Substitute Fiancée
Lee Wilkinson
CHAPTER ONE
FRANCESCA HOLT, making her way through the Friday afternoon press of people and luggage-piled trolleys, paused to glance up at the airport's flight monitors.
The plane from Amsterdam had just landed. She breathed a sigh of relief.
'Really it's a damned nuisance having to go away just now,' Kirk had said. 'But this trip is far too important to cancel.'
He'd kissed her and picked up his bag and briefcase. 'I'll be back tomorrow without fail. Meet me by the main reception desk. There's only twenty minutes or so between our planes, so you won't have long to wait.' With a teasing smile, he'd added, 'Just keep a tight hold on your handbag until I join you.'
Taking up a position within sight of the reception desk, she waited quietly.
She was a slim, graceful woman, of above medium height, with silky ash-brown hair, which had a slight tendency to curl, twisted into a knot on top of her head.
She was dressed nicely, if unadventurously, in a silky oatmeal-coloured dress with self-buttons, and a short, collarless jacket. A flimsy flowered scarf around her throat added a touch of colour. She carried a small weekend case and a handbag.
Unexceptional, the man watching her thought, apart from a lovely figure and a certain quality of stillness that made her stand out from the crowd.
Serenely unaware that she was under surveillance, Fran lifted her left hand and glanced at the small diamond solitaire she wore. Kirk had slipped it on to her finger just n couple of nights ago, when he'd taken her out to dinner.
"This is only temporary,' he'd told her. 'You can choose something bigger and better when this coming weekend's over.'
But she didn't need anything bigger and better. Engaged to the blue-eyed, golden-haired Mr Wonderful of most women's fantasies, she had everything she wanted.
As well as film star good looks, Kirk had a quick intelligence and loads of charm, a 'way with him' that was irresistible.
When she had moved to the Midlands to take up a post as designer for Christopher Varley—a reputable and long-established Manchester firm of goldsmiths and jewellers— Kirk Varley, son of the late owner, had treated her with the same casual friendliness he reserved for all his other employees.
Even after almost a year, and growing success as several of her imaginative designs had attracted a good deal of attention, he had shown no sign of interest.
Then a commission to redesign an antique necklace had worked the miracle.
Kirk had been approached by Edward Balantyne, a multi-millionaire businessman and owner of Balantyne Hall, who'd wanted his bride to wear the necklace at their wedding.
Made up of eighteen large, perfectly matched rubies, it was reputed to have been given to Elizabeth Balantyne, a noted beauty, by an Indian maharaja in the early days of the Raj.
Since then a Balantyne family tradition had grown up, so that with each generation the necklace was passed on to the eldest son's bride.
But this time, unimpressed by its history and disliking its heavy, old-fashioned appearance, the American bride-to-be, having seen and admired Francesca's work, wanted the priceless gems put into a lighter, modern setting.
Needing to be in the States for the few weeks prior to his wedding, the multi-millionaire, apparently with some reluctance, had finally agreed to allow his fiancée a free hand in choosing the new design.
Before leaving, and after reaching an agreement with Kirk, Edward Balantyne had made arrangements for the necklace to be taken by special security from his London bank to the jewellers.
It would arrive just twenty-four hours before William Bailey, the firm's craftsman, was due to reset the rubies, and Varleys would be responsible for handing it back safely.
There had been one stipulation. Having in the past been hounded by the media on both sides of the Atlantic, Edward Balantyne had insisted that the whole thing, including his forthcoming marriage, which was to take place in London shortly after his return from the States, should remain a closely guarded secret.
'I can understand why,' Kirk had said. 'Apart from the security angle, he's marrying Melinda, the daughter of Gideon Ross. If the press found out, they'd have a field-day.
'Ross was recently mixed up in some Wall Street embezzlement scandal that made front page news even in England. He ended up disgraced and penniless, and was lucky to escape prison.'
Determined to take no chances on Edward Balantyne's secret getting out, Kirk had arranged for Melinda Ross, a gorgeous blonde, to meet Fran and himself at a quiet Manchester hotel, rather than his business premises.
That first discussion, with a life-sized photograph of the necklace and precise measurements, had been followed by a series of lunchtime meetings, during which the bride-to-be had looked at several of Fran's designs and chosen the one she liked best.
Listening to Fran's ideas, and getting to know her as a woman, rather than simply an employee, had sparked Kirk's interest, and he had started to wine and dine her.
Now, only a short time later, he had suggested she move in with him while they made preparations for a spring wedding.
In love, and reassured by the word wedding, she had—for the first time since Blaze—let down her defences and agreed.
Kirk, his blond good looks the antithesis of Blaze's darkly handsome face—a face she still couldn't think of without her heart turning over—had looked both pleased and relieved.
He had helped her transport her few personal possessions to his sumptuous apartment just before she'd seen him off at the airport.
'It's your home now,' he'd said, smiling. 'You can move in as soon as you like.'
But, unwilling to actually take up residence before his return, Fran had refused a key and stayed where she was, only handing in the keys of her own rented flat that morning.
Now she warmed herself with the thought that when the weekend was over she and Kirk would be going home together, and a new and happier phase in her life would be starting...
A slight smile hanging on her lips, she glanced up and met the eyes of a thin, sharp-faced man with sandy hair, who appeared to be watching her.
Without conscious volition Fran's hand went to her throat, but already the man was turning away.
Though he looked ordinary enough there was something vaguely familiar about the stooped shoulders, the creased suit and, rather incongruously, the mac over his arm.
Surely he'd been on the same Manchester to London plane as herself?
Seeing him wander in the direction of the flight monitors, she relaxed. Like herself, he was probably waiting for someone.
A glance at her watch confirmed that Kirk should be with her any minute, and she breathed a sign of relief. She would be glad when they reached Balantyne Hall and this whole thing was over.
'Don't be silly,' he'd said briefly, when she'd first baulked at his idea. 'As we're going to the Hall, it's the perfect solution.'
'Surely it would be safer to let the security firm deliver it?' she pleaded.
'Not necessarily.'
Seeing she wasn't convinced, he admitted, 'And there's another consideration. Trade hasn't been up to much for the past year or so, and special security costs a great deal of money, which would have to come out of our profits.'
But she considered it too big a responsibility to be part of such a plan, and said so. 'After all I'm only an employee...'
'My darling girl...' He drew her into his arms. 'You must know that I don't think of you as a mere employee. In fact I was about to ask you to become part of the firm.'
As she stared at him, wondering if she'd misunderstood, he smiled. 'Yes, I really do mean marry me...'
After an interval of kisses and whispered endea
rments, he added purposefully, 'As for the necklace; I can assure you there's absolutely no risk involved.'
'But if Mr Balantyne's expecting it to be delivered by Rayburns won't he—?'
A shade impatiently, Kirk: broke in, 'So long as it's returned safely, it's up to us. Look, if I think there's likely to be a problem, I'll clear it with him. But really it-makes a lot of sense to do it this way.
'The whole thing's been worked with such secrecy that apart from William Bailey—and he's as safe as houses—there's not a soul knows we've ever had the necklace in our possession.
'Now, don't worry any more. For one thing, Balantyne is sure to have it insured up to the hilt... You just meet me at the airport and we'll be home and dry. Nothing can go wrong.
'A taxi should get us to Balantyne Hall by late afternoon. There'll be plenty of time to talk to our host and hostess and get business over before dinner.
'So far as I know, there'll only be the four of us on Friday night; the actual party isn't until Saturday...'
To coincide with the delivery of the necklace, Edward Balantyne was planning to hold an engagement party to introduce his bride-to-be to his family and a few close friends.
The invitation to Kirk and herself to attend the party and spend the weekend at his ancestral home had come as a surprise.
To Fran's way of thinking, it was not a particularly pleasant one. Neither of them had actually met Edward Balantyne, and what she'd heard about him from Melinda Ross hadn't made a good impression.
Still, Kirk had seemed pleased and oddly excited by the invitation...
But where on earth was Kirk? Surely he should be here by now?
'Will Miss Holt, meeting Mr Varley, please 'go to the reception desk...?' The disembodied voice broke into her thoughts.
Feeling a quiver of apprehension, Fran crossed to the desk and identified herself.
"There's a message for you, Miss Holt.' The woman behind the desk was briskly efficient and impersonal. 'Mr Varley has been unavoidably delayed. He wants you to proceed to the Hall, where he'll join you as soon as possible.'
'He didn't have any idea how long he'd be?'
'Apparently not.'
'Thank you.' Clutching her case and shoulder-bag, Fran turned away, beset by a sudden surge of something close to panic.
Taking a deep breath, she told herself not to be a fool. Apart from the fact that she would have to make the journey to Balantyne Hall alone, nothing had really altered.
All she had to do was get a taxi.
Avoiding a milling crowd of pink and peeling holiday-makers, struggling with bags and packages and recalcitrant children, she made her way to the exit.
Outside, the September heat, trapped between the buildings, was sweltering, and the air seemed curiously heavy and stale.
The pavement was crowded with people and trolleys, the roadway noisy with cars and vehicles picking up passengers and loading luggage.
A straggling queue of people waited at the taxi rank. Several taxis appeared together, and the queue in front of her diminished, leaving Fran at the head.
Another taxi pulled into the kerb. As she stepped forward to open the door her handbag was snatched from her, and a violent sideways push sent her sprawling.
Shocked and dazed, she struggled to her knees, and a moment later was being helped to her feet by a silver-haired man standing behind her in the queue.
The whole thing had been over in a split second, most of the crowd seeming unaware of what had happened.
'Are you all right?' The man, who with his neatly trimmed moustache and a military air looked like a retired colonel, stooped to pick up her case.
A hand to her throat, she croaked, 'I'm fine. Just a bit shaken.' Recognising him as a fellow passenger on the Manchester flight, she managed a smile.
'Would you like me to call Airport Security?"
'No, I don't think so,' Fran refused hastily. 'I need to get on.' The last thing she wanted was to be held up for ages.
'You really should tell the police,' the 'colonel' insisted.
'I'm sure you're right. I'll report it later.' Taking her case, she thanked him and scrambled into the taxi.
By the time she'd given the driver the address, shock had set in and she was trembling in every limb.
Gritting her teeth, she made an effort to pull herself together while she inspected the damage. A grazed palm and bleeding knees, torn tights, smears of dust on her dress and jacket and scuffed shoes seemed to be all.
No doubt there would be bruises later, but, taking everything into consideration, she had got off lightly.
The big question in her mind was, why had the thief picked on her? Could he have known who she was, or had any inkling of Kirk's plan?
No, surely not. This was small-time theft. There were dozens of such crimes each day. It must be sheer coincidence that she had been a target.
A strange and bizarre coincidence, nevertheless...
Fran shivered. Then, shrugging off a feeling of nameless apprehension, she brought her mind back to the present and glanced out of the window.
After leaving the airport environs behind them they had reached leafy country roads which carried comparatively little traffic.
In a mile or so, shortly after passing a pleasantly rustic hotel, they turned left, past a magnificent stand of beeches just starting to turn gold, and began to follow an old lichen-covered stone wall.
Before long they came to a pair of black ornamental wrought-iron gates, flanked by stone pillars.
'This is Balantyne Hall,' the taxi driver advised her, drawing to a halt.
Looking at the gates, which didn't appear to open, she asked, 'Are you sure this is the right entrance?'
'We can use this one, though it's not the main entrance. That's about a mile further on and has a manned gatehouse. As it happens I've been here before... There's a sort of intercom system on all the gates, if you'd like to tell me your name?'
She told him.
Leaving the engine running, he went over to a panel in the gates and, having pressed a button, spoke into a small grille.
Lifting her eyes, Fran noticed a high-up security camera scanning the entrance. It seemed Edward Balantyne didn't take any chances.
The driver climbed back into the cab and the gates slid aside to allow them entry, before closing silently after them.
They followed the well-kept drive, which was bordered by flowering plants and shrubs, until they rounded the curve of a low hill and the house came into view.
Low and rambling, with creeper-covered walls built of mellow stone, it had mullioned windows, twisted barley-sugar chimneys and a hotchpotch of crooked roofs and gables.
Fran drew a breath of surprise and delight. She had expected something large and square and imposing, rather than this charming old manor-house nestling like a contented babe in the warm sunshine.
When the taxi came to a stop on the paved apron, Fran picked up her case and was in the act of stepping out when it came home to her that she had no money to pay the driver.
Feeling foolish, she realised that her only option was to ask him to wait while she rang the bell, explained the situation, and borrowed some.
At that instant the door of the house opened and a dignified black-coated butler appeared. Tall and spare, with a lugubrious face and greying hair slicked straight back, he could have been any age between forty and sixty.
Never having seen a real-life butler before, Fran was duly impressed.
She was about to explain her predicament when he went over to the cab and handed some notes to the driver, who thanked him and drove away.
Of course, the call from the gates had warned of her arrival, but how had anyone known she would need the taxi fare?
Showing no sign of surprise at her dishevelled state, the butler said gravely, 'Allow me, miss.' Relieving her of her case, he led the way into a long oak-panelled hall. 'If you'll follow me, miss, I'll show you to your room.'
As they mounted the beau
tifully carved staircase he added, 'The master considered that you might appreciate a few minutes to tidy up, before joining him in the living room for some tea.'
Fran wondered if 'the master' had extra-sensory perception. It was almost as if he was aware of what had happened without her needing to explain a thing.
Crossing the landing, the butler opened a door to the left and, having placed her case on what appeared to be an Elizabethan sea-chest, informed her, 'You'll find the living room at the far end of the hall, miss.'
She smiled at him. 'Thank you, er...'
'Mortimer, miss.'
'Thank you, Mortimer.'
With a half-bow, the stately figure departed.
Her room was white-walled and simple, with a wide stone fireplace and polished oak floorboards, on which were scattered some beautiful old rugs. It was attractively furnished with period pieces.
The diamond-leaded windows were open wide, letting in the balmy air. They looked over pleasantly rolling parkland, golden as honey in the late-afternoon sun.
But, oblivious to the view, Fran was wondering how long Kirk was likely to be. What should she do for the best?
After a minute or two's thought she decided not to do or say anything until he got here. It was his place to tell their host about the change of plan and complete the business in hand.
In the meantime she would have to go down and explain that he'd been delayed. But first she must tidy herself up.
Opening a communicating door, she discovered a modern, well-appointed bathroom. The thought of a shower and a complete change of clothing was an appealing one, but, afraid of keeping her host waiting, she decided that for the moment she would just repair the obvious damage.
Hastily she washed her face and hands and sponged her knees, wincing as the soap stung her various grazes. Then, having brushed the dust from her dress and jacket, she put on fresh tights and court shoes, tidied her hair, adjusted the wispy scarf and made her way down the stairs.
As she crossed the hall Mortimer appeared, and, opening a handsome pair of double doors, ushered her into the living room. She smiled her thanks, and with a slight inclination of his head he closed them again behind her.
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