Date With a Single Dad
Page 37
She reached into her jacket pocket for his business card and came out empty. Where had she put the blasted thing? She leant over to pull her handbag off the back seat and flipped open the soft leather. His card was tucked in the small front pocket.
Lydia keyed in the number he’d written on the reverse and within seconds she was answered. ‘Hello. I … er … I need …’ she searched for the name on the business card ‘… I need … Christine Pearman. I’m delivering Nimrod, Wendy Bennington’s cat. Mr Regan-Phillips said he’d phone …?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’ The voice on the other end sounded distracted and agitated. ‘I’ll let you in. Can you tell me when you are inside?’
‘Okay.’ Lydia tossed the mobile on to her lap as the wide gates started to swing open. ‘Okay, I’m through,’ she said moments later.
‘You haven’t seen anyone, have you? No one’s gone out?’
‘No.’
‘No one at all?’
Good grief! This was getting rather ridiculous. Lydia looked doubtfully at the receiver. If the voice at the other end belonged to Christine Pearman it sounded as if the other woman ought to be more careful about the films she watched. ‘There’s no one here but me.’
‘If you follow the drive up, I’ll meet you at the front.’
Lydia shrugged. How bizarre. The drive meandered gently until she stopped in front of a spectacular house. It was the kind that had been designed along the established order of what was considered beautiful. There were just the right number of windows either side of an impressive entrance. Wide steps curved up to a front door that would have made Izzy’s artistic heart drool.
Conservative estimate: upwards of two million pounds worth of ‘Arts and Crafts’ real estate. She leant across to speak softly to Nimrod. ‘Not a bad holiday pad. Quite a contrast from home.’
Lydia unfastened her seat belt and climbed out, catching sight of a beautifully manicured lawn stretching out to the side of the house. It was a stunning place. Which made it strange, surely, for such a wealthy man to leave a godmother he loved with so little?
She lifted out the cat basket. Why not set her up with a little cottage in the grounds? There was bound to be one. Probably more than one.
‘Lydia Stanford?’
Lydia spun round. ‘Yes. I have … Nimrod.’
‘Mr Regan-Phillips did telephone,’ the other woman said with a nod. Her eyes looked past Lydia and seemed to scan the bushes behind her.
It was strange, preoccupied behaviour. She’d expected to be asked in for a cup of tea or something—a chance to see inside the inner sanctum of Nicholas Regan-Phillips’s impressive home. A chance to glean some snippet of information she could regale Izzy with.
Instead the housekeeper seemed completely distracted. Her face was agitated and her eyes were continually darting around as though she were searching for something.
‘Are you all right?’ Lydia asked abruptly.
‘Yes, I …’ the other woman broke off ‘… that is …’
There was the sound of tyres on gravel and the housekeeper looked round. ‘Thank heaven!’
Lydia turned round in time to see Nicholas Regan-Phillips’s dark green Jaguar twist up the drive. She watched as he climbed out of the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut.
Actually, she thought dispassionately, he was sexier than she’d first thought—if that was possible. He was taller, sharper. He looked as though he was used to the world working exactly as he wished it would. And there was something incredibly attractive about that.
She watched as his housekeeper surged forward, stopping him, the hapless Nimrod still imprisoned in the cat basket. Lydia caught no more than snatches of their conversation, words carried back to her on the breeze. ‘We thought she was sleeping—’
Nick looked past her and his eyes locked with Lydia’s. He crossed towards her, his feet scrunching on the gravel. ‘I’m sorry. It seems my daughter, Rosie, has gone missing,’ he explained quietly.
Instantly Lydia’s mind flew through possible options. Was it possible she’d been kidnapped?
Something of that must have shown on her face because he added, ‘It’s something she does quite frequently. The grounds are fully enclosed; I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’
Lydia frowned, trying to remember what she’d read in that Internet article. She was sure his daughter had been very young, but his words seemed to suggest he was the father of a teenager. ‘How old is she?’
‘Five.’
Five! He was remarkably unconcerned for a man who had misplaced his very young child. And wasn’t he divorced from her mother? No doubt she wouldn’t be quite so laid back if she knew he kept losing their daughter.
‘How long has she been missing?’ he asked, turning back to the housekeeper.
Christine was considerably agitated. ‘No more than forty minutes. Sophie went in and checked on her before she came down for a cup of tea. We’ve searched the house thoroughly—’
‘And down by the lake?’ he cut in abruptly.
‘Arthur and Tom are there now.’
His nod was decisive, as though he approved. Lydia glanced from one to the other. He clearly didn’t expect anything other than that his daughter had lost herself in the grounds—which, lake aside, was probably fine.
His housekeeper obviously disagreed. Her face was pinched with worry and she clasped and unclasped her hands. ‘She packed a bag this time. She’s even taken her toothbrush …’ Christine broke off and searched up her sleeve for a handkerchief.
Which meant, of course, that five-year-old Rosie had made a decision to run away. Which meant she was unhappy. And, she ‘kept’ doing it—so she was very unhappy.
Now that should worry a father. Lydia glanced up at him and saw very little sign of emotion. Not much more than a flash of irritation in those clever eyes—and whether the root cause was Christine or his errant daughter she couldn’t be sure.
His eyes flicked across to her … and then she understood in a sudden blinding flash of comprehension. His problem was with her. Or, more specifically, with her overhearing his private business.
As if she’d write anything about his daughter …
Unless, of course, she discovered he was a bad parent. That would be different, she conceded silently. Then she just might …
Or might not. She wouldn’t write anything that hurt a child. And it irritated her that he didn’t instinctively know that about her.
Lydia caught herself up on her thoughts. It didn’t matter what he thought of her—or her profession. What mattered was an unhappy little girl hiding out in her father’s grounds. And he ought to be looking for her.
‘I’m in the way. I’ll leave you to it …’
She was certain she saw a glimmer of relief. He held out his hand. ‘Thank you for bringing Nimrod.’
‘It’s no bother,’ she lied, automatically stretching out her own hand.
He had a good handshake, firm and decided, and she had the oddest sense of regret that he didn’t like her. For some reason it hurt that he didn’t trust her. She’d had people spit venom at her, but this bothered her more because it was so unwarranted. As far as she knew, she’d never met him before yesterday, had never met anyone who knew him well. So why?
‘I’ve … I’ve put the key back under the pot.’ He released her hand. Lydia reached inside her jacket pocket for her car key. ‘Do let me know if there’s any change with Wendy …’
He nodded.
‘And—’ she forced a bright smile ‘—I hope you find your daughter quickly.’
‘Thank you. Ring to the house as before and Christine will open the gates.’
She nodded and, with a swift smile at the distraught housekeeper, Lydia turned towards her car. It was disappointing not to have seen inside his house. She’d have liked to have known whether Nick Regan-Phillips’s tastes leant towards minimalism or whether he was a staunch traditionalist.
She started the engine. Prob
ably the latter. She could imagine his home would be filled with tasteful antiques sourced by others. Dining chairs designed by Rennie Macintosh perhaps? That would suit the age of his house. He probably saw them as long-term investments rather than objects of beauty. He struck her as someone who wouldn’t choose anything based on an emotional response.
Which was a shame, because he had real potential. Lydia slipped the car into second gear and glanced in her rear-view mirror in time to see him turn and walk slowly up the steps. He was sexy. In that British, uptight, public school kind of way.
Why was that so attractive? She smiled. There was something about a repressed male that made her want to roughen him up. See what was bubbling beneath the surface.
And with Nick Regan-Phillips there must be something. Drakes wasn’t the kind of success that happened by chance—or even because of the old boy network. It had happened because of passion. And drive. And brilliance. There was no denying that. Whatever else he was, Nicholas Regan-Phillips was a brilliantly clever man.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a flash of red. A single glimpse of it and then it vanished behind a lush camellia. Instinctively she slowed down, her eyes searching for confirmation of what she thought she’d seen.
Rosie?
Or someone searching for her? Lydia pulled the car to a gentle stop, uncertain what she should do. This was not her concern—but when had that ever stopped her?
With sudden energy she climbed out of the car and leant on the open door. ‘Rosie?’
She waited, listening closely.
‘Is that you?’
There was no answer. Which either meant there was no one there or that Rosie didn’t want to be found. Lydia hesitated. This was not her business and she was almost certain Nick Regan-Phillips would prefer her to leave him to deal with his missing daughter. But if she asked for the gates to be opened and Rosie slipped out she’d never forgive herself.
She shut the door and moved off the gravel path. ‘Rosie? Everyone is looking for you.’
Still nothing.
Slowly she walked round a large camellia, her eyes searching for another tell-tale scarlet flash among the shrubs. ‘Rosie?’
In spring and early summer, when the rhododendrons were in flower, this would be the most incredible sight, exotic and beautiful—but there was no sign of a five-year-old girl anywhere. Lydia shrugged, disappointed. She must have been mistaken.
Lydia threaded her way back along the path, but as she stepped out on to the gravel drive she saw a second flash of red. This time she didn’t call out, but quickened her pace. She wasn’t familiar with children, particularly those as young as five, but if this one was purposely running away from home she wasn’t going to want to be found.
Nipping through a narrow gap, Lydia was surprised to find … anything. She stopped abruptly, amazed to see a child standing quietly beside the grass verge. She hesitated, uncertain what to say to a five-year-old she’d never seen before and who had run away from home. ‘Are you Rosie? Everyone is searching for you.’
The little girl stared back at her. Not frightened, more curious. Lydia risked moving closer. Rosie’s dark curling hair was tied up in one high pony-tail and she was wearing a bright red dress and white lacy cardigan. She looked more like a doll than a real living breathing girl.
But that was clearly a deceptive impression. Rosie obviously had a will of iron and at her feet lay an overfilled lime-green backpack to prove it.
‘My name is Lydia …’ she began, tailing off when she caught sight of something tucked behind Rosie’s right ear. It was almost imperceptible because of the hair, but … un-mistakable. Rosie wore a hearing-aid. In fact, as she looked closer she could see that she wore two.
Rosie was deaf.
Lydia stood absolutely still. Her mind worked quickly. This explained why the housekeeper was so worried. Why she’d asked whether anyone had been near when the gates had opened.
If Rosie couldn’t hear when she called … And no one knew where she’d gone …
It would be a nightmare and if the little girl was determined not to be found … The grounds were extensive. It would take hours to search them properly.
She looked directly at Rosie and placed two fingers to her ear in the sign for ‘deaf’.
Slowly the little girl nodded, her brown eyes wide and curious. Her fingers moved against her own ear and then pointed at her chest.
It had been a long time since Lydia had signed. A very long time. She was probably going to be very rusty, but there had to be something remaining of her first language. Her mother had used it always. It was the first memory Lydia had. Speech had come through friends and playgroup, television and social workers.
Lydia smiled and sat down on the grass verge. Making sure Rosie could see her mouth, she carefully finger-spelt L-y-d-i-a—followed by her sign name. It had been picked by her father because he thought she had bright, wide eyes. It brought back so many memories. Memories of her childhood. Friday evenings, the first in every month, spent at the local deaf club, where she had seen her parents relaxed and happy as they rarely had been outside their home.
Rosie’s fingers moved rapidly and Lydia struggled to follow. She was out of practice. She picked up something about a row. At least she thought it was the sign for ‘row’—it might have been ‘war’, but that wasn’t as likely.
Why couldn’t she remember?
Hating the slowness with which she had to reply, Lydia tried to tell Rosie that her father was back at the house and it was time to go home. The little girl looked thoughtful and then shook her head.
Why? Lydia made the sign on the right-hand side of her chest.
Rosie signed again. The same quick movements, but this time Lydia understood perfectly. Rosie didn’t want to go home unless Lydia would tell her father why she’d run away.
To Rosie it probably seemed quite simple for a complete stranger to tell Nick Regan-Phillips why his child kept trying to escape. But Rosie was only five. She couldn’t possibly understand that between adults things were much more complicated.
Nick would probably consider it interfering. Lydia thought for a moment. It couldn’t matter. Even if he thought she was stepping way over the line he’d be grateful she’d brought Rosie home safely.
Lydia looked Rosie straight in the eye and signed ‘yes’. Then she held out her hand and, with complete trust, Rosie put her own inside it. Could it really be that easy?
She glanced across at her car, wondering whether it would be right to persuade a child who didn’t know her to get in it. On balance, she thought not. Of course, encouraging her to walk off with a stranger wasn’t a great idea either, but what was the alternative? At least they were still within the grounds of Fenton Hall and the important thing was to get her home.
It was also important to keep her promise. She’d managed to understand Rosie enough to realise how important it was. Someone had shouted at her and Rosie was sad. The two little fingers moving rapidly across her open palm had been her running into the garden. She’d packed her bag and run away.
Slowly the long-forgotten signs were coming back.
Rosie let go of her hand and tapped her arm to draw her attention. Lydia stopped and looked down as the little girl’s fingers moved more rapidly than she could hope to follow. From nowhere Lydia seemed to be able to pull the sign for ‘quick’. ‘Too quick,’ she told Rosie and squatted down in front of her.
And the sign for ‘again’. Two bounces of the first two fingers held straight. ‘Again, please.’
Rosie’s face broke into a gentle smile. Watching carefully to see she was understood, she told Lydia she didn’t like Sophie. That Sophie was cross. Sophie shouted. And that she wanted to find her grandma.
Lydia nodded her understanding.
Then Rosie asked her to tell her father that she wanted Sophie to go. She didn’t wait to see what Lydia would reply. She picked up her lime-green backpack and tucked her hand back inside Lydia’s.
Who the heck was Sophie? And what had she done to make Rosie dislike her so much? Lydia glanced down at the tiny figure beside her. She didn’t look particularly cowed by whatever Sophie had done. She looked more like a determined little thing who was very used to getting her own way.
Until she knew otherwise, she was inclined to give the unknown Sophie the benefit of the doubt, but she would tell Nick what his daughter had said. Clearly Rosie felt she needed an advocate. Now that was something she was good at.
Nick held up his hand to stop the two women talking at the same time, both more than anxious to justify why his daughter’s running away hadn’t been anything to do with them. God help him. What exactly did he pay them for if it wasn’t to keep Rosie safe?
‘Let’s deal with all of this when we know where Rosie is. Has anyone thought to look in the summerhouse?’
Christine looked affronted. ‘I looked there myself. And searched the house thoroughly. I will lay my life on it she’s not inside.’
Nick nodded. He was in no mood to pander to his housekeeper’s wounded pride. Sophie looked belligerent beside her. As a nanny she clearly left a great deal to be desired. She might have had the most amazing references but she was lazy. If he’d known more about Rosie’s needs he wouldn’t have accepted Sophie into his home in the first place. She might have all the latest theories but she didn’t seem to like children very much—or maybe it was just Rosie she didn’t like?
Rosie certainly didn’t like her. Perhaps they were simply incompatible and it was a mutual thing. As soon as he had a moment, he’d have to look into finding a more suitable replacement. Preferably someone who was specifically used to looking after a deaf child.
Ana had said it was difficult enough finding someone who was used to respecting the privacy of the family she was employed by without adding the impossible criterion of sign language. Clearly he had to try.
He sighed. ‘Let’s get this straight. You put Rosie to bed early—’