Читать книгу Jake Howard's Wife - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 5

THE inter-city express was nearing King's Cross. It was running between the high tenement buildings that did not endear this section of the city to its planners. More contemporary were the soaring skyscrapers, as ugly in their way as the tenements; slabs of concrete and glass, stark and impersonal. At least the tenements had lines of grimy washing outside to advertise human habitation. The skyscraper flats could have been some kind of monolithic temples to the gods.

Jake Howard glanced up from the papers strewn on the table in front of him and registered his whereabouts with a faint flicker of surprise. London; only two and a half hours after leaving York. How easy it was to get about these days! He could have flown down, of course, but he enjoyed the train journey. It reminded him of his youth, of his first impressions of the big city, of the young, inexperienced fool he had been then.

A steward tapped on the window of his private compartment and with an imperative gesture Jake indicated that the man could enter.

‘Only five minutes to King's Cross, Mr Howard,’ he said, politely, deferentially. ‘Is there anything else you need, sir? Another drink, perhaps?'

Jake shook his head, and sliding his hand into his trousers’ pocket drew out a five-pound note. ‘Nothing else, thank you,’ he replied, handing the man the note. ‘But you can arrange for the luggage to be taken to my car when we arrive.'

‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir. I hope you've had a pleasant journey.'

Jake's grey eyes narrowed ironically. ‘Reasonably so, thank you,’ he drawled.

The steward smiled politely and withdrew. After he had gone Jake began to thrust his scattered papers back into his briefcase. During the course of the journey he had been able to complete his assessment of the Havilland deal and he felt confident that there would be no hitches there. Havilland Chemicals would soon be part of the Howard Foundation, and that pleased him enormously. Of course, he would need to discuss the details with Sinclair in the morning, but that was merely a formality.

He finished putting his papers away, and taking out a case of cigars put one between his teeth. He lit it casually, resting his dark head against the soft upholstery. Outside the train's slightly misted windows the lights of the town glimmered brightly. It was after seven and it was too late in the year to expect the light to last much longer. It was cold, too. He had felt it as he waited for the train on the station at York; the sharp biting blast of an east wind accentuating the already cold October weather. After the heat of the west coast of the United States it was doubly chilling.

He smiled to himself. What a way to return to London from California; via Glasgow, and York railway station! But it was his usual practice. He always spent his first night back in England with his mother, and as she lived in Selby, in Yorkshire, he invariably flew into Prestwick and travelled south from there.

His thoughts moved on, over the irritating moments of changing from train to his chauffeur-driven limousine, to his eventual arrival at his own home, his house in an elegant square in Belgravia. And to Helen, his wife…

His lips twisted as he thought of Helen. By now she would have received the flowers he had despatched from Glasgow, and would no doubt be ready and waiting to greet him. He drew deeply on his cigar recalling the exquisite appointments of his house, anticipating with the pleasure of possession an evening spent in his wife's company, when he would regale her with the details of his trip.

And she would listen. Helen always listened, he thought disparagingly, and felt again the amazement he had felt three years ago when she had accepted his proposal and agreed to become his wife.

Then, of course, he had despised her. All his life he had had to strive to make his successful way in life. Born the son of a Yorkshire weaver, he had had to work hard to achieve any kind of position, spending all his days and nights, too, furthering his education, dragging himself up by his finger nails towards his goal. He would have gone to any lengths to succeed. He had a ready charm, and was quite prepared to use it to get what he wanted. He flattered and was pleasant to people he secretly found contemptible, he charmed people, men and women alike, and his innate intelligence was sufficient to guarantee him not to put a foot wrong. Unlike his father he was not interested in the mill; he was interested in chemicals. From an early age, he had found the study of substances and how they were formed fascinating, and a degree at Leeds University paved the way for greater things. He had the good fortune to get a job as laboratory assistant in a small chemical works near Selby, and although at the time his friends and relations thought he was a fool for confining his talents to such a small laboratory when he could have got a job with one of the larger concerns, Jake was already thinking ahead. By making himself indispensable to Mr Quarton, the works’ managing director, and charming to Quarton's wife, it became a natural process for Quarton to take him on as a director of the firm. It was a short step from there to the chairman's position, and Jake was nothing if not persistent.

Now he tapped ash into the fitted tray and moved his shoulders wryly. He supposed he ought to feel some shame, some remorse at the way he had systematically gained control of Quartons and in so doing laid himself open for bigger bids. When the offer came he had no compunction about destroying the smaller firm in order to get a seat on the board of a larger company.

After that, it became easy, and in some ways less satisfying. He had been used to using his brain to its ultimate ability and even today, with his own foundation and more than a million pounds in stocks and shares, he refused to delegate duty.

Three years ago, when he met Helen, he had been on the lookout for a wife, a suitable wife, of course. There had been plenty of women on his rise to the top; office girls and models, the wives of some of his colleagues, all of whom had shown themselves more than willing to make themselves indispensable to him.

But in spite of the quantity, it was quality Jake was looking for. As in all things, only the best would do. And that was when he met Helen Forsythe.

He had known her father some years before, Gerard Forsythe, and had considered him a pleasant, if somewhat dilatory, member of the London social set. Gerard's father had been Sir Edwin Forsythe, Bart., of Mallins, near Aylesbury, but unfortunately Gerard had been the younger son and in consequence his brother had inherited the title. But for all that Gerard Forsythe had exactly the kind of background Jake would have chosen had he had the chance. That Gerard had squandered the money his father left him meant little to Jake. In Gerard's position he knew he could have made the money work for him, but just because Gerard hadn't didn't alter his social position.

However, when Gerard died, in a motor accident after a particularly bad evening at the card tables, Helen was left almost penniless at only twenty-three years of age.

She could have got a job, of course, Jake realised that, but up until the time of her father's accident and the subsequent scandal it engendered, she had been practically engaged to Keith Mannering, son of the barrister, Geoffrey Mannering, and had spent her time enjoying herself. There had been skiing at St Moritz, and the Bahamas in late autumn, and the usual London social season to fill her days, and the idea of any other kind of life had not crossed her mind. But when her father was killed and Keith became rather elusive she was left high and dry, with only a small private income, inherited from her maternal grandmother, to live on. She had been well educated, had spent two years at a finishing school in Switzerland, and could speak several languages fluently. But apart from organising dinner parties and entertaining her father's guests she had never had to work in her life.

Jake had met her quite by accident at the Shaftesbury Theatre. He and some friends had been having a drink in the bar during the interval when Helen came in with a notable young married couple. Helen had been at school with the wife, and almost out of compassion for her they had invited her to join them for the evening. And as the husband was Giles St John, a close friend and business associate of Jake's, it was natural that the two should be introduced.

Jake had been escorting a rather exotic young woman from the Portuguese Embassy that evening and he had thought Helen had looked rather coolly on the Portuguese girl's attempts to display her proprietorial claim on Jake. He could not imagine Helen, with her Scandinavian fair beauty, her tall, slim, young body, and cool blue eyes ever succumbing to such a display, and it was in that moment that the seed of his idea had been formed.

He knew of Helen's situation, of course. It was common knowledge among the set he moved in, and he thought he saw something like challenge in the cool gaze she cast in his direction. It was unusual for him, for women usually found his lean dark features attractive. But Helen Forsythe looked at him as if he was a particularly obnoxious species of animal brought in for her inspection, and for the first time in his life he was aware of his northern accent only lightly veneered with polish.

He had contacted her the following day and asked to see her again. She had refused, and there-after for several weeks she did the same. And then one day he called, and he could tell from the tone of her voice over the telephone that something was wrong. She agreed to meet him for dinner that evening and over the meal he got it out of her that the house she was living in was going to have to be sold. It was too great a drain on her resources, and she was at her wits’ end to know where to turn. Gerard had been ostracised by his own family for his irresponsible ways and she refused to consider contacting them. Jake listened to her pour out her troubles, offered advice and sympathy, and left it there.

He telephoned her every day for a fortnight, sometimes inviting her out, sometimes merely asking how she was. He began to be aware, by a subtle change in her attitude, that she was beginning to rely on those phone calls. So he stopped them, and for over a week he did not contact her at all. It was like a business deal. He used strategy; uncaring that in this instance he was dealing with a human being, not a company.

When he contacted her again she was desperate, and that was when he put his proposition to her. He was not attracted to her, she was too cold, too controlled to appeal to his sensual nature. But she was ideal for his purpose.

To begin with his proposal had staggered her. Although the idea of becoming his wife had apparently not occurred to her she did not appear to find the prospect entirely objectionable. But his terms of reference, as he phrased it, were. He explained quite coolly that he did not want a wife in anything but name. He wanted her as an elegant possession to grace his table, to entertain his guests when necessary, and to be a pleasing advertisement of his taste in women.

His proposal had one definite effect. It froze the thawing of her attitude towards him so that she became again the cool, aloof female he had first encountered in the Shaftesbury Theatre bar.

Of course she accepted, as he had known she would, and that was why he despised her. He would have regarded her much more favourably if she had refused him, if she had shown a bit of spunk and set to work to organise her affairs. In consequence, he saw her only as a helpless creature, prepared to accept a man she obviously disliked as her husband rather than dirty her hands.

His own mother had been horrified. His father had died during the years of his rise to success and although he had wanted to bring his mother to London to share his home she refused to leave the house where she had spent so many happy years with Jake's father. But in spite of the differences in their outlook, in their positions in society, Jake still regarded his mother as the most admirable woman he had ever met.

Helen met his mother at the wedding. It was a fashionable affair, paid for by Jake, of course, to which all Helen's erstwhile friends came to wish her well. Jake wondered whether Helen actually believed their excuses of polite regret at not having seen her for so long, or whether she would take up their eager invitations. He was well aware that by marrying him she was putting herself back into that privileged society where possessions counted for so much more than personality.

Jake's mother had been out of place at the wedding as he had known she would be, just as Helen was out of place with her. Mrs Howard had never been one to mince words and she made it painfully clear that she considered her son could have done much better. Her working-class morality revolted against this thing Jake was perpetrating, for even she could see that his emotions were in no way involved with this cool, haughty girl.

And yet, in spite of the incongruity of its beginnings, the arrangement had worked well for both of them. Jake's work took him abroad a lot and in the three years of their married life they had only spent about three months together. But for all that, Helen was there on those occasions when Jake needed her, and if their relationship had never progressed beyond the bounds of polite strangers, they were at least civil with one another, which was more than could be said for many of their acquaintances.

Jake had discovered that she had exquisite taste in furnishing and decoration, and his house in Belgravia had become quite a showplace. With an unlimited supply of money, Helen had allowed her talent free rein, and Jake was comfortably aware that his friends considered him a very lucky man to have such an accomplished as well as decorative wife.

The train was running into King's Cross now and Jake got to his feet and reached for his sheepskin coat. He put it on and then raked a careless hand through the thick darkness of his hair. He was a big man, tall and broad, yet he moved with the lithe feline grace of a panther. He was not handsome, no one could accuse him of that. His nose had been broken in fights at school and his forty years had carved lines of experience beside his mouth and eyes. Yet for all that, women seemed to find him very attractive, although he was not foolish enough to imagine that his material wealth did not add to the image.

The brakes ground into the iron wheels and the big diesel engine brought its load to a screeching halt at the barrier. Jake picked up his briefcase and emerged into the corridor just as the steward appeared with his cases. Latimer, his chauffeur, was waiting on the platform and he touched his cap politely when he saw Jake.

‘Good evening, sir. Had a good journey?'

‘Fine, thank you, Latimer. Are you well? Your wife?'

It was the usual greeting, the usual small talk as they walked down the platform to where the big limousine was waiting for them. The steward carried the cases, and passed them over to Latimer as they reached the car.

Jake slid behind the wheel and waited, lighting another cigar, tapping his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. Now that he was here in London he was impatient to be home. It was more than three months since he had left for the United States.

Latimer finished stowing the luggage in the boot and came round to climb into the passenger's seat. Jake always preferred to drive himself unless he had work to do. The big car moved smoothly away and Jake relaxed. The snarl-ups of traffic in the city were of little consequence after the boardroom tactics he had had to face in San Francisco, and it was a relief to put all that behind him and concentrate on more ordinary things.

‘How is Mrs Howard, Latimer?’ Jake changed down rapidly and stood on his brakes as a brilliantly painted Mini shot across in front of him. ‘Did she get my flowers?'

Latimer cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir, she got them. I believe she's very well, sir. I think everyone's had a taste of cold, though, since the weather changed.'

Jake nodded thoughtfully. ‘And your family are okay? How is that son of yours doing? The one at university. Do you think he'll go in for physics and chemistry?'

‘He wants to, sir.’ Latimer sounded enthusiastic. ‘His results are satisfying so far, I think. He's into his third year now, you know. I'm sure he appreciates your interest, sir.'

Jake's lips twisted a trifle ironically. He doubted whether Alan Latimer shared his father's attitude. Like all young people he was arrogant, and while he might be glad of a chance to work in the Howard Foundation laboratories, he certainly wouldn't beg for such a position. Jake admired his spunk. Alan was like he had been, eager to succeed and impatient of his father's dated ideas of one's station in life.

Jake's house stood in Kersland Square, a tall Georgian building with wrought-iron balcony rails and urns of flowering plants by the door. The door was painted white with a brass knocker, and it was one of a row of such houses all owned by business or professional people. Latimer, whose wife was also housekeeper in the establishment, and his family lived in the basement in a modern self-contained flat that was the envy of their friends and relations.

Jake stopped the limousine at the door and slid out.

‘Will you be needing me any more this evening, sir?’ Latimer had climbed out too and was standing awaiting instructions.

Jake turned up the collar of his coat against the cold night air. ‘I don't think so, thanks,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘You can put the car away.'

‘Yes, sir.’ Latimer saluted and Jake turned and mounted the steps to the front door, letting himself in with his key.

He stepped into a wide hallway, carpeted in shades of blue and gold, with pale oak-panelled walls and a crystal chandelier suspended overhead. It was a beautiful entrance, its only piece of furniture an exquisitely engraved oak chest on which was standing a vase of dahlias, their closely curled heads providing dashes of colour against the panelling.

To the right and left of the hall, panelled doors gave on to dining and reception areas, and Jake's study. But these doors were presently closed, and Jake frowned as he unbuttoned his coat, throwing his briefcase carelessly on to the polished surface of the chest. Where was Helen? She always came out to greet him. Hadn't she heard the car? Or the door being opened?

He threw off his coat and was about to cross the hall when the door at the back of the stairs which led to the kitchen and basement quarters opened and Mrs Latimer appeared.

She smiled warmly, and took his coat from him. ‘Good evening, sir, and welcome home! Have you had a good trip?'

Jake forced himself to be polite. ‘Fine, thanks, Mrs Latimer. How are you?’ The question was perfunctory, and he glanced round impatiently.

Mrs Latimer answered quietly, her gentle face troubled. She was a small woman, with greying brown hair and a friendly countenance. She had been with Jake for the last ten years, since her youngest child was old enough to fend for itself, while her husband had worked for him for over thirteen years. They knew their employer very well by this time, and she sensed his intelligent query.

‘Where is Mrs Howard?'

Mrs Latimer coloured. ‘I'm afraid she's out, sir.'

The hell she is! Jake suppressed the angry outburst. ‘Where?'

‘I'm not sure, sir. She didn't say. I only know she's with Mr Mannering.'

‘Mannering?’ Jake was astonished. ‘Keith Mannering?'

‘I believe so, sir.’ Mrs Latimer looked uncomfortable. ‘Er—I've dinner ready, sir. I expect you're hungry. If—if you'd like to wash—'

Jake loosened his tie. ‘Tell me,’ he interrupted her, his eyes distant, ‘did my wife know I was expected home this evening?'

‘Of course, sir. Your flowers arrived from Glasgow yesterday evening.'

‘I see.’ Jake narrowed his eyes, the feeling of homecoming, of complacency almost, which he had felt coming here in the car vanishing beneath a tide of fierce resentment. ‘Very well, Mrs Latimer. I'll take a shower. I'll eat in'—he consulted the broad gold watch on his wrist—‘in say twenty minutes.'

‘Yes, sir.’ Mrs Latimer nodded politely, and without another word Jake went up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his temper simmering.

He thrust open the door of his bedroom and entered the room, kicking the door to behind him. It was an attractive room, chocolate brown walls and an apricot bedspread toning well with light oak furniture and deeper apricot drapes. In the light of the lamp by his bed it should have soothed him, but it didn't. He felt furiously angry, betrayed almost, that Helen should choose this evening of all evenings to be out. She had never done this before. She had always been there when he arrived back from one of his business trips, ready to smile and listen to him as he told her of his dealings, ready to offer sympathy or tentative advice if required. Goddammit, he thought violently, that was what she was here for. He had bought her for that purpose, not to go gallivanting off with bloody Keith Mannering!

He stripped off his clothes and walked naked into the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping under it, uncaring that he soaked his hair. He moved beneath the sensuous stream of water, enjoying its cooling balm to his heightened senses. How dared she be out? he thought furiously. How dared she allow her name to be coupled with a man who had deserted her three years ago while he, Jake, was out of the country? God, what would his friends be saying? What would they be thinking?

He turned off the shower and wrapped a huge bath-sheet about him, towelling himself dry automatically. Then he rubbed his hair thoroughly and went back into his bedroom. He dressed in closefitting black suede trousers that moulded the strong muscles of his legs, and a cream silk shirt. He didn't bother to dress formally. There was no point. And besides, he was in no mood to put on a dinner jacket.

On impulse he crossed the landing and opened the door of Helen's bedroom. Switching on the lamps, he surveyed its feminine charm sardonically. There was a soft fluffy white carpet underfoot, while the bedcoverings and curtains matched each other in delicate shades of rose pink. The dressing table was strewn with jars and bottles and atomisers, the usual paraphernalia found on any woman's dressing table, while a sliver of chiffon lay carelessly at the foot of the bed where she had discarded it. Jake's teeth fastened harshly on his lower lip and he switched out the lamps abruptly and closed the door with a decisive click. He was amazed at the anger that was gripping him. He had the strongest impulse to do something quite violent. How dared she do this to him? he asked himself again, as he descended the thickly carpeted staircase. Who the hell did she think she was dealing with? Some blasted nondescript, who hadn't the sense he was born with? Some ignorant northerner who wouldn't object to his wife having aristocratic boy-friends? No, by God, not he, not Jacob Anthony Howard! When he acquired a possession it was his, in its entirety, not just part of the time, not just when he chose to take it out and look at it, but always!

He crossed the blue and gold hall and entered the low, light lounge that gave on to the dining area. The lounge was large and lit by concealed lighting along the ceiling moulding. It was decorated in shades of blue and green, and its soft, feather-cushioned sofa and armchairs were massive and extremely comfortable. It was a comfortable room, a lived-in room, vastly different in design from the reception lounge across the hall where he did most of his entertaining.

The dining area was divided from the lounge by a teak librenza, fitted with bookshelves and places for objets d'art. Helen collected articles in jade and ivory, and there were several exquisitely carved pieces on the librenza. The dining table was dark polished wood with some dark, leather-seated, ladderbacked chairs to match it. Mrs Latimer had laid a place at the table for him, the rush place-mat and silver cutlery reflected in its polished surface.

Jake regarded her ministrations silently for a moment or two and then with an impatient gesture he walked across to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself a stiff Scotch. He swallowed it at a gulp and poured himself another before flinging himself into one of the enormously soft armchairs, draping one leg over its arm.

He looked round the room restlessly, unable to relax. Nothing had changed. The turquoise velvet drapes at the windows toned marvelously with the soft blue-green of the carpet into which one's feet sank luxuriously; his hi-fi equipment in its polished teak cabinet still stood in one corner, while the unblinkingly broad screen of the colour television matched it in the other. Bookshelves flanked the marble fireplace in which an electric fire gave out a pseudo-log effect, unnecessary now that the powerful central heating system was in operation. The tasteful mixture of ancient and modern should have pleased him, but he found nothing to appreciate in it. He was consumed with resentment and anger, and it infuriated him that he should have arrived back here with such enthusiasm, only to have that enthusiasm doused by the thoughtless attitude of his wife.

Mrs Latimer appeared in the aperture which led to the dining area. ‘If you're ready I'll serve dinner, sir,’ she suggested politely.

Jake swung his leg to the floor and rose abruptly to his feet. ‘Yes. Yes, all right, Mrs Latimer. I'm coming.'

He finished his drink and left his empty glass on the cabinet before crossing the room to the dining area. Seated at the empty table, he tried to show interest in the food his housekeeper had prepared. He was tempted to question her about Helen's activities while he was away. He wanted to know how often she had seen Mannering and whether he had been to the house. His jaw tightened. The idea of Keith Mannering here, in his house, was almost too much to contemplate without violence.

But he said nothing and attempted to behave as though Helen's absence was not important. Mrs Latimer had prepared his favourite dinner, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with a raspberry crumble to follow, and he could not disappoint her by refusing it; although he might have been eating sawdust for all the enjoyment he took from it. He drank wine with the meal, a red Bordeaux that helped the food down. Afterwards, he carried his coffee into the lounge and after dismissing Mrs Latimer he switched on the television.

He seldom watched television. When he was home, which was not often, he was invariably entertaining or being entertained, and on those evenings when he might have relaxed he brought work home from the office and retired to his study to concentrate in its quiet luxury.

But right now he was in no mood to work; to study the contracts he had planned to study this evening after dinner, after he had discussed the merits of his trip with Helen. He was impatient for her to return home, to confront her with his anger, to make it plain once and for all that as his wife she had a certain position to uphold and no matter how unsatisfying their relationship might be she had chosen it, and by God, she was going to honour it!

Unwillingly, he recalled the young woman he had seen so frequently during the last few weeks. Louise Corelli had certainly helped to make his stay in California more enjoyable, but that was quite different, he consoled his conscience. He was a man, after all, with a man's appetites, and out of the country, thousands of miles from home and friends, from anyone who might gossip about their association. Helen was here, in London, where every move she made was speculated upon by friends and enemies alike.

The evening passed incredibly slowly and Jake's temper mounted to simmer somewhere around boiling point. He had turned off a particularly nauseating interview on the television and was in the process of pouring himself another Scotch when he heard Helen's key in the lock.

His first instinct was to march out into the hall and demand an explanation like some Victorian father, but he was too well versed in the arts of political tactics to waste his energy so carelessly. So instead he finished pouring his Scotch, swallowed half of it at a gulp and carried the rest with him to stand before the marble fireplace, one foot upraised to rest on the polished brass fender.

Helen must have seen the light, for a few moments later after she had shed her wrap, the lounge door opened and she stood on the threshold looking at him, her eyes slightly wary, he thought.

It crossed his mind with clinical detachment that she was looking particularly beautiful this evening. Her gown was a caftan of peacock blue embroidered with silver dragons which he had brought her back from Japan six months ago. Its severe lines hinted at the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the slender length of her legs. To his knowledge she had never worn it before and it annoyed him intensely that she should have put it on for Keith Mannering's benefit. The long lovely length of silver hair had been coiled into a Grecian knot on top of her head, while tendrils escaped at her ears to caress her cheeks and the nape of her neck. Hoops of beaten gold hung from her ears, the present he had bought for their last anniversary.

Jake allowed her gaze to fall before the penetration of his and she moved into the room with obvious reluctance. ‘Hello, Jake,’ she said, putting her sequinned evening bag on a side table with unnecessary care. ‘You're looking well. Have you had a good trip?'

Jake controlled the angry retort that sprang to his lips. ‘It was reasonably successful, yes,’ he responded expressionlessly.

‘Oh! Good.’ Helen was forced to look at him again, and he saw the troubled expression in her eyes. ‘I—er—I'm sorry I couldn't be here when you got back. I—I had an appointment.'

‘So I heard,’ he said, swallowing the remainder of his Scotch.

Helen coloured. ‘Yes, well, I'm sure Mrs Latimer provided you with an excellent dinner—'

‘To hell with Mrs Latimer!’ Jake's anger exploded.

Helen clenched her hands together. ‘Please, Jake—'

‘Please be damned!’ Jake tossed the exquisitely delicate whisky glass in his hand. ‘Where the hell do you think you've been?'

Helen swallowed with apparent difficulty. ‘Mrs Latimer must have told you—'

‘I'm not interested in what Mrs Latimer said!’ snapped Jake. ‘I want to know where you've been and with whom?'

Helen made a helpless gesture. ‘I've been to a party—with Keith Mannering.'

Jake uttered an ugly expletive and Helen winced at his language. ‘You bitch!’ he swore angrily. ‘I don't know how you have the nerve to stand there and tell me you've been out with another man, let alone Mannering!'

Helen squared her shoulders with an effort. ‘Why not?’ she asked succinctly.

Jake narrowed his eyes, thrusting his empty glass on to the mantelshelf. ‘Why not?’ he demanded fiercely. ‘What do you mean, why not? You're my wife; that should be answer enough!'

Helen toyed with the exquisite diamond ring which Jake had bought her on their engagement; her eyes were guarded and he suddenly wondered what she was thinking.

‘And you?’ she said quietly. ‘Is that answer enough for you too? That you're my husband?'

Jake's expression was grim. ‘What the hell do you mean by that?'

Helen raised her dark eyebrows. ‘I should have thought it was obvious. Do you think I am allowed to remain unaware of your conquests? Do you think I'm not constantly being sickened by so-called well-meaning confidences?'

Jake raked a hand through his thick hair. ‘My God!’ he muttered violently, turning away to stare unseeingly into the electric flames. ‘And you think my—actions—entitle you to act likewise, is that it?'

‘No!’ The brief remonstrance was sufficient to cause him to swing round and face her again. ‘No,’ she repeated heatedly. ‘I'm not like you! I'm not an animal giving in to every physical need of its body—'

‘And I am?’ His tone was ominous.

Helen flushed scarlet. ‘I honestly don't care what you are,’ she retorted, biting her lips. ‘But I can see no grounds for you to complain about my behaviour. So far as I'm concerned, these last three months have been the last straw! I see no reason for me to cut myself off from my friends just because I'm married to you—'

‘Might I remind you that your so-called friends soon deserted you after your father's accident?’ observed Jake cuttingly.

Helen winced as though he had struck her. ‘That's a rotten thing to say!’ she burst out tremulously.

Jake shrugged his broad shoulders, surveying her appraisingly. It was the first time he had seen her so animated. Normally he was unable to arouse more than a flicker of emotion in her controlled features.

‘But true, nevertheless,’ he remarked now, his eyes never wavering from her face. ‘Now what are you going to tell me? That I'm uncouth and a cad for mentioning such a thing? That I haven't the manners of that priggish lout, Mannering?'

Helen allowed her long lashes to veil her eyes. ‘Keith is a gentleman,’ she replied tersely.

Jake uttered a contemptuous snort. ‘Oh, he is? And what is your definition of a gentleman, I wonder? Someone who never eats peas with his knife? Or maybe someone who only makes love in his pyjamas, never in the raw!'

Helen took a deep breath. ‘You're crude!’ she exclaimed distastefully. ‘I'm going to bed.'

Jake crossed the room to her side in an instant, moving swiftly and lithely for such a big man. ‘Oh, are you?’ His mouth tightened. ‘You'll go to bed when I say and not before.'

Helen lifted her head incredulously. ‘Really, Jake, this is the twentieth century. You're not my keeper! You can't make me do what you want all the time.'

‘Can't I?’ His lips twisted. ‘I shouldn't bank on that if I were you.'

Helen moved towards the door, but he was in her path. ‘I don't like this conversation, Jake. I wish it had never taken place.'

‘So do I!’ he snapped sharply. ‘Might I remind you that your absence here this evening was responsible.'

Helen sighed. ‘I'm tired. Can't we discuss this in the morning? We'll both be more—well—reasonable, then.'

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Jake glared at her.

Helen made a helpless gesture towards the glass on the mantelpiece and then seemed to regret the impulse. ‘It doesn't mean anything,’ she denied uncomfortably.

‘You think I'm drunk, is that it?’ Jake made a derisive grimace. ‘Dear God, you've never seen me drunk, Helen!'

‘Nor should I want to.’ Helen quivered. ‘Am I to be allowed to go to bed?'

Jake stepped aside abruptly, but his jaw was taut. ‘Aren't you interested in what I've brought you back from the States? I thought that was why you married me—to retain the material benefits of life!'

Helen looked as though she would have liked to have struck his sardonic face, but she did nothing except clench her fists. Then she walked out of the lounge, across the blue and gold hall with its crystal chandelier casting prisms of light on her pale hair, and up the stairs to her room.

Jake watched her go with impotent fury and then walked back into the lounge, slamming the door behind him. When he finally sought his bed the newly opened bottle of Scotch was three parts gone…