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For a moment they both looked in her direction.
‘How’s she doing?’ he asked.
‘What do you think?’
Francesca’s smile was fixed, her eyes glassy with fatigue and the effort of listening to the two men who seemed to have her pinned in the corner.
‘Actually, I think she needs rescuing.’ He also knew that she’d endure anything rather than accept help from him. ‘Who are those people? Can’t they see she’s at the end of her tether?’
Matty shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. Probably people Steven was doing business with. Obviously things have been let go a bit in the last few months.’
‘Obviously,’ he muttered, heading in their direction, furious with Steven, furious with himself, but most of all furious with them for bothering Francesca at a time like this. She might not want his help, but she was getting it anyway. ‘We haven’t met,’ he said, offering his hand to one of the men and, as he took it, he turned him away from her, stepping between them. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t intended to be. ‘Guy Dymoke, Steven’s brother. I’ve been out of the country for a while. You’re friends of his?’
‘We’re business acquaintances.’ They introduced themselves, but he cut them off as they launched into an explanation of their precise connection with his brother.
‘It’s very good of you to give up your valuable time in this way.’
‘No trouble. I was just asking Miss Lang—’
‘This really isn’t a good time. Why don’t you give me a call?’ he said, handing the man his card and mentally willing Francesca to take advantage of the opportunity to escape, but she seemed fixed to the spot. Beyond help.
‘As I was just saying to Miss Lang,’ the man continued, stubbornly refusing to take the hint, ‘it’s really a matter of some urgency and no one at the office seems to know—’
This time he was cut off mid-sentence as Matty caught him behind the ankle with her wheelchair. ‘Oops, sorry. I can’t seem to get the hang of this thing.’ she said. Then, ‘Fran, sweetheart…’ It needed a second prompt before she responded. ‘Fran, you’re needed in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, right.’ She snapped out of whatever memory she was lost in and saw him. That seemed to do the trick. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’
‘But Miss Lang, I really need—’
‘Not now.’ Guy softened the words with a smile, all the while urging them firmly towards the door. ‘I know Francesca appreciates your sympathy, but it’s a difficult time for her. Bring your problems to me.’
Realising that they were not going to get any further, they took the hint and left.
‘Jerks,’ Matty said as she watched them leave, one favouring his left ankle.
‘I don’t think you’re a very nice person, Matty Lang.’
‘Really?’ She grinned. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in ages. For some reason, because I’m confined to a wheelchair, people seem to think I should have suddenly been transformed into a saint.’ Then, ‘Can I leave you to mop up the stragglers while I go and rustle up a pot of tea?’
No one needed her in the kitchen, although she was just in time to prevent Connie from loading crystal glasses into the dishwasher. Matty had simply been giving her a chance to escape, Fran realised belatedly. Guy, too, although it hurt to acknowledge that he might have even one kind bone in his body.
She should go back. People would be leaving, but she couldn’t face the drawing room again. The polite condolences which, for the most part, simply masked the unasked questions she could see in everyone’s eyes. They were sorry Steven was dead, sympathetic, but their concerns were with the future. Would the company go on? Would they have their jobs at the end of the month? Survival was the name of the game. For them, just as much as those two tactless imbeciles who undoubtedly wanted to know when their bills would be paid.
Questions to which she had no answers.
It occurred to her that she was now the owner of a business that she knew next to nothing about. She’d talked about going back to work once she’d had Toby, but Steven had insisted that she had enough to do running their home, being Toby’s mother. That it was his job to take care of them.
Even while he was dying he’d insisted that he’d got it sorted…that he was going to take care of them all.
She choked back a sob as she sank on to the saggy old sofa that filled one corner of the kitchen, curling up into it for comfort. For endless days she’d been holding on, knowing that once the funeral was over she would have to confront the future. But not now. Not today.
Guy shut the door on the last of the mourners, then went through to the kitchen to find Francesca. He had no illusions about his reception, but he had to convince her that she must call him if she had any problems. That he’d be there for her. He doubted that she’d ask him for help, but he’d leave his number with Matty anyway. She was sharp enough to call him if…
A ball bounced at his feet and he turned to confront a small boy who was standing on the half-landing. There was no mistaking who he was. He had something of Steve about him, a nose that was a gift from his grandfather, his mother’s corn-gold hair.
The wrench at his heartstrings was so unexpected, so painful, that for a moment he clutched his fist to his chest as if to hold his heart in place. When he’d read that Francesca and Steve had a son he had been bombarded with such a mixture of emotions that he hadn’t known what to do with himself. The truth was that there was nothing to do. Only endure.
He bent to pick up the ball but for a moment couldn’t speak, just stood there, holding it.
The child bounced down the stairs one step at a time, then, suddenly shy, stopped about halfway. Guy swallowed, tried to form the words, finally managed, ‘Hello, Toby.’
‘Who are you?’ he said, hanging on to the banister rail as he hopped down another step. ‘How do you know my name?’
He’d read it in a newspaper clipping sent to him by his secretary.
Francesca Lang and Steven Dymoke are pleased to announce the birth of their son Tobias Lang Dymoke.
He’d sent the antique silver rattle, a family heir-loom that should have been passed to his own first-born. A gesture that was meant to say to Steve that he was valued. That they were equals. He’d hoped that with a woman like Francesca at his side, with the birth of his son, Steve might have discovered an inner strength, self-confidence to finally realise that. Maybe he had, but his gift had been returned. The message was clear. Keep away.
‘I’m your Uncle Guy.’ He offered the child the ball and he descended another couple of steps until they were at the same eye level. Then, as he made a grab for the ball, he lost his balance and Guy found himself with an armful of small boy.
‘What are you doing?’
Francesca’s anxious voice startled Toby and he began to cry.
‘Give him to me!’ She didn’t wait, but wrenched the child from his arms, making things worse as she hugged him tight, frightening him. ‘What is it with you? You think just because Steven’s dead you can walk into his home as if you own the place, pick up his son—’
‘The boy overbalanced, Francesca. I caught him before he fell.’ About to add that he was fine until she’d shouted, he thought better of it. She’d just suffered one terrible loss and it was only natural that she’d be protective. ‘I was looking for you to let you know I’m leaving.’
‘You’ve said it. Now will you please just go.’
Distraught, grieving, she wasn’t about to listen to him and he wasn’t about to try and justify his absence from their lives. ‘I simply wanted to let you know that you don’t have to worry about the paperwork, Steve’s business. I’ll handle it, and if there’s anything you need—’
‘You won’t,’ she declared, lifting her chin a little. ‘It’s my concern, not yours. And I don’t. Need anything.’
Her rejection felt as physical as a slap. He took a breath. ‘All you have to do is call my office. Speak to my secretary—’
‘Your secretary? Well, thanks. It’s good to know where I stand in your priorities.’
‘I thought…’ He’d thought that dealing through an intermediary would be easier for her, but the truth was that in the face of her complete refusal to see him as anything other than her enemy he felt utterly helpless.
Matty appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘I’ve made a pot of tea if anyone fancies a cup,’ she said, then glanced from him to Francesca and back again. ‘I can make that Scotch if you’d prefer?’
‘Another time. I have to go.’ He crossed to her, bent to take her hand, then taking the opportunity to slip her the card with his mobile number on it, the one he’d been planning to give Francesca. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Matty.’
‘Well, don’t say it as if was the first and last time.’
‘I’m sure Guy has more pressing demands on his time, Matty. A potential oil field or three needing his expertise.’
‘I’ll be staying in London for a week or two.’
‘That long?’ The scorn in Francesca’s voice would have withered crab grass. ‘Oh, well, then we’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about, have we…?’
She was near the edge of hysteria, he thought, and his presence wasn’t helping. Maybe Matty realised that too because she caught his eye and said, ‘I’ll see you out.’
‘It’s all right. He knows the way. This used to be his house until he sold it to Steven at the top of the property boom.’ He looked up and, seeing the shock on his face, she said, ‘What’s the matter? Did you think I didn’t know how much he paid you?’
What could he say? Tell her that she was wrong? That the man she loved, nursed, cared for, had lied to her?
‘He adored you, Guy,’ she said, as he turned to leave. ‘Worshipped you. He was always making excuses for you. In his eyes you could do no wrong…’
How he wished that was true, but wishing helped no one. Instead, he smiled at the child who had stopped crying and was peering up at him from beneath long wet lashes.
‘Goodbye, Toby,’ he said, through what felt like a rock in his throat, and the child thrust the ball he was still holding towards him.
He didn’t know what was expected of him and he got no help from Francesca. Feeling helpless was becoming repetitive. He wasn’t used to it. He didn’t like it. Choosing action, he took the ball and said, ‘Thank you, Toby.’ The child buried his head in his mother’s shoulder.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow, Francesca.’
‘Don’t bother.’ She didn’t wait to see how he reacted. She swept from the hall, taking Toby with her, and he forced his unwilling feet towards the door.
‘Shall I leave this with you?’ he asked, offering the ball to Matty.
‘Toby gave it to you because he wants you to come back,’ she said.
‘His mother doesn’t feel the same way.’
‘Possibly not, but I don’t see anyone else crossing continents and oceans to be at her side—’
‘Steve was my brother,’ he said.
‘—or leaping to her rescue when she was being hounded by men anxious about their invoices,’ she continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. Her face, thin, plainly marked with everything she’d suffered, was bright with intelligence and he sensed an ally.
‘Have they reason to be?’ he asked. ‘Anxious?’
‘Steven didn’t confide in me but he hasn’t been in any state to run the business himself for the last six months.’
‘I wish she’d let me know.’
‘He wouldn’t let her. At the end she called your office anyway, but it was too late. All you can do now, Mr Knight Errant, is stick around and help her pick up the pieces.’
CHAPTER TWO
FRANCESCA was shaking so badly that she had to sit down before her legs gave way. Toby struggled to free himself, but she clutched at him as if he was the only thing standing between her and some dark chasm that yawned in front of her.
She’d been so sure that Guy wouldn’t come today. It had been pure relief when his secretary rang to tell her that although she’d finally managed to get the news to him he was unlikely to make it home in time, even for the funeral. Easy enough to assure the woman that she understood, decline all offers of assistance.
She should have known he would move heaven and earth. Steven had once told her that his brother was a man who simply refused to contemplate the impossible, that only once had he backed down, retreated from the challenge to get what he wanted. Guy Dymoke was a dark, unseen shadow that had seemed to haunt Steven. She should have, could have, done something to change that, she thought guiltily. Made an effort to bridge the gulf that had opened up between them, but an uneasy sense of self-preservation had warned her to leave well alone.
‘Why don’t you go and put your feet up, Fran? You look done in.’
Grateful to Matty for distracting her, she finally allowed Toby to escape. The one thing she mustn’t become was a clinging mother, weeping over her child. ‘I’m fine, really. Where’s Connie?’
‘She’s tidying up the drawing room.’
‘You’ve both been wonderful. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’
‘I wish I could say that the worst is over.’
‘It is. I just have to see the solicitor tomorrow. Sort out the will.’ She didn’t anticipate any difficulty. Steven had told her that he’d made sure she and Toby were taken care of; he must have known he was dying then, despite the fact that neither of them had ever acknowledged it and she had to believe he meant it.
Her real problem was his business. What was going to happen to that?
‘Just remember that you’re not alone,’ Matty continued, distracting her. ‘I’m here, and Connie will hold the fort with Toby—’
‘It’s not necessary, really.’ She’d been forcing her mouth into a smile, her voice into soothing tones of reassurance for so long that it did it on automatic. But she was determined not to worry Matty. She’d made an amazing recovery but she was still far from strong.
‘She wants to help, Fran. To be honest I think she’s terrified you’ll move away and won’t take her with you.’
‘No! I couldn’t… I wouldn’t…’ Even as she said it she realised that Matty was appealing for reassurance too. ‘She’s family,’ she said.
‘Of course she is. That’s what I told her. And Guy Dymoke looks like the kind of man a woman in trouble could lean on.’ Then, while she was still trying to get her head around the idea of leaning on Guy, ‘Is there going to be trouble?’
Francesca was drained, exhausted, tired to the bone, but it wasn’t over yet and she forced the smile into a grin. ‘Are you kidding? I’ve got a company to run and the most challenging thing I’ve had to think about for the last three years is the menu for the next dinner party. That sounds like enough trouble for anyone.’
‘Don’t undersell yourself, Fran.’ Matty reached out, took her hand, held it for a moment. Then, ‘I need to know. Is there going to be trouble?’
She wanted to say no. Absolutely not. The way she had to Guy. But she’d encouraged her cousin to come and share the house after her accident. Steven hadn’t been wildly keen, but the house was huge, far too big for the three of them. Matty had needed to be in London for treatment, needed to have someone close she could call on in an emergency, and there was no one else. Nowhere else. And it wasn’t a one way bargain. She was company during Steven’s absences abroad seeking out the merchandise he imported.
The truth was, she just didn’t know. Steven had never talked about the business. Had always brushed aside her interest, her questions, as something she needn’t bother her head about, until she’d stopped bothering to ask. She wished she hadn’t allowed herself to be so easily distracted, but he obviously hadn’t wanted her involved, and she had Toby and Matty…
‘I don’t want to think about it,’ she said. ‘Not today. Let’s have that Scotch.’
‘But what about the house?’
She heard the fear and knew it was a fair question. Matty had an investment in the house. She’d spent her own money on the conversion of the lower ground floor into a self-contained flat suitable for her wheelchair. A talented illustrator, she’d extended it to make a studio so that she could work there.
‘He always promised me that the house was safe.’ Always promised that he would never use their home to raise finance. She wanted to believe that he had meant that, but if the company was in any kind of trouble—and what company wasn’t these days?—and the bank wanted its pound of flesh…
She and Toby could live anywhere, but Matty would never be able to find another home in London. Not like the one she had with them, especially converted to her needs. With the space. Room for her drawing board…
‘I’m sorry. Of course he did. It was your palace—he said so often enough, and you were his princess.’ Matty looked around. ‘I wonder how he raised enough cash to buy it at the top of the property boom?’
‘He didn’t have to. His father left him some money. Nothing like the fortune Guy had in trust from his mother, of course—especially after some City fraud put a major dent in the family finances—but there was enough for this house. He just wanted everything to be perfect for me.’
As if he had something to prove. There had only ever been one person he needed to prove himself to—and, torn between relief and fury that Guy had never bothered to show up and be impressed by his success, she declared, ‘And it was. Perfect.’
But she couldn’t quite meet Matty’s eye as she said it.
Guy paid the cab driver, peeled off the parking ticket stuck to his windscreen, tossed it into the glove box and headed for the echoing space of the Thames-side loft apartment that he’d lavished time and money on, but which only served to remind him of the emptiness at the heart of his life.
He poured Scotch into a glass, sank into the comfort of a soft leather armchair and stared out across the river. He wasn’t seeing the boats, didn’t notice the lights that were coming on as dusk settled over the city, blurring the familiar skyline. All he could see was Francesca Lang. Not sombre in black with her hair coiled up off her neck, but the way she’d looked the first time he’d set eyes on her.
He sipped the whisky, but its heat didn’t warm him. There was nothing in the world that could warm him other than the arms of a woman who was forbidden him in every code he lived by. A woman who today had looked at him as if he was something that had crawled out from under a stone. He’d anticipated a frosty reception, but he hadn’t anticipated this level of animosity. Every single word she’d uttered had felt like a blow. He’d been taking them from her all afternoon and he felt bruised to the bone.
He abandoned the whisky—there was no help for what ailed him in a bottle—got up and walked restlessly across to the window, seeking distraction. Finding none.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, closed his eyes. Running the endless loop of memory that was all he had of her.
If he’d had any idea what was coming he’d have been on his guard, but the moment Francesca had appeared in the doorway of that restaurant she’d stolen his wits as well as what passed for his heart, blind-siding him, so that he’d been exposed, vulnerable, and Steve—clever Steve—had instantly picked up the signals and positively revelled in the fact that, for the first time in his life, he had something that his half-brother wanted, something he could never have.
He hadn’t blamed him for that. He had just wanted to be somewhere else, a million miles from the restaurant, but there had been no escape. There had been an entire evening to get through first and all he could do was pull down the mental shutters, shake Steve’s hand, brush Francesca’s cheek with his lips as he welcomed her into the family, congratulated her. It had been a quiet torture then and the slow drip of it had never left him.
His mind, stuck in an endless re-run that he couldn’t escape—didn’t want to escape—continued to play that moment over and over every time he stopped concentrating on something else. Every time he closed his eyes.
The peachy softness of her cheek. A subtle scent that hadn’t come from any bottle but was a fusion of her hair, the warmth of her body, her clothes, the fresh air she’d brought in with her, all enhanced by a touch of something exotic and rich. He’d had three years to analyse it, reduce it to its constituent parts.
All he had been able to do was wish them well, be glad that Steve had finally found what he’d always been searching for. Someone who loved him. Someone who would always be there. A family of his own.
And live with it.
Attempt to carry on a normal conversation.
‘Where are you planning to live?’ he’d asked. ‘Steve’s flat isn’t big enough for two, let alone a baby.’ It was like prodding himself with a hot needle.
‘We’re looking around for just the right place…’ Then, with a casual shrug, Steve added, ‘Fran and I looked at the Elton Street house yesterday.’
His heart missed a beat as he forced himself to turn to Francesca, include her in the conversation. ‘Did you like it?’
‘It’s a beautiful house,’ she said, not quite meeting his eyes.
‘Fran fell head over heels in love with it,’ Steve said emphatically. ‘I’d like to come and see you tomorrow. Talk about it.’
He ignored the opening his brother had left him.
Maybe he was the one avoiding eye contact. Avoiding a repeat of that moment when, with one look, the entire world seemed to slide into place and lock with an almost audible click; the kick-in-the-stomach pain that went with the loss of something precious.
He forced himself to look directly at her.
‘You would like to live there?’ he asked.
For a moment something shimmered between them as, very quietly, she said, ‘It felt like home.’
He dragged himself back from the edge. From stepping off. From saying, Come with me and I will give you everything your heart desires. The house, my heart, my life…
‘Then I’m sure Steve will find a way to give it to you.’
‘It depends on the price. Unlike you, brother, I don’t have unlimited means at my disposal.’
‘No one has unlimited means.’ But he’d got the picture. The reason for the invitation to dinner. The last time he’d had a call from his half-brother—make that every time he’d had a call from him—it had been to ‘borrow’ money, on the last occasion to ask for start-up funds for his latest business venture. He’d assumed tonight was going to be more of the same, but clearly it wasn’t to help with some half-baked business plan he wanted this time.
‘Have you set a wedding date?’ he asked, evading a direct answer and Steve didn’t push. He clearly didn’t want Francesca to know that he was asking for help with finance. But then why would he push? In the past all he’d had to do was lay out his desires and wait for guilt to do the rest.
‘Wedding? Who said anything about getting married?’
‘Isn’t that the obvious next step?’ He looked at Steve. A youthful marriage was the one mistake he hadn’t been called to bail him out of, but anything was possible. ‘Unless there’s some good reason why you shouldn’t?’ He managed a grin of sorts. ‘Is there something you haven’t told me?’
Steve grinned right back. ‘Relax, Guy. I don’t have a secret wife or three tucked away. Fran’s the only woman I’ve ever wanted to settle down with.’
‘Then what’s your problem?’ If Francesca Lang had been his, nothing on earth would have stopped him from swearing his undying love in front of as many witnesses as he could cram into one room. Making that public vow to love and honour and keep her, in sickness and in health, for as long as they both should live… ‘If you’re setting up home together, having a baby…’
It was like poking a sore tooth. Something he knew he’d regret, but he couldn’t stop himself.
‘For heaven’s sake, listen to yourself. Marriage is meaningless in this day and age. An anachronism. Outdated. Just a way of keeping lawyers fat when it all goes wrong.’
He glanced at Francesca to see how she was taking that ‘when’, but she was looking down at her plate.