by Anne Mather
‘I apparently frightened you so much, you fainted,’ he declared, contemptuously, offering her the glass and when she declined, disposing of it on to the mantelshelf, which was not shrouded. ‘Or was that affected, too? If so, you’re a better actress than even I gave you credit for being.’
Sara swung her legs rather shakily to the floor and sat up. His callousness almost equalled Diane’s, she thought, half deciding they deserved one another. But then, remembering the murderous glint in his eyes when he had spoken of his brother’s wife, she resolved not to give in to petty revenge. Nevertheless, Sara was appalled at the way Diane had sent her down here, knowing full well that she was supposed to avoid excitement of this kind.
‘I think we’d better eat,’ Michael Tregower said now, and Sara gazed up at him in amazement.
‘Eat?’
‘Why not? Mrs Penworthy’s left us a cold meal in the dining room. We might as well reinforce ourselves for the night ahead.’
Sara shook her head helplessly, her eyes drawn to him in spite of her revulsion to his cruelty. How old was he? she wondered. Thirty-two, thirty-three? Was he married? Or had he avoided that state after his brother’s misfortunes? Whatever, there had to have been women in his life and his remarks about the night ahead filled her with alarm. Somehow she had to resolve this unpleasant situation before anything further happened, and getting rather unsteadily to her feet she said:
‘Where’s my handbag?’
‘Your handbag?’ Michael Tregower thrust his hands into the waistline pockets of the moleskin pants he was wearing. Close-fitting as they were, they outlined every muscle of his powerful thighs, and she guessed with a feeling of disgust that in her place, Diane might not have found the prospect of his attention so unwelcome. ‘Why do you need your handbag? You’re not going anywhere.’
Sara held up her head. ‘Where is my handbag?’ she repeated, and after a moment’s grim scrutiny of her determined features he strode impatiently out of the room.
It crossed her mind to make for the front door while he was employed in finding her bag, but as her keys were in its pocket, it seemed a futile exercise. Instead she walked rather stiffly across to the hall door and looked out.
Already he was emerging from the library again, carrying her handbag, through which he was rummaging with scant regard for her possessions.
‘How—how dare you?’ she gulped, as he finished his search and thrust the bag into her hands, but he merely grimaced at her.
‘I wouldn’t put it past you to carry a gun, sister dear,’ he retorted mockingly, and she gazed openmouthed at his effrontery. A suddenly strange expression crossed his face as he looked down at her, and almost unwillingly he reached out a hand to brush his knuckles down her cheek. She flinched away from his touch, but he was not offended, and his lips twisted with sardonic amusement. ‘I must admit,’ he drawled, ‘Adam had better taste than I gave him credit for. No wonder he found your defection so hard to take. In his position, I might even have done the same.’
‘I doubt it.’ Sara found she was trembling with indignation, but she couldn’t help it. She had never met a man who had treated her in this way, who held her femininity in such low regard. Owing to her health, and her mother’s obsessive care of her, her encounters with the opposite sex had been kept to a minimum until Tony appeared on the scene. Her mother’s death a year ago had left her in a state of limbo, and unaware of her weakness, Tony had come closer to her than any man had ever been allowed to do. That was until Diane chose to intervene, and now Sara’s withdrawal was as much an instinctive thing as an emotional one.
Michael Tregower was regarding her with guarded eyes. ‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed dryly. ‘No woman is worth that kind of sacrifice. Not even you, Diane.’
Clenching her teeth, Sara scrabbled round in her handbag and brought out her driving licence. ‘There,’ she said, thrusting it at him. ‘My name is Sara Fortune. That’s my licence.’
He took the plastic folder without protest, and flicked it open. ‘Sara Fortune,’ he read, with dark eyebrows slightly upraised. ‘Flat 3, Dolphin Court, West Kensington. Hmm, very interesting. Who is Sara Fortune, by the way? Your secretary? Wilmer’s?’
‘Lance Wilmer is my father’s cousin,’ declared Sara angrily. ‘I tell you, I’m Sara Fortune. Why won’t you believe me?’
Michael Tregower’s brows descended. ‘Did you honestly think producing a driving licence would convince me? My dear Diane, it occurs to me that if you’d had an accident around here, it might have been hard to explain exactly what you were doing in the area. People in your position often travel incognito, don’t they? So—you’ve adopted Miss Fortune’s identity, whoever she may be.’
Sara sighed. ‘Haven’t you ever seen Diane? Haven’t you ever met her? I’m nothing like her.’
‘Slim, blonde, green eyes; looks younger than her years…’ he shrugged. ‘You would seem to fit the description very well. Besides,’ his mouth tightened ominously, ‘Adam had a picture of you in his wallet. You’re Diane Tregower all right. I’d know that innocent face anywhere!’
Sara shook her head, thinking desperately. ‘But don’t you see?’ she said at last. ‘The picture Ad—your brother kept in his wallet was probably taken ten years ago. Diane’s changed. She’s older now. Where is the picture? Let me see it.’
‘I don’t have it,’ he declared coldly. ‘Adam would never let it out of his hands. After he was dead, it was buried with him.’
‘Oh.’ Sara felt as if the bottom was dropping out of her world. Then another idea came to her. ‘Ring,’ she said. ‘Telephone London. I have Diane’s number. Speak to her. See for yourself that she’s really there, not here. She—she’s appearing in a play at the moment.’ She glanced nervously at her wrist watch. ‘Ring the theatre. Surely that will convince you.’
He stared at her beneath lowering lids. ‘How do I know you don’t have someone waiting at the theatre, depending on this call?’
‘How could I?’ Sara was desperate. ‘How could I know what might happen?’
He scowled. ‘My note—the note you thought came from Adam was explicit enough. Come alone, it said. Tell no one where you’re going.’
Sara gulped. ‘Well—well, surely then, I wouldn’t—have told anyone…’
He was obviously hesitating, and she pressed a finger on her palpitating pulse. No excitement! she thought wryly. Dear God, she had had more excitement in the last half hour than she had had in her whole life before. She ought to be dismayed. But she wasn’t. She had never felt the adrenalin flooding along her veins as it was doing at the moment, and the exhilaration that accompanied it was intoxicating.
‘All right,’ he said at last, when she was beginning to give up hope of him ever agreeing to make the call. ‘What’s the number of the theatre? I’ll speak to the manager.’
Sara scribbled the number on a slip of paper and handed it him. She supposed, belatedly, that she ought to have pretended ignorance, or at least hesitated before writing down the figures. But it was too late now. He was already crossing the hall to pick up the green telephone that rested on the oak chest.
There was a moment’s delay while he contacted the operator at Torleven, and then Sara heard the reassuring burr of the bell ringing in the manager’s office. It seemed to ring for ages before it was answered, but when the receiver was lifted, she found herself holding her breath as Michael Tregower made his enquiry.
‘Not there?’ he said, a moment later, swinging round to stare grimly at Sara. ‘What? Taken ill? I’m sorry. Do you know when she’ll be back? Oh—I—er—I’m just a friend. A friend of a friend, as you might say. No. Sorry. Yes, of course. Goodbye.’
As the receiver was replaced, Sara felt her tongue clinging to the roof of her mouth. She didn’t have to be told that Diane wasn’t in the building. Even without Michael Tregower’s words, his expression said it all.
‘There’s panic on, apparently,’ he declared without emotion. ‘Your understudy’s had to take
over at the last moment, and people are demanding their money back. An unexpected illness, so your agent tells them. They don’t know when you’ll be able to return.’
Sara moved her head in a helpless, negative gesture. ‘Diane—Diane must have planned this,’ she said incredulously. ‘She must have known I might try to get in touch with her…’
‘Oh, come on.’ He sounded really impatient now. ‘Don’t you think this has gone on long enough? When you passed out just now I should have realised that no stranger was likely to react so positively. You were scared, Diane, admit it! Scared out of your tiny mind! But not half as scared as you ought to be now, knowing I know that you’ve burned your bridges behind you.’
Sara felt unutterably weary suddenly. It had all been too much for her. Much too much. The retort that had she known Diane would not be there, she would hardly have suggested ringing the theatre, trembled on her lips, but was never spoken. Michael Tregower would doubtless decide she had only been playing for time, for whatever defence she raised, he tore it down ruthlessly.
‘I think we should eat, don’t you?’ he declared coldly, and with a helpless movement of her shoulders, she implied consent.
The dining room was at the back of the house, and here the blinds had been drawn to allow the last light of the evening to penetrate its shadowy corners. A lamp on a long sideboard gave illumination, and the table was laid with a white damask cloth and silver cutlery. There was a savoury quiche, a dish of cold meats, a bowl of tossed salad, and some crusty rolls. To follow there was a strawberry gateau, and Sara wished she felt more able to do justice to it. But her mind buzzed with the possibilities of what Michael Tregower intended to do with her—with Diane—and it was difficult to concentrate on anything with that nagging anxiety bringing a hectic flush to her cheeks.
‘Relax,’ he remarked unsympathetically, leaving her to seat herself on one of the tapestry-covered chairs. ‘For a woman of your age and apparent experience, you’re ridiculously sensitive. Or is that an act, too? How does one tell?’
Sara subsided on to the chair at the opposite end of the table from the one he had taken, and made no attempt to answer him. But her silence was evidently no more acceptable than her diffidence, for he stifled a curse as he rose again and came to take the seat at right angles to her.
‘Surely this is cosier,’ he remarked with cold mockery, and her hands tightened automatically in her lap.
She supposed she ought to tell him that as well as being someone else, she was also suffering from a rare heart disease that, while allowing her to lead a normal life in ordinary circumstances could, given sufficient stimulation, cause valvular failure and, ultimately, death. It was a condition she had lived with all her life, or at least as long as she could remember. Rheumatic fever when she was scarcely out of infancy had affected her heart, narrowing the valves and preventing them from closing properly. Regular care and the use of drugs had minimised the effects of the disease, but it was always there, and in cases of extreme stress her heart could cease to function entirely. Sara seldom talked about it. Indeed, if anything, she was ashamed of the weakness that her mother had guarded so vigilantly. After her mother’s death, she had felt a sense of freedom from the knowledge, but Tony’s defection and her subsequent withdrawal had reminded her of her vulnerability.
Now this man, Michael Tregower, was tormenting her, goading her, threatening her with she knew not what. And he had no idea of the risks he was running…
‘Eat, can’t you?’ he said now, helping himself to a generous slice of the savoury flan, and ladling salad on to his plate. ‘The food’s good—I can vouch for it. I’ve been living here for almost a week now, and Mrs Penworthy has done me proud.’
‘Mrs Penworthy!’
Sara looked up with expectant eyes, and his lips thinned. ‘Oh, no,’ he said irritably. ‘You’re not going to tell me that the housekeeper will recognise you! Sorry. She’s only been looking after the place since Adam went to live in Praia do Lobo. I doubt if you ever met her.’
Sara hunched her shoulders. ‘Haven’t you ever seen Diane?’ she protested. ‘Why, she—she’s famous!’
‘I’m afraid I’ve been living in South America for the past fifteen years.’ Did that account for his swarthy complexion? ‘Like I told you, I was always the black sheep of the family. Old Adam, our father that is, never wanted to see me around. I reminded him too strongly of his ill-spent youth.’
Sara sighed. ‘I see.’ She paused. ‘Why did—why did Adam go to live in—where was it you said.’
‘Praia do Lobo. Don’t pretend you don’t know. He inherited the villa there.’
‘Inherited? From whom?’
His eyes narrowed, ‘All right, I’ll play the game, if you like. From Tio Jorge, of course—our father’s uncle. You knew Adam’s grandmother was Portuguese, didn’t you?’
‘No.’ But that explained the dark blood. ‘I tell you, I only know what Diane told me.’
‘Who better?’ He shrugged sardonically. ‘Well—our grandmother came from Coimbra. It’s quite a famous town in Portugal.’
‘I know of Coimbra,’ retorted Sara, somewhat tartly. ‘My education has not been neglected.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ His lips curled. ‘So Jorge de los Santos was our grandmother’s brother. His wife, Isabella, is matriarch now.’
‘I understand,’ Sara nodded.
‘As it happens, I’ve been more involved with that side of the family than Adam ever was.’ His eyes narrowed broodingly as he stared into the gathering dust. ‘You may know that Brazil is a Portuguese-speaking country. I work there, for the Los Santos mining corporation.’
‘Mining?’ Sara was interested in spite of herself. ‘What kind of mining?’
‘Diamonds—industrial diamonds,’ he added evenly. ‘The Tregowers have always been involved in mining of one kind or another. You’ll know about the tin mines, I’m sure.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Yes. Well, I was sent to Portugal when I was eighteen, to the university of Coimbra. For some reason my father decided that his mistakes were best kept out of the country. In any event, he did me a favour. Old Isabella likes me. She says I remind her of her late husband. It was she who sent me to Brazil.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you? I wonder?’ His lips twisted. ‘And Adam never mentioned me to you?’
‘I tell you—’
‘Yes, I know.’ He silenced her with a look. ‘So—tell me about—Sara Fortune. What does she do? Does she have a job? Or is she an actress, too?’
‘Acting is working,’ Sara countered, almost without thinking, and then looked down at her hands in annoyance. ‘I—I work for a publishing house—the Lincoln Press. I—er—I’m an editor.’
‘Really?’ He forked a slice of ham on to his plate. ‘An editor. How interesting!’
‘It is interesting,’ exclaimed Sara hotly. ‘I love my work.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ he retorted thinly, and she subsided again. ‘I suggest you have some food,’ he added, as she continued to stare mutinously down at her hands. ‘There’s no point in starving yourself.’
Sara looked up. ‘Why did you invite Diane down here? How did you hope to get her to agree to come?’
Michael Tregower looked at her for a long moment, then he cut a slice of the savoury flan and set it on her plate. ‘Eat,’ he said. ‘Before I decide to starve you instead.’
Sara’s clenched fists rested on the table beside her plate. ‘Why won’t you answer me? Don’t I have a right to know?’
He continued eating for several more minutes, then he looked at her again. ‘You thought Adam had sent that message, remember? You didn’t even care that he had died!’
‘I didn’t know!’
Sara’s defensive words were instinctive, but damning as well. Michael Tregower’s lips curved contemptuously.
‘You see,’ he said. ‘Play the game long enough and the victim always betrays himself.’
> ‘Oh, you won’t listen to me, will you?’
‘No.’
‘I—I mean me! Sara Fortune. I didn’t know Adam was dead.’
‘As Sara Fortune, why should you?’
‘Why, because Diane is a friend. Because she would have told me if she knew.’
‘And of course, you didn’t know that Adam had been ill, seriously ill, so ill, in fact, that he wrote to you, begging you to come and see him!’
‘No!’ Sara could hardly believe it. Diane had said nothing about Adam’s writing to her. On the contrary, she had led Sara to believe that he was living quite happily in Portugal, enjoying the change of scene, the warmer weather. ‘When—when was this?’
‘At Christmas,’ replied Michael Tregower bleakly. ‘Exactly three months before he died—before he took his own life!’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’ He was implacable, and the increasing gravity of their discussion was bringing that frightening intensity back to his features. ‘He had cancer, you know. It killed his mother, and it would have killed him—eventually.’
‘Then—’
‘Stop there!’ he commanded harshly. ‘I know exactly what you’re going to say. But to the people who cared about him, his death was a tragedy, a terrible tragedy, that need never have happened. If you’d answered his appeal, gone to see him, shown him you were not completely heartless…’
Sara had no answer to that but the obvious one. She was not Diane, therefore she had not known. If she had known, if Diane had confided in her, she would have urged her to go and see the man without whom she might never have been given the opportunity to meet Lance Wilmer.
Picking up her fork, she toyed with the food on her plate, her appetite dwindling completely. Then, lifting her eyes, she said: ‘But—if—if Diane wouldn’t come to—to see Adam in Portugal, how—how could you persuade her to come here?’
‘You came,’ he retorted with cold mockery, and her lids hid her anxiety.
There was a bottle of wine in an ice bucket, and now Michael Tregower reached for this, filling both their glasses with a complete disregard for Sara’s protest.
