The Carlotta Diamond

Lee Wilkinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE

Farringdon Hall, Old Leasham

RUDY had just arrived at the door of the sickroom and raised his free hand to knock, when he heard his brother-in-law’s low, well-modulated voice, and paused to listen.

‘So what exactly is it you want me to do?’ Simon was asking.

‘I want you to try and trace Maria Bell-Farringdon, my sister,’ Sir Nigel’s voice answered.

Sounding startled, Simon said, ‘But surely your sister’s dead? Didn’t she die very young?’

‘That was Mara, Maria’s twin sister. They were born in 1929—I was three at the time—so Maria will be in her mid-seventies by now, if she’s still alive…’

His curiosity aroused, Rudy stayed where he was, his ear pressed to the door panel.

‘The last time I saw her was November 1946. Though she was barely seventeen at the time, she was pregnant and unmarried. Despite a great deal of parental pressure, she refused to name the father, and after a terrible row, during which she was accused of bringing disgrace on the family, she just walked out and vanished without a trace. Our parents washed their hands of her, and her name was never again mentioned. It was just as if she had never existed. But in March 1947 she wrote secretly to me, saying she’d given birth to a baby girl. The letter had a London postmark—she was living in Whitechapel—but no address. I raised as much money as I could—I was still at college then—and waited, hoping she would contact me again, but she didn’t, and that was the last time I heard from her. After my parents died I made a couple of attempts to find her, but without success. I should have kept trying, but somehow I let it slide. I suppose I thought I was immortal and had plenty of time…The doctor doesn’t agree, however. His verdict is that I’ve three months to live at the most, so it’s suddenly become urgent that I find either Maria or her offspring.’

‘Do you want to tell me why?’ Simon asked.

‘Of course, my boy,’ Sir Nigel assured his grandson. ‘It’s only right that you should know.

‘If you’d like to open my safe, you know the combination, and take out the leather jewel case that’s in there…’

There was a faint sound of movement, then Sir Nigel continued, ‘This is why. It’s come to be known as the Carlotta Stone. Some time in the early fifteen-hundreds it was given to Carlotta Bell-Farringdon by an Italian nobleman who was madly in love with her. For generations it’s been passed down to the eldest of the female line on her eighteenth birthday. Mara—who had a heart defect—died as a child, so the diamond should rightfully have gone to Maria, to be passed on to her daughter. Though a lot of years have gone by, it’s an injustice that I would like to put right before I die, so I just hope you can find her.’

‘I’ll certainly do my best, but at the moment my hands are full with the American merger, and I’m due in New York tomorrow. However, if you’d like me to concentrate on finding Maria, I’ll send someone else over to the States in my place,’ Simon offered.

‘No, no…You’re needed there. The negotiations are very delicate and I don’t want to see them fall down at this stage.’

‘In that case, so as not to waste any time, I’ll hire a private detective to start making enquiries immediately. Of course, it will have to be done with the greatest discretion,’ Simon said.

‘Quite right, my boy. In fact I’d like the whole thing kept under wraps. Not a word to a soul,’ Sir Nigel warned.

‘Not even Lucy?’

‘Not even Lucy. For one thing, I’d prefer it if Rudy didn’t get to know, and for another, I understand one of her friends is a so-called journalist. The last thing I want is for the story to get into the gossip columns. They always blow these things up out of all proportion, and I’d be extremely upset if there was any breath of scandal.’

It would serve the autocratic old devil right if there was, Rudy thought vindictively. He’d be only too happy to see Sir Nigel, his precious grandson, and the whole of the Bell-Farringdon family taken down a peg or two.

‘In any case it would pay to tread carefully,’ Simon said, ‘keep the reason for the search a secret until we’re certain we’ve got the right person.’

‘You’re quite right, of course. The Carlotta Stone is priceless, and I wouldn’t want to risk it going to some imposter with an eye to the main chance.’

There was a silence, then Simon said thoughtfully, ‘There’s not a lot to go on, and it’s quite possible, not to say probable, that Maria changed her name. However, modern technology should make it a great deal easier…’

‘Good morning, Mr Bradshaw.’ The nurse’s decisive voice made Rudy spin round and almost drop the books he was holding. ‘Just leaving?’

Recovering himself, he said, ‘No, as a matter of fact I was just about to knock.’

Made uncomfortable by that frosty blue gaze, he added, ‘I thought Sir Nigel might be asleep, and if he was, I didn’t want to disturb him.’

‘Mr Farringdon came up to see him right after breakfast. I believe he’s still there.’ With that she disappeared into the adjoining room.

Cursing his luck at being caught eavesdropping, Rudy tapped at the door of the sickroom.

‘Come in,’ Sir Nigel called.

Trying to give the impression he’d only just that second arrived, Rudy went in breezily.

Sir Nigel, who was sitting in bed propped up by pillows, looked anything but pleased to see him, while Simon gave him a sharp glance from tawny-green eyes, and a cool nod.

Biting back his chagrin with an effort, Rudy returned his brother-in-law’s nod.

With an uncomfortable feeling of coming in a poor second, he always felt threatened by Simon’s undoubted good looks and masculinity, his air of power and authority.

Turning to the man in bed, he asked as genially as possible, ‘How are you today, Sir Nigel?’

‘As well as can be expected, thank you.’

The old devil was only just civil, Rudy thought petulantly. In spite of the fact that he had been married to Sir Nigel’s granddaughter for almost three years, he was still shown none of the cordiality the baronet reserved for the other members of his family.

Nursing his grievance, Rudy went on, ‘Lucy wanted to return these books you lent her, so she asked me to call in on my way up to town.’

‘How is the dear girl?’

‘Her progress is good since she’s been home.’

Clearly making an effort, Sir Nigel asked, ‘Won’t you sit down?’

Never comfortable at the Hall, Rudy said, ‘Thanks, but I must get on my way. As Simon will tell you, we’re up to the neck in it at the bank. Apart from the normal grind there are evening meetings scheduled for the next few weeks. Then I have to face the journey home. It’s at times like this I wish I’d never given up my flat.’

It was an old and familiar complaint.

Too many nights spent in town had made Lucy suspect him of having another affair, and she had put pressure on him to give up his rented flat.

Proving he had a human side, Simon said, ‘I have to fly to New York tomorrow, so if you need to stay in town any night during the next two or three weeks you can have the use of my flat while I’m away.’

‘That would help enormously.’

‘I’ll let you have the keys before I go.’

‘Thanks. Well, I must be off,’ Rudy said.

‘Give Lucy my love,’ Sir Nigel said.

‘I will.’

His head full of what he’d overheard, Rudy closed the door behind him and hurried down the stairs.

Here he was, having to work for a living, he thought resentfully, while that old devil was talking about giving away a priceless diamond. Probably, if Maria was already dead, to someone he had never even met.

It just wasn’t fair.

While he drove up to London, Rudy mulled it over. There must be some way he could turn the situation to his advantage…

Suppose he could trace Maria and her descendents before Simon got back from the States? That would give him a head start, and provide some interesting, and hopefully lucrative, options…

Failing that, he could kill the proverbial two birds with one stone—make some capital out of it and get a bit of his own back, by selling the story to the Press.

Oomphed up a little, it should be worth quite a few thousand. ‘Aristocratic family…’ ‘Veil of secrecy…’ ‘Priceless diamond…’ He could almost see the headlines now. ‘Dying baronet seeking pregnant heiress who vanished from the ancestral home in 1946…’

Simon, who had glanced at him so sharply, might well suspect the source, but so long as neither he nor Sir Nigel could prove anything…

Rudy grinned to himself in anticipation.

But though he would like nothing better than to see the pair of them squirm, instinct told him the first option might be the better one, so he’d try that to start with.

Either way, what he had so fortuitously overheard would give him a chance to thumb his nose at the Bell-Farringdon family, none of whom had thought him good enough to marry Lucy…

Wall Street, New York

Some ten days later, Simon Farringdon received a report from his private detective which read:

I was able to establish that shortly after she disappeared from home, Maria Bell-Farringdon changed her name to Mary Bell.

Having checked the available records, I discovered that in March 1947, in the district of Whitechapel, a Mary Bell had registered the birth of a daughter, Emily Charlotte, father unknown.

The address had been given as 42 Bold Lane.

I kept searching, and discovered that in 1951 the same Mary Bell had married a man named Paul Yancey, who later adopted her daughter.

Emily Yancey married a man named Bolton in 1967; however, the marriage ended in divorce some ten years later. In 1980 Emily had a daughter whose birth was registered as father unknown. Emily died some six months later. The baby, named Charlotte, was adopted by a Mr and Mrs Christie…

Bayswater, London.

‘How do I look?’ Unusually for her, Charlotte was nervous. The lilac chiffon dress, bought in a hurry during her half-hour lunch break, had looked reasonably sedate in the store. Now at its highest point the asymmetrically cut skirt seemed higher than she recalled, and the plunging neckline a lot lower.

Surveying the lovely, heart-shaped face framed in a cloud of silky dark hair, and the luminous grey eyes, her flatmate answered, ‘So beautiful it’s sickening.’

‘No, seriously.’

‘I’m being serious. I’d kill for cheekbones like yours and naturally curly hair, not to mention your ears. I always think nice ears are so sexy.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with your ears,’ Charlotte said crisply.

‘There’s nothing right with them. They’re seriously big, and the lobes are so long I look like a spaniel. Whereas your ears are small and neat, and you’ve hardly any lobes to speak of.’

‘Which is a nuisance. It makes it awkward to wear earrings. But to get back to the point. I meant the dress; will it do?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Do? I can only hope the poor devil hasn’t got a weak heart…’

The two girls had been flatmates since Charlotte had answered the door one evening, almost two years ago, to find a tall, rangy girl with spiky blonde hair and a thin, intelligent face standing there.

‘I’ve just been next door visiting Macy,’ the newcomer had announced. ‘She mentioned that you had a two-bedroomed flat and were thinking of getting someone to share.’

‘I’ve certainly been considering it,’ Charlotte had admitted cautiously. Then, liking the look of the girl, ‘Come on in…As you can see, the living-room isn’t very big,’ she went on, as the girl followed her into the pleasant room with its old bow-window. ‘But the bedrooms aren’t bad, there’s a reasonable bathroom, and a good-sized kitchen.’ She opened the various doors as she spoke.

‘As far as I’m concerned it’s next door to heaven after the crummy bedsit I’ve been living in for the past six months.’

Then, her blue eyes curious, the girl asked, ‘Why do you want to share? In your place I’d prefer to be on my own.’

‘I would prefer it,’ Charlotte admitted honestly. ‘But I don’t have much choice.’

‘I understand from Macy—by the way, we work for the same travel company—that you own the bookshop on the ground floor?’

‘All I have is a lease on the premises, and, until sales pick up, finding the rent is proving to be a problem. I need some help,’ Charlotte said.

‘How much help?’

After a moment’s thought, Charlotte named what she considered a reasonable sum.

‘Well, if you think we could get along, your problem is solved. I’ll pay my share of the rent up front, I promise I won’t hog the bathroom or the kitchen—I’m not into cooking—and I’ll keep myself to myself as much as possible.’

Coming to a swift decision, Charlotte said, ‘That sounds fine by me.’

‘Great! By the way, my name’s Sojourner Macfadyen. But don’t call me Sojourner, or I’m afraid I’ll have to murder you.’

Smiling, Charlotte asked, ‘What shall I call you?’

‘Sojo will do fine.’

‘When do you want to move in, Sojo?’

‘The day after tomorrow?’

At Charlotte’s nod, she had added, ‘I think it’ll work, but in case it doesn’t…?’

‘Shall we say a month’s notice on either side?’ Charlotte had suggested.

It had worked well, however, and the two girls had become firm friends. Even when the shop began to make a small profit and Charlotte could afford to pay an assistant, Sojo had stayed on.

On more than one occasion, she had remarked, ‘When you’re ready for me to move out, just say the word.’

But, knowing she would miss the other girl’s company and lively sense of humour, Charlotte had been only too happy with the way things were…

‘Who is your date, by the way?’ Sojo pursued. Then, her voice sinking to a sibilant whisper, ‘Is it still the mystery man?’

Endeavouring to look the picture of innocence, Charlotte said, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I mean the one you’ve been so cagey about.’

‘I’ve been nothing of the kind,’ Charlotte denied.

‘Oh, give me strength! For days now you’ve had stars in your eyes, and I’ll swear your feet have scarcely touched the ground, but you’ve never breathed a word about him…I presume it is a him?’

‘Of course it’s a him!’ Charlotte said indignantly.

‘Well, come on, spill the beans. Tell all.’

‘There’s not much to tell.’

‘Rubbish! You have the look of a woman who’s on the brink of falling in love. I want to know whether to hold you back, or give you a push.’

‘Do you need to do either?’

‘Of course. What are friends for? So what’s his name? Paul? David? Jeremy?’

Throwing in the towel, Charlotte said, ‘Rudolf.’

Sojo gave a croak of laughter. ‘Bit of a soppy name, Rudolf—’ she pronounced it Wudolf ‘—unless you’re a reindeer.’

‘His friends call him Rudy.’

‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they? Anything’s preferable to Wudolf. What’s he like?’

‘Rather special. He’s—’

‘You’re blushing!’ Sojo exclaimed. ‘Dear me, you have got it bad.’

‘Do you want to know or not?’ Charlotte asked with a show of exasperation.

‘I’m all ears…What an unfortunate phrase! But do go on.’

‘He’s slimly built and just about the same height as I am—’

‘I wondered why you’d taken to wearing flat shoes. Fair or dark?’

‘He has curly black hair and brown eyes.’

‘Handsome?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sexy?’

‘Very.’

‘Rich?’

‘He dresses well, and has what he describes as a “bachelor pad” in Mayfair.’

‘Definitely not poor, then. Been to his pad?’

‘No.’

‘I take it he’s asked you? Yes, I can see he has. What does he do?’

‘I discovered, quite by accident, that he’s with one of the leading merchant banks.’

Sojo whistled through her teeth. ‘He’s not one of their top men, by any chance?’

‘I don’t think so. But to say he’s only twenty-six, he seems to be fairly high up the ladder.’

‘So what’s his surname?’

‘Bradshaw. He’s only been in England for about three years. He comes from the States.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘He wandered into the shop one morning, a few weeks ago, just to browse. We got talking, and then he asked me out.’

‘A quick worker. Been to bed with him yet?’

‘Certainly not!’

‘Want to?’ Sojo asked knowingly.

‘Yes,’ Charlotte admitted.

‘So why haven’t you? Don’t tell me he hasn’t tried to persuade you.’

‘I won’t.’

Feeling her cheeks grow warm again, Charlotte gave the other girl a forbidding enough look to prevent her commenting.

‘Well, if you both fancy each other like mad, why are you holding back?’

‘It’s too soon. Even if I am attracted to him, I can’t jump into bed with a man I scarcely know.’

Sojo sighed. ‘You’re so beautifully old-fashioned. I’m not sure you live in the real world. If you’re not careful you’ll end up a desiccated virgin.’

‘But we’ve only been out four or five times.’

‘Is that all? I’m surprised he doesn’t want to see more of you.’

‘He does,’ Charlotte admitted. ‘But he isn’t free as often as he’d like to be. In his line of work it seems social contacts are very important, and a lot of his evenings are taken up by business commitments—dining out with clients and suchlike. It was touch and go whether he could get tonight off.’

‘Where are you off to? It must be somewhere special as you bought a new dress. Unless that’s just for Wudolf’s benefit?’

Ignoring that last crack, Charlotte said, ‘He’s escorting me to a supper party at St John’s Wood, given by Anthony Drayton.’

‘The literary agent?’

‘Yes. He hosts one every year. Half of London gets invited—anybody who is anybody. His parties always have a different theme. Last year it was timed to coincide with a new moon, and all the ladies were asked to wear something silver.’

‘What is it this time?’

‘Candlelight.’

‘Let’s hope the fire brigade’s been alerted,’ Sojo said wryly.

‘You’re going out, I suppose?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Nope. I’ll be all on my little lonesome.’

‘Then why not come along with us? I’m sure Anthony won’t mind.’

‘It’s not Anthony I’m worried about.’

‘Rudy won’t either.’

‘That’s a whopping great lie, and even if it wasn’t, playing gooseberry is not my favourite role.’

‘I’m surprised you’re not going out with Mark. He seemed keen enough.’

‘If anything, too keen. A regular Mr Touchy-Feely. I got so fed up with peeling his hands off, I showed him the door.’

Watching Charlotte collect a squashy evening bag and a silver fun-fur, she queried, ‘Going by taxi?’

‘No, Rudy’s offered to pick me up. He should be here any minute.’

Stationing herself in the bow-window, where she could see the street in both directions, Sojo suggested casually, ‘Why don’t you ask him up for a nightcap when he brings you home?’

‘Yes, I might. It’s about time you and Rudy met.’

‘So it’s getting serious!’

‘I’m not sure,’ Charlotte admitted.

‘In that case I’ll give him the once-over before I make myself scarce, not forgetting to mention that I’m a heavy sleeper.’

‘Don’t you dare!’ Charlotte exclaimed.

‘Only joking, honestly. Hello! This looks like him now…Or at least a posh-looking car has just drawn up outside. A man with dark curly hair is getting out! He’s gazing up at the window!’ She heaved a rapturous sigh. ‘Oh, Romeo, Romeo…’

Gathering up her coat and bag, Charlotte fled.

The September evening was cool and grey and slightly foggy. Street lamps cast an amber glow onto the damp pavements, and, surrounded by a halo of mist, shone like luminous ghosts.

Rudy was waiting for her on the pavement. Taking her hand, he drew her close and kissed her with a barely restrained passion.

After a moment, well aware that Sojo was almost certainly watching, Charlotte drew away.

Damn it, Rudy thought as he jumped into the car and started the engine. He was practically desperate. He needed to make some headway before Simon returned, and time was getting short.

But with a certain cool reserve, Charlotte was unlike any other girl he’d ever met, and so far, afraid of scaring her off, he’d forced himself to be relatively patient.

Now, however, restless and frustrated, he found the strain was beginning to tell, and he frowned as he joined the sluggish stream of evening traffic, and headed north for St John’s Wood.

His experience had told him that she was on the verge of falling in love with him, and it was time to make his move. With the Mayfair flat still at his disposal he had entertained high hopes that tonight they might become lovers.

It would make a difficult situation a great deal easier and immeasurably increase his chances of keeping her—so long as he could come up with the right kind of story to gain her sympathy.

She was, he felt certain, the kind of woman who would stick by him once she had committed herself.

And he badly wanted her to.

This wasn’t just the start of another affair, nor was it because she would shortly be rich, though that was a definite bonus. For the first time in his life he was mad about a woman, unable to concentrate on anything, hardly able to eat or sleep for thinking about her, and her cool reception of his kiss had shaken him badly.

Still, there was the whole evening ahead. Unless he’d lost his touch he’d be able to get her in the right mood before it ended. With a mouth like hers, and that underlying hint of sensuousness, she couldn’t really be cold…

As they drew into the drive of their host’s big house, Rudy’s heart sank to see the parking apron was crowded with prestigious cars.

It sank even further when the handsome front door was opened by a liveried manservant, and it became abundantly clear that the party, which was well under way, was a glittering affair.

Beyond the chandelier-hung hall, a large candlelit room was packed with people, and well-dressed celebrities appeared to be ten-a-penny.

When Charlotte had first, hesitantly, mentioned the party, it had sounded innocuous enough. Expecting the whole thing to be obscure, quiet, dull and literary, he had promised to do his best to be free. But this affair was much bigger and a great deal less private than he’d bargained for.

He’d made a bad mistake in coming here, and the sooner he could get away, the better. If anyone recognised him and told Simon…

As their coats were whisked away, their handsome, silver-haired host appeared to greet them—Rudy with civility, Charlotte with enthusiasm.

‘My dear, you look stunning. I’m so pleased you could come. The last time I invited you to one of these dos you cried off, you naughty girl.’

‘I couldn’t find an escort.’

‘Now, that I don’t believe. But should it ever happen in the future, come anyway, and I promise I’ll never leave your side,’ Anthony winked at her.

‘Your wife might have something to say about that,’ Charlotte teased.

Sighing, Anthony said, ‘There are times I wish I’d stayed a bachelor gay.’

‘Now, that I don’t believe.’

He grinned. ‘Touché.’

‘You must know that in the literary world yours and Renee’s marriage is held up as a shining example of how good it can be.’

‘It doesn’t come much better,’ he admitted. ‘I think every man should have a wife, don’t you agree?’ He glanced at Charlotte’s companion as if expecting some male support.

When Rudy said nothing, Anthony turned his attention back to Charlotte. ‘What do you think of the theme?’

‘Love it. Candles create such a wonderfully intimate atmosphere.’

‘A romantic at heart! I always suspected it, in spite of that cool businesswoman air you cultivate. Now there are lots of people here you’ll know, so do you want to just circulate? Or would you like me to introduce you to a couple of our new authors?’

‘Just circulate, I think,’ Charlotte said.

He kissed her hand. ‘In that case, help yourselves to some champagne and go mingle.’

As they obeyed, and were greeted by people Charlotte knew, she introduced her handsome escort with a feeling of pride. But though Rudy smiled and acknowledged each new acquaintance politely, it soon became obvious that he was ill at ease and hating every minute of it.

She was wondering why, as most of the conversation, far from being confined to books, was general and lively, when a sudden stir indicated the arrival of the Press.

‘Hell!’ Rudy muttered. It was a possibility he should have foreseen, but hadn’t.

‘What’s wrong?’ she breathed, seeing the hint of panic in his brown eyes.

‘Blasted photographers.’

‘I can’t imagine they’ll be long. It’s just a necessary spot of publicity.’

Turning his head, he whispered in her ear, ‘Mind if I vanish for a time? If my picture should happen to get into the papers the powers that be will discover I’m not where I’m supposed to be, and that could mean big trouble.’

Feeling guilty that he’d neglected his job to come with her, she whispered back, ‘Go by all means.’

He excused himself, and, putting his empty glass on the nearest table, disappeared into the crowd.

As though his exit had sparked it off, the little group they had been standing with began to break up. Some, hoping for their share of publicity, gravitated towards the photographers. Others drifted towards the adjoining room, where a buffet supper had been set out, and a piano was being played softly.

Deciding to wait where she was until Rudy came back, Charlotte accepted another glass of champagne and, setting her back against the wall, sipped it idly while she indulged in a spot of people-watching.

She was smiling, amused by the antics of the ones still trying to get their picture in the papers, when a frisson of awareness told her that she herself was being watched.

Standing in the shadows, Simon Farringdon thought that she was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. No wonder Rudy appeared to be completely besotted.

Even his host, whom he knew to be happily married, clearly wasn’t unaffected. Greeting him warmly, Anthony had said, ‘Great to see you. I thought you were still in New York.’

‘Just got back.’

‘Well, I’m delighted you could drop in. Help yourself to some champagne, and if you’re still looking for a perfect woman I’ll introduce you to Charlotte Christie. As well as being really nice, she’s a true beauty, with character. Unfortunately she already has a somewhat surly escort.’

‘I think in that case I’ll skip it,’ Simon had refused lightly. ‘You won’t want any unseemly brawls at your party.’

‘Charlotte is certainly the kind of woman men would fight over,’ Anthony had said.

And he hadn’t been far wrong, Simon realised now. That mouth and those wonderful eyes, upward-tilted at the outer corners, the prominent cheekbones and slightly hollowed cheeks, gave her the kind of haunting, poignant beauty that affected the spirit and senses and made willing slaves of men.

Or at least some men.

Though he could already feel a strong pull of sexual attraction, he had no intention of being one of them.

When Lucy—terrified that this time Rudy was engaged in something far more serious than his previous flings and might leave her—had begged for Simon’s help, his first thought had been to find the girl and pay her off.

It had come as a nasty shock to discover that Rudy’s latest amour and Maria’s granddaughter were one and the same.

Then all the pieces had clicked into place. The morning Rudy had called at the Hall he must have overheard enough to arouse his curiosity and set him off on the trail of Maria or her descendants.

He’d clearly lost no time, and now he had not only a beautiful lover—if lovers they were—but also one who would soon be worth a small fortune.

Poor Lucy.

Except that Rudy wasn’t going to get away with it, Simon vowed, no matter what it took, he would put an end to the affair.

The Press were departing now, and in the milling crowd Charlotte could see no one looking in her direction. But still the sensation persisted, like a cold breath of disquiet, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck, making her shiver.

Then, turning her head a little, she saw a man standing in deep shadow beyond the range of the flickering candles. He was watching her intently.

Just for an instant their eyes met.

She recoiled from the shock as though from a blow, so unnerved that if she hadn’t been in a room full of people, she would have turned on her heel and run…

‘Sorry I’ve been so long.’ Rudy materialised by her side. ‘I thought those blasted photographers would never go.’ Then, catching sight of her expression, ‘If you’re upset about it I can only—’

‘I’m not.’

‘You look upset.’

‘Not with you, honestly. It’s just that a strange man was staring at me.’

He laughed. ‘With looks like yours you ought to be used to men staring at you.’

‘This was different,’ Charlotte insisted.

‘So where is your strange man?’

‘Over there.’ She stopped abruptly; the shadowy corner where the man had been standing was empty. ‘He’s gone,’ she said stupidly.

‘So there’s nothing to worry about. He was no doubt thinking of coming over to chat you up, and when I appeared he changed his mind.’

If only she could believe that. But she couldn’t. Though she’d met the stranger’s glance for only a split-second, she knew there had been nothing light or flirtatious in the look. It had been as cold and piercing, as lethal, as a stiletto.

She shivered.

Seeing that involuntary movement, Rudy said in surprise, ‘You really have let it bother you.’

Then, deciding to seize his chance, he urged, ‘Look, we don’t have to stay for supper. You’re obviously not enjoying the evening, so suppose we get out of here and go back to my place?’

As she began to shake her head, he added, ‘If you’re hungry, we can always stop for a bite to eat on the way.’

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she said. ‘When you take me home, instead of just dropping me off, come in and I’ll cook you some supper.’

He hesitated. Ending up at her flat wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind, but it was still a big step forward. It was the first time she had invited him back, so presumably the flatmate she’d mentioned would be out and they would be alone.

‘That sounds great,’ he said with a smile.

As far as he was concerned, one bed was as good as another, and in some ways it would be safer. If they went back to the Mayfair flat there was always a chance that they might leave some trace of their presence, and it wouldn’t do for Simon to find out. Though his brother-in-law never swore or raised his voice, he was formidable when angry.

Rudy sighed. While he was still beholden to Simon, he couldn’t afford to rock the boat. But once he had Charlotte and her money in the palm of his hand, it would be a different story.

CHAPTER TWO

‘LEAVING so soon?’ Anthony asked in surprise, when they went to say their thanks and goodbyes.

‘I’m afraid Charlotte has a migraine coming on,’ Rudy said mendaciously.

‘Oh?’ Turning to Charlotte, Anthony said, ‘I didn’t know you suffered from migraine. Nasty things. Do you get them often?’

Charlotte, who had never had a migraine in her life, answered, ‘No, I don’t.’

‘Just as well. I’ve always found that—’

‘We’d better be off,’ Rudy broke in quickly. ‘The sooner she’s in bed, the happier I’ll be.’

‘I’m sure.’ Anthony’s voice was dry.

In silence they retrieved their coats and were shown out. As they walked towards the car, Charlotte asked vexedly, ‘Why on earth did you tell Anthony I had a migraine?’

‘I had to tell him something.’ Rudy sounded sulky.

‘Anthony’s no fool. He knew perfectly well we were lying to him.’

‘And that bothers you?’

‘Yes, it does rather. So far we’ve had a good professional relationship—’

‘Which obviously means a great deal more to you than our relationship,’ Rudy groused.

‘No, of course it doesn’t. But goodness knows what he’s thinking.’

‘Does it matter a toss what he’s thinking?’ Rudy demanded angrily.

Charlotte bit her lip. All in all it had been a far from pleasant evening, and now they were quarrelling.

‘No, I suppose not,’ she said, slipping her arm through his.

But it did matter. And they both knew it.

The knowledge cast an additional blight on the evening, and during the journey back to Bayswater the tension was palpable. Charlotte could think of nothing to say, and Rudy drove in a moody silence, a scowl marring his handsome features.

His bad mood was by no means improved when they reached the flat and Sojo, who had apparently seen the car draw up, opened the door.

Finding that Charlotte and he wouldn’t be alone after all came as a nasty shock. Though so far everything had gone wrong, he’d been cherishing high hopes that a kiss-and-make-up situation might be just what was needed to get her into bed.

Now, seething with rage and disappointment, he realised that all his hopes were undoubtedly dashed and, after battling to come tonight, he’d be no further forward in his plans for Charlotte.

It was only too obvious from his expression how he felt, and Charlotte found herself wishing that she had never invited him back.

At that point, if he’d announced his intention of going, she would have made no attempt to stop him. But as he continued to stand there staring resentfully at Sojo, she took a deep breath and introduced them.

‘Hi! Pleased to meet you,’ the blonde said with casual cheerfulness. ‘Come on in.’

‘Rudy’s staying to eat with us,’ Charlotte explained as they went inside.

Looking horrified, the other girl protested, ‘I know it’s my turn to get supper, but I do hope you’re not expecting me to cook?’

‘No. I’ve already volunteered.’

Taking Rudy’s coat, Sojo hung it on the rack and, ushering him towards the couch, told him, ‘Which is just as well if you want to stay on friendly terms with your stomach.’

Plonking herself down beside him, she went on, ‘Cooking is definitely not my strong point. When it’s my turn to get supper we usually have sandwiches or a take-away. It’s Charlotte provides all the culinary delights. So what have we to look forward to, chef?’

‘Will a quick paella do?’

‘Wonderful!’ Sojo said. ‘I’ll be happy to set the table, and wash up afterwards.’ Then, turning to Rudy, ‘I understand you come from the States. Which part?’

‘Though my family now live in New York, I was born on the West Coast,’ Rudy replied.

Sojo sighed. ‘One of my dreams has always been to drive down Route 66.’

‘I once did it with a group of teenaged friends in a battered old Chevy…’

Furious with Charlotte for spoiling the evening, and with some idea of getting his own back, he set himself out to be charming to Sojo.

She responded by hanging on to his every word and fluttering her eyelashes at him, while Charlotte went through to the bedroom to exchange her dress for a belted chenille housecoat, before starting supper.

While the paella finished cooking, Sojo set the table and opened a bottle of Frascati, though she herself only drank fruit juice.

When they sat down to eat and she reached to pour the wine, Charlotte shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’ve had more than enough champagne. Rudy?’

‘I think I will have a glass.’ He spoke to Sojo rather than Charlotte.

While the uncomfortable meal progressed and the conversation gradually faltered and died, his face growing ever more moody, he emptied the bottle.

Looking on, Sojo said nothing.

As soon as their plates were empty, concerned because he was driving, Charlotte made some strong coffee and refilled his cup several times.

When he rose to go, she asked carefully, ‘Are you sure it’s wise to drive? If you want to leave the car where it is, we could always ring for a taxi.’

‘No need, I’ll be fine,’ he answered ungraciously. Shrugging into his coat, he added, ‘It isn’t as if I’m paralytic.’

Feeling miserable and apprehensive, she accompanied him downstairs and opened the street door.

Seeing he was about to leave her without a word, she put a hand on his sleeve. ‘I’m afraid the evening hasn’t been much of a success.’

‘No, it hasn’t.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Unwilling to let him go without making some effort at reconciliation, she put her arms around his neck and touched her lips to his.

He pulled her close and, his passion fuelled by anger and frustration, began to kiss her with a fierceness that was punitive.

Shaken, she took a moment or two to realise that, framed in the lighted doorway, they were clearly visible to anyone passing. Disliking the idea of being on show, she made a determined attempt to free herself.

Angered afresh by what he saw as her rejection, he turned away abruptly.

‘Rudy,’ she addressed his retreating back, ‘when will I see you again?’

‘I’ll be in touch,’ he promised shortly.

With a heavy heart she closed the door and returned to the flat to find Sojo standing by the window.

Glancing over her shoulder, the blonde said drily, ‘Wasn’t he delighted to see me?’

Shaking her head, Charlotte said, ‘It wasn’t just that. Earlier we’d had a bit of a tiff.’

‘I wondered why he was venting his anger on you. What did you have a bit of a tiff about?’

Charlotte explained.

‘It doesn’t seem much to put him in such a foul mood. Unless he’s the kind of man who hates to be wrong-footed.’

Then curiously Sojo enquired, ‘Why did you want to leave the party so early? Or is that a rude question?’

‘Rudy wasn’t enjoying it, and I was upset. You see, when I was on my own for a while I noticed a man standing watching me.’

Seeing the look on Charlotte’s face, the other said sharply, ‘What happened? Did he insult you in some way?’

‘No. He just kept staring.’

Relaxing, Sojo opined, ‘He was probably hoping to get off with you.’

‘That’s more or less what Rudy said when he got back, but it wasn’t that kind of look at all.’

‘What was this strange man like? Tall? Short? Young? Old?’

‘I don’t really know,’ Charlotte said helplessly. ‘It was all over in a split-second. He was standing in deep shadow, and all I noticed were his eyes. A moment later, when I tried to point him out to Rudy, he’d vanished.’ She shivered.

Sojo frowned. ‘It isn’t like you to get all upset over nothing.’

‘It wasn’t nothing. There was so much animosity in his look. I felt…unnerved…I didn’t want to stumble across him again, and when Rudy suggested that we left I couldn’t wait to go. I just wish he hadn’t lied to Anthony.’

‘As that seems to have started it all, I bet he’s been wishing the same.’

‘I’m sorry he was in such a bad mood, especially when I wanted you to like him.’

‘I take it you didn’t warn him I’d be home?’ Sojo said.

‘No.’

‘Well, at least seeing him in a not so good light gave me a more rounded view than if he’d been on his best behaviour.’

‘So what did you think of him?’ Charlotte asked.

‘I thought he was every bit as handsome as you said. Very Byronic. I fancied him something rotten.’

‘I’m glad you liked him in spite of everything.’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Sojo pointed out.

‘But you said you fancied him.’

‘I lusted after him. But lust has very little to do with liking.’

‘Then you didn’t like him?’ Charlotte was dismayed.

‘No. And before you get any ideas, it wasn’t just because of his mood. In some ways that was understandable. I dare say he was hoping to kiss and make up, big time, and finding me waiting must have been a nasty blow. Disappointment’s a sharp thorn,’ Sojo added reflectively, ‘and if he’d tried to make the best of things I would have given him full marks. But he was petty and vindictive, which is an unpleasant combination. If you just wanted to jump into bed with him, have yourself some fun and then walk away, I’d say go for it. But I know that isn’t your scene, and I’d hate to think of you getting emotionally involved with a man like that.’

Her voice a little uncertain, Charlotte said, ‘My, you have got it in for him.’

‘I don’t want to see you get hurt, and if you let yourself fall for him you will be.’

‘How can you be so sure after just one meeting?’ Charlotte asked.

‘In case you haven’t noticed, he has a petulant mouth and a weak chin. Oh, and while I’m being completely frank, I don’t think he’s to be trusted.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Experience.’

Seeing Charlotte’s downcast expression, she added, ‘You know what they say, Good judgement comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgement. I’m not just being rotten…And I’m not trying to put you off him because I fancy him myself.’

‘No, I know you’re not.’

‘I just feel there’s something not quite right about him. But now I’ve had my say, forget it. You’re not a child. What you do with your life is up to you. If you’re already emotionally involved, I’ll just have to hope I’m wrong. By the way, does he have a minder?’ Sojo asked.

‘A minder?’ Charlotte echoed.

‘You know, someone who keeps tabs on him to make sure he’s OK.’

‘No. What on earth gave you that idea?’

‘When you set off for the party, a silver car followed you.’

‘Why shouldn’t it? It’s a public road.’ Charlotte shrugged.

‘Later there was some kind of disturbance outside—a drunk, I think. I was still at the window when you drew up. A silver car followed you back.’

‘There must be hundreds of silver cars in London.’

‘It was the same one,’ Sojo insisted.

‘A coincidence, surely.’

‘It parked a little way up the street and when he drove away just now, it followed him again. Too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’

‘It certainly seems odd. Next time I see Rudy, I’ll mention it to him,’ Charlotte said thoughtfully.

‘When are you seeing him again?’

‘I’m not sure. He said he’d be in touch.’

‘Presumably when he gets over his pique,’ Sojo said drily.

The following morning when the girls were just finishing their toast and coffee, the phone shrilled. Charlotte answered.

Sounding rushed and flustered, Rudy said, ‘I’ve only got a second. A short while ago my boss rang to say I’m needed in New York. Which is a blasted nuisance, but there’s no way I can get out of it.’

‘When will you be going?’ Charlotte asked.

‘I’m off to the airport now. The company car will be picking me up any second.’

‘How long will you be away?’

‘At the moment I’ve no idea. Not too long, I hope. I’ll be in touch as soon as I get back…’

Before she could even say goodbye, he was gone.

‘That was short and sweet,’ Sojo commented. ‘Wudolf, I take it?’

‘Yes.’ Charlotte frowned. ‘Apparently his firm is sending him to New York.’

‘For good?’ She sounded hopeful.

‘No.’

‘When will he be going?’

‘He should be on his way to the airport now.’

‘Funny he didn’t mention it last night when we were talking about the States,’ Sojo commented.

‘His boss only told him this morning.’

‘Now, that’s what you might call short notice. How long will he be gone for?’

‘He doesn’t know.’

As Sojo’s eyebrows shot up, she added, ‘But he said he’d be in touch as soon as he gets back.’

‘I wasn’t aware all the communication links between the US and the UK had been scrapped.’

‘When he’s working he’s probably too busy to think of anything else,’ Charlotte excused.

Sojo grunted. ‘If you ask me, he’s fed up with getting nowhere and he’s giving you the brush-off in favour of fresh fields and pastures new.’

Then, seeing Charlotte’s face, ‘Sorry, that was uncalled-for.’

‘Not at all; you may well be right.’

‘If it’s going to cause you serious pain, I’d sooner be wrong.’

‘Not too serious,’ Charlotte said as lightly as possible. ‘And if he’s the sort to do that, then I’m better off without him.’

‘That’s what I like to hear! Lord, is that the time? If I’m late for work I’ll be hearing things I don’t want to hear. By the way, I won’t be in for a meal tonight. It’s Mandy’s birthday, and a gang of us are going to paint the town. Want to join us?’ Sojo asked.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Sure?’

‘Quite sure. The last time I joined your gang it took me a week to recover.’

‘What’s the point of painting the town if you don’t do it in style? And as it happens I’ve some holiday due to me that I have to take before the new year, so when tomorrow’s over I don’t need to go into work until next Thursday. Four mornings of sleeping in late. Four whole days with nothing to do but laze about. Sheer bliss.’

‘You know perfectly well that by Tuesday you’ll be bored to tears,’ Charlotte pointed out with a smile.

Sojo grinned. ‘How well you know me. So maybe I’ll do a bit of sketching. The old man who lives across the road has an interesting face. See ya!’

When the other girl had hurried off, Charlotte cleared away and washed the breakfast dishes. Then, dressed in a grey skirt and top, her hair in a neat chignon, went down the back stairs to the shop.

One side was taken up by rows of shelves. On the other, between book-lined walls, there were several comfortable armchairs interspersed with low tables.

A hotplate, cups and all the necessary paraphernalia for ‘help yourself’ coffee were on a nearby trolley.

Providing free coffee for customers had proved a great success. Browsers, who in the past would have walked out empty-handed, now frequently stayed to drink and read, and ended up buying.

Having unlocked the shop door, she put two glass jugs of coffee on to heat, and brought fresh milk from the small fridge in her storeroom-cum-office.

The old-fashioned bell jangled discordantly and an elderly man came in and headed for New Fiction. He was followed by two women, then a moment later by a young man she guessed was a student, who made for the second-hand section.

Fridays were quite often busy, and this looked like being busier than usual. As well as needing to update the computer files and chase up some special orders, there was still yesterday’s delivery of new stock to be unpacked.

Margaret, who normally dealt with such tasks, was on holiday until the following day. A retired librarian, she had proved to be a godsend, and during the last week Charlotte had missed her help.

But it would be as well to keep busy, she told herself firmly. It would leave little time for too much thinking or repining.

Simon Farringdon paused outside the double-fronted shop that in gold lettering above the old bow-windows proudly bore the legend:

Charlotte Christie

New Books Old Books Rare Books and First Editions

Then with the air of someone going into battle, he pushed open the door and went inside.

Charlotte was in the storeroom when the doorbell jangled again. It was followed by the tinkle of the small brass bell that sat on the counter alongside a card reading, Please Ring For Attention.

She hurried out to find a tall, broad-shouldered man, with thick fair hair and a lean, aristocratic face, waiting.

He was somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, she guessed, and extremely well dressed, with a quiet air of authority and self-confidence.

Level brows, several shades darker than his hair, high cheekbones, a strong, bony nose and a mouth that was at once austere and sensual made him one of the most fascinating men she had ever seen.

Becoming aware that she was doing what Sojo would have described as gawping at him, she pulled herself together and said with a smile, ‘Good morning.’

The thickly lashed eyes that met hers were greeny-gold, like the surface of the sea with the sun on it.

Eyes you could drown in.

‘Miss Christie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good morning. My name’s Simon Farringdon…’ His voice was clear and low-pitched. An attractive voice.

‘How can I help you, Mr Farringdon?’ she asked pleasantly.

‘I got in touch with you recently, on my grandfather’s behalf, concerning a set of rather obscure books, Par le Fer et la Flamme, by the eighteenth-century writer Claude Bayeaux…’

‘Of course…I’m so sorry, I’m afraid for a moment your name didn’t register. Your grandfather must be Sir Nigel Bell-Farringdon?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m pleased to say I’ve managed to find the volumes he wants.’

‘Excellent! He’ll be delighted.’

His white smile sent little shivers chasing up and down her spine.

‘I’m hoping they’ll be delivered later this morning. But if not, they’ll certainly—’

‘Excuse me,’ a shrill, impatient voice broke in, ‘but do you have a copy of The Old Fig Tree…?’

Dragging her gaze away from Simon Farringdon, Charlotte found there were several people waiting.

‘It’s by Rachel Radford,’ the woman went on.

‘If you just give me a minute, I’ll check,’ Charlotte assured her politely.

‘I haven’t got a lot of time.’

Simon Farringdon said quickly, ‘As you’re obviously up to the neck, and I’d like a chance to discuss the books with you, perhaps you’ll have lunch with me?’

‘I’m afraid my assistant is on holiday until tomorrow, so I won’t be able to leave the shop,’ Charlotte said regretfully.

‘In that case, dinner tonight. If you give me your address I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.’

It wasn’t until later that she found herself wondering at his calm certainty, how sure of himself he’d been.

Now, feeling a strange surge of excitement, she found herself saying, ‘I live above the shop.’

‘Seven-thirty, then.’ He sketched a brief salute and was gone.

The woman looked pointedly at her watch.

‘I’m sorry,’ Charlotte apologised. ‘I’ll only be a moment or two.’

For the remainder of the day she was on the go constantly, managing only a snatched sandwich and a cup of coffee at noon.

Though there was no time for actually thinking, Simon Farringdon stayed in her consciousness like a burr clung to clothing.

It was almost a quarter to seven before the last customer departed and she was able to lock the door. Dog-tired, both mentally and physically, she climbed the stairs back to the flat to shower and change.

Normally, feeling as she did, she would have looked forward to a quiet night by the fire, but now she felt a fresh surge of excitement and anticipation at the thought of dining with Simon Farringdon.

Disconcerted by his effect on her, she told herself crossly not to be a fool. This wasn’t a date, it was simply a business dinner.

But even that stern reminder failed to dim her sense of expectancy.

Wondering where he was likely to take her, she was trying to decide between a midnight-blue dinner dress and a simple black sheath, when, catching sight of the dress she had worn the previous evening, she realised with a little shock of surprise that she hadn’t given Rudy a single thought.

Simon Farringdon’s attractive face and those extraordinary green-gold eyes had driven everything else from her mind.

How could she have believed herself on the verge of falling in love with one man, and within twenty-four hours be obsessed by thoughts of another? Especially a man she had met only briefly.

It wasn’t like her at all.

Finally deciding on the black sheath, she dressed and—unusually for her, having very little personal vanity—made up her face with care.

Then, hoping for a businesslike look, she re-coiled her cloud of dark hair into a chignon. A style that, had she known it, emphasised her long neck and pure bone structure and gave her an appealing air of fragility in spite of her height.

She had just slipped into her coat and picked up her bag when the doorbell rang. Feeling ridiculously nervous, like a girl on her first date, she took a quick glance out of the window. A sleek silver car was standing by the kerb.

As she hurried down the stairs to open the door it occurred to her that, having magnified his image in her mind into something special, seeing him again she could well be disappointed.

She wasn’t. If anything the impact was stronger.

Dressed in a well-cut dinner jacket, his tanned face smoothly shaven, the light from the street lamp gilding his corn-coloured hair, he would have been almost any woman’s dream escort.

Taking her hand, he said, ‘You look absolutely delightful, Miss Christie.’

He seemed even taller and more charismatic than she remembered, and her voice wasn’t quite steady as she said, ‘Thank you, Mr Farringdon.’

‘Won’t you call me Simon?’

‘If you’ll call me Charlotte.’

‘It’s a deal.’ He smiled at her and her heart turned over. ‘By the way, I’ve reserved a table at Carmichaels. I hope you approve?’

Carmichaels was one of the smartest dining and dancing places in London.

With an outmoded courtesy that she found quite charming, he helped her into the car. Then, sliding in beside her, he reached over to fasten her seat belt. Just for an instant his arm brushed her breasts.

That touch, brief as it was, sent heat running through her and made every single nerve in her body leap uncontrollably.

Her cheeks grew hot and, afraid he would notice, she turned her head and stared resolutely out of the side-window while he fastened his own belt.

She was still tingling when the engine purred into life and, having checked his mirror, he pulled out to join the traffic stream.

Totally thrown by his overpowering masculinity, and her instinctive feminine response to it, Charlotte found herself thinking in startled wonder that no other man had ever made her feel like this.

Not even Rudy.

When she was sure she could keep her voice steady, striving to sound cool and businesslike, she said, ‘I’m pleased to say the books your grandfather wanted were delivered this morning.’

‘That’s great. How many volumes are there? Apart from noting their publication in 1756, the family archives were unclear as to the precise number.’

‘There are six in the set.’

‘Have you had a chance to look at them yet?’

‘Only a brief glance, but they appear to be in excellent condition. Of course they’re a collector’s item, and rare, which is reflected in the price,’ Charlotte commented.

‘Apart from some historical detail I doubt if they would be of much interest to anyone but the Farringdon family or a collector,’ he replied.

‘I must admit I’m curious to know how they came to be written.’

‘In March 1744 Claude Bayeaux, writer and poet, married Elizabeth Farringdon, and, discovering that there were strong French connections—several of the Farringdon men had taken French wives—began to research the family history. Apparently he found it absorbing, and those six volumes—which took him practically twelve years to write—trace the fortunes of the Farringdons from the 12th century up until the 18th…’

‘The title Par le Fer et la Flamme suggests they were fairly militant,’ Charlotte murmured.

‘How very diplomatic,’ Simon mocked, with a glinting sideways glance. ‘In truth, going to war was their way of life. They changed allegiance whenever it suited them and fought for the highest bidder, tactics that made them rich and powerful, not to mention feared. The Farringdon women made their mark in other ways. Many of them, noted beauties with strong characters, married into other powerful families, and wielded influence rather than swords. With one notable exception. In the 15th century, Nell Farringdon is said to have killed her elderly husband, the Earl of Graydon, with his own sword, because he had betrayed one of her brothers…’

Charlotte was still listening, fascinated, as they drew up outside Carmichaels. In a privileged position overlooking Hyde Park, it was quietly discreet on the outside, openly opulent on the inside.

The latest smart society venue, it smacked of money and privilege—public school, Oxbridge, skiing in the winter, taking the family yacht to Monte Carlo in the summer.

In such a setting Charlotte could easily have felt underdressed and overwhelmed, but strangely enough she didn’t. With Simon Farringdon’s hand at her waist, she felt supremely confident.

When they had been greeted with deference and her coat had been whisked away, they were shown to a table on the edge of the dance floor.

Most of the other tables were occupied, and a few couples were already dancing to an old Jerome Kern tune played by a six-piece orchestra.

As soon as they were seated, and had been handed gilt-edged menus, the wine waiter appeared with a bottle of Bollinger’s Recemment Degorge in an ice bucket. Having eased out the cork, he poured the sparkling wine, and waited for Farringdon’s nod of approval before moving away.

Smiling at Charlotte, Simon lifted his glass in a silent toast.

She smiled back and took a sip. It was the finest champagne she had ever tasted, and she said so.

‘I hoped you’d like it.’ He looked straight into her long-lashed eyes, eyes of a clear dark grey with an even darker ring round the iris.

His look was so direct it was more like being touched than looked at. After a moment, her head spinning, she dragged her gaze away and tried to concentrate on the menu.

God, but she was lovely, he thought, studying that haunting heart-shaped face with its wide mouth and delicately pointed chin, the neat little ears tucked close to her well-shaped head and that long, graceful neck…

Now he knew what poets meant by swan-like.

And though she might have neither morals nor scruples, she had class. She wasn’t the kind of woman he could have paid off, even if the Carlotta Stone hadn’t been rightfully hers. So that left him with only one alternative. To seduce her away from Rudy.

Which would be no hardship.

Glancing up, she was shaken afresh to find that Simon was still studying her closely, a lick of flame in his eyes that made her stomach clench.

‘Seen anything you fancy?’ he asked smoothly, indicating the menu.

‘Lots. I just can’t decide.’ To her annoyance, she sounded breathless.

‘Do you like fish?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Then may I suggest Sole Veronique, followed perhaps by the blackcurrant cheesecake?’

‘Sounds delicious,’ she agreed.

His glance brought the waiter hurrying.

When their order had been given and they were alone once more, he asked, ‘Is there a current boyfriend?’

Taken by surprise, she stammered, ‘N-not exactly.’

He waited, his eyes on her face.

When she made no attempt to elaborate, he said, ‘Tell me about yourself. What made you decide to keep a bookshop?’

‘I’ve always liked books, so it seemed the right thing to do, especially as I had quite a lot of stock that I’d inherited from my mother.’

He raised a brow in tacit enquiry.

‘She used to run a second-hand bookshop in Chelsea before she remarried and went to live in Australia,’ Charlotte explained. ‘I’d hoped to take over her business when I left college, but the premises were due for demolition, so when I was offered a lease on the shop I have now and the accommodation above it, which was quite nicely furnished, I snapped it up.’

‘And it’s worked well?’

‘Yes, very well indeed. At first I had a bit of a struggle financially, but now sales are up and I’m able to afford an assistant.’

‘How long have you been in business?’

‘About two and a half years.’

‘Not bad going,’ he said admiringly.

As the orchestra started to play a quickstep, he rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Would you care to dance?’

The mere thought of being held in his arms made her go funny all over, and as she hesitated he added with the faintest hint of derision, ‘Or perhaps you only disco?’

‘I’d love to dance,’ she said coolly. Rising to her feet, she put her hand in his and quivered as shock waves ran through her.

CHAPTER THREE

DRAWING her into his arms, Simon held her firmly, but not too tightly, nor too closely. Even so her pulses began to race and her knees turned to jelly.

She sent up a silent prayer of thanks that although she was shaken, and hadn’t danced for some time, she had enough experience not to miss a step or stumble.

Which was just as well, as he proved to be an extremely good dancer, light on his feet and innately graceful, with a natural sense of timing and rhythm.

Though Charlotte was five feet eight inches in her stockinged feet, the top of her head was just on a level with his mouth. Used to being as tall as her partner, if not taller, she found this heightened her newly awakened sense of femininity.

As they moved in perfect unison round the floor, she glanced up, and, seeing his quizzical expression, felt a little thrill of triumph.

Bending his head, he asked, ‘Now, where did you learn to dance like this?’

‘My father taught me. Before he died, ballroom dancing was my parents’ hobby.’

‘I do apologise.’

‘For what?’

‘For daring to breathe the word disco.’

‘Oh, I can disco too,’ she told him cheerfully.

‘A woman of many parts.’

He drew her closer and they enjoyed the rest of the dance before returning to their table.

They had just regained their seats when, with perfect timing, their meal arrived. It proved to be delicious, and for the most part they ate in an appreciative silence.

It wasn’t until they were at the coffee stage that Simon picked up the threads of their earlier conversation by remarking, ‘You said your mother went to live in Australia?’

‘Yes, she married a businessman from Sydney. I was surprised when she agreed to go all that way; she’d always hated the thought of flying.’

Thoughtfully, she added, ‘To be honest, I hadn’t really expected her to remarry. She and Dad were such a devoted couple. As I told you, my father died when I was eighteen.’

‘Any brothers or sisters?’ Simon enquired.

‘No, there was just me. My parents couldn’t have any children. I was adopted.’

‘That’s tough.’

She shook her head. ‘I was one of the lucky ones. My adoptive parents were nice, decent people, and though they brought me up strictly, they loved me and gave me everything I needed.’

‘What age were you when you were adopted?’

‘I was just a baby.’

‘So presumably you don’t remember anything about your natural parents?’

‘Nothing at all. I only know what Mum told me as soon as she thought I was old enough to understand, and what I picked up from the letters and documents she’d kept.’

Responding to his tacit interest, she went on, ‘I know my real mother’s name was Emily Charlotte, and that in 1967, when she was just twenty, she married a man named Stephen Bolton. But some ten years later it seems he left her for another woman. She was working as a secretary when she became involved in an affair with her boss, who was a married man. On discovering that she was pregnant, she appealed to him for help. Apparently he tried to persuade her to have an abortion, and when she flatly refused, he washed his hands of her. Unfortunately she’d lost both her own parents and had no one to turn to.’

‘It must have been a hard time for her. So what year were you born?’

‘1980. It appears to have been a difficult birth that she never fully recovered from, and six months later, weak and depressed, she caught flu and died before anyone realised how ill she was.’

‘So you were Charlotte Bolton before the Christies adopted you?’ Simon observed casually.

‘No. After her husband left her, my mother reverted to her maiden name of Yancey.’

‘An unusual name,’ he commented.

‘Though my grandparents lived in London, a letter written to my grandfather, Paul Yancey, suggested that he might have been born in Georgia.’

‘Any idea where your grandmother originated?’ he asked almost idly.

‘None at all. The only thing I know about her is that her name was Mary.’

With a smile, she added, ‘Unlike the Farringdons, my ancestry is a closed book, and I’m afraid it will have to stay that way.’

‘Who said, if ignorance is bliss it’s folly to be wise? The Farringdons are a pretty unconventional bunch to belong to,’ Simon pointed out with a wry smile.

Then as the orchestra began to play a tango, dismissing the past, he asked, ‘Shall we dance?’

This time she went into his arms without hesitation, as if she belonged there.

The rest of the evening passed, on Charlotte’s part at least, in a haze of excitement and pleasure, while they talked and danced.

Though Simon drank hardly anything, he kept her glass topped up, and when twelve o’clock came and they started for home, she was still on a high and just the slightest bit squiffy.

By that time the traffic had thinned somewhat, and they made good time back to Bayswater through the midnight streets. When they drew up outside the shop, he unfastened his seat belt and turned towards her.

Wondering if he was about to kiss her, she felt every nerve in her body tighten, and her lips parted, half in panic, half in anticipation.

When he just sat and studied her face in the mingled light from the dashboard and street lamp, feeling foolish, she rushed into speech. ‘Thank you, it’s been great fun. What do you want to do about the books? Would you like to take them with you, or shall I send them on?’

‘That’s one of the things I meant to talk to you about, but somehow the time has just flown. Perhaps you’d care to read this?’

He felt in an inner pocket, and, handing her an unsealed envelope, flicked on the interior light.

She withdrew the single sheet of thick cream notepaper, to find it covered with a laboured scrawl, which read:

Dear Miss Christie,

My grandson has informed me that you have succeeded in finding the set of books he contacted you about. I would like the chance to thank you in person, and I would be pleased if you could bring them down yourself and spend the weekend at Farringdon Hall, as my guest.

Nigel Bell-Farringdon.

Completely thrown, she stammered, ‘D-does he mean this weekend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, but I have to be in the shop tomorrow.’

‘Didn’t you say your assistant will be back by then? Couldn’t she cope for one day?’

‘Well, I suppose so, but…’

‘But what?’ Simon asked.

‘I’d need to ask her…And it’s such short notice when she’s just come back from her holiday. Perhaps if I made it next weekend?’

‘Next weekend might be too late,’ Simon stated abruptly.

‘Too late?’

‘My grandfather is extremely ill. He could die at any time.’

‘Oh.’ She was nonplussed.

‘So we’re trying to comply with his every wish.’

‘I quite understand, but I—’

‘When he expressed a desire to meet you, I offered to write the note for him. But, though he was in great pain at the time, he insisted on writing it himself. It took a great deal of will-power on his part,’ Simon added quietly.

Moved, she agreed, ‘Very well, I’ll certainly come if Margaret can take care of the shop.’

‘He suggested sending a car for you, but I told him I would be delighted to pick you up.’ Then, as if it was all settled, ‘Shall we say ten o’clock?’

Apparently having achieved what he’d set out to do, he left his seat briskly and came round to open her door and help her out.

Thrusting the note into her bag, she fumbled for her key. When she finally located it, Simon took it from her and turned it in the lock.

Then, his head tilted a little to one side, he stood looking down at her, almost as if he was waiting for her to make some move.

After an awkward pause, she said in a rush, ‘Thank you again for a lovely evening.’

‘It was my pleasure.’

She was wondering if he was expecting to be invited up, when he touched her cheek with a single finger. ‘Goodnight; sleep well.’ Turning on his heel, he walked away.

That lightest of caresses made her heart beat faster and her legs were unsteady as, closing the door behind her, she made her way up the stairs.

Without putting on the light, she crossed the living-room and looked out of the window.

The street was empty. His car had gone. She felt a keen disappointment, a sense of loss, that for one idiotic moment made her want to cry.

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