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.

Hell or High Water
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE apartment was silent except for the clatter of the typewriter, when the doorbell rang. It was a frustrating intrusion into the mood of the narrative, and the man seated at the machine stopped typing abruptly to rest his balled fists on the desk. Then, stilling the impulse to tear up the ruined page of the manuscript, he rose to go and answer it, a second peal grating in his ears as he crossed the floor. He was not in the mood for casual callers, and friends of long acquaintance knew better than to interrupt him at a time like this, but his suspicions as to who it might be were realised when he opened the door.

‘Jarret! The reluctantly-ageing blonde who crossed the threshold without waiting for his invitation caressed his cheek with an elegantly-gloved hand. ‘Mmmm, you haven’t shaved this morning, darling. But I love you anyway, rough or smooth!’

The sensuous tones of the woman’s voice had little effect on their recipient. With the grimness of impatience tightening his lean features, he leaned against the door frame, making no move to close it, and his feminine visitor allowed a slightly nervous trill of laughter to escape from her lips.

‘Darling, don’t stand there looking at me as if I wasn’t welcome …’

‘You’re not!’ he retorted.

‘… particularly when I came here with some rather exciting news for you.’

There was a controlled expellation of breath, and then he said flatly: ‘I’m not ready for this, Margot. As you can see, I’m working …’ he waved a careless hand towards the desk, ‘and I’d like you to go as soon as possible.’

‘Oh, we are a sourpuss today, aren’t we?’ she teased, showing no immediate inclination to obey him. Instead, she descended the two steps that separated the body of the apartment from the entrance on perilously high heels, and did a deliberate pirouette beside his desk. ‘What’s thematter?’ she asked, puckering her lips, gloved fingers flicking the pages beside the typewriter without interest. ‘Did we have a heavy night last night, or did we just get out of bed the wrong side this morning?’

‘Get out of here, Margot!’

The demand was made almost mildly, a narrow-eyed mask guarding his expression, and she chose not to respond to it.

‘Don’t be so grumpy, Jarret,’ she pouted. ‘Aren’t you even going to offer me a drink? The traffic in Knights-bridge was terrible, and I’m simply dying for something long and cool and satisfying. Just like you, darling.’

‘I warn you, Margot …’

The quietly threatening tone at last got through to her, and with a gesture of offence she tilted her chin. With the lines of her throat ironed out by the attitude, it was one of her best poses, and she knew it, but Jarret felt the tightness of repulsion in his stomach as he surveyed the deliberate come-on.

‘Can’t you at least have the courtesy to close the door for a moment?’ she demanded at last, when her ploy produced no reaction. Her mouth compressed. ‘You really are the most selfish bastard, Jarret. I don’t know why I care about you.’

‘Don’t you?’ Jarret’s expression was resigned, but after a slight hesitation he closed the door and came down the shallow stairs to where she was standing. ‘So?’ he said, brows arching enquiringly. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Lady Margot Urquart’s lips twitched frustratedly. She did not like the forbearing tone of his voice, or trust the superficiality of his words. In spite of their different social backgrounds, he was still able to make her feel like a gauche ingénue, and despite the fact that she was more than ten years his senior, the cool blue-eyed stare reduced her to an open-mouthed sycophant.

‘You’re a brute, Jarret!’ she protested, running a deliberate hand into the unbuttoned neckline of her silk shirt. ‘Here I am, making a special journey just to do you a good turn, and you treat me like a—like a leper! I know you’re working, I know you want to get on with your book.But that’s why I’m here—to help you.’

‘I didn’t know you’d taken a course in typewriting, Margot,’ Jarret commented dryly, brushing past her to tug the offending sheet out of the machine and roll it into a ball between his palms. ‘But I’m sorry to disappoint you, I prefer to work alone, and with fewer interruptions the better.’

‘Oh, Jarret!’ Margot’s lips pursed. ‘You know I didn’t mean that. And why are you destroying that page? Surely I didn’t spoil your train of thought.’

‘I’ve screwed it up,’ remarked Jarret unpleasantly, and her chin tilted once more. ‘And that’s not the only thing that’s screwed up around here. I’d be grateful if you’d get to the point and go!’

Margot sniffed. ‘If you’re going to be like that …’

‘What? Like what?’ Jarret rested his denim-clad hips against the desk and folded his arms across his chest. ‘How am I expected to behave? I didn’t invite you here, Margot.’

‘It’s that Sinclair girl, isn’t it?’ she exclaimed suddenly, switching tactics completely. ‘Jo told me you’d been seeing her. That’s why you’re being so utterly beastly—because of her!’

Jarret’s expression did not change. ‘Why don’t you tell me why you’ve come here, Margot?’ he suggested, ignoring her outburst, and with a sound of deep frustration she flounced across the room.

‘Well, if you won’t offer me a drink, I’ll help myself,’ she declared, glancing at him over her shoulder as she halted by a tray of bottles and glasses. ‘Can I get you one, the hair of the dog, and all that, or will that disturb your creative impulses too?’

‘I don’t want a drink, Margot,’ he refused, levering his lean body into the leather chair beside the desk and draping one leg casually over the arm. ‘I don’t need that kind of stimulation this early in the morning.’

‘It is half past eleven, darling,’ Margot defended herself sulkily, pouring a generous measure of Scotch into a tumbler chinking with ice and adding the merest touch of American dry. ‘Hmm, that’s better,’ she affirmed, licking the traces of alcohol from her full lips and viewing him mistily. ‘The first drink of the day is always the best.’

‘And that’s the first?’ mocked Jarret sceptically, and then regretting the impulse to arouse further recriminations, added: ‘Are you going to tell me why you’ve come here now, Margot? Or must I assume that was just an excuse to pacify the beast in me?’

‘No, it wasn’t.’ Margot was indignant, flicking her pleated skirt with a careless finger, drawing attention to the slenderness of leg and ankle. ‘I really do have some news for you, Jarret, but I’m half inclined not to tell you, you’ve been so uncivil to me.’

Jarret’s mouth thinned. ‘Then don’t.’

Margot’s face crumpled. ‘Oh, darling, don’t be like that, just because I choose to tease you. You know I could never deny you anything. I don’t know why you persist in treating me like a fool!’

Jarret swung his leg to the floor. ‘Look, Margot, I don’t have the time to sit here and discuss my shortcomings. Okay, I’m a brute and a bastard and I treat you abominably. So what’s the attraction? I’ve never given you any reason to think you could run my life for me.’

Margot sighed, swinging round on her heels and pacing restlessly to the windows. From this height, the whole panorama of London and its greater outskirts were spread out below in sprawling detail, a grey plume of smoke rising from the chimneys of the power station across the river. It was a grey day, dull and uninspiring, when the metropolis looked somewhat less than its best.

Turning, she surveyed the room behind her with more satisfaction. It was austere, of course, recognisably masculine, but attractive in spite of that. She would have liked to have thought that she had been instrumental in his leasing this apartment, but the truth was its owner had been more than willing to acquire a tenant of Jarret’s increasing popularity, and consequently he had been given the pick of the block. That had been more than eighteen months ago now, and his reputation still continued its meteor-like rise.

Jarret, watching the emotions that governed her expression, wondered exactly what Jo Stanford had told her. That lady had her own reasons for feeling aggrieved with him, and he felt the increasingly familiar pangs of dissatisfactionin him, that came from a surfeit of social adulation.

Margot finished her drink, and then, surveying the ice cubes still slipping around in the bottom of her glass, said: ‘You know how you’ve been saying that London is too—hectic for you, that this apartment is too accessible to really provide ideal working conditions? Well …’ she paused to give her next words their full impact, ‘I’ve found just the place for you.’

‘Really?’ Irritation flicked along Jarret’s nerves. ‘You’ve found just the place for me? How considerate of you!’

‘No, really, Jarret, I mean it.’ Margot was aggravated by his sardonic tone. ‘I’m not joking. I know exactly the sort of place you need, and it just so happens that the owner is a friend of mine.’

‘You know, I thought perhaps he might be,’ remarked Jarret dryly, getting to his feet. ‘Well, thanks, Margot, but no thanks. If and when I do decide to leave London I’ll do so of my own volition, not to take up some offer you’ve contrived to arrange——’

‘Oh, you’re deliberately misunderstanding me!’ Margot almost stamped her small foot in impatience, reaching for the bottle of Scotch again and splashing its contents into her glass. ‘I haven’t arranged anything, nor do I intend to. Except perhaps—well, you are the one who has to make the decision.’

‘Yes, I am, and if you don’t mind——’

‘Jarret! Jarret, listen to me!’ She swallowed a mouthful of Scotch for sustenance, and approached him severely, holding herself erect. ‘I know what I’m talking about. It’s not just an idea—King’s Green is exactly the place for you.’

Jarret faced her wearily, irritation giving way to endurance as he regarded her appealing features. ‘When will you learn that I prefer to do my own hunting, house or otherwise,’ he told her steadily, and she plucked wretchedly at his sleeve, unwillingly inciting his sympathy.

‘Won’t you at least consider the suggestion?’ she ventured, encouraged to transfer her hand from his sleeve to his cheek, gazing up at him limpidly. ‘It really is a gem of a place, and Alice wouldn’t be selling at all, if the upkeep of it wasn’t so prohibitive.’

Jarret’s mouth twisted. ‘So what makes you think I needsuch an extravagance?’

‘Darling …’ She reached up to touch his unshaven jaw with her lips. ‘You can afford it, you know you can. And King’s Green is the ideal spot for you to work.’

Jarret put her firmly away from him, and ignoring the wounded look she gave him, walked half resignedly across the room. ‘Where is this place?’ he demanded, massaging the back of his neck with impatient fingers. ‘Is King’s Green a village or a house or what?’

‘It’s a house,’ Margot offered, at once forgoing her pride in her eagerness. ‘Queen Anne, I think. Oh——’ this as he started to protest, ‘—it’s in excellent condition. A little damp in places perhaps, but that can easily be rectified, and it’s in an absolute dream of a setting.’

‘Where?’ Jarret distrusted Margot’s enthusiasm, but her next words allayed his suspicions.

‘A place called Thrushfold in Wiltshire. On the Wiltshire-Dorset borders, actually. Near enough to London to drive up in a matter of hours, but not near enough to attract casual visitors.’

Jarret acknowledged this with a faint inclination of his head. ‘Wiltshire,’ he murmured reflectively. ‘I see.’

‘You’d love it!’ Margot pressed her advantage. ‘It’s got everything—half a dozen bedrooms, two or three reception rooms, and a library! You could work in there. It overlooks the paddock. And the grounds themselves are just big enough to ensure privacy.’

‘How big?’ enquired Jarret dryly, and Margot moved her shoulders in a little offhand gesture.

‘I don’t know exactly,’ she prevaricated. ‘Does it matter? Forty—maybe fifty, I’m not sure. What’s really important——’

‘Forty or fifty what?’ Jarret interrupted her. ‘Acres? Margot, you must be out of your tiny mind! I’m no land-owner!’

Margot pouted. ‘That doesn’t mean you couldn’t be, darling. I think you’d make a marvellous squire! And King’s Green hasn’t had one of them for—oh, ten years or so.’

‘Let me get this straight.’ Jarret pushed his thumbs into the low belt of his denims. ‘You’re suggesting I buythis—this King’s Green from some—friend of yours?’

‘A school friend, yes. Alice Chase.’

‘And she’s a widow?’

‘Hardly your taste, darling,’ retorted Margot spitefully. ‘She’s twelve stone if she’s an ounce!’

Jarret ignored her. ‘That’s the proposition you came to put to me,’ he continued. ‘That I buy—King’s Green.’

‘Why not?’ Margot was forced to put her maliciousness aside. ‘It is what you’ve been looking for, isn’t it? A place in the country. Somewhere you can work—in peace.’

‘Mmmm.’ Jarret sounded as though he was extremely doubtful.

‘Well, at least come and see it,’ she urged him. ‘There’s no harm in that, is there? I mean, you’re not committed to anything, are you? And I’m sure you’ll be—enchanted, when you see it.’

‘Enchanted?’ Jarret stifled his rather wry humour. ‘Oh, Margot, you don’t know me very well, do you?’

‘Well enough,’ she murmured huskily. ‘But not as well as I’d like.’

Jarret sighed. ‘Look, I guess you thought you were doing me a favour, coming here and letting me know about this place, but—well, I can’t make a decision just like that. I—need to think about it.’

‘Of course.’ She sounded as if she had never doubted it. ‘But you will make up your mind soon, won’t you, darling? I mean, I told Alice I’d let her know within a couple of days.’

‘A couple of days,’ echoed Jarret irritably. ‘Hell, I can’t make that kind of decision in forty-eight hours!’

Margot hesitated. ‘Come and see it,’ she suggested again. ‘It’s only an hour or two’s drive. We could go tonight, and come back tomorrow.’

‘We?’

‘Of course, darling. I promised Alice I’d introduce her to you. She’s one of your fans, you know. She has all the books you’ve written.’

‘All three of them?’ mocked Jarret cuttingly.

Margot flushed. ‘Will you come?’

‘I can’t,’ he stated flatly. ‘Not today. It’s out of the question.’

‘Tomorrow, then,’ she persisted, only the tightening of her lips indicating her reaction to the inevitable reasons for his refusal. ‘Jarret, you owe it to yourself——’

Jarret cut her off without preamble. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he specified abruptly. ‘It’s Friday. We can drive down before lunch and be back in town in time for dinner.’

‘Are you making me an offer?’ Margot probed, but Jarret’s expression was not encouraging.

‘I have work to do,’ he reminded her, and she made a sulky gesture of acceptance.

‘What time tomorrow?’

‘Nine o’clock.’

‘So early!’ Margot was horrified.

‘If I can make it, surely you can,’ he averred dryly. ‘Is it a date?’

‘How could I refuse such a gallant proposition?’ she retorted, showing a little of the humour which had attracted his attention in the first place. ‘All right, darling, nine o’clock it is. Will you pick me up?’

‘Promptly,’ he affirmed, with a bow of his head, and forced to the conclusion that for the present this was all she could expect of him, she put down her glass and moved towards the door.

‘Until tomorrow,’ she murmured, lingering long enough for him to respond if he chose, but Jarret remained where he was.

‘Tomorrow,’ he agreed shortly, and the door closed rather heavily behind her.

With her departure, Jarret breathed a sigh of relief. Then, raking back his hair with aggressive fingers, he went to take one of the narrow cigars he favoured from the carved box on the bookshelves. He was already regretting the impulse he had had to give in to her, and impatience carved its identity across his dark features. Why the hell had he agreed to such a wasted outing? It was only her way of getting him to spend the day with her. Why on earth hadn’t he told her to go to hell, and shut her out of his life once and for all? He shook his head. A country estate was not for him, and she knew it. A house, maybe. That had possibilities. But forty or fifty acres of arable land …

He slumped down into the chair beside the typewriter and propped his head on his hand. What had he done that morning? Two, maybe three pages! He wasn’t even satisfied with what he had written. It was vacuously amateurish, he thought, with savage criticism, ignoring completely the incisive prose which had made a bestseller of his first novel and subsequent successes of his second and third. Nevertheless, the meaningless words and phrases were not Jarret Manning at his best, and the horrible suspicion that he had nothing more to say stirred in his stomach like a corpse in its tomb.

It was useless to pretend he was working at the moment. He was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate, and where once these minor distractions would not have troubled him, lately he was inventing reasons for not sitting down at the typewriter.

Would a change of surroundings help? He suspected it might. Margot had been right when she had said he was too accessible in London, too open to distraction, and maybe for his own good he needed a change. Too many parties, too many drinks, too many late nights … The indictment was endless, and he had no one to blame but himself. He had let the fruits of his success dictate his style of living, and for a writer that was professional suicide. Maybe if he got away from town for a while, he would have time to think. In the clean, unpolluted air of the countryside his brain would reassert itself, and recover from the crippling effects of too little stimulation and too much apathy.

Realising he was not about to write anything of significance today, he determinedly put his self-doubts aside and went to wash and shave. Then, adding a navy corded jacket to his denims, he left the apartment. Downstairs in the underground car park, one of the fruits of his success he did appreciate awaited him, and he lowered his lean body behind the wheel, and started the powerful twelve-cylinder engine. It responded without effort, and he reversed out of the space and then accelerated smoothly up the ramp to the street.

It took him less than half an hour to reach his destination, a narrow terraced house in a row of the same, situated in a less salubrious area across the river. The sun was endeavouringto break through the clouds as he parked his car at the kerb, and levered himself out on to the pavement, and he paused to grin at an elderly matron peering through the lace curtains of the house opposite before walking up the path to the house.

It could do with painting, he reflected, letting himself in with his key and slamming the door behind him. ‘It’s only me, Dad!’ he called by means of a warning, and then strolled down the narrow passage to the back of the house.

The old man was not in the living room or the kitchen, but the open back door indicated his whereabouts. He was in the long narrow garden, pottering about in the greenhouse, and Jarret pulled a wry face as he went to show himself.

‘What are you doing here?’ the old man demanded peevishly, not entirely able to hide his pleasure nevertheless. ‘I don’t normally see you Thursdays, do I? You got some trouble or something, or is this just a social call?’

Jarret grimaced. ‘That’s some line in welcomes you’ve got there, Paddy,’ he remarked without rancour leading the way back to the house. ‘I make a special effort to come and see you, and what do you say?’

‘Don’t call me Paddy,’ the old man grunted, coming into the kitchen after him and reaching for the kettle. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or are you needing something stronger? I’ve a bottle of stout in the cupboard, if it’s not too strong for your taste.’

Jarret grinned. ‘The stout would be fine,’ he agreed, propping himself against the table. ‘And how have you been since the last time I saw you?’

The old man busied himself getting out two bottles of stout and levering off the caps. Jarret saw, with some concern, that his hands were getting shaky, and there wasn’t the strength in them there had been a year ago. That stroke he had had, had taken more out of him than he cared to admit, and Jarret wished he would let him do something for him.

But Patrick Horton was intensely independent, he always had been, and since Jarret’s mother died he had resisted all efforts to share in his stepson’s success. It was ironic really, Jarret thought now, that his mother should havedied only weeks after his first book was published, and the subsequent success it had enjoyed had never made her life any easier.

Now he accepted the stout the old man handed him, declined the offer of a glass, and raised the bottle to his lips. It was rich and black, and only slightly warm despite the heat of the day, and he drank it thirstily, acknowledging the old man’s pleasure in his enjoyment as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

‘So?’ he urged. ‘You’re keeping well? No more of those dizzy turns you were having a month or two ago?’

‘Psshaw, dizzy turns!’ His stepfather was impatient. ‘I’m getting too old, that’s all that’s wrong with me. And you didn’t come here to discuss my aches and pains.’

Jarret sighed. ‘I wish you’d let me find you somewhere—pleasanter, somewhere smaller. Somewhere you could look after your garden, and not have to bother about taking care of a house. A bungalow, for——’

‘I was born in this house, Jarret, and I intend to die here,’ his stepfather interrupted him firmly. ‘It may seem scruffy and old-fashioned to you, after that place of yours up West, but it suits me down to the ground.’

Jarret shook his head. ‘You’re an obstinate old fool, do you know that?’

‘Why? ‘Cause I won’t let you squander your money on me. Humph!’ He chuckled. ‘You save it for those skinny bits of skirt I see you going about with. Don’t know what you see in them, I don’t honestly.’

‘Don’t you?’ queried Jarret lazily, and his stepfather chuckled once again.

‘Well, yes, I guess I do at that,’ he agreed wickedly. ‘But that’s not to say I approve. You’ll be getting yourself into trouble one of these days, and then all that money of yours won’t be enough to get you out of it.’

‘Mmm.’ Jarret took another mouthful of his stout as if considering the point, and the old man continued:

‘Like that Honourable what’s-her-name you used to see sometimes. Margaret something or other.’

‘Lady Margot Urquart,’ amended Jarret dryly. ‘As a matter of fact, I saw her this morning.’

‘Did you?’ His stepfather made a sound of contempt. ‘Soshe’s still hanging around, is she? What the hell do you want with an old bird like her?’

‘I have to remind you that it was Margot who persuaded James Stanford to publish Devil’s Kitchen!’ he retorted, shrugging. ‘Besides, she’s not that old, Paddy. I doubt if she’s even forty.’

‘And you’re thirty-one,’ his stepfather pointed out shortly.

Jarret sighed. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, Margot did have a reason for visiting me …’

‘I can believe it!’

‘No, really.’ Jarret had finished the contents of the bottle and now he took mock-aim at the old man. ‘She’s suggested I buy some place out in the country.’

Patrick Horton absorbed this in silence for several minutes while he examined the contents of his small pantry. Then, realising his stepson expected an opinion from him, he turned and glanced at him over his shoulder.

‘What kind of a place?’

Jarret shrugged. ‘A house—and some land. It belongs to an old school friend of hers.’

‘And who’s going to live there? You and Lady Margot?’

‘Of course not.’ Jarret was impatient now. ‘Me! Just me!’ He pushed back his hair with a weary hand. ‘I’m getting stale, Dad. The words just aren’t coming any more. I need to get away—I’m stifling in London.’

‘What you mean is you’re bored, don’t you?’ his stepfather remarked shrewdly. ‘Too many late nights and too much alcohol. And too many women!’

‘All right!’ Jarret heaved a deep breath. ‘What you say is true. I’m too easily diverted. Maybe out at Thrushfold I’ll be able to breathe again.’

‘Thrushfold?’ His stepfather frowned. ‘Where’s that?’

‘I’m not precisely sure. Somewhere in Wiltshire. The house is called King’s Green. A genuine old property!’ he added, with mock transatlantic reverence.

‘So you’ve made up your mind then?’

‘No.’ Jarret put the bottle on the table behind him and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘No, I haven’t decided yet. I haven’t even seen it. That’s one of the reasonswhy I wanted to see you—to ask you what you thought. To find out whether you think it’s a good idea or not.’

‘Hmm.’ The old man grimaced. ‘You had anything to eat?’

‘Some toast, at breakfast time,’ replied Jarret patiently. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘I think I’ll open a tin of soup,’ declared Mr Horton consideringly. ‘Which would you prefer? Chicken or oxtail? It’s all the same to me.’

‘I’ll take you out for lunch, Dad,’ protested Jarret, shaking his head, but his stepfather declined.

‘If my soup’s not good enough for you——’ he began, and with a gesture of acquiescence Jarret shed his coat and reached goodhumouredly for the can-opener.

Later, seated at the kitchen table ladling spoonfuls of oxtail soup into his mouth, Jarret returned to the object of his visit. ‘About this house, Dad,’ he began uncertainly, ‘what do you think? Ought I to go out of town for a while?’

Mr Horton considered for a few moments, and then he nodded his balding head. ‘I’d say it was the best idea you’d had in a long time,’ he asserted, frowning. ‘But not if you take anyone along with you.’

‘If you mean Margot, I’ve no intention of doing so.’

‘I didn’t mean her, actually. I meant that other one I read you’d been seeing. Some model girl, isn’t she? Comes from America. They gave you quite a write-up in the Gazette.’

‘Vivien Sinclair,’ remarked Jarret flatly. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t notice her name. Yes, she’s a model. And I’ve been seeing her for over six months. But there’s no likelihood of her joining me in my country retreat. She likes the bright lights far too much for that.’

He didn’t sound heartbroken, and his stepfather gave him a disapproving stare. ‘You don’t care, do you?’ he exclaimed, permitting a brief word of criticism. ‘Jarret, when are you going to give up this artificial existence and settle down? You know your mother would have wanted you to.’

‘Oh, Dad!’ The younger man lay back in his chair and surveyed his stepfather humorously. ‘Don’t give me thatold line. What Ma would or would not have wanted is immaterial, isn’t it? I mean—well, she’s dead, and my idiosyncrasies aren’t going to hurt her, are they?’

Patrick Horton sighed. ‘You’ll find your own way to the devil, I suppose,’ he muttered.

Jarret shook his head and sat up again. ‘So how about you coming with me instead? Then you could keep an eye on me, ensure that I ate the right food and got to bed at a reasonable time, and didn’t sleep with any strange women!’

His stepfather’s lips twitched in spite of himself. ‘Oh, no!’ he denied at once. ‘I’m not your keeper, nor would I want to be. And as for removing myself to the wilds of Wiltshire at my time of life—no, thanks!’ He paused. ‘But you go, Jarret, son, you go. I’m all in favour of that. I’m in favour of anything that will make you happy.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’ Jarret leant across to squeeze the old man’s arm, and they finished the meal in a companionable silence.

It was after four when Jarret arrived back at his apartment. Despite the unsatisfactory beginning to his day he felt reasonably content, and half inclined to anticipate the journey to Thrushfold with some enthusiasm. If the house was any good, the sale might be completed before the end of May, with the long lazy days of summer to look forward to. In previous years he had gone to Bermuda and to Cannes, and last year he had spent some time on the west coast of the United States, but the prospect of spending the summer in a home of his own was appealing, and he wondered how he would react to so much isolation.

Vivien Sinclair’s reactions were characteristically opposed to his leaving London.

‘Jarret, you can’t!’ she wailed, when he casually mentioned the idea at dinner that evening. ‘Honey, you’d die in a place like that! Come to Barbados with me next week. You know I’ve got that modelling assignment, and you could work at the hotel while I was at the studios.’

Jarret grimaced. ‘No, thanks,’ he declined gently. ‘I need to work, not to play baby-sitter while you take off your clothes for someone else.’

‘But Jarret,’ she protested, clasping one of his hands in both of hers, regardless of the interested eyes of theirwaiter, ‘when will I see you, stuck out in this Godforsaken hole——’

‘Hardly a hole,’ he corrected her dryly, removing her fingers. ‘Now, do you want yoghurt or ice-cream to finish, or shall I just order coffee for two?’

‘I couldn’t eat another thing,’ she protested sulkily, pulling a handkerchief out of her handbag and sniffing miserably into it. ‘You can get me a brandy with my coffee instead. I need something to sustain me after what you’ve just told me.’

Jarret shrugged and summoned the waiter, and ordered the drinks with the minimum amount of fuss. Then he relaxed in his seat while Vivien recovered her humour, apparently immune to her tearful performance.

‘And when do you leave?’ she ventured at last, when it occurred to her that she was doing herself no favours by causing a scene, and Jarret looked up from lighting a cheroot through the narrowed fringe of his lashes.

‘It’s not even definite yet, Vivien,’ he told her flatly, putting his lighter away. ‘I’m going down to see the place tomorrow. I’ll know more about it after that.’

‘But how did you learn of its whereabouts anyway?’ she exclaimed, putting her handkerchief away. ‘Thrushfold! In Wilshire? I’ve never even heard of it.’

‘The county is Wiltshire,’ Jarret amended, realising he might as well tell her the whole tale. ‘Margot Urquart told me about it. It belongs to an old school friend of hers.’

Vivien evidently suppressed the retort that sprang to her lips, and asked about the house with as much detachment as she could muster. But later that night, when they were alone in her apartment, she could not deny the need for reassurance that only he could give.

‘You—er—you wouldn’t consider marrying Margot Urquart, would you, Jarret?’ she probed, caressing his ear with mildly anxious lips, and Jarret’s laughter came from deep down in his throat.

‘No,’ he agreed, turning his mouth into her nape, and she breathed a sigh of relief as he kissed her.

CHAPTER TWO

‘WHEN did you decide all this?’ Helen Chase rounded on her mother in uncharacteristic aggravation. ‘Couldn’t you at least have discussed it with me first?’

Mrs Chase expelled her breath on a long sigh, and then replied carefully: ‘We have discussed it, Helen. You know that as well as I do. And there is no other solution.’

‘How can you say that?’ Helen made a gesture of frustration. ‘After Charles and I are married——’

‘Yes? After you and Charles are married—what?’ Mrs Chase viewed her daughter with fond affection. ‘My dear, Charles won’t want to live at King’s Green, and as far as keeping two homes going is concerned …’ she shook her head, ‘It’s simply not feasable.’

‘But there must be something we can do.’ Helen paced restlessly across the room, the silky dark hair that resisted all efforts to curl curving under her chin as she moved. She wore it in a simple but effective style, parting it centrally, and allowing the two sides to hang loosely to her shoulders; but now she pushed it carelessly behind her ears, too disturbed by what she had learned to pay any attention to her appearance.

‘There’s not,’ her mother assured her now, resuming the sewing which Helen had interrupted. ‘Since your father died things have gone from bad to worse, and it’s a relief to me to know that you at least aren’t going to suffer by it.’

‘Am I not?’ Helen sounded less than convinced, and her mother looked up once again.

‘Darling, you’re getting married in August. And naturally I’m hoping we can stay here until then. Your father would have wanted it that way. But after the wedding …’

Helen hunched her slim shoulders. ‘I still think you’re acting hastily. I mean, anything can happen between now and August.’

‘Nothing that’s likely to make the slightest improvement in our financial position,’ replied her mother dryly, used toher daughter’s attempts to dissuade her from even considering the idea of selling. ‘And quite frankly, my dear, I’m tired of living this hand-to-mouth existence.’

‘But why involve Margot Urquart?’ demanded Helen, clinging to straws now. ‘I mean—oh, you know what she’s like! And this man, whoever he is, is just the latest in a long line of hangers-on——’

‘Jarret Manning is hardly a hanger-on, darling,’ Mrs Chase remarked evenly, returning to her sewing.

‘Jarret Manning!’ Helen pursed her lips. ‘Imagine selling King’s Green to someone like him!’

Her mother showed a little impatience now. ‘I enjoy Jarret Manning’s work, Helen, and I see no reason for you to criticise the man when you don’t even know him.’

‘Nor do you,’ retorted Helen shortly, and her mother subjected her to a pitying appraisal.

‘It seems to me, Helen, that whoever eventually buys King’s Green, you won’t be satisfied. At least, with Margot’s intervention, we may be spared the humiliation of having to advertise the house and show crowds of curious sightseers over the grounds.’

‘What makes you think Jarret Manning isn’t just a curious sightseer?’ demanded her daughter crossly, and Mrs Chase uttered a sound of irritation. ‘Well,’ continued Helen defensively, ‘he was born in Stepney or Tooting or some such place, wasn’t he? Hardly the background of someone who might find the peace and beauty of King’s Green to their taste!’

‘You little snob!’ Mrs Chase stared at her daughter as if she had never seen her before. ‘Is that what you really think? Is that how you feel? Have I brought you up all these years to regard other people with such contempt?’

‘No, I——’ Helen had the grace to flush now, and the colour deepened becomingly beneath the honey-gold skin of her cheeks. ‘That is—oh, Mummy! Is there nothing else we can do?’

‘What do you suggest?’ Her mother was not inclined to be generous. ‘Turn the Flynns out of the home farm? They could never afford to buy it, but I suppose someone else might.’

‘No! No!’ Helen pushed her fingers through her hairin a revealing gesture. ‘But—Margot Urquart’s latest boy-friend!’

Mrs Chase’s features softened slightly. ‘Look, I know you don’t like Margot,’ she said quietly, ‘but remember, Margot is not involved in the sale.’

Helen shrugged. ‘Perhaps she is. Perhaps she’s serious this time. She’s always coveted King’s Green. Maybe she intends to share it with him.’

Mrs Chase shook her head. ‘My dear Helen, if Margot had wanted to buy King’s Green, why didn’t she just say so?’

Helen shrugged. ‘I doubt if she could stand being so far from London,’ she admitted, and then sighed. ‘Anyway, I wish you’d told me sooner. I’d have arranged to be out or something.’

‘That’s precisely why I didn’t tell you,’ retorted her mother firmly. ‘I had no intention of having to give Margot excuses as to why my daughter had absented herself. And besides, I want your opinion.’

‘Really?’ Helen sounded sceptical. ‘And if I don’t approve?’

Mrs Chase put her sewing aside and rose to her feet. ‘I must go and speak to Mrs Hetherington. Margot said they expected to arrive about midday. If we have lunch at one-thirty, that should give us time to show Mr Manning the house first.’

After her mother had left the room Helen walked disconsolately over to the windows, staring out with fierce possessiveness over the lawns and flower-beds that bordered the house. This was her home, it was the place where she had been born, and she knew every inch of it with the familiarity of long use. She could see the daffodils, growing in wild profusion between the old larch and fir trees, and she knew, without even looking, that the wooded slopes beyond would be starred with crocuses and pansies, the paths thick with a carpet of pine needles. How could she contemplate handing King’s Green over to some stranger without feeling this pang of helplessness and resentment? Particularly when the person involved was one of Margot Urquart’s young men!

Of course, she really knew nothing about Jarret Manning, except what she had read on the flyleaf of one of thebooks her mother collected so avidly. The kind of political thriller he wrote, where the reader was never absolutely sure that what he was reading was fiction or fact, had never appealed to her. She preferred history, in all its various forms, but her mother found them fascinating and was obviously looking forward to meeting the author. There had been a picture of him, too, and it was this as much as anything which aroused Helen’s contempt now. He was young—twenty-five or thirty at most, while Margot had been in her mother’s year at school, and Mrs Chase was forty-two.

Of course, Margot had been married, three times actually, but those associations had not lasted. She was much too susceptible to masculine flattery and attention, and her wealth and carefully preserved looks often attracted younger men. In her position as the daughter of the late Lord Conroy, himself a patron of the arts, Margot would be a very useful ally for a young author to have, decided Helen cynically, and she wondered how they had met.

Her mother coming back into the drawing room at that moment interrupted her cogitation, and she tried to apply herself to what Mrs Chase was saying.

‘You’ll be happy to know that Mrs Hetherington agrees with you,’ the older woman declared tersely, helping herself to a cigarette from the box on the mantelshelf. ‘Really, I just happened to mention that Lady Margot was bringing a prospective buyer down to see the house, and she immediately jumped to the conclusion that she’ll automatically lose her job!’

‘Can you blame her?’ Helen turned from the window to spread her hands expressively. ‘Honestly, Mummy, can you see either of the Hetheringtons working for some—some artist, in whatever category?’

‘Mr Manning is a writer, not an artist.’

‘Writers, artists, they’re all the same,’ declared Helen airily, dismissing the fact that she had never actually met a writer before. ‘Besides, the Hetheringtons are old, Mummy. And you know what they say about old retainers!’

Mrs Chase smoked her cigarette with more aggression than enjoyment. ‘Oh, but I wouldn’t like to think the Hetheringtons were in danger of being dismissed. I mean,Hetherington has looked after the grounds for years! The trees and flowers—they’re his domain. I never interfere, you know that. The greenhouses …’ She paced nervously across to the window and looked her daughter squarely in the face. ‘I shall have to make it a condition of the sale, that the Hetheringtons retain their jobs.’

‘I don’t think you can do that, Mummy,’ retorted Helen bluntly, sustaining her mother’s piercing scrutiny. ‘After all, this isn’t a small business you’re selling, it’s a house. An estate. And for all we know, Jarret Manning may have his own staff of servants.’

‘You don’t really believe that, do you, dear?’

Her mother looked really worried now, and with a sigh Helen moved away from her. There were times when Mrs Chase was just a little too intense, and this was one of them. How could she be expected to know what Jarret Manning’s reactions to the Hetherington’s might be, and in any case, he hadn’t definitely decided to buy the house yet, had he?

‘Oughtn’t we to wait and see what he thinks first?’ she asked now, and to her relief her mother accepted the reprieve.

‘Of course, of course.’ Mrs Chase’s face cleared. ‘He may not like the house at all, and Margot did say he was doubtful about the amount of land …’

‘There you are, then.’ Helen forced a smile and crossed the room to pour two glasses of sherry from the decanter standing on a table near the door. ‘Here, drink this. I think we can both use it.’

‘Mmmm, thank you.’ But Mrs Chase took the glass her daughter offered rather absently, before focussing doubtfully on Helen’s jean-clad figure. ‘Aren’t you going to change, darling? I do think we should represent a certain standard of—breeding, and those jeans are practically indecent.’

‘Now who’s being snobbish?’ enquired Helen dryly, tasting her sherry. Then she looked down at her cotton shirt and matching pants. ‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? You look elegant enough for both of us.’

Her mother accepted the back-handed compliment with a wry smile, but she did permit herself a moment’s self-appraisal before acknowledging that it was true. Her pleateddress of soft blue wool disguised the fuller lines of her figure, and the pearls that circled her throat were a gift from her grandmother, and consequently valuable. She looked at home in her surroundings, she thought, fashionable, but not flashy, refined, but not understated.

Helen, for her part, hid her own anxiety, the long lashes drooping over eyes that might reveal her uncertainty. Perhaps she ought to change, she thought, but she rebelled against doing anything which implied an acceptance of Margot’s protégé as the prospective owner of King’s Green.

The sound of a powerful engine approaching the house stilled all other activity, and Mrs Chase looked at her daughter with something resembling panic. ‘It must be them!’ she almost whispered the words, and with a feeling of irritation overcoming her apprehension Helen set down her glass.

‘Who else?’ she agreed tautly. ‘Unless Charles has chosen this moment to put in an appearance.’

‘Do you think he might?’

Her mother looked almost hopeful, but Helen shook her head. ‘Charles is in Cheltenham, as you very well know,’ she retorted, looping her hair behind her ears in a businesslike way. ‘Do you want me to let them in? Then you can greet them here like the gracious hostess you are.’

Mrs Chase looked doubtful, but Helen was already leaving the room, casting a reassuring glance over her shoulder, trying to feel as confident as she looked.

The doorbell pealed as she started across the hall, echoing around the mellow panelling and bringing an increasing awareness of their own vulnerability. She glanced up at the trembling prisms of a chandelier, at the polished carving of the staircase, and realised how much she would miss all this if she had to leave. Marrying Charles somehow had always seemed such a distant thing, and if she had thought of King’s Green at all, it was in terms of her coming here, with her children, bringing them to see their grandmother, and showing them the places where she had played when she was young. She had never pictured the house belonging to anyone else, and even the home Charles was buying for them, beautiful though it was, could nevermean as much to her as King’s Green.

With these thoughts for company she opened the doors to the porch, her unusually pale features remote and uncompromising. To the man and woman awaiting her reception she appeared cold and indifferent, her casual appearance belying the cold hauteur in her face.

In contrast, Margot Urquart seemed warm and animated, her green silk suit complementing the sunflower brightness of her scarf. Careful make-up had taken years from her finely-drawn features, and Helen could quite see that in the right light she might be taken for thirty-five or younger. The stark sunlight of morning was less sympathetic, but nevertheless Margot had a certain feminine appeal that was ageless.

However, it was the man standing slightly behind her who drew Helen’s eyes. She had known what to expect, of course, she had seen his picture on the back of her mother’s book, but even so, she was totally unprepared for the man himself. A photograph was flat, two-dimensional, limited by the demands of black and white, whereas the man who was accompanying Margot was flesh and blood, and infinitely more disturbing than any clever likeness. The picture, for instance, had shown him to have fair hair, but not that silvery fairness that lay smoothly against his scalp, without requiring any unsightly hairdressing. Also, he was darker-skinned than she had expected, absurdly so, considering the lightness of his hair, with blue eyes shaded by long gold-tipped lashes. He was not handsome, his appeal was much more subtle than that, and the faintly mocking twist to his mouth convinced her that he knew that as well as she did. In consequence, Helen stiffened still further, and it was left to Margot to say, rather doubtfully:

‘Mrs Chase is expecting us. Will you tell her we’re here, Miss—er——’

Helen’s reserve broke into unwilling explanation. ‘I’m Helen,’ she said, half believing Margot knew that already, but the other woman’s astonishment seemed genuine enough.

‘Helen!’ she exclaimed. ‘Good heavens!’ A certain trace of waspishness entered her tones now. ‘But you wereonly a schoolgirl the last time I saw you.’

‘That was three years ago, Aunt Margot,’ Helen replied politely, steeling herself not to respond with the implied immaturity. ‘I’m twenty-one.’

Aunt Margot clearly didn’t like the designation, but she was forced to ignore it for the time being. ‘I thought you must be an au pair Alice had employed,’ she explained, glancing half apologetically at her escort. ‘Darling, this is Alice’s daughter Helen. Helen, I’d like you to met Mr Jarret Manning.’

‘How do you do?’ Jarret Manning held out his hand, and Helen was forced to take it. It was a firm hand, hard and masculine, but she had noticed the endearment, and withdrew her own after the briefest of clasps, murmuring her acknowledgement as she invited them inside.

‘Oh, this hall!’ cried Margot dramatically, as the doors were closed, and the sunlight shafted from the windows on either side. ‘Isn’t it beautiful, Jarret? Don’t you think so? The panelling is so warm—so mellow! It’s walnut, you know, and the carving on the stairs is by Grinling Gibbons.’

‘Really?’

Jarret Manning arched his brows, and Helen, catching his eye at that moment, felt a sense of irritation. What was Margot trying to do? Was she attempting to sell the house to him? Did she think they needed her assistance? It was humiliating!

‘Mummy is in the drawing room,’ Helen said now, leading the way across the hall, wishing for the first time she had taken her mother’s advice and changed. She was very conscious of Jarret Manning behind her, of his eyes on her, appraising her, assessing her, looking at her tight jeans and imagining she had worn them deliberately.

Mrs Chase came to the drawing room door as she heard their voices, and Margot rushed to embrace her. ‘Alice, my dear!’ she exclaimed, with her usual effusiveness. ‘It’s wonderful to see you again. Telephones are simply not an adequate substitute. I declare, you look younger every time we meet.’

‘It’s good to see you again, Margot,’ Mrs Chase assured her, meaning it, her eyes moving to the man who followed the two women into the room. ‘Hello, Mr Manning. I feelI know you already. I expect Margot’s told you I’m a great fan of yours.’

Helen drew back against the wall beside the door, wishing she could melt into the panelling. Her mother’s first words had convinced her that she had dismissed her earlier anxieties about the Hetheringtons from her mind, and the excitement of meeting Jarret Manning had apparently erased her reservations. Watching the two woman as they fawned around him made Helen feel physically sick, and with a feeling of desperation she edged through the doorway.

‘Where are you going, Helen?’

Her mother’s sharpened tones arrested her, and with a look of resignation marring her solemn features, she halted. ‘I thought I’d go and change, Mummy,’ she said, realising it was as good an excuse as any. ‘I—er—I’m sure you and Mr Manning have things to talk about, and I shan’t be long.’

‘Don’t be,’ her mother advised her shortly, her expression mirroring her disapproval. ‘After we’ve had a drink, I want you to show Mr Manning over the house. You’re so much more knowledgeable about its history than I am.’

Helen accepted this without a word, aware that Margot liked that idea no more than she did. But there was nothing either of them could say. Jarret Manning seemed indifferent to all of them, standing on the hearth, gazing up at the painting above the fireplace with an ease of familiarity that Helen found infuriating. It was as if he already owned King’s Green, she thought bitterly, wishing the house was hers so that she could refuse to sell it. Tall and lean, and aggressively masculine beside the delicate tracery of the marble, she could almost imagine him dressed in close-fitting breeches and riding boots, instead of the expensive suede suit he was wearing, a riding crop in his hand, one arm resting on the mantel, very much the master of the house.

He turned at that moment and caught her eyes upon him, and immediately a trace of amusement lifted the corners of his mouth. It was as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, and that he also knew how angry it made her. He was everything she disliked most in a man, self-assuredand over-confident, convinced that he knew everything there was to know about women, and supremely egotistical about his own appeal to them. Well, he didn’t appeal to her, she thought contemptuously. And if he thought he could make silent passes at her, he was mistaken! With a scathing sweep of her lashes she turned on her heel and walked across the hall to the stairs with all the hauteur she was capable of.

In her own room, however, a little of her confidence left her. Sitting down on the side of her bed, she stared moodily down at the engagement ring on her finger. It was infuriating, feeling so helpless in the face of her mother’s determination, particularly when it seemed likely that Jarret Manning might agree to buy. She didn’t want someone like him living at King’s Green, she thought impotently. He was not right for Thrushfold, and he was not right for the house.

Realising she was wasting time, and that if she did not hurry her mother might well come looking for her, Helen got up from the bed and stripped off her shirt and jeans. Then, raiding her wardrobe, she pulled out a shirtwaister dress of polyester fibre, with a bloused bodice and a swinging skirt, and added high-heeled sandals to complete the ensemble. The colours, a blending of blue and violet, accentuated the sooty darkness of her eyes, and with her hair newly brushed and silkily lustrous, she felt better able to cope with the demands that were to be made on her.

Downstairs again, she could hear Margot extolling the virtues of the paintings Helen’s great-great grandfather had collected. ‘There were so many wonderful artists around at that time,’ she was saying effusively. ‘Constable, Turner, Millet! And Gainsborough, of course.’

‘Not to mention Hogarth and Lawrence and Reynolds,’ put in Jarret Manning’s dry tones. ‘Are you trying to tell me something, Margot? I assure you, I did have an education of sorts.’

‘Of course you did, darling,’ Margot sounded a little put out, and Helen heard her mother murmur something about hoping the weather was a forerunner of the summer to come.

‘Summers at King’s Green are so peaceful,’ she declared,obviously trying to change the subject. ‘I’m afraid you may find them too peaceful, Mr Manning.’

‘Strange as it may seem, I’m looking for that kind of peace, Mrs Chase,’ he retorted in the curiously harsh tones of someone driven to defend himself. ‘Unlike Margot, I find London lacking in stimulation, and I anticipate the coming summer with more enthusiasm than I’ve anticipated anything for—years.’

‘This summer?’ Helen heard the note of anxiety in her mother’s voice as she reached the open doorway. ‘Oh, but—I—er——’

Her words trailed away at her daughter’s appearance, and there was genuine relief in her expression as she rose from the sofa. ‘There you are, Helen,’ she exclaimed weakly. ‘I was beginning to wonder where you had got to.’

‘Sorry.’ Helen forced a polite smile that encompassed her mother and Margot, but only touched the outline of the man who rose courteously from the armchair he had been occupying. ‘Is lunch almost ready?’

‘Not—er—not until you’ve shown Mr Manning the house, dear,’ declined Mrs Chase firmly, her eyes flashing messages only Helen could interpret. ‘I—er—I should start upstairs, and Margot and I will walk in the garden. Do you think that’s a good idea, Mr Manning?’

‘If your daughter has no objection,’ he essayed, inclining his head, and Helen saw that he was not smiling now.

Silently she led the way across the hall and up the shallow stairs to the first floor. She was conscious of him behind her, of Margot’s antipathy at her exclusion, but she determinedly ignored the personalities involved, and began her recitation.

‘The house was originally begun in the reign of Queen Anne, but its completion was at a much later date. Since then, of course, various alterations and additions have been made, and some major structural repairs were carried out in the late nineteeth century. Its design was partly attributed to a man called Nicholas Hawksmoor, a contemporary of Vanbrugh, who as you know designed Blenheim Palace, and Castle Howard in Yorkshire, but we don’t think it likely, and the fact that it took so long to complete takes it out of his lifetime. The name—King’s Green—isattributed to the fact that in the early nineteenth century, when my great-great-grandfather was alive, the Prince Regent was reputed to have stayed here, on his way to Bath, but again——’

‘Can we cut the thesis?’ Jarret Manning’s cool tones were as incisive as his words. ‘I realise showing me around your home is obviously distasteful for you, and believe me, I can do without the guided tour.’

Helen was too stunned to answer him, and ignoring her offended expression, he opened the door to their left. ‘A bedroom, right?’ he suggested, glancing about its generous proportions. ‘Very nice. Next?’

Pressing her lips together, Helen showed him all the bedrooms on the first floor, including her own, although she had made sure to put all her belongings away so that nothing should signify that this room was hers more than any of the others. The adjoining bathrooms she left to him, saying only that some of the bedrooms had been made over when the plumbing was modernised.

‘There is a second floor,’ she added stiffly, after he had admired the master suite which was presently unoccupied. ‘We don’t use it, so I expect it may be very dusty, but it’s habitable if one needs more rooms.’

‘I don’t expect to,’ Jarret remarked dryly. ‘I see you have some central heating. I hope it wasn’t installed when the Prince Regent came to visit.’

‘No. It was installed after the second world war——’ began Helen seriously, and then stopped when she realised what he had asked. The fact that he had caught her out so easily was irritating, and she indicated the narrow passage that led to the second floor staircase with evident resentment.

‘Don’t you ever relax?’ Jarret enquired, accompanying her back along the gallery to the first floor landing, and when she didn’t answer this, added: ‘I suppose these lighter patches on the walls are where your—great-great-grandfather’s paintings used to hang, is that right?’ indicating the oblong squares visible between the panelled doors. ‘What happened? Are they in storage, did they fall to pieces—or have they been sold?’

‘I imagine you know the answer to that, Mr Manning,’Helen declared stiffly, disliking his perspicacity. ‘Had we a valuable collection of paintings to sell, we would hardly be selling the house, would we?’

‘Not to a philistine like me, no,’ he agreed solemnly, and she glanced sideways at him, sure that he was mocking her again.

‘Why do you want King’s Green, Mr Manning?’ she demanded, halting at the head of the stairs. ‘It—it’s not your—your scene really, is it? Don’t you want a—a pad nearer town?’

He grinned at this, an outright humorous grin that unexpectedly reacted on her like a blow to the solar plexis. She had reluctantly admitted his attraction before, but she had had no idea how irresistible his smile might be. Now, with the lighter creases beside his eyes deepening to reveal laughter lines, and the thin lips parting over slightly uneven white teeth, he was devastating.

‘Oh, Helen!’ he gulped, and the suppressed amusement in his voice briefly distracted her from the realisation that he had used her name. ‘How would you know what my—scene is? And as for my having a pad—God!’ He shook his head, and adopting a distinctly Bogart-like accent, added: ‘Stick to your own territory, sweetheart!’

Helen felt a second’s overwhelming impulse to giggle, but then common sense came to the rescue, and the awareness of what she was doing here and his part in it sobered her instantly.

‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Manning,’ she affirmed, with all the contempt she could muster. ‘Shall we go downstairs?’

‘In a minute …’ He, too, had sobered, and as she moved to the head of the stairs his cool fingers closed about her arm. They successfully prevented her from moving away from him, and within their grasp she was conscious of his nearness and the disturbing magnetism his smile had generated. ‘Tell me something,’ he said, his thumb massaging her flesh almost without his being aware of it, ‘what did I do to arouse so much resentment? I didn’t ask to come here. I was invited. I was given the obviously mistaken impression that your mother wanted to sell thehouse, but if she doesn’t then I shan’t lose any sleep over it, Miss Chase.’

Helen held up her head. ‘I—why—my mother does want to sell the house,’ she admitted unwillingly.

‘And you don’t?’

‘It’s not my house to sell.’

‘But if it were?’

Helen moved her shoulders helplessly, avoiding those blue eyes which seemed to have the cutting strength of steel. ‘I—I expect I might have to,’ she conceded, and with an exclamation he let her go.

‘But not to me,’ he inferred coldly, and she turned away from him to descend the stairs without giving him a reply.

Several rooms opened off the hall below. The drawing room, the music room, the dining room, the library—Helen did not know which to choose after their contretemps upstairs, and she waited for him to join her before making a decision. Jarret, however, seemed in no hurry to continue, and she had to wait some minutes while he examined the carving on the balustrade.

‘Grinling——’ began Helen reluctantly, only to have him interrupt her words.

‘—Gibbons. Yes, I know,’ he finished sardonically. ‘Only Gibbons died in 1720, so how do you account for that, if the house wasn’t completed until much later?’

Helen’s face flamed. No one had ever questioned the authenticity of the carving before, and it was disconcerting to have him do so. It was true that the likelihood of Gibbons having completed the carving was in some doubt, and her father’s assessment had been that it had probably been a pupil of Gibbons who accomplished the work.

‘I—it’s open to speculation that—that perhaps it was a pupil of Gibbons who completed the carving,’ she admitted. ‘But the style is his, and that’s what’s important.’

‘Is it?’ He descended the final few stairs to stand beside her. ‘A connoisseur might disagree with you.’

Helen tilted her chin, annoyed that she still had to look up to him, despite her five feet six inches. ‘Are you a connoisseur, Mr Manning?’ she enquired as coolly as she could, and the humour in his expression annoyed her almost more than his sarcasm had done.

‘You obviously don’t think so,’ he said, pushing back his hair with lazy fingers, his eyes far too knowing for her peace of mind. ‘Shall we go on?’

As he had already seen the drawing room, Helen opened the doors into the dining room, standing back as he passed her to walk thoughtfully round the well-proportioned room. The panelled window embrasures overlooked the gardens at the side of the house, and attracting as it did the early sun, it provided a warm oasis on colder mornings. It had always been one of Helen’s favourite rooms, and she waited with some reluctance for his verdict. It was an elegant room, the beige walls hung with panels of moiré silk, the carpets, with their distinctive design, brought back many years ago from the Caucasus. Much of the furniture was not original, however, although the dinner service residing in the long serving sideboards was Worcestershire porcelain. Ruched curtains framed long windows, and were matched in the deep blue cushions of the chairs that faced one another across the hearth.

‘Do you use this room often?’ Jarret queried, indicating the damask cloth and silverware which Mrs Hetherington had laid ready for lunch, and Helen hesitated.

‘If—if you mean, do we give many dinner parties nowadays, the answer is no,’ she replied at length, watching him push his hands into the pockets of his pants, unwillingly aware of the strong muscles of his thighs. ‘I—er—the room is used by—by the family most days.’

‘The family?’ He arched his brows.

‘My mother and me.’

‘Ah!’ He nodded his head. ‘I gather you have no brothers or sisters.’

‘No.’

‘And your father’s dead.’

‘Yes.’

Helen resented this interrogation, but she didn’t see how she could refuse to answer him, and with an obvious gesture she stepped back into the hall. It was another few seconds before he joined her, and her features had set in controlled lines. It was as if he was deliberately delaying her, and she wished her mother or Margot would appear and take this unwanted duty from her.

‘The music room,’ she declared shortly, throwing open the white panelled doors that led into a smaller, but equally attractive room. Here, one or two pictures still adorned the walls, portraits mostly, of long-dead Chases, whose likenesses would be of little value to anyone else. The carpet was Chinese, the grand piano reflected the warmth of the bowl of primroses that adorned it, and several pieces of eighteenth century mahogany gleamed with the patina of age. There was a small escritoire, a folding, gate-legged table, and a walnut bracket clock, whose ticking filled the quiet room with a steady rhythm.

‘Do you play the piano—Miss Chase?’ Jarret asked, strolling towards the stringed instrument which dominated one corner of the room.

‘I used to,’ she admitted, her words clipped and unwilling, and with a wry smile he seated himself at the piano and ran his long fingers over the keys.

At once she recognised the melody of a popular tune of the day, mellowed to a lilting refrain that tugged at the heartstrings. Then, just as she was considering making the scathing comment that he was abusing the age of the instrument, he switched to a Chopin prelude, and drew the very soul from the poignant phrase.

His eyes sought hers as he finished with a final sweep of the keys, and feeling obliged to say something, she tried not to sound as if she was envious. ‘You’re very accomplished,’ she averred, glancing meaningfully towards the doors again, and his rueful grin denoted his acknowledgement of how reluctant she had been to compliment him.

‘Faint praise?’ he murmured, as he passed her into the hall, and she closed the doors behind them with a distinctive click.

The library was a cooler room, having the benefit of the north light, but seldom welcoming the sun. Nevertheless, the book-lined walls were warming, and the desk set squarely before the windows was an ideal place for anyone to work.

‘Did your father use this room?’ Jarret asked casually, wandering over to the desk and running his fingers over its tooled leather surface.

‘Yes.’

As always, Helen was non-committal, but this time Jarret persisted. ‘What did he do—your father?’ he asked, propping himself against the side of the desk and folding his arms. ‘A country gentleman, was he? The local squire? Or did he have to work for his living like the rest of us?’

Helen was shocked into speech. ‘I don’t think my father’s affairs are anything to do with you, Mr Manning,’ she declared, preparing to make her exit, but his next words arrested her.

‘As I see it, there has to be some reason why you dislike me so much, Miss Chase,’ he observed pleasantly. ‘I’d like to know what it is, that’s all.’

‘And—and you think learning about my father’s occupation will help you?’ she exclaimed.

‘Let’s say I’m interested in your background, as you’re obviously interested in mine.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, come on …’ He rested his chin on his chest, looking up at her through the thick length of his lashes. ‘You think I’m coarse and uneducated, thoroughly unsuitable to own King’s Green!’

Helen’s lips worked silently for a moment, then she said: ‘When my father inherited King’s Green, we owned the land for—for miles around. He—he was the squire, yes, but he worked hard for the estate, and only the high cost of living and the taxes he had to pay forced him to sell most of it.’

‘I see,’ Jarret nodded, but Helen had to disabuse him.

‘However,’ she went on, ‘if you think I—I object to—to you because I think you’re socially inferior, you couldn’t be more wrong!’

‘No?’

‘No!’ Helen swallowed before continuing. ‘What—what I do object to is—is Margot Urquart bringing her—her boy-friends here and pretending that they have the money to buy a place like this!’

She realised she had gone too far long before Jarret’s dark features mirrored his contempt. She didn’t know what had possessed her to speak so candidly, unless it was his scornful comments about her father. She did know practically nothing about him, after all, and although shesuspected Margot was helping to finance his property speculation, she had no way of proving it.

‘So that’s what you think,’ he commented flatly, his lips curling with dislike. ‘My, my, what a devious little mind you have, to be sure! You really think I would let Margot buy me a country retreat?’

Having gone so far, Helen had no choice but to go through with it if she wanted to save her self-respect. ‘Why not?’ she asked now, lifting her shoulders. ‘She’s bought everything else, hasn’t she?’

He was off the desk and confronting her before her shaken senses could acknowledge her mistake. He had been close before, when he had detained her at the top of the stairs, but not as close as this, nor breathing down upon her with all the fiery ferment of his anger. His breath was not unpleasant, and it was flavoured by the Scotch her mother must have offered him, but its heat was unmistakable, combined as it was with the ice-cold glitter of his eyes.

‘You little——’ His harsh tones cut off the expletive with brutal vehemence, and Helen, who had never suffered such an assault before, shrank back in alarm. ‘What the hell do you think gives you the right to pass moral judgment on me, or Margot? What is it to do with you how we live or how we act? And if Margot chooses to spend her money in a way that suits her best, why should she have to defend herself to you?’

Helen shifted unsteadily under his gaze, momentarily numbed by the fierceness of his attack. ‘I—I—I don’t care what Margot does, as—as long as she doesn’t expect—us to—to condone it,’ she stammered, struggling to recover her dignity. ‘And—and intimidating me isn’t going to make me—change my mind, Mr Manning,’ she added bravely.

‘No?’ Unexpectedly his eyes dropped to the modest neckline of her dress, and it was all she could do to prevent herself from clutching the collar about her throat. ‘Then perhaps I should give you a sample of what you’re missing, mmm?’

Helen gulped. ‘Don’t you dare——’ she began chokingly, and then felt her words stifled at the source as his mouth descended over hers.

He held her, his hands gripping her shoulders without respect or gentleness, the narrow fingers digging into her soft flesh. She was not crushed against him, but she was aware of the hard strength of his lean body, and ridiculously embarrassed by the pressure of his legs against hers. She had never been kissed in anger before, never experienced the wholly possessive abrasion of raw emotion, and while her mind repulsed the savagery of his embrace, her senses swam beneath the undoubted skill of his expertise. He was no callow youth, attempting to seduce her with clumsy force, but an experienced man, making her fully aware of his needs—and her own. And that was the most upsetting thing of all. Until this moment she had not known she possessed such needs, or that she could be aroused in quite this fashion. It shed a whole new light on the prospect of her marriage to Charles, and with the remembrance of her fiancé, sanity asserted itself.

With a superhuman effort she wrenched herself away from Jarret Manning, and summoning all her strength she raised her arm to deliver the slap he deserved. But although he was gazing at her with a curiously speculative frown marring his lean features, he had obviously not been as emotionally disturbed by what had happened as she was, and when she tried to slap him he parried the blow without effort.

‘You—you——’ she began impotently, and he offered: ‘Cad?’ with mocking raised eyebrows. ‘Yes! Yes!’ she cried, unaware that her rounded breasts were rising and falling with the intensity of her anger, and were drawing his attention to their delectable promise.

However, he seemed to think better of any further incursion, and rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth, as if to assure himself he was not exhibiting some betraying trace of her lipstick, he gestured with mock-politeness towards the door: ‘Shall we continue?’

Helen found she was trembling, but without saying another word she turned into the hall, only to stop abruptly at the sight of her mother and Margot, just coming along the passage which led to the back of the house. In consequence, Jarret almost stumbled over her, and she heardthe almost inaudible oath he uttered at the realisation of why she had halted.

‘Going to tell on me?’ he murmured by her ear, his tone derisive, but the look she cast at him over her shoulder was belittling.

‘And embarrass my mother?’ she countered scornfully, but was in no way gratified by the lazy insouciance in his eyes.

‘Have you seen over the house, darling?’

It was Margot who hailed them, quickening her step so that she reached them seconds before Helen’s mother, and Jarret inclined his head, permitting her to slide her arm possessively through his.

‘Er—Miss Chase has done a good job of—making me feel at home,’ he remarked, with a wry grimace, and Helen felt, rather than saw, her mother give her a quick speculative glance.

‘And what did you think, Mr Manning?’ Mrs Chase asked now as she reached them, and they all moved by mutual consent into the drawing room once more.

He seemed to take ages to reply, and Helen, stiff and uneasy, chided herself for allowing such a situation to develop. The man was obviously a rogue and an opportunist, and she had only fuelled his resources by giving him that kind of a hold over her.

‘I like it,’ he said at last, detaching himself from Margot’s clinging arms and going to stand by the windows, looking out on the view Helen had been admiring earlier. ‘But I don’t know if it’s what I want.’

‘Darling——’

‘It’s not?’

Both Margot and her mother spoke at once, and Helen put her hands behind her back so that no one could see she had her fingers crossed. He was going to turn it down, she thought, with an overwhelming sense of relief, and then wondered why she felt such a hollow sense of victory.

Jarret turned then, drawing a case of cheroots from his pocket, and after gaining Mrs Chase’s permission, put one of the thin cigars between his teeth. Lighting it, the flame cupped in his brown hands, he let his gaze rove to Helen’s uncertain features, and then, extinguishing his lighter, heinhaled deeply before continuing.

‘It’s—bigger than I had in mind,’ he admitted thoughtfully, while Margot made a little sound of contradiction that for the most part he ignored. ‘And the grounds—I believe Margot told me there were forty or fifty acres.’

‘Fifty-five, actually,’ put in Mrs Chase hurriedly. ‘But most of that is arable land belonging to the home farm. I explained about the Flynns, didn’t I?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Jarret nodded, studying the glowing tip of his cheroot. ‘But the price you’re asking …’ His eyes flickered to Helen’s set face once more. ‘Quite frankly, it’s a lot of money to lay out without any previous experience of living in the country. ‘I’m sure your daughter would agree with me. An urban-reared individual like myself may find life at King’s Green a little too—unexciting, you know what I mean?’

Helen’s cheeks burned, the more so because she could imagine what her mother was thinking. She thought she had put him off, when in all honesty she had done no such thing.

‘I’m afraid Helen’s ideas are rather out of date, Mr Manning,’ Mrs Chase was saying now, with a reproving look in her daughter’s direction. ‘She persists in clinging to the past, and forgets that times have changed. As far as living in the country is concerned, Mr Manning, Thrushfold is only a couple of hours drive from the outskirts of London, or there’s an excellent train service from Bristol, if you prefer it. I can’t deny I’m looking forward to living in the city myself for a while, but I shall miss the peace and tranquillity of King’s Green once it’s sold.’

Jarret smiled, that devastating smile that could charm the birds off the trees, thought Helen maliciously, and then said: ‘You know, you almost convince me. I feel I could work here, certainly, but I don’t know. I’d have to think it over.’

‘Of course.’ Mrs Chase caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘As—as a matter of fact, I don’t mind if you take several months to think it over. You see,’ she hastened on, ‘Helen is getting married in August, and I rather hoped she might get married from here. Her father would have liked that, and if we have to leave …’

‘I see.’ The amusement faded from Jarret’s face, leaving it strangely sombre suddenly. ‘Well now, that rather disappoints me.’

‘Disappoints you?’ echoed Mrs Chase doubtfully. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

Jarret shook his head, pushing one hand into the pocket of his jacket. ‘I had hoped—if I decided to buy—that the sale might be completed in a month or so,’ he admitted. ‘You see, Mrs Chase, I do want to get away from London for a while, and the sooner the better.’

‘Jarret’s working on his fourth novel,’ explained Margot unnecessarily, and received a scathing glare from him for her pains.

‘I am working,’ he conceded dryly, ‘although whether it will ever transform itself into a readable manuscript is doubtful. However, that is the position, and perhaps it would be as well for all our sakes if I looked at something else.’

‘Oh, please …’ To Helen’s astonishment, her mother sounded almost disappointed now. ‘Don’t be too hasty, I beg of you.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps we could come to some mutual arrangement that would suit all of us.’

The sound of footsteps in the hall arrested any further conversation, and the housekeeper’s grey head appeared round the door to announce that lunch was waiting on the table.

‘Thank you, Mrs Hetherington.’ Helen’s mother moved towards the door. ‘But before you go, I’d like to introduce Mr Manning, who we all hope may be the new owner of King’s Green.’

Mrs Hetherington greeted the newcomer with only veiled antagonism, but Jarret was not dismayed. ‘You’re the housekeeper?’ he guessed, irritating Helen by his obvious attempts to charm the old woman, and she nodded.

‘Been here forty years all told,’ she asserted, daring contradiction, and he grinned warmly.

‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ he affirmed, shaking the gnarled hand that was offered with some reluctance. ‘If I do decide to buy, perhaps we could come to some similar arrangement. I shall need someone to cook my meals andmake my bed. I’ve been doing the latter myself, but I’m not very good at it.’

Helen would have said he was extremely good, but Mrs Hetherington was unaware of the double entendre. On the contrary, she was taken aback by his easy familiarity, and after a moment’s hesitation muttered that she would have to see about that. But she was disarmed, and they all knew it, and Mrs Chase led the way into the dining room with evident satisfaction. All her problems seemed to be ironing themselves out, thought Helen moodily, so why did she feel as if all hers were only just beginning?

Mrs Hetherington had excelled herself with the lunch. A rich home-made soup was followed by roast duckling with green peas and new potatoes, and the fruit sponge to finish was as light as any she had made. Covertly Helen watched Jarret Manning tucking into the meal, clearly enjoying the wholesome fare, but Margot only picked at her food, avoiding anything fattening and drinking more wine than anyone else. Mrs Chase had to ask the housekeeper to bring a third bottle as Margot emptied the second, and Helen saw Jarret lean towards his companion and say something which provoked a sulky reaction.

‘I suppose some of the dairy produce is home-grown,’ he remarked a few minutes later, as Mrs Hetherington cleared the dessert plates, and Helen’s mother was eager to explain.

‘Naturally, we get all our milk and eggs and vegetables from the farm,’ she said, ‘but these days we buy our butter and cheese. There simply isn’t the time to make our own, although of course the equipment is still there. It’s very old-fashioned, I’m afraid, but it does work.’

‘I’d be interested to see it,’ Jarret commented thoughtfully, and Margot made a sound of derision.

‘Of what possible interest is a butter churn to you, Jarret?’ she exclaimed. ‘Unless you’re intending to become totally rural and self-sufficient!’

‘The mechanics interest me,’ retorted Jarret flatly, his blue eyes offering a warning even Helen could recognise. Then he turned to her mother again. ‘Tell me, Mrs Chase, do you have any idea of the approximate running costs of the estate for—say—six months, for example?’

Mrs Chase ran her tongue doubtfully over her lowerlip. ‘Well now,’ she began slowly, ‘we did used to have a bailiff who attended to that sort of thing for us, but what with the rising cost of living …’ She frowned. ‘My solicitor could tell you, I suppose. His office is in Malverley. That’s the nearest town, you see.’

Jarret nodded. ‘But you have no idea?’

Mrs Chase glanced anxiously towards Helen, and her daughter gave her back look for look. If her mother expected her to tell Jarret Manning how much it cost to keep King’s Green going, she could think again! It was hard enough, contemplating selling the house to him, without his having the nerve to ask how much it cost to run the place. What did he want? A balance sheet for the year? A guaranteed return on his interest?

As if realising what was going through both their minds, Jarret suddenly broke the rather awkward silence that had fallen. ‘I’m afraid I’ve started this rather badly, haven’t I?’ he said, showing again the perception which Helen had resented earlier. ‘You’re thinking I want to protect my investment—that my question was levelled in an attempt to find out exactly what my outlay might be.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. That was not my intention, and if I’ve offended you, please accept my apology. I had something entirely different in mind.’

Mrs Chase managed a polite smile. ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Manning. We—I—well, I suppose I should be more familiar with estate matters, but I’m afraid I’ve relied on professional advice since my husband died.’

‘I can understand that.’ Jarret was at his most disarming, and Helen, seated across the table from him, felt her nails digging into the palms of her hands. What now? What exactly did he have in mind? And why did she feel this uneasy apprehension that whatever it was, it would disrupt the tenor of her life? ‘But my proposition—or at least, the proposition which has just occurred to me—would involve a financial settlement to cover the next six months.’

‘Your proposition, Mr Manning?’ But Helen could see her mother’s interest growing. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand …’

Jarret frowned, resting both elbows on the table and linking his fingers together. ‘It’s this,’ he said slowly, andeven Margot was watching him with something akin to curiosity. ‘You say you don’t want to leave King’s Green until after—your daughter has got married?’

‘Yes?’

‘And I’ve already explained that I want to get out of London right away.’

‘Yes?’

The tension around the table was almost tangible, Helen thought imaginatively, herself steeled for whatever was coming next. Margot had put down her glass and was playing with its stem, a sure sign of nervous anticipation, while Mrs Chase was pressing her lips together, endeavouring to contain her evident impatience.

However, Mrs Hetherington’s arrival with the coffee prevented Jarret from continuing, and they all had to wait, chafing under the restraint, while the housekeeper served each of them. Then, just as Jarret was about to begin again, Margot chose to forestall him.

‘You’re not suggesting you become a lodger here, are you, darling?’ she protested in scornful tones, and the atmosphere splintered like so many shards of crystal.

Helen’s stomach churned as Jarret subjected Margot to the kind of contemptuous appraisal that was both pitying and malevolent. Margot sought refuge in her wine, her jerking shoulders revealing the indignant remorse she was trying hard to hide, while he expelled his breath on a long sigh of resignation.

‘As usual, Margot has jumped to conclusions,’ he said, making an apologetic gesture. ‘Only in this instance there is a shred of truth in what she’s saying.’

He paused, and Helen sensed he was looking at her now, but she refused to lift her eyes. Margot had been right then, he was actually suggesting he might share King’s Green with them! How dare he?

‘Before you make the same mistake as Margot, let me explain what I had in mind.’ He produced his cheroots, and after putting one between his teeth, he went on: ‘It seems to me we might both benefit from the scheme I have to put to you. You want to stay, and I need a place to work. I also need to be sure that leaving London is right for me.’ He hesitated a moment before continuing: ‘What I’m suggestingis that we do share the house—but only partly. All I need is the library and a bedroom. My meals could be served to me in the library, and to all intents and purposes the house would still be your own. However, for that—service, what I am prepared to offer is that I’ll make myself responsible for all financial matters pertaining to the estate in that time, and in addition, perhaps we could come to some private settlement regarding the extent of the inconvenience caused.’

Helen was shocked, but her mother was stunned, and Margot looked positively green.

‘You can’t be serious!’ she exclaimed, plucking at his sleeve in utter disbelief, and even Mrs Chase uttered a short laugh, as if to relieve the incredulity she herself was feeling.

‘You’re not serious, are you, Mr Manning?’ she exclaimed, a worried smile coming and going on her plump features. ‘I mean—why, that would be far too much for anyone to—to—consider.’

‘Why?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I can afford it.’ His gaze flicked Helen’s unguarded face in scornful dismissal. ‘And if, at the end of the summer, I do decide to buy, we can take it from there.’ He shrugged. ‘Believe me, I’ll get as much out of it as you will. It gives me all the advantages of the place, without any commitment whatsoever.’

He was right—Helen could see that. But she was sickened at the thought. To have Jarret Manning in the house all summer long, to know that he was always there, always in the background. It was almost worse than having to leave the house immediately.

But naturally Mrs Chase did not see it like that. ‘You really mean it?’ she said shaking her dark head, and Jarret nodded:

‘I really mean it.’

‘Well, I think it’s a ridiculous idea!’ Margot was clearly not at all suited by these unexpected arrangements. No doubt she had expected Jarret to have the place to himself, thought Helen cynically, her lips tightening at the images this evoked. ‘How much isolation do you think you’ll get here, with the house constantly in use, and visitors coming and going?’

‘We don’t get many visitors these days, Margot,’ Mrs Chase put in at this point. ‘Mostly there’s just Helen and myself, and Charles, of course, when he’s not at the stables.’

‘Charles?’

Jarret looked questioningly at Helen’s mother, and she quickly explained. ‘Charles Connaught is Helen’s fiancé. His father owns the Connaught stables at Ketchley. Charles works with him, and they’ve produced some excellent mounts this winter.’

‘I see.’ Jarret’s eyes drooped over Helen’s face again, as he acknowledged this information, and quickly averting her gaze, she wondered what he was thinking. She doubted that Charles would have much in common with Jarret Manning, and dreaded his reactions if her mother chose to fall in with Jarret’s suggestions.

‘But it’s not the same, is it?’ Margot persisted, still pursuing her theme of isolation. ‘I mean, you’d be interrupted for meals, or someone could barge in on you …’

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