Duelling Fire

by Anne Mather

  ‘I guess as there’s no one else around, you must be Sara Shelley,’ he remarked, as she was preparing her set-down, and her jaw sagged disbelievingly. ‘Is this all your luggage?’ he added with a wry grimace. ‘Or is the rest coming by carrier?’

  Sara gathered herself abruptly. ‘This is all,’ she replied stiffly. ‘Did—did Miss Ferrars send you? I don’t believe she mentioned you.’

  ‘She wouldn’t.’ The man unlocked the boot and began heaving her cases inside. ‘And sure, it was Harriet who sent me. Belatedly, as you’ll no doubt have gathered.’

  He sounded as if he hadn’t wanted to turn up here at all, and Sara could only assume he must be the son of some friend of Aunt Harriet’s. Or perhaps he was another relative, she reflected thoughtfully, then coloured when she realised he had finished stowing the cases and was waiting for her to get into the car.

  She was glad she was wearing trousers as she subsided into the passenger seat. At least she didn’t have to worry about keeping her skirt over her knees, although she doubted that her escort was aware of the consideration. Having disposed of the introduction, he seemed indifferent to her feelings. He had neither apologised for being late nor apprised her of his identity, and Sara resented the unspoken assumption that she should be glad that he had come at all.

  The Mercedes’ engine fired at the first attempt, and the sleek vehicle nosed its way out of the station yard. There were wild flowers growing in the hedges, and the faint smell of early broom in the air, and determining not to let his attitude disconcert her, Sara made an effort to be polite.

  ‘How—how is Miss Ferrars?’ she enquired, folding her hands in her lap, and as she did so, she realised how little she really knew of her father’s cousin. She hardly remembered the brief occasions they had met, all of them when she was only a schoolgirl, and more interested in the dolls and icecreams than in the lady who had provided them. The visits Harriet Ferrars had made to Sara’s school had been few and far between, and in the latter years she had not come at all. Her father had excused her on the grounds that ‘Harriet has problems of her own,’ although what those problems were he never specified. And once Sara had left St. Mawgan’s, she realised shamefully, she had never even thought of ‘Aunt’ Harriet—until the letter arrived.

  ‘She’s okay,’ her companion said now, glancing sideways at her. ‘Just as autocratic as ever. Or don’t you remember anything about those outings you made together?’

  Sara moistened her lips. ‘I—remember the cream teas.’

  ‘Yes.’ The curve of his lips was faintly derisive. ‘I guess you would. Harriet always thought that everything had a price.’

  Sara frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He paused. ‘I guess what you want to hear is that she’s looking forward to your arrival. She is.’ Again that mocking twist to his mouth. ‘She has great plans for you.’

  Sara gazed at him somewhat resentfully. Exactly what was his relationship to Harriet Ferrars, and why should he speak so disparagingly about someone who obviously trusted him?

  ‘You haven’t told me your name, Mr—er—–’ she said stiffly, waiting for his insertion, and with a shrug he conceded the point.

  ‘Jude,’ he offered carelessly. ‘Just Jude. You’ll get used to seeing me around.’

  ‘Will I?’ Sara could not have been more surprised. Did that mean he worked for Harriet? It must. Yet she had never dreamt Harriet was affluent enough to employ anyone, much less a chauffeur. And yet what else could he be? Though he was so far removed from Sara’s image of a chauffeur, it seemed almost ludicrous. How old was he? she wondered, permitting herself a fleeting assessment: twenty-eight, thirty? Certainly no more, and surely he was far too familiar for an employee.

  ‘You really don’t know much about Harriet, do you?’ he suggested now, as the car ran between Elizabethan cottages flanking a village green. It was very pretty and picturesque, and for a moment Sara was diverted by the unexpected charm of her surroundings. But then, a challenging glance from eyes of a curious shade of light grey caused an uneasy pang of apprehension to sweep over her, and her fingers curled painfully into her palms.

  ‘I know enough,’ she declared, irritated that he should think he could speak to her in this way. ‘I probably know her as well as you do. Er—how long have you been working for Miss Ferrars?’

  ‘Working?’ He gave her a mocking look. ‘Let me see. Would you believe—ten years?’

  ‘Ten years!’ Sara was silenced. If he had been working for Aunt Harriet for ten years, then he probably knew she had only seen her aunt once in that time. It had been on her twelfth birthday. Her father had been covering a military take-over in some remote South American dictatorship, and she had been so pleased that someone had arrived to prove she had not been completely forgotten. Aunt Harriet had taken her out for tea, and over lemonade and cream cakes she had been the recipient of all Sara’s thwarted confidences. Remembering this now, realising that this man had been working for her aunt at that time, she inwardly cringed at her own naïvety. Had Aunt Harriet relayed her confidences to him? Had her girlish chatter been the source of some amusement to them? The idea was humiliating. But then another thought struck her. Aunt Harriet had driven herself that day. She remembered distinctly. She had been driving a rather ordinary saloon car, and surely if she had had a chauffeur he would have been with her.

  ‘I didn’t know Aunt Harriet had a chauffeur,’ she tendered now, realising that if this man did work for her aunt, then it was no doubt foolish to antagonise him until she saw for herself how the situation developed, and then turned bright red when he burst out laughing.

  ‘What makes you think I’m the chauffeur?’ he exclaimed, when he had sobered. ‘Do I look like a chauffeur? I’m sorry, I’ll have to take stock of the way I dress if I do.’

  Sara pressed her lips together. ‘I naturally assumed— —’

  ‘What did you naturally assume, I wonder?’ Dark lashes narrowed the grey irises. ‘Why should you think I was Harriet’s chauffeur? What did she tell you?’

  ‘Nothing about you, anyway,’ retorted Sara hotly. ‘And as to why I thought you were the chauffeur, I don’t see in what other capacity you could serve my aunt.’

  ‘Don’t you? Don’t you really?’ His lips twisted. ‘Well, don’t worry about it. All will be explained in the fullness of time.’

  Sara shook her head. ‘I wish you’d tell me. I don’t want to make any more mistakes.’ She held up her head. ‘I didn’t realise there would be anyone else—what I mean is—I understood I was to be her companion. I thought she lived alone.’

  ‘Harriet? Live alone?’ He took his eyes from the road to stare at her incredulously. ‘My God, you really don’t know her, do you?’

  Sara’s colour refused to subside. ‘Perhaps if you were a little less scathing, and a little more helpful,’ she ventured.

  ‘What? And spoil Harriet’s fun? Oh, no.’ He shook his head derisively. ‘Well, cool it. We’re almost there.’

  ‘Are we?’

  Sara’s apprehensions increased as they left the village behind to plough farther into the rolling countryside. Acres of wooded hillside gave on to luscious green pastures, grazed by herds of brown and white cattle. Across the fields she could see the spire of a church, and the thatched roofs of other cottages, and here and there a white-painted farmhouse, looking totally at home in the landscape. It was a rural scene, a placid scene—but Sara’s thoughts were anything but placid as she neared her destination.

  ‘Where—where does Miss Ferrars live?’ she asked, her troubled thoughts urging her into speech. ‘The address was just given as Knight’s Ferry, Buford, Wiltshire. What is Knight’s Ferry? A village? Or the name of her house?’

  ‘That’s Knight’s Ferry,’ declared her companion flatly, as the road mounted a slight rise and they looked down on the turrets of a sprawling country mansion. ‘Didn’t you know? Harriet’s father was a wealthy man, a
nd she was his only offspring.’

  ‘No!’ Sara could not believe it. She turned bewildered eyes in his direction. ‘I thought—I mean, I assumed—–’

  ‘—that she was some lonely old lady, in need of your care and protection?’ he finished for her drily. ‘Nothing could be farther from the truth.’

  Sara shook her head and turned to look at the house again, but they were on the downward slope, and tall hedges obscured the view. All she could see was another house in the distance, standing on a knoll, which made it visible from the road. A larger house, she estimated, backed by an imposing sweep of firs, and with acres of parkland falling away to where she guessed her aunt’s house was situated.

  She caught her breath, and her companion, misinterpreting her reaction, said cynically: ‘Yes, impressive, isn’t it? Linden Court.’ He paused. ‘Lord Hadley’s residence.’

  ‘Is it?’ Sara’s voice revealed her uncertainty, and as if taking pity on her, his eyes darkened with unexpected sympathy.

  ‘Poor Sara,’ he said, and her indignation at his casual use of her Christian name was superseded by other, more disturbing emotions. ‘You really don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for, do you? Just don’t let Harriet eat you alive!’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ANY response Sara might have made to this remark was thwarted by the sudden eruption of a horse and rider into the road in front of them. It all happened so quickly, Sara was full of admiration for her companion’s swift reactions as he stood on his brakes. The Mercedes swerved only slightly, the tyres squealing on the gravelly surface, and they halted abruptly only a few feet from the animal’s rearing hooves.

  ‘Bloody fool!’ Jude muttered savagely, thrusting open his door, and as he did so the rider swung down from his sweating mount to confront him.

  Sara found that she was shaking, too, but she watched with some trepidation as the two men faced one another with apparent recognition. They were not at all alike, she acknowledged inconsequently. The man Jude was so dark and aggressive, the other man mousey-fair and conciliatory. It was obvious in the way he held up his hand in mitigation, and the disarming smile of apology that split his gentler features.

  ‘I’m most awfully sorry, Jude,’ Sara heard him say contritely, soothing the fretful horse with his hand on its muzzle. ‘I had no idea you’d be coming along here right at this moment. Juniper wanted to take the hedge, and dammit, I just let him.’

  Jude shook his head impatiently, but he was evidently mollified by the other man’s attitude. ‘You’ll kill yourself one of these days, Rupert,’ he declared roughly. ‘This may be a quiet road, but it’s not a private one, and I don’t think your father would approve of being presented with a bill for a new Mercedes, do you?’

  ‘Heavens, no!’ the young man grimaced. ‘Pater and I are not exactly on the best of terms as it is, right now, and Juniper breaking a leg would be the last straw!’

  ‘Yes, well—–’ Jude’s expression was not incomprehensible, Sara thought, bearing in mind that the horse was not his concern. ‘So long as we understand one another, hmm? I wouldn’t want Harriet upset.’

  ‘Lord, no,’ the young man chuckled, and watching them Sara wondered what kind of a relationship two such opposites could have. That they knew one another very well was obvious. What was less obvious was what they might have in common.

  As if becoming aware that they had an audience, the fair man suddenly turned and looked in her direction, and Sara pressed her shoulders back in the seat and endeavoured not to notice. But to her astonishment Jude, observing the other man’s interest, invited him casually to come and meet her.

  ‘This is Sara Shelley,’ he said, introducing them through the open window of the car. ‘Sara, this is Rupert Hadley, Lord Hadley’s son.’

  Once again his use of her name went unremarked beneath Sara’s astonishment at the introduction. This was Lord Hadley’s son! The son of the owner of that magnificent stately home on the hill! She could hardly believe it, and while all her instincts urged her to get out of the car to speak to him, Jude’s indolent stance against the door prevented her. How on earth could an employee of her aunt’s be familiar with the son of one of England’s aristocracy? It didn’t make sense, unless her assessment of the situation was lacking some vital clue.

  ‘So pleased to meet you, Miss Shelley.’

  Rupert Hadley had put his hand through the window, and with a feeling of disbelief Sara offered her own. His hand, despite his hard riding, was quite soft, and she guessed the leather gauntlets he wore protected his skin from any abrasion.

  ‘How do you do?’ she responded politely, not quite knowing how she ought to address him, and his lips parted broadly to reveal uneven white teeth.

  ‘Are you staying with Miss Ferrars?’ he enquired, making no move to go, but before Sara could reply, Jude interposed for her.

  ‘Sara is Harriet’s niece,’ he declared, his grey eyes challenging her to contradict him. ‘She’s—er—she’s come to stay with us for a while. Her father died recently, and Harriet’s her only relation.’

  ‘I see.’ Rupert Hadley was evidently intrigued by the combination of silvery-tipped lashes and long green eyes, but as if he was in charge of the situation, Jude chose to break up the gathering.

  ‘We must be going,’ he said, walking round the car to slide in beside Sara again, and she stiffened instinctively when he leant half across her to make his farewells to the other man. ‘See you later, Rupert,’ he remarked, and Sara was aware again of a certain proprietorial note in his voice. But the brushing of his shoulder against her arm and the lean hardness of his thigh pressed briefly against hers during the exchange robbed her of any other speculations.

  Rupert Hadley watched them go, a rather stolid figure in his tweed hacking jacket and fawn breeches. He didn’t wear a hat, Sara noticed, and his fair hair lifted slightly in the breeze as they passed. But it was not this that caused her to look back over her shoulder. It was the sudden uncanny feeling that she had seen his face before, and she was still giving this consideration when they turned between stone gateposts and negotiated the narrow drive which led to the forecourt in front of the house.

  Knight’s Ferry had probably originally gained its name from the fact that the River Rowan glinted in the late afternoon sunlight only a dozen yards from its doors. Sara guessed there had once been a ferry to cross the wide stretch of calm water, but no doubt time, and the erection of bridges, had robbed it of any usage. Still, she could not deny a surge of pleasure as she looked at the mellowed old building, with its ivy-covered walls and leaded dormer windows, the turrets she had seen earlier like some medieval reminder of the days when fortification was a way of life. The house belonged to no particular period that she could identify, and she surmised it had been added to over the years. Now it sprawled like a matron gone to seed, large and comfortable, but lacking in elegance.

  Sara was admiring the gardens when the door to the house opened, and a woman appeared at the head of a short flight of steps. Immediately, her momentary sense of reprieve was over, and she turned her attention to where Jude was unloading her suitcases, silently begging for his intercession.

  ‘Sara! Sara, my child! How good it is to see you after all this time!’ Harriet Ferrars’ words were warming and disarming, and Sara’s gaze was drawn back to her as the woman advanced towards her.

  Her memories of Aunt Harriet were vague, and in her brief experience people generally aged quicker than memory allowed. That was why, although she knew the woman could not be much more than fifty, she had expected someone who looked middle-aged and matronly, a little like the house, she mused, struck by the simple comparison.

  But Harriet Ferrars did not look middle-aged or matronly. Indeed, if Sara had not known the truth, she would have estimated her age to be somewhere in her thirties, and that only because of her carriage and maturity. Her face and figure were those of a much younger woman. Her skin was virtually unlined, and the two-piece suit she was wearing,
in dusky blue silk jersey, accentuated the slender line of her hips and the shapely length of her legs. Her make-up was faultless, her hair, a rich chestnut brown, worn in a loose casual style. She was little like the girl’s image of her, and Sara knew a moment’s trepidation for the things that Jude had told her.

  Then she was embraced with genuine affection, the kisses that were delivered on both cheeks leaving a delicate fragrance of Eau de Lancome behind them. ‘Sara,’ Harriet said again, drawing back and shaking her head. ‘My dear, you are simply delightful!’

  Sara coloured, as much from the knowledge that Jude was watching them and could hear every word as from any embarrassment at the effusive comment.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, forcing a smile. And then: ‘It’s good to see you again, too, Aunt Harriet.’

  ‘Yes.’ Harriet held her at arm’s length for a moment, surveying her with a thoroughness Sara found quite disconcerting. But after a moment her aunt released her, and tucked a confiding hand through her arm.

  ‘I was so sorry to hear about your father, my dear,’ she said, broaching the subject Sara least wanted to talk about. ‘It must have been a terrible shock for you. That’s why I sent for you. One needs relatives at a time like this.’

  ‘Shall I put the cases in the rose room?’ asked Jude, interrupting them, and Harriet glanced round at him with a barely perceptible tightening of her lips.

  ‘You know as well as I do that that’s the room I’ve chosen for Sara,’ she declared, an edge to her voice, and Jude shrugged his shoulders rather mockingly as he bent to pick up the luggage.

  ‘Come along, dear.’ Harriet patted Sara’s hand and urged her towards the house. ‘It’s still cold, despite the sunshine. But I think you’ll find you’ll be comfortable here.’