“This is an outrageously romantic place, Patrick.” 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

“This is an outrageously romantic place, Patrick.”

“I know,” he said smugly. “Why do you think I brought you here?”

She looked at him and laughed. “A softening-up process?”

“Yes,” he said shamelessly. “I’m doing all I can to establish myself in your good books. And,” he added, his voice deepening, “I’m somehow managing to keep at arm’s length when you know perfectly well my instincts urge me otherwise. In the interests of truth I’m warning you—it’s all a plan of campaign.”

“Campaigns usually mean battles,” she said thoughtfully. “What, exactly, do you intend to gain?”

“Victory,” he said promptly, and took her in his arms and kissed her.

Catherine George was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading, which eventually fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the U.K. And instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings she began to write the first of her romances. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera, browse in antique shops and walk her dog.

The Courting Campaign
Catherine George

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS the slight bow to the bench which caught Hester’s attention. The man was a stranger—tallish, slim, wearing the kind of baggy tweed jacket which could have been Armani or Oxfam. Probably the former, she thought, glad that the next case was the last of the session. The courtroom was hot. June sunshine blazed down from high windows onto a newly refurbished decor of cream-painted walls, crimson tip-up seats and flowered curtains—very different from the old, beautiful oak-panelling of pre-refit days. Now the entire courthouse was light and bright, but lacked its former gravitas. There was nothing here to intimidate the offenders brought up before the magistrates, most of whom, like Hester Conway, felt nostalgia for the courtroom in all its previous Victorian splendour.

So far the morning had provided the usual quota of summary offences involving traffic, excess alcohol and breaches of the peace, and the sentences had been straightforward. Hester was a relatively new magistrate, and at thirty-four the youngest in the district. In consequence she tended to dress down for her days in court. Despite the heat of the day her suit was unrelieved navy, and her dark hair was caught back in a severe twist with no escaping wisps. A large pair of horn-rimmed spectacles provided the finishing touch for the role she took very seriously. On her mettle to prove she possessed the intelligence, common sense, integrity and fair play required of her as a lay magistrate, she had, as usual, paid meticulous attention to every shred of evidence presented during the morning by both prosecution and defence. Today the three magistrates consisted of herself, Dr Tom Meadows—senior partner of the local medical practice—and Mr Philip Galbraith—retired headmaster of the local boys’ school, and President of the Bench.

Before the break most of the defendants had pleaded guilty and accepted whatever penalties, compensation and fines had been handed out. But the defendant about to be tried was pleading not guilty, which meant a lengthier, contested session to round off the morning.

Hester noted a reporter from the local paper, plus a sprinkling of spectators in the seats provided, including the man in the tweed jacket, who stood out from the rest. She registered thick fair hair, a deep-dyed suntan, and a clear-cut cast of feature which combined good looks with intelligence. Attractive, she thought, returning to her notes.

‘Who’s the fair man at the back?’ muttered Philip Galbraith, who always assumed Hester knew everyone in the entire neighbourhood.

‘No idea,’ she returned in an undertone. ‘Ask Dr Meadows.’

But the doctor was no wiser.

‘Dominic Anthony Barclay,’ announced the usher, and a tall youth entered the court and took a seat in the last of the three rows in the body of the court.

‘Stand up, Mr Barclay,’ said the President without emphasis, and the boy shot to his feet.

Hester eyed him with interest. During the morning all the defendants, male and female, had been dressed with a certain uniformity. Gaudy sweatshirts, jeans, sneakers and multiple earrings on both male and female had been the order of the day. Dominic Anthony Barclay, however, was in grey flannel trousers, crisp white shirt, striped tie and navy blazer. His fair hair—instead of hanging down his back, cropped cruelly short or shaved off entirely—was expertly cut, allowing one shining lock to flop slightly over his forehead.

He gave his name and address in educated, accentless tones, and despite obvious nerves firmly stated his plea of not guilty to the offence of driving while disqualified.

When asked what had happened on the night in question he informed the bench that his brother had been driving his car.

He was allowed to sit down while the prosecution informed the bench that the defendant had been recognised at the wheel of a car by a policewoman on the night of March twenty-fourth in Ashdown Lane, six months after having been disqualified from driving for two years. The witness for the prosecution was WPC Jean Harding, the policewoman in question.

WPC Harding, a bright-eyed young woman in her mid-twenties, made a good impression in the witness box. She repeated her oath as firmly as the defendant, but with an attractive hint of local burr in her voice.

In response to the prosecution’s enquiry she confirmed that she had been driving down Ashdown Lane on the night in question, just as it had been growing dark. There had been parked cars on both sides of the narrow road, and she had pulled in to a kerbside space to allow a current model Ford Escort to pass. She had recognised Dominic Barclay at the wheel. There had been another passenger in the defendant’s vehicle, but in the few seconds necessary for the car to travel past she’d been certain only of the identity of the driver.

The young policewoman gave her evidence calmly, consulting her notebook where necessary, and Hester scribbled a few notes of her own on her pad. The prosecution went on to ask the policewoman how she knew the defendant, and learned that WPC Harding had been the officer who had attended Ashdown House two weeks earlier to request the defendant to turn down the volume of music at a party given there to celebrate his birthday.

‘And on that occasion were you close enough to Mr Barclay to see his features clearly?’

‘Yes,’ continued the policewoman woodenly. ‘He kissed me on both cheeks and invited me to join the party. When I declined he reduced the volume as requested, whereupon my colleague and I left the premises.’

The prosecution sat down, and the defending solicitor rose to his feet to ask if, on the night of the party, Mr Barclay’s behaviour had been offensive.

‘No,’ said the policewoman.

‘But he did kiss you and invite you to the party. Was there a reason for this?’ asked the defendant’s solicitor gently.

The girl coloured. ‘He thought I was a strippergram,’ she said, after a pause, and the solicitor smiled indulgently as a ripple of amusement ran through the court.

‘Did this annoy you, Constable?’

‘No, sir.’

‘The incident did not prejudice you in any way when you believed you saw the defendant at the wheel of the Escort?’

The girl’s mouth tightened. ‘No, sir.’

‘And during your visit to Ashdown House did you have occasion to meet Dominic Barclay’s brother?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Thank you, Constable.’

Hester made more notes as the witness was excused. Young Dominic’s guilt seemed cut and dried. Then a hush fell over the court as the usher showed a young man to the witness box.

Giles Edward Barclay gave his name and address, took the oath and stated that he was the brother of the defendant. The statement was unnecessary. Right down to the last shining hair he was a mirror image of Dominic. The Barclay brothers were identical twins.

In unemphatic tones the boy informed the bench that he had been driving the car on the night in question, due to his brother’s disqualification.

Hester watched him closely as he gave his evidence. He looked nervous, in common with most youths of his age in these circumstances, but he answered the questions steadily enough, confirmed that he possessed a current driving licence and made a very good impression. Hester glanced at the man in the visitors’ seats. He was sitting perfectly still, his eyes on the boy in the witness stand, no vestige of expression on his face. Yet Hester was sure that behind the imperturbable exterior the man was tense. He looked extraordinarily young to possess teenage sons, but the resemblance was unmistakable. He was obviously their father.

She returned her attention to the proceedings. After only the shortest of consultations between the three magistrates the case was dismissed, and Dominic Barclay was told he was free to go—after a pointed reminder from the President that the term of disqualification from driving still had fifteen months to run.

‘There was no way that we could prove that he, or his brother, was lying,’ said Philip Galbraith later as they finished for the day. ‘But I’ve had years of experience with boys like Dominic Barclay, not to mention the pranks played by identical twins.’

‘You think the other boy lied?’ asked Hester, collecting her belongings.

‘If he did he was damn good,’ said Dr Meadows. ‘The Barclays are new in the district, by the way. Bought Ashdown House a few months ago. They’re shelling out a small fortune on doing it up.’

‘They haven’t shelled any out at Conway’s,’ said Hester with regret.

‘Shouldn’t think they’re straight yet. I went out to visit Mrs Barclay not long ago. The place was still a shambles.’ The doctor looked at his watch. ‘Must dash. Might get some lunch in before afternoon surgery.’

Hester made her farewells and went out into the sunshine. The small Cotswold town was full of visitors during the summer months, and on a sunny market day like this the streets were thronged. She exchanged her horn-rims for sunglasses, and walked briskly up the steep main thoroughfare. At the top of the hill she caught sight of the Barclay twins looking at sports equipment in a shop window, in company with their father. Relieved that the eye-catching Barclays were engrossed in the window display, Hester crossed the road to avoid an encounter likely to embarrass all of them—herself included.

She turned into the cobbled walkway where attractive shops clustered together near the medieval arches of the Chastlecombe market hall. At one end a glassvaulted arcade housed vendors of expensive clothes and leather goods as well as a small restaurant, aromatic with the scent of freshly-brewed coffee. But in the cobbled square itself the name CONWAY in italic capitals, was emblazoned above a large premises which sold porcelain and furniture. Some of the latter was the better type of mass-produced product, but the pieces displayed in the windows were made by local craftsmen and drew customers nationwide.

The shop was full of customers, and Hester hurried through to the cloakroom at the back to change the navy wool jacket for a cool white blouse. On her way back into the shop she saw David Conway at the desk in the office, involved in a heated telephone argument. He grinned at her, pointed an imaginary gun at the phone and went on arguing. Hester grinned back, blew him a kiss and hurried off to relieve her beleaguered staff.

After the sale of some hand-painted plates, a David Conway sofa table and a small, exquisite Kilim rug, Hester assented with relief when David emerged from his workshop to suggest a late snack in the bar of the King’s Arms.

While David went up to the bar Hester found a seat at a table near the window to watch the world go by, glad to relax for a while after the demands of the morning.

‘Busy in court today?’ asked David as he joined her.

‘Fairly.’ She accepted her tall glass of mineral water with gratitude, smiling at him, but the smile faded as she saw the father of the Barclay twins ushering his sons to a table. To her embarrassment he caught sight of her and bowed slightly, just as he’d done in court.

David raised an eyebrow. ‘Someone you know?’

‘Not really.’

The arrival of their sandwich lunches saved Hester from explanations, and the rest of the meal passed with discussion of the new commission David had been given that morning.

‘A twelve-foot dining table, a dozen chairs, two sideboards and a credence table,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘The argument was over a delivery date. The lady seemed to think I could knock them up in a couple of weeks. If, I told her, she wants the hand-crafted perfection of all David Conway pieces, it will take a little bit longer than that. Even,’ he added, ‘with the invaluable Peter doing the pedestrian bits.”

Hester grinned. ‘Is the customer happy about it?’

‘Happy, no. Resigned, yes.’

‘It’s a big order to do in a hurry. You’ve got a lot of work on already, David,’ said Hester anxiously.

‘Can’t afford to turn any away!’ He reached out a hand and took hers. ‘Don’t worry, love. I’m as healthy as a horse. Honestly. Ask Tom Meadows.’

‘I would, too,’ she said tartly, ‘but he’d never breach patient confidentiality.’ She withdrew her hand to finish her drink. ‘I’m still thirsty. I’d like some coffee. Want some?’

‘No, thanks.’ David rose to fetch it for her, but she waved him back.

‘Stay there and finish your lunch. I’ll get it.’

When Hester turned away from the bar with her coffee she realised the twins’ father was watching her.

‘A secret admirer?’ teased David, when she got back to the table.

‘He was in court this morning,’ said Hester, and changed the subject to the new furniture commission.

All the while David was expounding on the design he intended for the new order, his dark eyes bright with his usual, irresistible enthusiasm, Hester said the right things in the right places but couldn’t help noticing that the Barclay twins—who were in her direct line of vision on the other side of the bar—looked very subdued. Their father appeared to be giving them a lecture while they ate. Which wouldn’t do them any harm, she thought, feeling far more sympathy for the other youngsters who’d been brought up before the bench that morning, all of whom could have done with some of the parental guidance the Barclay twins were receiving.

Hester brought herself up sharply, and concentrated on David. In her year of sitting on the bench she’d made it a strict rule to put the cases from her mind once she left the court.

‘Come on, beautiful dreamer,’ said David, downing the last of his lager. ‘Time we got back to the grind.’

On their way out of the bar their route took them past the Barclays’ table, where both boys looked embarrassed when they saw Hester. She smiled a little, managing not to look in their father’s direction, and went out into the sunshine with David.

‘Nice-looking lads,’ he commented. ‘Visitors, I suppose.’

‘No. Their family moved into Ashdown House a few months ago.’

‘How do you know them?’ he asked curiously. ‘Or shouldn’t I ask?’

‘That’s right—you shouldn’t.’

He grinned, then whistled in surprise as they found the shop full of tourists admiring the porcelain display Hester had taken such pains to arrange. ‘Now you’re back from your bench I’ll get back to mine,’ he said hurriedly, and left her to see to the welcome influx of customers with her usual friendly attention.

Hester enjoyed her side of the business. David was the creative artist, but she was a skilled buyer, a born saleswoman, and in her element when it came to dealing with the public. Conway’s employed two women in their forties as assistants—Iris, who worked parttime, and Sheila, who worked full-time and did the accounts. The other employees were Mark, who was in his twenties and possessed of a physique which came in very useful for hauling furniture around and Peter, who assisted in the workshop. Mark also accompanied Ted Burrows, the driver, when deliveries were made in the smart van with CONWAY printed in gilt on a field of dark green.

Life for Hester Conway was busy and full, both professionally and socially. She went on regular visits to trade fairs all over the country, sometimes attended various functions with David—who was a Rotarian, and president of the local chamber of commerce—and when business was slacker in the post-Christmas lull holidays were spent in some warmer clime than the UK. She was also a member of the history society, the tennis club and contributed time to charity work, as well as attending regular additional periods of training for her unpaid function as a lay magistrate. Some days were so hectic that a few extra hours in the twenty-four would have been welcome.

As they shut up shop at five-thirty David reminded her they were due at a wine-tasting party at Chastlecombe House at eight-thirty, in aid of the local children’s home.

‘I’m off to see Father first,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘I’ll go straight there, have supper with him at The Priory and meet you at the wine-tasting later.’

‘Right. Give him my love and tell him I’ll see him on Sunday.’

Robert Conway, David’s father, had been the founder and driving force of the business, but twelve months earlier he’d decided to retire. He’d sold his house and acquired a room at The Priory, which was more like a five-star hotel than the luxurious retirement home it actually was. He still drove his car, visited Lords cricket ground once a year for a test match and went off on a cruise whenever the fancy took him. His family took turns in entertaining him at Sunday lunch every couple of weeks or so, and the arrangement worked well for everyone, since Robert still took a keen interest in the business and was only too glad to step in whenever Hester and David needed a break.

Hester lived on the outskirts of town. Pear Tree Cottage was small, but with a sizeable garden with high hedges which enclosed a riot of colour at this time of year. Hester ate a swift salad dinner then went through the nightly ritual of watering her latest batch of bedding plants, wishing she could just potter about in the garden all evening. She was tired after the double drain of a morning in court before the session in the shop. It was an effort to shower and change for the charity evening, where she would see the same familiar faces that she encountered at pretty much every function she attended in the close-knit community of Chastlecombe.

Chastlecombe House retained all the Cromwellian severity of its origins, both inside and out. Since Mrs Cowper, its owner, was very kind in lending it out for charity events Hester knew it well. By the time she arrived the great hall, with its long trestle-table and heavy, carved furniture, was crowded, but two faces new to the community stood out. One of them was already familiar from the morning session in court. The other was a rather haggard, attractive woman who, from the striking resemblance, could only be the Barclay twins’ mother. And even from a distance it was easy to see that Mrs Barclay was pregnant.

‘How charming you look in that shade, Hester,’ said Mrs Cowper, emerging from the crowd to greet her. ‘Used to call it dusky pink when I was a girl. You know everyone, dear, so do mingle. Though if you fancy making yourself useful we could use an extra hand to pass round the nibbles.’

Hester agreed with alacrity. She took up two beautiful silver dishes—George III, she noted with respect—and made for the nearest group with her canapés.

‘Hester!’ said Tim Galbraith, son of Philip. ‘You look ravishing.’

To prevent his usual kiss Hester thrust the silver dishes at him, grinning. ‘Hands off, Tim. Have one of these nibbles.’

‘I’d rather nibble delectable you, Hester,’ he assured her, relieved her of one of the dishes and accompanied her from group to group round the crowded room, flirting with her outrageously as they went.

Tim Galbraith ran the local garden centre. In sight of forty, he remained happily unmarried and was such a charmer that every single woman of eligible age chased him with fervour. To date he remained unattached but never neglected—since he wined and dined several of the ladies in question in strict rotation, never giving any of them reason to believe he cared for one more than another. Hester collected more supplies, then circulated, with Tim again in tandem. As they approached the Barclays Hester became gradually aware that the twins’ father was watching her with something like disapproval.

She thrust her dish at Tim. ‘Carry on for me, would you, please? I see David’s car coming down the drive.’

‘Only if you swear to return to me later.’ He grinned. ‘Or should I ask David’s permission?’

The evening was pleasant, as always, and Chastlecombe House was a dramatic backdrop for the occasion, but Hester took pains to avoid meeting the newcomers. Mr Barclay would be bound to mention that she was a Justice of the Peace, which would be embarrassing for his wife, and it was with some relief that she saw them take leave of Mrs Cowper quite early. Because Mrs Barclay was pregnant, of course, thought Hester. And not overly young to be expecting a baby, either. The twins were eighteen, which presumably would put their mother in the forty-something age group, which was common enough these days—but the lady had looked very weary.

By the time David took Hester home she felt weary, too, and utterly lacking in enthusiasm for the following day, which was Saturday, and, in summer-season Chastlecombe, likely to be busy.

She was proved right. After a satisfying busy morning, Hester sent Iris and Sheila off to an early lunch, volunteering to hold the fort with only Mark for company until they got back.

‘If necessary I’ll lure Peter from the workshop,’ she assured David, who wanted to go home for a while.

‘I need to do some shopping on the way,’ he told her. ‘But if you get mobbed, ring me.’

There was usually a lull at this time on a Saturday, while shoppers went off in search of lunch in the many and various eating places in the town. Hester had no problem in coping with a group of polite Japanese tourists who spent a gratifying amount of money. Afterwards there were a few people looking rather than buying, then for a time the shop was empty. Mark kept watch while Hester brushed her hair and reapplied lipstick, then popped his head round the office door and told her someone was asking for her. Hester was prey to mixed feelings when she found the Barclay twins’ father looking at dining room furniture.

He turned, smiling, as she went towards him. ‘Good afternoon. I wondered if you could help me?’

She returned the smile politely. ‘Of course, if I can.’

‘I’m in need of a gift for my sister—a belated house-warming present. And while I’m here I’d like a desk. For myself,’ he added. ‘I have it on the best authority that I won’t do better anywhere in the Cotswolds.’

‘How gratifying. May I ask who told you that?’

‘Mrs Cowper, at the wine-tasting last night. It was very good of her to invite us. And very informative,’ he added, smiling. ‘I learned a lot about the inhabitants of Chastlecombe.’

The day was hot and he was dressed for it, in pale chinos and a thin cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The shirt, Hester couldn’t help noticing, was the exact silvery green of the eyes which were so arresting in his lean, sun-browned face.

‘I must remember to thank Mrs Cowper,’ she said pleasantly, glad she’d tidied herself up before he arrived. Nor was she in any position to criticise him for vanity—her own amber linen dress had been chosen to match the eyes she looked on as her best feature.

Hester looked at him enquiringly. ‘What kind of gift do you have in mind?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ He gazed about him. ‘The gilt-framed mirror over there. Surely that’s old?’

‘That’s a commission piece; I occasionally provide a selling-on service for people who don’t wish to advertise their valuables.’ Hester took the mirror down carefully. The frame was old, the gilt almost greenish and the mirror itself quite murky. ‘It came from a Venetian church. A friend at Sotheby’s confirmed it as fifteenth century and suggested the price.’

He examined the discreet tag and raised an eyebrow, considered for a moment then nodded briskly. ‘Right. A bit steep, but exactly what I want. Now I need a desk.’

Sheila reappeared at that point, leaving Hester free to take her customer upstairs to the showroom, where several desks were displayed in a corner decorated to suggest a study.

‘Shall I leave you to browse?’ she asked. ‘All the desks are priced. You’ll know best what you need.’

He eyed the array of desks with respect. ‘I was informed that a David Conway piece would be an investment.’

‘I agree, of course.’

He examined the ticket on a beautiful, simple desk crafted from yew. ‘I see what you mean. This is obviously his work.’

‘It is. And the two beyond are by other local craftsmen. The ones on this side are the usual reproduction type. Very good reproductions,’ she added, ‘but all alike. Each one of David’s is unique. It depends on what you’re prepared to spend. But please don’t feel embarrassed if nothing here suits you.’

‘I admit I hadn’t intended being quite so extravagant,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but, having met with a David Conway original, I realise what Mrs Cowper meant. It puts the others in the shade. Can you arrange to have it delivered?’

‘Certainly. Monday morning, if you like.’

‘Perfect. At the moment I’m managing with the kitchen table, which gets inconvenient at meal times.’ He smiled again, his teeth white in his tanned face.

She attached a ‘sold’ label to the desk, and waved a hand towards the stairs. ‘If you’ll come down to the office I’ll make a note of your address.’

‘And take my money,’ he said, following her.

‘A necessary evil,’ she agreed, and turned to him as they reached the shop floor. ‘By the way, if your sister doesn’t like the mirror we’ll exchange it for something else, or refund the money.’

‘Lydia will love it,’ he said with assurance. ‘But if by any chance she doesn’t I’ll keep it myself.’

And put it in the study with desk? thought Hester, surprised, and showed him into the office. ‘I’ll just get the mirror packed for you. Would you like it giftwrapped?’

‘I would, indeed. Thank you.’

When Hester returned he accepted a chair, then sat, watching her, as she recorded details of the mirror’s provenance and the pedigree of David’s desk.

‘I didn’t recognise you at first last night,’ he said suddenly.

Hester looked up. ‘Oh? Why not?’

‘It took me some time to realise that the siren in pink with her hair loose was the lady magistrate I’d encountered in the morning.’ He eyed her judiciously. ‘And today you look different again.’

Hester very deliberately made no response. ‘How would you like to pay?’ she said crisply.

‘By cheque.’

‘Of course.’ She held out the bill for him, and he bent to write in his chequebook. ‘Where shall I send the articles?’ she asked, refusing to admit she knew where he lived. ‘We deliver anywhere within a thirtymile radius, but after that we charge so much a mile.’

‘Then I’m in luck. I’ll write my address on the back.’

‘Thank you, Mr Barclay.’

He looked blank for a moment, then smiled a little. ‘I suppose we never were formally introduced, Mrs Conway. My name’s actually Hazard—Patrick Hazard. The twins are my nephews, and Lydia—their mother—is my sister.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘OH—I beg your pardon.’ Taken aback, Hester busied herself with taking down his address. Patrick Hazard, it seemed, lived in the depths of the Gloucestershire countryside in a house called Long Wivutts near the village of Avecote, several miles from Chastlecombe.

‘I moved in a couple of days ago,’ he explained. ‘I’m more or less camping out with the bare necessities, but a desk is my first priority.’

‘If you’re really urgently in need of it we could get it to you this evening,’ offered Hester.

‘It seems a bit much on a Saturday evening...’ he began, but the idea so obviously appealed to him that Hester shook her head.

‘No trouble, Mr Hazard. If someone brings it round about seven—will you be in, then?’

‘Yes. My brother-in-law came home this morning, so I’m free to get back to my own place. In confidence, Ms Conway, he flatly refused to let Lydia go to court with the twins in her present condition, so I volunteered for the job and took the boys back to school afterwards.’ His face hardened. ‘Which is probably a good thing—gives their father time to simmer down before he fetches them home for the summer.’

Hester made no comment. She got up and handed him the detailed provenances. ‘Thank you, Mr Hazard. I hope you’re happy with the desk.’

‘I can hardly fail to be. It’s exactly what I had in mind,’ he assured her, rising quickly. He held out his hand. ‘Thank you for your help, Mrs Conway.’

‘Not at all. Thank you for your custom.’ She shook the hand briefly, then preceded him out into the shop. ‘Are you taking the mirror now, or shall we deliver it with the desk?’

‘Now, please.’ He complimented Sheila on her artistic skill, then took the large, beribboned box and with a smile of farewell at Hester went out into the sunlit square, where the bright afternoon light glinted on strands of silver in his thatch of blond hair.

‘Very nice,’ said Sheila softly, and Hester grinned.

‘He spent a nice lot of money, too. Where’s Mark?’

‘It’s his afternoon off, remember? Playing cricket.’

‘Oh, bother, so he is.’

‘Can I do something?’ asked Sheila.

‘No, thanks. I’ll wait until David gets back. If you’ll take over for a bit with Iris I’ll shut myself up in the office with a sandwich and a cup of coffee.’

Hester often brought a packed lunch on summer Saturdays. Sometimes she went for a walk down to the river and ate it there. At other times, like today, half an hour with a novel was more to her taste. But the encounter with the intriguing Mr Hazard had left her feeling curious, and instead of reading she couldn’t help wondering why he needed a desk so urgently—and if there was a Mrs Hazard helping him with the move. Perhaps the need for the desk was due to the lady’s sovereignty over her kitchen table.

Hester turned back to her book. Her interest in Patrick Hazard was due solely to the possibility that he might be lacking other furniture that Conway’s could provide. Otherwise, whether he had a wife or not was really none of her business.

When David got back Hester asked him if he could possibly deliver a desk out to Avecote that evening. He looked at her in utter dismay.

‘Tonight? I’ve planned an intimate dinner for two, remember? Which I am cooking with my own fair hands. And I rather wanted my evening uninterrupted by thoughts of business, or anything else—other than of bed at the end of it!’

Hester flushed, and gave him an unladylike shove. ‘All right, all right, you get on with your cooking and I’ll deliver the desk.’

‘It is one of my efforts, I hope?’

‘It certainly is. And I sold that Venetian mirror old Mrs Lawson passed on to us. She’ll be thrilled.’

‘You have been busy. Who bought my desk?’

‘A man by the name of Hazard—he bought the mirror, too.’

‘Can’t Mark deliver them?’

Hester shook her head. ‘Cricket match. But don’t worry; if you can heave the desk in the car this end, I imagine Mr Hazard can help heave it out at Avecote. He’s in a hurry for it, apparently.’

‘You’re an angel. Thanks, love.’ David stooped to kiss her cheek, then went off, whistling, to his workshop, leaving Hester and her attendants with the slowing-off business of Saturday afternoon.

Later, after David and Peter had loaded the muslinswathed desk into her estate car, Hester drove home and spent some time in the shower. Afterwards, comfortable in old jeans and a white cotton shirt, her newly washed hair gleaming loose on her shoulders, she set off for Avecote, not at all averse to driving through the sunlit summer evening along winding minor roads to avoid the holiday traffic.

Avecote was a typical Cotswold village, nestling in a hollow, with steep-pitched roofs pointing through trees fluttering with the tender green leaves of early summer. She drove slowly along the road which skirted the village, then stopped in a layby a mile or so beyond and consulted a large-scale local map to track down the narrow road Patrick Hazard had mentioned.

Eventually, after careful progress between high hedges along a road with only occasional passing places, she spotted a rutted, unadopted lane which finally led her to the home of Patrick Hazard. Halfhidden at the end of a long drive edged with limes, the familiar Cotswold limestone of the walls glowed like honey in the evening light. The house was typical of the region, with prominent gables, moulded dripcourses round the tops of the window and a beautiful roof of Cotswold stone tiles with the familiar, purpose-built dip to prevent the tiles from shifting.

Long Wivutts was certainly beautiful, but it was also in the middle of nowhere. Hester couldn’t help wondering what had attracted Patrick Hazard to such isolation. The garden was wildly overgrown and the house looked strangely somnolent, as though it had been sleeping, undisturbed by tenants, for centuries.

She brought the car to a halt on the gravel in front of the aged oak front door set in an arched stone frame, and almost at once Patrick Hazard emerged, hair wet from a recent shower, his eyebrows raised in astonishment as he saw Hester.

‘Mrs Conway! If I’d realised I was putting you to such trouble the desk could have waited until Monday—or later.’

Hester shook her head, smiling as she got out. ‘It’s only a few miles, and a beautiful evening. It was no trouble at all, other than a bit in finding you. Oddly enough I’ve never been anywhere near your home patch before, Mr Hazard.’

‘My lack of neighbours was the big selling point, other than something which drew me to Long Wivutts the moment I laid eyes on it.’

‘I can understand that. It’s a beautiful house.’ Hester smiled at him apologetically. ‘But the main drawback to making the delivery alone is that you’re obliged to give me a hand to get the desk inside.’

Patrick Hazard, who was dressed in much the same way as herself, eyed Hester doubtfully. ‘Are you sure you can manage that, Mrs Conway? Forgive me for mentioning it, but you’re not very big.’

‘But well used to heaving furniture around,’ she assured him briskly. ‘The desk is wrapped in muslin to avoid any knocks, and if we remove the drawers out here it won’t be much of a problem—unless your study’s in the attic, of course.’

‘No, just inside the front door.’ He ushered her inside. ‘If you take a look, perhaps we can plan a campaign to do the least damage to you or the desk. Or perhaps we could just leave it in the hall and I’ll get Wilf Robbins to give me a hand on Monday.’ He looked at her face, then said smoothly, ‘But that, of course, would cancel your good deed in getting the desk to me tonight.’

The shadowy panelled hall was square, with several wide oak doors opening off it. The first opened into the study, which contained two comfortable chairs flanking a stone fireplace, a couple of small tables, a television, a fax machine and a pile of cardboard boxes.

‘Do you want your desk under the window?’ asked Hester, sizing up the room.

He sighed. ‘Alas, no. If I do I’ll keep looking out on the garden and never get down to any work. I thought of putting it on the blank wall over there behind the door.’

‘It shouldn’t be a problem,’ she said briskly. ‘These old doors are wide, which is a help. The desk should come in easily enough.’

And, despite Patrick Hazard’s doubts about her physical capabilities, fifteen minutes later the beautiful desk was installed, unharmed, against the panelling on the inner wall, with enough space alongside it for one of the tables.

‘Which I shall need for my computer,’ he said, breathing hard. ‘It’s a crime to pile a stack of soulless technology on a work of art like your husband’s desk.’

Hester, also breathing hard, looked at him sharply. ‘This isn’t one of my husband’s pieces, Mr Hazard. I hope you didn’t buy it under that impression. The provenance states very clearly that it’s a David Conway original.’

Narrowed green eyes met hers. ‘I’m sorry—wires crossed somewhere,’ he said, after a pause. ‘You’re not David Conway’s wife?’

‘No. I was married to his elder brother.’

‘Divorced?’

‘No. I’m a widow.’

There was embarrassment, coupled with something less identifiable, in the rueful look he gave her. ‘I’m sorry. You were pointed out as the Conways last night—as a couple. I took it for granted you were married. To each other.’

Hester shook her head. ‘David’s wife has been away visiting her parents this week. Tally’s due back about now, which is why David didn’t deliver the desk himself. And Mark, who works for us and would have been happy to help normally, is playing cricket. So I volunteered.’

‘It’s extraordinarily noble of you on a Saturday night.’

‘Not at all. I wasn’t doing anything.’

‘Which is hard to believe,’ he said swiftly, then bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry. That was probably tactless. How recently were you widowed?’

‘Several years ago, Mr Hazard.’ She smiled a little.

‘And I do have a reasonably busy social life. I just don’t happen to have anything planned for tonight.’

‘Nothing at all? Then what are you going to do now?’

‘Go home and do a bit of gardening, probably. The desk looks happy here. It was a good choice. Goodnight, Mr Hazard.’

He looked at her in silence for a moment, something indefinably different in his manner. ‘Now we’ve established that I’m not the twins’ father and you’re not David Conway’s wife,’ he said at last, smiling crookedly, ‘would you consider staying for a while to share my supper with me?’

Hester, taken aback for a moment, looked at him thoughtfully. She found that she liked the idea. And there was no reason why she shouldn’t accept She went out with various male friends in Chastlecombe, in the purely platonic way that was all she had to offer. On the other hand, if she said yes to Patrick Hazard—who was, without doubt, the most interesting and attractive man she’d met since Richard—it was possible he might misunderstand the situation now he knew she was a widow. Others had before him, taking her attitude as a challenge.

‘You’re taking such a long time to decide,’ he said at last, a wry twist to his mouth, ‘I take it the answer’s no.’

Hester’s curiosity got the better of her. She wanted to know more about this man, why he’d chosen to live here far away from the city lights she felt sure were his usual habitat, what he did for a living. She smiled and shook her head. ‘Thank you, I’d like to very much.’

‘Wonderful!’ The green eyes lit with a dazzling smile. ‘Then come this way, Mrs Conway. Let me show you my kitchen—which is the only place to eat, I’m afraid. Or would you like a tour of the house first?’

I would, very much. This is not a house I’ve ever heard of. I thought I knew most of the interesting places in the Chastlecombe area, but Long Wivutts came as a surprise.’

‘The name attracted me before I’d even seen the place.’ Patrick led the way across the hall into a sitting room with beautiful panelling, and triple-light latticed windows looking out over the tangled wilderness of the garden. ‘I’m told it comes from the size of stone tiles they use on the roofs round here. There are twenty-six sizes, would you believe? All of them with marvellous names like Middle Becks and Short Bachelors. They’re pretty difficult to replace now, apparently, though Wilf—the man who’s going to help me with the garden—has somehow acquired replacements from some derelict cottage.’ He grinned. ‘I had the feeling it wouldn’t be tactful to enquire about their provenance.’

Hester chuckled. ‘Very wise! This is a lovely room—just look at the size of that fireplace. With some chintz-covered sofas and a Persian carpet, maybe, plus a picture or two and some plain, heavy curtains... Sorry. You’ve probably got it all planned already.’

‘Not really. Any suggestions would be welcome.’ He led her out into the hall and into a room obviously meant for dining, and then beyond it to a little parlour at the back of the house, both of them as empty as the sitting room. Only the kitchen, which was so large it had obviously been two rooms at one time, was furnished. Late sunlight poured through the windows, washing over a plain round table and four balloonback Victorian chairs. A bowl of fruit, a basket of eggs and a large bread-crock sat on a counter which ran the length of gleaming oak-fronted cupboards—as new as the cooker and refrigerator, but so severely plain they blended harmoniously with the venerable stone flags underfoot.

‘This is perfect,’ said Hester with enthusiasm. ‘You’ve caught exactly the right note with the cupboards. Only, in winter I advise a rug or two on this floor—I speak from experience. Mine’s the same, and it can be very cold.’

‘I must confess the previous owners had got as far as doing up the kitchen and one of the bathrooms,’ he admitted. ‘I’d like any advice you have to spare. My sister, as must be obvious, isn’t at her best at the moment. And when the baby arrives she’ll have too much to do to have much time for me. She gave me the table and chairs—too small for Ashdown House. But she’s worried about not giving more of a helping hand here. I told her I’m big enough and old enough to look after myself. She’s older than me—still thinks of me as the little brother.’

Hester smiled. It was hard to imagine Patrick Hazard as a kid brother. ‘If you do need advice and I can supply it, I’ll be happy to. But, for the time being, if you’ll show me what you had in mind for a meal I’ll put it together—if you like.’

‘I just meant you to share the meal, not prepare it for me!’ he said swiftly.

‘Just tell me what you had in mind and I can make a start.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘I’m hungry. So if I lend a hand we’ll eat all the sooner.’

He bowed in defeat, then opened the refrigerator and took out the ingredients for a very respectable cold meal—salad greens, tomatoes, cheese, half a ham. He looked at her levelly. ‘You know, this is very good of you. I had expected to spend a solitary evening.’

So had Hester, who was more charmed by the prospect of dinner with Patrick Hazard than she cared to admit. And the informality of helping with the meal only added to the charm. While she set eggs to boil and washed salad greens her host laid the table, then took a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator.

‘I thought we might celebrate my first dinner guest with this,’ he announced.

Hester hesitated, then smiled ruefully. ‘Mr Hazard, I dislike wine of any kind. Vintage champagne would be utterly wasted on me.’

“Then we’ll drink something else,’ he said promptly. ‘But only if you call me Patrick.’

She nodded, smiling. ‘I’m Hester.’

‘I know.’

They looked at each other for a moment, then Hester took the pan of eggs from the hob and ran cold water over them at the sink. ‘I shall be perfectly happy with a glass of this, straight from the tap,’ she said over her shoulder.

‘Does your dislike of wine extend to alcohol in general?’

‘I enjoy a Pimm’s as a rare summer treat, and I keep brandy in the house for emergencies. But wine I really dislike.’ She looked up from peeling the eggs. ‘When I was a student I was afraid to admit it—bad for the image—so I drank it and suffered the consequences. I’m a bit wiser now.’

‘Which must be a generally held opinion locally since you were asked to be a magistrate.’ He took a loaf of bread from the crock and began slicing it. ‘Though you can’t have been on the bench for long.’

‘Just over a year now, but I still feel like a beginner. I did all the usual courses, naturally, and I shall go on doing others in the future. For legal instruction I rely on people like John Brigham—he’s the barrister who usually acts as clerk of the court.’ Hester halved the eggs and took out the yolks. ‘Are those handsome cupboards empty, or have you anything I can use to make a dressing and so on?’

Patrick Hazard’s store cupboards were surprisingly well-stocked. With hot pepper sauce to devil the eggs, and balsamic vinegar and olive oil to dress the salad, the meal they sat down to a little while later was simple, but very much to Hester’s taste. It was completed with a large, ice-filled goblet of bottled Cotswold spring water, which her host produced in preference to the alternative straight from the tap.

‘I got some of that in for Lydia,’ he said, pouring himself a beer. He raised his glass to her in toast. ‘To my unexpected but very welcome guest. I’m only sorry the dinner isn’t more in keeping with the occasion.’

Hester shook her head as she helped herself to ham. ‘This is exactly my kind of meal. I wouldn’t have done nearly as well at home. I tend to get tired by Saturday night. If I’m not going out I usually don’t bother too much about dinner.’

Patrick offered the basket of bread. ‘Hester, since circumstance has thrown us so unexpectedly together, I own to curiosity. Will you allow me to ask questions?’

She took a slice and buttered it thoughtfully. ‘About myself?’

‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll respond in kind, if you like. Fair?’

‘Fair,’ she agreed, equally curious to learn about Patrick. ‘What would you like to know?’

‘Anything you care to tell me. For a start, are you a native of Chastlecombe?’

‘No. If it hadn’t been for a certain baby I might never have come to the place, other than as a tourist. I got a job at Queens High School as a replacement for the history teacher while she was away on maternity leave.’ Hester drank some of her water. ‘Richard Conway was on the board of governors. He was in his early forties, and a confirmed bachelor. I was late twenties and, I thought, a career educationist. Wrong on both counts.’

She smiled crookedly. ‘We were married the day after the school closed for the summer holidays. And instead of applying for another teaching post I went into the business with Richard. David was still in college then. So I involved myself in the shop and the buying, leaving Richard free to do what he did best—create beautiful furniture.’

Patrick regarded her steadily, then leaned over to refill her glass. ‘What happened to him, Hester?’

‘He died of a sudden, massive heart attack while we were on holiday in France, celebrating our first anniversary.’

Patrick let out a deep breath. ‘Poor young bride,’ he said very quietly.

Hester looked away. ‘Afterwards Richard’s family were very good to me. They persuaded me to stay in the business, so I did.’

Patrick got up and took their plates, then returned with the fruit bowl and pushed the platter of cheese towards her.

Hester accepted a crisp green apple. ‘Your turn, then, Patrick. You’re a lawyer, of course?’

He nodded. ‘Guilty. How did you know?’

‘Your bow to the bench was a bit of a giveaway.’

‘Reflex action. Though I’ve retired from actually practising law.’

‘Retired?’ She eyed him curiously. ‘Aren’t you a bit young for that?’

‘I’ve taken up another career,’ he said blandly. ‘But I used to be a city lawyer, working in the London office of a New York-based firm, earning a quite outrageous salary. UK law governs project and corporate deals in Europe and Asia, and global-minded American law firms tend to hire UK lawyers to stay on top of the competition. And as the icing on the cake I shared a flat with the gorgeous Alicia, who earned a six-figure salary in advertising.’

Hester listened in awe. It all sounded a long way from the laid-back lifestyle of Chastlecombe.

‘On one of my trips to the Washington office I took Alicia with me and introduced her to an American colleague, Jay Benedict the Third.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘Big mistake. Jay earned more than I did, and his daddy’s rich, too. Jay’s also an ex-college quarterback, half a head taller than me—all shoulders and flashing white smile. And a brilliant lawyer, the swine.’

Hester let out an involuntary giggle.

Patrick grinned. ‘I gave them my blessing through clenched teeth, flew back to London and proceeded to expand the office and make an even bigger packet for myself. Then one day I took a good look at myself and didn’t much like what I saw. After some soulsearching I resigned and became a defence lawyer with a firm where I did as much legal aid work as the more remunerative stuff. I trust,’ he added, ‘that you are now full of respect for my U-turn?’

‘Deeply impressed,’ agreed Hester. ‘So why did you retire?’

‘I’m coming to that. Let’s have some coffee?’

When they were settled in the study, Patrick went on. ‘So now, dear reader, we come to the really interesting bit. After Alicia’s desertion I worked twice as hard, but the playing no longer appealed. So in the long winter evenings I began to write a book—a novel about a hot-shot, materialistic lawyer and the various cases, lost and won, that bring him, with help from the woman he loves, to a final, shattering epiphany. The realisation that there’s more to life than possessions. Corny, I know. But it worked. It comes out here next month, and it’s already been auctioned off in the States. And there’s a pretty good chance of film rights.’

‘In that case,’ said Hester, with a smile, ‘you should soon be able to run to some furniture for this place.’

‘From Conway’s, of course?’ he said swiftly.

Hester coloured to the roots of her hair, angry because she felt so hurt. She looked at her watch and got up. ‘It’s late. I must go.’

Patrick jumped to his feet and caught her hands. ‘I was joking, Hester. Please stay.’

She shook her head, feeling suddenly tired. ‘I won’t, thank you. I’m entertaining a guest for Sunday lunch tomorrow. I’ll need an early start.’

Ignoring her attempts to withdraw them, Patrick kept hold of her hands. ‘Hester,’ he said urgently. ‘I never thought for a moment that you were drumming up trade. Damn,’ he added bitterly, ‘I’m not usually so maladroit.’

She stared down at their clasped hands, unwilling to indulge in a struggle she was unlikely to win. ‘Thank you for the meal,’ she said at last, and the grasp on her hands relaxed.

‘Any thanks involved are due to you, not me,’ he said quietly. ‘It was very good of you to drive out here with the desk.’

Hester looked up, meeting his frowning green gaze very directly. ‘I often make deliveries. Even on Saturday evenings. It’s all part of the Conway service. Now, I really must go.

Outside, the wild, tangled garden was bleached free of colour in a twilight scented with warm earth and new-mown grass.

Patrick breathed in deeply. ‘I would like to be your friend, Hester.’ His voice was crisp and incisive, almost startling in the stillness. ‘It seems a shame to let one ill-considered flippancy prevent that. Unless the idea of friendship with me is anathema to you, of course.’

It wasn’t in the slightest. And taking umbrage with a potential customer was a touch immature for a thirty-something widowed lady, thought Hester, recovering her sense of humour. She smiled at Patrick with sudden, deliberate warmth.

‘It’s not. I’m sorry. I was touchy.’ And, to prove she had recovered, her smile deepened. ‘But I’m not proud. Joking or not, if you do need any furniture you know where to come.’

‘I may take you up on that.’ His smile was just visible as a show of white in his sun-bronzed face. ‘Can’t I persuade you to tour the house again, give me advice about what I need?’

‘Could we leave that for another day—?’ She stopped, flushing.

‘Certainly—when?’ asked Patrick promptly. ‘Not tomorrow, I know. Is your lunch guest male or female?’

‘Male,’ said Hester, oddly flattered. ‘A regular arrangement. We alternate. Sometimes I cook lunch for him, sometimes he takes me out.’

‘Would he object if I did this?’ He bent suddenly and kissed her surprised mouth. ‘Which means I’ve really scuppered myself now,’ he said, stepping back. ‘So I may as well go the whole hog and admit that last night I was furious with myself for feeling attracted to another man’s wife—one who was playing around with Galbraith all night, to add to my joys.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said in sudden comprehension. ‘That’s why you were eyeing me with such disapproval.’

‘I’m surprised you noticed. You kept your distance.’

‘I thought the pregnant lady with you was your wife. And I’d been on the bench when her sons were in court. Of course I kept away from you—both of you!’

‘Is Galbraith a close friend?’ he asked bluntly.

‘I wonder what you mean by close?’ she said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Tim’s just a friend. Like all my menfriends, he keeps to the rules.’

‘Whose rules?’

‘Mine.’

‘Tell me what they are and I’ll keep to the letter of your law, I promise. Though I admit to a dislike of the sound of “all”. Are there that many?’

‘Three, if you’re counting. One’s a widower, another’s recovering from a divorce and Tim harbours a much-publicised allergy to marriage.’

Patrick moved closer to peer down into her face. ‘If I want to be your friend do you expect me to be one of this crowd of yours?’

‘I don’t expect anything of you,’ she retorted. ‘Until yesterday I didn’t know you existed.’

He laughed suddenly. ‘How true. All right, let’s start again. If I stick to your rules like glue will you let me take you out to a proper dinner one night next week?’

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, thank you. I will.’

‘Then come back in and let me make you some more coffee. You can’t go home yet. It’s early.’

When she eyed him doubtfully Patrick grinned and held up his right hand. ‘I swear to behave like a monk, so come back inside. Please.’

It was late before Hester left to drive home, mainly because Patrick had kept his word and made no more attempts to touch her—while at the same time, in some unspoken way, managing to make it quite clear he would have liked to. It was flattering, and added zest and an underlying element of spice to their conversation. Patrick’s kiss had been sudden but not threatening, and while she’d felt no response to it she had a feeling that, if he’d persisted, she might have.

He was a very attractive man. Not handsome in a movie-star way, but his colouring, clever face and clipped, assured voice combined to form a very potent form of charm. Alone among the men she’d known since Richard, he touched a chord inside her. A matter of wavelength rather than physical chemistry. Even on such short acquaintance she felt very much in tune with him. And knew, without being told, that he felt the same towards her.

While they despatched a new pot of coffee Patrick talked about his London flat, loaned, for the time being, to house-hunting friends.

‘I had thought of transferring some of the furniture down here until I have time to decide what this house would like, but in the circumstances I had to leave everything there for my temporary tenants and content myself with the bare rudiments in my bucolic retreat,’ he said, looking relaxed and, to Hester, physically elegant in a way peculiarly his own—as if every part of him was put together with such precision he could move in any way he chose and never look awkward or ungraceful.

Very different from Richard.

‘Do you intend to keep your London flat?’ she asked.

‘Definitely. I’ve never lived in the country before. I might find it hard to settle down here.’

‘While I’m a real country cousin,’ said Hester lightly.

‘And happy to stay that way?’

‘Yes. I lead a busy, pleasant life here.’ She looked towards the desk. ‘Are you writing another novel?’

‘I certainly am, which is why I need a desk so badly. I keep losing the various books of reference I’m using for research.’ Patrick smiled at her. ‘I enjoy writing, but I’m not the world’s most efficient researcher. I get too absorbed in the text and forget to make notes.’

‘Is this another legal story?’

He nodded. ‘But a period one this time. Turn of the century. A cause célèbre-type case with a beautiful woman accused of murder, and the defending counsel who gets her off.’

‘Sounds fascinating.’ Hester got up. ‘If you can’t get up to London for research material the Chastlecombe public library is very well equipped—or they’ll find books for you if they aren’t in stock.’

‘Good idea—I’ll join next time I’m in the town.’ He walked outside with her into the still, starry darkness, which in this remote spot had no streetlights to lessen its intensity. ‘It’s very peaceful here. I only hope it isn’t too peaceful and gives me writer’s block.’

‘Is that likely?’

‘I hope not.’ His smile gleamed white in the light above his venerable front door. ‘I’ve been paid a sizeable advance already.’

Hester held out her hand. ‘Then the best of luck. I don’t think I could function with that kind of pressure.’

Patrick took her hand and held it lightly in his. ‘This has been a very good evening for me, Hester. Thank you. I know you’re a busy lady. When can I take you out to dinner?’

‘I don’t have my diary with me.’

‘Then I’ll ring you.’

As Hester drove away she experienced the oddest sensation, as though she was doing the wrong thing, that she was meant to stay. And, though she’d said nothing to Patrick, on the tour of the empty rooms of Long Wivutts she’d experienced a strong feeling of homecoming, as though she belonged there. Strange. She wasn’t the fanciful type. And she’d never even heard of the place before, let alone set foot inside it. Nor, when she’d asked for directions, had David.

When Hester got home she decided to go straight to bed. Tomorrow she was giving her father-in-law lunch, and though Robert Conway was the least critical of men she always felt on her mettle to provide Richard’s father with as delicious a meal as she could contrive. It had been Richard who had taught her how to cook. She had learned so much from him in the cruelly short period of their marriage.

Hester got ready for bed, then looked at the photograph on the bedside table. Richard Conway smiled his crooked smile at her, his heavy black hair unruly on his forehead. He had been a large man in every way, in stature and in temperament. A gentle giant with deep, abiding passions, one of which had been his work. Hester had been the other. Richard had never tired of telling her he’d been waiting for her all his life. The only shadow on their union had been the lack of children, a lack Hester had mourned all the more deeply when she’d been left alone after his death.

Hester turned out the light quickly and lay in the dark. At first, in the weeks after Richard had died, she’d talked to his photograph every night. As some people wrote in diaries, she’d communed with Richard—told him about her day, confided her hopes and fears—just as though he’d been alive and in the bed beside her. Not that they had ever talked much in bed. Richard, from the first, had been a sexually demanding husband, and she had responded gladly, always. And had cried many bitter tears in this same bed after he’d died, missing his physical presence. But, if she were totally honest, there had been more actual conversation with his photograph than with Richard when he’d been alive.

Hester lay staring at the stars through the window, wondering why she’d used her lack of diary as a means of avoiding a definite date for another evening with Patrick Hazard. She always knew exactly how her week was arranged, sometimes for weeks in advance, without reference to a diary or any other reminder. And when Tim Galbraith or John Brigham asked her out she always knew instantly whether the dates they suggested were convenient or not. Yet with Patrick she’d hedged a little, giving herself time to—to what? Plead a previous engagement, or put him off altogether? Hester shrugged, unseen, in the dark. One evening was no big deal. It needn’t be repeated. If discouraged gently, Patrick Hazard had too much pride to persist.

Hester was on the point of falling asleep when she discovered why, exactly, Patrick Hazard was to be tactfully discouraged. Tim Galbraith, Edward Moore and John Brigham, the trio she went out with on a fairly regular basis, were not only nice men and good companions, they had one important thing in common: Richard would have had no objection to any of them. Patrick was different. He posed far more of a threat. Unlike the others, for whom she felt nothing warmer than liking, she was strongly attracted to Patrick Hazard. Even on such short acquaintance. But at this stage the attraction was merely cerebral. Whether it would remain that way if she saw more of him was open to question.

So, one evening with him would have to do. And if he wanted more she would have to think of a convincing reason for her refusal. Patrick Hazard would think she was mad if she cited her dead husband’s disapproval.

CHAPTER THREE

ROBERT CONWAY rose from the table with a smile of appreciation. ‘Excellent lunch, my dear, as always.’

Hester smiled, pleased, as she took their plates. ‘Tea?’

‘Please, Hester.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Not even an indulgent father-in-law like me can praise your coffee.’

‘The caffeine’s bad for you anyway,’ she said, chuckling. ‘Would you like it out in the garden? The sun’s moved away a bit now.’

When they were settled in deck chairs, Hester in full sun and Robert in the shade of a pear tree, she filled their cups then sat back to enjoy the warm afternoon.

‘So what did you do last night?’ asked Robert.

‘I went out to Avecote to deliver a desk.’ Hester looked at his spare, relaxed frame consideringly, then gave him an account of Patrick Hazard, his novel, and his semi-unfurnished home, and included the meal she’d stayed to share, stressing the fact that her motive had been more in the nature of future furniture orders than to eat dinner with Patrick Hazard.

‘It sounds like a very interesting evening,’ said Robert neutrally. ‘Are you seeing him again?’

Hester nodded, feeling irrationally guilty. ‘Just once, anyway.’

‘Why just once?’ said Robert, and fixed her with a probing eye. ‘Is he married?’

‘No.’

‘Yet you say he’s interesting, and both clever and attractive. Is he gay?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘Then enjoy his company.’ Robert drank his tea tranquilly. ‘You’ve done wonders in this garden, Hester. The blossoms on that cistus are like a fall of snowflakes. Your hydrangeas look healthy, too.’

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