A Fever In The Blood

by Anne Mather

  'Not such a crazy idea, or you wouldn't be asking me that,' retorted Roger harshly. But he was obviously con­sidering the alternatives. An expensive scandal, with probably a handsome pay-off; or the obvious advantages of remaining Guido Scorcese's son-in-law and ultimately his successor. It was really no contest. 'We make up,' he decided at last. 'A passionate reunion, and eventually the grandson your father's so eager for.'

  Cass felt sick. She couldn't do it, she thought wildly. Not after Ben! But the alternative was too ugly to con­sider; and although the idea of resuming marital relations with Roger was abhorrent to her she had little doubt that, in time, he would once more seek Valerie Jordan's com­pany.

  'Very well,' she said now, but before he could make any comment she had a proviso to add. 'If—if you'll give me a couple of days to—to get used to the idea. After all,' she gathered confidence, 'my mother is hardly likely to believe we've settled our differences in—in fif­teen minutes.'

  Cass didn't stay for supper. After learning that her father was actually attending a business dinner, and wouldn't be home until much later, she made her excuses and left.

  Roger played his part to perfection. His rueful expla­nation that he and Cass had made some progress, and were going to meet again the following day, completely convinced Diana that she had done the right thing in bringing them together. 'I knew you were exaggerating your differences, darling,' she exclaimed as she saw Cass into a taxi. 'Now, go back to Maggie's and get a good night's sleep. I'll tell Daddy all about it, and he'll probably get in touch with you himself tomorrow.'

  Maggie was out, much to Cass's relief, and after giv­ing in to a storm of tears that left her red-eyed and ex­hausted she made herself a cup of cocoa and went to bed. But not to sleep. She couldn't believe she could feel so tired and not lose consciousness, but she did. When the doorbell rang, she was almost relieved to have to get out of bed and put on her dressing-gown and go and answer it. But she didn't make the mistake of open­ing the door without first identifying the visitor. After this evening's fiasco, that scene in Florence was very distinct in her mind.

  'Who is it?' she called, holding the lapels of the gown close about her. Whoever it was would have to come back tomorrow. She had no intention of admitting any­one in her present state of undress.

  'My name is Valerie Jordan,' came the very feminine voice from the other side of the door, and Cass took a sudden backward step. Valerie Jordan? The Valerie Jordan? Roger's mistress! It was incredible! What was she doing here? Was Roger with her? No, that was ri­diculous. He didn't know where she was. Or did he? After tonight, she could hardly trust her mother.

  Licking her lips, she took a breath. 'What do you want?'

  'I want to speak to—Mrs Fielding,' came the answer. 'Is that Mrs Fielding? Please, can I come in?'

  Cass was incredulous. 'You want to come in?' she echoed. 'Is my husband with you?'

  'Roger? Of course not.' She sounded as if that sug­gestion was quite ludicrous. 'Oh, please, Cass—it is Cass, isn't it?—I have to talk to you. Open the door. I promise, I am alone.'

  'It's late,' said Cass quickly, leaning back against the door. Why had the woman come here?

  'It's barely nine o'clock,' returned Valerie Jordan rea­sonably. 'That's not late.'

  It wasn't, but Cass had hardly been aware of the time. 'I don't think we have anything to say to one another, Miss Jordan,' she insisted. 'If you don't go away, I'll—'

  'But it's not Miss Jordan,' Valerie broke in. 'It's Mrs—Mrs Fielding, actually. Roger married me six years ago. Two years before he bigamously married you.'

  Cass's fingers were all thumbs as she tore open the door, and the woman who was waiting to be admitted permitted herself a small smile at her obvious urgency. 'I thought you might be interested,' she remarked, when Cass stepped back to allow her to enter the living-room. 'So this is where you've been staying. Quite a come­down from Eaton Chare, isn't it?'

  'Not in my opinion.' Cass was having the greatest difficulty in containing her patience. Why didn't Valerie explain why she had decided to come here now? What if she had been lying? What if it had just been a ruse to get in here? The thought that she might have been lying turned Cass's legs to jelly.

  Oh, lord, she thought, it had to be true!

  Although she had seen Valerie before, it had never been at such close quarters, and the other woman's cool, elegant appearance did nothing for Cass's self-esteem. Her dark hair curled becomingly about rounded cheek­bones, and her rather voluptuous figure was shown to advantage in a close-fitting linen suit. The differences between them seemed all the more apparent because Cass was so conscious of her tear-swollen eyes and pil­low-tumbled hair. She was totally unaware of how sen­sually appealing she looked, but Valerie wasn't.

  'You've been away,' she said now, as Cass closed the door behind her. 'For several weeks.'

  'Yes.' Cass managed to answer her. 'I suppose Roger told you.'

  Valerie hesitated. 'Not exactly.'

  Cass's brows drew together. 'But I thought…' She took a steadying breath and struggled to keep calm. 'Look, did you mean what you said just now?'

  'About my being married to Roger?' For an answer, Valerie extended her left hand so that Cass could see the thick gold wedding ring that spanned her third finger. 'I don't lie, Mrs—Miss Scorcese.'

  Cass shook her head. 'But I don't understand. Why are you telling me this? Why now?'

  Valerie glanced behind her. 'Can I sit down?'

  'Oh, of course.' Cass gestured automatically. 'Um— do you want a drink or something? I don't know what we have.'

  'Nothing, thanks.' Valerie's response was dry. 'I didn't come here to socialise.'

  'Then why did you—'

  'I'm coming to that.' Valerie subsided on to the couch and crossed her legs. 'Roger never told you about me, did he?'

  Cass moved away from the door, twisting her hands together. 'He didn't have to. I—I saw you together once, in a restaurant. After that, it was easy to guess what he was doing.'

  'Ah.' Valerie nodded. 'And was that fairly recently?'

  'No.'

  'No?'

  'No, it was over two years ago, actually.'

  'What?' Valerie looked so staggered, Cass had to re­peat herself.

  'It was about eighteen months after we got married,' she explained. 'I saw you together in Orlando's.' She bent her head. 'It was obvious what was going on. I know Roger's way of—well, of doing things.'

  Valerie shook her head. 'The bastard!'

  'Why?' Cass blinked. 'Surely you knew he was—he had married me.'

  'Oh, yes, I knew that.' Valerie's expression was bitter now. 'I even agreed to the marriage, fool that I was!'

  Cass sought a chair now, her legs decidedly unsteady. 'But—how?'

  Valerie sighed. 'Roger married me in secret, you see. I—well, to be frank, I didn't have the right connections. His father was still alive at that time, and the old man would have had a fit if he'd known his precious son was chasing a pub landlord's daughter.' She sneered. 'As if it mattered. The old fool only used his army rank be­cause he didn't have a penny to his name. Colonel Hartley Fielding: bankrupt!'

  Cass shook her head. 'I never met him.'

  'No. He died about fifteen months after we got mar­ried. That was when Roger discovered how broke he was. He was pretty mad about it, I can tell you.'

  'But his home—his father's house in Gloucestershire?' Roger had told her about that.

  'Mortgaged to the hilt,' responded Valerie flatly. 'There was barely enough to pay for the funeral. It was quite a shock, believe me.'

  Cass frowned. 'But Roger had a job. He—he was al­ready working for my father.'

  'Oh, yes.' Valerie was laconic. 'But Roger likes the good things in life: his handmade shirts and shoes, the very best champagne—oh, and an expensive car. That's absolutely essential.'

  Cass gulped. 'And—and you were living with him then?'

  'Where else? Oh, not that any of his friends
knew that we were married. Until his father died, he had insisted on keeping that quiet. Then, after he was dead, he had other reasons for doing so.'

  Cass stared at her disbelievingly. 'Me!'

  Valerie had the grace to avoid her eyes. 'Yes.'

  Cass tried to think. 'But, you—you can't have ap­proved of what he was doing?'

  'Why not?' Valerie lifted her head again. 'I like the good things in life, too. Oh, you wouldn't understand. Never having had to scrape and save for anything in your life. But me, I was hungry for that kind of exis­tence. And Roger can be very persuasive. Very persua­sive indeed.'

  Cass couldn't take it in. 'But why didn't you divorce him?'

  'And let him marry you, free and clear?' Valerie ut­tered a short, mirthless laugh. 'Oh, no! I wasn't having that. So long as I knew he was married to me, there was no way he could double-cross me. Roger may be charm­ing in some ways, but in others he's quite ruthless.' Cass could believe that. 'We made—an arrangement. He'd marry you, make a lot of money, and then get a divorce, when the time was right.'

  Cass gasped. 'I don't believe it!' Yet didn't it explain Roger's swift proposal? His insistence that he wanted to do the right thing? The right thing!

  'Oh, believe it. It's true.' Valerie fumbled in her bag and brought out a vellum envelope. 'Here. This is our marriage certificate. It's never been revoked. I told you, I don't tell lies.'

  'How can you say that when—'

  'I haven't lied to you.' Valerie was adamant. 'I haven't betrayed Roger's lies—until now—that's true, but I've never actually endorsed them, have I?'

  'But that still doesn't explain why suddenly—'

  'I'll tell you.' Valerie bit her lip. 'For the past six months, I've been asking him to leave you. Your mar­riage was never intended to last more than a year or two, three at most. I never dreamt that your father would practically adopt Roger as his successor, or that Roger would get to like being Guido Scorcese's son-in-law. Call me a fool, if you like, but I thought Roger loved me. I thought nothing could ever come between us. How wrong I was!'

  Cass hesitated. 'You didn't know I knew about you— about your—affair—with—with my husband?'

  'Of course not.' Valerie groaned. 'Roger always used to say that that was how he'd get out of the marriage. That if you ever found out, he would leave you. When you say that you've known for—what was it?—more than two years? Why haven't you left him? Didn't you care that he was sleeping with someone else?'

  Cass sighed. 'It's a long story. Briefly, I suppose, our marriage wasn't working. I should never have married him. I—well, there was someone else, but…' She broke off for a moment, and then went on, 'So I told my father what was going on.'

  'You told your father?' Valerie was amazed. 'But didn't he—'

  Cass lifted her shoulders. 'He talked to Roger.'

  'He talked to Roger?'

  'Yes.' Cass coloured. 'He persuaded him that he was being foolish. Roger agreed.'

  'I bet he did.' Valerie's face was contorted. 'The rot­ten sod!' she swore angrily. 'And all the time he pre­tended you knew nothing about us.'

  Cass drew a trembling breath. 'That still doesn't ex­plain what you're doing here now.'

  'Oh, no.' Valerie ran unsteady fingers over her forehead, and for the first time Cass felt sorry for her. She was married to Roger; Cass was not—although the true extent of that extraordinary revelation had still to be ex­plored. 'It was your going away, you see. Leaving Roger for almost six weeks. It was obvious that something was wrong. I knew Roger so well. I could tell. Not that he confided in me. As a matter of fact, I haven't seen him for almost a month.'

  'You haven't?'

  'No.' Valerie's shoulders sagged. 'And then, this af­ternoon, he phoned me to tell me he wasn't going to see me any more.'

  Cass's eyes widened. 'I see.'

  'He said you were back in England. He said you'd been ill while you were away, and that was why you'd stayed in Italy so long. He said as soon as you had had time to recover, he was going to take you on a second honeymoon.'

  'Oh!' Cass felt utterly amazed. It was like hearing about someone else; not herself at all.

  'Anyway,' went on Valerie, 'I knew something had to be done. Roger was so sure I would never betray him, and perhaps I wouldn't have if I hadn't had another rea­son for doing so. After all, he's been very kind to me over the years. Where do you think this Calvin Klein suit came from, or these Charles Jourdan shoes?'

  Cass shook her head. 'I don't think I understand.'

  'Don't you?' Valerie's lips twisted. 'Well, I'm preg­nant, Miss Scorcese. I'm going to have a baby. Roger's baby. And I'm damned if my son or daughter is going to be dubbed someone else's bastard!'

  'But how did she know where you were?' protested Maggie, some hours later, as she and Cass discussed Valerie's visit over another mug of cocoa.

  'Oh, she had gone to Knightsbridge to confront Roger—and me, I suppose—but Roger was just leaving. She saw him driving off, and followed him to Eaton Chare. Then she saw me arrive, and I think she became suspicious. Anyway, when I left, she followed me and spent the time it took me to get undressed and go to bed tracing which apartment I'd entered. Luckily, there were only six to choose from.'

  Maggie looked absolutely amazed. 'To think Roger was married to her all the time you were living together. You read about these things happening, but you never actually believe it could happen to you. You know what this means, don't you? You're a free woman again! You can do what you like. Your father can't stop you now, can he?'

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BUT it wasn't her father who troubled Cass in the days that followed. In spite of what had happened, she couldn't quite believe that Roger would let her get away, without doing the thing he had threatened in the library at her parents' home. Every day she expected to wake up to television reports of the 'unnatural relationship' between herself and Ben, and when there were none she went out and bought every tabloid newspaper that might, conceivably, carry such a lurid story. Maggie got tired of filling her dustbin with discarded newsprint, and as she didn't know what her friend was looking for she regarded the whole operation with some suspicion.

  From her parents, Cass heard surprisingly little. She had phoned Diana the morning after Valerie Jordan's— no, Fielding's—visit, and explained what had happened to her, but Diana had been distinctly unsympathetic.

  'The girl's obviously unbalanced,' she exclaimed, dis­missing what she had heard without hesitation. 'Roger may have had some relationship with her, I'm not de­nying that, but don't go condemning him now without any proof.'

  'But she had her marriage certificate,' persisted Cass.

  'Did you read it?'

  'Well—no.'

  'There you are, then.' Her mother was triumphant.

  'Even so…'

  Cass couldn't quite believe that anyone would humil­iate themselves as Valerie had without good reason.

  'Well, leave it with me,' declared Diana impatiently, the less salubrious aspects of what this might mean if there was a public scandal putting an edge to her voice. 'I'll talk to your father. He'll get to the bottom of it.'

  And for the past three days Cass had waited expec­tantly for her father to appear. She had been quite pre­pared for him to come storming into Maggie's apart­ment, insisting that she return to Eaton Chare at once, but he hadn't even returned her call. There had been an ominous silence from all quarters, and Cass was rapidly coming to the uneasy conclusion that it had been a dreadful hoax.

  Yet, she argued, in her more optimistic moments, why hadn't Roger contacted her? Why hadn't he pursued his intention to get in touch with her the following day? It was all distinctly unnerving, and she didn't know what she should do.

  Maggie was leaving for her holiday in the United States at the end of the week, and Cass knew she was concerned about her lack of contact with her family. 'Why don't you phone your mother again?' Maggie sug­gested on Thursday evening, two days before she was leaving. 'She
must know something. Roger's bound to have seen your father. Don't you think you should make some effort on your own behalf? Who knows what lies Roger's been telling?'

  'Maybe.' But Cass was unenthusiastic. She was still half afraid that if she contacted her mother Diana would tell her it had all been a ghastly mistake. So long as she didn't know anything for certain, she could exist in a mindless state of limbo.

  Then, on Friday morning, as she was walking back from the local supermarket after buying some bread, a sleek blue Bentley cruised to a stop beside her. Even without the unmistakable sight of George Fisher, her father's chauffeur, at the wheel, she could have recog­nised the car. And when the rear window glided open and her father's head appeared she guessed that the wait­ing was all over.

  'Get in, Cass,' he said, thrusting open the door. 'Hurry up. We are not supposed to stop on yellow lines.'

  'Since when has that bothered you?' murmured Cass ruefully, but she did as he had suggested and climbed into the comfortable limousine.

  Guido Scorcese looked at her silently for a moment, and Cass wondered if he was deploring her tight jeans and crumpled shirt. But then, with a muffled oath he gathered her into his arms, and she knew that, whatever Roger had said, her father had not condemned her out of hand.

  'Cara, cara!' he exclaimed after a moment, holding her away from him so that he could look into her face. He spoke English usually, without a trace of an accent. But in moments of stress he liked to revert to his native tongue. And right now he was evidently relieved to see her, his eyes holding none of the censure she had ex­pected.

  Cass straightened and pushed back her hair behind her ears. 'Have you been to the apartment?'

  'I tried there first,' agreed her father, leaning forward to direct Fisher to drive round the park until further no­tice. Then, pressing the button that raised the glass screen between the chauffeur and themselves, he leaned back again, beside her, studying her so intently that Cass felt her colour deepen.

  'So,' he continued, after a moment, 'how are you? Have you seen a doctor since you got back? I asked your mother if you had seen Guthrie but, of course, she had not asked you.'