Roberta Leigh - Cinderella in Mink

by Roberta Leigh

  Roberta Leigh - Cinderella in Mink

  Nicola Rosten was used to the flattery and deference accorded to a very wealthy woman. Yet Barnaby Grayson mistook her for a down-and-out and set her to work in the kitchens. Should she tell him the truth? And how would he react?

  CHAPTER ONE

  The slim, fine-boned girl running through the wraith like tendrils of fog looked like a wraith herself, so delicate were her features, so gossamer-fine the wispy tatters of gauze that clung to her slim waist and swayed round her shapely legs. Even when she paused to make sure she was not being followed her skirts continued to sigh around her, gently moved by a grey mist that was fast thickening into fog. But there were no echoing steps to catch her attention and perceptibly she relaxed, lifting up her ragged skirts to let the material play through her fingers.

  Something furry touched her legs and she gave a scream and jumped back, feeling foolish as she realised it was the mink wrap she was holding. Thank goodness she had had the sense to collect it from the cloakroom before running out of the house. Wrapping the fur around her, she buried her chin in its warmth, unaware of how incongruous it looked above the ragged dress.

  Cinderella in mink. She had considered it amusing to go to Deborah Main's fancy dress party dressed like that. Jeffrey had thought so too, not only because it struck him as ironic that Nicola Rosten - heiress to a cereal fortune - should pretend to be Cinderella for a night, but because it enabled him to accompany her as Prince Charming, in an elegant costume that suited his tall blond looks.

  "Why not use the party to announce our wedding date?" he had suggested. "It's ridiculous to have a long engagement."

  "I've only known you two months," she reminded him. "And Marty thinks we should wait a bit."

  "Your godfather would like nothing better than to have you an old maid," Jeffrey said sulkily. "That way he'd control your affair» for ever."

  "I get control of everything when I'm thirty - married or not," she corrected him.

  "You'd control it now, if you married me. That's why he dislikes me so much."

  "He doesn't dislike you at all," Nicola lied, for though George Martin had never said anything against her fiance, his excessively polite attitude towards him was sufficiently indicative of his feelings.

  Not until a few nights ago, when she had finally tackled him about it, had he admitted his doubts about Jeffrey's suitability.

  "In my day a man made sure he was in a good financial position before he thought of marriage; and Simonds is just beginning his career as a stockbroker."

  "He has excellent prospects," she had said defensively.

  "You can't live on prospects. If you were an ordinary girl, how would he have proposed to keep you?"

  "He probably wouldn't have asked me to marry him." Seeing the look of triumph on George Martin's face, Nicola had sighed with exasperation. "Honestly, Marty, it would be childish for Jeffrey to pretend I was like any other girl. I mean, I haven't been since I was born, have I?"

  "No." Her godfather had looked rueful, thinking of the Rosten millions that now increased on their own momentum. "Perhaps that was why I was hoping you'd meet someone who would treat you as if you were ordinary. It would do you good."

  "It might do me good," she had laughed, "but I doubt if I'd like it?"

  "How would you know? You've never had the experience."

  "Nor likely to. Be a realist, Marty. I've as much chance of getting away from my heritage as a tortoise its shell!"

  "You could at least be more particular about whom you invite to share your shell! Jeffrey's the third young man you've got yourself engaged to in less than a year."

  "The other two didn't count. They were fortune-hunters!"

  "And Simonds isn't?"

  "He likes money," she had admitted. "Who doesn't? But he isn't in love with me because of it. After all, he comes from a good family and he's got money of his own. But it's me he loves, not the Rosten fortune."

  "Are you sure?"

  "As sure as I'll ever be," she had replied. "So promise to stop treating him like a leper."

  George Martin had done his best to comply, going out of his way the next time Jeffrey came to the house, to take him to the library for a quiet man-to-man chat and a subsequent game of snooker. It was her godfather's unexpected friendliness towards him that had emboldened him to suggest she set the date for their wedding.

  Yet she had refused. Looking back on it now, she found it hard to know exactly why she had done so. Instinct, perhaps. Yet honestly compelled her to admit it had been no such thing; merely a fear of tying herself down to another human being.

  "We'll get married in the spring," she had hedged. "But there's no need to announce it. We'll decide on a date by ourselves, and elope."

  "Suits me." He had pulled her into his arms and kissed her with an expertise that roused her to a response. But then Jeffrey was expert in everything he did, be it winning clients, charming old ladies or making love.

  Tears filled her eyes and trickled down her cheeks, smudg-ing her waterproof mascara so that little blobs of black marked her cheeks. It was hard to know which hurt the most; the knowledge that her godfather had been right about Jeffrey or that her own assessment had been proved so wrong. Either way the outcome was the same. By his own actions Jeffrey had closed the door on any future they might have had together.

  Closed the door. The irony of the remark brought a bitter smile to her lips. If only she had left the door closed, had not barged into the library in search of her missing fiance and promptly plunged the room into blinding light, causing two pairs of eyes to blink at her with guilt and two startled voices to flounder through feeble excuses.

  "It meant nothing," Jeffrey had said, coming after her as she ran to collect her wrap. "You know what Deborah's like."

  "So does everyone else!"

  "It was only a kiss," he had said sulkily.

  "Only?" she had flared, and remembering the loosened bodice and the pale curve of breast, had wrenched open the front door and plunged into the darkness.

  At first she had heard Jeffrey racing after her, but running down one side street and then another she had soon lost him. Lost herself too, for looking around her at the tall houses barely visible through the fog, she had no idea where she was.

  The mournful hoot of a ship's siren made her turn in the direction of the sound. If she could reach the Embankment she would at least have some idea of her bearings. Hurriedly she sped on, keeping close to the railings to give her a guideline. If anything the fog had grown thicker in the last few minutes. Or was it longer since she had run from the house? It was difficult to gauge time when your mind was in a state of chaos. Marty had been right after all - the way he always was about the young men she met.

  "Fortune-hunters, the lot of them," he had once said.

  Well, she wouldn't give him the chance to say it again. She was finished with men; finished with the hope of trying to find one who would love her for what she was and not what she possessed. Yet she had been so sure of Jeffrey. Remembering his ardent lovemaking she was nauseated with shame. All she had meant to him was an Aladdin's cave of blue-chip shares and Triple A property!

  Her tears were falling faster, blurring a scene that was already blurred with mist. The hooter mourned again, louder this time, and she knew the river was close. The air certainly seemed damper and the mist lay heavy across her bare arms and long dark hair. Again the hooter sounded and this time as it died away she heard the throaty chug of a taxi.

  Headlamps fought a path through the foggy white blanket, and she ran to the edge of the pavement and waved her arms. There was no change in the tempo of the engine and she realised that in a
dark dress and fur she had no hope of being seen. But she had to stop the taxi. Heaven knew when she'd find another one.

  "Taxi!" she cried, and darted into the road.

  A small car, hugging the kerb as it came round the corner, caught her on the side of her thigh and sent her flying to the ground. The taxi chugged away into the fog, but the little car drew to a stop. A door opened and quick steps came towards her.

  "I didn't see you," a frantic female voice said. "I wasn't doing more than ten miles an hour, but I didn't see you!" Hands bent to lift her, surprisingly strong hands when taken in conjunction with the quavery voice. "Are you hurt?"

  "I don't think so," Nichola gasped, and felt herself shaking with reaction. "You should have had your headlights on. No wonder I didn't see you!"

  "It makes the fog worse if you drive with headlamps on." the voice explained. "That's why I turned them off. I can see better without them."

  "You didn't see me"

  "I know, my dear, and I can't tell you how sorry I am." The woman pulled Nicola towards the car. "Do come in from the cold."

  Nicola obeyed, and as she clambered into the seat a stabbing pain in her leg made her gasp.

  "You are hurt," the woman exclaimed. "Give me your address and I'll take you home."

  The word reminded Nicola of Jeffrey. That was where he would be: at home waiting for her; in the drawing-room, his handsome face full of contrition, his voice beseeching as he begged her to forgive him. And in the mood she was in at the moment - overwrought and shaken with pain - she was more than likely to do so.

  "I can't go home," she said. "I can't!"

  "Why not? Do you live far from here?"

  "No. But I can't go home yet. Not like this."

  There was a movement and a dim light suddenly illuminated the interior and the plain features of a middle-aged woman in a tweed coat. Myopic eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses stared at Nicola in consternation. "Oh, my dear," she said, "I hadn't realised. No wonder you don't want to go home. Have you had a very bad time?"

  "Bad time?" Nicola echoed.

  "Of course you have. Don't bother answering, my dear, it's quite obvious from the way you look." She touched Nicola's ragged dress and glanced at the bedraggled fur - wet from the muddy road - that still partially covered the bare shoulders. "I'd better take you to the Centre. I'm sure they'll be able to help you."

  "I don't need help," Nicola said faintly, and closed her eyes. "If I could just rest a moment."

  "You need to rest for the night," came the reply. "You're suffering from reaction; just sit quiet and leave everything to me."

  The car throbbed beneath her and Nicola tried to sit up, but the quick movement made her feel dizzy and she closed her eyes again. It was warm and muggy inside the car, with a comforting smell of wet tweed and dog that reminded her of the school holidays she used to spend at Marty's house in Wales. How carefree she had been then; unaware of what it meant to be one of the richest girls in the world.

  "Here we are," the woman said, stopping the car with a jerk. "Do you think you can manage to walk or shall I get someone to help you?"

  "I can manage." Nicola gingerly clambered out and tottered into a hall. A wave of nausea gripped her, bringing a film of sweat to her face so that her skin glowed pale in the harsh white light beating down on her. "Where am I?" she whispered.

  "At the Centre. You'll be quite safe here."

  "Whose centre?" Nicola asked painfully, wishing that the bulb on the ceiling would stop swaying from side to side.

  "Mine," a deep male voice said.

  The tweedy woman gave a cry of pleasure. "Oh, Barnaby, I'm so glad you're here. I knocked this poor child over and -"

  Nicola heard no more. Once again she felt she was falling, but this time strong hands caught hold of her and as she sank into unconsciousness she felt herself being cradled like a child.

  "You've found a real Cinderella," the deep voice said. "But I doubt if this poor kid's ever-had a fairy godmother."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nicola opened her eyes and stared up into the glow of an orange-shaded bulb. She shifted her head and became aware of a lumpy pillow underneath her and a rough grey blanket over her body. Her brows drew together in a frown, but before the shadow of it touched her eyes she remembered where she was and jerked up into a sitting position. The movement made her head throb and she groaned and put her hand to her temples.

  "You're lucky you haven't got more than a headache," a male voice said. "As it is, your leg's going to be a beautiful shade of blue."

  Gingerly straightening again, Nicola looked to see who had spoken, and found herself staring into quizzical, light grey eyes.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  "Barnaby Grayson. I run this place."

  She looked around her, noticing the hard settee on which she was lying, the red Turkey carpet on the floor scuffed by age to show bare patches, and the large desk - piled high with papers - that stood in front of a green-curtained window. Despite its shabbiness the room had a welcoming air, due she surmised both to the bright coal fire burning in an old- fashioned grate and to the equally warming presence of the tall, loose-limbed man standing opposite her, a foot on the fender, an arm propped on the mantelpiece.

  Though not quite as shabby as his surroundings, he fitted in with them very well, his grey slacks - though clean and well pressed - shining with age, and his cashmere sweater as thin around the elbows as the carpet on which he was standing. The glow of the firelight lent colour to his face, though as he half- turned from it to look at her she saw that his skin was tanned, with a faint stubble on his square chin, as though he had not shaved with much care. Dark eyebrows, unusually well-shaped for a man, marked his eyes, but his brown hair was soft and unruly and glinted with an unmistakable red as it caught the glare of the bulb above his head.

  "What sort of centre is this?" she asked.

  "A place where people like you can come for help."

  "Like me?" she said in surprise.

  "Yes." He seemed amused by her tone. "You can't deny you look as if you need some!"

  His eyes moved over her and only then did she become aware of the tattered wisps of material that clung to her body.

  "My - my dress, you mean," she stammered. "What's wrong with it?"

  "It's hardly what the well-dressed girl is wearing this season!" he chided. "You needn't be ashamed of being poor. It happens to the best of us."

  Nicola lowered her eyes hastily, suddenly understanding him. He believed her costume was for real! A vague memory of his voice before she had fainted returned to her. Hadn't he said something about her being a Cinderella?

  "I've been to a party," she explained.

  "For hoboes, no doubt!"

  Angry that he did not believe her, she swung her feet to the ground. The room turned gently on its axis and she bit tightly on to her lower lip until the walls steadied.

  "Drink this," he ordered, and came towards her with a glass.

  She smelt brandy and shook her head, but ignoring the ges-ture he put the tumbler against her teeth. "It'll make you feel better. Drink it."

  The liquid burned her throat and she coughed and pushed the glass away. "I hate brandy! Don't you have any champagne?" she said without thinking.

  "Only on Leap Year!" He squatted down so that his eyes were level with hers. "Why all the pretence? Everyone in this house is in the same boat as you; that's why they came here in the first place."

  "You too?"

  He straightened. "I'm in a slightly different position. I told you - I run the Centre."

  Steadied by the brandy, she stood up, realising crossly that she was barefoot. "What's happened to my shoes?"

  He moved back to the hearth and lifted up a pair of shabby pumps. They had been loaned to her by her maid, in place of the satin ones she had intended to wear.

  Snatching them from him, she put them on. They made little difference to her height, and even standing as straight as she could the top of her he
ad barely reached his chin, so that she was forced to tilt her head back to look at him. "What time is it?" she asked.

  "After midnight."

  "I must go."

  "I'm not letting you wander off into the night."

  "You can't stop me. I'm going home."

  "You told Miss Thomas you couldn't go home." He caught her shoulder. "Be a good girl and sit down again. Joanna's rustling up something to eat. It won't be much at this time of night, I'm afraid, but it should stop the pangs of hunger." One eyebrow lifted. "I take it you are hungry. You look as if you hadn't had a square meal in months."

  "I'm naturally small," she replied, and felt herself colouring at the intensity of his gaze. This ridiculous man really believed she was a down-and-out! It would be laughable if it weren't rather touching. That anyone should believe - even for a single moment - that Nicola Rosten was a homeless waif! Yet if a home meant a family and love, then she was indeed homeless. Tears stung her eyes and angrily she brushed them away. Why on earth was she so jumpy?

  "Being knocked down by a car is no joke," the man said, as though sensing her emotional turmoil. "It really would be advisable for you to stay here tonight. You won't be under any obligation to stay longer. You'll be free to leave in the morning."

  She hesitated, then in her usual impulsive way made a decision. "All right, I'll stay." She sat down on the settee, jumping sharply as a spring dug into her. "Is everything old and broken here?" she demanded.

  "Most of it's old, but it's not all broken! I've been meaning to get that settee repaired."

  "You're too busy, I suppose?"

  He nodded equably, and she felt her quick surge of temper ebb.

  "How many -" she paused, searching for the right word. "How many residents do you have here?"

  "We try not to have any permanents," he replied. "We like to get people settled in jobs and digs as quickly as we can. But thirty-five is our capacity. We're almost full at the moment."

  Before she could ask any more questions a young woman - a few years older than herself - came in with a tray. She was tall and slim, and her tweed skirt and a matching wool blouse gave authority to her appearance.