by Mary Lyons
“I’m not out of my
depth!”
“Oh, yes., my dear Angelica, you most certainly are,” Luke Cunningham murmured. “Why else should you be so determined to fight me every inch of the way?”
“You’re quite wrong…this really isn’t a good idea. Lust may be a reason to get married, but it’s not enough!”
Luke shrugged and gave a harsh, sardonic laugh.
“As far as I’m concerned, it will certainly do to be going on with!”
MARY LYONS
was born in Toronto, Canada, moving to live permanently in England when she was six, although she still proudly maintains her Canadian citizenship. Having married and raised four children, her life nowadays is relatively peaceful—unlike her earlier years when she worked as a radio announcer, reviewed books and, for a time, lived in a turbulent area of the Middle East. She still enjoys a bit of excitement, combining romance with action, humor and suspense in her books whenever possible.
Books by Mary Lyons
HARLEQUIN PRESENTS
1499—DARK AND DANGEROUS
1610—SILVER LADY
1633—LOVE IS THE KEY
1781—YULETIDE BRIDE
Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
It Started With A Kiss
Mary Lyons
CHAPTER ONE
‘YES, I’m sorry. Yes, I do realise that I’m giving you very short notice.’
Angelica sighed, brushing a tired hand through her long ash-blonde hair and grimacing at the irritation in the voice on the other end of the telephone.
‘Look, I understand your problems, David,’ she broke in hurriedly. ‘But it’s hardly my fault if the men who’ve been replacing some tiles on the roof completely forgot to put a tarpaulin over a large hole when they left work yesterday. And after that heavy rainstorm last night…well, I’m now looking up at what’s left of my bedroom ceiling; there’s water and chunks of old plaster covering most of the floor, and since about one o’clock this morning Betty and I have been rushing around with buckets and mops, just praying that all the other bedroom ceilings wouldn’t cave in as well!’
‘Yes, I can see—’
‘Most of the carpets and bedding are completely soaked—not to mention all the clothes in my wardrobe, which seems to have taken the brunt of the deluge,’ Angelica continued with a heavy sigh. ‘Goodness knows how we’re going to get everything dried out. Honestly, David, it’s been an absolute nightmare! Even if we keep on working flat out, it’s going to take ages to clear up the mess. On top of which I’m now in the middle of an almighty row with the roofers; one of the trustees, who lives near by, has already been moaning away on the phone, and—’
‘OK, OK,’ David Webster interjected quickly. ‘Although why you want to keep on living in that huge barn of a house, crammed full of dusty old paintings and goodness knows what else, beats me.’
‘Because it’s always been my home—and I love it!’ Angelica retorted, well aware that most of her friends thought she was completely crazy. ‘Oh, come on,’ she pleaded. ‘You know all about the situation I’m in regarding the trust. Right?’
‘I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to sound so unsympathetic,’ he told her gruffly. ‘But it still doesn’t solve my problem. How am I supposed, at a moment’s notice, to find someone to take your place? II can just see all those people milling around outside the Houses of Parliament, and—-’
‘Relax!’ she said quickly. ‘There’s no need to worry. I’ve already phoned Greg, and he’s quite happy to swap his tour for mine. We’ve arranged that he’ll be doing my Historic Westminster walk this morning, while I take over his Famous Square Mile tour through the City later on this afternoon. OK?’
‘Yes… I suppose that’s better than nothing,’ David grumbled. ‘I’m not worried about Greg—he could find his way around London with his eyes shut. But you’ve never done that particular route before. In fact,’ he added with a gloomy sigh, ‘I’bet that what what you know about the London Stock Exchange, for instance, can be written on the back of a small postage stamp!’
‘Don’t worry—I’ll manage,’ Angelica told him firmly, quickly putting down the phone before her boss could think of any more objections.
She was very fond of David Webster, an old friend from her days at university. But why did he always have to be quite so pessimistic? Everyone knew that business life was tough these days. However, his agency, Footsteps in Time, which organised and ran various walking tours of London, appeared to be doing very well. Having been one of his part-time guides for the past two years, Angelica really loved showing foreign visitors and tourists the odd, unusual aspects of London. Especially since much of the city’s ancient past lay hidden behind narrow, twisting streets and alleys— virtually inaccessible by car, but ideal for a leisurely stroll on foot.
Her thoughts were interrupted as her old nanny and present housekeeper, Betty Roberts, bustled into the room. Standing with her arms akimbo, the plump woman glared up at the large hole in the ceiling, and then at the oil paintings which had been so hastily pulled down from the walls, their gilt frames casually piled high on a dry part of the floor, as if ready for a bonfire.
‘Well, this room is a right shambles, and no mistake! Your grandmother was always so proud of this house. She’d surely turn in her grave if she could see this mess,’ Betty muttered angrily.
‘I know,’ Angelica agreed, sighing heavily as she surveyed the chaotic scene. ‘It’s really depressing. There’s so much to clear up that I simply can’t seem to think exactly where to begin.’
“You look tired to death,’ the older woman told her brusquely. ‘Why don’t you pop down to the kitchen and make a nice pot of tea? I reckon that we could both do with a cappa.’
Realising that Betty was right, and that they both needed a break from cleaning up the storm damage, Angelica slowly made her way down the flights of stairs to the kitchen in the basement.
Hardly touched since the house was first built in 1723, the large cavernous kitchen still possessed an ancient black cooking range, which was still in working order—although Betty had long ago badgered Angelica’s grandmother into providing a modern, up-to-date cooker and refrigerator. Together with a tall Welsh dresser, holding row upon row of copper bowls and saucepans, and an enormous scrubbed pine table surrounded by comfortable, high-backed chairs, the old kitchen was a warm and cosy room, which had hardly altered since the days of her great-great-grandfather, Sir Tristram Lonsdale.
A very successful and wealthy artist, Sir Tristram had specialised in painting highly romantic scenes from medieval life, loosely based on ancient legends and fables. After inheriting a large private income, and being knighted by Queen Victoria—a great admirer of his more gloomy paintings—Sir Tristram had begun travelling far and wide across the globe, returning from his many journeys with a re markable assortment of weird and wonderful objects. To these he had added a collection of ancient Greek and Roman remains, which his wife had inherited from her family, the original owners of the house.
Although Angelica wasn’t too keen on some of the paintings, which she thought decidedly depressing, she deeply loved the eccentric house—and its even more eccentric contents. Because, as she frequently explained to visitors when the house was open to the public, the really marvellous thing about Sir Tristram’s legacy was not only that he’d been an uncontrollable collector of just about everything under the sun, but that he had never allowed anything to be thrown away! As a consequence, the large house still c
ontained not only a very valuable collection of Victorian paintings, but practically every room was full to overflowing with an extraordinary assortment of strange objects.
Realising that there ought to be a proper catalogue of all the various items—instead of the original, dusty labels written in Sir Tristram’s spidery handwriting—Angelica had once attempted to compile a list of each room’s contents. But after spending three weeks on the job, she had been dismayed to find that she’d barely scratched the surface—and had abandoned what seemed a hopeless task. Quite apart from trying to describe all the Greek and Roman statues, Peruvian pottery, Egyptian mummies, Chinese ceramics, rough gem stones and various objects in silver and gold, Angelica hadn’t a clue where the collection of shrunken heads came from—Borneo, perhaps?— and she could only hazard a wild guess as to the use of some of those frightening, horrific-looking scientific instruments.
However, quite determined that his collection should be kept intact, Sir Tristram had formed a complicated trust—backed by a very large sum of money—to preserve the house and its contents for the interest of future generations. Unfortunately, almost one hundred years after his death, Sir Tristram Lonsdale’s legacy was providing considerable difficulties for both his trustees and Angelica.
‘Haven’t you got that tea made yet?’ Betty grumbled as she bustled into the kitchen. ‘I don’t know… a young girl like you, daydreaming all the time. What you need is a nice young man,’ she added, sighing thankfully as she sank down into a comfortable chair.
‘The last thing I want is a “nice young mian”, thank you very much! haven’t forgotten that rat, Nigel Browning, even if you have,’ Angelica retorted grimly as she poured boiling water on to the tea-leaves in the pot.
‘Yes, well…’ Betty muttered, two high spots of colour flaring in her cheeks. ‘I made a bit of a mistake there.’
‘Let’s face it, Betty—he charmed the socks off both of us,’ Angelica sighed, reaching up into a cupboard for some cups and saucers.
How could she have been so foolish as to fall, hook, line and sinker, for that smooth-talking bastard Nigel Browning? Even now, almost a year later, Angelica simply couldn’t understand why she’d been such an idiot. She’d had lots of casual boyfriends at university, of course. But her grandmother’s long terminal illness had left her very little time for any private life. So maybe it was her youth and inexperience which had led to her becoming so blindly infatuated with the attractive rogue? Although even Betty—who was normally a very shrewd judge of character—had also been captivated by the rotten man’s overwhelming charm.
Looking back at the distressing episode, she could still feel almost sick with embarrassment. It was humiliating to have to acknowledge what a fool she’d made of herself—and over a man who was, it transpired, nothing but a professional con man! So professional, in fact, that it had taken Angelica some time before she could bring herself to believe the police, when they’d told her that Nigel had been caught red-handed, trying to sell part of Sir Tristram’s valuable collection of gold snuff-boxes.
‘That’s the way it goes, sweetie. It was just my bad luck to get caught,’ he’d admitted with a shrug and one of his charming smiles when she’d rushed to the police station, quite convinced that he must be the victim of a terrible mistake.
But it was clearly she who’d made such a terrible mistake. Deeply scarred by the shame of having been so easily duped, Angelica was determined that she would never, never again allow herself to fall so disastrously in love with anyone—let alone Betty’s idea of a ‘nice young man’!
‘Do you know what I need at the moment?’ she told the other woman as she poured them both a cup of tea. ‘What I really need is to get my hands on a very large sum of money.’
Betty nodded. ‘All that work on the roof isn’t going to come cheap. Do you reckon you’ve got insurance cover for the storm damage?’
‘I hope so,’ Angelica sighed. ‘But now that a problem has also arisen over the roof timbers, I’m just keeping my fingers crossed that the trust will pay for the necessary repairs.’ She gave an unhappy shrug. ‘If only we could find Mrs Eastman, maybe she and I could get together and really put this house in order.’
Following her grandmother’s death over two years ago, Angelica had discovered that she was one of two heiresses to the property, sharing her inheritance with a very distant relative who apparently lived in America. Although the trustees had done their best to trace the woman—a Mrs Elizabeth Eastman, aged approximately sixty years of age, who was descended from a brother of old Sir Tristram—they had drawn a blank so far. However, until the other beneficiary had been found, the trustees had agreed that Angelica could continue to live in the house and receive a small income from the trust, providing that she maintain the house and open it once a week to interested visitors, as outlined in Sir Tristram’s will.
None of which was a problem, Angelica told herself as she sipped the hot liquid. Having lived in the large old house with her grandmother, ever since her own parents’ death in a car crash in France when she was only ten years old, she dearly loved the place which she’d always thought of as home. Unfortunately, keeping the old building in good repair seemed to take up virtually every penny of her income from the trust. Every day Lonsdale House seemed to become more and more expensive to maintain in good order. Although she’d managed to pay the bills so far, a large and worrying problem had arisen over the roof timbers, which were apparently in a terrible state and would have to be replaced.
How on earth was she going to find the money? The small amount of money she earned from working for David Webster wasn’t enough to pay for her food, let alone anything else. And Betty had only a small private pension. It had seemed, therefore, that the obvious solution would be for her to try and get a full-time job. However, since open days at Lonsdale House required at least two people to be in attendance, that idea had proved to be totally impractical, because any salary she might earn would only have to go to pay the wages of a curator. It seemed to be an insuperable problem, and one which she couldn’t seem to resolve however hard she tried.
‘If only you could sell some of those paintings,’ Betty said, echoing her own thoughts. ‘There’s one or two in the dining-room—nasty, gloomy things they are too!—which we could well do without.’
‘It’s no good.’ Angelica shook her head. ‘I’ve already tried to persuade the trustees to part with some of the minor paintings, which would certainly solve all our problems. But they simply won’t budge from the terms of old Sir Tristram’s will.’
‘Well, I’d better get back to work before my old bones completely seize up,’ Betty said, putting down her cup and easing herself up from the chair. ‘And you’d better get a move on. I hope you’re not intending to go out in those dirty old jeans?’
‘No, of course not.’ Angelica grinned, putting an affectionate arm around the elderly woman’s stout figure as they left the kitchen. ‘You know what your trouble is, don’t you? You simply can’t seem to understand that now I’m grown-up I no longer need a nanny!’
‘Humph!’
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ignoring Betty’s loud snort of derision, ‘I’ve still got a lot of work to do before deciding what to wear for the tour this afternoon.’
‘You’ll have trouble finding anything decent,’ Betty reminded her gloomily. ‘With the rainwater gushing through that wardrobe of yours, it will be some time before we can get anything dried out.’
Angelica shrugged. ‘Never mind—I expect I’ll find something to wear. And as a last resort I can always raid Granny’s old costume hampers. After all, it’s only a short two-hour walk around the City. And since the group is likely to consist mostly of young students, it really won’t matter what I look like,’ she added as they continued to climb up the old oak staircase.
Later that afternoon, over four miles away in the City of London, Luke Cunningham had just finished signing the papers in front of him.
‘OK, that’s it
, Norma.’ He raised his head to give his middle-aged personal assistant a warm smile of approval. ‘Is there anything else I ought to look at?’
‘There is just one item. Mr Richards was anxious for you to see this, as soon as possible.’ She handed him a file.
Gazing down at her boss, who was swiftly scanning the papers in front of him, Norma reflected that the last two years seemed to have passed by in a flash. Ever since the dynamic, high-powered Mr Cunningham had won the fierce take-over battle for Cornhill International, merging it with his own private merchant bank, it had seemed as if the whole of this huge, seven-storey office block in the City of London had been turned upside-down!
Almost from the first day he’d arrived in the office, news of Luke Cunningham’s rapid expansion of the company had seldom been out of the financial press. With the newspapers full of stories about the ‘Hot-Shot City Financier of the Nineties’, Norma had been unsure about her ability to cope with such an energetic and vigorous man— who reportedly ate secretaries for breakfast! However, Mr Cunningham had seemed to be very pleased with her efforts. Quickly finding herself promoted to the post of his personal assistant, she’d also been given a massive rise in salary, and two extra girls to help share the workload in the office.
Despite being permanently run off her feet, she loved her job—even if her elderly, invalid mother was apt to become tetchy when Norma had to work late at the office. She also had the considerable satisfaction of knowing that she was deeply envied by almost every other woman in the building.
‘I’d kill for your job—Mr Cunningham is so gorgeous and sexy!’ one of the young typists had sighed the other day, before Norma had briskly put the silly girl firmly in her place.
