Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous

collection of fantastic novels by

bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Duelling Fire
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘AND are you going to accept?’

The speaker was a short plump girl, in her middle twenties, with a round good-natured face and curly dark hair. She was lounging comfortably on a couch, lazily picking the soft centres from a box of chocolates open beside her, and flicking casually through the pages of a fashion magazine.

The girl with her was her complete opposite. Tall and slim and blonde, her straight silvery hair confined at her nape with a leather thong, Sara Shelley was presently coiled on the floor, examining her profile from the lotus position. She had been sitting like that for some time now, and her friend and companion, Laura Russell, was getting tired of waiting for her reply.

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Sara uncoiled herself at last, and sat cross-legged looking up at her friend. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, isn’t that the truth? And believe me, Laura, that’s what I am.’

‘Rubbish!’ Laura swung her feet to the floor and faced the other girl impatiently. ‘You know you could always get a job here. You don’t have to accept this woman’s charity!’

‘But it is a job, don’t you see?’ exclaimed Sara wryly. ‘A job I’m singularly well qualified to accept. And it’s all right for you to talk casually of employment, with the security of a degree behind you!’

‘You’re not without qualifications,’ Laura protested. ‘You had a good education.’

‘Until I was sixteen,’ Sara reminded her flatly. ‘When Daddy decided I could learn more from the university of life.’ She sighed. ‘Not that I objected at the time.’ She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t wait to leave school and be with him. But—–’ Her voice broke with sudden emotion, ‘how was I to know he’d walk out on me, before I was twenty-one?’

Laura’s face registered her sympathy. ‘Sara, he didn’t walk out on you—–’

‘Well, what would you call it?’ Sara’s eyes shone with unshed tears. ‘I think taking your own life is such a cowardly thing to do. Just because he believed he was a loser!’

‘He did owe over thirty thousand pounds,’ Laura reminded her gently. ‘Oh, I’m not saying that excuses him, and abandoning you—well, I can understand how betrayed you must feel. But, darling, can you imagine how he must have felt before he—well—–’

‘—–swallowed the overdose?’ Sara completed the sentence ironically, and then got lithely to her feet, a slim tragic figure in a black track suit, her feet bare. ‘Don’t worry, Laura. It’s two months since he died. I’ve come to terms with the finality of his death, and I can take it.’

Laura sighed. She felt so helpless. If only there was some way she could be of some use!

‘Cheer up!’ Sara was speaking again, forcing a bright smile to her generous mouth. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t feel sorry for myself—at least, only occasionally. And Aunt Harriet’s invitation is a godsend!’

‘Is it?’ Laura was not so sure. ‘Sara, what do you know about this woman, really know, I mean? Why, she’s not even your aunt, not any real relation at all. Just a cousin of your father’s.’

Sara shrugged, putting up her hands to lift the heavy weight of her hair from her shoulders. Watching her, Laura wondered if she had any idea how vulnerable she was. For twenty—almost twenty-one years—Sara had enjoyed the privilege of her father’s protection, first at boarding school, and later, as Sara herself had said, accompanying him on his travels about the world. Charles Shelley had been a freelance journalist, but freelance gambler would have suited him better, Laura decided ruefully. He was good at his job, very good, but as soon as he had any money, he couldn’t wait to spend it. Having known her since she was born, Laura’s own mother having acted as nanny to the baby Sara, Laura felt an especial sense of responsibility for her friend, and the fact that Sara had led what many people would have regarded as a very sophisticated life seemed in no way to have equipped her for the vagaries of this world. She had always enjoyed her father’s protection, he had idolised the girl—which made her lack of affectation that much more remarkable—and Laura sometimes wondered whether Charles Shelley had really intended to kill himself and leave Sara to fend for herself.

And now, out of the blue, the letter had arrived from Charles Shelley’s cousin, Harriet Ferrars, sympathising with her over her father’s death, and inviting her to go and live with her, as her friend and companion. Laura had never even met Harriet Ferrars. She had only rarely heard her name mentioned, and Sara herself knew nothing about the household in Wiltshire where she was expected to live. Laura found the whole idea rather suspicious, and she had lost no time in telling Sara so.

With another smile, Sara allowed her hair to tumble carelessly about her shoulders, and squatted before her friend compassionately. ‘Stop worrying,’ she ordered, her green eyes warm with affection. ‘I haven’t said I’m going yet, have I? And if I do go, and I don’t like it, I can always come back. You’ll take me in, won’t you? You won’t let me sleep on the streets.’

Laura clicked her tongue. ‘Sara, be serious! You know you have a home here as long as you want one. It’s a small flat, I know, but my work at the hospital keeps me out of it for long periods at a time, and if you wanted a bigger place, we could pool our resources.’

‘What resources?’ Sara asked teasingly, and then nodded. ‘Yes, I guess we could. I wonder how much a cleaner is paid these days.’

‘Sara—honestly!’ Laura shook her head. ‘With your looks, you could be a model.’

‘A model?’ Sara giggled and rose to her feet. ‘Oh, Laura, I wonder if you have any idea how difficult it is to become a model! There must be dozens of hopefuls, just like me, turning up at agencies every day, and besides, I’d be no good as a model.’ She grimaced. ‘My breasts are too big!’

Laura pursed her lips. ‘How do you know that?’

Sara ran exploratory hands down over her waist and hips. ‘I just know it. Laura, they like flat-chested ladies without too many bulges—–’

‘You don’t have bulges!’

‘Perhaps not.’ Sara glanced at her reflection in the convex mirror above the sideboard without approval. ‘In any case, I don’t see myself as a model, Laura. I’m more the cleaner type, honestly.’

Laura’s lips compressed as she looked up into Sara’s twinkling eyes. ‘But are you the companion type?’ she retorted. ‘That’s what you have to ask yourself. Can you honestly see yourself changing library books, or taking the poodle for a walk, or reading out loud from some ghastly romantic novel!’

‘As a matter of fact, I like romantic novels,’ replied Sara firmly. ‘And so do you, if the contents of your bookshelf are anything to go by.’

Laura looked vaguely discomfited. ‘I have to have something undemanding to read when I’m on night duty,’ she defended herself, and then broke into an unwilling smile as Sara caught her eye. ‘Oh, all right. So I’m a romantic, too. But do you really see yourself doing that sort of thing, week in and week out?’

‘That remains to be seen,’ remarked Sara lightly. ‘Laura, don’t be depressed. As I say, I haven’t made up my mind yet. But, if nothing more exciting comes along, the least I can do is give it a whirl.’

Two weeks later, Sara began to regret those words as the jolting country train stopped at yet another junction. She had not known there were still trains like this, but Aunt Harriet’s instructions had been very explicit. ‘Change at Swindon,’ she had written, after Sara had acknowledged and accepted her kind invitation, ‘and then ask for the Buford connection. You’ll be met at King’s Priory, so don’t worry about your luggage.’

As the train jerked on again, Sara rested her head against the shabby upholstery and rehearsed what she was going to say when Aunt Harriet asked her about her father. She was bound to ask—everyone did. And it was best to have her story intact before she reached her destination. Of course, the circumstances of Charles Shelley’s demise were bound to be known to her. The papers had been full of the story. Well-known Foreign Correspondent Found Dead, one headline had boasted. Heroin addiction not ruled out.

But her father had not been a drug addict, Sara comforted herself disconsolately, gazing out unseeingly at the burgeoning hedges that marched beside the track. To her knowledge, he had never taken anything stronger than aspirin, and to suggest that he had was both cruel and libellous. Nevertheless, the fact remained that he had died from an overdose of morphine, and she had been too shocked and too grief-stricken to care much what the papers said. Her father was dead, the only parent she had ever known was no longer a living breathing being, and it wasn’t until after the funeral that her senses rebelled. She began to see that what he had done was unforgivable, and while it didn’t stop her loving him or grieving for him, it did help to steel her against the uncertainties of the future.

Laura had been a brick, and without her uncomplicated companionship, Sara didn’t know what she would have done. When she first arrived back from India, stunned and confused by her father’s sudden death in Calcutta, Laura had been the only person she could turn to, and in the weeks that followed she had earned Sara’s undying gratitude. It was she who had kept the unwanted reporters at bay, who had cared for and comforted the shattered victim of Charles Shelley’s suicide, and who latterly had encouraged Sara to regard the flat as her home.

But although Sara was tempted to let Laura go on looking after her, depending on her strength and letting her make all her decisions, gradually her spirit had reasserted itself. And when Harriet Ferrars’ letter arrived, she had realised that here was the opportunity to take her life into her own hands, and if she made an abysmal failure, then Laura could always say, ‘I told you so’.

The train was slowing again, and Sara resignedly checked the weathered sign that teetered unreliably in the brisk April breeze. King’s Priory, she read without interest, and then read it again with sudden apprehension. There was no mistake. This was the station Aunt Harriet had told her to alight at, and with a shivery sense of impatience she gathered her bags.

The carriage was almost deserted. It was one of those long cylinders, with a central passageway between rows of tables, and as there had been no one sharing her table, Sara had deposited her suitcases beneath it. She had three suitcases and an overnight bag, as well as her handbag and her vanity case, and although she had had Laura’s help at Paddington and a porter’s at Swindon, she saw with some trepidation that King’s Priory did not appear to boast any labour force other than the ticket collector.

Glad that her bag and vanity case had shoulder straps, she tugged the three suitcases and the holdall to the exit, and thrust open the door just as the guard was about to blow his whistle. Obviously few passengers ever alighted at King’s Priory, and he was quite prepared to send the train on its way after the briefest of stops possible.

‘You ought to have been ready to get out, miss,’ he grumbled testily, as she hauled her belongings down on to the platform. ‘This here train has a schedule to keep to, you know. It don’t wait here just for your convenience.’

Sara straightened from setting the suitcases to rights and surveyed the stout railwayman frostily. ‘What you’re saying, I’m sure, is that you don’t run these trains for the convenience of the passengers, isn’t that right?’ she enquired, copying her late father’s methods of intimidation.

The guard stiffened. ‘There’s no need to use that tone with me! Just because you nearly missed your stop—–’

‘I did not nearly miss my stop,’ Sara contradicted him smoothly. ‘However, I do have only one pair of arms, and as you can see, I have two pairs of suitcases.’

The guard muttered something under his breath, which she suspected had to do with the amount of luggage she was conveying, and then sniffed grudgingly. ‘Well—no harm done,’ he conceded, settling his cap more firmly on his head, and she acknowledged the faint reparation before tackling the trek to the barrier.

The man who had taken the tickets from the half dozen other commuters who had got out at King’s Priory watched without expression as she transferred herself and her luggage to the gate. Then, after he had punched her ticket, he turned away, and Sara was left to make her own arrangements in the departing draught from the train.

‘Thank you. Thank you so much,’ she muttered broodingly to herself, as she stepped through the barrier and surveyed the empty lane beyond. There was no sign of any vehicle, other than a beaten-up wreck occupying the yard behind the stationmaster’s office, and her lips tightened impatiently as she realised she didn’t know what she was going to do.

Evidently, King’s Priory was just a country halt, used for the most part, she suspected, by farmers and the like. There was no pretty village street opening up beyond the station, no taxis, not even a bus stop that she could see, and her heart sank miserably at this unwelcome prospect. Aunt Harriet—or perhaps she should say Miss Ferrars, right now the familiar appellation seemed less than appropriate—had known what time she was due to arrive. Surely she could have ensured there was someone available to meet her, even if it was only a taxi Sara herself would have to pay for.

She sighed, and glanced back at the station. It was quite a pretty halt, she conceded reluctantly. There were anemones and violets growing among the stones that made a kind of rockery at the back of the platform, and tulips still grew between the posts of the signpost, a vivid splash of colour in the chilly air of late afternoon. If only she did not feel quite so alone, she thought with a sudden rush of misery, but she quickly quelled the unworthy feeling as purely one of self-pity.

The welcome sound of a car’s engine rapidly dispelled her dejection. There was no one else waiting, and surely no other train due. The person who was driving the car had to be coming for her.

The car that eventually ground to a halt beside her was not at all the kind of vehicle Sara had expected. Used to the rather sedate tastes of her father’s contemporaries, she had assumed her aunt would drive a Rover or perhaps a Volvo, or some similar kind of comfortable saloon. The sleek red Mercedes that confronted her was of the two-seater sporting variety, and even as she acknowledged this, she saw to her regret that the man levering himself from behind the wheel was far too young to be Harriet Ferrars’ husband—had she had one! Obviously she had been mistaken in imagining this was her transport, but she couldn’t help the unwilling awareness that the driver was giving her a more than cursory appraisal. Indeed, his interest bordered on the insolent, and Sara turned her long green eyes in his direction, and returned his stare with deliberate arrogance.

He really was quite something, she conceded reluctantly, even while she resented his intrusion into her life. Lean and dark and indolent, with harshly attractive features which were so much more distinctive than mere good looks, he had a lithe sinuous physique that complemented the leather jacket and tight-fitting jeans he was wearing. He was tall, too, though not angularly so, and Sara was not unaware of his powerful shoulders and the hard muscularity of his thighs.

He slammed the car door and came round the bonnet without removing his eyes from hers, and Sara’s gaze faltered in the face of such blatant audacity. Just who the hell did he think he was? she asked herself indignantly, and summoned a freezing hauteur to combat his brazen effrontery.

‘I guess as there’s no one else around, you must be Sara Shelley,’ he remarked, as she was preparing her set-down, and her jaw sagged disbelievingly. ‘Is this all your luggage?’ he added with a wry grimace. ‘Or is the rest coming by carrier?’

Sara gathered herself abruptly. ‘This is all,’ she replied stiffly. ‘Did—did Miss Ferrars send you? I don’t believe she mentioned you.’

‘She wouldn’t.’ The man unlocked the boot and began heaving her cases inside. ‘And sure, it was Harriet who sent me. Belatedly, as you’ll no doubt have gathered.’

He sounded as if he hadn’t wanted to turn up here at all, and Sara could only assume he must be the son of some friend of Aunt Harriet’s. Or perhaps he was another relative, she reflected thoughtfully, then coloured when she realised he had finished stowing the cases and was waiting for her to get into the car.

She was glad she was wearing trousers as she subsided into the passenger seat. At least she didn’t have to worry about keeping her skirt over her knees, although she doubted that her escort was aware of the consideration. Having disposed of the introduction, he seemed indifferent to her feelings. He had neither apologised for being late nor apprised her of his identity, and Sara resented the unspoken assumption that she should be glad that he had come at all.

The Mercedes’ engine fired at the first attempt, and the sleek vehicle nosed its way out of the station yard. There were wild flowers growing in the hedges, and the faint smell of early broom in the air, and determining not to let his attitude disconcert her, Sara made an effort to be polite.

‘How—how is Miss Ferrars?’ she enquired, folding her hands in her lap, and as she did so, she realised how little she really knew of her father’s cousin. She hardly remembered the brief occasions they had met, all of them when she was only a schoolgirl, and more interested in the dolls and icecreams than in the lady who had provided them. The visits Harriet Ferrars had made to Sara’s school had been few and far between, and in the latter years she had not come at all. Her father had excused her on the grounds that ‘Harriet has problems of her own,’ although what those problems were he never specified. And once Sara had left St. Mawgan’s, she realised shamefully, she had never even thought of ‘Aunt’ Harriet—until the letter arrived.

‘She’s okay,’ her companion said now, glancing sideways at her. ‘Just as autocratic as ever. Or don’t you remember anything about those outings you made together?’

Sara moistened her lips. ‘I—remember the cream teas.’

‘Yes.’ The curve of his lips was faintly derisive. ‘I guess you would. Harriet always thought that everything had a price.’

Sara frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He paused. ‘I guess what you want to hear is that she’s looking forward to your arrival. She is.’ Again that mocking twist to his mouth. ‘She has great plans for you.’

Sara gazed at him somewhat resentfully. Exactly what was his relationship to Harriet Ferrars, and why should he speak so disparagingly about someone who obviously trusted him?

‘You haven’t told me your name, Mr—er—–’ she said stiffly, waiting for his insertion, and with a shrug he conceded the point.

‘Jude,’ he offered carelessly. ‘Just Jude. You’ll get used to seeing me around.’

‘Will I?’ Sara could not have been more surprised. Did that mean he worked for Harriet? It must. Yet she had never dreamt Harriet was affluent enough to employ anyone, much less a chauffeur. And yet what else could he be? Though he was so far removed from Sara’s image of a chauffeur, it seemed almost ludicrous. How old was he? she wondered, permitting herself a fleeting assessment: twenty-eight, thirty? Certainly no more, and surely he was far too familiar for an employee.

‘You really don’t know much about Harriet, do you?’ he suggested now, as the car ran between Elizabethan cottages flanking a village green. It was very pretty and picturesque, and for a moment Sara was diverted by the unexpected charm of her surroundings. But then, a challenging glance from eyes of a curious shade of light grey caused an uneasy pang of apprehension to sweep over her, and her fingers curled painfully into her palms.

‘I know enough,’ she declared, irritated that he should think he could speak to her in this way. ‘I probably know her as well as you do. Er—how long have you been working for Miss Ferrars?’

‘Working?’ He gave her a mocking look. ‘Let me see. Would you believe—ten years?’

‘Ten years!’ Sara was silenced. If he had been working for Aunt Harriet for ten years, then he probably knew she had only seen her aunt once in that time. It had been on her twelfth birthday. Her father had been covering a military take-over in some remote South American dictatorship, and she had been so pleased that someone had arrived to prove she had not been completely forgotten. Aunt Harriet had taken her out for tea, and over lemonade and cream cakes she had been the recipient of all Sara’s thwarted confidences. Remembering this now, realising that this man had been working for her aunt at that time, she inwardly cringed at her own naïvety. Had Aunt Harriet relayed her confidences to him? Had her girlish chatter been the source of some amusement to them? The idea was humiliating. But then another thought struck her. Aunt Harriet had driven herself that day. She remembered distinctly. She had been driving a rather ordinary saloon car, and surely if she had had a chauffeur he would have been with her.

‘I didn’t know Aunt Harriet had a chauffeur,’ she tendered now, realising that if this man did work for her aunt, then it was no doubt foolish to antagonise him until she saw for herself how the situation developed, and then turned bright red when he burst out laughing.

‘What makes you think I’m the chauffeur?’ he exclaimed, when he had sobered. ‘Do I look like a chauffeur? I’m sorry, I’ll have to take stock of the way I dress if I do.’

Sara pressed her lips together. ‘I naturally assumed— —’

‘What did you naturally assume, I wonder?’ Dark lashes narrowed the grey irises. ‘Why should you think I was Harriet’s chauffeur? What did she tell you?’

‘Nothing about you, anyway,’ retorted Sara hotly. ‘And as to why I thought you were the chauffeur, I don’t see in what other capacity you could serve my aunt.’

‘Don’t you? Don’t you really?’ His lips twisted. ‘Well, don’t worry about it. All will be explained in the fullness of time.’

Sara shook her head. ‘I wish you’d tell me. I don’t want to make any more mistakes.’ She held up her head. ‘I didn’t realise there would be anyone else—what I mean is—I understood I was to be her companion. I thought she lived alone.’

‘Harriet? Live alone?’ He took his eyes from the road to stare at her incredulously. ‘My God, you really don’t know her, do you?’

Sara’s colour refused to subside. ‘Perhaps if you were a little less scathing, and a little more helpful,’ she ventured.

‘What? And spoil Harriet’s fun? Oh, no.’ He shook his head derisively. ‘Well, cool it. We’re almost there.’

‘Are we?’

Sara’s apprehensions increased as they left the village behind to plough farther into the rolling countryside. Acres of wooded hillside gave on to luscious green pastures, grazed by herds of brown and white cattle. Across the fields she could see the spire of a church, and the thatched roofs of other cottages, and here and there a white-painted farmhouse, looking totally at home in the landscape. It was a rural scene, a placid scene—but Sara’s thoughts were anything but placid as she neared her destination.

‘Where—where does Miss Ferrars live?’ she asked, her troubled thoughts urging her into speech. ‘The address was just given as Knight’s Ferry, Buford, Wiltshire. What is Knight’s Ferry? A village? Or the name of her house?’

‘That’s Knight’s Ferry,’ declared her companion flatly, as the road mounted a slight rise and they looked down on the turrets of a sprawling country mansion. ‘Didn’t you know? Harriet’s father was a wealthy man, and she was his only offspring.’

‘No!’ Sara could not believe it. She turned bewildered eyes in his direction. ‘I thought—I mean, I assumed—–’

‘—that she was some lonely old lady, in need of your care and protection?’ he finished for her drily. ‘Nothing could be farther from the truth.’

Sara shook her head and turned to look at the house again, but they were on the downward slope, and tall hedges obscured the view. All she could see was another house in the distance, standing on a knoll, which made it visible from the road. A larger house, she estimated, backed by an imposing sweep of firs, and with acres of parkland falling away to where she guessed her aunt’s house was situated.

She caught her breath, and her companion, misinterpreting her reaction, said cynically: ‘Yes, impressive, isn’t it? Linden Court.’ He paused. ‘Lord Hadley’s residence.’

‘Is it?’ Sara’s voice revealed her uncertainty, and as if taking pity on her, his eyes darkened with unexpected sympathy.

‘Poor Sara,’ he said, and her indignation at his casual use of her Christian name was superseded by other, more disturbing emotions. ‘You really don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for, do you? Just don’t let Harriet eat you alive!’

CHAPTER TWO

ANY response Sara might have made to this remark was thwarted by the sudden eruption of a horse and rider into the road in front of them. It all happened so quickly, Sara was full of admiration for her companion’s swift reactions as he stood on his brakes. The Mercedes swerved only slightly, the tyres squealing on the gravelly surface, and they halted abruptly only a few feet from the animal’s rearing hooves.

‘Bloody fool!’ Jude muttered savagely, thrusting open his door, and as he did so the rider swung down from his sweating mount to confront him.

Sara found that she was shaking, too, but she watched with some trepidation as the two men faced one another with apparent recognition. They were not at all alike, she acknowledged inconsequently. The man Jude was so dark and aggressive, the other man mousey-fair and conciliatory. It was obvious in the way he held up his hand in mitigation, and the disarming smile of apology that split his gentler features.

‘I’m most awfully sorry, Jude,’ Sara heard him say contritely, soothing the fretful horse with his hand on its muzzle. ‘I had no idea you’d be coming along here right at this moment. Juniper wanted to take the hedge, and dammit, I just let him.’

Jude shook his head impatiently, but he was evidently mollified by the other man’s attitude. ‘You’ll kill yourself one of these days, Rupert,’ he declared roughly. ‘This may be a quiet road, but it’s not a private one, and I don’t think your father would approve of being presented with a bill for a new Mercedes, do you?’

‘Heavens, no!’ the young man grimaced. ‘Pater and I are not exactly on the best of terms as it is, right now, and Juniper breaking a leg would be the last straw!’

‘Yes, well—–’ Jude’s expression was not incomprehensible, Sara thought, bearing in mind that the horse was not his concern. ‘So long as we understand one another, hmm? I wouldn’t want Harriet upset.’

‘Lord, no,’ the young man chuckled, and watching them Sara wondered what kind of a relationship two such opposites could have. That they knew one another very well was obvious. What was less obvious was what they might have in common.

As if becoming aware that they had an audience, the fair man suddenly turned and looked in her direction, and Sara pressed her shoulders back in the seat and endeavoured not to notice. But to her astonishment Jude, observing the other man’s interest, invited him casually to come and meet her.

‘This is Sara Shelley,’ he said, introducing them through the open window of the car. ‘Sara, this is Rupert Hadley, Lord Hadley’s son.’

Once again his use of her name went unremarked beneath Sara’s astonishment at the introduction. This was Lord Hadley’s son! The son of the owner of that magnificent stately home on the hill! She could hardly believe it, and while all her instincts urged her to get out of the car to speak to him, Jude’s indolent stance against the door prevented her. How on earth could an employee of her aunt’s be familiar with the son of one of England’s aristocracy? It didn’t make sense, unless her assessment of the situation was lacking some vital clue.

‘So pleased to meet you, Miss Shelley.’

Rupert Hadley had put his hand through the window, and with a feeling of disbelief Sara offered her own. His hand, despite his hard riding, was quite soft, and she guessed the leather gauntlets he wore protected his skin from any abrasion.

‘How do you do?’ she responded politely, not quite knowing how she ought to address him, and his lips parted broadly to reveal uneven white teeth.

‘Are you staying with Miss Ferrars?’ he enquired, making no move to go, but before Sara could reply, Jude interposed for her.

‘Sara is Harriet’s niece,’ he declared, his grey eyes challenging her to contradict him. ‘She’s—er—she’s come to stay with us for a while. Her father died recently, and Harriet’s her only relation.’

‘I see.’ Rupert Hadley was evidently intrigued by the combination of silvery-tipped lashes and long green eyes, but as if he was in charge of the situation, Jude chose to break up the gathering.

‘We must be going,’ he said, walking round the car to slide in beside Sara again, and she stiffened instinctively when he leant half across her to make his farewells to the other man. ‘See you later, Rupert,’ he remarked, and Sara was aware again of a certain proprietorial note in his voice. But the brushing of his shoulder against her arm and the lean hardness of his thigh pressed briefly against hers during the exchange robbed her of any other speculations.

Rupert Hadley watched them go, a rather stolid figure in his tweed hacking jacket and fawn breeches. He didn’t wear a hat, Sara noticed, and his fair hair lifted slightly in the breeze as they passed. But it was not this that caused her to look back over her shoulder. It was the sudden uncanny feeling that she had seen his face before, and she was still giving this consideration when they turned between stone gateposts and negotiated the narrow drive which led to the forecourt in front of the house.

Knight’s Ferry had probably originally gained its name from the fact that the River Rowan glinted in the late afternoon sunlight only a dozen yards from its doors. Sara guessed there had once been a ferry to cross the wide stretch of calm water, but no doubt time, and the erection of bridges, had robbed it of any usage. Still, she could not deny a surge of pleasure as she looked at the mellowed old building, with its ivy-covered walls and leaded dormer windows, the turrets she had seen earlier like some medieval reminder of the days when fortification was a way of life. The house belonged to no particular period that she could identify, and she surmised it had been added to over the years. Now it sprawled like a matron gone to seed, large and comfortable, but lacking in elegance.

Sara was admiring the gardens when the door to the house opened, and a woman appeared at the head of a short flight of steps. Immediately, her momentary sense of reprieve was over, and she turned her attention to where Jude was unloading her suitcases, silently begging for his intercession.

‘Sara! Sara, my child! How good it is to see you after all this time!’ Harriet Ferrars’ words were warming and disarming, and Sara’s gaze was drawn back to her as the woman advanced towards her.

Her memories of Aunt Harriet were vague, and in her brief experience people generally aged quicker than memory allowed. That was why, although she knew the woman could not be much more than fifty, she had expected someone who looked middle-aged and matronly, a little like the house, she mused, struck by the simple comparison.

But Harriet Ferrars did not look middle-aged or matronly. Indeed, if Sara had not known the truth, she would have estimated her age to be somewhere in her thirties, and that only because of her carriage and maturity. Her face and figure were those of a much younger woman. Her skin was virtually unlined, and the two-piece suit she was wearing, in dusky blue silk jersey, accentuated the slender line of her hips and the shapely length of her legs. Her make-up was faultless, her hair, a rich chestnut brown, worn in a loose casual style. She was little like the girl’s image of her, and Sara knew a moment’s trepidation for the things that Jude had told her.

Then she was embraced with genuine affection, the kisses that were delivered on both cheeks leaving a delicate fragrance of Eau de Lancome behind them. ‘Sara,’ Harriet said again, drawing back and shaking her head. ‘My dear, you are simply delightful!’

Sara coloured, as much from the knowledge that Jude was watching them and could hear every word as from any embarrassment at the effusive comment.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, forcing a smile. And then: ‘It’s good to see you again, too, Aunt Harriet.’

‘Yes.’ Harriet held her at arm’s length for a moment, surveying her with a thoroughness Sara found quite disconcerting. But after a moment her aunt released her, and tucked a confiding hand through her arm.

‘I was so sorry to hear about your father, my dear,’ she said, broaching the subject Sara least wanted to talk about. ‘It must have been a terrible shock for you. That’s why I sent for you. One needs relatives at a time like this.’

‘Shall I put the cases in the rose room?’ asked Jude, interrupting them, and Harriet glanced round at him with a barely perceptible tightening of her lips.

‘You know as well as I do that that’s the room I’ve chosen for Sara,’ she declared, an edge to her voice, and Jude shrugged his shoulders rather mockingly as he bent to pick up the luggage.

‘Come along, dear.’ Harriet patted Sara’s hand and urged her towards the house. ‘It’s still cold, despite the sunshine. But I think you’ll find you’ll be comfortable here.’

‘I’m sure I shall.’ Sara wanted to say something, some words of gratitude, but it was difficult with Jude’s sardonic presence right behind them, and she waited until they had entered the spacious entrance hall before offering her awkward thanks.

‘My dear, don’t think of it.’ Harriet cast a thoughtful glance at Jude’s back as he strode vigorously up the stairs with two of the cases, and then gestured towards a door across the hall. ‘Come along. We’ll have tea in here. I told Janet to make it, as soon as I heard the car.’

Sara looked about her in some bemusement as they crossed the hall and entered a warm, attractive sitting room. Whereas the hall had been oak-panelled and a little dark, despite the rich red pile of the carpet, the room Harriet showed her into was light and airy, with long french doors that opened on to the garden at the back of the house. A low stone balustrade surrounded a flagged terrace, which in turn gave on to the gardens, and beyond them, the river.

The room itself was decorated in a bright, cheerful style, with chintz-covered armchairs and a long sofa. There were cabinets against the walls, housing a variety of china and ornaments, a kneehole desk liberally covered with papers, and bookshelves flanking the open fireplace, where a real log fire spluttered in the grate.

Harriet closed the door and then looked happily at her guest. ‘There now,’ she said. ‘Isn’t this cosy? Come along, take off your coat. I’m sure you won’t need it in here.’

Sara was sure, too. As well as the open fire, there were also radiators, and she guessed the crackling logs were just an attractive adjunct to the real heating system. Smiling, she unfastened the buttons of the warm suede jacket she had worn with corded pants, and revealed the cream woollen jersey she had worn underneath.

Harriet helped her off with her jacket, dropping it carelessly over the back of a chair before gesturing that Sara should take one of the armchairs that faced one another across the hearth. Sara did as she suggested, holding out her cold hands to the blaze, and Harriet came to sit opposite, smiling her satisfaction.

‘So, Sara,’ she said, resting her arms along the arms of the chair, long fingers with painted nails hanging over the end. ‘How was your journey? Not too arduous, I hope. Trains can be so unreliable, and whenever possible I use the car.’

‘It was all right.’ Sara spoke rather nervously. ‘The trains were quite punctual, actually.’

‘But we were not, is that what you’re saying?’ asked Harriet perceptively. ‘My dear, you must blame me. I simply wasn’t ready.’

‘Oh, no.’ Sara had no wish that Aunt Harriet should think her words were meant as a criticism. ‘I mean—I’d only been there about five minutes when Mr—er—Mr Jude arrived. I—I was very grateful to see him.’

‘Were you?’ Harriet’s lips tightened once more, as they had done outside, but she made no comment about her chauffeur. Only he wasn’t her chauffeur, Sara reminded herself tensely, realising she had still not discovered his real designation.

A tap at the door heralded the arrival of the maid with the tea. An elderly woman, with dour Scots features, wheeled a laden trolley across the patterned carpet, and set it firmly in front of her mistress.

‘This is Janet,’ Harriet announced, smiling up at the woman disarmingly. ‘Janet, this is my niece, Sara Shelley. Isn’t she lovely?’

If Sara was embarrassed by her method of introduction, Janet seemed unaware of it. ‘Pleased to meet you, miss,’ she declared, her tone belying the greeting, and in an accent unimpaired by however long she had lived in England. Then, without waiting for any response, she marched out of the room again, leaving Sara with the distinct impression that she did not approve.

‘Don’t mind Janet,’ Harriet said quickly, drawing the trolley towards her and taking charge of the teapot. ‘She’s been with me too long, I’m afraid, and familiarity breeds contempt, don’t they say?’ She smiled, and resumed setting out the teacups. ‘Now, what will you have? Cream and sugar? Or are you like me, and prefer your tea with lemon?’

‘Just cream, please.’ Sara had never acquired a taste for English tea served with lemon. No matter what the country of its origin, it did not taste like the tea she and her father used to enjoy in Nagpur, or perhaps it was the surroundings that made that drink so distinctive.

The trolley also had plates of small sandwiches, scones and a rich madeira cake, and a variety of biscuits. Sara reflected, as she munched a smoked salmon sandwich, that anyone with a weight problem would have to be careful here, and although she had never been troubled that way, she had never treated food as a ritual before. Except when Aunt Harriet had taken her out to tea, she amended, brushing a crumb from her lips, as visions of thick clotted cream and Cornish strawberry jam floated before her eyes.

As she took another sandwich she wondered apprehensively if the man Jude would join them for tea. His attitude had been quite familiar, but there were only two cups, and as the minutes stretched Sara started to relax.

‘You were in India when it happened, weren’t you?’ Harriet said, after pouring herself a second cup of tea. She looked at Sara sympathetically. ‘You don’t mind me asking, do you, dear? Only I think it’s best if we get it out of the way first, don’t you?’

‘Right.’ Sara nodded. ‘Yes. We were in Calcutta, actually.’ Her throat tightened. ‘He was covering the elections.’

‘So I heard.’ Harriet’s tongue appeared, to moisten her upper lip. ‘It must have been terrible for you—not knowing anyone, not knowing the language …’

‘Oh, I knew people.’ Sara steeled herself to talk of it. ‘We had a number of friends there. And I knew a little of the language. We’d been there before, you see.’

‘Yes, but—–’ Harriet sought for words, ‘it’s not like your own country, is it? Not like England.’

‘As a matter of fact, I was glad,’ Sara confessed huskily. ‘The formalities were over so much sooner there. They have to be. The climate, you know—–’

‘Of course.’

‘As soon as the cause of death had been disclosed—they conducted a post-mortem, you see—the—the body—had to be disposed of. I chose cremation. It was what he would have wanted.’

‘My child, how awful for you! Having a funeral without any mourners!’

Sara shook her head. ‘There were mourners. The—the officials who—who knew him, and other press men—–’

‘All the same—–’ Harriet sighed. ‘There was no question of bringing his body back to England, I suppose?’

Sara pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘I don’t think he would have wanted that. He—he never regarded England as his home, not really. He was a nomad.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think he probably subscribed to the theory that his life was like the arc of an arrow. He wanted to remain where it rested.’

Harriet nodded. ‘What can I say? You knew him so much better than anyone else. It had to be your decision.’

‘Yes.’

Sara sighed, and with a characteristic lift of her slim shoulders, Harriet shrugged the unpleasant topic aside. ‘Enough of that,’ she declared, and Sara was relieved she had not had to explain the circumstances of Charles Shelley’s death. For the present at least her aunt was prepared to let sleeping dogs lie, and Sara knew a sense of gratitude for her tact and understanding. Remembering what Jude had said about Aunt Harriet, she also felt a kindling of resentment. For whatever purpose, he had tried to influence her against her aunt, and she despised his reasons for doing so. He had almost succeeded in convincing her that her own opinion of Miss Ferrars was faulty, and that the only reason Harriet had for bringing her here was to satisfy some motive of her own.

‘So tell me,’ her aunt was continuing, ‘what have you been doing with yourself since you got back to England? You wrote that you’d been living with a friend. Did you find a job?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Sara grimaced, glad to be back on firm ground again. ‘Jobs aren’t that easy to come by, especially for someone like me, with practically no qualifications.’

‘No, you’re right.’ Harriet lifted her cup and saucer and leaned back comfortably in her chair, folding her legs in such a way that the side vents in her skirt exposed a considerable length of thigh. ‘So you were quite relieved to get my invitation? I haven’t dragged you away from any exciting career in London?’

‘Heavens, no!’ Sara’s mouth curved upward. ‘And I was pleased when you wrote to me. Although whether I’ll be suitable for the position you mentioned is something we’ll both have to find out.’

‘Oh, you’ll be suitable, won’t she, Harriet?’

The hateful taunting voice of the man who had driven her from the station suspended their conversation, and glancing round Sara saw him, propped idolently against the frame of the door. He, too, had discarded his leather jerkin to reveal a close-fitting navy silk shirt, and as she watched he straightened away from the door and sauntered confidently into the room.

‘Really, Jude, I wish you’d knock!’ exclaimed Harriet tersely, casting a half apologetic smile in Sara’s direction. ‘If you want some tea, you’ll have to get a cup. Janet didn’t expect us to be interrupted.’

‘No, ma’am. I see, ma’am. Sorry, to be sure, ma’am. But I’ve taken the miss’s cases to her room, and I wondered if there’d be anything else, ma’am!’

‘Really, Jude, you’re not very funny!’ Harriet’s expression mirrored her exasperation, but instead of ordering him out of the room as Sara had expected, she expelled her breath shortly, and resumed drinking her tea.

Jude stood between the chairs, his hands pushed carelessly into the low belt of his jeans. He exuded an air of raw masculinity in that essentially feminine room, and Sara, much as she would like to, could not quite forget it.

She cast a hasty glance up at him, only to find he was looking at Aunt Harriet, and Sara’s cheeks suddenly burned at the insolent manner of that appraisal. He was looking at her as if—as if—Sara’s mind could go no further. But she wished with all her might that Aunt Harriet would pull her skirt back over her knees.

‘Where were we?’

Harriet’s encouraging words brought Sara up with a start, and she clattered her cup noisily as she set it down on the trolley. ‘You—er—you were about to tell me what my duties will be,’ she prompted, trying to ignore their unwelcome visitor, and then looked up with irritation when he smothered a stifled laugh.

‘Jude, if you have nothing better to do than stand here, making a fool of me, I wish you would leave,’ Harriet declared, mildly Sara thought. ‘Don’t you have anything useful to accomplish? Like—changing for dinner, for example!’

‘Touché!’ Jude’s harsh mouth softened into irony. ‘Okay, Harriet, I’ll leave you to—instruct our guest in her—duties.’ He paused. ‘You might be interested to know, however, that she met the heir this afternoon.’

Sara blinked. What did he mean? She met the air? It didn’t make sense. But Harriet was looking up at him now with scarcely concealed agitation.

‘What do you mean?’ she exclaimed. ‘Jude, what have you done? How could she—how could Sara have met anyone between here and the station?’

Jude rocked back on his booted heels. ‘Hadley almost straddled the bonnet of the car,’ he remarked indifferently, and Sara realised he was referring to the accident they had almost had. ‘Crazy young idiot! He could have killed us all.’

‘Might I remind you, that “crazy young idiot” is only eight months younger than you, Jude,’ Harriet retorted. Then she turned back to Sara. ‘What did you think of Rupert, my dear? A handsome young man, isn’t he?’

‘He seemed very nice,’ Sara conceded, a little awkwardly, and Harriet nodded her agreement.

‘He is. He’s a little wild, of course, a little reckless, perhaps. But charming, nonetheless.’

‘Not to mention the fact that he’s heir to his father’s fortune,’ inserted Jude drily, and Sara suddenly realised what his earlier statement had meant. Not air, but heir. She had met the heir that afternoon.

Harriet ignored Jude’s mocking comment, and offered Sara more tea. ‘I—er—I’ve known Rupert’s father for a number of years,’ she said. ‘Lord Hadley, you know. This house was once part of the Hadley estate. You may have noticed Linden Court on your way here.’

Sara glanced awkwardly up at Jude, then she nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I did,’ she confirmed. ‘It looks a beautiful building.’

‘It is.’ Harriet’s mouth curved, whether reminiscently or not Sara couldn’t quite judge, but for a few moments she was silent, thinking. ‘I’ve always loved it. Ever since my father bought Knight’s Ferry.’

‘More than three decades ago,’ inserted Jude flatly, bringing Harriet’s eyes back to him. ‘You’ll excuse me, I’m sure, if I go and check on Midnight. Unlike the rest of us, she can’t call for help.’

When the door had closed behind him Sara expected her aunt to make some explanation for his conduct, but she didn’t. Apart from offering the information that Midnight was a mare who was presently in foal, Harriet said no more about him, returning instead to Sara’s reasons for coming to stay with her.

‘I think we should show you your room first,’ she declared getting to her feet, and Sara copied her. ‘After all, we want you to be happy here, and you can’t possibly decide that you want to stay, before you’ve even looked over the house.’

‘I’m sure it will be perfect,’ protested Sara, picking up her jacket and her handbag as she followed her aunt out of the room. ‘Honestly, Aunt Harriet, I’m so grateful to you for inviting me. Where I sleep is of little importance.’

‘Oh, you’re wrong.’ Harriet turned to smile at her as they began to mount the carpeted stairs. ‘And my dear, would you think me horribly conceited if I asked you not to call me Aunt Harriet? I mean,’ she hastened on rather apologetically, ‘when you were a little girl—well, it was a token of respect. But now we’re both grown-ups, your calling me aunt does seem rather silly, don’t you think?

Sara lifted her shoulders. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘You don’t mind?’ Harriet was endearingly anxious, and Sara shook her head.

‘Of course not. Why should I mind? After all, it isn’t as if you are my aunt really.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Harriet looked pleased. ‘So, it’s just plain old Harriet from now on, hmm?’

‘Harriet,’ Sara agreed, realising that no one else would describe her father’s cousin as either plain or old.

The staircase curved in a graceful arc to the gallery above. A railed balustrade overlooked the hall below, and wall sconces illuminated several white panelled doors and two corridors leading in opposite directions, to the separate wings of the house.

‘This is my room,’ Harriet declared, indicating a door near the head of the stairs. ‘I’ve put you in the rose room, which is along here. It’s quite a pretty apartment, so I hope you like it.’

They walked along the corridor which lay to the left of the gallery. It was a wide corridor with a number of doors opening from it, and a long window at the end which allowed shafts of evening sunlight to stripe the dark red carpet. Harriet stopped at one of the doors and thrust it open, then preceded Sara into the room, switching on the lamps.

Sara’s first impression was of a comfortable sitting room, set with a desk and armchairs, and even a table for taking meals, if she chose. But as her eyes surveyed the room she saw that the living area was only half the apartment. A wide archway and two shallow steps gave access to the sleeping compartment, where a square four-poster bed was daintily hung with chiffon drapes. Everything—the carpet, the silk curtains at the windows, the drapes above the bed, even the patterned quilt itself—was tinted a delicate shade of pink, and Sara had no need to wonder why this was called the rose room.

‘The bathroom’s through here, of course,’ declared Harriet, mounting the two steps and indicating a door at the far side of the bedroom. ‘Well, what do you think? Do you like it?’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ Sara was bemused. It was so vastly different from the austere little room she had expected. ‘You really oughtn’t to have gone to so much trouble.’

‘Trouble? Trouble? It was no trouble, my dear.’ Harriet came down the steps again, and with a surge of sudden gratitude Sara hugged her. ‘Really,’ she averred, with what the girl felt was genuine sincerity. ‘It’s the least I could do for dear Charles’s orphaned daughter.’

Sara sighed. ‘But you hardly saw us,’ she exclaimed, guiltily aware of their neglect. ‘Harriet, I don’t know how I’m going to be able to repay you.’

‘Oh, we’ll find a way,’ declared Harriet, squeezing her shoulder warmly. ‘And now I must go and check that everything’s organised for dinner, or your opinion of our hospitality will suffer a distinct setback.’

Left to herself, Sara wandered about the apartment. Her suitcases, she saw, had been deposited on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, and her step faltered a moment as she thought of the man who had brought her here. The relationship he had with Harriet was certainly a strange one, and she pushed aside the unwilling suspicion that it was more than that of employer and employee. After all, Jude had worked for her aunt for ten years. He had said so. And the familiarity of their association could well be the result. But what did he do? What was his designation? And why should it matter to her, when she was unlikely to have anything to do with him?

There was a ready supply of writing paper and envelopes in the desk, and Sara decided she would write to Laura this evening. The older girl had been much concerned about her decision to accept Harriet’s invitation, and it would be a relief to her to know that everything had turned out so well. Indeed, Sara doubted she would believe that such a fairy godmother still existed, and she was looking forward to describing the house to her, and this room which was so delightful.

There was plenty of hanging space in the long fitted closets, and realising she was probably expected to change for dinner, too, Sara hastily rescued her keys and unlocked her suitcases. The drawers of the dressing table and a squat little chest took all her underclothes and nightwear, and there were lots of hangers to take her suits and dresses.

One of the suitcases and the holdall contained her personal possessions. These were treasured mementoes and photographs, newspaper cuttings of her father’s, the silver-backed brushes he had bought her on her eighteenth birthday, and the books she had collected over the years. She stood a framed picture of her father on the dressing table, and set out the silver-backed brushes, and as she did so, she reflected how little she had to remind her of the man who had had such an influence on her life.

The evening shadows were falling by the time she had unpacked her belongings and taken a quick shower. The bathroom adjoining the bedroom was just as charming as the rest of the apartment, and Sara had taken pleasure in the cream tiles, each displaying a pink rosebud, and the rose-tinted bath, that was sunk into the floor. She showered in the fluted perspex cubicle, taking care to keep her hair dry, and then padded back into the bedroom to decide what she should wear.

A simple black dress seemed appropriate, and would equip her for any occasion. Until she knew what the routine was at Knight’s Ferry, it was safer to follow her instincts, and the dress she chose was plain, but exquisitely cut. Her father had bought it for her, in one of his more extravagant moods. They had been staying in Monte Carlo, and he had had a good win at the Casino—or so he had said. Since then, Sara had learned that Charles Shelley had seldom been out of debt, but like all gamblers he enjoyed spending money, and he was never mean when he was in funds.

Before putting on the dress, Sara gave some consideration to her make-up. A plum-coloured eyeshadow toned with a deeper-tinted lip-gloss, while a touch of mascara darkened the silvery tips of her lashes. Her make-up was light but subtle, and in no way compared to Harriet’s immaculate appearance, which must have taken her hours to apply. Nevertheless, the result had been startling, and Sara wondered whether that was why her aunt had been late.

Her hair offered no problems. It was straight and silky; she brushed it until it shone, and then confined it again at her nape, this time with an ivory clasp.

The dress slid easily over her hips, caressing her skin sensuously. Although it was made of some manufactured fabric, it had the feel of silk, the dipping cowl neckline exposing the curve of her throat. Wide sleeves were drawn from a loosely draped bodice, and the wrap-around skirt opened from waist to hem. Fortunately, the generous cut of the overlap prevented any immodest display.

The little carriage clock on the mantel chimed the half hour as she was adjusting the strap of her shoe, and she caught her breath. Seven-thirty, she thought, with some trepidation. And Harriet had said dinner was usually served about eight.

Realising she would have to go down, Sara cast another glance at her appearance. Did she look all right? Was her lipstick smudged? An anxious finger discovered it was only a shadow cast by the lamp beside her bed, and she relaxed. Heavens, why was she so nervous? What had she to be afraid of?

Shrugging impatiently, she decided she would have to go. This was no time to have second thoughts, to wonder whether she had done the right thing. And besides, it was all so much different from what she had anticipated. Harriet was charming, her house was delightful, and she was going to be happy here.

Thrusting her fears aside, she opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Someone had turned on the lights, and the corridor glowed in the artificial illumination cast from beneath bronze shades. Its mellow patina gleamed on brass and polished wood, and as she descended the stairs she was struck by the simple elegance of the hall below. Now that a glittering chandelier had been lit, the panelling had a rich, lustrous sheen, and its earlier, gloomy appearance was quite dispelled by a huge bowl of spring flowers resting on an old-fashioned umbrella stand. There was a semi-circular table, with an oval silver tray—for letters?—Sara wondered musingly, and a little velvet armchair with curly wooden arms, set beside the little stand that held the telephone.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sara was uncertain where she should go. Harriet had only shown her the small sitting room, and she was looking about her doubtfully when a door behind her opened and the man Jude appeared.

He evidently intended eating dinner with them, she thought, viewing the dark trousers and fine suede jacket he was wearing. Even his brown silk shirt had a lace jabot, though he wore no tie, the strong column of his throat dark against the fabric. His dark hair had been smoothly combed and lay thick against his head, with only the merest fraction overlapping his collar at the back.

His appraisal of her was no less comprehensive, she realised, flushing as he detected her eyes upon him. ‘Well, well, Miss Shelley,’ he remarked sardonically, propping one hand against the jamb. ‘You look lost. Can I help you?’

‘I—I was looking for Harr—for Miss Ferrars,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘Do you know where she is?’

‘Still dressing, I should think,’ he answered, moving his shoulders in a dismissing gesture. ‘Come and have a drink with me.’ He nodded to the room behind him. ‘We usually foregather in here.’

‘Oh—very well.’ Sara wasn’t enthusiastic, but there wasn’t much else she could do, so she crossed the floor towards him, stiffening as he stood aside to let her pass, and she smelt the faint aroma of Scotch on his breath.

‘Why do I get the impression your name should be Lamb, not Shelley?’ he remarked lazily, and she cast an indignant look up at him.

‘Lady Caroline Lamb was associated with Byron, not Shelley,’ she retorted, pleased to have thwarted him, but he was not finished.

‘I might have been referring to Mary Shelley,’ he pointed out drily, his grey eyes showing amusement. ‘But actually, I wasn’t even thinking of them.’

Sara was confused, and showed it. ‘Mr Jude—–’

‘Just Jude,’ he corrected. ‘And before you ask, it was a quotation from Isaiah I was referring to. Now, shall we have that drink?’

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