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.

Charade in Winter
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

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT was cold. Much colder than she had expected it would be, even though she had been warned that Northumberland in November was not the place for hothouse plants—Lady Morgan’s words, not hers. Her breath turned to vapour in the frosty air, a minute contribution to the mist that was thickening between the trees all around her, giving their bare branches a skeletal shrouding. Alix dug her hands more deeply into the pockets of her sheepskin coat as the tail-lights of the bus disappeared into the encroaching dusk of the afternoon, and then turned reluctantly to the glimmer of light issuing between the half-drawn curtains of the lodge. Had she been mad to agree to this charade? she wondered uneasily. Was she going to regret her impulsiveness before she had even encountered her prospective employer? Was the chill of the day seeping into her bones, undermining her determination to succeed? Or was it simply that she doubted her own ability to cope in what was, to her, an entirely alien situation?

Although there could not be too many buses stopping at the gates of Darkwater Hall, her arrival seemed to have aroused no curiosity, and she looked down resignedly at her two suitcases. As no one else was there to carry them for her, she would have to carry them herself. But how far? The lodge stood just inside the tall iron gates that were at present closed against any intruders, but beyond a curve of gravelled drive that disappeared between thickly planted trees into the mist she could see nothing.

Deciding it was pointless to stand there speculating when action was obviously necessary, Alix looped her handbag over her shoulder and, taking a case in each hand, walked towards the tall gates. An iron ring suspended by the stone gateposts invited tugging, and with an irrepressible feeling of stepping back in time she reached for it.

The sudden barking of dogs was startling and seconds later two enormous wolfhounds rounded the corner of the lodge and came charging towards the gates. She stepped back automatically, the brief spell of unreality evaporating before such an aggressive presence. Instead, the animals renewed all her former uncertainties, and had she not had the suitcases to impede her she might well have changed her mind about going on with this. As it was, she stood in frozen immobility, half mesmerised by the beasts leaping at the gates in front of her, until a man appeared and silenced their noisy uproar. He was an elderly man, dressed in dark trousers and a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, a peaked cap concealing his thatch of silvery hair. He looked neither pleased nor surprised to see her, and without further ado began to unbolt the gates.

‘This is Darkwater Hall, isn’t it?’

Alix felt obliged to say something, and the man nodded, holding back the dogs by their collars, and indicated that she should come inside. Rather gingerly Alix obeyed, wondering rather foolishly whether he intended letting the dogs loose on her as soon as the gates were closed again.

The gate swung closed behind her, and the man spoke for the first time, his accent thick with the Northumbrian brogue: ‘You afraid of dogs?’

Alix put down her cases. ‘Not particularly,’ she admitted, and then stiffened as he did as she had feared and released the wolfhounds. They came bounding towards her, barking once more, but the man seemed unconcerned.

‘They’ll not harm you,’ he said, securing the gates again, ‘not unless you was to run or do something silly like. They’re guard dogs, but they’re not vicious.’

Alix managed a half-smile, suppressing the urge to push the wet noses away from her legs. ‘You know who I am?’

The man regarded her levelly. ‘Well, as we don’t get young women coming to the gates with suitcases every day, I’d hazard a guess that you was Mrs Thornton, is that right? You’re expected. And it’s not an afternoon for standing on ceremony, is it?’

‘No, it’s not.’ Alix’s pulse rate slowed as the dogs began to lose interest. ‘Er—how far is the Hall?’

The man glanced at her, glanced at her suitcases, and then came forward to pick them up. ‘Best part of a mile,’ he replied laconically, ignoring her dismayed gasp. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to walk it. We can go up in the Rover.’

‘Thank goodness!’ Alix’s relief was evident, and the man cast a derisive look at the heels of her boots.

‘Them’s riding boots, I suppose,’ he taunted, and when Alix looked confused, he added, ‘Well, they surely don’t look like walking boots!’ and laughed at his own joke.

Alix didn’t find it particularly amusing, but at least his humour helped to relieve the situation, and she managed to ignore the implications behind locked gates and guard dogs and a drive almost a mile in length.

She could see now that a Landrover was parked to one side of the lodge. The lodge itself was a single-storied dwelling, built of local stone, with lead-paned windows and a sloping roof with hanging eaves. It might have been quite picturesque, but in the drifting spirals of mist that crept around it from the forest behind, it, too, had a slightly menacing air.

The Landrover was reassuringly ordinary, and judging from its appearance had spent part of the day ploughing through acres of mud. The man flung her cases into the back with a distinct disregard for their well-being, and Alix felt an almost irresistible urge to rescue them before they, too, became encrusted with mud. But a kind of masochistic desire to go on with this affair kept her still and silent, and she consoled herself with the thought of what an opening to her feature this would make.

The dogs were apparently left loose in the grounds, and when the Landrover’s engine was started they slunk away into the shadows surrounding the lodge. The vehicle’s headlights made little headway in the mist, but at least they revealed how thickly wooded the area was, and how impossible it must be to see the house from the road. Probably a deliberate choice of landscaping made many years ago when the original inhabitants of the Hall were in residence. Alix had looked up the history of the Darkwaters, thinking that possibly there might be some family connection between old Lord Darkwater and the Morgans: but she could find none. Oliver Morgan’s reasons for buying Darkwater Hall and coming to live here were as obscure as ever.

The drive was winding among the trees, and realising she was wasting valuable time, she asked quickly: ‘Do you and your wife live at the Lodge, Mr…er…’

‘Giles, ma’am. And I’m not married. Never have been. I manage quite well for myself, and I have the dogs. They’re company enough for me.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ murmured Alix dryly, aware of another pang of discomfort. Were there any other women at Darkwater Hall? And if not, to use a cliché, might she not have bitten off more than she could chew? What did she know of the family that was reassuring? They always made news, but that was more for their notoriety than their popularity, and Joanne Morgan’s death in unusual, not to say mysterious, circumstances could not be dismissed. Until now, she had barely stopped to ask herself why Oliver Morgan should require the Darkwater library to be catalogued when he had taken such pains to put himself beyond the reach of would-be sympathisers and press alike. Surely a man in his position would avoid unnecessary visitors in his home—and cataloguing a library, however extensive, could not be an urgent task. But when Willie had first shown her the advertisement, the opportunity it presented had been the most important consideration, and she had not even considered that Lady Morgan could be interviewing some entirely unsuspecting girl on her son-in-law’s behalf.

Then she chided herself impatiently. There had been men at the interviews, as well as girls. Oliver Morgan could not have foreseen that the qualifications required might not have been found in a man. He could not have guessed that all but two of the applicants would be deterred by the remote location of Darkwater Hall, or that Alix’s magazine would dispose of her final competition by offering the other girl a more lucrative position elsewhere. Besides, this was no time to be getting cold feet. Nothing she had read about Oliver Morgan had led her to believe he was a patient man—as witness his physical ejection of one of her colleagues from an exhibition he had been holding in Kensington, when it had been suggested that without his wife’s patronage he might well have found his work harder to sell—and whether or not the exercise was worthwhile she was committed to attempting the job she had been brought here to do. If, in the process, she could discover a little more of the truth behind Joanne Morgan’s death and why her husband should now choose to shut himself away in the wilds of Northumbria, so much the better. This was one story no one else should deprive her of, ungrammatical though that might be.

Her only real regret was that she had had to use her mother’s name, without her knowledge, to get the references she needed, but when she read the feature her daughter intended to produce, surely she would understand. And if there was no story… Alix lifted her slim shoulders in a gesture of dismissal. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get herself fired, should it? Although even she had had no idea of the circumstances of her employment, and she doubted anyone could get away—she hesitated over the word escape—from Darkwater Hall without its master’s permission.

As Giles seemed disinclined to indulge in casual conversation, the remainder of the journey was accomplished in silence, a silence unbroken by the calls of birds or the sounds of darting insects. The ominous deepening of the mist increased their isolation and aroused in Alix a tension she had never before experienced. With it came thoughts hitherto suppressed—what if Oliver Morgan had had her investigated? What if he had already discovered she was not who she claimed to be? Would he have allowed her to come here in those circumstances? Surely not. Surely if he had even suspected she was a member of the profession he clearly abominated, he would have refused her admission at the gates. Unless he had his own methods for dealing with recalcitrant journalists…

But what? She sighed. This was ridiculous! She had always had a vivid imagination and now she was allowing it free rein. And in what direction? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen pictures of Oliver Morgan, she had. She knew what he looked like. Tall and dark, with those hard, intelligent features that older women seemed to go for. Of course, he was quite old—forty-one or two, but in no way did he resemble the devil, with horns and a tail. And besides, what could he do to her? Her editor knew where she was. The bus driver, and he had certainly paid her enough attention, would surely remember dropping her at the gates of the Hall. And now there was Giles…

Alix cast a sideways look at him. Of course, he could be discounted. No doubt he was loyal to his master, and might be prepared to overlook her disappearance. And after all, Joanne Morgan had died in curious circumstances…

‘Here we are, ma’am.’

Alix started violently. ‘What? Oh—yes.’ She licked her lips. ‘That—didn’t take long.’

‘No, ma’am?’ Giles looked surprised. ‘I got the impression you were getting bored.’

‘Bored?’ Alix almost laughed out loud. ‘Oh, no, I wasn’t bored.’

Giles contented himself with a wry grimace, and thrusting open his door, descended from the vehicle. For a moment Alix remained where she was, peering through the mud-spattered windows at the house. Wreathed in mist, like the lodge, there wasn’t a lot to see, but its stone walls were creeper-clad and solid, the bays on either side of the iron-studded door tall and narrow-paned. Curtains had already been drawn against the darkening day, but the light beyond was heartening.

Giles appeared at her side of the Landrover, and swung open the door. ‘Will you come with me?’ he requested, and gathering herself with more haste than enthusiasm, Alix obeyed.

She shivered as they mounted the steps to the door, but before Giles could reach the iron bell-rope, the door was opened, and a stream of light dispersed the gloom. An elderly man stood within its illumination, grey-haired and slightly stooped, yet with a not unkindly face.

‘Come in, come in, Mrs Thornton,’ he urged, when Alix hesitated, waiting for Giles to introduce them then added as she stepped over the threshold: ‘I heard the engine coming along the drive, and I guessed you’d be feeling the cold here after London.’

‘Thank you.’

Alix stood aside as Giles deposited her cases on the polished floor of the entrance hall, briefly savouring the warmth within, and then felt another wave of anxiety engulf her as, after a tacit farewell, the heavy door was closed, trapping her inside the house. Trapping! She quelled the sudden rush of panic. She must stop feeling as if every step she took brought her nearer to Nemesis.

She looked swiftly round the hall, professionally noting the comforting wealth of her surroundings. Panelled walls, gleaming with the patina of age, a fan-shaped staircase, carpeted in green and gold, that forked into two at the first landing and circled the floor above with a carved gallery, a crystal chandelier that cast its light in a thousand trembling prisms. Even the chest that supported a bowl of red and bronze chrysanthemums was inlaid with lacquered panels, and mocked the striking contemporism of the telephone, which seemed strangely out of place. Nevertheless, to Alix, it was a link with the outside world, and therefore more than welcome.

‘Did you have a good journey?’

The butler, if he could be termed as such, was speaking, and Alix looked at him with more assurance. ‘Yes, thank you. But it’s a terrible afternoon.’

The butler nodded. ‘The mist—yes, I know. We get a lot of it at this time of the year. It’s the dampness, you see, rising among the trees. There are so many trees…’

‘Not that many. Are you trying to frighten the lady, Seth?’

A film of perspiration broke out on Alix’s forehead. She had been so intent on behaving normally that she had been unaware of a door opening across the hall and of the man standing in the aperture, watching them with sardonic amusement. But his words echoed so closely her own imaginary fears that for a minute she was convinced he had called the butler Death. She turned so pale that the man shook his head and moved forward in reluctant apology, regarding her with evident impatience.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he drawled, and even in her distraught state she noticed how attractive his voice was—deep and husky, almost as though he had a cold, but without the nasal overtones. He looked older than his pictures, as she had expected, and yet he still had the power to disturb her, and she had not expected that. ‘What’s the matter?’ he continued. ‘Has our weather convinced you we must have some nefarious purpose for living in such a God-forsaken spot?’

His perception was so acute that her unwilling admiration brought a little colour back into her cheeks, and his heavy lids shadowed eyes cooling to steel grey. ‘So,’ he commented dryly, ‘I was right. The lady has imagination, Seth. We must see we don’t stimulate it more than we can help.’

‘No, sir.’ The old man bent to lift Alix’s cases. ‘Shall I show Mrs Thornton to her room, sir?’

Oliver Morgan’s dark brows ascended. ‘Is that her name?’ He paused, and the cold appraisal he gave Alix would not have disgraced a dealer at a cattle auction. ‘We haven’t yet been introduced, have we?’

His behaviour brought Alix a measure of defensive composure, and holding up her head, she replied sharply: ‘Your staff don’t appear to consider introductions necessary, Mr Morgan. It is Mr Morgan, isn’t it? Not another of his employees!’

His lips twisted in wry acknowledgment of her audacity. ‘Yes, I’m Oliver Morgan, although I beg leave to doubt your uncertainty in the matter. However…’ he indicated the open door behind him, ‘I suggest we consider the proprieties satisfied, and continue our discussion in the library.’

Alix looked down at her sheepskin coat, and guessing her thoughts, Morgan added briefly: ‘Leave your jacket with Seth. He’ll see that your things are taken up to your room while I offer you a drink to dispel your fears, real or imagined.’

The buttons of her coat had never seemed more difficult to unfasten, but at last Seth helped her to shrug out of it and picking up her bag she followed Oliver Morgan into a room lined with books from floor to ceiling. It was a large room, with an iron-runged ladder leading to a narrow gallery which gave access to the books too high on their shelves to be reached by normal methods. The floor was carpeted, there were half a dozen easy chairs, a rather worn-looking table with drawers, and a tapestry-covered sofa faced the hearth, the papers strewn upon it indicating that this was where Oliver Morgan had been sitting. Flames leapt up the chimney from the pile of logs burning in the huge grate, giving the room a comfortable, lived-in air.

Oliver Morgan closed the door behind them, and Alix walked uncertainly towards the fireplace, not quite sure whether she ought to sit down as he did. Still, this was to be her area of activity, and she looked around at the shelves of books with feigned enthusiasm.

Her host had moved to a trolley beside the sofa, and was presently examining the contents of various bottles. Unobserved, Alix attempted to describe him for her own satisfaction, convinced that her initial reactions to him had been merely due to her overactive imagination. In a tweed jacket hardly any less shabby than that of his lodgekeeper, and dark brown cords, his streaked black hair hanging over his collar at the back, he was hardly a figure to quicken her pulse rate, and yet there was an unconscious sensuality about his movements that belied the ill-fitting carelessness of his clothes. She was a tall girl herself, but he was taller, and she guessed that the reason his clothes hung upon him was because he had lost weight. Then he lifted his head, and she felt the same sense of disruption she had experienced in the hall. His own reactions were completely different, however. His features betrayed a certain irritation when he looked at her, and his mouth, with its fuller lower lip, was uncompromisingly straight.

‘Whisky or sherry?’ he asked now, and guessing he expected her to choose sherry, she chose the opposite. ‘Straight?’ he queried, pouring a liberal amount of the spirit into a heavy-based glass, and Alix quickly asked for water.

Shrugging, he opened an ice-flask and dropped two cubes into her glass. ‘No water,’ he said as he handed it to her, and although she was tempted to say something more, she kept silent.

‘Sit down,’ he said, gesturing towards the easy chairs, and taking him at his word she subsided into the nearest one. He remained standing, which was rather disconcerting, and more disconcerting still was his first comment: ‘I have to tell you, Mrs Thornton, you’re not exactly what I expected.’

Alix was glad of the glass in her hand. Raised to her lips, it successfully provided a barrier between herself and an immediate reply. But eventually, of course, she had to answer him. ‘What—exactly—did you expect, Mr Morgan?’

He had poured himself whisky, too, and this he swallowed straight before speaking again. ‘You’re younger,’ he remarked at last. ‘How long have you been married? Doesn’t your husband object to you working so far away from London?’

‘My—my husband and I are separated,’ she responded, giving the reply she had rehearsed.

‘Really?’ His expression mirrored a certain contempt. ‘I wonder why.’

Alix stiffened. ‘I don’t think that need concern you, Mr Morgan. I’m here to do a job, and providing I do it satisfactorily—’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’ He cut her off abruptly. ‘That still doesn’t alter your age—’

‘I’m twenty-six, Mr Morgan.’

‘Are you?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You look younger.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He shrugged indifferently. ‘I suppose it’s of no matter. Presumably Grizelda thought you were suitable.’

‘Grizelda?’

‘My aunt—my mother-in-law, Lady Morgan. She did interview you, didn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He turned thoughtfully back to the trolley and poured himself another whisky. ‘What did she tell you?’

Alix took another sip of her own drink. Now what was that supposed to mean? What could Lady Morgan have told her? Except what qualifications were required for the job.

‘I—she told me you wanted someone with a degree in English, and a basic knowledge of at least one other language.’ Alix frowned. ‘Oh, and some interest in mathematics—for statistical purposes, I suppose.’

He faced her again, feet apart, one hand holding his glass, the other insinuated into the low belt of his pants. ‘And that didn’t sound unusual to you, did it?’

Alix wished she knew what he meant. ‘Not—especially.’

‘Tell me, Mrs Thornton, what libraries have you catalogued where such qualifications were necessary?’

Alix trembled. So he had had her investigated, after all. He knew she was a fraud, and this was his way of breaking it to her. But how best to deal with it? Ought she to pretend ignorance until he confronted her with her duplicity, or confess her identity forthwith and pray that he wouldn’t use physical violence to eject her?

She was still trying to make up her mind, when he went on impatiently: ‘You’re looking worried again, Mrs Thornton. There is no need, I can assure you. I’m not about to divulge myself as the devil incarnate, nor do I particularly care to take my pleasures with unpaid members of your sex, however delectable they might appear! My dear aunt would not have sent you here otherwise. My questions are purely academic, pertaining to the issues I have to discuss with you. Now—are you reassured?’

Alix was not at all sure she was. But it seemed she had been hasty in assuming he had discovered her identity. ‘I—I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Mr Morgan,’ she ventured demurely, deciding to feign ignorance of the coarser remarks he had addressed to her, and judging from his scornful expression, she had succeeded in this at least.

‘Very well.’ His nostrils flared. ‘I’ll come straight to the point, Mrs Thornton. I did not hire you for a librarian.’

He had succeeded in shocking her now, and Alix came involuntarily to her feet, almost spilling her drink in the process. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard me, Mrs Thornton. I did not hire you to catalogue my library.’

Alix’s thoughts tumbled wildly. What did he mean? If he did not need to have his library catalogued, why should he go to the trouble of hiring somebody with those qualifications? She stared at him disbelievingly, and he removed his hand from the waistband of his pants to run it carelessly into the open neckline of his dark brown shirt. The movement released another button and the feelings evoked by the curling dark hair escaping through the gap made her realise how vulnerable a woman could be with a man of such unconscious sexuality.

Then he spoke again, and she lifted her eyes to his face. ‘For reasons I prefer not to enlarge upon, it was necessary to practise a little subterfuge, Mrs Thornton. My real purpose in bringing you to Darkwater may not be initially to your liking, but I think the remuneration I am prepared to offer will more than compensate you for any inconvenience.’

Alix’s fingers felt numb about the glass. ‘You said you would get to the point, Mr Morgan,’ she said, her voice remarkably even in the circumstances. ‘I don’t think you have—yet.’

He replaced his empty glass on the trolley, and then put both hands behind his back. ‘You’re impatient, Mrs Thornton.’ He moved to stand before the fire. ‘I perceive that’s one qualification Grizelda overlooked.’

Alix could feel the tension within herself rising. ‘If you don’t want a librarian, Mr Morgan, what do you want?’ she exclaimed, at a loss to know how her mother would have reacted in this situation, and with a sigh he turned to rest one hand on the mantel.

‘A governess, Mrs Thornton,’ he said astonishingly, his grey eyes cold and intent. ‘I need someone to prepare my daughter for boarding school next September.’

CHAPTER TWO

ALIX’S rooms were in the west wing. Carpeted passages led from the first floor gallery into the east and west wings of the Hall, and the overall impression was of great size and grandeur. But in spite of an adequate heating system, Darkwater Hall was too big to feel at home in, and as Alix unpacked her cases and put her belongings away in the capacious cavern of a wardrobe, she couldn’t help feeling vaguely anxious. So far as she was aware, she was the only occupant of the west wing, and all those vacant doors she and Seth had passed on the way to her apartments made her feel uneasy.

Not that there was anything to complain about so far as her accommodation was concerned. She had been given adjoining rooms with a private bath, and the sitting room which adjoined this bedroom was extremely comfortable. Most of the furniture was old, but beautifully preserved, and as well as the more traditional items there was a large colour television which would at least help to keep her in touch with the outside world.

The outside world! She shivered. Why was she suddenly thinking of it like that? She was very much of that world, and somehow she would have to maintain contact with it. Willie would be expecting to hear from her, and when he learned why she had been brought here, he would be as astounded as she had been. Oliver and Joanne Morgan had had no children. That had been put forward as one of the reasons for the breakdown of the marriage, for long before Joanne died it was known that the relationship between Oliver Morgan and his wife was deteriorating rapidly, and odds were being offered as to when they would eventually split up. But it hadn’t happened that way. Joanne Morgan had died instead, arousing a wealth of speculation from every quarter. It was typical of the man himself that he had refused to answer any questions concerning his wife’s death, and had left the country three months ago returning, not to London, but to this remote establishment.

No wonder he hadn’t wanted to advertise the fact that he required a governess, thought Alix incredulously. This child, whoever she was, was not his wife’s offspring, or there would have been no need of the subterfuge he had practised. But apparently the child needed educating, and he was willing to suffer a winter in the north of England if she could be prepared to enter boarding school next autumn. Whether he intended acknowledging her identity at that time, Alix did not care to consider, but her hands trembled when she considered the story this would make. She spread her palms, looking down at their unsteadiness. She must keep calm, she told herself fiercely. On no account must Oliver Morgan learn of her identity, or she hesitated to speculate what his reactions might be.

Fortunately he had taken her startled amazement downstairs to mean what it appeared—the disconcertment of a person hired to do one job who is suddenly faced with another. Anyone would have been shocked to learn they had been hired under false pretences, and indeed, not everyone might have accepted the new arrangements as willingly as she did. Had she been too willing? she asked herself now, and then dismissed the question. It was too late to worry about things like that, when she had so many other matters to worry about, not least her own reactions to the master of Darkwater Hall.

She had never considered herself an emotional person, and her career had always come first with her. The relationships with men she’d had had always remained within the acceptable bounds of affection; and her experiences had never led her to believe that lovemaking was anything more than a rather unnecessary complication she would rather avoid.

Making her plans to come to Darkwater Hall, knowing as she did the reputation Oliver Morgan had acquired, rightly or wrongly, over the years, Alix had never once considered that she might find him attractive. He was too old, for one thing; he was coarse and ill-tempered, and the sensitivity of his work was not reflected in his personal life. Why then did she feel this intense awareness of him as a man, when at no time during their interview had he been anything more than remotely polite with her? He was not handsome, his nose looked as if it had been broken, and the lines drawn so deeply beside his nose and his mouth were pale etchings in his swarthy complexion. And yet something about him sent shivers of anticipation along her spine, and she speedily decided she was mistaking attraction for fear. After all, she had reason to fear him. Nothing could alter that.

With an angry shake of her head, she thrust these disquieting thoughts aside, and marched to the door of the bathroom. She had not met the child yet, but once he had exploded his bombshell, Oliver Morgan had rung for Seth to show her to her room, and suggested she might like to freshen herself before dinner. Perhaps he preferred to give her time to adjust to her new situation before confronting her with her charge. Certainly the turn of events demanded adjustment, even for her, and she understood now why the qualifications had been so unusual. And yet it was not an unimaginative idea. Someone of her mother’s abilities would be quite capable of instructing a child to preparatory level, and Alix only hoped she was equally able.

The bathroom was as large as the other apartments, with an enormous sunken bath made of veined green marble. The mixer and taps were shaped in bronze, like a lion’s head; the taps the claws, the mixer the beast’s yawning jaws. Long mirrors lined the walls above the bath, and panelled the inner side of the heavy door. As Alix shed her clothes, she saw her reflection thrown back at her from a dozen different aspects, and a faint flush of colour stained her cheeks. She had never contemplated her nakedness in such detail, and she was glad when the bath was full of heated soapy water, and the mirrors filmed with steam.

Nevertheless later, as she towelled herself dry with an enormous fluffy green bathsheet, she found herself wondering what kind of woman would appeal to a man like Oliver Morgan. Not someone like herself, she decided. No doubt he preferred smaller women, some dark delicate creature, with consumptive pallor and blue eyes, similar to the pictures she had seen of his wife. Certainly not a tall, bosomy blonde, who looked well able to take care of herself.

Wrapping herself in a towelling bathrobe she had found behind the door, she went back into her bedroom and seated herself before the dressing table mirror. Her hair was shoulder-length and uncompromisingly straight, and she brushed it vigorously, finding a certain amount of release in the effort it required. Then she applied a mascara brush to her lashes, darkening the gold-flecked tips and outlining the wide spacing of eyes that were an unusual shade of green. Her eyes were her best feature, she had decided long ago, ignoring the generously warm fullness of her mouth.

She wasn’t sure whether or not she was expected to dress for dinner, or indeed where she would take her meals. Her knowledge of governesses didn’t encompass their eating habits, and the thought of sharing Oliver Morgan’s table every evening was a daunting one. During the day, she would no doubt be expected to supervise his daughter’s meals, but after she had gone to bed—what then? Other thoughts occurred to her. Were governesses expected to see their charges into bed? Who attended to the child’s physical needs, mended her clothes, combed her hair? Alix shook her head. It was as well Oliver Morgan had employed her as a librarian. At least he would not expect her to be au fait with the duties of a governess.

She eventually decided to wear a dress of dark green silk jersey, its midi-length skirt swinging about her hips, the deep vee of the bodice exposing the swell of her full breasts. It was not perhaps the most suitable attire for a governess, but after all, that was not her designation, assumed or otherwise, and she saw no reason to dress down to her position. Besides, the child was probably used to seeing much more extravagantly dressed women, and Alix wondered briefly where she had been brought up, and by whom.

She was giving her hair a final flick with the comb when someone knocked at the door of her sitting room. She glanced at her watch and saw with surprise it was already after seven. Guessing Seth had come to tell her that dinner was ready, she swung open the door, and stared aghast at the tiny figure outside.

Could this be Oliver Morgan’s daughter? she wondered fleetingly, and then speedily dismissed the idea. The creature before her, dressed in a lavishly-embroidered kimono, was female certainly, and scarcely above a child’s stature, but an infant she was not. The painted face staring up at her was lined and old, the lacquered hair obviously tinted, and slanting almond eyes had receded far into her head. Alix guessed she was Japanese, and wondered in amazement what she was doing in Oliver Morgan’s house.

‘Mrs Thornton?’

The woman was speaking in a shrill lisping tone, and Alix nodded her head quickly. ‘Yes, I’m—Mrs Thornton. I—can I help you?’

Thin lips curved in the semblance of a smile. ‘You have come to take care of my missy?’

Alix’s eyes widened. ‘Missy? That would be—Miss Morgan?’ She moved her head in a confused gesture. ‘I believe so. Who are you?’

‘My name is Makoto.’ The small figure performed an obeisance that came somewhere between a bow and a curtsy. ‘Most happy to make your acquaintance, Thornton san.’

Alix put out a deprecating hand. ‘Oh, please—that is—did you want to see me, Makoto?’

‘Missy wishes to meet new governess, Thornton san. You will come with me?’

Alix glanced round at the room behind her. Confusion was giving way to curiosity, but she had no idea whether Oliver Morgan would approve of her meeting his daughter without his knowledge.

‘You will come, please?’

The old woman was speaking again, and Alix turned back to her ruefully. Obviously Makoto considered her mistress’s commands should be obeyed, and if she was anything like her father, then perhaps that wasn’t so difficult to understand. All the same, Alix wasn’t happy about the situation.

‘Er—Mr Morgan is expecting me to join him for dinner—’ she began awkwardly, and then gave an exasperated exclamation when Makoto performed another of her low bows and began to walk away. The last thing she wanted right now was hostility between herself and Morgan’s daughter, particularly when the situation was turning out to be such an intriguing one. A remote house, a child that no one knew existed—and now a Japanese servant! ‘Hey!’ she called, impulsively going into the passage and closing her bedroom door. ‘Hey, wait! I’ll come.’

Makoto’s paper-white face expressed her satisfaction. She waited for Alix to catch up with her, and then adjusted her small, half-running steps to Alix’s larger strides. If anything had been needed to convince Alix of the disadvantages of her size, walking beside the tiny Japanese woman would have done it, although judging from the admiring glances Makoto kept directing towards her, in her case the opposite could apply.

They crossed the gallery at the head of the stairs, and continued on into the east wing. Alix couldn’t resist glancing down into the hall below, half afraid that Oliver Morgan might be standing there watching them, but there was no one about, and she breathed a little more easily.

Makoto halted at the door at the end of the corridor, and turning the handle indicated that Alix should precede her into her room. Alix did so, not without some misgivings, and then came to an abrupt halt at the foot of an enormous tester bed. A child, perhaps eight years old, was sitting up in the bed, almost lost among so many pillows, her dark hair hanging in one thick braid over her shoulder. She was wearing a white nightgown which accentuated the paleness of her skin, for although her features were European, her eyes had a definitely oriental slant. But she was beautiful, even Alix saw that in those first astounded moments, and when she smiled her small teeth were as perfectly formed as the rest of her. Delicately small hands plucked impatiently at the bedcovers, and her whole demeanour was one of suppressed excitement.

So this was Oliver Morgan’s secret, thought Alix, feeling curiously shaken by the revelation. This was why the child had been kept out of the public eye, and why he had chosen to bring her back to a house as remote from London as he could find. The child’s mother had probably been as Japanese as old Makoto who stood so proudly beside her, her gnarled hands folded into the wide sleeves of her kimono, while his wife had been as European as he was.

‘Hello. I’m Melissa.’ The child’s voice surprisingly bore no Eastern intonation, but was as English as Alix’s own. ‘Are you Miss Thornton?’

Alex collected herself with difficulty. ‘I—I’m Mrs Thornton,’ she amended reluctantly. ‘How do you do, Melissa?’

The little girl beckoned her nearer the bed. ‘Are you really married? Do you have any children of your own?’

Alix flicked an embarrassed look in Makoto’s direction, but fortunately the Japanese woman was regarding her charge with evident satisfaction. ‘No,’ she answered uncomfortably, ‘I don’t have any children.’

Melissa’s small shoulders sketched a regretful shrug, and then she went on eagerly: ‘Have you come to stay with us? Daddy says you have. He says I have to go to an English school, and learn to be an English lady, and you’re going to help me.’ she paused. ‘Are you an English lady, Mrs Thorn—’

‘Melissa!’

Oliver Morgan’s voice was full of irritation, and Alix turned her head to see the master of the house striding into his daughter’s bedroom with evident annoyance. His appearance—he was dressed in black suede pants and a black silk shirt—was sufficiently grim to daunt the most intrepid heart, but Melissa’s reactions were totally without fear. Pushing back the covers, she thrust her small legs out of bed, and rushed across the floor to reach him, and with only a half-hearted protest her father swung her up into his arms. But not before Alix had glimpsed the flaw in the perfection—Melissa was lame.

Her eyes lifted to encounter the incisive scrutiny of Oliver Morgan’s gaze, and she knew he was waiting for her reactions. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing she had been shocked, about anything, and before the child could launch into her explanations, she said: ‘Melissa and I have been getting to know one another.’

‘You’re not cross, are you, Daddy?’

Melissa’s arms were around his neck, modestly hidden beneath wrist-length sleeves, but her leap into his arms had brought the hem of her nightgown up round her thighs and Makoto was trying desperately to pull it down.

Oliver Morgan brushed the Japanese woman away, and looked into his daughter’s mischievous face. ‘You were supposed to wait until tomorrow morning to meet Mrs Thornton,’ he told her, but there was indulgence in his tone, and Alix was amazed at the tenderness in his expression.

‘I couldn’t wait,’ said Melissa simply, his face cupped between her two small palms. Then she flashed a smile at Alix. ‘She’s not at all like you said she would be, is she?’

‘Young ladies do not make personal remarks,’ observed her father dryly, allowing her to slide to the floor. ‘And now, I suppose, Makoto will have the devil’s own job getting you settled down again.’

‘Makoto brought Mrs Thornton here,’ stated Melissa, reluctant to return to the bed, and Oliver Morgan’s eyes turned in Alix’s direction, subjecting her to another of those raking appraisals such as he had given her downstairs.

‘I guessed that,’ he conceded, irritation tightening his lips, as if he blamed Alix for upsetting the child. Then he turned to Makoto, and speaking rapidly in a language Alix couldn’t begin to comprehend made his demands known.

‘Daddy is telling Makoto that you are here to give me lessons only, not to entertain me,’ translated Melissa artlessly, arousing an impatient oath from her father, and Alix decided that the time had come for her to leave. But the child was intriguing, and she was loath to go without reassuring her on that point at least.

‘I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to entertain each other,’ she told her lightly, as Melissa obeyed her father’s terse directions and limped back to the bed.

Alix walked pensively to the head of the stairs, and then began to descend them slowly. She had reached the central landing when Oliver Morgan caught up with her. He passed her without a glance, however, and then stood waiting at the foot of the stairs, watching her come down the rest of the way with what she was beginning to recognise as his usual taut expression. He made her nervous and in consequence she stumbled, but apart from a further tightening of his lips, he made no acknowledgment of her small accident.

‘Would you like a drink before dinner?’ he inquired when she had reached the comparative safety of the hall, but she shook her head. In truth, the whisky she had drunk earlier had been stronger than she had imagined, and she needed no further dulling of her wits where Oliver Morgan was concerned.

‘Then I suggest we go straight in to dinner,’ remarked her host briefly, and led the way across the hall and into the dining room.

Like the other rooms of the house, it was large, but as it was filled with a long polished table, flanked by a dozen tall-backed chairs, a pair of matching sideboards and a huge Welsh dresser, it did not seem excessively so. One end of the table had been set with two places—heavy silver cutlery, Waterford crystal and Crown Derby—and as they entered, a girl came through another door at the far end of the room which probably gave access to the kitchens.

Alix was relieved to see that there was a girl of around her own age at Darkwater Hall, and she looked pointedly at Oliver Morgan, waiting for him to introduce them. He seemed strangely loath to do so, however, although from the avid way the girl was looking at him, she had no objections. In fact there was something faintly repelling about the dog-like devotion in the girl’s eyes as she pulled out his chair for him, and the way her mouth gaped when he thanked her. Alix quickly subsided into the vacant seat to his right, and the girl cast a vaguely hostile look in her direction before disappearing again, no doubt in pursuit of the first course.

The room was illuminated from a central chandelier, and the light glowed ruby red in the bottle of wine Oliver lifted to fill her glass. ‘You look disapproving, Mrs Thornton,’ he said, his eyes mocking hers. ‘Myra and her mother, Mrs Brandon, take care of all the cooking and cleaning here.’

Alix’s fingers sought the stem of the glass. ‘I see.’

‘Do I detect disapproval in your tones?’ His brows ascended. ‘It might not yet have become obvious to you, but Myra—isn’t quite as other girls. What I’m trying to say, not very successfully I’m afraid, is that Myra’s mental capacity is limited.’

‘Oh.’ Alix felt chastened.

‘You hadn’t noticed?’

Alix shrugged. ‘Not really…’

‘You weren’t offended by her behaviour?’

‘Offended? No.’

‘Affronted, perhaps?’ His lips curled. ‘You have very expressive features, Mrs Thornton. You’ll have to learn to control your feelings if you don’t want me to know what you’re thinking.’

Alix, used as she was to awkward confrontations in the course of her work, could nevertheless feel a faint deepening of colour at his words. He was altogether too perceptive, and she would have to be on her guard for more reasons than he knew.

In an effort to change the subject, she said: ‘How old is Melissa?’ and saw the immediate hardening of his profile.

‘She’s eight,’ he replied abruptly, and was saved from continuing by the return of the girl, Myra, with a tureen of soup. ‘We can help ourselves Myra,’ he told her firmly, after she had set soup plates before them, and she nodded rather sulkily and left them again.

It was leek soup, home-made, Alix guessed, and aromatically delicious. It made her realise that she had eaten nothing since lunchtime, and she needed no second bidding to fill her plate. She accepted a roll from the basket he offered, and began to spoon up the creamy liquid eagerly. It took her a few minutes to realise he had not followed her example, and she looked up to find him watching her with a curious expression on his lean features, his glass of wine held lazily in his hand.

At once she was on the defensive again, and feeling rather like a child in the company of an adult, she put down her spoon and said: ‘I’m sorry. I—I was hungry.’

He leaned back in his chair at the end of the long table, looking very much the master of the situation, and she wondered why his eyes upon her made her conscious of every inch of flesh she was displaying. Her hand went automatically to the low neckline of her dress, seeking and finding the medallion that swung there between her breasts, holding on to it as if to a lifeline.

‘Please,’ he said, without mockery, gesturing with his free hand, ‘do go on. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, but it’s quite refreshing to discover that there are women who enjoy their food. My own experience has been limited to the other kind.’

Alix looked down at her plate. ‘But you’re not eating,’ she exclaimed, looking up again.

He shrugged. ‘My appetite is not what it was, Mrs Thornton. But please don’t let my inadequacy prevent you from enjoying your meal. Mrs Brandon is an excellent cook.’

Unwillingly, Alix picked up her spoon again and continued with the soup. But it was so delicious that after a while she forgot that his eyes might be upon her, and finished every drop.

‘Some more?’ he suggested, when she looked up, but she shook her head, and was glad when Myra arrived to remove their plates.

The main course was chicken, sliced and cooked in a sauce made with white wine, and served with vegetables on a bed of flaky rice. Alix noticed that although her host helped himself to a little of this, he spent the time it took her to eat her helping pushing his around his plate, and drinking several glasses of a dry white wine he had opened after finishing the red wine practically singlehanded.

When Alix refused a second helping of the delectable raspberry gateau which completed the meal and coffee had been served, Oliver Morgan produced a thick cigar and after gaining her assurance that she had no objections to his lighting it, said: ‘Now, Mrs Thornton, I suggest we get the preliminaries over with, and then we can perhaps get down to business.’

‘The preliminaries?’ Alix frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but—what do you mean?’

He rose from his seat to light his cigar, and then regarded her dourly. ‘Come, Mrs Thornton, don’t be coy. I was hoping to delay your introduction to my daughter until the morning, but I ought to have realised that curiosity would get the better of discretion.’

Alix looked up at him. ‘I did not go in search of your daughter, Mr Morgan.’

‘I know that,’ he retorted shortly, ‘but you’ve seen her now, and I can’t believe you haven’t noticed that she’s partly Japanese.’

‘She’s a beautiful child,’ said Alix honestly.

He frowned. ‘How much do you know of my family, Mrs Thornton?’

Alix was taken aback. ‘I—I—’

‘Oh, come on!’ He was impatient. ‘You surely must have heard of us before you came here.’

‘I know you’re a sculptor, Mr Morgan.’ Alix tried to limit her thoughts to what any average housewife might know. ‘I saw your last exhibition. I thought your interpretation of the Seven Sinners was marv—’

‘I’m not looking for compliments, Mrs Thornton, I’m merely trying to ascertain your reactions to my daughter. You’re not deterred?’

‘Deterred?’ Alix was confused now. ‘I don’t understand.’

His sigh was the only sign of his irritation. ‘Mrs Thornton, it is not conceit when I tell you that anything and everything I do is closely monitored by the press. I accept that. You cannot expect to seek the public eye without its being turned upon you—for good or ill. But I regret to say that my own dealings with the press have not been without incident.’ He paused, and she made a pretence of examining the coffee in her cup to avoid his eyes. ‘In consequence, I am loath to subject the child upstairs to that kind of atmosphere without first preparing the way. You realise now why I couldn’t advertise for a governess. My wife and I had no children, as you’re probably aware, and Melissa’s upbringing has been sheltered until now.’

Alix wondered how he would feel when he learned he had confided these thoughts to a professional journalist, and inwardly shivered. This job was not turning out at all as she had imagined, and she wondered whether she would have been as keen to come here had she known a child was involved. And yet, looking at the situation from Joanne Morgan’s point of view, Melissa was merely a further endorsement of the unsavoury character of the man, and if she was to be hurt in all this she had only her father to blame.

Forcing herself to speak objectively, Alix asked: ‘Where has Melissa been living?’ and witnessed his automatic gesture of withdrawal.

‘I could say that need not concern you, Mrs Thornton,’ he remarked dryly, ‘but knowing Melissa as I do, if I don’t tell you, she undoubtedly will. She was born in Tokyo, but she has lived all her life in Hokkaido, the northernmost island of the group.’ He studied the glowing tip of his cigar for a moment, and then went on: ‘Until quite recently, she was being looked after by an elderly English lady who had made her home in Japan, and that is why Melissa speaks our language so well. But unfortunately, Miss Stanwick died before I could bring them both back to England, and consequently other arrangements had to be made.’

‘I understand.’

‘I doubt you do, Mrs Thornton,’ he contradicted her, ‘but perhaps we’ll come to understand each other.’

Alix hoped not. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said non-committally, and then got to her feet. ‘If—if that’s all, Mr Morgan, it’s been a long day, and I am rather tired—’

His scowl silenced her. ‘I’m afraid that’s not all, Mrs Thornton. If you’ve finished your coffee, I suggest we adjourn to the library so that Mrs Brandon can get the table cleared.’

He moved lithely towards the door, and she had perforce to follow him, very conscious of the controlled muscular strength of his body. What chance would she have against that whipcord hardness of flesh and sinew, she asked herself, if ever that explosive temper of his was turned in her direction? There was not an ounce of surplus flesh on him, and whatever kind of life he had been leading, it had not softened him. Willie’s description of the man as a temperamental bastard, full of his own importance, was no comfort in this situation.

She refused the liqueur he offered her in the library, and perched on the edge of the chair she had occupied earlier, waiting for him to speak. Eventually he came and took the chair opposite, at the other side of the hearth, sitting with his legs apart, his hands cradling a brandy glass suspended between them.

‘I want to explain what I expect of you, Mrs Thornton,’ he said at last, and she tried to meet his eyes without flinching. ‘You noticed that Melissa is lame, I know that, but she’s not stupid. She can read—not well, I admit, but she is literate. However, that is not enough. I want her to read fluently. I want her to understand simple mathematics, and if there’s time, perhaps a little general knowledge could be included.’ Alix nodded, and he went on: ‘Your application also implied that you could speak both French and German. While I appreciate that you’re not a teacher, Mrs Thornton, and all this will be new to you, it may be possible to instruct Melissa in a language as well.’

Alix cleared her throat. Her mother, certainly, was fluent in several European languages, but her own abilities were less impressive. ‘I—French is my best subject,’ she managed, and he seemed to accept that.

‘There is the final matter of Makoto,’ he added. ‘She has cared for the child since she was born, and you may find her presence irritating at times.’ He paused. ‘She must be made to understand that while Melissa is working, she does not get in the way.’

‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ said Alix quickly, and he inclined his head.

‘So.’ He lay back in his chair, stretching his long legs lazily, and raising the brandy glass to his lips. ‘I suggest you use this room for the lessons. I’ve taken the liberty of obtaining some textbooks, which you might study tomorrow, and the following day perhaps you could begin.’ He grimaced into his glass as if it no longer appealed to him, and then sat upright again. ‘I’m sorry if you feel I’m behaving like a slavedriver, but I have work to do as well, and I want to get these arrangements done with.’

‘That’s all right.’ Alix moved her shoulders deprecatingly. ‘So—so long as you don’t expect too much…’

‘I always expect too much, Mrs Thornton,’ he replied with irony. ‘That’s why my life has been one long disappointment to me.’

Alix got to her feet. ‘I—I’ll say goodnight, then,’ she asserted, not quite knowing how to answer him, and his lips twisted.

‘You’re not concerned that your reputation might suffer when it’s ultimately revealed that you’ve been living here with me?’ he inquired, looking tauntingly up at her, and she realised the amount of alcohol he had consumed throughout the evening was responsible for the slight glazing of his eyes.

‘I—no.’ She stilled the involuntary movement of her hand towards her throat again. And when he persisted on looking at her, she added: ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Your husband isn’t likely to come lusting for my blood?’

‘Of course not.’ She silently damned the revealing colour that entered her cheeks.

‘Good.’ With an economy of movement, he was on his feet and facing her, only a stride away. ‘I should hate to have to contend with the kind of publicity that would generate.’

‘You won’t,’ she assured him tautly, wishing she was not so conscious of his nearness.

‘You must have married out of the schoolroom,’ he observed insistently, and she saw his eyes move to the quickening rise and fall of her breasts.

‘Not—not quite,’ she stammered, feeling exposed, and with an indifferent shrug he moved away from her, leaving her weak and shaken by emotion.

‘Goodnight then, Mrs Thornton.’ He was opening the door for her, and she passed him with a mumbled salutation, crossing the hall to the stairs on legs which had never felt so uncertain.

She hadn’t expected to feel relieved to reach the isolation of her room, but she did. She closed her sitting room door and leaned back against it wearily, aware of feeling more exhausted than circumstances warranted. Then she expelled her breath on a sigh and straightening, walked through the lamplit apartment to her bedroom.

Someone had turned down her bed in her absence, and her nightgown had been draped carefully across the sheet. She wondered whether Myra had done it, and thinking of the other girl reminded her of the way she had looked at Oliver Morgan. However retarded her mental condition, physically she was a woman, and it was as a woman she had looked at her master. But how did he see her? She was not an unattractive girl, and he was a man with the same needs as any other man. And yet he had told Alix that he preferred to pay for his pleasures. Did he pay Myra?

She shuddered at the inclination of her thoughts, and tightening her lips, began to undress. But before she put on her nightgown, she ran her hands down over her breasts, her palms covering the hardening nipples. She felt strangely disturbed by the knowledge that a man like Oliver Morgan could arouse her in this way, and she stared at her reflection with unconcealed dislike. She had never felt this sense of discovery about herself before, and it was galling to find it coming between her and her work.

With a grimace of annoyance she reached for her nightgown, and allowed its filmy folds to fall about her ankles. Then she went into the bathroom to wash and clean her teeth, determinedly putting all thoughts of Oliver Morgan out of her mind. She was tired. Things would look different in the morning.

But once she was in bed, between sheets which she discovered were made of silk, it was not so easy to get to sleep. She had peeped through her curtains before getting into bed, and the mist outside seemed to be pressing against the window panes, imprisoning her in this isolated oasis of civilisation. Last night, sleeping in her own bed in her flat in London, she had had no notion of the complications she would find at Darkwater Hall, and there was something rather frightening in the remoteness of that thought…

CHAPTER THREE

THE next morning Alix slept late, which wasn’t surprising after she had lain awake for several hours listening to the creaking of the old house as it settled down for the night. Her flat in London overlooked a busy thoroughfare, and the unaccustomed silence here, broken only by contracting boards and soughing trees, was all strange to her. But eventually she had slept, and she awakened feeling refreshed and relaxed.

But the relaxation didn’t last long. One look at her watch, which she had left on the table beside the bed, and she was thrusting back the bedclothes, crossing the carpet eagerly to draw back the curtains.

It was after ten o’clock, and a rosy haze was gradually dispersing the shreds of mist that lingered among the sheltering belt of trees. Now that it was light, she could see that her room was at the front of the house, and beyond the sweep of courtyard acres of rolling parkland stretched away in all directions. The grass still shimmered with the heavy dew left by the mist, and there was a clean, drenched freshness about everything that made even the bare branches of the trees project a tracery of beauty. Some of the trees still clung to their leaves, and colours of yellow, bronze and amber mingled with the heavy greens of pine and spruce. It was a world away from the urban surroundings she was used to, and Alix wondered at her own capacity to adapt to it without constraint.

But enchanting though the prospect from her window was, cold reality began to intrude. This was her first day at Darkwater Hall, and she had overslept. Hardly the way to begin, she thought ruefully, going into the bathroom, and turning on the shower. No matter how intriguing her surroundings might be, she was here to do a job, and not just the task Oliver Morgan had set her. Melissa’s presence could well turn out to be the key to the whole mystery surrounding Joanne Morgan’s death. What if Mrs Morgan had been kept in ignorance of the child’s existence, and had suddenly found out? What if she had threatened to expose him? He was a man of uncertain temper, everyone knew that. To what lengths might he have been prepared to go to stop her?

Alix shook her head impatiently, stepping out from under the invigorating spray and towelling herself dry. This was all pure speculation! Joanne Morgan had died as the result of a car crash. It had been an accident. The coroner had recorded a verdict of accidental death. Just because her husband had inherited a vast amount of money from her estate it did not mean he had had a hand in loosening the brakes or the steering wheel, or had crippled the car in some other way so that she wrapped it round a tree only half a mile from their house in Sussex.

Nevertheless, people were talking, and if it was ever revealed that he had had a Japanese mistress tucked away somewhere… Alix brought herself up short. What did she mean—if? Of course it would be revealed. This was her story, the one which would make her famous. She must not let sentimentality for the child undermine her determination. She would stay here just as long as it took to get to know Oliver Morgan, to find out what made him tick, and if possible to hear his version of his wife’s accident. Melissa’s mother was another story, and some other sensation-minded reporter could dig up those sordid details.

She dressed in slim-fitting orange pants and a shirt in an attractive shade of olive green. Make-up she limited to eye-liner and lipstick, and feeling the familiar pangs of hunger she hurriedly made her bed before making her way downstairs.

A grey-haired, middle-aged woman was working in the hall, polishing the carved chest Alix had admired the previous evening, and she looked up with evident curiosity when Alix came down the stairs.

‘Good morning,’ she replied in answer to Alix’s greeting. ‘Mrs Thornton, isn’t it?’

Alix’s thumb went self-consciously to the plain gold band she could feel on her third finger, but she nodded quickly. ‘That’s right. You must be Mrs Brandon. I’m sorry I’m so late, I overslept.’

The woman was taller than she had appeared from above, and they were almost on eye-level terms when Alix reached the hall. ‘Mr Morgan had breakfast a couple of hours ago,’ she added half-accusingly. ‘Will you be wanting a meal?’

Alix hesitated. But she couldn’t go all morning without food. ‘Perhaps some toast—and coffee?’ she ventured, and Mrs Brandon sniffed.

‘Very well, I’ll get it.’

‘Oh, please…’ Alix didn’t want to be a nuisance. ‘I can look after myself. If you’ll show me the way to the kitchen—’

Mrs Brandon shook her head, folding her arms across her flowered overall. ‘I said I’d get it, Mrs Thornton. The kitchen is no place for governesses!’

The way she said that word made Alix stare at her with troubled eyes. What was wrong with being a governess, for heaven’s sake? And in any case, surely Mrs Brandon must know she had been hired as a librarian.

The older woman gave her another contemptuous look, and then walked briskly across the hall to a door set beneath the curve of the staircase. Alix watched her go with misgivings, and then, shrugging her slim shoulders, she glanced round. She recognised the door to the library, with its distinctive leather soundproofing, and the door to the dining room stood wide, but there were several other doors and she decided to explore.

The first room she entered was a drawing room, high-ceilinged and magnificent, with a genuine Adam fireplace and an enormous grand piano. Long couches, upholstered in dusty pink velvet, were standing on a fine cream carpet, the pattern of which was obviously Chinese, and there were tall cabinets flanking the fireplace filled with a collection of ivory and jade.

Alix closed the door again rather reverently, and started guiltily when a hand tugged at her arm. It was Mrs Brandon’s daughter Myra, and she was pointing rather angrily towards the dining room.

‘You come,’ she insisted, half pulling the other girl across the hall, and Alix offered no resistance.

A place had been set for her at the table, and although she would have preferred a tray to take up to her sitting room, she had to admit that Mrs Brandon had gone to a great deal of trouble on her behalf. There was some freshly-squeezed orange juice, warm rolls as well as a rack of toast, a selection of conserves and marmalades on a silver dish, and a jug of steaming aromatic coffee all to herself. Myra saw her into her seat, and then stood looking at her rather unnervingly.

‘This is delightful, Myra.’ Alix endeavoured to show her appreciation. ‘I promise tomorrow morning I’ll be down as soon as Mr Morgan.’

The girl hunched her shoulders. ‘Morgan—he said you were tired.’

Alix smiled. ‘Well, he was right,’ she exclaimed, rolling her eyes expressively. ‘That was some journey yesterday.’

Myra looked no less hostile. ‘You sleep with Morgan?’ she demanded aggressively, and Alix dropped the knife she had been using to butter her toast.

‘No!’ she denied hotly, endeavouring to remember that Myra was not quite normal. ‘I mean—of course not.’

Myra frowned. ‘Morgan brought you here,’ she stated, as if that was enough.

Alix sighed. ‘To—to teach Melissa. His daughter!’

Myra was obviously trying to absorb this. ‘You’re a teacher?’ she asked suspiciously, and Alix sighed again. How did she answer that?

‘I—yes,’ she said at last. ‘Yes, I’m a teacher.’

‘I thought you was a librarian, Mrs Thornton.’

Unknown to Alix, Mrs Brandon had come through the door from the kitchen, and was standing regarding the two girls with her hands on her hips.

Alix put down her knife again. ‘I am. But I was just trying to explain to your daughter—’

‘I heard what you was saying to Myra,’ retorted Mrs Brandon, repressively, ‘and she doesn’t have time to stand around gossiping to the likes of you.’ Before Alix could protest, she gestured to the girl to get about her business, and then disappeared herself back into the kitchen.

Alix retrieved her knife again, but her appetite had gone. Between them, Mrs Brandon and her daughter had succeeded in making her feel little better than a call-girl brought here in the guise of a librarian to keep their employer happy. She didn’t know which of them, Oliver Morgan or herself, it reflected least favourably upon, but she suspected they had no doubts on that score.

She poured a second cup of coffee and stared broodingly at a painting hanging above the sideboard opposite. It depicted a farming scene and could conceivably be a Constable, but it was not the sort of thing she particularly admired. Nevertheless its uncomplicated harmony was soothing, and by the time she had finished her coffee she had herself in control again.

There was still no one about when she emerged from the dining room, and she wondered where Oliver Morgan could be. Melissa, too, was conspicuous by her absence, for Alix had felt sure she would be eager to meet her new governess again.

She decided to go into the library as that was the place where Oliver Morgan expected her to work, and the cosy fire she found there lifted her spirits. The heavy maroon drapes had been drawn back from the windows to reveal that they overlooked the back of the house, where a stone terrace gave on to lawns and flower-beds, sadly lacking in colour at this time of the year. A few hardy roses still survived against the increasingly frosty air, but almost everything else had given up the struggle.

She turned back to the room and discovered that the textbooks Oliver had spoken of the night before had been laid out on the table awaiting her inspection, and she spent the next hour going through them. She was enjoying the delights of one of the story books Oliver Morgan had also provided when she heard voices outside, and curiosity made her get up and go to the windows again.

Oliver Morgan and his daughter were walking towards the house from the direction of the surrounding belt of trees, laughing and talking together with an easy camaraderie. They were both wearing chunky sweaters; and Melissa’s small legs were encased in well-fitting jodhpurs. Her father was not wearing riding breeches, but his tight-fitting pants were thrust into knee-length black boots, and moulded the bulging muscles of his powerful thighs.

Alix didn’t need to see the crop Melissa was carrying as she skipped lamely along beside her father to guess that they had been riding, and she wondered how many horses Oliver Morgan kept at the Hall. It was years since she had done any riding, but it was a tantalising prospect on a day that was doubtless as sharp and as clear as mountain air. Still, she thought half impatiently, she was not here to enjoy herself in any capacity, but she returned to the table with a certain amount of dissatisfaction.

She was still sitting there when the door swung open and her employer and his daughter entered the room. They brought with them the fresh tang of pine and larch, and even Melissa’s naturally pale features were flushed with healthy colour.

‘Good morning, Miss—I mean, Mrs Thornton,’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘What are you doing?’

Oliver Morgan closed the door behind them. ‘I believe your governess is preparing tomorrow’s lessons, Melly,’ he told her lightly before Alix could reply, his size successfully reducing the generous proportions of the room. In the revealing light of day the grey streaks in his hair were more pronounced, but for all that he was still the most disturbing man Alix had ever encountered.

‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been reading, Melissa,’ she said, deliberately addressing her remarks to the child. She lifted the book to show her. ‘Do you know it?’

Melissa came to the table and studied the coloured jacket. Then she shook her head. ‘No. The only books I’ve read are about Yoko.’

‘Yoko?’

Alix frowned, and Oliver came to the table, hitching himself on to one corner and saying in mock-reproof: ‘Yoko, the rabbit! Surely you’ve heard of him! He’s quite a famous fellow, isn’t he, Melly?’

Melissa giggled, and said: ‘Oh, Daddy!’ while Alix was amazed at his indulgence with the child. Whoever would have guessed that the unapproachable scourge of the Royal Academy could be so sensitive to a little girl’s fantasies? He had been smiling teasingly at the child, but suddenly he turned and found her eyes upon him, and for a devastating minute he held her gaze. She was sure he did it deliberately, and only a determination not to give in to whatever egotistical urge he had to humiliate her forced her not to look away. Nevertheless, when Melissa did inevitably distract his attention, Alix felt exhausted by the effort.

Quickly tiring of the books, Melissa had more important things on her mind: ‘We’ve been riding,’ she told Alix eagerly. ‘Can you ride, Mrs Thornton?’

Alix hesitated. ‘Well, I used to ride years ago,’ she conceded at last, and immediately Melissa looked up at her father and said:

‘Perhaps Mrs Thornton could take me riding when you’re working.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ protested Alix doubtfully, aware of Oliver’s eyes on her again. ‘I mean—it’s years since I was on a horse.’