Читать книгу British Bachelors: Tempting & New - Сара Крейвен, Liz Fielding - Страница 15
ОглавлениеIT SEEMED STRANGE to be walking up the Manor’s drive to the main entrance rather than sneaking in through the no-longer-broken side gate. Strange, but infinitely safer.
Glancing around, Tavy saw that Ted Jackson and his gang had already done wonders in the grounds. Bushes and shrubs had been ruthlessly cut back to reveal what would once again be herbaceous borders, and a drastic weeding programme was in progress. The lawns had clearly been scythed and were now being mown and rolled.
She imagined work would also have started on the lake, but she was damned if she was going down there to find out. Forbidden territory, she told herself sternly, managing a smile as Ted Jackson appeared.
‘Well, you’re an early bird and no mistake,’ he said genially. ‘My missus couldn’t get over it when Mr Marsh rang last night, and said you’d be working here.’
And will now be busily spreading the news on the bush telegraph, Tavy thought, gritting her teeth.
‘Funny old business up at the school,’ he went on with relish. ‘My June says she can’t imagine Mrs Wilding and that Culham girl seeing eye to eye for very long. Fireworks pretty soon, she reckons.’
Tavy felt her jaw drop. Fiona, she thought with disbelief. Fiona—hardly one of the world’s workers—had taken her place and become the new PA?
Aware that her reaction to the news was being watched with keen interest, she pulled herself together. Even shrugged. ‘Not my problem, I’m thankful to say. But I mustn’t keep you.’
‘And when Mr Marsh gets in touch, tell him Bob Wyatt can start on the conservatory tomorrow,’ he added, handing her a key.
Tavy frowned. ‘What’s going to happen to it?’
‘He’s going to use it as a studio for his painting, seemingly. The right light, or some such.’
Another piece of information she hadn’t been expecting, Tavy thought, turning away. Yet becoming a professional artist was, presumably, the new beginning he’d once mentioned.
As she let herself into the house, her first impression was that the cleaners had done an impressive job, although their efforts couldn’t hide peeling wallpaper and shabby paintwork. And in spite of the fresh scent of cleaning liquid and polish, the overall impression was still one of neglect, she thought, carrying her bulging carrier bags down the long corridor to the kitchen at the back of the house.
She put the teabags, coffee and paper cups in the massive dresser, and placed the milk into the elderly, cumbersome fridge.
She made herself a coffee and carried it to the library, now just a room with a lot of empty shelves, and hoped with a pang that Sir George’s books had found good homes.
There was a large table in the middle of the room holding a smart new laptop, plus a printer and a telephone, while, under the window, was a stationery trolley with printer paper, notebooks, pens and markers, and two large box files, one containing quotations, the other catalogues mainly for white goods, furniture and bathroom equipment.
When she switched on the laptop, there was mail waiting. Hesitantly, she clicked on the icon and read, ‘I hope you had a restful night with sweet dreams.’
She swallowed, knowing how far that was from the truth. Because some of last night’s dreams, which she was still embarrassed to remember, had been far from conventionally sweet. In fact they’d provided the incentive for today’s early start.
Because she’d been driven into getting up, afraid to go back to sleep in case she once again experienced a man’s warm, hard body pressing her into the softness of the mattress, or found herself drinking from his kisses and breathing the heated, unmistakable fragrance of his skin as she lifted herself towards him in silent yearning for his possession.
Fantasies, she thought, that were the total opposite of restful and should never be recalled in daylight. But at least she’d never seen his face or put a name to her dream lover.
She took a deep breath and went on reading.
I suggest you spend some time today going over the place so that you’re thoroughly familiar with the layout. Open any mail that comes, deal with what you can, put the rest aside for my attention.
In case any serious problems arise and you need backup, I’m sending you my contact details, but these are strictly for your personal use, not to be disclosed to anyone else.
I’m using the master bedroom as temporary storage for my painting stuff until work on the studio is finished.
I have as yet no firm idea when Barbie will be arriving, but you’ll find new linen in the adjoining room, which I’d like you to prepare for her, together with the bathroom opposite, and make sure there are always fresh flowers waiting.
He signed it simply ‘Jago’ adding his email address and mobile number underneath, together with the PS, ‘I shall be dropping in occasionally to check progress.’
And no doubt to check on Barbie too, thought Tavy, her mouth tightening, wondering why he didn’t drop the pretence and simply move the lady into the master bedroom from day or perhaps night one.
It occurred to her that perhaps Barbie was the girl that he’d fought over with Pete Hilton. If so, it must be a serious relationship to have lasted this long, and not one of many casual sexual encounters as he’d implied.
On the other hand, she was here to do a job, not to brood on her employer’s morals, such as they were. And as she was scheduled to leave at six each evening, she would not, with luck, be around to witness their reunion.
* * *
Long before the end of the day, Tavy felt as if she’d been taking part in a marathon and was due to finish last.
Because the task ahead of her was larger and more complex than she’d imagined, she realised as she downloaded and printed off Jago’s instructions for the work he was commissioning.
In spite of herself, she was impressed. He didn’t appear to have missed a thing. And, for the first time, she began to believe that buying Ladysmere was not simply a momentary whim. That this care and attention to detail indicated that he really intended to make it his home. A place where he would settle down and perhaps raise a family.
An odd shiver went down her spine at the prospect and, for a moment, she sat staring into space with eyes that saw nothing.
But she swiftly reminded herself that, whatever his plans, they were no concern of hers. By the time they came to fruition, she would be far away and recent events would seem like a bad dream.
Then, as if a starting pistol had been fired, the phone began to ring, one call following another, while the doorbell signalled the arrival of the heating engineers. After that, there was a constant stream of people bringing books of wallpaper and fabric patterns as well as large books of carpet samples.
Giving ‘home shopping’ a whole new slant, thought Tavy ironically, as the empty shelves in the library began to fill up.
The plumber arrived just as she was finishing her lunch of cheese and tomato sandwiches, and she conducted him upstairs and along the passage to the imposing pair of double doors leading to the master suite, thankful to escape from the banging from the boiler room in the cellar.
It was dim inside the room, most of the light being blocked by heavy tasselled blinds. Tavy went to the windows and raised them, while the plumber disappeared through a communicating door into the soon-to-be converted dressing room to begin his calculations.
It was a big room, its size diminished by the dark, formal wallpaper which in turn detracted from the elaborate and beautiful plaster frieze above it. On the wall facing the door was a massive four-poster bed, standing like a skeleton, stripped of its canopy, mattress and curtains, but still dominating its surroundings.
Tavy walked over to take a closer look. It was a beautiful thing, she thought, running her hand down a smooth post, which like the panelled headboard set into the wall, was constructed from mellow golden oak.
Clearly an attempt had been made to pry the bed loose because it was slightly damaged.
Jago Marsh’s orders, no doubt, she told herself. Not quite his image, a bed like this, and certainly no love nest for someone named after a plastic doll. No, he’d want something emperor-sized with black satin sheets...
And stopped there, wrenching herself back to reality.
What the hell do you know about men and what they want? she asked herself with derision.
When you’ve only been kissed with real passion once in your life—and that was by the wrong man because he was angry.
Aware her heartbeat had quickened, she went back to the window and unfastened it, pushing it open to dispel the faint mustiness in the air.
As she turned, she noticed an easel, together with a stack of portfolios and even canvases leaning against a wall, and remembered what Jago had said about storage.
She was sorely tempted to have a look at them and see if his painting was as good as his drawing, but restrained herself with an effort. Like so much else in his life, it was none of her business.
Calling to the plumber that she’d be next door, she went reluctantly into the room designated as Barbie’s, which seemed the only furnished room in the house. There was a round table holding a pink-shaded lamp, a neat chest of drawers, a small armchair upholstered and cushioned in moss green, a sheepskin rug, and of course the bed—brand-new and double-sized, its mattress still in its protective wrapping. As was the bedding, the sheets pale pink and the quilt and pillow cases white, sprigged with pink rosebuds, with matching curtains already hanging at the window.
‘Very romantic,’ she muttered, as she tore off the wrappings, nearly breaking a nail in the process.
She made up the bed with the precision of a mathematical formula, checked the fitted wardrobe in one corner for hangers, then put soap and towels in the old-fashioned bathroom across the passage.
‘Lot of space in that dressing room,’ observed the plumber as he emerged from the master suite. ‘How about a bath as well as a shower because there’s plenty of space? And what about fittings—chrome or gold?’ He paused. ‘And I’ve brought some tile samples on the van. Italian—top of the range.’
‘They sound lovely,’ said Tavy. ‘And I’ll ask Mr Marsh to contact you about the rest.’
‘It’s usually the lady that decides that kind of thing.’ He grinned at her. ‘Doesn’t he trust you?’
Colour rose in her face. ‘I shan’t be living here. I’m simply the project manager.’
His glance was frankly sceptical as he turned away. ‘Just as you say, love.’
The tile samples went to fill another gap on the shelves and Tavy was just adding the queries about bathroom fixtures and fittings to the email she planned to send Jago, when the doorbell rang, only to sound another prolonged and more imperious summons as she reached the hall.
Patience is a virtue, she recited under her breath as she threw open the front door, only to come face to face with Fiona Culham.
‘And about time,’ Fiona began, then halted, staring. ‘Octavia? What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Working,’ said Tavy. ‘I lost my job so Jago offered me another.’
The other girl’s eyes narrowed. ‘Presumably your father has somehow convinced him that charity begins at home.’ She took a step forward. ‘Now, if you’ll be good enough to stand aside, I’d like a word with him.’
‘I’m afraid Jago—Mr Marsh—isn’t here, Miss Culham. He’s away on business.’
‘But he must have left a contact number.’ Fiona walked past her into the hall. ‘You can give me that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Tavy said politely. ‘But I’ve been instructed it’s for my use only.’
Fiona gave the slightly metallic laugh that Tavy hated. ‘Aren’t you getting a little above yourself? This must be your first day in the job.’
‘Yours too, I believe.’
There was a simmering silence, then Fiona said, ‘I suppose I can leave a message.’
‘Certainly. I’ll get my notebook.’
‘I’d prefer a sheet of paper.’ Fiona took a pen from her handbag. ‘And an envelope, please.’
Tavy nodded. ‘I’ll get them for you.’
As she reached the office, the telephone was ringing, the caller being the electrician with a preliminary quotation which he would confirm in writing.
Tavy made a note of the details, collected the stationery and returned to the hall, only to find it empty. For a moment she thought that Fiona had got tired of waiting and left, then the sound of footsteps alerted her and she saw the other girl coming down the stairs.
‘I needed the bathroom,’ she announced. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’
‘I would have shown you...’
‘Unnecessary.’ Fiona’s smile held an odd satisfaction. ‘I’ve been a visitor here so many times, I know the place like the back of my hand.’
She wrote swiftly on the paper, folded it and put it in the envelope, sealing it with meticulous care before handing it over. ‘I must emphasise this is strictly confidential.’
Tavy nodded. ‘There’s a lot of it about,’ she said, and received a venomous look in return.
‘Then, on that understanding, let me strongly advise you to keep your mouth shut—because, if you don’t, you’ll find that coming here has been a terrible mistake.’ Fiona paused. ‘Just a friendly warning.’
The door safely closed behind the unwelcome visitor, Tavy leaned back against the heavy timbers for a moment, taking a calming breath. If that’s friendly, she thought, I wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of hostile.
The Jacksons were wrong, she told herself grimly. Fiona and Mrs Wilding are a match made in heaven.
But—I will not let her get to me.
And on that heartening note, she went back to the office and began devising a spreadsheet to keep track of the renovations on a daily and weekly basis.
She broke off for a brief chat with the heating engineers before they left, the new boiler installed, then locked the door behind them and returned to the computer, glad that the house was now quiet and concentration not such a problem.
For the next hour or so she sat totally engrossed, the evening sun pouring through the window.
With a brief sigh of satisfaction, she aimed the mouse at ‘Print’ then paused, aware of a noise that was not just the creaks and groans of an old house settling around her but, instead, sounded uncannily like footsteps approaching.
Tavy froze, staring at the door. But I locked up, she thought, swallowing. I know I did.
But you forgot to shut the window in the master bedroom, a small voice in her head reminded her. And a clever thief would have no problem at all—apart from finding something to steal.
Picking up the phone, she went to the door. She called loudly, ‘Whoever you are, I’m not alone. We’ll count to three, then call the police.’
‘Instead of the police, try an ambulance,’ an acerbic voice returned. ‘Because you’ve just shocked the hell out of me.’ And Jago came down the passage towards her, a shadowy figure in a grey linen suit and collarless white shirt.
Tavy sagged against the door frame. ‘You,’ she said gasping. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’
‘I had some work I wanted to finish.’
‘How industrious,’ he said. ‘I presume it’s on overtime rates.’
‘Not at all,’ she said indignantly. ‘I just wanted some peace and quiet.’
‘Which I have now ruined.’
‘No. The work’s done and ready to print.’ She hesitated. ‘If you were hoping to see Barbie, she’s not here yet.’
‘Always a law unto herself,’ he said and smiled. ‘What else has been happening?’
‘I have a list.’ She handed it to him. ‘And Ted Jackson says work on your studio will begin tomorrow.’
‘Well, that’s good news. At the moment I’m renting, which isn’t ideal, but I can’t be too choosy as I’m preparing for an exhibition in the autumn.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Then you’re really embarking on a new career?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Just returning to the life I had planned before Descent intervened. You’re surprised?’
She said quickly, ‘It’s really none of my concern.’ She pointed to the shelves. ‘All these sample books arrived for you.’
‘I haven’t time to look at them properly now. I’ll take them with me, and let you know my choices.’
She nodded and produced the envelope. ‘Also Miss Culham—Fiona—brought you this.’
She watched him open it and glance over the single sheet of paper it contained. She saw his mouth tighten, then he refolded the paper and tucked it back into the envelope.
He said, ‘So, she was here in person.’ He paused, studying Tavy’s swift flush. ‘Did she upset you?’
‘She was hardly sweetness and light.’ She bit her lip. ‘She’s got my old job at the school.’
‘That figures,’ Jago returned laconically. He gave her another, more searching glance. ‘Is it a problem?’
She looked away defensively. ‘Not really. After all I always knew I wasn’t the daughter-in-law of choice.’
‘But if that’s what you still want—hang in there. It could happen.’
She frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Patrick,’ he said. ‘And you. Plus, of course, the lovely Fiona. Because it won’t last between them. In fact, if you want, I can guarantee it.’
‘How?’
He shrugged casually. ‘By making a play for her myself.’
‘No!’ She had no idea where the word came from, or the passion that drove it but it rocked her back on her heels. While the quizzical lift of Jago’s eyebrows increased the warmth of her face to burning.
‘Really?’ he drawled. ‘So, what’s the objection?’
There was an odd note in his voice which gave Tavy the sudden feeling she was teetering on the edge of a precipice she had not known existed.
She said, stammering a little, ‘Because it would be cruel—unless you were serious about her.’ She paused. ‘Are you?’
‘Not in the slightest,’ he said. ‘Any more than she’s serious about Patrick.’
‘That’s absurd. She came back here to be with him.’
Jago shook his head. ‘She came back because she couldn’t afford her London lifestyle, and was being pressured by her parents. In order to keep her around, her father has even become a silent partner in that school, supplying her with a career and a future husband in one move.
‘He even wants to buy a piece of my land as a playing field, to save the little darlings a walk to the village. I refused his first offer. This is the second,’ he added, putting the letter in his pocket. ‘I’m seriously tempted to see how high he’s prepared to go.
‘Although he’s wasting his time and money, with me and Fiona, who has no intention of staying around once the divorce is finalised.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘Something she let slip on our way to the Willow Tree that night, along with a none too subtle hint that she was available.’
His smile was charming but edged. ‘And the offer’s still there, so, if you want Patrick, all you have to do is be patient. Give him a shoulder to cry on and wait for him to see the light.’
Tavy drew a shaky breath. ‘That’s disgusting.’
‘And I thought I was being practical.’
‘But what about your...Barbie,’ she demanded, stumbling over the name. ‘Will she understand the...practicalities, when she finds out?’
‘If she finds out,’ he said calmly, ‘she’ll undoubtedly be furious with me. But it wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘I can imagine.’ She shook her head. ‘People like you. How do you live with yourselves?’
‘Money,’ he said, ‘is a great palliative.’ He paused. ‘And while we’re being practical, did you warn your father you’d be working late and he’d have to self-cater?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s playing chess tonight with a friend in the village. Supper is included.’
‘In which case, you’re having dinner with me.’
She gasped. ‘I’m doing nothing of the kind. I’d rather...’ She stopped abruptly.
‘You’d rather starve,’ Jago supplied silkily. ‘But I’m sure that would contravene some Factories Act or Child Labour ruling.’
She said sharply, ‘I’m not a child.’
‘Then stop behaving like one. We have matters concerning the house to discuss, so treat it as a business dinner. I’ve brought food with me.’
She stared at him. ‘You have? Why?’
He said slowly, ‘Because I suddenly decided I’d like to dine in my own home. Idiotic but true.’ There was a silence, then he added more briskly, ‘There’s a rug in the Jeep, so we’ll have a picnic. I suggest the dining room floor.’
She said jerkily, ‘No—I won’t. I couldn’t.’
‘Because you think I won’t keep my hands to myself?’ Jago sounded amused. ‘Darling, you’re my employee so anything untoward and you can sue me for sexual harassment. You’ll never need to work again.
‘Also,’ he went on, ‘there’s a lot of serious panelling in the dining room. It’s hardly the right setting for an orgy. And as you so rightly pointed out, there is Barbie to consider.
‘Anyway,’ he added piously. ‘Aren’t you expected to welcome repentant sinners back to the fold? I’m sure your father would think so.’
She bit her lip again, aware of a perilous bubble of laughter suddenly rising inside her. Even though there was nothing to laugh at. ‘But only if the repentance is genuine.’ She paused. ‘Besides, you obviously thought you’d have the place to yourself and I’m butting in.’
He said gently, ‘If you were, I wouldn’t have suggested you stay. Now I’ll go and get the food while you finish your printing.’
It seemed the choice had been taken out of her hands, thought Tavy, her disapproval—not only of his total lack of morality but also his high-handed arrogance—tempered by the realisation that her sandwich had been a long time ago and she was, in fact, extremely hungry.
She was closing down the computer when Jago called to her.
She sat for a moment, staring into space, then whispered, as she stood up, ‘I should not be doing this.’
She arrived at the dining room door and stopped, her brows lifting in sheer incredulity. ‘Candles?’
There were four of them, burning with steady golden flames in the tall silver candlesticks placed at a safe distance round the corners of the rug.
‘My predecessor sold the chandelier along with everything else, so the room needed some kind of light.’ Jago was kneeling, unpacking a hamper. ‘I bought these last week and thought—why not do it in style?’
She said shakily, ‘Why not indeed—except it’s not dark yet.’
He sighed. ‘Stop nitpicking, woman, and lend a hand.’
There wasn’t just food in the hamper. There were plates, dishes, cutlery, even wine glasses, all in pairs, strongly suggesting that he might have hoped Barbie would indeed be there.
Instead, she thought, he was settling for second best—if she even rated that highly.
Don’t think like that, she adjured herself fiercely. You’re not taking part in some competition, but just filling in time before the rest of your life, so remember it.
She watched Jago arranging the food on the rug. There was smoked trout pâté, chicken pie, green salad with a small container of French dressing, plus a crusty baguette, butter and a bottle of Chablis. While, to round off the meal, there was a jar of peaches in brandy.
He looked across at her, his smile faintly crooked. ‘Will this do?’
‘It looks wonderful,’ she said. ‘Like a celebration.’
‘That’s just how I wanted it to be.’ He drew the cork from the wine and poured it, handing her a glass. ‘To Ladysmere,’ he said. ‘A phoenix rising from the ashes.’
‘Yes,’ she said. And all because of you. She thought it, but did not say it. ‘It—it’s a special moment.’
He said softly, ‘Yes it is, and thank you for sharing it with me.’
The tawny gaze met hers, held it for an endless moment.
And Tavy felt her heart give a sudden, wild, and totally dangerous leap, as she raised her glass and echoed huskily, ‘To Ladysmere.’
