Rachel Lindsay - Love in Disguise

by Rachel Lindsay

  After she had supper—taking it with Mrs. Leggat in her sitting-room—she was too restless to remain indoors, and slipping on a coat, went out for a walk.

  It was cooler at this hour of the evening, and the air was damp from the river. Sinking her chin lower into her collar, she quickened her steps. Her employer's presence in the house had made her unaccountably edgy, and though she knew it was easy to avoid him, she could not as easily keep him from intruding into her thoughts.

  Leaving the drive, she strode across the lawns until she reached the belt of trees that lay some quarter of a mile from the house. The young moon was riding high and everything was sharply etched in black and silver. It made the scene darker and somehow menacing, turning the tree- trunks to skeletons and the branches to writhing arms.

  She took a step back and headed for the river. Behind her came the snap of a twig and she stopped, wondering if she had disturbed an animal. The sound came again. It was too heavy to come from scampering paws and she knew it was a person. She glanced over her shoulder. The house was out of sight and there was no place for her to hide between here and the main gate some hundred yards away. Smartly she started to walk in its direction, but the steps behind her came more quickly too and she began to run. So did her unknown pursuer. But he was running faster than she was, and the sound of his feet came closer and closer until he was directly behind her.

  A hand came on her shoulder and she gave a scream and whirled round, the sound dying as she saw thick black hair and a tight set mouth.

  'Why on earth were you running away from me?' Mark Allen demanded.

  'I didn't know it was you.' She was gasping for breath and tried to gulp in more air.

  He caught her by the elbow and pulled her along to a wooden bench, half hidden behind a clump of massive rhododendrons.

  'If you'd had the sense to turn round,' he said, too angry to be polite, 'you wouldn't have practically given yourself a heart attack!'

  'I was afraid to turn in case it slowed me down. It never entered my head it was you.'

  'I wasn't sure it was you, either,' he said, and she was suddenly conscious that she was wearing a good tweed coat, tightly belted to show her waist. But the hem of her dress was sticking out three inches below it, and this managed to minimise the smart line.

  'I don't think it's wise for you to go out walking alone at night,' he went on. 'If you want some exercise, take one of the dogs with you.'

  'That's a good idea. I'll take Judy.'

  'She might not be amenable. She's the most difficult of the bunch.'

  'We're friends,' Anthea explained. 'She regards me as her ballboy!'

  He laughed. 'I'm glad you like Alsatians. Lots of people are afraid of them.'

  'I used to have one,' she admitted. 'It died when I was fourteen.'

  'They need a lot of exercise. It isn't fair to keep them in a small house.'

  'We have a large garden.' She stopped abruptly. 'At least not large by your standards.'

  'Are your parents still alive?'

  'You've asked me that before. My mother is dead and my father remarried again at Christmas.'

  'What does your father do?'

  'You asked me that before, too.'

  'You didn't answer me, if I remember rightly.' There was no masking the irony in his voice, and she knew she could not hedge this time.

  'He teaches history.' It was the truth, though phrased in such a way as to give the wrong impression.

  'So that's why you're so keen on the subject,' he said. 'You should have tried for university, Miss Wilmot. I'm a great believer in education.'

  'Even for women?'

  'Even for women.' This time he was smiling openly. 'Do I strike you as so old-fashioned that I would deny the female sex an education?'

  'I get the impression you don't give much thought to the female sex—in general, that is.'

  'That's true,' he admitted. 'Though from time to time I think about the female sex in particular!' He crossed his arms on his chest and leaned against the bench, although he did not sit down. 'I've been giving you quite a bit of thought as it so happens, Miss Wilmot. You intrigue me.'

  She looked down at the ground, staring at it as if she had never seen ground before.

  'Well?' he said. 'Aren't you at least going to ask me why? You really are the least curious of women.'

  Still she did not look up, and he gave a mocking sigh. 'I can see I'll have to tell you. You intrigue me because I suspect a very bright mind behind that servile exterior.'

  'I'm never servile, Mr. Allen.'

  'Perhaps servile is the wrong word. Maybe I mean deliberately deprecating. The way you keep calling me "sir", as if you need to establish my superiority.'

  'I didn't think I needed to do the obvious!'

  He gave a soft laugh. 'There you are! You've done it again.'

  'Done what?'

  'Shown me the edge of your sharp tongue and your agile brain.'

  'It's just an ordinary brain,' she protested. 'I can't help it if you're used to dumb women.'

  'They're not all dumb,' he said gently. 'Claudine is very bright.' 'She's sophisticated.' Anthea stood up. 'That isn't the same.'

  'Tell me the difference.' He fell in step beside her as she started to walk back to the house.

  'I would rather not discuss your friends, sir.'

  'Then let's discuss yours,' he said. 'How come you aren't married, Miss Wilmot?'

  'I should have thought that was obvious, sir. Men like pretty women.'

  'What's wrong with you?'

  'I can hardly be called pretty.'

  'That's true,' he agreed at once. 'You're far too intelligent for me to lie to you. But you have an intriguing personality.'

  He stopped walking and she was forced to do the same, trying to look unconcerned as she felt his eyes on her. Though the moonlight blanched everything of colour, it also obliterated the unbecoming beige powder which she effected, and threw into relief the clear lines of her face and delicate bone structure. She saw an odd look cross his face, a quick frown to be replaced almost immediately by puzzlement.

  'You look different… younger.'

  'Moonlight hides my lines, sir.'

  'You don't have any.'

  'I'm older than you think, Mr. Allen.'

  'I'm not sure what I think.' He continued to stare at her. 'There's something else about you. I'm not sure what, but—Darn it, I do know! You aren't wearing your glasses!'

  With a gasp she put her hand to her face. She had slipped her glasses into her pocket when she had left the house, and had never given them another thought. But as she went to put them on, he stopped her.

  'Do you have to wear them, Miss Wilmot? They don't look strong lenses to me.'

  Afraid he might snatch them from her and discover they were plain glass, she buried them deep into her pocket again.

  'Good,' he replied, seeing the gesture as her answer. 'Don't wear them any more. You look much nicer without them.'

  Purposefully Anthea began walking again, faster this time, and he was forced to keep in step with her.

  'I'll be down tomorrow night,' he said. 'I work better here.'

  'You bring work with you?'

  'You don't think I just sit in the library in the evening and do nothing?' he asked with some amusement.

  'I thought you listened to music and relaxed.'

  'I'm in the middle of working out a very big merger, Miss Wilmot.' He frowned. 'I don't know why I told you that.'

  'Perhaps you felt like talking about it. Talking is relaxing too.'

  'The solicitous attention of a docile woman?' His laugh was sudden. 'I prefer to relax on a settee!'

  'It's less of a commitment,' she agreed. 'You can always get up and walk away!'

  'I do that from women too!'

  Knowing that he did was somehow painful, and she said nothing.

  'I'm going to have the house redecorated,' he remarked.

  The allusion did not escape her and she could
not prevent a slight chuckle.

  'What's funny about that, Miss Wilmot?'

  'I get the feeling you'd like to redecorate me too.'

  'I tried,' he said, eyeing the hem of her dress. 'But it wasn't as successful as I had hoped.'

  'You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, sir,' she replied, lids lowered to hide the sparkle in her eyes.

  'So it would appear. Let's hope I'm luckier with the house.'

  'Who's going to do it?'

  'Jackson Pollard. He has an excellent reputation. I'm leaving it all to him.'

  'Is that wise? You might find yourself with a showplace instead of a home.'

  'Claudine's going to keep an eye on it for me, and she has excellent taste.'

  Anthea was pleased she had not been stupid enough to offer her own services. Besides, how astonished he would have been if she had done so. What did a dowdy-looking spinster know about colour integration and decor?

  'I will leave you here, Miss Wilmot,' he said unexpectedly. 'I fancy walking a bit more.'

  Anthea nodded silently, then murmured goodnight as he moved away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mark Allen returned to the Manor every night that week. Anthea managed to keep out of his way after their encounter on Tuesday evening, though his presence continued to make her strangely restless.

  He had not been joking when he said he brought back work with him, for she knew from Leggat that he rarely left the library until one or two in the morning, and he was up and on his way back to London by seven-thirty.

  On Thursday and Friday she was on tenterhooks to know if he would have any guests for the weekend, and was relieved when Friday morning came and went without any word from his secretary. This meant he would be coming down alone, and she hoped he would have the sense to relax. She glanced through the notes she had made about him during her apprenticeship with Mrs. Goodbody, and arranged with Mrs. Leggat to prepare the dishes he liked best. They were simple ones, she noted with surprise: roast chicken with tarragon, rib of beef with Yorkshire pudding and fried Dover sole. Nothing esoteric here!

  At midday on Friday a blue Mercedes disgorged a silver- haired man and his equally silver-haired assistant. It was Jackson Pollard, and he gave Anthea a letter from Mr. Allen's secretary requesting her to show him over the house and to answer all questions relating to Mr. Allen's habits.

  'It's so important for me to understand my client and know what he likes,' he drawled, waving a languid hand, though his eyes were far from languid as they darted round him, sizing up the potential. 'Mr. Allen has given me carte blanche, but it still has to be his home.'

  'Is Mrs. Goderick meeting you here today?' Anthea asked.

  'No, no. She wants to see what colour schemes I choose, but first I have to prepare them. And before that, I must get to know the house.'

  He began a systematic appraisal of it. Beneath his feminine manner there lay a hard streak of realism and a Birmingham accent which came out in the flat vowels and occasional slurring of words. The misgivings Anthea had felt at the sight of him abated as the afternoon proceeded, and she answered all his questions as candidly as she could. No, she had no idea if Mr. Allen spent a great deal of time in the bathroom nor if he preferred a shower. Yes, he did like to have his meals in the breakfast-room when he was alone, and yes, he was very fond of formal dinners when he was entertaining.

  'A long dining-table, then,' Jackson Pollard decided. 'I have exactly the one to suit him. Maple wood—absolutely divine!’

  It was six o'clock by the time he left, and hardly had the car rolled down the drive when the Rolls purred up it. Quickly Anthea retreated down the hall. It was childish of her to keep on avoiding her employer. She would eventually have to see him for one reason or another, and the longer she put it off the more embarrassed she would be when it happened, even though it was difficult to know why she should be embarrassed at all. It certainly had nothing to do with his behaviour and stemmed only from her own emotions. Being1 alone so much was making her fanciful. It was time she saw something of her friends.

  On an impulse she went into her sitting-room and dialled Roger Pemberton's flat. The bell rang several times and she felt relieved at getting no answer. It was unfair to ring him just because she had a fit of the blues.

  She was in the act of putting down the receiver when it was lifted at the other end and Roger's voice came on the line. Deciding fate had made him answer, she gave him a bright greeting and said she was free on Monday, if he still wanted to see her.

  'You bet!' he exclaimed. 'I'm free in the afternoon as well. I'll come and pick you up.'

  Unwilling for him to see her disguise, she said a hasty no, and gave the excuse that she wanted to go home for a few hours first.

  'Call for me between seven and half past,' she suggested, 'and I'll introduce you to my stepmama.'

  'As your fiancé, I hope?'

  'Not a chance,' she laughed, and said goodbye before he could prolong the conversation.

  Her chat with Roger, though short, had cheered her up, and for the rest of the evening she felt in a considerably better mood. She could even look at herself in the mirror without a shudder.

  For the whole of Saturday Mark Allen remained in the library, his desk—so Leggat informed her—covered with a mass of documents. He had his lunch there as well, asking for sandwiches so that he could eat with the minimum of fuss.

  In the evening he ordered sandwiches again, and Anthea, talking to Mrs. Leggat in the kitchen, was overcome by anger. How could he be content with makeshift meals when there was so much delicious food prepared and waiting in the refrigerator?

  'Don't bother with sandwiches,' she said sharply. 'I'm going in to talk to him.'

  'He'll bite your head off,' Leggat warned.

  'I'll bite him back!' she snapped, and went out.

  But the sight of him at his desk, his hair awry, the yellow of fatigue staining his skin, robbed her of temper and reminded her that as his employee she had no right to criticise or tell him what to do.

  'Yes,' he said wearily. 'What do you want?'

  'Merely to let you know that Mrs. Leggat has prepared your favourite dinner, sir. She'll be most upset if you don't have it.'

  'Mrs. Leggat can go to Hades! I'm busy, Miss Wilmot.' He bent to his papers, but as if aware that she had not moved, he looked up. 'Well, why are you standing there on one leg? Practising to be a stork?'

  She ignored the sarcasm. 'Dinner will be served in the breakfast-room at eight o'clock, sir. There's roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.'

  'You know what you can do with it,' he said in the gentlest of tones.

  Red-cheeked, Anthea stood her ground and pretended to misunderstand him. 'I don't enjoy eating roast beef on my own, sir.'

  He pushed at his spectacles. 'Is that an invitation, Miss Wilmot?'

  Too late she realised he had misinterpreted her words. 'Of course not, sir.'

  'What a pity! The rare presence of your company might have gone well with the rare roast beef! But as you don't wish me to dine with you____ 'He lowered his head to his papers. 'Just sandwiches, please, Miss Wilmot.'

  The tiredness in his voice was her undoing. 'I'm quite willing to have dinner with you, sir.'

  'Are you?' He looked up again. 'A great concession made to save your employer from dying of an overdose of sandwiches!'

  'We all enjoy working for you, sir. If you died on us, we would have to find other employment.'

  He laughed outright, and dropping his pen on to his desk, leaned back in his chair and stretched. 'I'm exhausted. It will probably do me good to have a break for a few hours. I'll see you in the dining-room at eight.'

  'Very good, sir.' She was at the door when he called after her:

  'Better make it seven-thirty in the drawing-room. Then we can have a drink.'

  Inordinately pleased at the suggestion, Anthea almost skipped upstairs to her room, and promptly to time was down in the hall again, hovering outside the drawing-room door unti
l the chiming of a distant grandfather clock gave her the impetus to go in.

  Her employer was already there, elegant in black velvet trousers and dark green velvet jacket. For a conservative businessman he had a stylish wardrobe, and she wondered what he wore when he was in London. Velvet suited his looks, the sheen of the material echoing the sheen of his jet black hair, and his white silk shirt emphasised his bronze skin. There was foreign blood in him somewhere, she decided, and was intrigued to know more of his background.

  He did not ask her what she would like to drink, but handed her a silver goblet whose interior effervesced with champagne.

  'I hope you drink champagne, Miss Wilmot?'

  She sipped appreciatively. 'It makes a change from bitter lemon, sir.'

  'Come now, don't tell me you can't drink champagne if you want to? There are cases of it in the wine cellar.'

  Her head tilted sharply. 'None of the staff touch your wines or spirits, Mr. Allen.'

  'Sorry,' he said quickly, 'it was just my little joke.' He perched on the arm of a chair and idly swung one leg. 'Seriously though, there's no reason why you can't open a bottle of wine if you want. Champagne too, for that matter. I'm perfectly happy for you to have the entire run of my home and its contents.'

  She acknowledged the offer with a slight smile, but made no comment on it. He too seemed content to be silent, humming softly as he drank his champagne and then replenished both their goblets.

  Leggat entered to announce dinner, and they followed him into the small dining-room.

  'I understand Jackson Pollard was here yesterday?' Mark Allen said as they began to eat. 'What did you think of him?'

  'I liked him. I didn't think I would.'

  'Claudine's a good judge of decorators. She's had more practice than any woman I know.'

  'She does it professionally, then?'

  He shook his head. 'She re-does her house whenever the mood takes her—which is every year or so—and she's always changing the odd room around.'

  'How strange. I like my home to be familiar—and it can't, if you keep altering things.'