by Lucy Gordon;Sarah Morgan;Robyn Donald;Lucy Monroe;Lee Wilkinson;Kate Walker
‘The master gave instructions that if you seemed to be sleeping you weren’t to be disturbed before noon, miss.’
‘Is Mr Varley here yet, do you know?’
‘No, miss, there’ve been no visitors.’
‘What about Miss Ross? Has she arrived?’
‘No, miss.’
With a growing feeling of hopelessness, Fran asked, ‘Have there been any messages?’
‘Not that I know of, miss.’
It seemed that nothing had changed, Fran thought almost despairingly.
‘But Mr Mortimer would be the one to ask…Will that be all, miss?’
‘Yes, thank you, Hannah.’
When the door had closed behind the maid, Fran poured herself some tea and drank it gratefully.
Despite sleeping late she felt headachy and unrefreshed, unwilling to face yet more waiting.
There was a phone at the bedside, and, picking up the receiver, she tapped in the number of Kirk’s apartment, only to get the answering machine.
But what else had she expected? she asked herself crossly. She hadn’t imagined for one minute that he’d actually be sitting at home. It was just a case of leaving no stone unturned.
Her next and only hope was William Bailey. He lived in the small flat above Varley’s business premises, and had done since Kirk’s father died. If there had been an accident of some kind he might be the one to know.
‘William Bailey…’ He answered on the third ring, in the dry, precise way she knew of old.
‘William, it’s Francesca Holt…’
Her good temper and pleasant manners had made her a firm favourite, and his tone was avuncular as he asked, ‘What can I do for you, Francesca, my dear?’
‘Have you heard anything of Kirk, by any chance?’
‘I had a call from him first thing this morning.’
‘Do you know where he is?’ she asked eagerly.
Sounding puzzled, William said, ‘I thought he was at Balantyne Hall with you.’
‘No, he…he was held up and hasn’t arrived yet. I wondered if he might have had an accident.’
‘He sounded fine when I spoke to him.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Only that he looked like being away longer than he’d anticipated, and he wanted me to take charge of everything until I heard from him again.’ Then, with sudden anxiety, ‘Is there something wrong? You are at Balantyne Hall?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve delivered the package safely?’
‘Yes.’
She heard his sigh of relief, before he asked, ‘But surely Kirk’s been in touch with you?’
Remembering what the maid had said about Mortimer being the one to ask about messages, she said, ‘It’s all right, he’s probably left a message. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘It was no bother, my dear. Have a pleasant weekend.’
Chapter Five
FRAN got out of bed, and, finding her ankle was a great deal better, headed for the bathroom, her thoughts racing.
If Kirk had told William that he might be away longer than he’d anticipated, something totally unexpected must have cropped up. Something of importance.
But what could have been of more importance than the safe delivery of the necklace and the weekend at Balantyne Hall?
Though she was very relieved that Kirk was at least safe, and not lying badly injured in some hospital, she was starting to feel annoyed and resentful that he hadn’t let her know what was happening.
Unless there was a message.
Or perhaps by now he’d talked to Blaze?
As quickly as possible, she showered, put on a light cotton dress and a pair of low-heeled sandals, and, leaving her hair loose around her shoulders, made her way down the stairs.
Just as she reached the bottom, the butler appeared and enquired gravely, ‘I trust the ankle is somewhat improved today, miss?’
She smiled at him. ‘Much improved, thank you, Mortimer.’
‘I’m pleased to hear you say so, miss.’
‘Is there a message for me, from Mr Varley?’
‘No, miss.’
‘But he did phone?’
‘Not to my knowledge, miss. Unless the master took the call.’
‘Thank you, Mortimer. I’ll ask him.’
‘That won’t be possible at the moment, miss. The master went out shortly after breakfast.’
Blaze knew quite well how worried and anxious she’d been; if he had heard from Kirk she couldn’t believe that he would have left the house without setting her mind at rest.
Her silky brows drawing together in a frown, she asked, ‘Do you happen to know where he went?’
‘I understand he was going to town, miss.’
No doubt to find out what had delayed Melinda Ross. ‘Did he say when he’d be home?’
‘No, miss. He did say, however, that if he wasn’t back for one o’clock you were to go ahead and have lunch without him.’
At that precise moment the grandfather clock whirred self-importantly and struck one.
‘As it appears that you’ll be lunching alone,’ the butler went on in measured tones, ‘if you would prefer to have lunch on the terrace, rather than in the dining room…?’
Neither prospect appealed.
Convinced now that, for whatever reason, Kirk wasn’t going to come, and unable to bear the thought of just waiting around until Blaze and his fiancée returned, Fran found herself suddenly desperate to get away.
Her job was done. She had delivered the necklace, so what was there to stay for? Certainly not the party. It would be a form of torture to stand by and watch Blaze with his arm around Melinda Ross, introducing her as his bride-to-be.
And in the circumstances it was hardly fair to the other woman. If Melinda had had the faintest idea that in the past she and Blaze had been lovers, she would never have been invited.
Making up her mind in a rush, Fran said steadily, ‘Thank you, Mortimer, but I won’t be staying for lunch. While I go up and pack my things, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to—’
Recalling the theft of her bag, she stopped speaking abruptly. Oh, Lord, what on earth was she to do? She had no money and no credit cards.
There was money in her bank account, of course, but it was Saturday; the banks would be closed and her bank cards had disappeared along with everything else.
To add to her troubles, expecting to fly back with Kirk she had booked only a one-way ticket, so she had no means of getting back to Manchester.
And no home to go to if she got there.
She resolutely pushed that less than comforting thought away.
If she could get to London and book into a hotel for the night she could always explain the situation to William Bailey, and ask for his help.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the butler, who, head slightly bent, was waiting patiently. ‘I was going to ask you to call me a taxi, but on the way here I had my bag stolen.’
‘The master mentioned it,’ Mortimer informed her gravely. ‘It must have been very distressing, miss.’
‘It’s proving to be very inconvenient,’ she remarked with feeling. Then, taking the bull by the horns, ‘Mortimer, could you possibly lend me the taxi fare to London?’
For the first time the butler appeared discomfited. Clearing his throat, he assured her, ‘I would have been happy to, miss, had the master not issued specific instructions to the contrary.’
As she gaped at him, he added, ‘My understanding is that the master wishes you to remain at the Hall until his return.’
Fran bit her lip. Then, her voice even, said, ‘I see. Thank you, Mortimer.’
Looking relieved that she had taken it in such a ladylike fashion, he reminded her, ‘About lunch, miss…?’
‘Thank you, but I won’t be having lunch.’
She couldn’t eat a bite; it would choke her…And if Blaze thought he could keep her here when she wanted to leave, he had another think coming!
Unwilling to involve the staff, however, she said carefully, ‘When the master gets back, perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell him I’m in my room?’
‘Certainly, miss.’ Mortimer inclined his head.
Her back ramrod-straight, a flag of colour flying in each cheek, Fran went up the stairs, her thoughts racing.
It couldn’t be more than a mile or so to the main entrance, which was manned. And on her way here, just before the taxi had turned off by the stand of beeches, she remembered noticing a country hotel called The Mulberries. She would almost certainly be able to stay the night there.
As soon as the door of her room had closed behind her she gathered her belongings together, and, anger and the need for haste making her reckless, bundled them into her case anyhow and zipped up the lid.
She was about to hurry from the room when she recalled that Kirk’s ring was still lying on the bedside table. Having nowhere to put it, she picked it up and thrust it back on to her finger.
Then, case in hand, she descended the stairs, praying she would meet no one. It was lunchtime, so with a bit of luck all the servants would either be eating or making preparations for the party.
Fate was on her side, and she was able to quietly open the heavy front door and let herself out without seeing a soul.
There wasn’t a breath of air. Everything was so still that all of nature seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the gathering storm to finally break.
Hopefully it would hold off until she reached the hotel, but she would have to hurry. Already thunder was rumbling in the distance, and flashes of lightning lit the louring sky.
The heat was oppressive, and before she’d gone a quarter of a mile she was bathed in perspiration. Her case, which she had considered light, now seemed to weigh a ton, and her ankle, protesting at such cavalier treatment, had started to ache again.
Gritting her teeth, she kept going.
The gatehouse was in sight when the first heavy drops of rain began to plop on to the tarmac. She quickened her pace, while the air took on the familiar ozoney smell that rain settling on dust makes.
She was several hundred yards from the gates when there was a dazzling flash and a loud crack of thunder. Her ears were still ringing when the heavens opened and the rain poured down with such force that she reeled under the onslaught.
Instantly saturated, she put her head down and battled on while, almost overhead, it seemed, the lightning flashed and the thunder boomed like heavy gunfire.
Half blinded by the flashes and the deluge, and deafened by the noise of the thunder, she failed to either see or hear the car that was heading up the drive to the Hall, until it drew up alongside her.
Through the streaming windows she caught a glimpse of the driver, just as he leaned over and opened the passenger door. ‘Get in,’ Blaze ordered curtly.
Like hell! she thought rebelliously, and kept walking.
The next instant he had backed up and leapt out.
Guessing his intention, she made an effort to hold on to her case, but he took it from her as easily as one might take candy from a baby and slung it on to the back seat. Then, throwing a muscular arm around her, he bundled her into the car without ceremony, and slammed the door.
‘How dare you manhandle me?’ she spluttered, as he jumped in beside her.
‘Fasten your seat belt,’ he instructed tersely.
When she didn’t immediately obey, he leaned over and, his face set and angry, fastened it for her.
‘I don’t want to go back,’ she spat at him. ‘I want to leave.’
Taking not the slightest bit of notice, he put his foot on the accelerator and they started up the drive, the wipers, though working at full speed, failing to clear the water cascading down the windscreen.
Though Blaze had only left the car for a matter of seconds he was soaked to the skin, his hair plastered seal-like to his head.
He hadn’t been wearing a jacket, and his fine cotton shirt clung wetly to him, showing his biceps and the sprinkle of dark hair on his chest.
She took a quick, furtive glance at his face. Moisture beaded his lashes and drops of water trickled down his lean cheek and dripped off his chin.
When they reached the house, he drove round the side, through an archway, and drew into the old stable-block which served as garages.
‘We can’t get any wetter,’ he remarked grimly, ‘so we may as well save Donaldson a job and put the car away.’
When the Mercedes was safely under cover, he collected Fran’s case and held open her door.
In mutinous silence she climbed out.
Putting his jacket around her, he hurried her from beneath the shelter of the overhanging eaves and across the gleaming cobblestones.
Miraculously, the heat had all been washed away and the air was cool and fresh. Rain was still pelting down, pouring off the guttering, gurgling down the pipes, running in torrents along the drainage channels.
Opening an oak door on to a flagged passage, with a flight of stone steps at the end, he told her brusquely, ‘It’ll be quicker to go in this way and up the back stairs.’
Leaving a trail of wet footprints, and dripping copious amounts of water, they climbed the stairs to a landing with two archways. Blaze led her through the nearest, and they emerged into the gallery which ran the length of the house.
‘Here we are.’ He opened a door to the left and ushered her into a small, white-walled sitting room.
It was simply furnished with a polished bureau, several bookcases and a stereo unit. Two armchairs, a low settee and an oblong coffee table were grouped in front of a large stone fireplace.
Some kindling, a box of matches and a basket of logs suggested that during the winter months the fireplace was put to good use.
It must be really cosy then, Fran thought longingly. At the moment the casement windows were open wide and rain was beating in, pooling on the stone sills and running on to the plum-coloured carpet.
The air felt damp and distinctly cool, and, chilled to the bone, she found herself shivering as she glanced around the sitting room. It seemed to be part of a self-contained suite, with a bedroom at either end. But why should Blaze need his own suite?
As though reading her thoughts, he set her case down and, taking his wet jacket from around her shoulders, said trenchantly, ‘I like to have some privacy.’
‘I would have thought it was impossible to have any real privacy with a houseful of servants,’ she commented a shade tartly.
‘The servants only venture up here on my express instructions. They don’t even come up to clean unless I ask them to.’
While he spoke he studied her with a kind of insolent appraisal, his head tilted a little to one side.
Her hair hung in dripping rats’ tails around her pale face, and her thin cotton dress, turned almost transparent by the wet, was plastered to her.
His eyes on her breasts, he remarked silkily, ‘You seem to be cold,’ and smiled when she flushed.
Recognising that his anger had by no means diminished, she felt a rush of alarm and apprehension. Her skin goose-fleshed and she began to shiver in earnest.
He reached to close the windows, then, turning back to her, advised curtly, ‘There are two bathrooms, so I suggest you make use of Melinda’s and jump into a hot bath before you catch a chill.’
Not liking the idea of intruding on to his fiancée’s terrain, but wanting to escape his nerve-racking gaze, Fran hurried over to the door he’d indicated.
She was halfway through it when he asked, ‘By the way, have you had any lunch?’
‘No.’ She answered without turning round.
‘Neither have I. I’ll ask Hannah to bring up a pot of tea and some sandwiches for when you’re through.’
Closing the door behind her, she found herself in a pleasant cream-carpeted bedroom. It could hardly have been called neat, however. Drawers had bee
n pulled out and left, a lace negligee lay where it had fallen, and a discarded dress had been thrown carelessly over a chair.
A built-in wardrobe ran the length of one wall and its doors had been left open to display a range of clothes and accessories that, despite their disarray, would have been the envy of most females.
Feeling uncomfortable, and unwilling to linger in the other woman’s bedroom, Fran went quickly into the well-appointed bathroom.
Her mother, had she been alive to see it, would unhesitatingly have called it a tip.
A monogrammed robe lay where it had been tossed. Caps and lids had been left off the toothpaste and various other creams and lotions. Used facial wipes and tissues and a half-empty bottle of moisturiser, graced the sink, and several towels littered the floor.
There was, however, a supply of fresh towels piled neatly on a shelf, along with a selection of unopened toiletries. Fran took a towel and hung it over the rail, before stooping to put the plug in the bath and turn on the water.
She had just peeled off her sodden dress and undies when the door opened and Blaze walked in, still fully clothed.
Taken by surprise, she was slow to snatch the towel and cover her nakedness.
Noting the expression on her face, he said sardonically, ‘There’s no need to look quite so outraged.’
‘You could have knocked,’ she protested indignantly, looking anywhere but at him.
‘I did. You probably couldn’t hear for the water running…Don’t worry,’ he went on with contemptuous unconcern, ‘it’s no big deal. After all, I have seen you in the altogether before. In fact, if you remember, we once shared a shower.’
Remembering only too well, she went scarlet.
Getting under her guard, hacking at her defences, he added mockingly, ‘At the time you were quite enthusiastic…’
‘What do you want?’ she demanded in a half-stifled voice, both hands holding the towel in place.
‘I thought you might need this.’
She realised for the first time that he was carrying her case.
‘Oh…Thank you…If you would just put it down?’
