Rachel Lindsay - Love in Disguise

by Rachel Lindsay

  Her shoulders straightened. 'I have no wish to gossip with you about Mr. Allen.'

  'A highly commendable trait. I hope you'll go on maintaining it.'

  'Mrs. Goodbody has already informed me that reporters often come here prying.' Her eyes narrowed, accentuating their sloe shape. 'You aren't a reporter pretending to be a chauffeur, are you?'

  For the first time he smiled, showing even white teeth that made her aware of his bronze skin. Even with his black- rimmed glasses he was extremely good-looking, with a sharp, masculine virility that made her notice his height and the unexpected breadth of his shoulders.

  'Well?' she said sharply. 'You haven't answered me.'

  'I'm not a reporter. You don't need to worry about that.'

  With a shrug she moved towards the side entrance. He did not follow her, but as she unlocked the door she glanced over her shoulder and saw him watching her.

  Upstairs in her room, unpacking her weekend case, she wondered whether he came down from London every time Mr. Allen did. It seemed logical to assume he did, though if Mr. Allen spent several days in the country he might not want his chauffeur lounging around doing nothing. The thought made her smile. The house was big enough for a regiment to be usefully employed here.

  Tweaking her skirt into position, she went in search of Mrs. Goodbody, whom she found sipping the inevitable cup of tea in her sitting-room.

  'I didn't expect you back until later,' she smiled. 'But I'm glad you're here. I've got used to your company.'

  Anthea acknowledged the compliment with a modest nod. 'I see Mr. Allen is home. When did he arrive?'

  'Early this afternoon—and without any warning. It's most unlike him to do a thing like that. But apparently he finished his trip a day earlier than he had expected and flew home without telling anyone. He didn't even telephone from the airport, just drove up without a word.'

  'Perhaps he wanted to catch you out eating his caviar and using the best silver!'

  In shocked tones Mrs. Goodbody asserted that her employer would never stoop to snooping. 'That's one reason he's so particular about the people he employs,' she concluded. 'Once you have his trust, you're left to get on with the job.'

  This didn't go with the fussiness with which Anthea had invested him, but she decided it was wiser to change the subject.

  'Does the chauffeur always come down with him?'

  'Sometimes Mr. Allen likes to drive himself. He says it relaxes him. But you don't have to worry about Mr. Herbert. He has his quarters above the garage and he rarely comes to the house. If he's here for any length of time his wife comes from London with him.'

  Anthea was dismayed at her disappointment. 1 didn't know he was married.'

  'Has been for five years. Very pretty she is, too.' Mrs. Goodbody glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. 'Which reminds me, I want to introduce you to Mr. Allen. He'll be going up to London first thing in the morning and I'll have left by the time he comes down next weekend.'

  The thought of being in sole charge of the Manor suddenly assumed gigantic proportions, and Anthea wondered what she had let herself in for. But to think this way was playing into Mr. Herbert's hands. She pulled a face. What an unromantic name for such a good-looking man I

  'Come along,' said Mrs. Goodbody. 'IH take you to Mr. Allen before dinner. He's usually in a good mood then.'

  'Wouldn't he be in a better one after he's eaten?'

  'He likes to listen to music afterwards and he hates being disturbed.'

  'Bach and Purcell,' Anthea murmured as she followed the housekeeper into the hall.

  'Lots more besides that. He has hundreds of tapes in the library. The; one thing you must never do is to interrupt him when he's listening to them. He really does get cross then.'

  'I'll make a note of it.'

  Anthea took a small diary from her pocket and scribbled in it. Here she had jotted down all her employer's foibles, and intended to type them out for Miss Evans, together with any additional peculiarities which she discovered for herself. It seemed she was learning more new ones about him every day. Yet Mrs. Goodbody seemed fond of him and spoke of him in an almost maternal way. Perhaps elderly bachelors brought out the mother in her. She looked up and saw that the woman was already opening the library door.

  'I'd like to introduce Miss Wilmot to you, sir. She'll be running the house for you until Miss Evans is able to take over.'

  Bending to replace a smouldering log on the fire, the tall man in a maroon velvet smoking jacket straightened and, poker in hand, swivelled round to regard Anthea. The light of a standard lamp sharpened the planes of his face, highlighting the shadows beneath the cheekbones and making the eyes behind the glinting lenses even more inscrutable.

  'Good evening,' he said in a mild voice, and then looked at Mrs. Goodbody. 'You can leave us, thank you. I'd like to talk to Miss Wilmot alone.'

  The housekeeper withdrew and Anthea clasped her hands together and waited.

  'Don't look so apprehensive, Miss Wilmot,' he said in a tone as dry as the Sahara. 'I don't make a habit of shooting clay pigeons!'

  'That's very kind of you,' she said aloofly, and then added hurriedly: 'Sir.'

  He put down the poker and rubbed his fingers on his handkerchief. 'Mind you, I don't usually get mistaken for my chauffeur.'

  'You wanted me to think you were,' she said before she could stop herself.

  'On the contrary, Miss Wilmot. You assumed it without any need for me to pretend. Mind you, it was an understandable mistake.'

  'And you let me go on thinking it.'

  'It had its amusing side.'

  'Mrs. Goodbody said you never snooped.'

  'I beg your pardon?' He was no longer amused and she felt her heart beat faster.

  'Well, that's what it seemed to me,' she said defensively.

  'I can assure you I wasn't. I have neither the time nor the inclination to—er—snoop, as you call it.'

  She knew he was speaking the truth, but her irritation remained, caused more by the knowledge that she had made a fool of herself rather than of his having done so.

  'Actually,' he went on, 'I'm curious to know why you assumed I would be in my dotage. Surely my business reputation alone doesn't warrant that description? You do know who I am, of course?'

  'Of course. But your habits—the way you like things done—made me think you were old—I mean elderly.' She saw his mouth tighten and said quickly: 'I know very little about people in the City. I don't make a habit of reading the financial news.'

  'I'm glad to hear it,' he said crisply. 'Stick to housekeeping, Miss Wilmot. It suits women better.'

  Her cheeks flamed and she bit back a sharp retort. 'Did you wish to talk to me about anything in particular, sir?'

  'No. When we met this afternoon you told me as much as I needed to know.'

  'Then may I go?'

  'By all means.'

  Her hand was on the door when he called her back. 'If I find you unsatisfactory, Miss Wilmot, I won't keep you; good deed or no good deed for Miss Evans.'

  'I don't expect you to be charitable, sir, merely fair.'

  'I always try to be fair.' He bent to the fire again, and knowing herself dismissed, she went out.

  In the hall she paused; her pulse was racing as if she had run up a flight of stairs and the bodice of her dress was sticking to her skin. What bad luck that she had met Mr. Allen this afternoon! It had put her on the defensive and from now on she would have to be doubly careful not to arouse his ire. It would be a pity if—after having gone to all the trouble of getting this job—she wouldn't be able to keep it for Betsy. The thought was sobering and remained with her for the rest of the evening, helping to lessen the antagonism she felt towards the man who sat alone in his library absorbed in a world of music.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mrs. Goodbody departed for Canada the following Friday and at last Anthea felt she was going to be put to the test.

  Even without the presence of its owner, Bartham Manor was
an onerous responsibility, for it was a veritable treasure house of antique furniture and paintings, and as such, was a burglar's paradise. Luckily there was an elaborate alarm system linked to the local police station, as well as three Alsatians who roamed the grounds and were cared for by one of the gardeners. But she made it her business to acquaint herself with the dogs, one of whom attached itself to her side whenever she went for a walk.

  Having made her employer's acquaintance—she could not in all honesty put it higher than that—she found herself seeing the house more as a home and less as a setting for an unknown tycoon. But she still could not place him in his background and wondered how he had acquired all the objets d'art he owned. Had he handed someone a blank cheque and given them orders to buy the best, or had he himself gone the rounds of the sales rooms and elegant antique shops?

  She half hoped he would not come down to the country the first weekend she was on her own, but he arrived very late on Friday evening, his secretary having called to tell her he would not be requiring dinner. Nervously Anthea went through the main rooms to make sure there were fresh flowers everywhere and left a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches in his bedroom in case he fancied a snack.

  It was not until Saturday morning—when she was coming out of the drawing-room carrying some old magazines—that she finally saw him. He was as casually dressed as he had been the first time they had met, and wore slacks and sweater almost the same cinnamon shade as her own hair. It made him look less sombre, though he was unsmiling as their eyes met. It was difficult to see their colour behind his dark-rimmed glasses and she would have liked to have seen him without them.

  'Well,' he said crisply. 'Nervous of being left in sole charge?'

  'Not at all, sir.' She pulled down the cuffs of her dress and stood primly before him, waiting for him to speak. But he did not do so and with a slight inclination of his head he walked past her.

  They did not meet again for the rest of the day, though she was aware of him about the house. He ate lunch in solitary state in the huge dining-room and afterwards went for a long walk in the grounds, returning shortly before dinner which he took on a tray in the library. She was not sure if he watched television, worked or listened to music, but when she went out for a breath of fresh air before going to bed she glimpsed a chink of light through his curtained windows and was curious to know why he chose to spend his time alone; a man in his position must surely have a host of friends.

  On Sunday the same pattern was repeated, and Anthea was surprised he was not bored by it. For her own part, she had plenty of time on her hands too. The servants had been in their jobs so long that they knew exactly what to do, and apart from a brief chat with them each morning, she kept her supervision minimal. Her daily inspection of the house did not take more than half an hour and so far she had not found anything to complain of. If she did, she hoped she would have the courage to verbalise it.

  On Sunday evening she got down to her own private studies. Her year's absence from university had left her rusty regarding the two previous years' work she had done, and she had set herself the task of re-reading a great many of her books. It was harder than she had expected to re- immerse herself in her curriculum, and not for the first time she doubted her wisdom in having chosen to read history. Naturally it had pleased her father, but she was not sure if it still pleased her. But it was too late to change her course now, besides being a waste of all the work she had done to date. She would wait until she obtained her degree and then see if she still felt disinclined to teach or to do research.

  Making a face at the heavy tome in front of her on the table, she pulled it forward, and was soon absorbed in Europe in the sixteenth century, so intrigued by the fight for power between the various cardinals of Spain and France that she did not realise she was being watched until the scraping of a chair made her look up.

  Mr. Allen had come into her sitting-room and was leaning against the side of a winged chair. In a deep blue velvet smoking jacket, and with his tanned skin and black hair, he looked like a figure in an Ingres portrait. Again she felt curious about his background and wondered if he was as aristocratic as he appeared. Hastily she went to stand, but he waved her to remain where she was.

  'Don't disturb yourself, Miss Wilmot. I merely came in because I'll be leaving early in the morning and I wanted to let you know I'm having a house-party next weekend. Two couples, possibly three.'

  'Very good, sir. I'll see everything is made ready.'

  'One of the couples will be Jasper Goderick and his wife. Please see that Mr. Goderick has the South Suite and his wife the one next to- it. And ring my secretary on Tuesday to check if any of the guests have any special preferences as to food.'

  'I'll check in my own book first,' Anthea replied. 'If your guests have been here before, Mrs. Goodbody will have made a note of their likes and dislikes.'

  'Ah yes, I hadn't thought of that. Good.'

  His eyes lowered to the table and the pile of books on it. He did not pick any of them up, but she saw him stare at a couple of the titles before he crossed to the door and went out.

  With a snap Anthea closed the book she had been reading. She would not be able to concentrate on it any more tonight; her employer's entry had destroyed her peace of mind.

  Pushing back her chair, she went over and unlocked the bureau that stood in stolid mahogany splendour next to the window. Inside she found the book she wanted; leather-bound with thick pages faintly ruled in blue, and half of them already filled with the names and dates of the house- parties given at Bartham Manor. An index in the front alphabetically listed the names of all the guests, and the Godericks, she saw, were among the most frequent visitors.

  Mr. Goderick had an aversion to cooked cheese and was not partial to fish. He smoked heavily and Mrs. Goodbody had made a note that the ashtrays in his room had to be doubled. His wife on the other hand was a non-smoker; she liked her bed-linen changed every day and one of the housemaids was always assigned to her during her stay to lake care of her clothes which, again according to the book, required a great deal of skilled attention.

  Anthea wished she had had the sense to go through this book with Mrs. Goodbody herself, but it was too late now. She could only pray that the information in it was up to date and correct. It would be embarrassing—to say the least—if anything went wrong with the first house-party over which she would be in charge.

  Replacing the book in the bureau, she went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of chocolate. One of the maids had suggested bringing it to her each night, but she had refused, preferring to potter alone in the beautifully equipped kitchen, with the opportunity to look at the well-stocked larders and the two huge deep-freeze cabinets purring in the corner.

  She was in the act of filling her cup when Mr. Herbert came in: the real chauffeur, as she now thought of him. Small and neat, his face was as shining as the polished buttons on his grey uniform jacket. It was unusual to see him in the kitchen, for he normally remained in his quarters above the garage.

  'Is anything wrong, Mr. Herbert?'

  'I need a clock, Miss Wilmot. My alarm has broken.'

  'Won't the operator give you an alarm call?'

  'My phone is only connected to the house, not the exchange.'

  'Of course,' she apologised. 'If you let me know what time you want to be woken up, I'll have someone call you in the morning.'

  'We'll be up and away long before any of you are stirring ! Mr. Allen has an early meeting in the city so we'll be leaving here by six-thirty.'

  'In that case you'd better take the kitchen clock.' Anthea handed it to him. 'Don't forget to give it back to me in the morning. I'll be seeing you before you leave,' she added as he was about to interrupt. 'I'll make Mr Allen's breakfast myself. Cook and her husband are staying in the village tonight. It was her sister's twentieth wedding anniversary and they went off this afternoon.'

  'You should have told Mr. Allen. I'm sure he wouldn't want you to disturb yourself
.'

  'Why not? It's my job.'

  The chauffeur smiled briefly, thanked her again for the alarm clock, and departed.

  Afraid of oversleeping, Anthea only dozed fitfully, and was awake and dressed long before her own alarm rang out. It was still dark so early in the morning, and the stars had not yet faded in the sky, though the birds were beginning to stir as she sped down the servants' stairs to the kitchen.

  The house was as warm as it always was. The thermostatic heating kept it at an even temperature and there was no shivering discomfort to overcome as she squeezed fresh oranges for juice and laid the silver tray with Mr. Allen's breakfast china, embroidered napkin and ivory-handled knives and spoons. The marmalade was in a silver container and the eggcups were silver too.

  She glanced at her watch. Six o'clock. Speeding down the servants' corridor, she opened the door to the main hall. The house was silent, but even as she listened she heard a light tread on the carpet stair. Hurrying back to the kitchen, she set the eggs to boil, and four minutes later carried the heavy silver tray into the breakfast-room.

  Her employer was standing by the window looking out at the slowly lightening garden, the green grass still dipped with dew.

  'Good morning, Miss Wilmot.' There was barely perceptible surprise in his voice. 'Where is Leggat?'

  'He and his wife stayed in the village last night. They had a family party.'

  'You made my breakfast?'

  'Yes, sir,' she said without expression, and set the tray on the table. 'I didn't know if you wished to have something more substantial so early in the morning.'

  'Eggs will be fine, thank you. But if you'd told me about the Leggats last night I would have told you not to bother with my breakfast. When I leave so early I usually just have coffee.'

  'I would still have had to make it, sir, and once I'm up there's no reason why you can't have a proper breakfast.'

  Unexpectedly he chuckled. 'I love the phrase "proper breakfast". It makes you sound like my old nanny.'

  'I feel it,' she said without thinking.