrymen in some war,’ he commented, his mouth twisting. ‘While the aunts had only to remain maiden. My sympathies are with them, I think.’ He paused. ‘Is there no portrait of the beauty so desired by King Charles?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘My grandfather wouldn’t part with it. It’s in the State Bedroom.’

‘I cannot wait,’ he murmured. En avant, ma belle.’

‘Do you mind not calling me that?’ Helen threw over her shoulder as they set off again. ‘What would you say if I greeted you with, Hey, good-looking?’

‘I should advise you to consult an eye specialist,’ he said drily. ‘Tell me something, mademoiselle. Why do you object when a man indicates he finds you attractive?’

‘I don’t,’ she said shortly. ‘When it’s the right man.’

‘And I am by definition the wrong one?’ He sounded amused.

‘Do you really need to ask? You know already that I’m engaged to be married.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But where is your fiancé?’

‘He couldn’t come down this weekend.’ Helen halted, chin lifted in challenge. ‘Not that it’s any concern of yours.’

‘This weekend?’ he said musingly. ‘And how many weekends before that? It is a matter of comment in the village, you understand.’

‘The public bar of the Monteagle Arms anyway,’ Helen said tersely. ‘You really shouldn’t listen to idle gossip, monsieur.’

‘But I learned a great deal,’ Marc Delaroche said gently. ‘And not merely about your missing lover. They spoke too about your fight to keep this house. Opinion is divided as to whether you are brave or a fool, but none of them thought you could win.’

‘How kind of them,’ she said between her teeth. ‘That must have done my cause a lot of good.’ She paused. ‘Did they know who you were—and why you were here?’

‘I said nothing. I only listened.’ He shrugged. ‘They spoke of your grandfather with affection, but not of your parents. And you do not mention them either. I find that strange.’

Helen bit her lip. ‘I hardly knew them. They left Britain when I was still quite small, and my grandfather brought me up with the help of various nannies. That’s why we were so close.’

Marc Delaroche frowned swiftly. ‘My father’s work took him abroad also, but I travelled with him always. He would never have considered anything else.’

‘My father didn’t work—in the accepted sense.’ Helen looked past him, staring into space. ‘He’d been brought up to run Monteagle and the estate, but after the financial disasters we’d suffered that no longer seemed an option. Also, he knew he would never have a son to inherit what remained. My mother, whom he adored, was very ill when I was born, and needed an immediate operation. The name was going to die out.’

‘He had a daughter. Did he not consider that?’

Helen’s smile was swift and taut. ‘I never had the chance to ask him. There’s always been a strong gambling streak in our family—fortunes won and lost down the centuries—and my father was a brilliant poker player. He had a load of friends among the rich and famous, so he travelled the world with my mother, staying in other people’s houses and making a living from cards and backgammon.’ Her mouth twisted wryly. ‘At times he even earned enough to send money home.’

‘But then his luck ran out?’ Marc Delaroche asked quietly.

She nodded, and began to walk along the corridor again. ‘They were in the Caribbean, flying between islands in a private plane with friends. There was some problem, and the aircraft crashed into the sea, killing everyone on board. My grandfather was devastated. Up to then he’d always believed we would recoup our losses somehow, and carry out the restoration work he’d always planned. That we’d be reunited as a family, too. But after the crash the fight seemed to go out of him. He became—resigned. Instead of winning, he talked about survival.’

She stared ahead of her, jaw set. ‘But Monteagle is mine now, and I want more than that.’

‘Has it hurt you to tell me these things?’ His voice was oddly gentle.

‘It’s all part of Monteagle’s history.’ She hunched a shoulder. ‘So you probably have a right to ask. But that’s as far as the personal details go,’ she added, giving him a cool look. ‘You’re here on business, and I feel we should conduct ourselves in a businesslike manner.’

Oh, God, she groaned inwardly. Just listen to yourself. Miss Prim of the Year, or what?

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And therefore all matters of gender should be rigorously excluded?’ His grin was cynical. ‘How do you do that, I wonder?’

She bit her lip. ‘That is your problem, monsieur. Not mine.’

She reached the imposing double doors at the end of the corridor and flung them open. ‘And here, as you requested, is the State Bedroom.’

The curtains were half drawn over the long windows, and she walked across and opened them, admitting a broad shaft of dust-filled sunshine.

It was a big room, the walls hung with faded brocade wallpaper. It was dominated by the huge four-poster bed, which had been stripped to its mattress, although the heavily embroidered satin canopy and curtains were still in place.

‘As you see,’ she added woodenly, ‘it has not been in use since my grandfather died.’ She pointed to a door. ‘That leads to a dressing room, which he always planned to convert to a bathroom.’

Her companion gave it a cursory glance. ‘It is hardly big enough. One would need to include the room next door as well.’

‘Just for a bath? Why?’

He grinned lazily at her. ‘A leading question, ma mie. Do you really wish me to enlighten you.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

Marc Delaroche took a longer look around him, then walked over to the fireplace and studied the picture hung above it. The girl in it looked steadily, even a little shyly back at him, a nimbus of warm-toned ringlets surrounding her face. She was wearing pale yellow satin, cut decorously for the fashion of the time. There was a string of pearls round her throat, and she carried a golden rose in one hand.

He whistled softly. ‘I wonder how long she fought before she surrendered to your king?’ he said, half to himself.

‘You think she did surrender?’

‘Eventually. As all women must,’ he returned, ignoring her small outraged gasp. ‘Besides, there is no question. You have only to look at her mouth.’ He held out an imperative hand. ‘Viens.’

In spite of herself, Helen found she was crossing the worn carpet and standing at his side. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘She is trying hard to be the virtuous lady, but her lips are parted and the lower one is full, as if swollen from the kiss she longs for.’

‘I think you have a vivid imagination, monsieur,’ Helen retorted, her voice slightly strained.

‘And I think that you also, mademoiselle, are trying much too hard.’ His voice sank almost to a whisper.

Before she could guess his intention and move away, out of range, Marc Delaroche lifted a hand and put his finger to her own mouth, tracing its curve in one swift breathless movement, then allowing his fingertip delicately to penetrate her lips and touch the moist inner heat.

In some strange way it would have been less intimate—less shocking—if he’d actually kissed her.

She gasped and stepped backwards, the blaze in her eyes meeting the mockery in his. Her words became chips of ice. ‘How dare you—touch me?’

‘A conventional response,’ he said. ‘I am disappointed.’

‘You’re going to have more than disappointment to deal with, Monsieur Delaroche. You’ll live to regret this, believe me.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Because I, too, shall be making a report to your committee, informing them how you’ve abused their trust while you’ve been here, conducting enquiries on their behalf. And I hope they fire you—no matter how much money you have,’ she added vindictively.

‘I am desolate to tell you this, but you are in error, ma belle,’ he drawled. ‘The committee is not concerned with my visit. It was my decision alone to come here.’

She looked at him, stunned. ‘But—you’ve asked all these questions…’

He shrugged. ‘I was curious. I wished to see this house that means so much to you.’

The breath caught suddenly, painfully in her throat. She turned and marched to the door, and held it open. ‘And now the tour is over. So please leave. Now.’

‘But that was not all.’ He made no attempt to move. ‘I came most of all because I wanted to see you again. And ask you something.’

‘Ask it,’ Helen said curtly. ‘Then get out.’

He said softly, ‘Will you sleep with me tonight?’

Helen was rigid, staring at him with widening eyes. When she could speak, she said hoarsely, ‘I think you must have taken leave of your senses.’

‘Not yet,’ he drawled. His eyes went over her body in lingering, sensuous assessment. ‘For that I shall have to wait a little, I think.’

She pressed her hands to the sudden flare of hot blood in her face.

‘How dare you speak to me like this?’ she whispered jerkily. ‘Insult me in this way?’

‘Where is the insult? I am telling you that I desire you, and have done since the first moment I saw you. And please do not insult me by pretending you did not know,’ he added silkily, ‘because I did not hide it.’

It seemed altogether wiser to ignore that. Helen struggled to control her breathing. ‘You—you seem to have forgotten that I’m about to marry another man.’

‘He is the one who has forgotten, ma belle,’ he said, a touch of grimness in his voice.

‘And you imagined that because he’s not here I would turn to you for—consolation?’ Her voice rose. ‘Oh, God—how dare you? What do you take me for? I love Nigel, and I intend to belong to him and no one else. And I’ll wait for him for ever if necessary. Not that someone like you could ever understand that,’ she added, her voice ringing with contempt.

There was an odd silence as he studied her, eyes narrowed. Then, ‘You are wrong, ma mie,’ he said softly. ‘Parce que, enfin, je comprends tout.’ He gave a brief, harsh sigh. ‘I see I shall have to be patient with you, Hélène, but my ultimate reward will make it worthwhile.’

‘Damn you,’ she said violently. ‘Can’t you see I’d die rather than let you touch me again?’

He reached her almost before she had finished speaking, and pulled her against him, crushing the breath from her as his lips descended on hers.

Nothing in her life had prepared her for the heated relentlessness of his kiss, and he took all the time he needed, exploring deeply, draining every drop of sweetness from her startled mouth.

Tiny fires were dancing in the dark eyes when, at last, he released her.

‘You see,’ he told her ironically, ‘you still live. So learn from this, and do not issue ridiculous challenges that you cannot hope to win.’ He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, palm uppermost, and she cried out in shock as his teeth grazed the soft mound beneath her thumb.

‘Au revoir, ma belle,’ he said softly. ‘And remember this—on my next visit I shall expect to spend the night.’

And he left her standing there, mute and shaken as she stared after him, her tingling hand pressed to her startled, throbbing mouth.

A lot of those weeds you’re pulling out are plants, Miss Helen,’ George told her reproachfully.

Helen jumped guiltily, looking at the wilted greenery in her trug. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said dismally. ‘I’m sorry.’

She’d hoped that some intensive gardening would calm her down and restore her equilibrium, but it wasn’t working out like that.

The thought of Marc Delaroche was interfering with her concentration at every level, and this infuriated her.

She had tried to call Nigel and beg him to come down, even if it was only for a couple of hours, so she could talk to him. But his mobile phone was permanently switched off, it seemed.

And even if she had managed to contact him, what could she have said? That she needed him to hold her and kiss her and take away the taste of another man’s mouth?

The only other man, in fact, who had ever kissed her in passion.

Her mouth still seemed swollen and faintly tingling from the encounter, but maybe she was just being paranoid. Someone had made a pass at her, that was all. The sort of thing that she should have been able to take in her stride if she’d possessed an ounce of sophistication. She could even have laughed about it, telling Nigel, You’d better stake your claim, darling, because I’m being seriously fancied by someone else.

And he would have laughed too, because he knew she’d never looked at anyone but him since she was thirteen, and that they belonged together.

Anyway, her best plan would be to put the whole thing out of her mind. Marc Delaroche had simply been amusing himself, she thought, and he probably had his next target already lined up. Quite apart from his admittedly diabolical attraction, he was rich enough to ensure that he didn’t get many refusals. And he wouldn’t waste time repining over any of the few women who resisted him. Or risk another rejection by returning.

He’d called her ‘ma belle’, but that had to be just a seduction ploy, because she wasn’t beautiful at all. Moderately attractive was the best she could honestly claim, and he knew it. He’d probably thought she would fall into his arms through sheer gratitude, she told herself, viciously slicing her trowel through a dandelion root.

All the same, she wished desperately that he hadn’t sought her out and forced this confrontation on her.

She might not like him, and she certainly didn’t trust him, but she could have done with him on her side when the committee came to make their decision.

No chance of that now, of course. And she still couldn’t understand what had possessed him. Yes, she’d been aware of him too, she admitted defensively, but only because she’d had no choice. During the interview he’d hardly taken his eyes off her. But she certainly hadn’t offered him any encouragement to—pursue her like this. Quite the opposite, in fact.

At the same time she felt oddly depressed. She absolutely didn’t want him as a lover. She probably wouldn’t choose him as a friend, but she surely didn’t need him as an enemy either, she thought, and sighed without quite knowing why.

The sun went down that evening behind a bank of cloud, and the following day brought grey skies and drizzle and the temperature dropping like a stone.

Outside work had to be halted, and if the miserable conditions persisted to the weekend, the tourists would stay away too, Helen fretted.

She caught up on the household accounts—a depressing task at the best of times—helped Daisy bake for the freezer, and waited feverishly for the mail van to call each day. The committee chairman had said she would hear before the end of the month, and that was fast approaching. All she could hope was that no news might be good news.

Thankfully, Marc Delaroche had made no attempt to contact her again. Maybe he’d decided to cut his losses and retire from the fray after all. But the thought of him still made her uneasy, and her attempts to blot him from her memory did not appear to be working too well.

It would have made things so much easier if she’d been able to talk to Nigel, she acknowledged unhappily. But there’d been no reply from his flat after the weekend, so she’d gritted her teeth and made the unpopular move of phoning him at work—only to be told that he was working in Luxembourg all week. And when she’d asked for the name of his hotel, she’d been told briskly that the bank did not give out that sort of information.

Back to square one, she realised without pleasure. Unless he called her instead, of course, and how likely was that?

She stopped herself right there. She was being critical, which was only one step removed from disloyal. Especially when she knew from past experience that these trips were often landed on him at ridiculously short notice. And he was bound to be home at the weekend, she told herself, because this time it was his mother’s birthday.

Helen didn’t know what kind of celebration was being planned, but she’d managed to find a card with a Persian cat on it that was the double of the bad-tempered specimen occupying its own special chair in Mrs Hartley’s drawing room. She’d signed it ‘Best wishes’ rather than ‘Love from’, in tacit acknowledgement that her relationship with Nigel’s mother had always been tricky. That was one of the reasons they’d delayed making their engagement official.

‘She’ll be fine,’ Nigel had said. ‘She just needs a bit of time to get used to the idea. And to you.’

But she’s known me since I was thirteen, Helen had thought, troubled. And even then I don’t think I was ever on her A-list.

Thought it—but hadn’t said it.

Still, Mrs Hartley’s sensibilities couldn’t be allowed to intrude any longer—or any further. Helen suspected she was the kind of mother, anyway, who believed no girl would ever be good enough for her only son. Nothing useful would be achieved by putting off the announcement any longer.

Because, whether the committee’s decision was for or against the restoration of Monteagle, she was going to need Nigel’s love and support as never before. And surely, in spite of the demands of his career, he would understand that and be there for her—wouldn’t he?

It irked her to realise that Marc Delaroche, however despicable his motives, had actually taken more interest in the house than Nigel had ever shown. And he was right about the State Bedroom, too. Her grandfather wouldn’t have wanted it left untouched, like some empty shrine.

Instead, it should be top of her refurbishment list and opened to the public. She might find the Charles the Second legend distasteful, but a lot of people would think it a romantic story, and let their imaginations free on the use that giant four-poster had been put to during the King’s visit.

She went up there with a notebook and pen and took a clear-eyed look round. The ornamental plaster on the ceiling was in urgent need of restoration in places, and there were timbered walls waiting to be exposed underneath layers of peeling wallpaper. The ancient Turkish carpet was past praying for, but it was concealing wooden floorboards that the original surveyor’s report had declared free of woodworm or dry rot, and she could only hope that was still the case.

The silk bed hangings and window curtains were frankly disintegrating, and couldn’t be saved, but their heavy embroidery was intact, and still beautiful.

Helen recalled that Mrs Stevens at the village post office, who was a skilled needlewoman, had told her months ago that if the elaborate patterns were cut out carefully they could be transferred to new fabric. She’d suggested, too, that the embroidery group at the Women’s Institute, which she chaired, might take it on as a project.

First catch your fabric, Helen thought, doing some rueful calculations. But at least she knew now what her first priority should be, even though it was galling that she’d been alerted to it by Marc Delaroche.

But if I get the money from the committee I might even feel marginally grateful to him, she thought. Maybe.

She was sitting at the kitchen table on Friday evening, going over some of the estimates her grandfather had obtained and trying to work out the inevitable percentage increases for the intervening period, when Lottie arrived with the new batch of guidebooks.

‘Hey, there.’ She gave Helen a quizzical glance. ‘Got any good news for me?’

‘Not yet.’ Helen gave a sigh. ‘And I was so sure I’d hear this week.’

‘Actually,’ Lottie said, ‘I was thinking of something more personal than the grant application.’ She looked around. ‘All on your own?’ she enquired, with clear disappointment.

‘Not any more.’ Helen pushed her papers aside and got up to fill the kettle. ‘Who were you expecting?’

‘I thought Nigel might be here and had my speedy exit all planned,’ Lottie explained. ‘So—where is he?’

Helen shrugged as she got down the coffee jar. ‘Arriving tomorrow, I guess. I haven’t heard yet.’

Lottie frowned. ‘But his car was in the drive at his parents’ place earlier. That’s when I put two and two together about the party.’

Helen stared at her. ‘Lottie—what on earth are you talking about?’

‘Oh, hell,’ her friend groaned. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve put my foot in it. I was so sure…’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s just that Ma Hartley rang me this afternoon, all sweetness and light, wanting me to quote for catering a ‘very special buffet’ next month. She was so pleased and coy about it that I jumped to the obvious conclusion. I’m so sorry, love.’

Helen spooned coffee into two beakers with more than usual care. ‘Nigel’s probably planning it as a big surprise for me,’ she said calmly, ignoring the sudden churning in her stomach. ‘Although I can’t really imagine his mother turning cartwheels over it. She must like me better than I thought,’ she added, without any real conviction.

‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ Lottie said ruefully as she stirred her coffee.

‘No, it’s fine,’ Helen assured her. ‘And when I do see him I swear I’ll be the world’s most astonished person.’

That would be an easy promise to keep, she thought, when Lottie had gone. She was already bewildered and disturbed by his failure to contact her when he must know how she was longing to see him.

Well, she could do something about that at least, she thought, and she dialled the number of his parents’ home.

She’d hoped Nigel himself would answer, but inevitably it was his mother.

‘Oh, Helen,’ she said, without pleasure. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t a terribly convenient moment. You see, we have guests, and we’re in the middle of dinner.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said. ‘But I do need to speak to him.’

‘But not this evening.’ There was a steely note in Mrs Hartley’s voice. She sighed impatiently. ‘Oh, well. Perhaps if there’s something particular, he could call you tomorrow?’

Oh, nothing special, thought Helen. Only the rest of my life.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘I look forward to hearing from him.’

But it wasn’t true, she realised as she put down the phone. She had a feeling of dread, not anticipation. And once again Nigel’s mother had succeeded in making her feel excluded—as if she had no place in their lives.