Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Dishonourable Intent

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

HE STOOD at the long mullioned windows of the library, watching the desultory stream of visitors making their way towards the exit. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, of course, but their reluctance to leave seemed evident enough. And, after all, the garden and grounds of Lingard Abbey were fast becoming one of the most popular tourist attractions in Yorkshire, the steady influx of cash the visitors provided slowly enabling him to restore the surroundings of the old house to their former glory.

At least he could now pay the gardeners a living wage, he thought wryly, raising one narrow hand to rest it against the scarred frame. At this time of the year, particularly, the terraces and water gardens were a riot of colour; even the lake, glittering in the rays of the lowering sun, reflected the colours of the trees and shrubs that surrounded it.

Of course, it would take more than the income from an unspecified number of tourists to make any serious assault on the house. Dampness, crumbling stonework, and the tendency to shriek like a banshee when the wind invaded the cracks in the woodwork, had made parts of the Abbey virtually uninhabitable. Which was why he was considering his grandmother’s suggestion that he get married again. A wealthy wife, who wouldn’t demand too much from him beyond his title, and the only way he could hope to retain his home.

He scowled, and turned away from the window. It was archaic, he thought irritably. Imagine marrying someone in this day and age simply to restore the family fortunes. It was all very well for his grandmother to declare that it had been an accepted practice when she was young. It was nearly the start of the new millennium, for God’s sake! If he did marry again, it ought to be to someone he cared about, at least.

Yet... His scowl deepened. Marrying someone he had cared about hadn’t worked before, so why should he assume it would work now? He’d been crazy about Francesca, and she’d walked all over him. Was he really in the market to make that same mistake again?

The answer was a resounding no. Even the thought of embarking on another disastrous relationship caused a bitter churning in his gut. Perhaps his grandmother was right; perhaps it was better to be the one who was loved rather than the other way about. He’d loved Francesca, and suffered all the pains of hell when it was over...

A tentative tap on the heavy panels of the door halted his morbid introspection. ‘Come in,’ he called brusquely, pausing on the worn rug that lay before the impressive hearth, and moments later the angular figure of Watkins, the elderly butler, appeared in the aperture.

‘Good evening, my lord,’ Watkins greeted him politely. ‘Um—Mrs Harvey was wondering if you’d be in to supper,’ he explained, with a diffident air. ‘And O’Brien asked me to inform you that a pair of electric shears are missing. He left them in the knot garden, but they were not there when he went to fetch them.’

His employer’s lips thinned. ‘What the hell was O’Brien thinking of, leaving the shears unattended in the first place?’ he demanded, and then stifled any further comment at the troubled look on Watkins’ face. ‘Oh, never mind.’ he muttered. ‘I’ll speak to O’Brien myself in the morning. And, no, I won’t be in for supper. I’m dining with Lady Rosemary at Mulberry Court.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Watkins glanced hopefully about him. ‘Can I get you a drink before I leave?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ The younger man managed a civil rejoinder. ‘Thank you, Watkins. I shan’t be needing anything else tonight.’

‘No, my lord.’ Watkins backed somewhat unevenly towards the door, and, alone again, he reflected that the old man really ought to be retired. He had to be seventy, if he was a day, and had worked for the family since he was a boy. But without his job at the Abbey it was difficult to think how Watkins would survive.

A huge mahogany desk occupied a central position by the windows, and, flinging himself into the worn leather chair behind it, he stared somewhat broodingly into space. Here he was, William Henry Robert Gervaise Quentin, 9th Earl of Lingard, and he couldn’t even afford to give his staff a decent pension.

An hour later, bathed and shaved, and with his too long dark hair brushed smoothly behind his ears, he drove the short distance between Lingard Abbey and his grandmother’s country home at Mulberry Court. He was trying hard to feel more optimistic, but the thought of the evening ahead was putting a definite strain on his temper. It was all very well to acknowledge his limitations in the comparative anonymity of the Abbey, and quite another to consider the alternative with his grandmother’s matchmaking in prospect.

Mulberry Court glowed in the amber light of the summer evening. An attractive manor house, with its origins dating from the sixteenth century, the house and its extensive grounds had been entailed upon his aunt’s eldest son. Unfortunately, his cousin Edward had died of leukaemia when he was in his teens, and in consequence the entail was now endowed upon a distant relative of his late grandfather.

It had always been a source of great disappointment to Lady Rosemary that her favourite grandchild was not in line to inherit the estate. The monies devolved from the properties and the like would have enabled him to restore the Abbey without having to resort to a form of legal prostitution, and the old lady did everything in her power to make his life less fraught.

Except when it came to marriage, and the provision of the next Earl of Lingard, he reflected wryly as he parked his estate car to the right of the front door. In Lady Rosemary’s opinion, nothing could compensate for the lack of a wife and family, and she was hopeful that with the right woman he could achieve both ends in one.

A housemaid opened the door at his approach, and he guessed his grandmother had been watching for him. She and her guests were enjoying pre-supper drinks in the orangery, and the pleasant scent of citrus was in the air.

“Will!’ His grandmother came to meet him as he halted in the doorway, reaching up to brush dry, papery lips across his newly shaved cheek. ‘My dear,’ she said approvingly, ‘I was beginning to wonder if you were coming. Emma and her parents are waiting eagerly to meet you.’

He could feel his features tightening into a polite mask, and he made an effort to relax again. ‘Hello, Rosie,’ he teased softly. ‘Don’t waste any time, will you? Are you afraid I might do a bolt if I’m not hooked?’

Lady Rosemary’s smile weakened. ‘I do hope you’re going to behave yourself, Will,’ she countered severely, speaking in an undertone, so that the four other people dotted about the glass-covered verandah were unable to hear. ‘Emma is not at all like Francesca Goddard, and I won’t have you behaving as if she is.’

He sighed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He paused. ‘And by the way, Francesca still calls herself Francesca Quentin.’

‘She would.’ The old lady almost snorted the words.

‘You know why, of course: she finds it useful. I’m surprised she hasn’t attempted to retain the title, as well.’

She was scathing, and Will knew a moment’s regret that this was so. He wondered if his parents, had they still been alive, would have regarded Francesca’s behaviour with less censure. But they’d died in a freak boating accident when he was barely a teenager, and from then on his grandmother had been his guardian.

And from the beginning her attitude towards Francesca had always been vaguely hostile. He knew the old lady had never really considered Francesca good enough for him, and in any case she had had another, more socially and financially suitable candidate in mind. Unfortunately, he had been thinking with his heart and not his head in those days. He’d been crazy about Francesca; he’d wanted her; he’d wanted to marry her, and as far as he was concerned that had been that.

‘Anyway, come along,’ declared Lady Rosemary now, tucking her arm through his and turning to face her guests. ‘Here he is, everyone. This is my grandson, William Quentin. Will, allow me to introduce Sir George and Lady Merritt, and their youngest daughter, Emma.’

Will had met people like the Merritts before. Sir George was a self-made man, a latter-day baronet, whose life peerage owed more to the worthy causes he supported than to any particular quality he possessed. He was several inches shorter than Will, with the rotund belly of a serious drinker, while his wife was thin to the point of emaciation, and obviously subscribed to the maxim that one couldn’t be too thin or too rich.

Their daughter, he saw thankfully, was something else. Of all the young women his grandmother had produced for his inspection, Emma Merritt was by far the most attractive to date. Slim—without her mother’s angularity—with straight silvery blonde hair that curved almost confidingly under her jawline, and wide blue eyes, she was quite startlingly good-looking, and he was impressed.

He caught his grandmother’s eye on him at that moment, and he could almost see what the old lady was thinking. Lady Rosemary would take great pleasure in seeing her grandson married again, and introducing Emma as the new Countess of Lingard would restore her faith in her own beliefs. She wanted to see him settled; she wanted to know he had a family. Will guessed she was already considering how she could sponsor the children their union would produce.

Children?

Will’s lips twisted with sudden cynicism, and Sir George Merritt regarded him with a certain amount of dismay. ‘It’s a great pleasure to meet you, my lord!’ he exclaimed hastily, and Will struggled to regain his equanimity before disclaiming the older man’s form of address.

‘Quentin will do, Sir George,’ he amended smoothly, earning a relieved smile for his trouble. ‘Or Lingard, if you prefer. I seldom use my title among friends.’

Lady Merritt preened at the compliment, even as she protested his magnanimity. ‘But you should,’ she said coyly. Though we are flattered to be here.’ And Will wondered with unwilling irony whether she was protecting his interests or her daughter’s.

‘My grandson has always been a law unto himself,’ put in Lady Rosemary swiftly, perhaps aware of Will’s response. ‘When he was at college, he called himself Will Quentin, and no one knew his background.’ She exchanged a speaking look with him again. ‘I keep reminding him he has responsibilities he can’t ignore.’

‘To do with his rank, you mean,’ Lady Merritt agreed, nodding. ‘But, of course, we all have our particular crosses to bear. Take George, for instance: you can’t imagine how often his services are called upon. There’s always some charity dinner or benefit in the offing. He’s become quite a popular after-dinner speaker.’

‘I don’t think that’s what Lady Rosemary was talking about,’ Emma interposed then, with a knowing smile. ‘Perhaps—he—’ she refrained from using either of the alternatives ‘—would rather people accepted him for himself,’ she ventured, in an attractively breathy tone. ‘I’d hate it if I thought my friends only cultivated me because I was your daughter, Daddy.’

Will had to smile at her audacity. In a couple of sentences, she had defused all their arguments, without causing any offence to anyone. She was obviously not as dumb as her appearance might have suggested, and he felt a little more optimistic about the evening ahead.

‘Oh—well—’ Sir George was the first to answer her. ‘If you put it like that, my dear, I suppose I have to see your point.’ He put an approving hand on her shoulder. ‘Aren’t I a lucky man—er—Lingard? A daughter with brains as well as beauty.’

‘An unusual combination,’ murmured Will drily, though after meeting Emma’s artful gaze they weren’t quite the sentiments he’d have chosen. Nevertheless, she was amusing, and far more interesting than some of the vapid débutante types he had had to deal with in the past.

The housemaid who had admitted him now reappeared carrying a tray of cocktails, but Will managed to avoid accepting one of his grandmother’s concoctions. Instead, he sidled over to the table and helped himself to a measure of vintage Scotch, surveying his fellow guests over the rim of his glass.

He saw now that Archie Rossiter, one of his grandmother’s elderly admirers, was dozing in a cane chair beside the winter cactus. Archie had been Lady Rosemary’s doctor until he retired a couple of years ago, and he could always be relied upon to even the numbers, if required. He was a pleasant old man, if inclined to be a little forgetful these days. There was a whisky glass beside his chair, too, and Will guessed he’d been imbibing long before anyone else arrived. His lips twitched. Good old Archie! They might have had their differences at times, but he felt a certain amount of affection for the old man.

‘Are we that boring?’

The voice came from close at hand, and he realised that while he had been studying Archie Rossiter Emma had left her parents talking to his grandmother, and come to join him.

‘Boring?’ he echoed, aware of her meaning but giving himself time to think. ‘Why should you think that, Miss Merritt? The evening’s hardly begun.’

‘Oh, I know that.’ She regarded the cocktail she was holding for a moment, and then tilted her head to give him the full benefit of her wide-eyed gaze. ‘And my name’s Emma, not Miss Merritt. That sounds almost as dull as you probably think we are.’

Will arched one dark brow. ‘You don’t know what I think.’

‘Don’t I?’ Clearly, she thought she did. ‘You probably didn’t want to join us for dinner, did you?’

‘Why should you think that?’

It wasn’t a denial, and he could tell from her expression that she knew it. ‘Because Daddy was so insistent that he needed a few days in the country. You can never get him out of the office when we’re at home.’

Will endeavoured to follow her conversation. ‘And where is that?’ he asked politely. ‘Home, I mean? You’re not from this area, I gather.’

‘Hardly,’ said Emma flatly. ‘Or we wouldn’t be staying at Mulberry Court. No, actually, we live in Cambridge. My father has business interests there.’

‘Does he?’

Will forbore to ask what those business interests might be. He seemed to recall his grandmother mentioning something about microchip technology, and the uses to which it could be put in mobile phones and fax machines. According to Lady Rosemary—and this was the important thing so far as she was concerned—Sir George was incredibly wealthy, and eager to acquire for his youngest daughter the kind of pedigree money couldn’t buy.

‘Lady Rosemary told us you studied at Cambridge,’ Emma continued, and he wondered exactly how much she knew of the unholy alliance to which her father aspired. ‘Unfortunately, I wasn’t clever enough to go to university,’ she added. ‘So Daddy sent me to a finishing school in Switzerland instead.’

Will’s mouth flattened. ‘I can’t believe you couldn’t have found a place at university if you’d really wanted to,’ he remarked drily, and was rewarded by a mischievous glance out of the corner of her eye.

‘Well, who wants to spend hours studying stuffy old books when one could be out riding or swimming or watching polo?’ she declared smugly. ‘It was so much more fun in Lausanne. You wouldn’t believe the things we got up to.’

Will thought he probably could, but he didn’t comment, and presently she began to talk about the history of Mulberry Court and how much she enjoyed exploring old buildings. After what she’d said about the stuffiness of books and study, Will doubted she had any real interest in the subject—not in an objective way, at least. But he knew what was expected of him, and politely suggested she might like to visit the Abbey while she was here, and he knew from the enthusiasm of her acceptance that he was right.

By the time Mrs Baxter, his grandmother’s housekeeper, came to announce that supper was ready, he felt he knew virtually all there was to know about Emma’s life up to that point. He knew the schools she’d attended, the subjects she’d enjoyed most, and her tentative plans for the future. The fact that she was keen to fall in love and get married, and subsequently have a large family, had been relayed to him in that attractively breathy tone, and he doubted few men would remain immune to such appealing candour.

Somewhat to his relief, he found Archie Rossiter on his left at supper. The heavy table, which had once occupied a central position in the dining hall, was now used as a sideboard, and the table they ate from was of a much more manageable size. Acting on his grandmother’s instructions, he was sure, Mrs Baxter had placed Will beside Emma Merritt, thus enabling Lady Rosemary to have Sir George and his daughter on either hand.

It was obvious the old lady intended to keep a sharp eye on the young woman she was hoping might become her grandson’s wife, but it suited Will’s purposes very well. He could parry any awkward questions by talking to the old man, and with Lady Merritt sitting opposite this was no small advantage.

And yet he wasn’t totally opposed to being scrutinised in his turn, and whenever his grandmother caught his eye he turned a tolerant smile in her direction. He had invited Emma to Lingard; he would see how things developed from there. He was making no impetuous promises he couldn’t keep.

He ate sparingly, finding the cook’s reliance on garlic and rich Mediterranean sauces hard to stomach. But Luisa was Italian, and didn’t take kindly to being criticised, and his grandmother was afraid to offend her in case she left. It wasn’t easy keeping staff in Yorkshire, when the lure of London and higher wages was so attractive. But Luisa had family in the neighbourhood, and the fact that Lady Rosemary spent the early part of the year in London anyway enabled her to enjoy the best of both worlds.

Besides, as his grandmother was known to argue, what was wrong with pasta and tomatoes? They were both good, wholesome ingredients, and far better for you than stodgy pies and puddings. He looked down at his plate, his lips tightening, as he remembered sharing a joke with Francesca about Luisa’s temperamental nature. His ex-wife had expressed the view that if Luisa produced pasta pies and puddings Lady Rosemary wouldn’t say a word against them.

“I understand you spent some time on our home territory,’ Lady Merritt interrupted him now, and for a moment Will didn’t know what she meant. ‘At Cambridge,’ she added pointedly. ‘Wasn’t that where you took your degree?’

Will drew a breath. ‘Oh—Cambridge.’ he said politely. ‘Yes. That’s right. But it’s some years ago now. I’ve almost forgotten my college days.’

‘Not that long ago,’ inserted Lady Rosemary, proving she was not above eavesdropping herself if she felt it was needed. ‘You’re only thirty-four, Will. You talk as if it was the dim and distant past.’ She paused, and then added with rather more asperity, ‘I can imagine there are aspects of that time that are rather—disagreeable to you. But don’t dismiss your education.’ She glanced around to include the whole table in her next words. ‘It’s so important, don’t you think?’

‘Welt—’

Lady Merritt was less positive on this subject, and Emma took the opportunity to explain why. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been quite a disappointment in that department, Lady Rosemary. I have to admit, I couldn’t wait to leave school.’

‘But she had extremely good marks while she was there—’ began her mother, only to be overridden again in her turn.

‘I was talking about my grandson,’ said Lady Rosemary, managing to modify her comments without giving offence. She bestowed a brilliant smile on Emma, and then continued, ‘I wouldn’t want another bluestocking for a granddaughter-in-law, my dear. Believe me, one was quite enough.’

She had gone too far. Will knew she had sensed her mistake long before she encountered her grandson’s cool grey stare. Which was why she hurried on to another topic, asking Sir George what he thought of the local golf club where he had played a round that afternoon.

‘Was your wife very clever?’ enquired Emma artlessly, and, although her questions had amused him before, now he felt a sense of impatience.

‘Not particularly,’ he answered shortly, taking refuge in his glass of wine. Though the truth was that Francesca had been rather clever—too clever for her own good, he thought bitterly, refilling his glass.

‘I hear your man’s had some success with his fuchsias this year,’ Archic Rossiter remarked amiably, jolting Will out of his darkening mood, and he turned gratefully towards the old man.

‘I’m pleased to hear he’s had some success with something,’ he said forcefully. ‘He lost a pair of electric shears this afternoon. He’s always leaving his tools lying about, and then expressing surprise when they disappear.’

Archie chuckled. ‘He’s getting old, Will. We all are. Your grandmother included, only she’d never admit it.’

‘Is that her excuse?’ queried Will wryly, and Archie pulled a sympathetic face.

‘Probably. Though, as I said, she’d be the last to say so.’

‘To say what?’ demanded Lady Rosemary, overhearing them, but then subsided again when she met her grandson’s eyes. ‘Oh, well,’ she muttered, pressing her palms together and surveying her other guests with determined brightness. ‘Shall we adjourn to the drawing room for coffee?’

Will made his escape soon after nine-thirty.

His taste for conspiracy had palled somewhat, and although he had agreed to pick Emma and her parents up the following morning and bring them back to the Abbey for lunch he was more than ready to relinquish their company tonight.

It was still light as he drove back to the Abbey, and the scents of wild blossom and newly mown hay were a balm to his restless spirit. He was tempted to call at the pub in Lingard village and enjoy a pint of beer with the landlord, but the knowledge that he would have to drive back to the Abbey afterwards deterred him. He’d already drunk more than enough this evening, and with the prospect of playing host tomorrow ahead of him he decided he would be advised to be temperate.

The outline of the Abbey was visible long before he reached the park gates. Its grey stone walls were clearly silhouetted against the amber sky, and he knew a momentary sense of pride that his ancestors had lived here for more than two hundred years. There had actually been a monastery on the site for much longer than that, but that had been destroyed during the dissolution that had taken place in the sixteenth century. The present building owed its origins to the early part of the seventeenth century, with successive occupants making additions and alterations to its ivy-hung faade. Although it was by no means a luxurious residence, certain comforts such as central heating had made the old place infinitely more habitable. It would be a shame, he thought ruefully, if it was allowed to deteriorate even more. He owed it to himself, and to Lingard, to do everything in his power to prevent that from happening.

He frowned when he saw the small sports car parked on the gravelled sweep in front of the house. He wasn’t expecting any visitors, and none of the servants owned such a vehicle. It was possible that it was some relative of theirs who was visiting, but he couldn’t imagine Watkins allowing anyone to park in front of the building.

He certainly wasn’t in the mood to be sociable with anyone, and, jamming on the brakes, he brought the Range Rover to a halt beside the offending car. Whoever it was had better have a bloody good excuse, he thought aggressively, vaulting out of his seat. Slamming the door, he strode towards the house. The forecourt wasn’t a car park, after all.

The heavy door opened to his hand, proving that Watkins had not yet got around to locking up. Inside, the stone floor of the vestibule threw up a chill after the warmth of the air outside, but he scarcely noticed the difference as he pressed on into the vaulted hall.

Here, worn Persian rugs helped to mitigate the chill that emanated from the thick walls. The walls themselves were hung with fading tapestries, which offered little in the way of warmth or comfort, but they were familiar, and Will was loath to part with them. He had already sold everything of any real value in his efforts to keep the old place going, and the threadbare hangings were an integral part of his heritage.

He had halted in the doorway to the small family parlour, and was scowling at the fact that in his absence someone had taken the liberty of lighting a fire in the grate, when he heard Watkins’ wheezing breath behind him.

‘Oh, my lord!’ he exclaimed, and it was obvious from his expression that he knew what to expect. ‘You’re back!’

‘It would appear so,’ remarked Will, with forced cordiality. ‘Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?’

Watkins patted his chest with his gnarled fist, as if by doing so he could relieve the congestion that had gathered there, and offered his employer an appealing look. ‘You’ve—er—you’ve got a visitor, my lord,’ he said hoarsely. ‘She—she arrived just after you’d left.’

‘She?’

For the life of him, Will couldn’t think of any female who might turn up on his doorstep unannounced, but before Watkins could marshal his explanations a disturbingly familiar voice interrupted them. ‘Hello, Will,’ he heard with unbelieving ears. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I made myself at home.’

CHAPTER TWO

FRANCESCA!

Will turned with stunned eyes to see his ex-wife crossing the hall towards him. Rocking back on his heels, he stared at her as if he’d never seen her before, and certainly she looked much different from the woman he remembered.

Gone were the jeans and casual clothes she’d regularly worn, and in their place was an elegant navy business suit and high-heeled pumps. Her long, slender legs—one of the first things that had attracted him to her, he remembered unwillingly—were encased in gossamer-thin navy tights, and her hair, which she’d always worn loose, was confined in a tight knot at the back of her head. Her features, thinner than he remembered, surely, were thrown into sharp relief by the severity of her hairstyle, but if the intention had been to maximise the austerity of her appearance she had not succeeded. On the contrary, she looked quite wildly beautiful, a sensuous, sensual woman wrapped up in a sombre shell.

“That—mat’s what I was trying to tell you, my lord,’ Watkins mumbled, watching his employer’s reaction with anxious eyes. ‘Miss—Mrs—um—your wife arrived earlier this evening. I hope you don’t mind: I had Mrs Harvey prepare the guest suite in the west wing.’

Will was tempted to remind the old man that Francesca wasn’t his wife any more, but it was obvious from his fumbling form of address that he hadn’t forgotten. ‘It’s Mrs Quentin,’ he said. And then, arching a brow at Francesca he asked, ‘That is still how you like to be addressed?’

‘It will do,’ she agreed, with a tightening of her lips. ‘How are you, Will? I must say, you look well.’

‘Thank you.’ Will didn’t return the compliment, even if the awareness of her sophisticated appearance hung between them with an almost tangible air. ‘Do you want to tell me what you’re doing here, Francesca? I don’t remember issuing an invitation, and I’m afraid it’s not particularly convenient right now.’

The muscles in her cheeks contracted, almost as if he had hit her, and Will knew an unwarranted sense of guilt at the sight. Dammit, he thought, she ought not to have come here. He didn’t owe her anything. If she was short of money, she’d certainly come to the wrong place.

‘If you’ll excuse me, my lord.’ Watkins was of the old school, where it was never polite to be rude to a lady. Particularly not a lady who had once lived at Lingard Abbey, who had shared every aspect of his employer’s life, his ambitions, his bed...

‘Mrs—er—Mrs Harvey has prepared some sandwiches, my lord,’ he added swiftly, gesturing into the room behind Will. ‘There’s some tea—um—Mrs Quentin preferred it to coffee. Shall I fetch another cup?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Will shortly, aware that he was behaving unnecessarily boorishly, but unable to do anything about it. For God’s sake, he thought, he’d got Emma and her parents coming for lunch tomorrow. Imagine having to tell them that he was playing host to his ex-wife.

‘Then if that’s all, my lord...’

‘Of course, of course.’ Will strove for normality and, avoiding looking at Francesca, he gave Watkins a constrained smile. ‘You get along to bed,’ he dismissed the old man pleasantly. ‘Oh—and perhaps you’d inform Mrs Harvey there’ll be three guests for lunch tomorrow.’

Watkins’ eyes darted to Francesca in some perplexity. ‘Three guests, my lord?’

‘Excluding Mrs Quentin,’ said Will flatly. ‘Goodnight, Watkins. I’ll make sure the doors are locked.’

Watkins nodded, offered Francesca a somewhat awkward farewell, and ambled off towards the leather-studded door that gave access to the kitchen and servants’ quarters. He walked slowly and Will had to stifle his impatience, but once the heavy door had swung to behind him he allowed Francesca the full weight of his frustration. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he snapped. ‘The Abbey is not a private hotel. You can’t just turn up here when it suits you. You walked out, Francesca. Lingard is no longer your home.’

‘I know that.’ Francesca crossed her arms at her waist and wrapped them about herself, almost as if she was cold. She looked beyond him, into the lamplit room, where the fire was glowing so invitingly. ‘Can’t we sit down, at least?’

Will glanced over his shoulder. As Watkins had said, Mrs Harvey had prepared a tray of tea and sandwiches, and it was presently waiting on the carved chest beside the sofa. It had apparently been placed there while Francesca was—where? Being shown to her room? Settling in? His jaw hardened. It irritated him that she should have come here. She had no rights where he, or this house, was concerned.

But something, some latent spark of humanity, perhaps, prevented him from asking her to leave at once. One night, he thought, but in the morning she was out of here. He had no desire to renew their acquaintance, whatever she might think.

Nevertheless, he stepped aside to allow her to enter the parlour, and she brushed past him with evident relief. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have said she was on the edge of hysteria. But Francesca didn’t have nerves; she was always in control of her emotions.

He hesitated before joining her. It was obvious he was going to have to speak to her at some time, but he objected to being forced to accommodate her tonight. Yet if he left it until the morning who knew how soon he would get rid of her? And with the Merritts expecting him at eleven he didn’t have a lot of time to spare.

So, despite his unwillingness, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and followed her into the room. But he deliberately left the door open. He had nothing to hide, and if she did it was just hard luck.

Francesca had seated herself on the sofa, at the end nearest the fire, and Will was surprised. Although it was a warm night outside, the parlour was cool, but as she was wearing a suit he wouldn’t have expected her to be cold. Yet it seemed as if she was. Every line of her hunched form pointed to it. And, although she helped herself to a cup of tea, she made no attempt to touch the sandwiches.

The parlour was not a large room by the Abbey’s standards, and the heat from the grate caused Will to loosen the collar of his shirt and pull the knot of his tie an inch or two away. He would have taken off his jacket, but he didn’t want her to get the impression that he was comfortable with the situation, so he remained where he was, behind the sofa opposite, with the width of the hearth between them.

‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’ she asked, glancing up at him, her elbows resting on her silk-clad knees, the teacup cradled between her palms. Her drawn features mirrored the anxiety that was evident in her eyes, and although he chided himself for feeling any sympathy for her he came around the sofa and straddled its hide-covered arm.

‘Okay,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m sitting down. So, what is this all about? I should warn you, Francesca, I’m not in the mood to play games. If you’ve got something to say, then for God’s sake get on with it.’

Her nostrils flared at his insensitivity, and once again Will felt a reluctant sense of compassion. It seemed that, whatever had brought her back to the Abbey she was either too ashamed—or too apprehensive of his reaction—to tell him, and she was looking for his support, not his sarcasm.

‘I drove up from London this evening,’ she ventured, and twin creases bracketed his mouth.

‘Yes. I gathered that,’ he said, wondering what this was leading to. ‘I assume that is your car parked on the forecourt.’

‘Well, it’s a friend’s car, actually,’ she offered, and his mouth flattened as he wondered which particular friend that was. Male, he assumed; Francesca had always had plenty of men friends. Though there were a couple of girls she had shared rooms with at college whom she’d used to keep in touch with. ‘I thought it was less likely to be noticed,’ she added. ‘He—er—he knows my registration, you see.’

Will’s brows drew together. ‘Who are we talking about now?’ be asked tersely. ‘This—friend?’

‘What friend? Oh—you mean the car!’ Francesca sipped her tea. ‘No, that belongs to Clare—one of the women I work with.’

Will tried not to get impatient. ‘What’s wrong with your own car? Has it broken down?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘If that’s what this is about—’

‘As if!’ Francesca stared at him disgustedly. ‘Do you honestly think I’d have come to you if all I wanted to do was change my car?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ Will’s eyes hardened. ‘Perhaps the problem is I can’t imagine anything that I might be willing to do for you,’ be retorted sharply. ‘And if some man is giving you grief, think again!’

The china teacup clattered into its saucer, and spots of brown liquid dotted the white cloth. For a moment, he thought she must have burned her mouth, but then he realised she was crying. Huge, shuddering sobs were shaking her thin shoulders, and she’d wrapped her arms about her knees and was rocking back and forth, like a child in pain.

Will stared at her, aghast. In all the years he had known her, he had never known Francesca to cry—not like this, at least. Even when they’d split up, she had maintained a mask of indifference when she was with him, and if her eyelids had sometimes looked puffy he’d put it down to lack of sleep.

But this—this was different. Whatever was wrong with her it was something she obviously couldn’t handle herself. The thought that she might have discovered she had some terminal disease caused a shaft of pain inside him.

But something had to be done now. He bad to say something, do something, to bring her out of this paroxysm of grief. She’d regret giving in and letting him see her this way, once she was over it, he thought cynically. But he didn’t think it was an act. Playing for sympathy wasn’t Francesca’s style.

Or it hadn’t been. He scowled. Dammit, it was more than five years since he’d seen her, and anything could have happened to her in that time. But he didn’t think she could have changed her personality. She’d lost weight, sure, but she didn’t strike him as having lost her self-respect.

‘Fran,’ he said persuasively, the name he had had for her sliding automatically off his tongue. ‘Hey,’ he added, his spread fingers curling impotently over his thighs, ‘it can’t be that serious. Come on. Lighten up. I didn’t mean what I said.’

‘Didn’t you?’

Her head had been buried in her hands, but now her fingers parted to reveal drowned amber eyes. She still shook, but the aching sobs had eased somewhat, and he wondered if he was in danger of being treated as a fool all over again.

‘Perhaps not,’ he muttered, in two minds as to how to deal with this, and she fumbled in the purse at her feet for a tissue to dry her face. ‘Fran—Francesca—what is going on? Are you going to tell me?’ He balled one fist inside the other. ‘I gather the problem is some man.’

She nodded then, scrubbing at her eyes with the tissue as Will felt a rekindling of his anger. Dammit, he thought, what did she think he was? Some kind of agony husband? Ex-husband, he amended harshly. Any problems she had, she should deal with herself.

‘It’s not what you think,’ she said at last, when she had herself in control again, and Will arched a sceptical brow.

‘No?’ he queried flatly. And then he said, ‘You’ve admitted it’s a man, haven’t you? How many distinctions are there?’

‘Quite a lot, actually,’ she answered quickly, using the tissue to blow her nose. ‘I didn’t say it was a man I’ve been involved with.’ She shivered. ‘As a matter of fact, we’ve never even met.’

‘What?’ Will hooked his leg over the arm and slid down onto the sofa proper. ‘What are you saying? That some man is pestering you?’ He felt a disproportionate sense of anger. ‘For pity’s sake, Fran, why haven’t you reported him to the police?’

‘I have.’ She drew a trembling breath. ‘There’s nothing they can do.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! Of course there’s something they can do. They can arrest the man. If he’s giving you a hard time, that’s all the proof they need.’

‘No, it’s not.’ Francesca’s shoulders drooped. ‘Being—pestered by someone doesn’t constitute a felony. In any case, they don’t know who he is.’

‘You haven’t told them?’

‘I don’t know who it is,’ she retorted huskily. ‘He—I—he’s too clever to let them catch him in the act.’

Will stared at her. ‘In the act of what?’ His stomach tightened. ‘Has he touched you?’

‘Not yet,’ answered Francesca in an uneven tone. ‘I’ve told you, we’ve never met But—I think he’s tried to break into my flat.’ Her abhorrence was apparent. “That’s when I knew I had to get away.’

Will sank back against the squashy upholstery, disbelief warring with a growing sense of outrage. It couldn’t be true, he told himself. Francesca was lying; she had to be. It was inconceivable that her life was in any kind of danger.

Swallowing the bile that had gathered at the back of his throat, he regarded her steadily. ‘Perhaps you ought to tell me how long this has been going on,’ he suggested, propping one booted foot beside the tray, and she nodded.

‘Yes.’ She moistened her lips. ‘Well—about six months, I suppose, altogether. To begin with, I didn’t know what was going. an.’

Will breathed deeply. ‘Six months!’ he said. ‘So long?’

‘Well, according to the police, a stalker can take years before he approaches his victim. To begin with, he gets his kicks from watching them without them knowing what’s going on.’

Will blew back the hair from his forehead. Despite himself, he was responding to the frankness of her tone. If she was lying, she was making a bloody good job of it. And if she wasn’t—His lips tightened. Frustration didn’t even begin to cover how he felt.

‘Go on,’ he said, not trusting himself to make any constructive comment, and, resting her arms along her thighs, she shredded the tissue she was holding as she continued.

‘At first—at first I thought I was imagining it. As you probably know, I’m still working for Teniko, and just recently—within the last year, that is—my hours have been changed. Sometimes, I start later in the morning, but I don’t get home until later in the evening.’

‘Why?’

She flushed. ‘Because—because I’ve been promoted. And Teniko have moved their head office to California, which means we often have satellite conferences in the evening.’

‘In the evening?’ Will knew it wasn’t important, and he was perfectly aware why the meetings would be so late. But he needed a little time to come to terms with this, and talking about normal things, like her working hours, enabled him to get some perspective.

‘It’s morning in San Francisco,’ Francesca explained, answering him anyway. ‘We’re presently involved in developing some new computer software, and as the virtual reality market is a very competitive field our meetings are always confidential.’

‘I don’t want to hear about your job,’ said Will shortly, and he was annoyed to hear the irritation in his voice. He didn’t want her to think he cared a damn what she was doing with her life, but at the same time he didn’t want her to think he was bitter either. He wiped his expression clean of any emotion before asking evenly, ‘Are you saying you’re alone when you leave the building?’

Francesca nodded. ‘Sometimes. At least, there are very few other commuters about. The rush hour’s over, you see. Most people have already left their offices. And—and it’s much easier to follow someone if they’re not tied up in a crowd.’

‘Easier for you to see them, too,’ Will commented, not at all convinced by that argument.

‘Only if they want to be seen,’ said Francesca. moistening her lips. ‘I don’t always see him, but I know that he’s there.’

‘I see.’ Will watched the way she pulled out another tissue and proceeded to shred it, also. ‘So—this man, whoever he is, follows you.’ He made an impatient sound. ‘You’re saying the police can’t do anything about that?’

Francesca sniffed. ‘I’m not sure they even believe me.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they’ve never seen him.’ She swallowed. ‘He’s very clever, Will. Sometimes—sometimes I used to think I was going mad.’

Will breathed deeply. He wanted to dismiss what she was saying. He wanted to tell her he didn’t believe her either, and leave her to deal with her own life. But he couldn’t. Truth to tell, the strongest urge he had was to vault across the carved chest, with its tray of tea and sandwiches, and go and comfort her. To pull her into his arms and tell her not to worry; he would handle it.

Instead, he scooped up a couple of the smoked salmon sandwiches Mrs Harvey had prepared for Francesca’s supper, and ate them. He was suddenly fiendishly hungry. Probably because he’d eaten so little at Mulberry Court. He refused to countenance any other explanation for his hunger, despite the connotations. He was not eating to compensate for any other need.

‘It’s true,’ she said, evidently deciding that this tackling of the food signalled a certain scepticism on his part. ‘I always know when he’s following me. It’s a funny feeling—a kind of sixth sense a woman has. Only—’ she scrubbed at her cheeks again ‘—there’s nothing remotely funny about it.’

‘And that’s all he does? Follow you?’

‘He did.’

‘Has anyone else seen him?’

‘Only my landlady.’ She hesitated. ‘She was in the flat one evening, when I saw him standing outside the building. He was wearing one of those black hoods at the time. I couldn’t see his face.’

‘So how did you know it was him?’

‘Because I recognised the way he was dressed.’ She gazed at him frantically. ‘He always wears a hooded jacket. One of those brushed cotton jackets, I think it is. that people wear for jogging.’

‘Perhaps he is a jogger?’

The look she gave him was bleak. ‘He follows me, Will. Don’t you understand? He enjoys frightening me. I’ve taken books out of the library to try and understand what he gets out of it. It’s the element of uncertainty—of fear—that gives him the most pleasure.’

Will hesitated. ‘The night you saw him—outside your apartment, you said—didn’t you call the police then?’

‘What would have been the use? There’s no law that says a man can’t stand in the street. I’ve even started using my car for work, instead of getting the bus. But he always knows where to find me.’

Will knew an almost uncontrollable sense of fury, a raw anger that simmered in his gut. He didn’t want to be, but he could feel himself being drawn into this. He might not want her as his wife any longer, but he was damned if he was going to let her be terrified to death by some pervert.

‘Eventually—eventually, I started getting phone calls,’ she went on, her voice growing thinner. ‘You know the sort of thing—starting off with heavy breathing and progressing from there. I bought an answering machine, in the hope that that would stop him, but it didn’t. When I came home some evenings, there were maybe half a dozen of his messages waiting on the tape.’

Will swore. ‘The police must have taken notice of you then.’

‘Oh, yes. They did. They advised me to change my number.’ Her lips quivered. ‘Then it started all over again.’

Will blinked. ‘He got your new number? How? God, it must be someone you know!’

‘No.’ She trembled. ‘I think he must have got into the apartment. There’s no other way we could think of to explain how that had happened.’

Will stiffened. ‘We?’

‘Yes, we.’ Francesca tried to compose herself. ‘Tom Radley. He’s a friend. He works at Teniko, too.’

Will nodded, aware that his reaction to the fact that she had a man friend wasn’t exactly dispassionate. Yet why shouldn’t she have an admirer? he asked himself. He hadn’t exactly lived the life of a monk since she’d left.

‘We are just friends,’ Francesca asserted now, and Will wondered if his expression had given him away.

‘Hey, that’s your affair,’ he said lightly, managing to sound almost indifferent. ‘I’m glad you’ve got some support. That helps a lot.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’ She gazed at him with tear-wet eyes, and he despised himself for thinking that she still looked good in spite of her distress. ‘Tom’s offered to move in, but I don’t want him to. We don’t have that kind of a relationship and I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.’

Will looked down at his-spread hands, aware that this was getting harder by the minute. For God’s sake, he thought, why had she come to him? If she imagined he might offer to move in with her, she was wrong.

‘The calls,’ he said quickly, desperate to distract himself from sensual images of what it had been like when he and Francesca had lived together. ‘Couldn’t they be traced?’

‘Oh, sure.’ Francesca moved her hand. ‘They were made from call boxes all over the city. There was never any pattern to them. He’s much too clever to get caught out like that.’

‘And the voice isn’t familiar?’

She shuddered. ‘No.’

‘And when you decided he’d been in your apartment...’ He paused. ‘I assume you changed all the locks?’

‘Yes.’

There was an exhausted note to her voice now, and, looking at her, he realised how tired she must be. If she’d done a day’s work and then driven up here, she must be absolutely worn out. He should let her get some sleep before continuing this inquisition. And yet...

‘You say you didn’t want to stay in the apartment,’ he persisted. ‘Yet you obviously stayed there after you thought he’d broken in.’ He bit his lip. ‘What happened tonight that so upset you? I know I sound as if I’m playing devil’s advrocate, but I just want to know why you felt you had to get away.’

Francesca expelled a trembling breath. ‘When I got home from work tonight, I found the bathroom window had been broken.’ She fought for control. ‘That was bad enough, but then—then the phone rang, just as I was examining the damage. It was him. The stalker.’ She shuddered. ‘He said—he said he was watching me. I—I asked him if he’d broken my window and be said that I shouldn’t bother to get it mended because he’d be back.’

CHAPTER THREE

FRANCESCA had never slept in one of the Abbey’s guest suites.

Even before she and Will were married, when she had stayed for several weeks at Lingard, she’d always slept with him—in his suite, in his bed. Of course, when their relationship had become intolerable, Will had moved into one of the other suites himself. But she had always occupied the principal apartments, and it was odd to find herself in unfamiliar surroundings now.

Not that they were unwelcome surroundings, she acknowledged wearily, sinking down onto the side of the canopied bed. At least here she didn’t constantly feel the urge to look over her shoulder, and she could go to sleep without being afraid of either phone calls or unwanted intruders.

She shivered.

It had been crazy to come here, though. In all honesty, she still didn’t know why she’d come to Will. Except that when she’d found the window broken, and then taken that awful call, she’d panicked. It was as if she’d reached a kind of breaking point herself, as if the knowledge that he could even see her in her own flat was the last straw. Until then, she’d regarded her apartment as a sanctuary. Despite the fear that he might have broken in, she’d had no proof. But suddenly she’d lost any sense of security. She doubted she’d ever feel the same about the place again.

When she’d first left Will, she’d been forced to live in a bed-sitter, and after the clean air and space she had found at the Abbey, the room, in a hostel off Edgware Road, had seemed dark and poky. If he’d come after her then, if he’d shown even the slightest hint that he still cared for her, she’d have gone back to him, willingly. She’d have swallowed her pride and returned to Yorkshire without a second’s hesitation.

But, of course, he hadn’t. Will had his pride, too. Her lips twisted. God, he’d been full of it. Still was, if she was honest enough to admit it. He might have sympathised with her dilemma tonight, but he didn’t really want her here.

Perhaps she should have accepted Clare’s invitation to stay with her. She lived just a few streets away from Francesca’s home in Harmsworth Gardens, and at least that would have enabled her to go to work tomorrow. As it was, she would have to think of a convincing excuse for her boss at Teniko. He hadn’t been particularly sympathetic when she’d told him of her problems before.

Still, tomorrow was Friday, and with a bit of luck she’d be feeling more herself by Monday morning. She knew she hadn’t been thinking too clearly when she’d begged Clare for the loan of her Mazda just hours ago. All she’d felt was an overpowering need to get away from London, and she’d come to Will because he was someone she could trust.

And that was an irony, too, she mused bitterly, remembering how little he’d trusted her when she’d walked out. Why had she come to him, when he’d always been so willing to think the worst of her? Why had she sought his protection before that of anyone else?

Maybe if she’d had close family of her own it would have been different, she reflected. But, like Will, she’d lost both her parents before she was old enough to leave school. She’d not been as young as Will when he’d lost his parents, but she’d had no fairy grandmother to come to her rescue. Just her mother’s elderly aunt, who’d considered caring for her orphaned niece a duty, but not a pleasure.

Francesca drew a heavy breath and pushed herself up from the mattress. The temptation was just to sit there and feel sorry for herself, but she ought to try and get some sleep. Will had said to relax, that they would talk again in the morning. But in spite of being bone-tired her mind wouldn’t let her rest.

She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror which topped a skirted dressing table and, moving nearer, she examined her features with a critical stare. Her eyes were puffy, and she smoothed the veined skin below them with unsteady fingers. She looked older than Will this evening, she thought disconsolately. He’d always used to say his two years’ seniority could have been ten.

The bag Watkins had brought up earlier was resting on a padded ottoman, and, unzipping the top, she pulled out her toilet bag and the nightshirt she wore to sleep in. Apart from these items, jeans, underwear and a couple of shirts comprised her whole wardrobe. There was little point in hanging them up. They wouldn’t take up an eighth of the space in the enormous clothes closet.

The adjoining bathroom was equally huge. Francesca washed and cleaned her teeth at the large porcelain handbasin, promising herself that she would use the clawfooted bath in the morning, when she didn’t feel so deathly weak. Her face looked pale and drawn, and she impatiently pulled the pins out of her hair so that it fell in crinkled disorder about her shoulders. At least it softened her profile, she thought, contenting herself with just threading her fingers through its thickness tonight.

She was sliding between the crisp linen sheets of the brass bed when there was a knock at her door. In spite of herself, she automatically started, her stomach churning and her heart thumping heavily in her chest. But then the realisation of where she was, and the expectation of who it might be, reassured her. It was probably Mrs Harvey, to see if she had everything she needed.

‘C-come in,’ she called, annoyed to hear the tremor in her voice even so, but she forgot her irritation when Will stepped into the room.

‘I thought you might like a drink,’ he said flatly, and her eyes darted to the mug in his hand. ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you. It’s just hot milk. It might help you to sleep.’

‘Thanks.’ Francesca shuffled into a comfortable position against the pillows, making sure the sheet was securely covering her chest. She took the mug. ‘This is very kind of you. I can’t remember the last time I had hot milk.’

Will arched a speculative brow. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ She took a sip of the steaming beverage and then licked a smear of whiteness from her lip. ‘I just meant it’s a long time since—since I’ve been offered any.’ She’d nearly said since anyone had looked after her. She looked up at him, somewhat awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry I’m being such a nuisance. I—didn’t know where else to go.’

‘It’s no problem,’ he assured her evenly, and started back towards the door. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Just tell Mrs Harvey if you’d like your breakfast in bed.’

‘I shan’t—’ she began, but the door had already closed behind his lean form, and she was left to take what comfort she could from the milk. But at least it showed he had some compassion for her, she thought wryly. In his position, would she have been so understanding with her ex?

If it was Will, probably, she decided ruefully, taking another mouthful of the hot milk. In spite of everything that had happened, she still found him disturbingly attractive. Physically, at least, she amended swiftly. Which wasn’t the same as how she’d felt before.

All the same...

She sniffed and drank some more, gasping as the unwary gulp of liquid burnt the back of her throat. Dammit, she thought, her eyes watering, he was just a man, wasn’t he? And after her experiences of the past few months she ought to have more sense.

She slept at once. As soon as her head touched the pillow, she was dead to the world, and it wasn’t until she saw sunlight pushing its way between the cracks in the curtains that she pondered the possibility that Will had put something more than just hot milk in her mug the night before.

Whatever, she awakened feeling relaxed, and vastly more optimistic. She almost managed to convince herself that nothing could be quite as bad as she’d imagined, although once again, when someone tapped for admittance, her nerves tightened uncontrollably, and it was an effort to speak.

This time it was Mrs Harvey, with a tray of morning tea, and she regarded her erstwhile mistress with surprising compassion. Francesca would have expected the housekeeper to resent her being here; she had no doubt Will’s grandmother would. Lady Rosemary had never wanted Will to marry her, and finding her here now she would be bound to think the worst.

But Mrs Harvey took the sight of her employer’s ex-wife in her stride. Even though Francesca was fresh out of the shower—she had eschewed the delights of the bath in favour of a speedier alternative—with one of the fluffy white towels tucked hurriedly beneath her arms, she showed no bias. ‘His lordship asked me to enquire if you’d care to take breakfast in the morning room,’ she announced, setting the tray on one of the square bedside cabinets before straightening to face her. ‘Might I say, you look much more yourself this morning, madam. We were all quite concerned about you last night.’

Francesca wondered what Will had told them. She’d forgotten how much a part of the family the servants at the Abbey considered themselves, and although Mrs Harvey was in her late fifties she was still one of the younger members of the staff. The trouble was, most of Will’s employees had been at the Abbey since before he was born, and it was difficult maintaining any kind of detachment with people who had once dandled you on their knee.

‘Oh—I’m fine,’ she assured Mrs Harvey now. ‘And I would prefer to come down for breakfast. But just toast and coffee for me, if you don’t mind,’ she added, remembering the housekeeper’s penchant for eggs and bacon. ‘And thank you for the tea.’

‘Are you sure that’s all you want? Just toast and coffee? His lordship has fruit juice and cereal as well.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Francesca firmly. ‘Will fifteen minutes be all right?’ She touched her damp hair. ‘Oh, and do you have a drier?’

It turned out that there was a hair-drier in the dressingtable drawer, and after Mrs Harvey had left Francesca plugged it in. She was aware that the housekeeper would have liked to stay and chat, but thankfully her duties prevented her from wasting any more time.

Francesca drank a cup of tea between bouts of drying her hair. It was getting too long, she reflected wryly, aware that it was probably more trouble than it was worth. She’d always had thick curly hair, and when she was a student she used to wear it loose. But these days she almost always secured it in a knot. Her employers at Teniko did not like untidy hair.

Deciding she was not at work today, and that she could afford to be a little more adventurous, she eventually twisted it into a chunky plait. At least it made her look a little younger, she thought, though she didn’t know why that should be an advantage. It wasn’t as if she wanted to impress Will. He was far too cynical for that.

She dressed in her jeans and a bronze silk shirt that was almost exactly the same colour as her hair. Thankfully, she had stuffed a pair of Doc Martens at the bottom of the bag, so she put them on without any socks. At least they looked better than her high-heeled pumps.

She hesitated about making her bed, and then decided against it. She remembered there were definite lines of demarcation at the Abbey, and guests did not appropriate other people’s jobs. It was something she had found hard to get used to when she’d first come to live at Lingard, but by the time she left she had become as accustomed to the privilege as Will himself.

Leaving her room, she walked along the corridor to the galleried landing, and then descended the shallow carpeted staircase to the vestibule below. The row of portraits of Will’s ancestors that lined the walls seemed to regard her disapprovingly. They probably took their cue from Lady Rosemary, thought Francesca wryly. There was a definite look of disdain in their blank stares. She shivered. She was getting paranoiac. She was imagining people were watching her wherever she went.

The house felt decidedly chilly at this hour of the morning, before the warmth of the day had had time to penetrate its thick walls. She half wished she had brought a sweater, but she hadn’t considered such practicalities when she’d packed her bag. She consoled herself with the thought that the morning room faced south-east, and was probably much warmer than the hall.

Will was still seated at the square breakfast table when she entered the sunlit apartment. She had half expected him to be gone; she had taken much longer than the fifteen minutes she had promised Mrs Harvey. But, although he had apparently had his breakfast, he was presently occupied with opening the morning’s post. A copy of the morning newspaper, too, was crumpled beside his plate.

Telling herself she had no reason to be nervous of him, Francesca nevertheless hesitated in the open doorway. ‘Um—good morning,’ she ventured, instantly attracting his attention. ‘I’m sorry I’ve taken so long.’

‘No problem.’ Stuffing the invoice he had been holding back into its envelope, Will got immediately to his feet. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Mrs Harvey’s getting you some toast. But the coffee’s still hot if you’d like some.’

‘Thanks.’ A place had been laid for her at right angles to his, and Francesca subsided awkwardly into her seat. In the light of day, her fears of the night before seemed much exaggerated, and she made a determined effort to appear composed as she picked up the coffee pot.

But, despite her best efforts, her hand trembled as she poured the liquid, and some of the coffee splashed onto the cloth. ‘Oh, damn!’ she muttered frustratedly. ‘This is getting to be a habit. I’m sorry I’m so clumsy, Will. I don’t know what’s the matter with me this morning.’

Will resumed his own seat and regarded her wryly. ‘Oh. I think you do,’ he said steadily. ‘After what you told me last night, I think you’re bearing up very well.’ He paused. ‘But you’re safe here, Francesca. You don’t have to worry about any intruders. And the only things that are likely to follow you are the dogs.’

‘I know.’ Francesca managed a faint smile. ‘Thanks.’ She added cream to her coffee without accident and gave him a rueful look. ‘And thanks for listening to me last night. I guess I just needed someone to talk to. I know it was a liberty coming here, but I think it’s worked.’

‘What’s worked?’ he enquired, his brows drawing together above eyes that were so dark, in some lights they looked black. He frowned. ‘I haven’t done anything except give you a bed for the night. You’re not telling me that’s made any conceivable difference to the situation?’

Francesca drew a breath. He was regarding her closely now, and she thought how much less intimidating he seemed this morning without his formal clothes. Tightfitting jeans and a baggy sweater might not detract from his innate air of good breeding, but they did make him seem more approachable, she thought.

‘I feel better because I’ve talked it out,’ she explained firmly. ‘I don’t feel half so tense this morning, and I’m even prepared to admit that perhaps the situation isn’t really as bad as I thought.’

Will’s eyes narrowed. ‘But your window was broken, wasn’t it? He did make that call?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She flushed defensively. ‘But he was probably only guessing about me finding the window. I mean—it could have been kids who broke it. He could have been using the fact that he’d seen it was broken to his own advantage.’

‘Do you believe that?’

She moved her shoulders. ‘It’s an idea.’ She hesitated. ‘We do get some vandalism, too. Everybody does.’

‘We?’

Once again, he questioned her use of the pronoun, and she gave him an indignant look. ‘I meant as a general problem,’ she declared, taking refuge in her coffee. But she sensed he was still suspicious of the situation. Perhaps he thought she was running away from an unhappy affair.

‘I believe you said you’d reported the broken window to your landlady,’ Will remarked now, and she nodded.

‘Yes. She said she’d inform the police, and get her son-in-law to replace it.’ She coloured. ‘I didn’t tell her about the phone call. It’s not something I like to talk about.’

Will lay back in his chair, regarding her with a disturbing intensity, and she knew a desperate need to defend herself. ‘I’m not lying,’ she said. ‘If you don’t believe me, ring Mrs Bernstein. She’ll confirm that the window was broken, and she’ll be thrilled if you tell her who you are.’

Will’s mouth flattened. ‘I haven’t said I don’t believe you,’ he responded, lifting his shoulders. ‘On the contrary, I’m wondering what the hell I can do. There has to be some way to stop this bastard. Breaking and entering is still a crime, isn’t it? It was the last time I checked.’

Francesca sighed, but before she could make any reply the elderly butler came into the room, carrying a tray. ‘Good morning, madam,’ he said, with rather more confidence than he’d shown the night before. ‘I trust you slept well?’

‘Very well, thank you, Watkins,’ said Francesca, giving him a smile. It was good to know that Will’s staff didn’t hold their separation against her, and she flashed Watkins a diffident look as he placed a rack of toast, a fresh dish of butter and a new pot of coffee beside her plate.

The butler departed, and although she wasn’t particularly hungry Francesca helped herself to a piece of toast. Despite what she had told Will, she was not looking forward to going back to London, and her mouth dried at the thought of sleeping at the flat tonight.

‘Well, isn’t it?’ Will prompted now, and she realised he was still waiting for a reply. ‘Breaking and entering, I mean. You have to tell them what happened, Fran. It’s something concrete they can work on.’

‘Who? The police?’ Francesca buttered the toast and then reached for the marmalade. Anything to buy herself a bit of time. ‘You don’t understand, Will. I can’t prove who tried to get into the flat, can I? There are dozens—probably hundreds—of robberies every day. And as far as I could see nothing was stolen. So...’

Will’s nostrils flared. ‘But in the circumstances—’ Francesca shook her head. ‘I’m not the only woman who’s being harassed, Will. Like I said before, I probably overreacted. I just need to get myself together.’

He made a frustrated sound. ‘I could kill him!’

‘Yes, so could I,’ she responded lightly, firmly lifting the toast to her lips. But her throat dried as she tried to swallow the tiny corner she’d nibbled, and she had to take a mouthful of coffee to enable her to get it down.

Will regarded her consideringly. ‘So what are you going to do? When you get back, I mean. Would it help if you moved house?’

‘And go and live with people I don’t even know?’ protested Francesca, putting the toast down again. ‘Will, I’ve got to handle this. I can’t go running scared every time he makes a move.’

Will’s lips compressed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay, I can appreciate your feelings, but you’ve got to appreciate mine. Dammit, last night you were in a state of almost mental collapse. Forgive me if I find this sudden appearance of confidence hard to take.’

‘I’m not confident.’ Francesca couldn’t let him think that. ‘But I can’t let him—let him beat me. After all, I can’t prove he’s committed any crime.’

‘Apart from attempting to break into your apartment, and threatening you, you mean?’ pointed out Will sardonically, and Francesca gave him a troubled look.

‘I don’t know if that was him,’ she insisted, taking another mouthful of her coffee. And at his snort of disbelief she added, ‘He’s never broken a window before.’

‘That’s what worries me,’ declared Will shortly. ‘How do you know what the bastard will do next?’

Francesca sucked in a breath. ‘Well, it’s not your problem, is it?’ she said, with determined brightness. ‘And I am grateful to you for letting me stay here last night. I guess I just let the whole thing get on top of me. Which reminds me, would you mind if I rang my boss at Teniko, to explain that I might not make it into the office today?’

Will came forward in his chair. ‘You can tell him you won’t make it into the office today, if you like,’ he asserted flatly. ‘For God’s sake, Fran, you don’t think I’m going to let you drive back today? It’s Friday, for pity’s sake. I suggest you leave any heroics until Monday. Spend the weekend here at the Abbey. Don’t worry; no one’s going to touch you here, and at least it will give you a break.’

Francesca swallowed. ‘You’d let me spend the weekend at the Abbey?’ she exclaimed, and Will gave her an impatient look.

‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘You look as if you could use the rest. At the least, it win give you time to think.’

‘Maybe...’ Francesca moistened her lips. ‘But what will—what will Lady Rosemary have to say? It’s the middle of the summer, so I assume she’s staying at Mulberry Court. I don’t think she’d approve of you offering to let me stay here.’

A frown brought his brows together at her words, and, judging by his expression, she suspected he hadn’t given his grandmother’s feelings a thought until then. But the old lady had always been a force to be reckoned with, and years ago Francesca had been left in no doubt that . she was not the wife Lady Rosemary would have chosen for her grandson.

‘This is my home,’ he said, after a moment’s consideration, but she had the feeling he was not as casual as he’d have her believe. Still, what the hell? she thought. There was no reason why she should meet the old lady. She’d just as soon that Will didn’t tell her that she was here.

But, of course, someone was bound to. Even if she left today, her visit would not go unremarked. Watkins was an old gossip, and so was Mrs Harvey, and, although they were both extremely loyal to the family, when Francesca had left Will she’d forfeited any right to privacy.

‘All the same...’ she said now, giving him an out, but for reasons best known to himself Will chose not to take it.

‘Please stay,’ he said politely, though she thought his lips had stiffened. ‘But I am expecting guests for lunch, so if you’ll excuse me I have arrangements to make.’

CHAPTER FOUR

IT HAD been a reckless thing to do, and Will knew it. Allowing Francesca to stay the night at the Abbey was one thing; inviting her to spend the weekend there was something else.

At any other time, it wouldn’t have mattered, he supposed. At any other time, he would not have been expecting a prospective ‘fiancée’ within a couple of hours. His grandmother was going to be furious, and with good reason, he reflected dourly. Apart from anything else, she’d be livid that Francesca should have come to him for help.

So why had he suggested Francesca should stay over until Sunday? It wasn’t as if her being here was going to change the situation at all. Sooner or later she would have to go back, and face whatever it was that was waiting for her. It was just that she had looked so weary, somehow, so defeated. He hadn’t had the heart to send her away.

Besides, after what she had told him, he needed a little more time to assimilate the information; to maybe think of some way he could help. It wasn’t his problem, but she had been his wife and he felt a certain amount of responsibility for her. It was ridiculous perhaps—his grandmother was bound to think so—but sometimes it was necessary to put practical thoughts aside.

In any case, for the moment he had his own immediate future to think of, and he went in search of Mrs Harvey to ensure she was informed there were only four for lunch. He’d already made the arrangement, but after Watkins’ treatment of Francesca he was wary. He could imagine how awkward they’d all feel if there were five places laid at the table.

If Mrs Harvey was surprised that his ex-wife was staying at the Abbey, she was shrewd enough not to show it. She left it to him to explain that Ms Quentin would be lunching in the morning room, and not in the dining room with him and his guests. He had considered suggesting that Francesca eat in her own rooms upstairs, but that smacked too much of subterfuge, and he assured himself he had nothing to hide.

Nevertheless, as he drove over to Mulberry Court later that morning, he realised he would have to inform his grandmother of his uninvited guest. He couldn’t permit her to hear the news via one of the servants, and he was well aware that Lady Rosemary’s maid was a frequent visitor at the Abbey.

Which was why he’d ensured that he arrived there fifteen minutes before the time he was expected. With a bit of luck, he’d find his grandmother alone, and he could explain why he’d allowed his ex-wife to stay on.

He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy, he reflected, when, after parking at the front of the house, he sauntered into the hall. The door was standing ajar this morning to allow the sunlight to filter into the panelled foyer, and as soon as he stepped over the threshold Emma appeared on the half landing that divided the dogleg staircase.

‘Hello,’ she said, with evident approval, and, resting one slim hand on the banister, she came prettily down the remaining stairs. ‘You’re early,’ she added, clearly interpreting that as an indication of his enthusiasm to see her again. ‘Mummy and Daddy are almost ready.’ She gave a gurgling laugh. ‘Well, Daddy is, anyway. Mummy’s still deciding what she ought to wear.’

Will managed a smile, aware that Emma had obviously not had that problem herself. Her cream georgette blouse and matching shorts would have fitted her for almost any occasion, her silvery hair scooped back on one side with an ivory clip.

‘As a matter of fact, I wanted a quick word with my grandmother,’ he remarked, after offering a polite greeting, and Emma’s expression tightened a little as she recognised her mistake. ‘Do you know where she is?’ he asked, glancing doubtfully about him. ‘Is she in the orangery again? She spends a lot of her time in there.’

‘I really couldn’t say.’ Emma spoke tersely at first, and then, as if realising she could hardly object to him wanting to speak to his grandmother, she recovered herself. ‘I—she was reading the morning newspaper on the terrace,’ she offered rather more warmly. ‘I had breakfast with her, actually. Mummy and Daddy had theirs in their room.’

‘Ah.’

Will reflected that he should have known. Lady Rosemary enjoyed eating her meals al fresco, and the terrace at the back of the house had a delightful view of the Vale of York in the distance.

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