Adele was almost four, and she had sprung up in the last few weeks, looked rather tall for her age. With her exquisite little face, silvery gray eyes, and pale blond hair, she was the spitting image of her mother, a beautiful child who was sweet-natured and docile.
Everyone fell in love with her, and Lourdes, Jean-Claude’s cook, was no exception. For this long weekend in the country, and with several houseguests, she had traveled from the house in Paris to do the cooking, and Hakim had accompanied her. Although Gérard was the houseman at Clos-Fleuri, Jean-Claude had decided extra help was necessary, and Hakim had been a willing volunteer.
When Tessa walked into the wonderful, old-fashioned family kitchen, Adele was eating a light supper and talking to Elvira in the most animated way. Tessa noticed at once that Lourdes and Hakim were looking on, their affection for her child written across their smiling faces. It pleased her so much that Jean-Claude’s staff had fallen in love with Adele the first time they met her. All of them, both in Paris and here, had made the child feel comfortable, welcomed her warmly. And Adele had responded in kind. Not all of them spoke English, but a few gentle words in French had been significant, and somehow Adele had known they were saying nice things to her by their tone of voice and expressions.
“Mumma!” Adele cried when she saw Tessa coming across the kitchen, and she made to jump down from the table. But Elvira put a restraining hand on her arm. “You have to finish your supper, Adele,” the nanny said softly.
Tessa came to a standstill at the big, family-size table, nodding to Hakim and Lourdes as she did, and then sitting down next to Adele. “Hello, darling. What did you have for supper tonight?”
“Fish, Mumma, a little itty-bitty fish with mashed potatoes and petits pois … that means peas.”
Tessa smiled. “I know, and so you are learning French, are you?”
Adele nodded. “Lourdes is teaching me the name of … food. It’s a beginning, she said, and pommes de terre, that’s potatoes. Viande, that’s meat, and I told you about peas, and then there’s crème caramel, that’s a custard, and lait—”
“Is milk,” Elvira cut in, adding, “Come along, Adele, please finish your supper like a good girl.”
“Oh, I’ve finished, thank you.” Turning to her mother, she said, “You’re not having fish tonight, you’re having viande. Lamb. Jean-Claude likes lamb, Lourdes told me that. Where is Jean-Claude, Mumma?”
“Right here, ma petite,” he announced from the doorway and came into the kitchen. He rested a loving hand on Adele’s head when he reached her, bent down and kissed it, then took a seat next to Tessa. Looking across at Hakim, who was filling an ice bucket, he asked, “Has my son arrived yet?”
“Fifteen minutes ago, monsieur. Gérard took his suitcase upstairs.”
“Bien,” Jean-Claude said, and then, putting an arm around Adele, he asked, “Now, mon petit chou à la crème, how was dinner?”
“Very nice. Merci.” She smiled up at him.
He smiled back, and, gazing at Tessa lovingly, he said, “So she’s learning French. I think that is charming.”
“When can I meet Philippe?” Adele now asked, peering into Jean-Claude’s face.
“Soon, I think. I’m sure he will come down in fifteen minutes or so. To join us for an aperitif before dinner.”
“Oh, goodie! He’s going to be my big brother, Mumma said so.”
“Of course he is … . Your mother spoke the truth.”
Adele slipped off the chair, planted her feet on the floor. Elvira said firmly, in a quiet tone, “But you’ve not had any dessert.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want any, Elvira.” Reaching for Jean-Claude’s hand, the child went on, “Can we go to the little room? So I can watch my Cinderella tape? Please, Jean-Claude.”
“And why not?” he replied, rising, winking at Tessa, and taking Adele’s hand firmly in his.
The child swung her head and exclaimed in her little girl’s voice, “Thank you, Lourdes … merci beaucoup.” And then she and Jean-Claude left the kitchen.
20
Whatever they said about him, no one could accuse him of not being thorough. He had been trained by Emma Harte to be just that, and she had instilled in him the absolute need to pay attention to details and, most important, to leave nothing to chance.
His thoroughness had now brought him to this desk at six-thirty in the evening, where he sat down and opened the black-leather binder that held all of the information he had garnered about the Hughes family. From the moment Evan Hughes had been pronounced one of the great-granddaughters of Emma Harte, Jonathan Ainsley had employed a team of American and British investigators to provide him with everything he needed to know about each and every member of her family. Cover all your bases, that was his motto.
His eyes settled on the name ANGHARAD HUGHES, and he scanned the page, which told him a few things about her. Twenty-three years old. An abandoned baby who had been adopted by Marietta and Owen Hughes when she was only a few months old. Reasonably well educated. An expert in Georgian antiques, trained by her father. Considered wild in her teenage years. Sexually attractive to men of all ages. Well, he knew that, didn’t he? Beautiful. He was very well aware of this, also. Not very close to her sisters, Evan and Elayne; something of a loner, in fact. Closer to her mother than to Owen Hughes. Never really a favorite of her grandmother Glynnis Hughes. Et cetera, et cetera.
Jonathan sighed and closed the binder. He had had all this information for months; obviously nothing new had come up on her, or any of the other family members. And certainly the things he truly needed to know would never appear in a dossier.
Why was she pursuing him?
What did she want from him?
Had she been planted by the Hartes to spy on him for them?
He had voiced one of those questions in London. “What do you want from me?” he’d asked the night she had come for drinks with him at his flat in Grosvenor Square.
“Nothing,” she had replied. “Just to see you. I sure thought you were the most handsome guy I’d ever seen when we bumped into each other in the village shop. But I told you that when I came to your home in Thirsk.” She had shrugged and added, “I guess I thought you were flirting with me. I kind of … well, you know … . fancied you.” She had shrugged again and eyed him in the most suggestive way, and he had thought, Bedroom eyes, she has bedroom eyes, and wondered where that very old-fashioned expression had been dredged up from. And later that evening she had made quite sure he understood that she was available, ready, willing, and able … and planning to stay on in Europe for a while. As long as he wanted, in fact.
He had been certain that he could have taken her to bed there and then; in fact, he was very well aware that was what she wanted. But as attracted as he had been to her, he paid attention to the small voice in his head that warned him to be cautious. The last thing he needed was a woman in his bed who was running back to the Hartes, to report to them about his sex life, his life in general, his business, his associates, and anything else she might manage to glean if she were around him for any length of time.
And so he had sent her packing that night, seen her the next afternoon for tea at the flat, and, against his better judgment, he had asked her to join him in Paris.
She had jumped at the invitation, and from the look on her face he had understood that she would jump through hoops for him … in bed. He wondered what else she would do for him if he asked her nicely.
As he leaned back against the chair, Jonathan’s eyes drifted around the library, his favorite room in the apartment on the Avenue Foch. It was elegant without being pretentious, and it was sumptuously comfortable. Designed by one of Paris’s leading interior designers, the library was paneled in bleached oak, furnished with priceless antiques, such as two handsome Louis XV chests and a beautiful standing clock by Le Roy, which were balanced by comfortable sofas and deep armchairs upholstered in dark red velvet. The carpet was Savonnerie, and the paintings on the walls were fr
om the Impressionist period, two were Degas ballet dancers, while an extraordinary Sisley hung over the carved antique fireplace. Whenever he looked at the latter, he thought of his grandmother’s Sisleys, which hung at Pennistone Royal, and smiled smugly. His was so much better, one of Sisley’s finest works, and a true prize, something to cherish.
As his thoughts settled on Pennistone Royal, his face changed; an angry glint settled in his eyes. This time they had outwitted him. The bomb had blown out the west wall of the church, but it had been empty. Next time those bloody Hartes would not be so lucky. He’d get them yet, do them harm no matter what. Plans were hatching in his head.
Rising, he walked over to the fireplace and stood with his back to the logs burning brightly in the grate, shaking off his anger, his thoughts focusing again on Angharad Hughes. He had invited her for drinks, and then dinner this evening, but he had no intention of taking her out to one of his favorite haunts. He couldn’t possibly permit himself to be seen with her in public.
She was a beautiful young woman, underneath all that muck she put on her face. But the hair was ghastly. Nonetheless, he had wanted, no, needed, to see her again, to explore the possibilities … of her, to take her to bed, if only this once. Tonight. He knew there would be no argument from her. But he had to be sure she was on the level, was merely interested in a relationship with him, not on some kind of mission to gather information.
He would assess her yet again when she arrived for drinks and make up his mind. Then he would have dinner with her at the apartment, whatever his final decision, and send her back to the George V if necessary, but only after he had enjoyed her company in his bedroom.
There was a knock on the door, and his houseman, Gaston, came in and stood discreetly in the doorway. “Marie-Claire wishes to know if you would like caviar with the aperitifs, Monsieur Ainsley?”
Jonathan shook his head. “Not this evening, Gaston, merci.”
The houseman nodded and withdrew, closing the door behind him as he returned to the servants’ quarters of the spacious apartment.
Jonathan was not crazy about caviar, disliking the strong fishy taste, and he certainly didn’t want Angharad Hughes tasting and smelling of it. The last time he had eaten it was with Priscilla, on one of their hot dates in Scarborough, and the taste had lingered for too long.
Priscilla Marney. Of course. She could help him make the right assessment about the Hughes girl. Prissy had catered the wedding reception last week. And she was observant. She could enlighten him, but without knowing she was doing so. Prissy was jealous of other women, and also put out with him at the moment for canceling their rendezvous in Thirsk. It was meant to have been yesterday. But if he phoned her now, and sweet-talked her, made her think he was unhappy not to have seen her, he might be able to glean a few useful tidbits.
Returning to the French bureau plat, he sat down, picked up the receiver, and dialed her number in Harrogate. She answered within seconds, and he said softly, “Hello, Prissy darling. It’s Jonathan.”
“Yes, I know,” she responded, her tone not revealing her mood to him.
“I’m calling to tell you how much I’m missing you at this very moment, sweetie. I’d really been looking forward to seeing you yesterday, having you all to myself at the house in Thirsk.”
“So had I,” she replied, still not softening.
“I know you’re upset with me, Prissy, but you mustn’t be. I’m going to make it up to you, I promise. I will definitely be back in Yorkshire next week, and that’s why I’m calling now. I want you to come to the house in Thirsk, spend the day with me and the night, as we’d planned to do yesterday.”
When she did not respond, Jonathan said in a soft, throaty voice, “You know I can’t resist you, darling girl, and I must see you before I go to Hong Kong. Please say yes. You’d make me so happy” He hoped he sounded appealing and sincere.
“All right,” she answered slowly, almost reluctantly. “But you haven’t said when next week, Jonny. I hope I can make it.”
“I was thinking of next Thursday. A week today. I’ll fly in early to Yeadon, so we can meet for lunch, and then we’ll have the afternoon and the evening together. How about it, sweetie? Come on, say yes, Priscilla. You know how I feel about you.”
It seemed to him that he felt the lifting of her cool, somewhat begrudging mood flowing down the telephone lines. “Oh, that’s wonderful, Jonny! Yes, that’s a really good day for me. And I’m missing you, aching to see you. I was so looking forward to our little rendezvous, I really was, and I felt truly deflated yesterday, bloody let down, if you want the truth.”
“Don’t be. Look what’s in store for you … for us. Together at Thirsk. No staff. Just the two of us, having a long, sexy day and night together … . Think of that, Prissy.”
“Oh, Jonny, yes, yes, it’ll be great!”
“My God, Prissy, you sound so loving and sexy, I wish you were here with me now … what I would do with you …”
“Oh, Jonny,” she moaned. “I wish I were there, too.”
“I think we’d better change the subject,” he replied, suddenly laughing, pleased he had won her over. He could get her to eat out of his hand. “Tell me what happened at the wedding. You weren’t very forthcoming the other day.”
“Oh, I know, forgive me. But I was very upset when you canceled our date.”
“So how did it go? What did I miss?”
“Well, you certainly missed the fireworks, if I can call it that. Linnet changed the time of the wedding. The two of them—Gideon and Evan—were married in a secret ceremony at eight-fifteen in the morning.”
“Oh, really! Why was that?” He made himself sound surprised.
“Evan hasn’t been feeling well. The twins are due in late February or the first of March. She looks awfully ready to give birth to me and to everyone else. Anyway, she hadn’t been up to snuff, and the early ceremony was just a precaution actually. According to Margaret. Everyone was worried that the excitement of the ceremony with all the family in attendance might cause problems for Evan.”
“I see,” he said. “But what about the reception?”
“Oh, it went very well, and I must say everyone was turned out in their Sunday best. You’d have enjoyed it, Jonny, being with your cousins and your father.”
“Yes, I’m sure I would,” he answered in a very neutral tone. “And you saw my father, did you?” he probed, wanting to bring in the Hughes family.
“Yes, he was very handsome. Marietta Hughes was looking after him, she was wonderful with him.”
“And what about her adopted daughters, Pris? What are they like? Evan’s sisters? Are they as beautiful as she is?”
“Not really. Elayne is rather nice, a brunette, she’s the middle one, but the youngest, Angharad, is just awful.”
“Oh dear, is she the ugly sister then?”
“Not ugly ugly,” Priscilla answered, sounding as if she disliked Angharad. “But cheap-looking. She has this horrendous hair, sort of spiky and dyed platinum. A cute face, I suppose, but she wears tons of makeup. She’s got a wonderful figure, mind you, Jonny. And she acts sort of sexy. For a moment I thought Lorne might go for her, but I was mistaken. He couldn’t stand her actually. Do you know, nobody can.”
“And why is that?” he asked, his interest fired on.
“I don’t know. I didn’t really get to chat with her. I was very busy, you know. But later, when I was having a cup of tea with Margaret in the kitchen, she told me that none of the Harte girls like her at all. She’s tried to make friends with them, but they shun her, really shun her. Margaret says Evan can’t stand her. Neither can Gideon.” Priscilla took a deep breath, and, lowering her voice, she confided, “I heard on the grapevine that Gideon blames her for Evan’s accident.”
“Really! Is that so? But actually, I didn’t know Evan had had an accident.” This was true; Jonathan’s hand gripped the phone. “Do tell me.”
“Apparently Evan fell in her office before coming to
Yorkshire for the wedding. She missed her chair and hit the floor. She had to go to hospital because everyone was certain there was going to be a miscarriage. Or problems at any rate.”
“But why would Gideon Harte think it was the sister’s fault?”
“Because she visited Evan at the store unexpectedly, and they had a row. I heard they all believe she went there to pick a quarrel, actually. To upset Evan. Margaret heard Marietta saying to Emily that Angharad has always been envious of Evan, and never more than now. Because of Gideon, the Hartes, and all of that stuff.”
“Oh dear, don’t tell me there’s trouble at t’mill,” he murmured, using one of their favorite Yorkshire expressions.
“That’s not just possible, it’s a probability!” Priscilla announced. “Evan’s father and sister have gone back to New York, but then I’m sure your father told you they’d left sooner than expected.”
“Of course,” Jonathan said. It was not his father who had kept him so well-informed. However, he had no intention of letting Priscilla know this. He asked, “And what about the awful sister? Where is she?”
“She’s in London with her mother, but I don’t think she’s all that welcome as far as Evan and Gideon are concerned. Wiggs, the gardener, told me that Gideon wants her to return to the States as well. Oh, and by the way, Jonny, here’s a bit of news. Tessa became engaged to the French writer.”
“Oh, yes, so I’d heard,” he exclaimed, chuckling, recognizing that what Angharad had said about some members of the family was absolutely true. “I’m really sorry I missed the wedding,” he hurried on. “Just think, we might have sneaked a few hours together over the weekend.”
“Oh, Jonny, don’t tease me so … you’re getting me all hot and bothered.”
“Now, now, Priscilla, be a good girl until next week.”
Her answer was a long sigh.
“I’ll call you on Monday, darling,” he murmured, and they hung up.
Just Rewards (Harte Family Saga) Page 22