Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Dear Reader

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Copyright

“A sense of belonging,” she murmured.

“I want to marry you, Ashley. Will you think about that while you mix with your friends tonight?”

“Harry…” It was a breathless little gasp, as though he’d punched the air out of her lungs.

Her eyes widened wonderingly.

“Don’t answer me now. I just want you to know,” he said with quiet seriousness. To imprint it firmly on her mind, he repeated,

“I want to marry you.”

EMMA DARCY nearly became an actress, until her fiancé declared he preferred to attend the theater with her. She became a wife and mother. Later, she took up oil painting—unsuccessfully, she remarks. Then she tried architecture, designing the family home in New South Wales, Australia. Next came romance writing—“the hardest and most challenging of all the activities,” she confesses.

Mischief And Marriage
Emma Darcy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedicated to my

beloved husband, Frank,

who shared all the

stories of great love with me.

Dear Reader,

Four years ago my husband became very ill with a rare condition that affected his whole system. It was a devastating blow, but we determined then to find all the joy we could in the time that was left to us. It was especially hard when my husband lost most of his vision, but he could still live the stories I read to him in his mind.

Through it all he wanted the stories to go on, to give what he could to them. Mischief and Marriage was our last book together and features a ghost. My husband made up the rules for ghostland. One of them was that love knew no boundaries. The only boundaries that existed were those that people imposed themselves.

My husband passed away on 14th March 1995.

I hope that reading Mischief and Marriage brings you as much joy as it brought to Frank and me while we were creating it.

Best wishes,

Emma Darcy

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS a butler’s duty, George Fotheringham assured himself, to remind the master of the house of his duty. It was a touchy subject, a highly touchy subject, but after this last near fatal incident, the matter had to be raised.

It wasn’t that Master Harry was irresponsible. He had a good heart. If Miss Penelope hadn’t succumbed to her tragic illness, everything would have been quite different. Nevertheless, the indisputable fact that Master Harry now took life far too lightly could not be ignored any longer. It was three years since Miss Penelope’s sad demise, It was time for this frivolous recklessness to stop.

‘May I point out, sir, you could have been killed in the avalanche,’ George began with portentous emphasis. ‘To risk skiing in uncertain conditions…well, it is improvident, sir. It may not be of any concern to you, sir, but there is the matter of an heir to be considered. I wondered if you might give it some thought.’

Harold Alistair Cliffton almost sighed. He remembered his cracked ribs in time and eyed his butler wearily instead. ‘Sorry, George. I’m not up to getting married at the moment.’

Not up to anything, he thought, staring broodingly into the huge log fire that kept the chill of winter at bay. The winter of my discontent. Impossible to remove that chill deep within his soul.

Having been rendered immobile with a broken leg, not to mention the damaged rib cage and some internal bruising, boredom was fast setting in. And depression. It had been a bad choice to convalesce at Springfield Manor. It conjured up too many memories of Pen and their last months together when each day had been so precious. Now…he didn’t care if he saw another day.

‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to do, sir. I merely propose that you consider possible outcomes,’ George persisted, determined on raising Master Harry’s awareness of what would result should he die prematurely.

There was no response.

George frowned. He had to focus Master Harry’s attention on the future. It was a matter of position and positioning. The agreement between the Cliffton family and his own was extremely significant to George, and to his mind, Master Harry had a solemn duty to fulfil his part of it.

The connection between their two families dated back to the Battle of Flodden in 1513, when Henry Cliffton had joined the Earl of Surrey in fighting the invading army of James IV of Scotland. In a violent melee with the Scottish pikemen, it was George’s brave ancestor, Edward Fotheringham, who had saved the life of Henry Cliffton, fighting off the fierce attackers from where the nobleman lay wounded. It was promised then and there, from that day onwards, Edward Fotheringham and his descendants could always find employment in the service of Henry Cliffton and his descendants.

In today’s uncertain world with its shifting values, security was not to be scoffed at. George thought of his two sons, fine boys both of them, doing well at school. They had their expectations, and rightly so. He cleared his throat and pressed his case.

‘We do need an heir so that the family traditions can be maintained. An heir, sir, is not so much an obligation, but a duty,’ George stated with the gravity due to such an important issue.

The words must have penetrated. Master Harry looked up, cocking a quizzical eyebrow. ‘What precisely are you suggesting, George? I doubt that any of my charming female acquaintances would care to have a child out of wedlock in order to ensure that your heirs and assigns have continuing employment for the next few generations.’

George took a deep breath, apprehensive about giving offence, yet deeply conscious of all that could be lost. For centuries, a distinguished line of butlers from his family had served the Cliffton family at Springfield Manor. For that long line of honourable service, and all its concomitant advantages, to be now looking at an uncertain future was unacceptable.

Besides, Master Harry needed an interest, a serious interest that would involve him in a very real sense of continuity again. Having children and bringing up an heir to take over from him would give him a purpose for living.

George played his master card. ‘I have taken the liberty, sir, of investigating the Australian branch of your family.’

Harry looked startled, then threw his head back and laughed. ‘How enterprising of you, George! Better a descendant of the Black Sheep than no heir at all.’

‘Absolutely!’ George fervently agreed, the burden of having taken such an initiative considerably lightened by Master Harry’s amused response. ‘It would, of course, be a preferable resolution were you to marry, sir, if only a marriage of convenience for the purpose of…’

‘My sense of duty doesn’t stretch that far,’ Harry said dryly. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me the fruits of your investigation. Were there any fruits?’

At least he had sparked some interest, George observed with satisfaction. Hope burgeoned in his heart. Master Harry must surely begin to appreciate what had to be done.

‘As I recall the story,’ Harry mused, ‘our Black Sheep was a shameless rake. It was his scandalous affair with the Duchess of Buckingham that led to his being disinherited and exiled.’

‘Quite right, sir.’ To George’s mind, the unworthiness of this branch of the family had to be glaringly evident. ‘He was a cad and a bounder. He kissed and told. A disgrace to the escutcheon, sir.’

The point didn’t seem to have the desired effect. Master Harry appeared enthused. ‘There must be a veritable host of heirs we could call upon Down Under. A hundred years of going forth and multiplying should have produced…’ He grinned. ‘How many, George?’

‘The 1917 influenza epidemic wiped most of them out, sir. One could say we are as much at the end of the line in Australia as we are in Britain. There is a boy, sir. A nine-year-old schoolboy. Such a young child is hardly a safeguard against the ultimate calamity. It will be many years before he can father a child himself, whereas you…’

‘But consider, George!’ There was a teasing twinkle in Harry’s eyes, brightening their blue to a lively hue. ‘He’s young enough for you to train him up to your standards. You could mould yourself a splendid master who would be everything you wanted him to be.’

George sighed. He had hoped to stir some pride in Master Harry’s direct blood line by using the Australian boy as a spur. There was no doubt in George’s mind that Master Harry could have his pick of any number of suitable young ladies whom he had entertained at Springfield Manor in latter years.

‘You are not dead yet, sir,’ he stated flatly.

‘We know not the hour nor the day, George,’ Harry replied flippantly. ‘Clearly the most provident course is to fetch the boy over here so he’ll become acquainted with his inheritance.’

‘It is not quite so straightforward as that, sir,’ George demurred, deeply vexed at the turn his attempt at subtle pressure had taken. ‘The boy has a widowed mother. His father, who was the last direct heir, drowned some years ago. The woman has her own home, runs a modestly successful business and is certainly attractive enough to have formed another attachment. Should she marry again… Well, it will be very messy getting the boy over here.’

‘I’ll bet you a bottle of 1860 Madeira that I can fetch them here, George.’

Such levity grated deeply on George’s sense of propriety. The wine cellar at Springfield Manor was of particular pride to him. One of the finest, if not the finest, private cellars in England. Master Harry had to be joking about giving everything up to what had to be an unworthy strain of the family.

‘It really would be much simpler, sir, were you to marry and have a decent number of children to ensure a succession of the family.’

Harry grinned. ‘Did you get photographs of the boy and his mother, George?’

‘There is no family likeness, sir. None at all.’

‘The photographs, George.’ Harry’s curiosity was piqued. ‘I want to see them.’

George had a very nasty premonition. He recognised the light of mischief in Master Harry’s eyes. He had been witness to it on many an occasion. What followed was invariably mayhem of one kind or another. He had been a venturesome boy and he had become even more dangerously venturesome once the benevolent influence of Miss Penelope’s lovely nature had passed away with her.

It had been a mistake to confess to the Australian investigation. It had been a mistake to present Master Harry with any kind of challenge. George knew it was all his own fault when his premonition proved right several hours later.

‘Make inquiries about flights to Australia, will you, George? It’s summer over there, isn’t it? I rather fancy a bit of summer. As soon as I can get this cast off my leg I’ll be on my way.’

Master Harry’s earlier gloom had completely dissipated. He was in fine fettle. ‘Might get in a few days’ cricket, as well. Make a note of the dates for the test matches between England and Australia, please, George. If there’s one in Sydney, I could take young William with me to watch the game. A nine-year-old should take a lively interest in cricket.’ He grinned at George. ‘Fine name, William.’

Mischief! That was what he was up to. Mischief instead of marriage. And where would it all end if Master Harry’s meddling caused mayhem?

CHAPTER TWO

ASHLEY Harcourt didn’t know that today was to mark the beginning of a completely different phase in her life. Her desk calendar looked the same as usual. It bore no big red letters to give warning of something momentous about to happen. There was no sense of premonition hovering in her mind.

She was faced with a particularly nasty piece of work in the person of Gordon Payne, who was sitting in her home office, filling the chair on the other side of her desk and voicing a string of complaints. But she was ready to deal with that. More than ready.

Giving satisfaction was a high professional priority to Ashley. She prided herself on running her employment agency effectively, fitting the right people into the right jobs. But there was a limit, a very definite limit, to how much satisfaction any one person could demand from another.

Ashley had precisely formed opinions on this point. She was twenty-nine years old, had worked hard to build up her own business after being widowed and had dealt with a great many people in a wide variety of situations. Satisfaction in any relationship was a two-way street, a compatible, complementary give-and-take situation.

As she listened to Gordon Payne revealing himself in his true colours, she silently berated herself for a bad mistake in judgement. The affable manner that had fooled her into misplacing a top quality client with him smacked of the same polished charm that had fooled her into a miserable marriage ten years ago. She should have recognised it, been suspicious of it. Warning signals should have crawled down her spine.

‘When I dictate a letter, I expect my secretary to type it word for word, each word spelled correctly,’ Gordon Payne ranted on. ‘I do not want her assuming she knows the English language better than me. If there is corrections to be made, I make them.’

Ashley held her tongue, mentally noting the two grammatical errors in that little speech. Here was another king-size ego who knew everything and could do no wrong! Ashley had been married to one for long enough to have experienced the God complex at close quarters. She had learnt there was no reasoning with it, no appeal that would pierce it, no way to get around it.

In her youthful naivety, Ashley had fallen blindly in love with Roger Harcourt. He had been handsome, always well-dressed, sophisticated in his tastes and strongly athletic, excelling in all competitive sports. Self-assurance had oozed from him, and during their early days together, Ashley had thought him utterly perfect.

Having drifted between divorced and disinterested parents for most of her teens, she had loved the way Roger took charge of everything and told her what was best for her to do. Ashley had interpreted that as proof of his caring for her. She’d had no perception of how tyrannical it could become.

She had thought she was getting love and strength and support and direction in her life when she had married Roger Harcourt.

She had certainly got direction.

She had had such a surfeit of direction from Roger, she doubted she would ever stomach the idea of marriage again. However difficult she sometimes found running her own life and being a single parent, it was still preferable to having her subordination taken as someone else’s right.

Gordon Payne was now behaving as though she was subordinate to him, too. ‘Run proper tests on these women in future. Don’t believe their résumés,’ he commanded. ‘It’s nothing but pretentious twaddle.’

As head of a home construction company-Painless Homes with Gordon Payne—and a member of the local shire council, he was a man of considerable standing in the community. Ashley had thought him a valuable business client, someone who would direct others to her agency if her service satisfied him. After hearing the dismissed secretary’s story earlier this afternoon, she had decided then and there to cut him from her files, regardless of cost or consequences.

She was still inwardly fuming over the treatment that this pompous pain of a man had dished out to a young woman whom any sensible employer would cherish. Cheryn Kimball was too good for him. That was the problem.

Cheryn was not only highly qualified in all the areas Gordon Payne had demanded, she presented herself with style and polish and had a natural charm of manner that would endear her to most people. She had been traumatised, reduced to floods of tears by the unjust haranguing and arbitrary dismissal over doing what she believed to be her job.

‘And I don’t want a woman who talks back at me!’ the monster ego raged.

That hit a particularly raw point with Ashley. Roger had felt he had the right to silence her by icily declaring, ‘I am the head of this house!’ What was she supposed to have been? The tail? The feet running after him all the time? She had discovered, too late, there were only one-way streets with Roger.

Ashley barely stopped herself from glowering at Gordon Payne. What he wanted was a mechanical robot programmed to toadying submission. Yes, master. At your service, master. Whatever you say, master.

The warm indulgence he had displayed towards his previous long-time secretary was explained in Cheryn’s report. The woman had been mollycoddling him for the past twenty years. Even though she had retired, she had ‘dropped in’ at the office each day this week to ‘break Cheryn in to the way dear Gordon likes things done,’ and deliberately, jealously undermined Cheryn’s confidence in her position and abilities.

Just like Roger’s mother.

Ashley shuddered.

Roger’s mother had considered herself a cut above everyone else since she was supposedly connected to some great line of landed gentry in Britain. Such pretensions had obviously contributed to Roger’s sense of superiority. Her condescending manner had been a constant burr under Ashley’s skin.

She hadn’t wished Roger and his mother dead. She had made up her mind to divorce both of them. The fight for freedom had just begun when fate intervened and released her from the trauma of battling a custody case over William.

Of course, any reasonable person wouldn’t have tried to drive across a bridge that was partly submerged by torrential floodwaters. Roger hadn’t liked being beaten by anything. He and his mother had been swept away by a force bigger than both of them. They had probably drowned with a sense of outrage that such a thing could have happened.

Now here was this odious man reminding her of all she had put behind her. She wished she could wave a magic wand and give him a taste of servitude under someone like himself. Unfortunately her power of reprisal was strictly limited to a figurative kick out the door.

‘I won’t be paying your commission until you find me a suitable secretary,’ was the predictable ultimatum. ‘And I want someone in the office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning to get on with the work. A temporary will have to do until you come up with the right person.’

‘I’m sorry you’ve been disappointed, Mr. Payne,’ Ashley said coolly, ‘but may I remind you that our contract was for me to supply you with three interviewees with the qualifications you listed. I did so. You chose Miss Kimball. You owe me five hundred dollars, and I expect to be paid.’

‘You guaranteed satisfaction,’ he answered angrily.

‘You specified initiative as one of the qualities you required, Mr. Payne. Miss Kimball believed she was saving you the embarrassment of sending out grammatically incorrect letters. Many employers would value such care, knowledge and attention applied to their correspondence.’

That stung him. ‘I tell you she got it wrong!’ Gordon Payne’s face developed angry red patches. ‘When I specified initiative I meant for her to supply me with what I needed, when I needed it, without having to ask all the time. She failed that, too!’

‘There is a difference between initiative and mindreading, Mr. Payne. I do have a reader of tarot cards and a magician in my files, but I don’t have any clairvoyants or mind-readers. Not amongst those seeking either permanent or temporary employment. I suggest you try some other agency.’

The red patches deepened to burning blotches. He stood up, using his size to intimidate. He was a bullish figure of a man, short-necked, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested. His rather fleshy features were framed by crinkly brown hair, giving him a deceptively boyish look for a man in his forties. There was a mean glitter in his dark eyes.

‘Don’t get smart with me, Mrs. Harcourt,’ he snarled. ‘I hold a position of influence in this town. I could do you a lot of good.’

The threat that he could also do her a lot of damage was left hanging, unspoken but clearly implied.

Ashley was on the petite side, below average height, delicately boned, slim-framed. She achieved what she hoped was a mature and dignified stature by wearing smartly tailored business suits and pinning her long blond hair into a French pleat, but her appearance was essentially dainty and feminine.

Gordon Payne undoubtedly thought he could make mincemeat out of her and eat her for breakfast. What he didn’t know was she was one hundred per cent steel-proofed against being bullied into anything she didn’t want to do. If he’d looked more closely he might have seen some sign of that in the flintlike directness of her wide grey eyes.

She remained seated. This was her office, her home, her castle, and no-one was going to shift her from the position she had established for herself. ‘I appreciate the offer, Mr. Payne,’ she said calmly. ‘I regret I can’t return the favour. I’ve already done my best for you.’

He pressed the knuckles of one hand on her desk and leaned forward, his chin stuck out pugnaciously. ‘You don’t know what side your bread is buttered on, Mrs. Harcourt. You have wasted a great deal of my time, with no satisfactory result, and I expect you to make up for it.’

‘How do you suggest I do that, Mr. Payne?’

‘By supplying me with temporaries until you come up with a permanent who’s satisfactory to my needs.’

‘That was not part of our agreement,’ she stated decisively. ‘I have advised you that I cannot satisfy your new requirements and suggested you try another agency. Our business together is concluded, Mr. Payne.’

He glared at her as though he couldn’t believe his ears.

Ashley pushed her chair back and rose smoothly to her feet. ‘I’ll see you out.’

‘Like hell you will! I haven’t finished with you yet.’

He stood his ground belligerently. Ashley had the distinct feeling he would block her path to the door if she skirted the desk and made a beeline for it. A physical confrontation would make him feel superior again. She stood completely still, hoping to defuse the aggression emanating from him.

‘What more do you wish to say, Mr. Payne?’ she enquired blandly.

‘I can do you a lot of harm, Mrs. Harcourt,’ he drawled, relishing the prospect of dealing in fear.

‘Harm is a two-edged sword.’

‘What can you do to me?’ he jeered.

The smugness of the man goaded Ashley into a fighting reply. ‘I have contacts, too, Mr. Payne. I could make sure that no-one will ever want to work for you personally again.’

He gave a derisive laugh. ‘Money will take care of that.’

He was probably right. The power of money to corrupt even the highest principles was well proven. Ashley hated Gordon Payne’s knowing use of it. The urge to knock him off his cocky perch gathered a compelling force as she remembered all the mean power games Roger had played on her.

Withholding money. Withholding use of the car. Demanding an account for everything she did while he didn’t have to account for anything. Let Gordon Payne account for his behaviour, she thought blisteringly, losing all sense of discretion as she went on the attack.

‘Money won’t restore your reputation,’ she asserted cuttingly. ‘When Miss Kimball’s story shows you up as a fool who doesn’t know the English language—’

‘I was right!’

The ugly humour was replaced by ugly fury. Ashley didn’t care. She remorselessly drove the point home.

‘No, Mr. Payne. You could not have been more wrong. You made a clown of yourself by defending the indefensible.’

Naked hatred glittered at her. ‘Think yourself a balltearer, do you? One of those offensive, insulting females who are so envious of men, they’ll do anything to pull them down.’

Ashley’s chin lifted in lofty disdain of his opinion. ‘You’re certainly one of the men who justify the whole feminist movement.’

He sneered. ‘I take it you’re not a merry widow.’ His gaze dropped to her breasts, her waist, her hips, his mouth curling salaciously. ‘What you need is a man to get rid of your screwed-up frustrations.’

‘A typically sexist statement to gloss over your own inadequacies, Mr. Payne.’

That thinned his fleshy lips and snapped his gaze back to hers. ‘Well, we’ll see who turns out to be inadequate, Mrs. Harcourt.’ He picked up her favourite Lladro figurine from the desk. ‘You have a fondness for clowns?’

She held her tongue, momentarily shocked by the malevolent gloating in his eyes. The wonderful clown he held in his hand was a masterpiece of expression, reflecting the sad ironies of life. Because she had stood up to Gordon Payne, it was about to be destroyed. She could see it coming, could do nothing to stop it and knew her adversary relished her helplessness. The realisation that she had been headstrong and foolish in challenging him came too late.

‘I’ll enjoy putting you at the centre of a circus, Mrs. Harcourt. I could start by having this home block of yours rezoned as wetlands. Then, of course, there’s the licence for this agency. Needs investigation for legitimate practice. A visit from an industrial relations officer. A tax audit…’ He lifted her figurine clown to shoulder height, ready to smash it down. ‘This is what’s going to happen to you…’

Ashley hadn’t meant to cry out. She had resolved to suffer the inevitable in silent, contemptuous dignity. Yet an inarticulate croak of protest burst from her throat at the sheer, wanton destructiveness about to be enacted.

‘You called, madam?’ a very English voice enquired.

CHAPTER THREE

ASHLEY’S gaze was instantly drawn to the office door, which had been thrust open. Gordon Payne turned to look, too, the hand holding the Lladro clown lowering instinctively with the sudden appearance of a witness. They both stared in stunned silence at the totally unexpected vision of the man in the doorway.

He was not your ordinary, everyday person.

Ashley had never applied the word elegant to a man before, yet it leapt straight into her mind. Elegant, smashingly handsome and subtly dangerous.

He was tall and lean, beautifully dressed in a three-piece suit that had obviously been tailored for him, the smooth sheen of the blue-grey fabric shouting no expense spared. His white silk shirt had a buttoned down collar, and he wore a gorgeous tie in brilliant shades of blue.

His face was no less impressive, a squarish jawline, high cheekbones, straight nose, a perfectly moulded mouth, rakishly arched black eyebrows over the most dynamic blue eyes Ashley had ever seen. His black hair was thick and mostly straight. It was parted on the left side and swept across his high, wide forehead in a dipping wave.

In his right hand he carried a silver-knobbed black walking stick that tapered to a silver tip. He was not using it for support. He held it well below the knob, and his fingers had the long, agile look that suggested he could twiddle the cane much as Fred Astaire had in dancing routines. Or wield it very quickly as a lethal weapon.

He looked to be in his early thirties, but there was a world of knowledge in the eyes that scanned the scene he had thrust himself into with such timely éclat. He gave Ashley a quirky little smile, as though personally inviting her to relax and enjoy the moment. It was oddly intimate, forging an instant connection between them that embraced both understanding and acceptance that he was here for her.

It dazed Ashley. She had never experienced such a mental touch before. Not from a man. He didn’t even know her. They had never met before. She was absolutely certain of that. Yet there was this strange feeling of recognition that he had always been meant to enter her life and play some vital part in it.

‘Would you like me to see the gentleman out, madam?’ he prompted with all the aplomb of a traditional British butler.

Ashley found her voice. ‘Please,’ she said gratefully, not caring from whence he had come, deeply relieved that he was offering to rid her of the menacing presence of an enemy she had recklessly made in unbridled and incautious anger.

‘Who the devil are you?’ Gordon Payne challenged sharply as her rescuer stepped into the room to carry out her request.

‘Cliffton, sir,’ came the lilting, blithe reply. He actually did twiddle the walking cane. In the flash of an eye it was suddenly resting in both his hands. ‘The fortunes of the Harcourt family have been linked to the fortunes of my family for centuries.’

Centuries! Ashley’s mind boggled at the claim. Apart from which, she wasn’t a Harcourt. She had only married one, and not one that was a high recommendation of the name, either. Nevertheless, she was not about to spoil her white knight’s pitch.

‘It is both an honour and a pleasure to be of service once again,’ he continued, smiling affably at Gordon Payne, who seemed mesmerised by Cliffton’s approach. The way he was weaving the cane through his fingers with the dexterity of a magician was definitely having a hypnotic effect.

‘May I, sir?’ The cane was whipped under one arm like a shillelagh and both hands were out to relieve Gordon Payne of the Lladro clown. ‘This piece is more for viewing than touching,’ he advised with the air of an art connoisseur. ‘If I put it back on its stand, I’m sure you’ll appreciate its fine craftmanship better. There’s a line and proportion to these things…there! You see?’

Somehow he’d deftly removed the figurine from Gordon Payne’s grasp and set it on the desk, positioning it perfectly on its rectangular block and giving the clown’s hat an affectionate pat as though it was an old friend.

‘Now, sir, if you wouldn’t mind, sir.’ The cane was flicked into use again, pointing to the door. ‘It is time to take your leave of Mrs. Harcourt. I’ll see you on your way, sir.’

Ashley could almost feel Gordon Payne bristle as he recollected himself. Cliffton had snatched control from him, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. Yet some animal instinct must have warned him to avoid a trial of strength with the English stranger. He shot a last venomous glare at Ashley.

‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’

Then he swung on his heel and marched out, not waiting to be ushered or escorted to the front door of the house. Cliffton, however, dogged his steps, ensuring that he left without playing any malicious havoc with her possessions on his way. Ashley trailed after both of them, drawn to watch the end of a scene she now deeply regretted.

Making an enemy of Gordon Payne could rebound very badly on her. He had far more weapons than she did. It was self-defeating to start a fight she couldn’t win. Hadn’t Roger taught her that, over and over again? If the elegant Englishman had not arrived…Who was he, really? What was he? And why was he here?

She paused in the hallway just outside the office, noticing that he favoured his right leg, a slight limp, reason for the walking stick, yet he executed a smart, skipping sidestep that would have graced any dance floor, beating Gordon Payne to the front door with a deft panache that allowed him to open the door with a flourish.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said with a respectful nod.

Gordon Payne stopped, stiffened and stared at him, flummoxed at being comprehensively outmanoeuvred. All he could manage was a crude snort in reply. Then he shook his shoulders as though dislodging a monkey on his back, propelled his feet forward again and made his exit from Ashley’s house.

Harold Alistair Cliffton closed the door after him on a glorious high of triumphant satisfaction. He had out-butlered George, rescued the fair maiden and polished off the dragon. Maybe he had just found his true vocation in life. Being of service.

On the other hand, Harry suspected his exhilaration had much to do with being of service to Ashley Harcourt. He turned to face her again, aware that she had followed to watch the curtain line of his masterly performance.

The photographs had not done her justice. They hadn’t captured the essence of Ashley Harcourt at all. Harry couldn’t quite put words to that essence, but it was something that sparked an instant response in him, an excitement, a sense of meeting someone special.

The moment their eyes had met…zing! Like an electric charge. He had felt truly alive again. Grey eyes, completely unlike Pen’s soft brown, yet there was something in them that called to him, just as Pen’s had. Perhaps a sureness of who and what she was, a belief in herself.

He wanted to know more about her. He wanted to know everything about her. The idea came to him in an inspired flash. Why not keep on playing the butler? It wasn’t at all difficult. In fact, he was enjoying the role immensely. It also had a great many advantages.

A butler was in the happy position of always being on hand. Installed under the same roof as Ashley Harcourt, he could get to know her very well, indeed. Harry rather relished the idea of putting Ashley to bed at night and waking her up in the morning with steaming hot…coffee. Like George, he’d be Father Confessor, confidant, adviser, helpmate, on the spot to test the waters for other possible attachments.

It allowed him to thoroughly investigate the situation for getting George an heir for Springfield Manor. This could become an extraordinary exploit that would add to the legends already surrounding his illustrious family—how Harry brought the Black Sheep strain back into the fold!

Alternatively, it might eventuate that young William need not fill the position of heir at all. His mother was beginning to inspire a lively set of other possibilities. He wondered how long her silky blonde hair was when unpinned and flowing free. On a pillow.

Ashley remained rooted near the door into the office, studying the extraordinary man who had erupted into her life with sensational effect. Not only with Gordon Payne. She was acutely conscious of a sense of tingly anticipation, as though she knew intuitively that his startling actions were only the forerunner of more startling actions.

He aimed another quirky smile at her, his bright blue eyes twinkling with unholy mischief. He gestured to the door and commented, ‘I thought him a mite touchy.’

Ashley couldn’t help being amused. To describe Gordon Payne as touchy seemed a masterful understatement. ‘I shouldn’t have lost my temper,’ she said with a rueful grimace.

Cliffton looked sympathetic. ‘Touchy people are often aggressive and unpredictable.’

‘It was stupid of me.’

One eyebrow lifted in considering assessment. ‘Perhaps a tad impetuous, madam. Still, there is an arguable case for throwing caution to the winds and letting fly. Gets a load off the chest, so to speak.’

Ashley could barely stop her mouth from twitching. He was so attractive, so…debonair. Another word she had never applied to a man! Not in real life. Her mind drifted to the Scarlet Pimpernel and she hastily pulled it back to a somewhat frayed level of common sense. Don’t forget dangerous, she cautioned herself.

‘What would you have done if he hadn’t let you take the Lladro clown?’ she asked.

‘Broken his wrist most likely,’ came the imperturbable reply. ‘Brings to mind the incident with Good Queen Bess,’ he mused. ‘My ancestor, Hugo, broke the wrist of the Spanish ambassador who presented a gift to the queen, then tried to take it back when she dismissed his king’s request.’

Ashley’s mind slipped again. Spanning centuries seemed quite normal with Cliffton. ‘If you’d done that,’ she said, trying to latch onto something practical, ‘the figurine would have fallen and broken.’

He grinned. ‘Never missed a catch at first slip. I used to play in the first eleven cricket team at school.’

Ashley had no trouble imagining Cliffton being first at a lot of things. But he didn’t seem conceited about it. Nor did he emit an air of superiority. Not like Roger. Whatever his abilities, he simply accepted them as completely natural.

Which brought her back to the questions that needed answering. She couldn’t let this discussion run on as though they were old and intimate friends. Common sense insisted she had to establish who this man was and what he was doing here.

‘I could be a mite touchy, too,’ she warned. ‘About having a stranger invade my home and eavesdrop on a private conversation.’

‘No, no, madam. I would not be so ill-mannered as to enter anyone’s home uninvited. Master William let me in.’

‘Master William?’ She wondered how her nine-year-old son had reacted to being addressed in such a fashion!

‘He was playing cricket next door. Has the makings of a fine batsman,’ Cliffton remarked admiringly. ‘He played a superb hook shot, which I happened to catch before it hit the windscreen of the Daimler that was parked at the kerb outside your house.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ Ashley breathed, relieved that Gordon Payne didn’t have damage to his car to add to his list of grudges against her.

‘I explained to Master William that I was on a mission from England and needed to call on you. He told me to wait in the lounge until you were ready to receive me. I was about to enter that room, as instructed by Master William, when a highly unpleasant voice penetrated to the hallway, listing a most unseemly set of threats.’

He put on a mournful face. ‘I do apologise for eavesdropping, madam. Most reprehensible of me. It reminded me of a situation that confronted my ancestor, Stafford, with the sheriff of Nottingham over a man called Hood. But right won out in the end, madam. We Clifftons have a way of making things turn out right in the end.’

Ashley was still trying to swallow that story as he went on.

‘I must also confess to falling into a trance of admiration at the spirited way you took the gentleman to task. Not a nice gentleman at all, I must say. Then when you cried out…’ He shrugged appealingly. ‘I thought I could be of service to you.’

‘Yes. You were. Thank you.’ His voice was wonderfully musical, quite enthralling to listen to. ‘What mission?’ Ashley asked belatedly. ‘Who are you?’

‘Butler to the English branch of the Harcourt family.’

He really was a butler!

‘A hereditary position, madam. I come as an emissary from the last of your Harcourt relatives in Britain.’

Ashley stiffened, snapping herself out of her bemused daze. Roger’s mother must have been telling the truth about being connected to a line of landed gentry in England. Although that still did not give her the right to have adopted the attitude of being better than anyone else.

It was an attitude that won no sympathy whatsoever from Ashley. She herself might bear the Harcourt name, keeping it because it was her son’s birthright, but it held no sway with her. The reverse, in fact.

‘In the current circumstances, your son, William, is the master of Springfield Manor’s only heir, madam, and he would like you both to take up residence at the manor, his country home. I am assigned to help you settle your affairs and expedite your journey to England.’

Typically high-handed, Ashley thought, her backbone getting stiffer by the second. No Harcourt was going to tell her what to do with her life. She had had her fill of that, thank you very much.

Cliffton gave her a smile of such charm the stiffening almost came undone. ‘For however long it takes to accomplish that, madam, I am to stay here as your butler,’ he declared winningly, ‘to serve you and Master William as you will.’

CHAPTER FOUR

FOR as long as it takes…

What monstrous arrogance!

Ashley saw red for several seconds before the brilliant blue eyes of the butler drove the red away. Not Cliffton’s arrogance, of course. He was merely carrying out his master’s instructions. Although why a man like Cliffton could be content to serve a Harcourt…Imbued with the English class system and centuries of tradition, she supposed, excusing him on the grounds of having been brainwashed from birth.

One thing was certain. She was not going to be carted off to England and suffer the condescension of the gentry installed in Springfield Manor. If William was an heir, he could wait until his inheritance was free and clear of every other Harcourt before considering what it involved and what was best done about it.

In the meantime, Ashley had to decide what to do about Cliffton. Outright rejection of his mission probably meant he would have to return to England to report failure, and she wouldn’t see him again unless she followed. That scenario had no appeal whatsoever.

Ashley had never felt so drawn to know more about a person. Cliffton was, without a doubt, the most fascinating man she had ever met, and she didn’t want him to drop out of her life before she had the chance to…well, explore possibilities.

He was special. Far too special to be a butler. Maybe a short sojourn in Australia might show him other ways of life that could be far more rewarding than being a butler, yet she could probably only keep him with her if she appeared to be considering the proposition, perhaps needing some persuasion from him to make up her mind.

For as long as it takes…

That suddenly became a highly seductive little phrase.

Taking her years with Roger and his mother into account, Ashley had no problem in reasoning that the Harcourt family did owe her some recompense, and Cliffton clearly didn’t mind being her butler for a while. He would be very handy to have around if Gordon Payne decided to carry through on his threats. That could be classed as helping to settle her affairs.

In fact, she could find lots of business that would need settling before she could even consider uprooting their lives and going to England with William. What about William’s schooling and leaving all his friends behind? There were many difficulties and obstacles to overcome, and in all good faith, serious matters that would prove quite impossible to resolve in the end. Cliffton would eventually come to see that, and no blame would attach to him for failing to accomplish what was expected of him.

It was only fair to give his mission a chance at succeeding.

Even if it was mission impossible.

Ashley had to smother a huge upsurge of elation at this highly satisfactory conclusion. She lifted a hand to her temple, rubbing at it in a distracted fashion, covering any telltale expression in her eyes as she said somewhat faintly, ‘This is all a bit of a shock.’

‘Forgive me, madam.’ Cliffton was at her side in a flash, gently steering her into the lounge. ‘Thoughtless of me to regale you with all this when you’ve had no time to recover from that nasty encounter. Such incidents do sap one’s energy.’

There was absolutely nothing wrong with Ashley’s energy. Cliffton’s light grasp on her elbow gave it a remarkable boost. She caught a whiff of some tantalising aftershave lotion and wished she was wearing perfume and a more alluring outfit than a business suit. One of the wonderful chiffon gowns that Ginger Rogers used to wear floated into her mind.

At Cliffton’s direction she sank into an armchair. He whizzed a footstool under her feet, plumped up a cushion and slid it behind her back for extra comfort, pulled out one of her set of three occasional tables and placed it within easy hand’s reach, then straightened up and smiled benevolently at her.

‘A cup of tea is always soothing, madam. Or perhaps, since it’s after five o’clock, a glass of sherry? Sherry is more fortifying. On the other hand, a gin and tonic can have an elevating effect. I am at your service, madam. If you’ll tell me what you’d like…’

Ashley had a mad urge to ask for slippers and a pipe! She sternly reminded herself this was not a game to Cliffton. He was doing what he was trained to do, and her best course, at the moment, was to accept his offer graciously. ‘A cup of tea would be lovely. Thank you,’ she said with a grateful smile.

He left her before Ashley thought to give directions to the kitchen and where to find everything. Further consideration assured her that Cliffton would have no difficulty finding his way around. This was hardly a butler-size house. The kitchen was at the end of the hallway and was of a fairly standard design. Making a cup of tea did not present a problem.

Finding living quarters for Cliffton did.

Although there were three bedrooms, the third was used for storing William’s sporting equipment and housing whatever hobbies had captured his interest. Model aeroplanes and ships took up most of the shelf space, and a work table was currently covered in miniature soldiers, which he was painting in preparation for a replay of the Napoleonic Wars.

A divan bed, shoved against one of the walls, and no cupboard space at all, did not constitute a suitable room for a guest who would be staying longer than overnight. The spare twin bed in William’s room didn’t present attractive accommodation, either. Which left her room, and it was utterly ridiculous for her to move out and offer the master bedroom to the butler.

It suddenly struck her that she should have asked Cliffton for some credentials instead of accepting his story at face value. The man was a stranger, for heaven’s sake! His sheer panache had bamboozled her into being totally unbusinesslike. She had better correct that as soon as he reappeared. Or maybe she should be checking on him right now instead of letting him have the run of the house. What if…

The front door banged open and William came pelting inside, pulling himself to a halt as he caught sight of Ashley through the doorway into the lounge. He looked flushed and excited.

‘Hey, Mum! Where’s…’ He stopped as he took in the cushion at her back and her feet on the footstool. ‘Have you twisted your ankle or something?’

‘I’m just relaxing,’ she said, feeling a flush sweeping up her neck as though she’d been caught in a compromising position.

‘Oh! Okay!’ William dismissed the incomprehensible in favour of imparting the exciting news that had brought him in. ‘You should see the great car Mr. Cliffton came in. It’s a smashing Rolls Royce. The chauffeur said it’s a 1987 Silver Spirit. How about that?’

Ashley’s mind boggled again. The wayward thought came to her that it would have put Gordon Payne’s nose further out of joint at seeing a Rolls Royce outshining his Daimler. Not to mention a chauffeur!

Fortunately William didn’t require a reply. Cliffton arrived on the scene bearing the silver tray and tea service that Roger’s mother had given to them as a wedding gift.

‘What are you doing with that?’ William asked bluntly, as astonished as Ashley was. Cliffton must have dug it out of the bottom of the dresser where it had resided untouched, apart from cleaning, for many years.

‘Your mother is feeling poorly. I am serving her tea,’ Cliffton replied with unruffled decorum.

William looked wide-eyed at Ashley. ‘Are you sick?’

Her cheeks blossomed with hot colour. ‘I’m recovering fast,’ she answered.

‘You don’t need me then?’ William asked.

‘No. I’ll be fine in a minute.’

‘Right!’ William looked relieved and turned quickly to the butler. ‘You’ll be staying for a bit, Mr. Cliffton?’

‘Yes. I’ll be staying as long as—’

‘Great!’ William cut him off and offered his most appealing face. ‘Would you mind if my friends had a turn at sitting in your car? They wouldn’t hurt anything. The chauffeur could let them in and out. I promise they’ll be good.’

Cliffton set the tray down on the occasional table and eyed William consideringly. ‘How much do you intend to charge?’

William grinned at the quick understanding. ‘Only ten cents each. Ten dollars with a photo. Can I borrow your Polaroid camera, Mum?’

‘Ten dollars!’ Ashley gasped in shock.

‘Think, Mum,’ her son advocated earnestly. ‘This will be a once-in-a-lifetime photograph, a memory they’ll be able to pull out of a photo album in years to come to show they really did drive a Rolls Royce. A photo of that value can’t go cheaply.’

William always seemed to have a line of inarguable logic for what he wanted to do. ‘You said sit in it!’ Ashley sharply reminded him.

‘If they sit behind the driving wheel it’ll look as though they’re driving it. I won’t actually let them,’ he assured Cliffton.

‘I am very impressed with the sales pitch,’ Cliffton said admiringly.

‘So you see, Mum?’ William pressed. ‘I have to have the camera.’

‘William, you haven’t received permission about the car, and I don’t think…’

‘Permission granted,’ Cliffton chimed in, his blue eyes twinkling approval.

‘The camera, Mum?’

Two against one defeated her. ‘Yes.’ She sighed, her need to settle various matters with Cliffton more urgent and important than arguing with William over his schemes for augmenting his pocket money.

‘Thanks, Mum. Thanks a lot, Mr. Cliffton. I think I’m going to like you.’

He was off like a flash to fleece his friends’ pockets.

‘Weak or strong, madam?’

Cliffton had the silver teapot poised, ready to pour.

‘However it comes,’ Ashley answered distractedly. ‘You came here in a chauffeured Rolls Royce?’

‘It is the customary mode of transport at Springfield Manor, madam. The master wants you to know you’ll be given every comfort. Milk, madam?’

‘Yes. But surely you didn’t bring a Rolls Royce with you from England. Did you?’ she added, struck with the feeling that anything was possible with this man.

‘I acquired it when I arrived in Sydney, madam. Sugar?’

‘No, thank you. I don’t think…’ Ashley floundered, appalled at the cost of a mission that would certainly—well, almost certainly—be futile. ‘You really shouldn’t be spending so much on a campaign that might come to nothing,’ she burst out. ‘A Rolls Royce, for heaven’s sake! This seems to be getting quite out of hand.’

‘How else can you be shown what to expect, madam?’ Cliffton enquired reasonably. ‘You haven’t tried it yet,’ he pointed out. ‘I think you’ll get to like it. It’s quite pleasant and tends to get addictive.’

She was not going to be seduced by a Rolls Royce into becoming a dependant at Springfield Manor. ‘I do not need a Rolls Royce,’ she stated emphatically. ‘And what’s more, Cliffton, this smacks of trying to buy my acquiescence to what you want.’

‘It is always interesting to test resistance to its limits, madam,’ he said with an air of taking up an irresistible challenge.

‘Why on earth should you do such a thing?’ she demanded. Surely he was taking this mission too far.

‘It’s in the spirit of my more adventurous forebears who would never take no for an answer.’

Irrepressible, Ashley thought, beginning to appreciate Gordon Payne’s perspicacity in retreating from Cliffton rather than taking him on. What could one do in the face of such an unsquashable spirit? And really, did she want to say no to Cliffton? It was only the ultimate no to the Harcourt family that she would have to impress upon him.

‘Well, I won’t be held responsible for what you spend,’ Ashley stated unequivocally.

‘The responsibility is entirely mine,’ Cliffton agreed. ‘Your tea, madam.’

‘Oh! Thank you.’ In a Royal Crown Derby fine bone china teacup, no less, inherited from her mother-in-law. How much fossicking had Cliffton done in her kitchen? Ashley’s whirling mind spun to other concerns, like the possible undermining of her authority with William. ‘I don’t think you should have let William use the car as a…as a—’

‘Money-making venture?’ Cliffton supplied.

‘Yes.’

‘If I may say so, madam, one should never stifle enterprise. In my youth I used to organise frog races. With his entrepreneurial talents, Master William will undoubtedly—’

‘Stop!’

‘I beg your pardon, madam?’

‘You can’t call him master. I won’t have it.’ The last thing she wanted was for William to start thinking he was of a superior breed to anyone else. ‘There are no masters in Australia. There are only people, Cliffton,’ she added earnestly. ‘You must understand that or you won’t do any good here.’

‘Thank you for your advice, madam,’ he said gravely. ‘Is there anything else I should know so as not to give offence?’

‘I’m not a madam. Madams are people who run brothels.’

‘Oh!’ The quirky little smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘Then that’s clearly inappropriate. I shall call you milady.’

‘I’m not your lady.’ Ashley managed not to say, ‘Yet.’

‘Mrs. Harcourt?’

She didn’t want to be reminded of her marriage to Roger, either, but perhaps it wasn’t appropriate to ask Cliffton to call her Ashley at this point. It could wait until she knew him better. She nodded her assent to the name and sipped her tea, trying desperately to collect her thoughts into a properly ordered pattern.

Events seemed to be tumbling over themselves, not giving her time to sort through what needed to be done. And it didn’t help to have Cliffton hovering over her enquiringly. Not only were the beautiful blue depths of his eyes enough for her wits to drown in, she seemed to be getting a fixation on the tantalising little tilts and curves of his mouth. She hadn’t thought about being kissed by a man for quite a while. The provocative question arose…Did butlers help put their mistresses to bed?

Ashley was shocked at herself, but a perverse little voice whispered that it had been over six years and she was as normal as the next woman in wanting an exciting relationship with a man, so it was perfectly all right to fantasise what it might be like. Especially with a man of Cliffton’s unusual and extraordinary qualities. In fact, she wouldn’t be normal if she didn’t.

It took an enormous effort of will to drag her mind back to practical matters. ‘I think you should show me some credentials, Cliffton,’ she said soberly. ‘After all, it’s asking a lot for me to accept what you’re saying off the cuff, so to speak.’

‘Quite right! I have the investigative report tracing the family line to young William in my luggage. I shall ask the chauffeur to fetch it in as soon as the photograph session is over. In the meantime, will my passport suffice as a means of identification?’

He removed it from an inner pocket in his suit coat and offered it to her. Ashley put down her teacup, intent on examining whatever solid information she could get about him. It was certainly a British passport, and the photograph unmistakably identified him as Harold Alistair Cliffton. A very

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