Jane got out of her van, taking with her the cake she had made for her parents’ anniversary and the bunch of flowers she had bought to signify the occasion. She let herself in through the oak front door, knowing Mrs Weaver had enough to keep her busy without having to answer the door to the daughter of the house.
Jane paused in the grand hallway, putting down the box containing the cake on the round table there, before looking up at the wide sweep of the staircase, briefly recalling the ball that had been held here for her eighteenth birthday—her walking down that staircase in the beautiful black gown her mother had helped her to choose, with her honey-coloured waist-length hair swinging loosely down her slender back.
At the time it had seemed to Jane she had the whole world at her feet, little dreaming that ten years later her perfect world would have been totally destroyed. And as for her youthful dreams that night of Mr Right and happy-ever-after…! As she had told Gabriel Vaughan two evenings ago, she no longer believed in them, either!
Gabriel Vaughan…
She had tried not to think of him for the last two days, and as she had been particularly busy, catering for a lunch as well as a dinner yesterday, she had managed to do that quite successfully. Although she had to admit she had felt slightly apprehensive about the dinner party the evening before, in case Gabe should once again be one of the guests!
But it had been a trouble-free evening. As the last two days had been Gabriel Vaughan-free. And strangely enough, after his initial bombardment of her privacy and emotions, she found his complete silence now almost as unnerving. What was he up to now…?
“Janette, darling!” her mother greeted warmly as Jane entered the comfortable sitting-room, a fire blazing in the hearth—the only form of heating they had in the house now that central heating was an unaffordable luxury. Fires were lit each day in this sitting-room and in the master bedroom.
Her mother looked as elegantly beautiful as ever as she rose to kiss Jane, tall and stately, blonde hair perfectly styled, make-up enhancing the beauty of her face. And despite her fifty-one years, and the birth of her daughter, Daphne Smythe-Roberts was still as gracefully thin as she had been in her youth.
It took Jane a little longer to turn and greet her father, schooling her features not to reveal the shock she felt whenever she looked at his now stooped and dispirited body. Ten years older than her mother, her father looked much older than that, no longer the vibrantly fit man he had once been, a force to be reckoned with in business.
Jane forced a bright smile to her face as he too rose to kiss and hug her, over six feet in height, but his stooped shoulders somehow making him appear shorter, the thickness of his hair no longer salt-and-pepper but completely salt, his handsome face also lined with age.
Guilt.
Jane felt overwhelmed with it every time she visited her parents nowadays. If she hadn’t fallen in love with Paul, if she hadn’t married him, if her father hadn’t decided to groom his son-in-law to take over the business from him one day, handing more and more of the responsibility for the day-to-day running of the company to the younger man, at the same time trusting Paul more and more on the financial side of things too… If only. If only!
Because it had been a trust Paul had abused. And as his wife, as his widow, Jane could only feel guilt and despair for the duplicity on Paul’s part that had robbed her parents of the comfortable retirement years they had expected to enjoy together.
“You’re looking wonderful, darling.” Her father held her at arm’s length as he looked at her proudly with eyes as brown as her own.
“So are you,” she answered, more with affection than truth.
Her father had lost more than his business three years ago, he had also lost the self-respect that had made his electronics company into one of the largest privately owned companies in the country. And at fifty-eight he had felt too old—too defeated!—to want to start all over again. And so her parents lived out their years in genteel poverty, instead of travelling the world together as they had once planned to do when her father finally retired.
Guilt.
God, yes, Jane felt guilty!
“I think you’re looking a little pale, Janette,” her mother put in concernedly. “You aren’t working too hard, are you, darling?”
Guilt.
Yes, her parents felt that guilt too, but for a different reason. The life Jane had now, catering for other peoples’ dinner parties, was not the one they had envisaged for their only and much beloved child. But none of them had been in a financial position three years ago to do more than offer each other emotional support.
Things were slightly better for Jane now, and she did what she could, without their knowledge, to help them in the ways that she was able. Before she left later this afternoon she would deliver to the kitchen such things as the smoked salmon that her mother loved, several bottles of her father’s favourite Scotch, and many other things that simply could not be bought in the normal budget of the household as it now was. Her mother, Jane felt, probably was aware of the extras that Jane supplied them with—after all, her mother had always managed the household budget—but by tacit agreement neither of them ever mentioned the luxuries that would appear after one of Jane’s visits.
“Not at all, Mummy,” Janette Smythe-Roberts assured her mother. She’d once been Janette Granger, before she’d thrown that life away along with her wedding ring—Jane Smith, personal chef, taking her place. “The business is doing marvellously,” she told her. “It’s just a busy time of year. But I’m not here to talk about me.” She smiled, holding out the flowers to her mother. “Happy Anniversary!”
“Oh, darling, how lovely!” Her mother blinked back the tears as she looked at her favourite lilies and orchids that Jane had picked out for her.
“And this is for you, Daddy.” She handed her father a bottle of the whisky that she wouldn’t have to sneak to Mrs Weaver in the kitchen later, her eyes widening appreciatively as she saw for the first time the display of roses on the table in the bay window. “My goodness, Daddy,” she said admiringly, the deep yellow and white roses absolutely beautiful. “Did you grow these in your greenhouse?” Rose-growing had become her father’s hobby in the last few years, and whenever he couldn’t be found in the house he was out in the greenhouse tending his beloved roses.
In years gone by, the house would have been full of flowers, a huge display on the table in the hallway, smaller vases in the sitting-room and dining-room, posies of scented flowers in the bedrooms. But not any more; there were no gardeners now to tend the numerous blooms her mother had needed to make such colourful arrangements.
“I’m afraid not.” Her father grimaced ruefully. “Would that I had. Beautiful specimens, aren’t they?” he said admiringly.
Beautiful. But if her father hadn’t grown them, where had they come from…?
Her parents’ circle of friends had narrowed down to several couples they had known from when they were first married, and Jane couldn’t imagine any of them had sent these wonderful roses either. There were at least fifty blooms there, and they must have cost a small fortune to buy.
Her parents’ sudden change of financial circumstances had had a strange effect on the majority of people they had been friendly with three years ago, most of them suddenly avoiding the other couple, almost as if they were frightened the collapse and financial take-over of David Smythe-Roberts’ company might be catching!
So who had given them the roses?
“We had a visitor yesterday, darling.” Her mother’s tone was light, but her gaze avoided actually meeting Jane’s suddenly sharp one. “Of course, he didn’t realise it was our anniversary yesterday.” Daphne laughed dismissively. “But the roses are absolutely lovely, aren’t they?” she continued brightly.
He? A sense of forboding began to spread through Jane. He! Which he?
Her hands began to shake, and she suddenly felt short of breath, sure she could actually feel the blood starting to drain out of her che
eks as she continued to stare at her mother.
“Oh, Janette, don’t look like that!” Her mother moved forward, clasping both of Jane’s hands in her own. “It was perfectly all right,” she assured her. “Mr Vaughan didn’t stay very long—well, just long enough for a cup of tea,” she admitted awkwardly. “Talking of tea,” she added desperately as Jane looked even more distressed, “I think I’ll ring for Mrs Weaver to bring us all—”
“No!” Jane at last found her voice again.
Mr Vaughan! Her worst fear had come true; it was Gabe who had come here, to her parents’ home, bringing those beautiful roses with him.
Why? It was three years ago now; why couldn’t he just leave them all alone? Or had he come here to see the results of what he and Paul, between them if not together, had done to her family?
The man she had spent time with this last week didn’t seem to be that cruel, and his actions towards Felicity and Richard Warner didn’t imply deliberate cruelty either. But if it wasn’t for that reason, why had he come here…?
“I’ll take these flowers through to the kitchen and put them in a vase,” she told her parents desperately. “And I’ll ask Mrs Weaver for the tea at the same time.” She had to escape for a few minutes, had to try and make some sense out of what was happening. And she needed to be away from her parents to be able to do that.
“Janie—”
“I won’t be long, Daddy,” she assured him quickly, his use of his childhood name for her making her want to sit down and cry. Instead she fled from the sitting-room, much to the dismay of her parents, but necessarily for her own well-being.
She drew a deep breath into her lungs once she was out in the hallway, desperately trying to come to terms with what her mother had just said.
Gabe had been here! To her family home. In the house where she had spent her childhood and teenage years.
Why? she inwardly cried again.
She could hear the concerned murmur of her parents’ voices in the room behind her, knew that her reaction had disturbed them. Ordinarily she kept her feelings to herself, felt her parents already had enough to cope with. But hearing of Gabe’s visit here had just been too much of a shock, so completely unexpected that this time it had been impossible to hide her emotions from her parents.
But she had to calm herself now, put the flowers in a vase, ask Mrs Weaver to serve tea, and take in to her parents the cake that she had made to celebrate their anniversary. She had to keep everything as normal as possible. After all, her parents had no idea she had met “Mr Vaughan” again too…
The housekeeper was, as usual, pleased to see Jane, having worked in the house since Jane was a child. The two of them chatted amiably together as Jane arranged the orchids and lilies in the vase, the very normality of it helping her to put things into perspective. Her family would have their tea and cake, and then they could return to the disturbing subject of Gabriel Vaughan; she felt she had to know what Gabe had found to talk to her parents about during his visit. More to the point, she needed to know what her parents had talked to him about!
Her parents seemed relieved at her relaxed mood when she rejoined them, thrilled with the cake she had made them, all of them having a slice of it with the tea the housekeeper brought in a few minutes later.
But they were all just biding their time, Jane knew; she could feel her parents’ tension as well as her own.
“You’ll stay and have dinner with us, of course, darling?” her mother prompted expectantly a short time later.
Jane grimaced her regret. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” she said.
“Another dinner party, Janie?” her father guessed mildly, the regret in his eyes saying she should be attending the dinner party, not cooking it for other people.
“It’s almost Christmas, Daddy,” she reminded him, looking pointedly at the festive decorations they had already put up. “It’s my busiest time.”
He sighed heavily. “You’ll never meet anyone stuck in other people’s kitchens!”
She didn’t want to meet anyone! Besides, she had met someone. She had met Gabriel Vaughan…
“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, that’s me,” she dismissed teasingly. “But tell me,” she added lightly, “besides bringing you the roses, what did Gabriel Vaughan come here for?”
Jane had taken a good look around the sitting-room when she’d returned from the kitchen, looking for any incriminating photographs. There were no recent ones of her in here, only ones of her when she was very young, and then at gymkhanas as she went up to collect one of the rosettes she’d often won. And in those she was a round-faced teenager, with long blonde hair, smiling widely into the camera, a brace on her teeth that she had worn until shortly before her sixteenth birthday.
No, there was nothing in this room to indicate that Jane Smith had once been Janette Smythe-Roberts. And not a single thing in the house, she knew, to say she had ever been Janette Granger, Paul Granger’s wife. As Jane had done herself, her parents had destroyed anything that would remind them she had ever been married to Paul Granger, and that included disposing of any photographs of them together. Including their wedding photographs.
“I really couldn’t say, dear,” her mother answered vaguely. “He didn’t really seem to want anything, did he, David?” She looked at her husband for support.
“No, he didn’t.” Jane’s father seemed to answer a little too readily for Jane’s comfort. “He just spent a rather pleasant hour here, chatting about this and that, and then he left again.” He shrugged his shoulders.
From the little she had come to know about Gabe, he didn’t have “pleasant hours” to waste chatting! “Daddy, the man sat back and watched as your company floundered and almost fell, and then he stepped in with an offer you couldn’t refuse—literally!” she said exasperatedly. “How on earth could you have just sat there and taken tea with the man?”
“What happened in the past was business, Janette,” her father answered firmly, showing some of his old spirit. “And you have to give the man some credit for keeping on most of the original staff and turning the company around.”
She didn’t have to give Gabriel Vaughan credit for anything! But then, her parents had no idea of the way the man had tried so relentlessly to hound her down three years ago. Oh, Gabe had asked her parents for her whereabouts too, and in the circumstances her parents had decided she had already been through enough heartache, and had refused to tell him where she was.
That was when the lies had begun, on Jane’s part, her guilt taking on the form of protectiveness from any more emotional pain for her parents. They had already suffered enough.
And so her parents simply had no idea of how Gabe had gone to each of her friends in turn with the same question, how for three months she hadn’t been able to contact anyone she knew for fear Gabriel Vaughan would get to hear about it and somehow manage to find her.
Her parents weren’t even aware that Gabe was part of the reason she had chosen to open her business under the name Jane Smith. They’d believed her when she’d told them it was because she would prefer it that no one realised she had once been Janette Smythe-Roberts. They’d been through too many humiliations themselves concerning their change of financial circumstances not to believe her!
But now Gabe had been here, to their home, and there was just no way that Jane, having come to know him a little better this last week, believed he had simply come here for tea and a pleasant chat!
“You could have done all that yourself if he had backed you financially rather than taken over the company,” she reasoned tautly. He had just done that for Richard Warner; he could have done the same for her father three years ago!
Her father shook his head, smiling sadly. “Gabriel Vaughan is not a charitable institution, Janette, he’s a businessman. Besides, I was almost sixty then—far too old to dredge up the youthful enthusiasm needed to turn the company around.”
Jane bit back her angry retort, knowing that in a way
her father was right about Gabe; he hadn’t been the one responsible for breaking her father’s spirit. The person who had done that was dead, and beyond anyone’s retribution.
Paul, her own husband, was responsible for what had happened to her father’s company, for all that had happened three years ago.
And now she was back full circle to those feelings of guilt that always assailed her whenever she visited her parents.
“I still think it’s very odd for Gabriel Vaughan to have come here,” she muttered.
It was so odd, she decided later on the slow drive home, that she intended, at the first opportunity, to find out exactly what he had thought he was doing by going to see Daphne and David Smythe-Roberts!
“JANE!” Felicity greeted her warmly as she recognised her voice on the other end of the telephone line. “How marvellous! I was just about to call you.”
“You were?” Jane prompted warily.
It had taken her twenty-four hours of thought, of trying to sit back from the problem, to try and work out how best to approach solving it. And her problem was Gabriel Vaughan. Wasn’t it always?
But the problem this time wasn’t how to avoid him, but how to meet him again without it appearing as if she had deliberately set out to do so. Not knowing where his rented apartment was, or where he had set up his office for his stay in England, she had been left with only one line of attack: Felicity and Richard Warner.
She had telephoned the other woman with the intention of calling in to see her, and at the same time casually bringing the conversation round to Gabriel Vaughan.
“I was.” Felicity laughed happily. “I’m feeling so much better now, and Richard and I did so much want to say thank you for all your help—”
“There’s no need—”
“So you’ve already said,” the other woman dismissed lightly. “We happen to disagree with you. I suggested we invite you out to dinner, but Richard said that was like taking coals to Newcastle! But being a woman I don’t think that’s the case at all; I know just how nice it is to let someone else do the cooking for a change!”
The Yuletide Engagement & A Yuletide Seduction Page 23