Rachel Lindsay - Love in Disguise

by Rachel Lindsay

  'I beg your pardon?'

  Anthea heard the icy tone and forced herself not to react to it. 'Jackson Pollard isn't the most reticent of men. I'm sure he won't have any hesitation in telling everyone that Mrs. Goderick is choosing the decor and furnishings for Bartham Manor.'

  Mark Allen took off his glasses and pressed his hand to his eyes as though they were suddenly painful. 'I never thought of that,' he muttered. 'If I ring up Pollard and tell him to keep quiet, it might make him gossip more.' He put his glasses on again and gave a faint smile. 'If anyone does ask about Mrs. Goderick, you'd better say that all the women I know are having a hand in the decor—including you! That should put them off the scent.'

  She longed to ask him 'off the scent of what?' but knew better than to do so, and instead vented her spleen on the helpless coffee grinder.

  As she was preparing to take the tray into the breakfast-room, Dickson and his wife came into the kitchen, and the butler took the tray from her and departed with it, leaving Anthea to have her own breakfast. Mrs. Dickson was far less reserved than her husband, and over cereal and eggs chatted about the way the house was run and all the visitors who came to it.

  As Anthea had expected, Claudine was frequently here, though she rarely came without her husband. This reminded Anthea to order a cold lunch, and as soon as Monsieur Marcel put in an appearance she did so, also telling Dickson it was to be set out on a buffet for Mr. Allen and his guest to help themselves.

  For the rest of the morning she busied herself checking the silver and linen that had been used the night before and deciding what cloth and cudery to use tonight. Then she inspected the flower arrangements, refurbishing them with new blooms and filling some extra vases with the sheaf of carnations which had been delivered to the house that day. She placed a silver bowl of roses on the small table that stood in the bay of the drawing-room, then stepped out on to the terrace that led from it. It overlooked the paved courtyard and, like the courtyard, was full of tubs of hydrangeas and masses of flowering geraniums in pink and red.

  A light step on the York stone brought her round to see Claudine Goderick staring at her in a less than friendly fashion.

  'What are you doing here?' the woman asked.

  'Admiring the flowers.'

  'I can see that. I mean what are you doing in London?'

  'Looking after Mr. Allen while Mrs. Roberts is ill.'

  'There was no earthly reason for Mark to bring you here. Mrs. Dickson is perfectly capable of managing on her own.'

  Anthea decided to take the attack into the enemy's camp. 'Why does my being here worry you?'

  For an instant Claudine seemed taken aback, then with a delicate lift of her shoulders she perched on the edge of a wrought iron table, careful not to crease her beautiful beige suit. 'I don't appreciate your dislike of me, Miss Wilmot. And I have the feeling that you watch every move I make.'

  It was a direct answer to a direct question, though Anthea was surprised by its candour. Had she been in Claudine's place she would never have said such a thing. 'I can assure you I haven't come here to spy on you. Mr. Allen doesn't think so either, or he wouldn't have asked me to come.'

  'Mr. Allen doesn't notice you,' Claudine retorted. 'As far as he's concerned, you're just someone doing a job.'

  The truth of this stung, and Anthea dug her hands into the pockets of her dress, afraid lest their trembling gave her away. 'As a matter of fact I didn't want to come to London,' she said with as much candour as she could muster. 'It makes it difficult for me to see Roger.'

  The blue eyes looked blank, but only for a moment. 'The young man who called to see you?' Claudine visibly relaxed. 'I thought he was charming. Naive, but charming.'

  'He's younger than you and Mr. Allen,' Anthea said guilelessly.

  'Naivete doesn't always have to do with age. I have a feeling your friend will be exactly the same when he's forty.'

  'I like him that way.'

  'You're similar in temperament.'

  Anthea found the idea depressing but did not say so. Instead she gave a slight nod and left the terrace. She was crossing the hall when the front door opened and Mark Allen came in.

  'Mrs. Goderick is on the terrace waiting for you,' she said.

  With a curt nod he strode past her into the drawing- room. 'Claudine, my dear,' he called. 'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.'

  Anthea hurried out of earshot, wishing she could as easily hurry out of his life. Reluctant to give herself time to brood, she went into the kitchen. Monsieur Marcel was already busy with preparations for that evening's dinner, but Mrs. Dickson was making the staff lunch and served Anthea first —as befitted her role as housekeeper. Domestic staff had a strict code of behaviour towards each other, and the lower echelons—consisting of parlourmaid, upstairs maid, junior butler and kitchen girl—would never dream of sitting down at table with the chef, housekeeper or butler.

  Immediately lunch was over Anthea went to the dining- room to inspect the table, already laid for the party. The china tonight was the most beautiful she had seen: pearl pink edged with a thick band of pure gold. The linen was pale pink too, as were the orchids that floated on shallow silver dishes down the centre of the table. She moved to straighten a fork and paused to admire the delicate gold and ivory handle. As she did so she saw a figure move on the terrace and realised that Mark and Claudine were taking after-lunch coffee there.

  'Even if Jasper finds out, it won't matter!' Claudine suddenly said loudly. 'He doesn't expect me to sit at home by myself.'

  'I still don't think it's wise for you to come here alone,' the man replied.

  'You're worrying for nothing.'

  'It isn't for nothing, Claudine. If————'

  Anthea made a deliberately loud step on the parquet floor and Mark Allen stopped speaking and came across the flagstones to the open window.

  'Please see that another place is laid at the table, Miss Wilmot. Mrs. Goderick will be dining here tonight.'

  'Yes, Mr. Allen.' Anthea went back to the butler's pantry, angry at how easily Claudine had got her way.

  So Jasper Goderick had gone out of town, leaving his young wife to kick her heels in London? What a fool he was to think she would be content to remain by herself. Surely he knew it would take more than money to keep such a woman faithful to an elderly husband? Or did he expect loyalty simply because he had bought it? He had given no indication of being jealous of Mark. Perhaps he believed that stealing another man's wife was something not done between business partners. If he did, then he would be in for a rude awakening. Depressed by the scene she had overheard, Anthea chided herself for having believed in Mark Allen's basic integrity. One protest from Claudine and his ethics had dissolved along with his will power. It took Little imagination for her to visualise them as lovers, and the clarity of the vision was so painful that her eyes brimmed with tears. Resolutely she wiped them away. No man was worth crying over; this one least of all.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Despite her determination to stop loving Mark, Anthea found it bitter-sweet to live in daily contact with him. Since the night he had kissed her, she had become so physically conscious of him that his presence haunted her even when he was absent, and the imagination that pictured him in intimate scenes with Claudine brought those same scenes to disturb her sleep.

  Jasper Goderick was in Australia, so Dickson informed her, and his wife dined at Eaton Square almost every night. She appeared to know all Mark Allen's friends, none of whom found it unusual that she should be acting as his hostess. On a few occasions Anthea heard one or two departing visitors personally thank her for a lovely evening; a compliment which the French-Canadian seemed to accept as her due. She was always the first to arrive in the evening and the last to leave at night, when her host himself drove her home. Anthea waited, sleepless, to hear his car come back; despising herself for it, she yet lacked the strength of mind not to do so. Most times he was back within half an hour, but there were occasional nights when h
e did not return for several hours, and it was during these times that she suffered the tortures of jealousy, cursing the vivid imagination that enabled her to picture him in Claudine's arms.

  In a desperate attempt to forget him, Anthea decided to turn to Roger. He was more than willing to come to London every night, and though she made an effort to respond to his warmth and obvious desire to please her, she couldn't think of him as anything other than a friend. No amount of imagination could fire her body with desire for him. Was it a chemical attraction that made one man desirable and not another? A simple olfactory mechanism—as some scientists believed—or did it stem from a deeper reason? But no matter the reason, this attraction could not be denied, and the emotion aroused in her by one scornful kiss had unleashed something which could never be retrieved. For good or bad, Mark Allen had changed her from a girl to a woman; had filled her with desires that he alone could appease. Bleakly she admitted that she could not continue to work for him much longer. If she did not want to break down and let him know exactly how she felt about him, she would have to leave soon. Her hope that she could return to Bartham Manor for the weekend was doomed to failure, for on Friday morning he left her a note to say they would be remaining in London owing to his business commitments. Remembering she had half promised to see Roger that evening, she telephoned him at college to let him know she would not be going to the country.

  'Then I'll drive up and see you,' he said.

  'Don't bother calling for me,' she told him, not sure what time Mark would be home and unwilling for the two men to meet. 'I'll meet you at the Hilton.'

  'It's as easy for me to call for you.'

  'No,' she said quickly, and hung up before he could argue.

  At mid-afternoon Mark's secretary telephoned to say he was going to the theatre but would be coming home beforehand and would like a snack. Anxious to be out before he arrived, she determined to leave the house earlier than necessary, even though it would mean having to kick her heels alone at the hotel for half an hour before Roger arrived.

  Because she was not looking forward to seeing him, and felt guilty about it, she dressed with particular care, choosing a long dress of cinnamon-coloured crepe that echoed the warm brown of her hair. The pliable material clung to every line of her figure, and she wished she owned the right kind of brassiere to wear with it. But the neckline was cut wide and deep, making any such undergarment un- practicable. With a shrug she flung a cashmere shawl round her shoulders and went down in the servants' lift to the ground floor. Unwilling to go on a bus, she telephoned for a taxi, and hovered in the back of the hall waiting to hear it when it arrived.

  She was still waiting when she saw the shadow of two men through the glass-panelled front door, and automatically went to open it. They were both of medium height and similarly dressed in navy blue suits. They each carried a briefcase, and each had closed, polite expressions. They had come to see Mr. Allen, they informed her. He was expecting them.

  Remembering Mark's references to reporters, Anthea eyed them thoughtfully and then asked them to wait. Firmly closing the door in their faces, she went in search of Dickson, who told her Mr. Allen had informed him-, less than an hour ago, that he was expecting two men.

  Wishing to personally apologise to them for having left them on the doorstep, she hurried back upstairs and escorted them into the library. Their air of quiet authority convinced her they were officials of one sort or another, and she was puzzling over it as she returned to the hall to wait for her taxi. Again she saw broad shoulders framed in the doorway, but this time it was Mark Allen, looking more than usually fatigued.

  'There are two men waiting to see you,' she said softly as he came through the door. 'They're in the library.'

  He nodded but made no attempt to move, and she saw that apart from looking tired, he was also pale. 'Would you tell Dickson that if anyone rings for me he is to say I'm not at home.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  He moved towards the library, his step so slow that she felt he was reluctant to face the men who were inside.

  'Is anything wrong?' she asked impulsively.

  'No.' His tone was sharp and he swung round and gave her a searching look. As he did, he seemed to notice her appearance, and his eyes moved from her creamy throat to the soft shadow between the curve of her breasts. 'If you're on your way out, Miss Wilmot, don't let me delay you.'

  'I'm early anyway.' She hesitated. 'I'm waiting for a taxi.'

  'Cancel it and let Herbert drive you'.

  'Do you normally let your chauffeur drive your housekeeper?'

  'You're not a normal housekeeper.' His eyes strayed over her body. 'Where are you going?'

  'To the Hilton.' She looked away from him. 'With Roger.'

  'The ever-willing friend! Bring him back here afterwards if you like. I have no objection. I'm sure you're always circumspect.'

  'You have visitors waiting for you in the library, sir,' she said coolly, ignoring his offer.

  Immediately his expression hardened, and with a sigh he opened the door and closed it quickly behind him, shutting off the sound of the voices that greeted him, but not before she heard him say, 'Good evening, Inspector.'

  She was still puzzling as to what this meant when she met Roger at the Penthouse Bar, and it required a conscious effort to put her employer from her mind. Eventually the good food and wine did what Roger's presence alone could never have done, and dancing with him on the small but not too crowded floor, Anthea could almost lull herself into a sense of contentment and a belief that she would be able to find a reasonably happy future, if not with this man, then with one of a similar type.

  But Roger's attempts to make love to her in the confines of his car, later that night, destroyed this belief, and though she forced herself not to push him away she could not force herself to respond.

  Exasperated by her lack of ardour, he was unexpectedly angry. 'What's the matter with me, Anthea? Do I repel you?'

  'Of course not! There's nothing the matter with you, Roger. It's me, I guess. I'm just not in the mood.'

  'You never are.'

  'You're exaggerating,' she said lightly, and got out of the car.

  'Not the back entrance tonight?' he asked, his good humour returning as he came with her up the steps and waited while she searched for her key.

  'It's in the mews, and I don't like going there late at night.'

  'Not even with me to protect you?'

  'Particularly with you!'

  'I'm glad to hear you're at least afraid of me. It gives me hope for the future. The one thing you haven't yet said is that you look on me like a brother!'

  'But I do,' she retorted. 'My favourite brother!'

  He chucked her under the chin and she giggled, the sound dying as the door opened and Mark Allen stood there, his face frigid.

  'I would rather you didn't do your entertaining on the doorstep, Miss Wilmot.'

  She flushed scarlet. 'Roger is just going,' she said, and gave him a slight push down the steps.

  'Same time, same place on Monday?' he called.

  'No.'

  'Tuesday, then?'

  Aware of Mark still beside her, Anthea nodded—she could always telephone Roger later and opt out of the arrangement—and watched with relief as he drove away with a roar of the exhaust.

  'I'm sorry about that,' she apologised, stepping into the hall. 'I didn't think you would be home so early.'

  'I didn't go out.'

  With surprise she saw he was still wearing the suit she had seen earlier that evening, and glancing through the half open door of the library saw a thick haze of tobacco smoke. 'You haven't been with those men the whole time?' she burst out.

  'Yes. And I'm exhausted.'

  'Have you had dinner?'

  'Sandwiches. The Dicksons had gone out for the evening —as I was supposed to do—and I got one of the maids to prepare something.'

  'Would you like me to make you an omelette?'

  'No, thanks.' He moved
towards the Library, but though his words were incisive his footsteps faltered. She longed to run over and hold him, but forced herself to remain where she was, though nothing could prevent her from speaking. 'Do let me make you a hot drink, Mr. Allen. Sit down and I'll bring it in to you.'

  She hurried to the kitchen before he could stop her. There was some chicken broth in the refrigerator and she heated it up while she made an omelette and set it on a hot, covered plate. Then she took the tray into the library.

  He looked at it and frowned. 'I told you I didn't want anything to eat.'

  Ignoring him, she set the tray on a small table and drew it towards him. In normal circumstances she would have left him to eat alone, but an urge stronger than she could control made her perch on the edge of a chair and deliberately stare at the tray. With a sigh he picked up the soup spoon and drank, then tackled the omelette. He ate three- quarters of it before setting down his knife and fork and pushing the tray away. He looked less tired, but when he took off his glasses to rub his eyes she saw that they were red-rimmed.

  'Don't put them on again,' she said quickly as he went to do so. Surprised, he stopped with his hands in mid-air and she said hastily: 'I'm sure it will do your eyes good to rest them for a while. I was always told people shouldn't wear their glasses all the time.'

  'I bet you just made that up.'

  'How did you guess?'

  'Because you're occasionally as transparent as a sheet of glass!'

  'Not as breakable, I hope?'

  'Perhaps I should have said toughened glass. That's what all women are made of. It's the men who shatter easily.'

  'You always talk rot when you start generalising.' She drew a sharp breath. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I keep forgetting I work for you.'

  'I forget it too.' His look was oblique. 'It will be strange when your replacement takes over. I don't suppose-you'd care for the job on a permanent basis?'

  Her heart thumped, but she kept her voice low: only in that way could she prevent it from sounding shaky. 'You'd be horrified if I accepted. You're just suggesting it because you're tired.'