Roberta Leigh - Cinderella in Mink

by Roberta Leigh

  "Like that, eh?" he said, raising his brows in mock surprise. "We are formal today."

  "You're a doctor. Why pretend you're not?"

  "I don't pretend. I just prefer to be called Barnaby."

  "Even in your hospital ? "

  "Unfortunately I have to be called Doctor there, but that's because it isn't my hospital."

  "I'm sure you'll end up having one of your own," she said, with mock innocence. "If you could marry an heiress -"

  "And exchange one prison for another?" He grinned and shook his head. "We're supposed to be talking about your life, Nicky."

  "I don't see why we should." She gave him the full battery of her eyes. "Let's keep my life private."

  "It would have been pretty public if you hadn't been brought here."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's obvious." He leaned forward, his rough wool sweater strained by his broad shoulders. "You've got no fixed address - at least none you're willing to give us, and when Mrs. Thomas knocked you down you were wandering along the Embankment. My bet is that you were going to sleep rough."

  His words gave her the lead she was looking for. "I was running away. I'd decided to make a new life for myself."

  "On the Embankment?"

  "It was a starting place."

  "A rather primitive one," he said whimsically. "Where was your original start?"

  "In an orphanage," she said promptly. "It was a horrible place and I was always hungry."

  "With a ghastly matron?"

  "Ghastly," she agreed.

  "When did you leave it?"

  "I ran away when I was sixteen and came to London. I've been here ever since."

  "Working as a ladies' maid and a waitress."

  "I had other jobs too."

  "Where did you meet Marty?"

  "He's not important," she said hastily.

  "But you were running away from him." Barnaby Grayson's voice was deceptively mild. "And he's still trying to get you back. Don't forget I heard you talking to him."

  Looking at the steady grey eyes watching her, Nicola knew she would have to think fast. "He loves me. That's why he wants me back."

  "Do you love him?"

  "I'm very fond of him."

  "How old is he?"

  "Sixty," she said, and too late tried to draw the words back. "But he's very young for his age."

  "He'd need to be!" Barnaby looked unexpectedly severe. "Isn't he rather old for a girl like you?"

  "I'm not a child - even though I look it in these shapeless clothes."

  "I know your shape," he reminded her. "You slept in my room, remember?"

  Embarrassed, she averted her head. It was strange that Jeffrey's most blatant innuendoes had not affected her the way Barnaby's gentle teasing did.

  "Did you live with Marty?" he persisted.

  "Yes," she said, remembering the happy years of her childhood.

  "Was he the person you were running away from when Mrs. Thomas found you?"

  "Yes. I'd - I'd decided he was too old for me and I was going to make a new life for myself."

  "With the mink?"

  She blinked, then slowly nodded. Barnaby studied her thoughtfully, and only as his eyes narrowed did she realise she had said the wrong thing.

  "If this Marty gave you the fur, why did you give me that address in Belgravia? It was the Rosten house - I looked it up in the telephone directory."

  Nicola moistened her lips, unsure what to say. "I - er -" she floundered.

  "Don't for heaven's sake tell me Marty lives there!" he exploded. "There's a limit even to my credulity!"

  Since there was only a straw to clutch at, she did so. "He does live there," she asserted. "He's the butler."

  Barnaby's jaw fell, and it was all she could do not to laugh.

  "That's where I met him," she went on, warming to her subject. "I told you I was a ladies' maid and -"

  "You mean that part of your story's true?"

  "Of course. I was very close to Miss Rosten. I only left because I didn't want to see Marty. I couldn't expect him to change his job. After all, he's been with the family for years."

  "So you left instead?"

  "Yes."

  He sighed. "You needn't have lied about where you got the mink. I'm not here to judge you, Nicky. I'm here to help."

  "You are helping," she said earnestly. "I sent the mink back to him, didn't I? At least that's a step in the right direction."

  "Yes," he said briskly, "it is." He came to stand beside her. "I'm glad you left Miss Rosten. Acting as wet-nurse to a spoiled heiress isn't the job for you."

  "That's what Marty said. He was always telling me I could do better."

  "What did he mean?" Barnaby's voice was sharp and her hackles rose.

  "Not that," she said frigidly.

  "I'm glad to hear it. From the way you were talking to him the other night I got the impression he saw you as a meal ticket."

  The thought of her meticulous godfather as a butler trying to set her up as a demi-mondaine brought a smile to her lips.

  "I'm glad you find my remark amusing," Barnaby went on.

  "Only because it's so ridiculous. Marty doesn't need me to keep him. He's a rich old dear - for a butler, I mean," she amended hastily.

  "I suppose there are good pickings in the Rosten household."

  "Excellent. Miss Rosten never has left-overs served up again, and she has a fresh bottle of wine with every meal."

  "Champagne for breakfast, too, I don't doubt."

  "Of course. She even washes her teeth in it!"

  He laughed. "I won't swallow that. And I'm sure she doesn't either!"

  Nicola smiled. "As a matter of fact, she's awfully nice."

  He grunted and turned away, busying himself with the coal fire that burned half-heartedly in the grate.

  Nicola studied him as he raked the ashes and put on more coal. Not good-looking in the accepted sense - his features were too irregular for that - he exuded a powerful and virile masculinity despite the fact that he made no concession to his appearance. When he had returned from the hospital she had noticed that his suit, though dark and conservative, had seen better days. Now, in slacks and sweater - which seemed to be a second skin to him - he looked more equipped for the rugger field than for dealing with today's disturbed generation.

  As though aware of her gaze, he ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth it, but though he pulled it away from his forehead, a thick strand fell forward again immediately, and lay soft and silky above his deep-set grey eyes.

  "What's your background?" she asked with forced casualness.

  "I was born and educated in Birmingham and came to London to do post-graduate work. I've been here ever since."

  "Were you always interested in helping people?"

  "I suppose so. It wasn't until I was left a small legacy a couple of years ago that I was able to do anything about it."

  "I thought you said the Council gave you this house?"

  "They did. But it had to be furnished, and there's rates and heating and food to buy each week. Thirty-odd people take a lot of feeding."

  "Can't you get a grant from the Council?"

  "Not unless I let them have a say in the way this place is run. And I prefer to do it my way."

  "Backing your own opinion ? "

  "I won't be the first person to have done so."

  She remembered her grandfather who had begun the family fortune in a similar way, practically selling his wife and children in order to raise the money to make and package cereals in his own particular method. But somehow she could not see

  Barnaby achieving the same fame and fortune. Fame, perhaps, she decided, looking at his strong face, but never the money he would need to put his plans into action.

  "You need a rich benefactor," she stated, and then added provokingly: "You're so good-looking, I'm sure you could find one. Miss Rosten, for example."

  Barnaby's expletive would not have received approval
in august medical circles, and she lowered her lids to hide the mischief in her eyes.

  "The one thing I don't want," he said forcefully, "is to be regarded as someone's pet charity! I've seen it happen to friends of mine. You end up nothing better than a paid lackey." He flung his arms wide. "Don't minimise what I've done here, Nicky. In the short time we've been going, this place has been home to more than a hundred people."

  "Will I be hundred and one on your list of reformed characters?"

  "Do you need reforming?" he asked gravely.

  "You seem to think so."

  "A mink doesn't make you a minx!"

  She gave an exclamation and jumped up, not realising he was standing so close to her until the top of her head brushed against his chin. He stepped back quickly, but for an instant their gazes locked, hazel eyes staring into grey ones until she swung to the door.

  "I'd better get back to my ironing."

  "We'll talk some more another time," he replied, and returned to his papers by the table.

  She glanced at him quickly, but he was already immersed, and realising he had forgotten her, she went out, feeling unexpectedly dejected.

  Downstairs in the kitchen she found a mound of linen waiting to be ironed - it seemed to have mushroomed like fungi during the night - and despondently started dampening them and folding them up.

  "Leave the sheets and give us a hand with the veg," Carole piped up. "Otherwise we'll be here all day!"

  With alacrity Nicola put away the washing and picked up a knife. She had never before peeled potatoes, and she found it far more difficult than she could have believed possible. Thick lumps of peel and vegetable came away beneath her fingers, and the little knobbly chunks left bore no relation to the large brown potatoes in the sink.

  "If you intend throwing away the potatoes and eating the peel," Carole said finally, "you're doing a grand job."

  "I've never peeled potatoes before," Nicola explained.

  "What did you eat then - crisps?"

  "Cabbage and carrots," she said quickly.

  "They need peeling too." Carole shook her head in exasperation. "Make a pot of tea instead. I'm gasping. You can take one up to Barnaby too."

  Nicola put on the kettle, got out the cups and found an old brown tray for Barnaby, rummaging in a drawer until she found a coloured knapkin with which to cover the scuffed surface.

  All the while Carole muttered to herself about the difficulties of preparing food in such a badly equipped kitchen, and how much better she would feel once she had packed her things and moved on. She was in one of her rumbustious moods which, according to Gillian, occurred at least twice a week.

  "I know Barnaby would like Carole to stay here much longer," Gillian had confided to Nicola last night. "There's some reason why she hates staying anywhere for more than a month, and he's sure he can get to the bottom of it if he can talk to her long enough."

  Nicola had been surprised by the warmth in which Gillian had spoken about Barnaby and recognising it, Gillian had looked half-defiant. "Most of the girls get a crush on him," she admitted, "but he never seems to notice. He treats everyone of us the same and -"

  "He's a doctor," Nicola reminded her.

  "I can tell you a few tales about doctors," Gillian had said, and had then proceeded to do so, concluding with the comment that Barnaby, of course, was quite different.

  Remembering this conversation as she waited for the kettle to boil, Nicola marvelled that Barnaby could control such a motley collection as the group living here. It spoke well not only for his ability, but for his sympathy too. Somehow it no longer seemed so amusing to be able to confront him with her true identity. To begin with she had imagined he would be furious at being made a fool of, but now she had a feeling that he would take the whole thing in his stride, and would probably consider that she was the one who had been belittled; possibly even pitying her because she had found it necessary to play such a childish trick.

  And it was childish, she admitted to herself, as she wanned the teapot and added the tea. Barnaby was an idealistic fool wasting his undoubted ability in this semi-derelict hostel when, if he had half an ounce of ambition, he'd be concentrating on becoming a senior consultant at his hospital. Yet he enjoyed the work he was doing here, she thought crossly as she poured milk into the cups. Even worse - he had every intention of continuing with it.

  "I'll take the tray if you like," Gillian offered.

  "It's no problem," Nicola replied, and though she would have liked to put her own cup of tea beside Barnaby's, she decided it would be too obvious. But perhaps he would talk to her while he was eating. She might even tell him the truth about herself now.

  Carefully she mounted the stairs, anxious not to let the tea slop into the saucer. So careful were her movements that she was able to hear Barnaby talking in the sitting room before she even arrived at the door, and she saw that it was ajar.

  "I don't know why you give so much time to Nicky Rose," Joanna was saying.

  "I don't," Barnaby replied. "I've only had one proper talk with her since she arrived."

  "Why bother at all? There's nothing wrong with her."

  "I'm not so sure. You should have heard the story she spun me this morning. Bleak orphanage, not enough food, a matron who was little better than a witch, and escape to the bright lights of London when she was sixteen."

  "That seems quite feasible," Joanna said somewhat doubtfully.

  "You just have to look at the girl to know it isn't true." There was exasperation in Barnaby's voice. "Her whole behaviour - the way she talks and moves - shows a good cultural background and education - far better than she'd get in an orphanage. Personally I'd say she comes from a middle-class home and ran away in search of excitement."

  "What about the mink and the aged boy-friend?"

  "That part sounds true." Barnaby's voice was serious. "She wouldn't be the first girl to fall for the lure of a fur and a few fancy trimmings!"

  "I should imagine she knew very well where it was leading," came Joanna's cold tones. "Girls of her type fall for the mink and diamond syndrome."

  Nicola drew a furious breath. Anger with Barnaby for disbelieving her carefully fabricated story was only partially mollified by hearing his defence of her. Though he considered her a highly imaginative liar he didn't - unlike Joanna - consider her beyond redemption.

  Cheeks stained red, she kicked open the door with her foot and marched in.

  "Tea - just what I needed," Barnaby remarked, coming over to the table as she set down the tray. "Bring up a cud for yourself and join us."

  "I've work to do."

  "You sound very hard done by," Joanna said in dulcet tones. "What are you doing?"

  "Polishing my diamonds," Nicola said with sarcastic sweetness, and ran out, but not before she heard Barnaby's shout of laughter.

  Drat the man! He didn't even have the decency to be embarrassed at knowing she had overheard their conversation. He was thick-skinned and insufferable and smugly certain he could read her like a book. Well, he was in for a surprise when he discovered that the cover she presented to him in no way gave indication of the content of the pages.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Anger against Barnaby made Nicola revise her plans. The momentary feeling of warmth she had had for him had been dispelled by hearing his conversation with Joanna, and what had begun as a light-hearted deception now held a far deeper significance. She would stay here one week not only to show him how easily he could be fooled, but also how sadly he could misjudge character.

  During the next few days she went out of her way to confuse him, and was pliable one moment and rounding on him like a spitfire the next. Like everyone else in the hostel she attended his daily sessions and racked her brains each night to present him with a different problem each day.

  Soon it became a battle of wits between them, and though she was sure he did not believe the problems she posed to him each day, he allowed them to go unchallenged.

  On the morni
ng of the seventh day Nicola awakened before Gillian and, staring through the small window at the dingy rooftops, wondered why she should feel so depressed. Today of all days she should be happy, for this was the moment she had been dreaming of: the day she was going to tell Barnaby her true identity.

  Racing down the corridor to commandeer the bathroom, she hastily washed in tepid water and combed her hair in front of the fly-blown mirror. A week of comparatively early nights - without Jeffrey to keep her dancing till three in the morning - had given her skin a bloom it had not had for several years. Her eyes were brighter too, more green than hazel now that they were rested, and her hair, free of stylised settings, hung straight and silky around her shoulders. Not a suitable style for the scene ahead of her, she decided, and tied it back from her face with a narrow piece of ribbon. The simple style suited her delicately-cut features, and minus her usual layer of makeup she could have passed for a teenager. Remembering her usual daily performance with body lotion, face lotion, moisturising creams and powders, she marvelled that she looked none the worse without them - better, in fact. She only regretted her lack of mascara, and looked critically at her long, curling lashes.

  "Hurry up in there!" someone shouted, banging on the bathroom door, and gathering up her flannel and towel she left the bathroom to someone else.

  Returning to the bedroom she was surprised to see a small heap of clothing on her bed, and looked questioningly at Gillian who, having battled unsuccessfully against a cold for the last few days, had been ordered not to leave her room.

  "Barnaby brought them up," she croaked. "He came in to have a look at me and left them."

  Nicola lifted up a soft green wool dress and a heather blue skirt with a matching jumper. Even without trying them on she knew they would be a considerably better fit than what she had been wearing. The clothes were obviously new and she frowned, puzzled to know where he had got them. Still, people often gave away clothes they had never worn, and he obviously had a good source.

  She put on the jumper and skirt and felt considerably more civilised now that she no longer looked so shapeless.

  "And you look older in those," Gillian commented.

  "Only because they give me more shape."