MY BEAUTIFUL HEATHEN

Lucy Gillen

Shara Grey was going to live with her sort-of-cousin Patrick Owen, who would act as her guardian until she came of age. '

It was a situation that was bound to give rise to misunderstandings — and Shara was not the only one to get entirely the wrong ideas about Patrick!

CHAPTER ONE

Debating whether to take a taxi or go by underground from the station, Shara Grey stood uncertainly outside the great dingy-looking building, too preoccupied to notice the porter with a truck loaded with baggage until someone tugged urgently at her arm and almost sent her sprawling backwards. She turned startled and angry eyes on the young man who stood smiling at her apologetically, still unaware of her near escape.

‘What on earth are you trying to do?’ she asked angrily. ‘You almost pulled me over!’

‘Sorry,’ he said, still holding on to her arm as if he was afraid she might fall. ‘They’re damned careless with those baggage trucks.’ He had decided when he spotted her leaving the train that she was the most lovely girl he had ever seen or was ever likely to see, and he had relished the careless porter and his truck as an opportunity too good to miss.

From what he could see of her hair beneath the wide brimmed hat it was brightly and gloriously red, and from the flash of anger in the green eyes he guessed that her temper was as quick as red-headed tempers are reputed to be. On closer inspection it could have been said that her mouth was a little too generous for true beauty, but it was soft and full and looked as if it should do nothing but smile. By the same standards perhaps her smooth high forehead was a little too broad, but she looked an intelligent girl so that it suited her image. Altogether he thought she was quite breathtakingly lovely.

The realisation came to her suddenly that his action had saved her from a possible nasty accident, and a moment later she dazzled him with the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. ‘I didn’t realise,' she apologised in turn. 'I'm sorry I was so ungracious; thank you for rescuing me.'

‘It’s my pleasure,’ he assured her with a gallantry that was obviously well practised but at the same time still flattering. ‘I couldn’t possibly let that British Railways Graham Hill run you down and I could see that you were too preoccupied to notice he was there.’

‘I should have seen him, he was big enough.’ She smiled again and her rescuer gazed at her rapturously. ‘I was so busy deciding whether to go by underground or taxi that I wasn’t really conscious of anything.’

‘I should take a taxi,’ he advised, and added, with every appearance of sobriety, ‘A girl like you should never risk travelling by tube.’

‘I think perhaps I’ll take your advice,’ she agreed. ‘But only because I can see more of London that way.’ She looked down at her luggage. ‘And because I shan’t have to carry my case. Thank you for rescuing me.’

‘If you want a taxi,’ he said, ‘there’s one here now.’

Shara bent to pick up her one suitcase and found her rescuer already lifting it into the taxi.

‘Oh, but you were here before me,’ she protested, only half-heartedly it must be admitted. ‘This should be yours.’

‘Make up yer minds,’ the driver told them wearily, completely unimpressed by Shara’s looks or the young man’s gallantry. ‘I’ve got a livin' to earn, yer know.’

‘Cabey Mews,’ Shara told him, and looked back at her escort. ‘Perhaps we could share; is Cabey Mews on your way?’

‘Right on my way, thanks a lot.’ He bundled his bulky holdall on to the platform beside her case and climbed in beside her. ‘Marby Street,' he told the cabby. ‘We can drop the young lady off first.’

As they drove along Shara looked out at the passing buildings curiously; it was almost eight years since she had last been in London and she remembered it only vaguely. She remembered being taken to a theatre in the West End one night, though she could not recall the name of it, to see Patrick in a play that she had found far too involved for a fourteen-year-old to understand. She had enjoyed seeing her famous cousin in the star role, but he was not very friendly, she remembered, when she had been taken backstage afterwards; in fact he had scarcely spoken to her at all and she had felt rather small and insignificant among all the talk and confusion.

‘Your first time in London?’ The voice beside her brought her back to the present and she turned an apologetic smile to her companion.

‘No, not quite,’ she said, ‘but it’s nearly eight years since I was last here. It all looks much the same as far as I can remember.’ He had, she noticed, extraordinarily light grey eyes and they were looking at her with speculative enquiry, as if he was trying to fit her into some category and so far had failed.

‘Since we seem to be more or less neighbours,’ he said, ‘we’d better introduce ourselves. David Clyde.’ He proffered a hand which Shara took, smiling acknowledgement of the introduction, thinking too that there was a vaguely familiar ring to the name, though she was certain they had never met before or she would have remembered.

‘Shara Grey,’ she said. ‘It’s quite a coincidence that you should live so near Patrick; perhaps you may know him, or at least of him. Patrick Owen, the actor?’

His brows arched expressively above the light eyes. ‘Patrick Owen?’

‘Yes. He’s my sort-of-cousin.’

Her choice of phrase appeared to amuse him. ‘Really? How sort-of?’

‘It’s rather complicated,' she warned him before launching into an explanation of her rather involved relationship with Patrick Owen. ‘My mother was the adopted daughter of Patrick’s uncle. We aren’t blood relations really and I’ve scarcely seen him.’

‘I see.' The light grey eyes looked at her curiously. 'But you still call him your cousin?’

She laughed, mostly to cover her embarrassment at having been so frank with a stranger. ‘Well. I suppose I am really; a second cousin, anyway. Do you know him?'

He smiled wryly. ^CI can’t actually claim to know him. I’m an actor as well, though on a much less exalted level than your cousin, but we have—shall I say, met? Yes, for want of a better word—we’ve met.’

His manner puzzled her and she wondered what it was that Patrick and this rather delightfully attractive young man had disagreed about, since it was obvious that the meeting referred to had not been a friendly one. She recalled Patrick’s rather cynical manner the last time they had met and thought it would probably not be very difficult to quarrel with him. In the circumstances, the thought gave her no comfort.

‘I haven’t seen him since I was here last,’ she confessed. ‘I don’t even know if we’ll like each other.’ It was too bad, she thought, if they did not, now that she was, for the moment anyway, to stay in his house.

‘I don’t see how anyone could fail to like you.’ The compliment could have sounded trite, but the way in which it was said and the deep, smooth voice made it sound original and genuine, and she flicked him a ghost of a smile as the taxi turned sharply left into a cobbled mews. ‘Here you are,’ he told her as they pulled up outside number six; unconscious of the uneasy jolt her heart gave at the sight of the neat white house and the horrible feeling of uncertainty she hid behind her smile.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, and did not make too much protest when he insisted on paying the driver at his end.

‘I hope I shall see you again, Miss Grey. Are you staying in town very long?' He seemed far more interested in furthering his acquaintance with her than he was in the ticking meter on the taxi and she wondered if he was very rich or just very extravagant.

‘I’m not really sure,’ she confessed. ‘It depends on quite a lot of things. Anyway, I’m very glad to have met you, Mr. Clyde. Goodbye.’

‘Only au revoir,’ he insisted. ‘We must meet again, and soon.’ He raised expressive eyebrows as he smiled at her. ‘And if you will take my advice, you won’t mention to your cousin that you arrived with me.’

Before she could question his extraordinary statement he had closed the door and signalled to the driver to resume the journey, waving a casual hand to her as the taxi turned out of the mews. She turned and looked at the spotless white door with its brass number six, swallowing hard before reaching for the long bell-pull. She felt rather like Daniel about to enter the lion’s den.

Why she should feel so nervous at meeting Patrick again she could not imagine, for she had never thought of herself as a shy girl and she had spent the last six years in France and Switzerland at finishing schools and living with various friends of her uncle’s. It was maddening to find herself so uncertain and apprehensive. Perhaps it was a fear of the unknown and the knowledge that for the next two years Patrick would be responsible for administering the not inconsiderable trust that would not be hers entirely until she was twenty-five.

She was sorry that her great-uncle had died, of course, for he had been very good to her indirectly, but since she had seen very little of him personally in the six years since he had taken on the responsibility of her education, she could scarcely be expected to mourn him. How Patrick felt at the death of his father she could only guess, but she knew that he too had spent very little time with the old man, even as a boy. From what she remembered hearing during her own childhood, the family had been a strangely self-sufficient one. So different from the close-knit, interdependence of her own small family circle that she found their independence hard to understand.

She was still preoccupied with her speculation when the door was opened in answer to her ring. The woman who smiled at her looked friendly enough, at least, and Shara sighed her relief as she introduced herself. ‘I’m Shara Grey ‑’ she began uncertainly, and the woman opened the door wide, standing back to allow her to come in to the tiny raised square that did service as a hall.

‘Come along in, Miss Grey,’ she urged, taking the suitcase from her. ‘To your right and down the steps, that’s the sitting-room. You must be tired after your journey.’

‘I am rather,’ Shara admitted. The woman followed her, with the suitcase, which she deposited at the foot of a staircase, almost hidden behind a glass partition facing the door. Friendly and enquiring eyes turned on Shara and she smiled encouragingly, as if she suspected her nervousness.

‘I expect you could do with a cup of tea, couldn’t you? Or would you prefer coffee?’

‘Oh, coffee, please.’ Shara looked around her at the pleasant sunlit room and approved, though it was not what she had expected. For some reason she could not specify, she had expected Patrick to have a more sombre taste; but the low-ceilinged room was almost entirely in white with only the deep softness of the carpet in moss green and the comfortable-looking armchairs in almost the exact same colour. It was a light, airy and friendly room and the woman, noting her approval, smiled.

‘It’s a lovely room, isn’t it?’ she said, and added with a broad smile, ‘I’m Polly Lawton, by the way, Mr. Owen’s housekeeper and Jill-of-all-trades, even nurse when need be.’

Shara liked the odd-looking little woman instinctively. She had grey-and-black-streaked hair and a gnome-like face that was far more wrinkled than her years should have made it. Friendly black eyes smiled at her and she extended a hand which Shara took unhesitatingly, noticing that the other hand wore a plain gold ring on the third finger. ‘This is a lovely room, Mrs. Lawton, but it’s not quite what I expected somehow.’

'Oh?' The friendly eyes showed surprise. ‘Mr. Owen likes things nice. Quiet but tasteful, you might say.’

‘It’s certainly that,’ Shara agreed, and wondered at the continued absence of her cousin. Polly Lawton, as if she guessed her curiosity, shook her head.

‘Mr. Owen will be sorry he wasn’t here, but he’s been out most of the morning, they’re busy with meetings and such, you see. He hasn’t even been in for lunch.’ The latter fact seemed to annoy her, but not for long. ‘He shouldn’t be much longer now. I’ll show you your room, shall I? Then you can freshen up while I make some coffee for you, can’t you?’

She followed Polly Lawton up the rather narrow stairs and into a small but delightfully pretty room which, like the one downstairs, was almost all white. Everything was dainty and feminine, surprisingly so it seemed to Shara until the little housekeeper took credit for the decor and beamed her delight at Shara’s congratulations. Filmy curtains obscured what proved to be a not very inspiring view of the mews, and it was so quiet that one might almost have been in the country instead of in the heart of London. Very little of the noise from the street penetrated the tranquillity of the mews, but as Shara stood by the window looking out, the sound of a taxi engine disturbed the stillness.

Mrs. Lawton, hearing it, nodded her satisfaction. ‘There he is now,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you to yourself for a minute, Miss Grey.’ She left the room with Shara still staring down at the man who was paying off the taxi-driver. Her heart, she was annoyed to find, was hammering uncomfortably fast as she recognised the familiar and famous dark head of Patrick Owen. For a brief moment, as the taxi moved away, he glanced up at her window, almost as if he knew she was there, and her fingers closed nervously on the softness of the concealing curtain.

It was ridiculous, she told herself, to feel so apprehensive about meeting him again, although in the circumstances she supposed she was right to expect him to be unfriendly, at least. The blame for the conditions of her great-uncle’s will could scarcely be laid at her door, but that would not be easy to explain to the man who should have been the sole heir.

The sound of voices in the room below reminded her that she should put in an appearance, however much the prospect dismayed her. Before leaving the room, however, she paused before the mirror over the dressing-table and patted ineffectually at her red hair. She had long since given up trying to make it look sleek and sophisticated, for it curled and there was nothing she could do about it, so she dressed it in the most flattering style she could and had the satisfaction of knowing that it always suited her. Giving it a last pat, she pulled back her shoulders, as if to meet some possibly unpleasant experience, and opened the bedroom door.

Designed as it was, there was no way for her to approach the room without being seen, for the stairs came straight down into it. Both Polly Lawton and Patrick Owen turned their gaze to her as she came down the last two steps into the room. The one friendly and reassuring and the other curious and, she thought, a little surprised. He did not look as unfriendly as she had anticipated, and for that she breathed a prayer of thanks.

He came forward as she approached, proffering a hand. ‘Hello, Shara, I’m glad to see you arrived safely. How are you?'

‘I’m fine, thank you, just a bit tired.’ She remembered the hard, firm handshake that almost crushed her fingers and thought, musingly, how little he had changed in eight years. He was about twelve years her senior, but he showed little evidence of his years in the theatre and film world; his face was marked only with fine lines at the comers of his eyes and mouth, as if he smiled a lot—something which surprised her. There was of course, the deep cleft in his square chin, that he had inherited from his father. In fact he reminded her very strongly of her great-uncle, even to the rather intimidating way of looking at her steadily, as if to judge her reaction to what he was saying.

‘I imagine you would be tired,’ he told her. ‘Although it’s almost less trouble coming from France these days than it is from the north of England.’ He turned to Polly Lawton, hovering benignly in the background. 'Polly dear, be a love and make some tea or something, will you?'

‘I was going to make some coffee for Miss Grey, but you arrived and put me off my stroke,’ she told him. ‘Do you want tea instead?'

‘No, coffee suits me.’ He laughed shortly when the little woman left the room. 'You see,’ he informed Shara, ‘I’m bullied by my housekeeper.’ He waved an airy hand. ‘Please sit down, Shara, anywhere you like.’ She chose one of the deep, cosy armchairs and sank into it, farther than she anticipated, almost disappearing in its embrace. His eyes watched her as she pulled herself forward so as not to disappear entirely. 'You look as if you’ve been swallowed by that chair,’ he told her, and seemed to find it very amusing. 'You’re not very big, are you?’

‘I suppose not,’ she admitted, finding his cynical smile somewhat disconcerting. She wondered just how to approach the subject that had been uppermost in her mind for so long. Ever since she had been informed by letter of her great-uncle’s death and of her own inheritance of a large sum of money from him, she had thought of nothing else. Why he had left her anything at all was hard enough to understand, for he had been more than generous to her when he was alive, but why he had left the money as a trust fund to be administered by his son until Shara reached the age of twenty-five was even more of a puzzle.

The situation had made her feel uncomfortably dependent upon Patrick’s approval and she had accepted his invitation to come to his home with every intention of refusing the legacy and becoming her own mistress as soon as possible, though how she would go about it was, at the moment, uncertain. Her red-headed spirit disliked the idea of having to consult him first on financial matters, no matter how generous they might be. As yet she had no way of knowing even how generous he would be.

‘I can feel your prickles from here,’ he said suddenly, and laughed when her blink of surprise betrayed the accuracy of his guess. ‘You didn’t really know Father very well, did you?’

She shook her head, a movement that sent a stray curl bobbing over one eye, which she brushed back impatiently. ‘I saw very little of him,’ she said. ‘But he was always very good to me. He had no need to take on the responsibility of me after Mummy and Daddy died, and there was certainly no reason for him to leave me anything in his will.’

He had very dark blue eyes and they were watching her now with that amused and cynical expression that she found not only disconcerting but annoying. Patrick, she decided, had not improved with age. ‘What did you propose living on if he hadn't?’ he asked, as if she were completely incapable of earning her own living.

‘I—I shall find something,’ she said, determined not to be squashed by his superiority. ‘I’m not a complete fool, you know. I speak three languages and I’m quite capable of finding myself a job if I need to. There are several things I can turn my hand to, actually, and I intend to.’ She thought that this was as good a time as any to let him know how she felt, but she saw from the flickering glance he gave in her direction that he was more amused than serious about the idea.

'You mean you’re thinking of renouncing your claim and going out into the hard, cold world on your own?’ he asked, and raised a querying brow that spoke volumes. ‘Why, for heaven’s sake? Because you resent having my hand on the purse-strings for the next three years?’

‘It’s not three years,’ she told him. ‘It’s only two; I shall be twenty-three in less than two months’ time.’

‘Two years, then,’ he conceded. |‘But the question still stands. Do you dislike having my hand on the purse-strings?’

‘It’s not only that.' She admitted the truth of his guess reluctantly. ‘But I have no real claim to any of Uncle George’s money. He wasn’t even my real uncle, there’s no blood-tie at all; he owed me nothing, quite the reverse in fact. He was very good to me all those years. And anyway, it should all have been yours. You were his only child.’

‘But not exactly the apple of his eye,’ he told her wryly. ‘He never approved of my becoming an actor, and even less of my making a success of it; but when it came to money, he just couldn’t break the habit of a lifetime. He never believed that women were capable of handling money, you know, that’s why he made me responsible for yours until you’re twenty-five. By that time he probably expected that you would be married and have a husband to take over.’ He looked at her critically for a few embarrassing seconds. ‘I’m surprised that you’re not married,’ he said. ‘You’re very lovely.’

She felt the colour flush into her cheeks at the compliment, however off-hand it might have been. ‘I see no particular hurry yet,’ she said, stiffly disapproving of the personal turn the conversation had taken. ‘And since you aren’t married yourself, you have no cause to comment on my laxity in that direction.’

‘That’s true.’ To her surprise the admission was not accompanied by the smile she expected, but a moment later his mouth curled into the cynical curve she was beginning to dislike. ‘However, you must realise that it would take more careful consideration on my part, because it will have to last a lifetime.’

The oblique reference was not only to his religion, she knew, but also to the fact that her mother had been married and divorced before she had married her father, and she bit her lip angrily. It had been another difference of opinion between Patrick and his father, though not by any means the main one. In fact the old man had accepted without reserve the fact that his only son should be brought up in the religion of his Irish wife. Only Patrick’s unwavering adherence to it after he entered the somewhat precarious profession of his choice seemed to surprise him. The allusion to her mother’s divorce she found unforgivably rude and she turned on him eyes that were brilliant with anger.

‘I had every intention of leaving here as soon as I could make other arrangements,’ she told him. ‘I shall do so even more quickly now that I know that you despise my family background so much.’

Whether it was her anger or her words that surprised him she made no attempt to guess, but he leaned forward in his chair and put a placating hand over her tightly clenched fingers. ‘Shara! Please don’t be so prickly. I want you to stay here, at least for a while until you have time to look around for something that suits you better. You are my family, after all.’ The dark blue eyes looked quite different when they were serious and she decided suddenly that there was a dangerous attraction about Patrick that had not been immediately obvious to her, though it evidently was to his adoring public.

The strong fingers squeezed her hand persuasively and she felt her own relax under the pressure, while the glitter of anger in her green eyes died slowly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, attempting a smile. ‘My only excuse is that I’m so tired and a little edgy; it was quite an ordeal, you know, coming here to see you after all these years, and not knowing what your reaction would be to Uncle George’s will.’

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ he told her, his hand still covering hers. ‘At least not on your part; I shouldn’t have teased you.’ He smiled encouragingly. 'Now let’s enjoy Polly’s coffee while it’s hot, shall we?’ The little housekeeper put down her loaded tray on a table between them. ‘Thanks, Polly, did you remember the sugar?’

‘Of course I did,’ Polly told him, mildly indignant. ‘And I made sure we had plenty of cream, too, not everybody likes that thick, black stuff that you drink.’

‘You see?’ Patrick appealed to Shara. ‘She bullies me!’

‘She’s very nice,’ Shara smiled as the door closed behind Polly Lawton. ‘Has she been with you a long time?’

‘Practically ever since I set up house on my own, which is nearly twelve years now. Freddy Lawton was my dresser— Polly’s husband, he died some years ago.’ The man had evidently been as much friend as employee, judging by the way he spoke of him, and she guessed this explained the easy familiarity between him and Polly. It was something much less formal than the usual employer and housekeeper relationship and spoke of a genuine affection.

‘I think she’s sweet; she made me feel at home as soon as she opened the door, and I was grateful to her for that in the circumstances.’ He greeted the information with a smile.

‘I hope you’ll continue to feel at home here and not get any more silly ideas about moving out,’ he told her. ‘Not yet awhile at least.’

Shara looked at him for a moment, searchingly, trying to decide whether or not he was sincere in his hope.

‘I should find it difficult to give up that lovely room you’ve prepared for me,’ she said at last. ‘It was very good of you to make so much trouble for me.’

He waved a deprecating hand and smiled away her thanks with that cynical smile again, as if he found her thanks more embarrassing than her anger. 'Polly talks too much,’ he said, ‘and one of these days I shall have to sack her for revealing all my wicked secrets to the Sunday newspapers.’ She raised her eyebrows, her question half serious. ‘Have you any? Wicked secrets, I mean?’

‘My dear child,’ he lifted a cup of steaming black coffee to his lips, his eyes bright with amusement as if he suspected her curiosity was more than half in earnest. ‘Of course I have!’

CHAPTER TWO

Shara had been at Cabey Mews almost a week when she heard from David Clyde again. She had been shopping and spent an incredible amount of money, and when she walked into the sunlit white room, Polly Lawton came out of the kitchen with an enormous bouquet of roses and carnations in her arms.

‘These came for you while you were out,’ she told Shara, her dark eyes watching her face curiously. ‘You were hardly out of the mews before they arrived, but I put the stems in water so they wouldn’t wilt.’ She waited until Shara put down her numerous packages on the table, then presented the bouquet with a mock curtsy. ‘Somebody hasn’t taken long to collect an admirer,’ she teased, with the easy familiarity she used with Shara as well as her employer.

Shara buried her face in the fragrant bunch and breathed ecstatically. ‘Oh, they’re gorgeous, aren’t they? But where on earth have they come from? I don’t know anyone in London yet.’ Her gallant rescuer was for the moment forgotten and it took her a moment or two to remember him even after she opened the envelope and saw the name ‘David Clyde’. Of course! Her cheeks flushed with pleasure at the unexpected gesture. She had been convinced that he would forget all about her as soon as he left the mews, yet here he was sending her the most beautiful bouquet she ever remembered having.

‘Someone knows you,' Polly said, her expression hopeful of being told the source of the gift. ‘Maybe one of your young men from France followed you over here, eh?’ Shara laughed at the idea and shook her head. ‘No. No, it isn’t anyone from France, Polly.’ She gazed at the boldly scrawled message on the accompanying card and debated whether it was wise to mention who had sent them. Polly was obviously curious about it, and yet if she told her the news would probably be relayed to Patrick, and David Clyde had said that she would be well advised not to say who had shared her taxi on the way from the station.

‘Shall I put them in water for you?’ Polly offered, relinquishing any hope of being informed. ‘Or shall I bring you a couple of vases and you do them yourself?’

‘Oh yes, thank you, Polly, I’d like to do them myself.’ She laid the card down on the table while she pulled off her gloves, her mind still on the problem of whether to tell Polly or not. She disliked being secretive about anything, but would really rather that Patrick did not know, for the time being at least, until she found out more about the disagreement between the two men. Perhaps it would be possible to find out about that without actually saying where the flowers had come from. She frowned her uncertainty and Polly eyed her curiously. 'Polly, what do you know about a Mr. Clyde? David Clyde; like Patrick, he’s an actor.’ Polly Lawton picked up a vase from the centre of the table and stood with it in her hands for a moment before she answered, and when she did it was disappointingly noncommittal. ‘He’s certainly an actor of sorts, but otherwise I can’t really say that I know him.’ She carried the vase with another into the kitchen for water, leaving Shara very little wiser, but somewhat more uneasy.

She picked up the card again and read the words scrawled across it ‘Sorry if I arouse the ire of your esteemed cousin, but I must see you again and soon—David Clyde.’ On the reverse of the card was the rather intriguing request, ‘Sunday morning—10.30?’

‘Here we are.’ Polly stood the vases on the table in front of her. These two should be enough, though goodness knows, he seems to have emptied the flower shop 1’ She bent to smell the perfume of the blooms and at the same time managed to read the message on the front of the card. ‘They’re gorgeous!’

They are lovely,' Shara agreed absently, not noticing Polly’s bit of deception. ‘But I wish he hadn’t been so impulsive, in a way.’

‘Who?’ Polly asked blithely, and Shara shook her head.

'I've been wondering if I should tell you,’ she confessed. 'David Clyde sent them.’

'David Clyde?’ Polly laughed in a way that left no doubt as to her opinion of the young man. ‘Then you’d best not let Mr. Owen know where they came from, he’d as soon you’d been followed over here by one of your foreign admirers as by David Clyde.’

Shara frowned. ‘I thought you knew nothing about him,’ she retorted. ‘And he didn’t follow me here. I don’t see why Patrick should object to him sending me flowers. After all, he’s not responsible for my social life, I can do as I please in that direction. Anyway, I don’t see what Patrick has against him. All I've heard so far is a couple of veiled hints and a not very subtle warning.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t trying to interfere,’ Polly hastened to assure her. ‘But just the same I wouldn’t let Mr. Owen know where the flowers came from.’

‘Why not?' Shara demanded, growing tired of being kept in the dark on the subject of David Clyde. Whatever it was that he and Patrick had disagreed about she felt she should be told about it or left to form her own opinions without a lot of mysterious hints. 'Why shouldn’t I tell Patrick who sent them? What has he got against him, anyway?'

‘He’s not to be trusted,’ Polly informed her, and Shara could not restrain a smile.

‘I rather thought as much,' she said. ‘I’d already worked that much out for myself in the taxi coming here.’

‘You mean you actually came here with him when you arrived on Monday?' Polly asked, her black eyes wide with the enormity of the gaffe. Then it’s a good job Mr. Owen wasn’t here or there’d have been a real nasty five minutes.’

‘But why?’ Shara demanded crossly. ‘Why, in heaven’s name—and if you drop another hint, Polly, I shall strangle you!’

‘I don’t know that it’s my place to tell you about it,’ Polly demurred and, seeing Shara’s exasperated frown, hastily decided. ‘I suppose I may as well before you get his version, and it’s not exactly a secret anyway, not among the people that know them. David Clyde was the one who came between Linda Maybury and Mr. Owen.’

‘Linda Maybury? The actress?’ Shara searched her memory for the name that seemed familiar. Then she remembered reading in a magazine some years ago that there was a rumour of a romance between Patrick and his then leading lady, Linda Maybury, but nothing had apparently come of it and she had concluded that one or other of the parties had changed their minds, if indeed there had ever been any truth in the rumour. For the past six years she had become rather more familiar with the continental actors and actresses than the British ones and she had to confess that she knew very little about them. Now it seemed the rumour had been well-founded. There had been a romance and David Clyde had been responsible for ending it; if Polly was to be believed. Remembering her escort in the taxi and his well-practised gallantry she could well believe that he was capable of it, too.

‘So you see ‑’ Polly nodded wisely, as if it should all be clear now and need no further explanation.

‘I had no idea anything like that had happened,’ Shara said. ‘But surely it’s rather a long time to keep a quarrel going, isn’t it? I remember seeing a reported romance between Patrick and Linda Maybury some years ago, but nothing about an engagement. Were they engaged?’

‘Not to say it was announced,’ Polly admitted. ‘But it was understood, and it was the way they went on that caused the trouble. Especially that David Clyde. You see while she was pretending to be so serious with Mr. Owen, and practically engaged to him, she was seeing him on the sly. Oh, it was all so nasty and sneaky. Poor Mr. Owen was very upset. He knew nothing about it at all.’

Shara shook her red head sympathetically, seeing all too clearly the irony of the situation. ‘And David Clyde knew all about Patrick, I suppose?’ Polly nodded. ‘Yes, I can imagine that Patrick would be very upset about it when he did find out.’

‘Any self-respecting man would,’ Polly said defensively, afraid that her ewe-lamb was being done less than justice. ‘But it wasn’t only that that was so disgraceful, it was the way he behaved after he was found out that made Mr. Owen so angry. He was so sure of himself, so smug and self-satisfied, and then he turned on Miss Maybury. It was the things he said to her; to her face. Terrible remarks that no man should say to a woman. But I suppose he was tired of her and only wanted her because she was Mr. Owen’s girl. I know she was as bad as he was when it came to deceiving Mr. Owen, but he should never have said the things he did. There was the most dreadful row, and I’m glad Mr. Owen hit him.’

‘Hit him?’ Shara blinked her surprise. ‘I don’t remember seeing anything about that, and surely the French papers would have carried anything as sensational as a fight over a woman when there was someone as well known as Patrick involved.’

‘Oh, we managed to keep it quiet,’ Polly said, with an oddly sly glance at Shara’s interested face. ‘It wasn’t easy, but Freddy, my husband, was pretty good at handling things like that, and Miss Maybury’s maid was Freddy’s sister, so it was kept in the family, as you might say.'

Shara was busy with the idea of Patrick inflicting grievous bodily harm on the attractive and persistent David Clyde and she found the thought a little discouraging in the event that he should find out that the man he hated was now seeking to further his acquaintance with her. She glanced down at the card she still held in her hand and hastily pushed it back in to the envelope it had arrived in. ‘Perhaps you’re right about it,' she told Polly. ‘I’d better not say where the flowers came from, though how I’m going to manage not to, I don’t know.’

‘Just don’t tell him,’ Polly suggested blithely.

‘And Polly.’ She looked at the little woman appealingly. “You won’t tell Patrick if I go out with Mr. Clyde on Sunday morning, will you?’

‘Sunday morning?’ Polly queried with raised eyebrows, obviously surprised that she was still prepared to see him again after what she had told her about him. ‘Is that when ‑? Ooh, the sneaky wretch!’ Her indignation would probably have amused Shara at any other time, as it was she felt a little sensitive about her own position in the matter. She found David Clyde very attractive, even though she knew better than to believe every word of the flattery he dispensed so generously, and she wished she could have been open about the attraction without upsetting her cousin.

She allowed her anger to put an edge on her usually soft voice and her eyes flashed warningly. ‘Mrs. Lawton, I’d rather you didn’t speak that way about Mr. Clyde, not to me, anyway.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Shara suspected that the apology was reluctantly made. ‘But it’s only because he knows that Mr. Owen won’t be here on Sunday morning that he suggested it.’

Shara looked almost guilty when she realised it. ‘Oh yes, of course.' Naturally Patrick would not be home at that hour on a Sunday morning and David Clyde had remembered. Apparently he was still better informed of his adversary's movements than Patrick was of his, and for a moment she felt very small and mean for deciding to accept the rather intriguing invitation the card offered.

The flowers did not go unnoticed and Patrick’s expressive eyebrows arched enquiringly when he saw them. ‘A boyfriend?’ he asked, bending to smell the scent of the carnations. ‘I must say he does you proud. I didn’t know you knew anyone that well yet.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Or have I missed something?'

She laughed, trying hastily to think of a way to tell him who had sent the flowers without actually mentioning the sender’s name, and it proved a bit more difficult than even she had imagined. For one thing the direct and searching gaze almost seemed to dare her to conceal anything and she hoped her acting ability was equal to the call upon it ‘Oh, it’s just someone I met on the way here,’ she said; that at least was the truth.

‘Uhuh.’ He eyed her still with that unnerving gaze. ‘Well, it’s no business of mine, as you would probably tell me if you’d known me a bit longer, so I won’t pry and risk arousing your red-headed wrath.’

‘Thank you,’ she said uneasily. He was obviously still curious and would probably question Polly when he thought he conveniently could. She had said nothing yet about going out on Sunday morning and she rather vainly hoped that he need not know, though it was rather idiotic, she realised, to think that she could go out without his knowledge.

Dinner was usually early, before Patrick left for the theatre; unlike a lot of actors he found that he could work better after a good meal. That night as they ate and talked intermittently, Shara kept a careful guard on her tongue in case she let slip any mention of David Clyde and her proposed meeting with him. Deception was not a thing she was very well practised in and she was consequently more quiet than usual because she disliked the necessity of deceiving him. It was going to be very difficult, she decided, and not very pleasant. Her sigh of self-pity made him look at her curiously.

‘Something wrong?' he asked, and she shook her head automatically.

‘No, nothing’s wrong, Patrick,' she said. ‘I’m just thinking about something, that’s all. I had a wonderful time in the shops this morning and I also spent an enormous amount of money. At least you may think I did!’ She looked at him from under her long lashes. ‘I hope you’re not going to tighten the purse-strings when you discover how much I’ve spent.’ It was the first time she had mentioned getting his approval for her spending and she watched him, not without anxiety, only to see him laugh.

‘Spend as much as you like at the moment,’ he told her. ‘If you start going too far, I’ll let you know.’ Her swift flush of anger seemed to amuse him, for he laughed again shortly, watching her face as he spoke. ‘After all, that is what Father intended I should do, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I know,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘I just have to get used to it, that’s all.’ But she doubted if she ever would.

Well before half past ten on Sunday morning she was having second thoughts about going with David Clyde, but she did not see how she could contact him to tell him about her decision as she did not know his address and it was doubtful if Polly would. It was a sign of his self-confidence, she thought wryly, that he had not thought it necessary to make provision for her refusal.

She had breakfasted with Patrick and he seemed to sense that something was troubling her, but he said nothing, merely arched his brows at her preoccupied expression. She shook her head over his invitation to accompany him to church and he took it in good part since he had expected no other answer, but he could not resist teasing her about it.

‘All right, my beautiful heathen,' he told her with a smile, ‘I won’t press the point, but if you like, when I come back I’ll take you to see the tub-thumpers in Hyde Park. You’d love them.' He looked at her uncertain expression and added hastily, ‘Only if you want to come, of course.’

‘I—I’d love to,’ she said slowly. ‘But I—I may not be here when you get back.’ She did not look at him as she spoke. ‘I’d love to come another time, if you’ll take me. Perhaps next Sunday.'

There was wariness as well as curiosity in his eyes when he looked at her. ‘I’ll have to see about it,' he demurred. ‘I can’t plan that far ahead. Who are you seeing this morning? Or am I stepping out of line by asking?’

‘No, of course not.' She wondered how successful an effort to avoid telling him would be or even if it was worth trying. ‘It’s just someone I met on the way here.’ His brows rose and he glanced at the flowers that still filled the room with their scent.

‘The sender of the flowers?’ he asked, and she nodded.

‘He saved me from being run down by one of those heavy baggage trucks at the station the day I arrived here.’

‘A knight errant!’ he said, smiling. ‘I didn’t know they still existed. I suppose he wasn’t on a white horse, was he?’

She breathed her relief at his acceptance of the matter. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Actually, he was waiting for a taxi.’ She glanced at her wrist-watch and saw that it was almost a quarter to ten. ‘Isn’t it time you left?' she urged. “You don’t want to be late because you stopped chattering to me.’

He confirmed the time and got up from his chair with a shake of his head and a smile. ‘I mustn’t be,' he said. ‘Father Miller was rather put out at the idea of you not becoming one of his flock, he’ll certainly suspect the worst if I’m late. Especially,’ he added with that cynical twist of his mouth that she disliked so much, ‘when he discovers how lovely you are.’

She blinked at him for a moment, uncertain for a moment whether or not to be annoyed. ‘Does that make it worse?’ she asked, and he nodded emphatically.

‘Very much worse,’ he told her solemnly. 'Being in charge of a plain heathen child would have been bad enough, but when it comes to being responsible for a beautiful, redheaded little heathen like you the temptation is doubled.’

‘I’m sorry I weigh so heavily on your conscience,’ she said shortly, her face flushed rosily. ‘But it was your idea that I should come here.’

He raised a hand in appeal. ‘Now don’t start that nonsense again,’ he said firmly, then cocked an eyebrow at her indignant face. ‘I hope this knight errant of yours is to be trusted. Why did he choose a Sunday morning to take you out? Saturday is the big night out, or so I always thought. Does he work on Saturdays?'

She realised that it was only interest that prompted his questions, but she felt her anger rise just the same at the idea of his thinking her so stupid as to be incapable of choosing her own friends. Despite her efforts her voice betrayed her feelings and her green eyes sparkled with resentment. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘And since I’m not a child, Patrick, I wish you’d stop talking to me as if I was. I don’t need protecting from anyone. I’ve been taking care of myself for the last six years, and on the Continent, where the men are supposed to be more potent than the English version. So far I’ve managed very well without being coddled.’

‘Of course you have,’ he said placatingly, and smiled in an effort to turn her anger. 'But London can be a bit of a jungle these days, you know, and I do feel responsible for you to a certain extent, however much you object. After all, you know, you’re not very old, and even after six years in France and Switzerland, you can’t claim to know it all.’

‘I don’t claim to,’ she objected. ‘But I am nearly twenty-three years old, you know, not thirteen, and you are only responsible for the money that Uncle George left me, not for me as well.'

‘I know,’ he agreed, the cynical smile in evidence again, ‘and I can’t help feeling that Father knew what he was doing.’ She clenched her hands at her sides, her eyes blazing at him angrily.

‘I could relieve you of the responsibility,’ she reminded him, ‘by refusing to take anything more and earning my own living instead. It was you who talked me out of doing just that, but since you seem to share Uncle George’s opinion of women ‑’

‘Not all women,’ he interrupted, with a smile that infuriated her.

‘Patrick, you are ‑!’

‘I know,’ he interposed hastily, apparently thinking he had gone too far in his teasing. ‘I’m sorry, Shara, but do be careful won’t you?’ She would have made further protest, but before she could do so, he bent his head and kissed her lightly on her cheek. ‘Goodbye.’ The door closed quietly behind him before she had thought of any reasonable argument, leaving her feeling rather sad, though she could not think why. Perhaps he was genuinely worried about her meeting a stranger, as David Clyde undoubtedly was.

The dock told her that it was time she made a move towards getting herself ready, instead of standing around wondering about Patrick’s motives. David Clyde was due to come for her at half-past ten, and she sighed as she turned and went upstairs.

As Polly was also out, she answered the door to her visitor herself, feeling the misgivings she had felt earlier rise again. He smiled when she opened the door and she thought again how attractive he was. With his light grey eyes and very fair hair, almost like a Viking, she thought fancifully, and probably as ruthless too. His eyes gleamed with pleasure when he saw her looking coolly lovely in a blue flowered dress, and shoes that matched the blue almost exactly. ‘I wondered if I’d dreamt you or if you were real,’ he told her. ‘And now you appear, even lovelier than I had remembered you.’

She told herself that it was all part and parcel of the practised charm of an actor, and she should not take a single word of it seriously, but she was unable to stop the wild beating of her heart as she stepped outside to join him. ‘Thank you for the flowers,’ she said. ‘They’re beautiful, and there are so many.’

‘Remembering you I was tempted to send ten times as many,’ he said extravagantly. ‘I just knew you’d like red roses.’ He took her hand lightly in his. ‘And I’m glad you decided to come with me.’

‘I was in two minds,’ she confessed. ‘It’s difficult with Patrick; I don’t like deceiving him.’

The light grey eyes were coldly contemptuous for a moment and he laughed shortly. ‘I suppose he tried to put you off coming with me. Anyway, I’m glad you have a mind of your own.’ He glanced at her riot of red hair and smiled. ‘I imagine you’re pretty hard to shake once you’ve made up your mind.'

‘I can be pretty obstinate,’ she agreed. ‘But Patrick didn’t try to stop me coming with you because he didn’t know it was you I was meeting. His warning was about London in general, he seems to think it’s a jungle; that was his expression, anyway.’

‘He’s probably right,’ he said blithely—an admission that was scarcely reassuring had she been inclined to take Patrick’s warning to heart; as it was she laughed at the idea and allowed him to help her into his small car with a thrill of anticipation that refused to be stilled.

‘Are you going to be the complete tourist and leave everything to me?’ he asked as they roared out of the mews and into the main street traffic. ‘Or have you anywhere you’d specially like to go?’

‘Oh, almost anywhere will suit me,’ she told him, determined to enjoy herself despite the small voice of conscience that occasionally nagged her. Her companion smiled his satisfaction.

‘Good! Then we’ll do the complete all-in tour of the big city.’ He took his eyes off the road for a brief second to glance at her. ‘You don’t feel nervous with me, do you? I should hate you to have been given the wrong impression of me at this stage of our acquaintance.’ She shook her head, a smile hovering round her mouth at the warnings she had been given. Remembering even her own estimation of how far David Clyde was to be trusted, but no matter what Patrick and Polly Lawton might think, she saw no reason why she should not enjoy his company. She was entitled to choose her own friends and go out with whom she liked; and she liked David Clyde.

She liked the flatteringly earnest way he smiled at her whenever she met his eyes and the exquisitely polite way he danced attendance on her, making her feel like the only girl in the world. Perhaps it was all just a little too well practised and smooth to be sincere, but it was incredibly good for her ego and she thoroughly enjoyed it.

He proved to be a good guide and took her to most of the places that visitors to London go and to quite a few that they never find. He was flattering and attentive, but never once did he step out of line or say anything that made her regret having come with him and she found him even better company than she had expected.

She glanced at her watch as they sped down a small side street and saw that it was after one o’clock. The time had gone so quickly that she had not realised how long they had been out, and once again she felt a prick of guilt that she had not told Patrick where she was going or who she was with. She had not anticipated being gone for lunch and had not told either Patrick or Polly not to expect her so that they would possibly wonder what had happened to her. She must ask David Clyde to find a telephone and let her call them before too long.

Seeing her discreet glance at the time, her companion misinterpreted her reason and apologised. ‘Lunch, I think,’ he said. ‘There’s a little Italian place I know not far from here; all right?’

‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘But I would like to find a phone first, if you don’t mind, and let Patrick know I’m staying out for lunch. I wasn’t sure how long I would be and in view of his warnings about London, I’d better let him know that I’m safe and sound.’

His laugh had an unpleasantly sarcastic sound to it, but he made no demur about stopping at a callbox for her to make her apologies to her cousin. ‘You’d better report in,’ he joked, ‘in case Owen thinks you’ve been kidnapped.’

It was so long before anyone answered when she dialled that she began to think there was no one there, and then Patrick’s voice, unfamiliarly flattened by the telephone, snapped a brief ‘Hello?’

She made her apologies for not appearing for lunch and told him that she was eating out; a piece of information that appeared not to worry him at all, although he did ask if she was all right.

‘Of course I am,’ she told him. ‘Why wouldn't I be?’

She heard him laugh and could visualise the way his mouth would be curled into that smile she hated. ‘No reason, my dear. Goodbye.’

She replaced the receiver feeling oddly disappointed, though she could not think why. She knew that she had been remiss in not ringing earlier, but she had apologised and, considering the fuss he had made earlier, he had been very unconcerned about her absence. She rejoined her companion more thoughtful than she realised and some of the pleasure was missing from the rest of their outing.

With Patrick’s aversion to him still uppermost in her mind, she insisted that David drop her off in Marby Street instead of driving her right into the mews as he was prepared to do. 'I’d rather you did,’ she told him. ‘Please, David; I don’t want any trouble with you and Patrick.’

‘I don’t mind crossing swords with him again,’ he assured her. ‘But I won’t if it will upset you, I wouldn’t want to do that.’

‘Thank you.’ She took his hand as he helped her from the car and he held it tightly as she stood beside him. ‘And thank you for a lovely day, David, I’ve had a wonderful time.’

His eyes were quizzical as he looked down at her from his superior height ‘Have you really enjoyed it, Shara, or have you been worrying about what Owen will say to you when you get back?'

'No, course I haven’t,’ she denied. 'Patrick doesn’t run my life and he doesn’t try to.’

He still retained his hold on her hand as they stood beside the car in the noisy street ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said, ‘because I’m going to insist on seeing you again, regardless of what Patrick Owen or anyone else has to say about it.’ He smiled at her with that so well-practised earnestness and she dismissed the uncharitable voice of warning at the back of her mind that told her not to take too much notice of David Clyde’s vows. ‘When can I see you again?’ he insisted.

‘I’m not sure.’ She hesitated to make a definite decision until she had given some thought to her position as Patrick’s guest and his attitude, or reputed attitude, to David.

As if he guessed something of her thoughts he laughed shortly and squeezed her hand. ‘I shall have to see you in the mornings or on Sundays as today,’ he warned her. ‘Always when your cousin is likely to see us together; since we’re in the same profession there’s little I can do about it, I’m afraid. You’ll have to tell him some time, Shara, if you intend coming out with me as often as I’d like you to, won’t you?’

‘I suppose I will,’ she admitted. ‘But it won’t be easy if he dislikes you as much as you and Polly say he does.’

'Oh, he dislikes me,’ he assured her, in no way perturbed at the idea it seemed. ‘You know, I suppose, via the redoubtable Polly, why he dislikes me?’

She could not look at him and remember what Polly had told her about Linda Maybury and the way he had turned on her, and she knew she was a fool to want to see him again, but she did. So far, she told herself by way of justification, she had no cause to complain about the way he had behaved towards her. She nodded her head reluctantly. ‘Yes, I know,’ she said slowly. ‘And I can see Patrick’s reasons for disliking you; it was a pretty despicable way to behave, both on your part and on Linda Maybury’s. I can see why he hit you too, it was cruel to speak to her as you did.’ His eyes glittered for a moment with resentment at the criticism, but then he held up his hands defensively and smiled at her when she looked at him again.

‘I know, I know! I can see she left out none of the gory details of the occasion, but all’s fair in love and war, my sweet, and you evidently agree with that since you were prepared to come out with me this morning without telling your cousin who it was you were seeing.’ Both his words and his look challenged her and she flushed at the unpleasant truth. She had deceived Patrick, carefully and deliberately, ever since she had received David’s invitation, but she had every intention of setting matters right as soon as she could. At least that was what she told herself she intended doing.

‘That’s true,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘And I’m rather ashamed of myself for doing it.’

‘I don’t see why you should be,' he said. ‘In the circumstances it’s understandable that you should be wary of telling him, but you’ll have to sooner or later.’

‘I know.' She glanced at her watch. ‘I really must go now, David, and thank you again for a lovely day.’

‘Can I see you again tomorrow?’

She shook her head uncertainly.

‘I don’t think so, not tomorrow, David. Give me time to tell Patrick about today and to—well, to make my peace with him.’

‘All right, if that’s the way you want it.’ His eyes teased her for her hesitation. ‘But I’ll turn up on your doorstep one day, you’ll see.'

'Oh, I'd rather you didn’t!’ she said hastily. ‘Not to the house, David, you do understand, don’t you? It wouldn’t be right; after all, I am only a guest, it’s Patrick’s home.’

‘Oh, I understand, but there’s no bad feeling as far as I’m concerned,' he told her blithely, and she almost believed him. ‘I’ve even forgiven him for hitting me; well, practically, anyway. All the animosity is on his side, but if you’d rather I didn’t come to the house I can meet you here, will that suit you better?’

She nodded. 'Yes. Thank you. Leave it for a day or two, though, please, then if you still want to, you could ring me.’

‘Of course I’ll want to,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll give you a couple of days and then you’ll be hearing from me, I can promise you that.’

Shara’s reception when she arrived home was less chilly than she had feared, due mainly, she supposed, to the presence of a third person, making it virtually impossible for either of them to indulge in personalities even had they felt inclined. A woman sat curled up in one of the armchairs, looking as if she was used to being there and had every right to be. She looked at Shara with a critical air of appraisal and smiled at her obvious surprise.

Patrick did not get up when she came in, but merely waved a casual hand at the stranger by way of introduction. ‘Shara, you haven’t met Liz Merril, We you? Liz darling, this is die young cousin I was telling you about’ Shara gritted her teeth over the 'young cousin’, but she smiled at the visitor as she crossed the room to acknowledge the introduction more formally.

‘What you didn’t tell me,’ the other girl complained, uncurling her legs from under her and extending a hand, ‘is how gorgeous she is. Hello, Shara, how are you enjoying London so far?’

Shara shook the proffered hand and smiled cautiously. ‘Quite a lot, thank you.’ She took stock of the other girl. Liz Merril had very fair hair which could, Shara acknowledged, have been natural, and the blue eyes were friendly enough at the moment, but they could, she felt, be very hard and uncompromising when she was angry. She was possibly nearer thirty-five than she would care to admit, but there was a freshness about her that made her seem, at first glance, much younger. There was certain naive openness about her, as if she was anxious to be liked.

Looking at her so comfortably at ease in the armchair Shara realised with a start that the other girl was probably far more at home in this room than she was herself. It was a thought she found somewhat discomfiting; not that she had imagined that Patrick let a monastic existence, but she had not realised that there was anyone serious, and Liz Merril gave the impression that she belonged there. She was also very attractive.

The blue eyes watching Shara were frankly curious. 'Have you seen much of London yet?’ she asked.

Shara laughed. ‘I think I’ve seen most of it today, but fortunately I hadn’t to walk, so I’m not as foot-sore as I could have been.’

Patrick showed a passing interest and she felt his quizzical gaze on her as she sat down on the settee with her back to the window so that he could not see her face as well. ‘Oh,' he said, ‘so your knight errant has got a white horse after all, or is it horsepower?'

'He has a car,' Shara admitted, feeling that she was getting on to dangerous ground; this was not the best time to tell him about her friendship with David Clyde. What his reaction would be if he knew that she had spent most of the day with the man he disliked so much she had no idea, and no intention of finding out at this moment, but if she was hopeful of changing the subject so soon she was being optimistic, for the other woman’s eyes were alight with curiosity as she smiled across at her.

‘So you’ve found yourself a knight errant,' she said. ‘Is it anyone I know?'

‘I don’t know whether you know him or not,' she fenced, one wary eye on Patrick. He was concentrating on his drink at the moment, as if he had no other interest than the contents of the glass, but she sensed his curiosity, even though it was unspoken.

‘Pat was telling me about your knight errant,' Liz Merril said, to Shara’s dismay. ‘It’s very romantic, isn’t it? Oh, I know,' she added reproachfully when Patrick laughed. ‘You don't believe in romantic encounters, but I do and I'm sure that Shara does too, don’t you, Shara?’

‘I suppose I do,' Shara admitted uneasily. 'But not in this case; after all, no one could stand by and see someone else run down by a railway truck, could they?’

‘No, I admit that,' Liz Merril agreed. ‘But he must have been noticing you in the first place to see that you were in danger of being run down. It was fate bringing you together. A romantic encounter.’

Shara’s uneasiness grew when she saw Patrick’s amusement mingled with his obvious curiosity, as if he suspected that she was hiding something and was enjoying her discomfort. ‘I wouldn’t call this a romantic encounter,' she insisted. ‘It was a perfectly straightforward meeting, it could have been anyone that he pulled to safety, it just happened to be me.'

‘Ah, but he was sufficiently impressed to want to see you again, wasn’t he?’ The blue eyes were bright with curiosity. ‘And I should say that those gorgeous roses came from him, didn’t they?’

Shara nodded dumbly, while Patrick exploded into laughter. ‘You’ve been talking to Polly, Liz, and she told you about the flowers, so don’t try and impress us with your clairvoyant powers.’

She pouted her protest, an oddly childish expression that he seemed to find amusing. ‘I should hate to have to put up with you all the time like poor Shara does,’ she said. ‘You can be a horrible creature at times, Patrick Owen, I’m sure I should murder you.’

'You’d revel in it and you know it,’ he told her with a laugh, and Liz Merril coloured to the roots of her hair fair. Shara looked at her in amazement, for in that brief second it had been painfully obvious how deeply she felt about him. There was no doubt in Shara’s mind that the other girl was in love with him and she probably had been for some time. Whether Patrick was aware of it or not, she had no idea, but if he was then his words had been unbelievably cruel unless there was something serious between them.

After that brief but startling moment of revelation Liz Merril never again betrayed her feelings and dinner was enlivened by her chatter about the theatre, most of it well garnished, Shara suspected, for her benefit. It evolved during conversation that she was a writer of some note and had written two of Patrick’s most successful plays; it was through this connection that they had met. Shara liked her, though she had reservations about whether she would always do so, for there was that occasional glint of hardness that showed through her rather ingénue manner. Patrick was attentive to her but no more than normally polite and he showed no signs of being in love with her, unless he was very good at concealing his feelings.

Once or twice Shara caught a trace of the same speculative hardness in the blue eyes when they looked at her and she wondered, uncomfortably, whether or not she knew David Clyde. The possibility was a discomfiting one and she was glad when the meal was over and they left the intimacy of the table.

It was much later, after Patrick returned from taking Liz Merril home, that the subject of David Clyde arose, and this time it was unavoidable. Shara was ready to go to bed when he came in and she paused at the foot of the stairs when she heard his key in the door. He glanced up at her when he saw her. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘I was just going to bed,’ she said, watching him open the drinks cabinet and pour out a whisky, sensing that the inevitable moment had arrived at last and reluctant to face it. ‘It is rather late.'

He glanced briefly at his wrist-watch, but did not turn round to face her. ‘Hmm, I suppose it is,' he agreed.

This, she thought, was an opportune moment to go and leave her confession to another day. ‘Good night, Patrick.'

He turned at last to face her, drinking half the spirit before he answered her, leaning one elbow on the cabinet behind him while he looked at her quizzically. ‘Did you have a good time with your knight errant?' he asked, and her heart sank.

‘Yes, very nice, thank you, it was great fun but rather tiring.' She yawned widely behind her hand. ‘I could sleep the clock round.'

‘Well, there's no reason why you shouldn't if you want to,' he told her. ‘Or are you seeing him again tomorrow?'

It was the best chance she would ever have of telling him, but still she hesitated, longing only to escape to the quietness of her room.

‘No, not tomorrow.' Even to herself, her voice had a strangely breathless sound and she saw and felt the disconcerting steadiness of his gaze on her. She would have turned then and left him, but he walked across the room to stand under the lamp at the bottom of the stairs, the yellow light revealing quite plainly the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, only now he looked tired and a bit bad-tempered as he studied her.

‘Why the mystery, Shara?’ The question took her by surprise and she supposed she blinked and betrayed it, but he looked as if he intended getting an answer.

‘Mystery?' She studied the smooth white top of the newel post between her fingers. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Patrick.’

‘My dear child, try not to be any more obtuse than you can help,’ he said, an edge of impatience lending harshness to his voice. ‘Each time the matter of this boy-friend of yours has arisen, you’ve taken evasive action. Even Liz’s probing failed to get it out of you. I can only assume that he’s someone that you’re pretty sure wouldn’t be very acceptable, there’s no other explanation for your evasion.’

Her face flushed at his tone and she bit her lip. ‘I don’t have to give you an explanation,’ she protested.

He might not have heard her, for the notice he took. ‘Now, who the devil can you have met in this time who is that ‑’ He stopped short and Shara felt her heart hammering uneasily as he narrowed his eyes and looked at her keenly, seeing his answer in her face. ‘I might have known it,’ he said coldly, swallowing the rest of his drink. ‘Roses and carnations; I know. David Clyde.’ She swallowed hard when she saw the contempt in his eyes.

‘It is David Clyde,’ she admitted, and lifted her chin to defy his criticism of her. ‘And the reason I didn’t tell you is obvious, Patrick. I knew you would make a fuss because you don’t like him.’

His head jerked up and he looked for a moment as if he hated her almost as much as he did David Clyde. ‘But it didn’t stop you going out with him on the sly, did it?’ he said coldly, tiredness and anger edging his voice.

‘Not on the sly,’ she protested. ‘But I agree it didn’t stop me going and it won’t in future. I’m sorry, Patrick, I know how you dislike him and I know why, but I like him and I intend to see him again.’

‘I see.’ He stared hard at the empty glass he held. ‘And I have no right to try and stop you, of course.’

‘No, you haven’t,’ she said, wanting nothing so much as to escape from the coldness of his anger. He looked up at her again, his eyes narrowed speculatively.

'I could cut off your allowance,’ he said, as if the idea was worth considering, and she flashed her anger and contempt at him.

‘Blackmail!’ she retorted. ‘Of all the despicable things ‑’ She drew a deep breath, looking down on him from her stand on the bottom of the stairs. ‘You can do what you like,’ she told him. ‘I don’t even know whether David is aware that I have money or not; maybe he doesn’t care.’

To her surprise he seemed to be almost smiling when he looked up at her angry face. ‘I don’t suppose he does,’ he said quietly. ‘Either know or care. He’s very rich himself, so he has no need to bother whether his girl-friends are paupers or princesses.’ Seeing her flush at his jibe he hastened to placate her injured dignity. ‘He knows you’re a very lovely girl and that’s probably all he does care about at the moment.’

She looked down at her clenched hands on the top of the newel post and felt a sudden desire to burst into tears. It was idiotic, of course, and probably due to no more than over-tiredness, but there was something about the way he paid her the compliment that made her feel sad. She disliked Patrick’s disapproval of her far more than she cared to admit. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said, not wanting to meet his eyes. ‘Good night.’ She turned to continue on her way up the stairs, but a hand on hers halted her and she looked down at the dark, rather sadly expressive face, with its deep blue eyes.

‘I won’t stop your allowance, of course,’ he said, the corners of his mouth curled into a wry smile. ‘I can’t in all fairness, but for heaven’s sake, Shara, be careful.’

‘Of course I will,’ she promised, wondering at his obvious concern. ‘I know what I’m doing, really I do, Patrick.’

He looked at her steadily for a moment and she thought she read anxiety in the look. ‘It’s just that I wouldn’t like you to get hurt and Clyde’s an expert. Don’t expect a happy ever after ending, not with him.'

‘With whom, then?’ she asked impulsively, and he smiled, shaking his head.

‘Who knows? As you pointed out to me yourself, there’s no particular hurry. I don’t want to interfere in your life, Shara, but take care, won’t you?’

‘I will,’ she promised softly. ‘And I'm sorry I didn’t tell you before about David, but I—I wasn’t sure it was a good idea.’

‘Did you intend keeping it quiet until you were found out?’ he asked, as if he found the prospect not to his liking, and she shook her head.

‘I intended telling you who I’d been with as soon as I got home today, but when Liz Merril was here it made it difficult. That’s why I didn’t.’

‘I see. Well, I’m glad I know, anyway, I should have hated to think you were deliberately meeting Clyde on the sly and not telling me.’ He laughed shortly. ‘I’m notoriously blind when it comes to knowing what he’s up to.’

‘I would have told you,’ she assured him. ‘Please believe that, Patrick.’

‘I do.’ He smiled wryly. ‘You’re not the sneaky type. Now you’d better get to bed or you will sleep the clock round tomorrow!’

She smiled down at him. ‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘Good night, Patrick.’

He raised his empty glass in salute as she climbed the stairs. ‘Good night, Shara, sweet dreams.’

Closing the bedroom door behind her she leaned for a moment against it, her eyes closed, savouring the relief she felt now that he knew about David. His reaction had been less dramatic that she had been led to believe it would be, and she wondered for an uncomfortable moment if he had given in quite so easily as he appeared to have done.

It was a week later when David rang her as he had promised he would, and a very obviously disapproving Polly called her to the telephone. ‘It’s for you,’ she informed her, ‘and it’s you know who. I’m surprised he’s got the cheek to ring here; suppose Mr. Owen had answered?'

‘Well, he didn’t!’ Shara retorted. ‘And David would know he wasn’t here.’ She picked up the receiver, smiling after Polly’s stiffly disappearing back. ‘Hello, David.’

‘Shara, I haven’t seen you for ages,' he said, and she laughed at the exaggeration, something for which he reproached her. ‘It’s not funny, my dear, it seems like weeks.’

‘It’s just five days,’ she told him, suspecting that the kitchen door was ajar for the purpose of allowing Polly to overhear as much of the conversation as possible. A glance over her shoulder confirmed her guess. ‘Excuse me a minute, David.’ She moved across to dose the partly open door, sensing as she did so Polly’s indignant frustration, although she neither saw nor heard her. Picking up the telephone again, she laughed softly. ‘The kitchen door was ajar,’ she explained. ‘I’ve closed it.’

He echoed her laughter. ‘Ah, the loyal Polly! I detected her chilly disapproval when I said who I was.' He paused and Shara could feel his indecision as she waited for him to go on. ‘Have you told Owen yet that you were with me on Sunday?’

‘In a way,’ she said. ‘He more or less made me tell him.'

'Made you?’ He sounded startled at the idea. ‘How on earth did he do that? He doesn’t beat you, does he?'

She laughed. ‘Nothing so drastic,’ she said. ‘But it was inevitable that he’d be suspicious because I was so evasive every time the subject of my—my escort came up. I should have told him in the first place, of course, it was silly of me not to have done. Anyway, he guessed eventually, I didn’t have to tell him.'

‘And how did he take it?' She was sure she did not imagine the anxiety in his voice and she wondered why he was so much more concerned now than he had been on Sunday. Then he had been quite prepared to come to the house and face Patrick; now he sounded as if he really cared what Patrick thought of their being together.

‘He didn’t fly into a rage, if that’s what you think,’ she said. ‘But he did make one or two remarks that were for the main part directed at my lack of taste rather than anything else.' She heard his sigh of relief and frowned curiously. ‘Why, David, what did you think would happen?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But it could have been very awkward for me at this particular moment. You see there’s a second lead part in the new film that Owen’s making soon and I might get it if nothing happens to spoil my chances. They’re casting now and my agent says I have a pretty good chance of getting it, but if I’ve blotted my copybook by treading on Owen’s toes over taking you out—well, I could have put paid to it. Thank goodness he’s not bearing any grudges over it.’

She felt suddenly chilled by the sheer selfishness of what he was saying and at the same time appalled that he should think Patrick capable of victimising him as he suggested. T)avid, you’re not suggesting that Patrick would let his personal feelings influence him, are you? Anyway, would he have any say in the matter of casting?’

His laugh was short and harsh against her ear. ‘Oh, indeed he would, dear girl; he’s co-producer as well as star and he’s putting up a large slice of the money too, he could give me die thumbs down if anyone could.’

‘But he wouldn’t!’ Shara protested again, wondering at the same time how well-founded her denials were. She knew little enough of her cousin after the short time she had spent with him, but what she had seen she had grown to like, despite the way he teased her, and she found the idea of him victimising David for his friendship with her, not only unpalatable but unlikely.

‘I hope not,’ he said feelingly. ‘I’m having an audition this afternoon and according to my agent I’m practically home and dry, but of course he doesn’t know about our little bit of bother over Linda, or about you, or he may not be so sure either. That’s why I had to call you today, to see if you’d told him about us yet and if you had, what he’d said about it.’

‘Oh, I see.’ From her tone he realised his faux pas at once and hastened to amend it.

‘Of course that wasn’t the only reason,’ he said hastily, too hastily to be convincing, and she smiled to herself wryly. His confusion was so at variance with his usual smooth effortless charm that she felt the part must mean a great deal to him. ‘Shara?’ He sounded very contrite and she could not resist teasing him.

‘I hope you get the part,’ she said, ‘since it appears to be so important to you, and I’m sure you can rely on Patrick not to do anything to stop you getting it, if you’re right for it.’ She laughed softly, sensing his dismay at her formal manner. ‘And I’m glad you didn’t ring for completely selfish motives.’

‘Oh, Shara I’ He sounded reproachful. 'You know I want to see you again, don’t you?'

‘Do I?' she asked, still being contrary. ‘I thought your main concern was not to antagonise Patrick.’

His laugh was self-confident again as he realised her deception. 'You little wretch, I’ll pay you back for that when I see you.’ He paused and she could hear his fingers drumming on the mouthpiece as he gave the matter some thought. ‘Look,’ he said at last. ‘The earliest I can manage is tomorrow morning, say about half past eleven; we could lunch again at that little Italian place if you’d like to. Will you come?'

She hesitated only a moment. ‘All right, David, I’d like to very much. Where shall I see you?'

‘I suppose I’d better not push my luck by calling at the house for you, so I’ll see you at the top of the mews, where I dropped you off on Sunday. Is that all right for you?’

‘I’ll be there,’ she promised, and added after a brief hesitation, ‘And please don’t blame Patrick if you don’t get that part, will you, David? It may not be his fault, you won’t know for sure.’

‘I shall be pretty sure,’ he said grimly. ‘My agent knows Solly Ledman, the other producer, so there’ll be no snags there. No, my sweet, if I don’t get that part it will be because Pat Owen turns me down and for no other reason.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She bit her lip, dismayed that so much depended on whether or not Patrick decided to take revenge on David Clyde. She could not imagine him being so pettishly spiteful, but there was so much she did not know about Patrick yet. David’s voice at the other end of the line brought her out of her reverie.

‘I wondered if you were still there,’ he told her. ‘You’re not worrying about having lunch with me because of Owen, are you, Shara?'

'No, of course not,' she denied hastily. ‘Why on earth should I?'

'No reason that I know of,’ he said blithely, and laughed. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at half past eleven. Goodbye, Shara.'

She murmured an absent goodbye and replaced the receiver as Polly Lawton came out of the kitchen, still looking vaguely disapproving. Shara’s thoughtful expression made her curious and she came across to her. ‘Is there something wrong, love?' she asked kindly. 'You look a bit worried about something. He hasn’t been up to his tricks again with you, has he?'

Shara laughed and shook her head. ‘No, Polly, no tricks, old or otherwise.'

‘Just as well,' Polly averred stoutly, ‘or he’d have had to answer to Mr. Owen again, and he knows what happened last time.'

At the thought of Patrick doing battle on her behalf she shook her head doubtfully, a flush of pink in her cheeks. ‘I hardly think Patrick would risk a scandal by punching Mr. Clyde on account of my broken heart,' she said lightly, but Polly made a moue of doubt with her tight little mouth.

‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that? she said, nodding her head wisely. ‘There’s no telling with Mr. Owen when he’s roused, he’s got quite a turn of temper, though it doesn’t show very often. It’s his Irish, of course,' she added, as if that explained everything, and Shara laughed.

‘Of course!’ she echoed.

'Well, there’s one thing I know,' Polly said, firmly adhering to her subject. ‘He wouldn’t like you seeing too much of him.'

'Well, I’ll be seeing him tomorrow for lunch,’ Shara told her, ‘whether Patrick likes it or not, so I’ll tell you now, while I think about it, I might forget later.’

The shrewd black eyes surveyed her curiously. ‘Is it all right if Mr. Owen knows this time,’ Polly asked, ‘or doesn’t he know about you and him yet?’

Shara restrained a smile only with difficulty at the obstinate refusal to use David’s name. Her dislike of him probably stemmed only from her intense loyalty to Patrick, but she could imagine what kind of a welcome he would receive had he ventured to call at the house for her; probably far worse than he would have got from Patrick himself.

‘Patrick knows I went out with Mr. Clyde, Polly, so there’s no need for you to keep quiet about it, and he’s not coming here for me, so your dignity won’t be affronted.’

‘I should hope not!’ Polly retorted. ‘Why, I—I wouldn’t let him in, no matter what he did! The idea!’

The sight of Polly’s gnome-like face looking so fierce and the thought of her standing her ground bravely against David bent on gaining admission proved too much for Shara and she burst into laughter, while Polly stared at her open-mouthed for a moment. She looked as indignant at Shara’s merriment as she had at the thought of David coming to the house and for a moment she watched her with a frown, then the infection of laughter proved too much for her and she joined in, her eyes watering with the energy of it.

So engrossed were they in their own amusement that they failed to see Patrick come in until he was through the door and standing watching them, one eyebrow arched expressively at them. ‘All right,’ he said at last. 'Now let me in on the joke.’ They sobered suddenly as he spoke and, after a long gasping breath, Polly shot a hasty look at Shara before she spoke.

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Owen, but it did seem very funny when I thought about it.’

‘Did it?’ he asked dryly, his eyes on Shara obviously expecting her to be the one to enlighten him. Polly flicked her another hasty glance and one at her employer before making her escape.

‘If I don’t go,’ she said, suddenly and suspiciously in a hurry to depart, 'we shall have burnt offering for lunch.’ She bobbed hastily back through the door into the kitchen, leaving Shara to explain the reason for their outburst.

‘It looks as if you’ve been delegated story-teller,’ he told her, watching his housekeeper’s retreat with amusement. He flopped into his favourite chair and looked at Shara expectantly.

‘It’s not really all that funny,’ she said, hoping she sounded as casual as she wanted to. ‘It started because Polly thought David Clyde might be calling here for me tomorrow and she assured me that she would go to any extremes to refuse him admission. The thought of Polly doing battle with David bent on ‑Well, it struck me as rather funny and it did Polly too, after a while. That’s all there is to it; it’s silly really.’

‘I see.’ He smiled and helped himself to a cigarette, while she watched him, only a little anxious about his reaction to the mention of David. ‘And are you seeing him again tomorrow?’

‘Yes, I am.’ She tried not to sound defiant, but was afraid she did. He considered the information in silence for a moment, then looked at her with that disconcertingly steady gaze that reminded her of Uncle George and made her feel very small and unaccountably guilty, though she refused to believe that she had any reason to.

‘And is he coming here for you?’

'No, of course not,’ she said. 'I wouldn’t let him do that. I’m seeing him at the top of the mews, in Marby Street.’

'Hmm.’ She did not like the way he said that, nor the way he watched her, leaning back in his chair, one long leg crossed over the knee of the other, his eyes narrowed against the smoke from his cigarette. ‘So Clyde is still seeing my womenfolk on the sly, is he?'

She stared at him unbelievingly for a moment, unable to believe she heard him right, then she stood up as realisation dawned, unable to contain the anger that, for the moment, made her speechless. 'How dare you talk like that?' she managed at last, her hands tight clenched at her sides, glaring across at him. 'David suggested that I should meet him elsewhere than here and in the circumstances I agreed with him. It was done with the purpose of sparing you embarrassment.’

‘Very thoughtful,' he commented, in no way apologetic and with a half smile that did nothing to appease her righteous indignation.

‘It was,’ she retorted. ‘And you have the audacity to say that we’re meeting on the sly!’

‘Audacity?' he queried, his tone still surprisingly and quite disappointingly mild. He left his chair, but with no sign of anger or haste as she had done, and crossed to the window where he stood looking out at the quiet of the mews with the smoke of his cigarette still drifting up round his head. 'I don’t think it’s audacious of me to be suspicious of Clyde in the circumstances; after all, he’s behaved like this before, only then I didn’t realise what was going on, this time I do.’

She wished he had not compared the two occasions, for they had little in common that she could see. She was a completely free agent, unlike Linda Maybury had been, and so was David, so they were harming no one in seeing each other. She looked at him standing by the window and thought she knew how he felt, though she did not agree with his need to worry about her. ‘I’m sorry, Patrick, I know how you must feel,’ she said, ‘but I do know what I’m doing and I’m not blind to any of David’s shortcomings. Anyway,’ she added, to emphasise his lack of right to interfere, ‘I’m not your womenfolk.’

He turned his head and smiled in the way she hated most of all. ‘Aren’t you?’ he asked.

She flushed angrily. ‘No, I’m not!’

‘I think you are,’ he told her quietly, his smile less cynical and more genuinely amused. ‘You’re my closest female relative, barring ancient Aunt Clementina in Ireland, so that makes you my womenfolk as far as I’m concerned. I hope you don’t object to being classed with Aunt Clementina,’ he added gravely. ‘She’s rather a nice old dear really and only slightly cracked.’ His expression combined with the solemn reference to his aged aunt proved her undoing, for it gave her an irresistible desire to laugh when she desperately wanted to remain serious. Many times in the past her bubbling sense of humour had got die better of her and she had often regretted its intrusion into her more serious moments. He looked at her solemnly, as if he suspected her weakness. ‘It runs in the family, you know.’

‘On your side, not mine,’ she declared, making a last effort to remain serious, and he nodded.

'True,’ he admitted, and looked directly at her so that she could no longer contain her laughter and it bubbled over into peals of merriment which he, like Polly earlier, found it difficult to resist and joined in. 'You should laugh more often,’ he told her when at last they paused for breath. ‘It suits you.’

She shook her head. ‘I laugh too often, my sense of humour is something of a drawback, I’m afraid. I’m always laughing in the wrong places and at the wrong time.'

‘Very embarrassing,' he sympathised, and added with a wicked gleam in his eyes, ‘I believe Aunt Clementina has a rather ribald sense of humour.’

Her expression was sober enough, but her eyes sparkled mischief as she answered, ‘Is there an Aunt Clementina?’

‘Oh yes,’ he assured her as they answered Polly’s summons to lunch. ‘She’s rather a darling. That runs in the family, too.’

During lunch the conversation remained light and both of them determinedly avoided any mention of David Clyde. It was only as Patrick was leaving the house later that afternoon that she felt almost bound to speak of the audition by which David seemed to set such store. 'You wouldn’t do anything to stop him getting the part, would you, Patrick?’ she asked, and he frowned, looking at her steadily for a moment before he answered. She felt very small and mean for even having implied that he would. ‘Does he think I will?’ he asked. ‘Or is that your idea?'

‘No! No, it wasn’t mine,’ she hastened to protest. ‘But David did say that it did depend on you.'

His eyes were hard when he looked at her, hard in a way she had never seen them before, and his voice too was razor-edged, so that she dreaded to think what might happen at David’s audition and wished she had not mentioned it. ‘So,’ he said, ‘he’s talked you into putting in a good word for him first, has he?'

She shook her head firmly, her mouth set tight at the implication. ‘No, he hasn’t,' she denied hotly. ‘He told me that he had an audition this afternoon and that he stood a very good chance of getting the part. He seemed to think that it was only if you—if you were ‑well, that you could give him the thumbs down, as it were.'

The crooked smile flicked briefly across his face. 'He flatters me if he thinks I have that much say in it, but he has plenty of self-confidence, I’ll give him credit for that He might just get it on sheer cheek.’ He eyed her curiously. ‘How did you hear about the audition?'

‘He rang me earlier today.' She hesitated to tell him the main reason for the call, but then decided that it could do no more harm than had already been done. 'He wanted to know if I’d told you about Sunday.’

‘Aha!’ he said, suddenly understanding. ‘He hoped you hadn’t, I suppose.’

‘He did no such thing!’ she denied. ‘It was David who originally urged me to tell you. I was the one who was reluctant about it.’

‘Hmm.’ He eyed her doubtfully as he picked up a bulging briefcase from the table. ‘I imagine he was anxious to know my reaction, though, wasn’t he?’

‘Naturally, in the circumstances!’ she retorted, then shook her head, looking at him earnestly. ‘But it won’t make any difference, will it, Patrick? You wouldn’t let it influence your judgement, would you?’ The plea was almost as much for his own image as for David’s sake, but he only smiled in a way that gave her no reassurance at all.

‘You’ll just have to trust me on that count, won’t you?’ he said, and opened the door into the mews. ‘I’ll see you later, Shara.’ There seemed an ominous air of finality about the closing of the door and she bit her lip as she watched him, from the window, stride across to the waiting taxi. She had no option but to trust him not to let his dislike of David influence his professional judgement and she found herself inordinately anxious that he should not fail her.

CHAPTER THREE

Shopping had always seemed to Shara to be an excellent way of lifting depression, and depressed she certainly was after Patrick’s enigmatic last words. Shopping would not only cheer her up it would also, in some oblique way, pay him back for his behaviour earlier.

As usual she found it an unfailing tonic and enjoyed herself immensely. Even David’s prospects at the audition seemed to take on a rosier hue. There was nothing, she told herself, like spending money when one was feeling low; it worked wonders. She had always loved beautiful things and the thought of being able to indulge her rather expensive tastes gave her a great deal of satisfaction, even if it would make Patrick angry when he discovered how much she had spent; there would be nothing he could do about it then.

She emerged from a dress shop carrying yet another box and she caught sight of a jeweller’s window next door to it, stopping abruptly as one item on display caught her eye. She had been fascinated by jewellery all her life, thanks to her father. He had been not only a geologist but also something of an expert on gems, and she had been taught to appreciate jewellery not just for the creative art of the jeweller, but as a record of history. She had heard impressive stories of ancient jewel-craft and the long span of time that was captured in every stone.

There was just the one piece on display here, but to have given it the company of lesser gems would have been sacrilege. It lay on a black velvet display cushion like some living thing of green fire, lovingly embraced by the dull warmth of gold. The most beautiful emeralds she had ever seen, fashioned into a necklace that would not have disgraced a queen. She was not by nature covetous, but the exquisite perfection of the gems and the craftsmanship that had dressed them made her eyes shine with delight at the sheer beauty of it. She could imagine that such a necklace would have belonged to Cleopatra or even the Queen of Sheba. Lost as she was in admiration of the emeralds, someone else was watching her, as yet unobserved.

‘Are you planning a smash and grab?’ She started almost guiltily at the sound of the voice and turned to see Patrick beside her, his former bad humour apparently forgotten, for he was smiling at her.

She smiled at him, her eyes still bright with the memory of the jewels and almost the same colour. ‘It would be worth while, wouldn’t it? It’s so lovely.’

He gave his attention, for a moment, to the display and nodded.

‘It is,’ he agreed, and smiled indulgently as she voiced her enthusiasm.

‘Just think of all the years and years it must have taken for those stones to become something that a clever jeweller could turn into a work of art as lovely as that. Do you know that those emeralds could have been in the earth for millions of years before they were brought out and entrusted to a craftsman?’

‘Very profound,’ he told her, his eyes gleaming with amusement. ‘Now I know you’re something of a geologist, what other depths have you as yet undiscovered? By me at any rate.’

‘I was brought up on such things,’ she told him, a little surprised at his manner. ‘But I’ve never seen anything quite so beautiful. It has a sort of primitive look about it as if it might have belonged to some beautiful pagan princess.'

‘A heathen princess,' he teased her. ‘But I agree they are lovely stones, and well set too.' He looked again for a moment at the gleaming, eye-catching lustre of the necklace and nodded with a smile. ‘It does look worthy of a heathen princess, I have to agree.’.

‘It would probably cost a king’s ransom, too,’ she said, sighing as she turned away from the window. ‘And I’m not even an ordinary princess, let alone a pagan one.’

‘It’s a pity you’re not,’ he said with every appearance of being serious. ‘Those emeralds would match your eyes perfectly.’ She merely smiled at the compliment and he took her parcels from her, pulling a face over their number as he raised a hand for a taxi. ‘It looks as if you’d better come home while you still have some money left; you must have bought up half of Oxford Street from the look of it!’

Seated in the taxi she chanced a curious glance at his face, trying to read there some indication as to how the audition had been, whether David had been lucky or not. Patrick was suspiciously cheerful and it gave her an uneasy feeling which refused to be banished. ‘Have you been very busy?’ she asked, venturing an opening, and he glanced at the heap of packages she had acquired during the afternoon.

‘Not quite as busy as you have, apparently,’ he said with a smile.

‘How did the auditions go?’ she asked, unable to fence around the question any longer, and he turned and smiled at her in that cynical, annoying way she disliked so much, one eyebrow arched quizzically.

‘Must I talk shop?’ he said shortly. ‘I find auditions incredibly boring. Let’s change the subject, shall we?’

‘By all means,’ she agreed stiffly. ‘I’m sorry I mentioned it.’ It was maddening of him not to tell her about David, deliberately maddening, she knew, but she refused to appeal to him. David would tell her soon enough and she had a horrible feeling what he would tell her, too. For the rest of the way home she sat silent, and admittedly a little sulky, and Polly, meeting them at the door, read her own interpretation into the rather impatient expression of her employer and the disgruntled one of his companion.

‘There was a call for you a couple of minutes ago,’ she informed Shara. ‘I told him I didn’t know when you would be back; which I didn’t.’ Shara needed no telling who the caller had been, Polly’s expression was enough to tell her that.

‘Mr. Clyde?’ she asked, more to annoy Patrick than for any other reason, she admitted. ‘Is he going to call me again?'

Polly shook her head.

‘He said he wouldn’t bother as he’s seeing you tomorrow,’ she said, and added with unconcealed satisfaction, ‘He sounded as if he was in a right old paddy about something too.’ Shara glanced at Patrick, but his face gave nothing away. Polly, having delivered her message, disappeared again into the kitchen leaving the two of them alone in an uneasy silence, and Shara sought wildly for the right words to use so that she could ask what had happened at David’s audition, without being snubbed into silence again.

‘Patrick –'

'You’re going to ask me if Clyde got that part, aren’t you?’ He forestalled her question with a trace of impatience in his voice. ‘Well, since it appears to mean so much to you—no, he didn’t get it.’

She stared at him for a moment, hoping she had imagined the note of satisfaction in his voice, and unwilling to believe what he had told her. She hoped for a moment that he might have been teasing her, but there was no trace of a smile on his face or even in his eyes and her heart sank dismally. David had been so insistent that only Patrick could prevent him getting the part and she had been equally insistent that Patrick would not let personal feelings influence his professional judgement. One of them must have been wrong, and she was horribly afraid it was her. She remembered how cheerful he had been when she had met him outside the jeweller’s shop and how he had evaded her question about the audition. It was only now, when he realised that evasion was no longer any use, that he admitted the truth.

‘You did it!’ she accused, finding her voice at last. ‘You made sure he didn’t get the part!’ She had never before felt so horribly let down. He had failed to live up to the promise she had made for him and she felt a ridiculous urge to cry. ‘And I told David you wouldn’t do a thing like that. Oh, how could you?’

There was a curious hardness in his eyes when he looked at her, as if he resented her criticism, and she wished she had not been so outspoken. ‘I don’t have to account to you or to Clyde for my actions,’ he said quietly. ‘And considering you’ve only met the man twice, it seems to me that you’re taking a great deal of interest in his wellbeing and in his career.’ His eyes narrowed and he looked for all the world like one of those hell-raising heroes he had played so often in films that for a moment she wondered if any of it was real or if she was dreaming it all. He was speaking again, before she could reply; in the same cold voice. ‘I assume your meeting at the station was your first. Or am I mistaken yet again?’

‘It was the first,’ she said, too stunned to protest more strongly.

He lit a cigarette, sending a halo of blue smoke up round his head, an illusion she felt was particularly inappropriate at the moment. ‘He must have made quite an impression,’ he said, sitting down in his usual chair, leaving her standing uneasily by the door. She stared at him silently for a moment, then walked over and curled herself up into one of the armchairs, her feet tucked under her, her face a picture of doubt.

‘I like David,’ she said, as if in her own defence. ‘And I think he likes me, in fact I’m sure he does.’

‘Oh, I'm sure he does,’ he agreed. ‘Clyde has excellent taste and you’re a very lovely girl, but that doesn’t give you the right to make promises on my behalf that I can’t keep.’

‘I didn’t,’ she protested. ‘I only told him that you wouldn’t let personal animosity persuade you against him, I didn’t realise how wrong I could be!’

For a moment he made no answer, his eyes narrowed against the drifting smoke, then he laughed shortly, a sound that jarred on her nerves. ‘It just shows how wrong it is to make snap decisions on people’s characters, doesn’t it?’

‘I thought ‑’ She stared at him miserably, the desire to cry again threatening her composure. It was as if he had finally and definitely admitted that his prejudice had coloured his decision and made him refuse to give David the part he wanted. She had not felt so utterly miserable for a long time and it was all his fault, she told herself, he had no right to go against his usual tolerant nature and spite David like that. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I thought,’ she said abjectly. ‘I trusted you.’

He still made no answer and she found herself unable to stay in the same room with him without making a complete fool of herself by crying, so she got up from her chair and walked blindly up the stairs. She was conscious as she went that his eyes followed her and it was only with difficulty that she resisted the urge to turn round and look at him.

She was glad that she would not have to see him for dinner; he was taking Liz Merril out after the show, but she wished she was going out herself. She refused the usual early dinner when Polly offered it and instead sat with her grudge for company, after Patrick left for the theatre, feeling very sorry for herself. The door bell ringing gave her a start and a few moments later Polly admitted a young man. The brother of one of the girls she had known in France, he had called on her ostensibly with an invitation to an engagement party the following week, but Shara thought she detected the conniving hand of Mary Kohn behind the personal delivery of the invitation and smiled when the young man, rather embarrassed now that it came to the point, introduced himself and the reason for his visit.

He was obviously impressed with his sister’s friend and an invitation to dinner that night was made within half an hour of his arrival. They chattered happily, mostly about France and Italy, both of which Shara knew well, while Polly hovered curiously in the background, not altogether in favour of the strange young man who sat in Patrick Owen’s favourite chair and talked so easily to his guest. Whatever Polly’s opinion, Shara was delighted with her unexpected visitor and the invitation to dinner was like the answer to a prayer which she accepted without hesitation. If Polly was dubious about her sudden decision, she made no comment beyond a brief hope that she would have a good time.

Shara, her spirits restored, was determined to enjoy herself and let Patrick know that she was not dependent upon his good will to be happy. Francis Kohn was good looking in a boyish way, looking far younger than his twenty-four years, and he had a great deal of the impudent charm that made his sister such good company. He would need, he told her, to go home and change first, but he would call for her about half past eight ‘If you can survive without dinner until then, can you?’ he asked, and she laughed.

‘I’ll try,’ she promised. In her prettiest dress and determined to enjoy herself she looked picture enough for any man and her escort was very appreciative of his luck as he drove them through the evening traffic.

‘I thought we’d go to the Top Folk,’ he said. ‘It’s my favourite place at the moment and it’s great fun; everyone goes there.’

‘Do they?’ she laughed. ‘I don’t mind where we go, I haven’t been in London long enough yet to have a favourite place. What is Top Folk exactly? It sounds very intriguing.’

‘It is,’ he said. ‘You can see so many interesting people there, but it’s no use going too early for the stage celebrities, you have to wait until after the last house, then it really gets interesting.’

‘I’ve never been there,’ Shara said, and Francis Kohn gazed at her in disbelief.

‘You’ve never been there?’ he echoed. ‘But all the big show business names go there, that’s why I like it so much.’ He grinned at her engagingly. ‘I’m something of a fan, you’ll find, about stage and film people. Mary says I’ve never grown up.’

Shara laughed at the admission, liking him for the frank way he had made it. ‘Well, I’m not a big show business name, which probably accounts for why I’ve never heard of it. I’m just a plain ordinary citizen, I leave the starry path to the rest of the family.’

‘Citizeness,’ he corrected her gravely. ‘And definitely not plain and ordinary, but very beautiful. I thought your cousin might have taken you, he’s very definitely a big name and I’ve seen him there once or twice.’

She smiled ruefully at the idea. ‘Patrick doesn’t take me out to dinner,’ she said. ‘I don’t come under the heading of pleasure, but responsibilities, I’m afraid. I’m just the little girl he has to keep an eye on to see that I don’t spend too much money.’ She sounded bitter, though she had not meant to, and he chanced a glance at her as they sped through the changing traffic lights.

'You sound like a poor little Cinderella,’ he said. ‘Was that one of the ugly sisters keeping an eye on you for him, back there?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ she hastened to assure him. ‘I was only joking. Patrick isn’t a bit like that really.’

He laughed. ‘I find it hard to believe that the heart-throb of half the women in England would cast himself in the role of Baron Hardup,’ he said. ‘I would have said that Prince Charming was more in his line.’

Shara shook her head over the implication, her face warmly pink as she answered. ‘Not in this case. I’m just a young cousin who’s staying with him, that’s all, no more than that.’

He raised his eyebrows, flatteringly surprised at the information. 'Really? Then he needs an eye test,’ he retorted gallantly.

The doorman at the Top Folk greeted them with a polite nod of his aristocratic head and a murmured ‘Good evening, sir, madam.’ Her escort was obviously quite well known there and received prompt and willing attention from the staff. They were found a good table, next to the small stage, and left to study the menu.

It was obvious, once one was inside, why the club had been given its rather coy name. The decor was plain almost to the point of being stark, giving the appearance of a huge bam, and the cabaret was supplied by a series of folk-singers, some of them quite well known. The double meaning of the name was apparent too, in the clientele, for film, stage and television stars were liberally sprinkled among the audience.

The food, when it arrived, was excellent and her escort’s insistence on champagne had been responsible for the brilliant sparkle in her green eyes. Francis Kohn raised his glass in salute to her, his own eyes warm with admiration as he looked at her across the small table. ‘To the most beautiful girl in London,’ he proposed. ‘And bless Mary for her conniving brain.’

Shara laughed at having her suspicions confirmed. ‘I suspected a devious reason behind that personal delivery service,’ she said. ‘I know Mary’s mind and the way it works.’

‘So do I!’ Francis retorted, ‘and you’d be surprised at what I’ve been let in for in the past. This time she’s really done me proud and I shall be eternally grateful to her for it.’

She affected a mock bow as well as her position would allow. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘My pleasure,’ he averred, then stared across the room, his smile suddenly a little less self-assured. 'I hope you are no more than a responsibility to your famous cousin,’ he said, ‘because he’s just come in.’ She made no attempt to look over her shoulder at the doorway but instead made an exaggerated shrug of regret.

‘Then I shall probably get a lecture on the sins of riotous living when I get back,’ she said, and saw her escort blink hastily. The remark was unfair, she realised, for Patrick would in all probability make little or no comment on her being there, but she felt determinedly vengeful after their unfortunate conversation that afternoon. She gave a heartfelt sigh for Francis Kohn’s benefit and held out her empty glass for him to refill. ‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.’ He looked more than a little startled at her words, but obediently refilled her glass, while keeping a wary eye on Patrick who was seated only two tables away. He seemed too preoccupied at the moment to notice them and, seeing his companion, Francis frowned his curiosity, his interest getting the better of his discomfort.

‘That’s Fiona Blane, the playwright, with him, isn’t it?’ he asked, and Shara shrugged carelessly.

‘He was taking Liz Merril to dinner as far as I know,’ she said, not wanting to have Patrick and his companion intruding on her evening. ‘Who’s Fiona ‑' She giggled softly. ‘Oh yes, of course, she writes under that name, doesn’t she? I know her as Liz Merril; she seems to be Patrick’s current girl-friend.’

His eyes gleamed with interest and he looked across at Patrick and the blonde girl speculatively. ‘Is she now? She’s very attractive, isn’t she?’

‘Patrick seems to think so,’ she said wryly, and hastened to add, in case he should think her spiteful, ‘She’s quite nice actually.’ Thinking of the glimpses of hardness in the blue eyes of the other girl, she wondered if ‘nice’ was quite the right adjective to use. She had certainly been pleasant enough when they had met on her first Sunday, but even then she had noticed a certain sharpness about her manner if her opinion was questioned and there was the odd flash of hardness when she looked at Shara.

Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, she half turned her head and looked over her shoulder just in time to meet Patrick’s look of recognition. He smiled at her briefly, then directed his disconcerting gaze at her companion who looked down uneasily at his glass, his fingers moving nervously on the stem.

‘I say, you don’t suppose he’ll really mind, do you, Shara?’ he said, and his obvious concern about her cousin’s reaction annoyed her so that she frowned when she turned back to him.

‘Why on earth should he mind?’ she demanded. ‘I’m not a child and neither are you, so I don’t quite see why you’re so concerned about what Patrick thinks. He has no say in where I go or what I do; if it comes to the point, he’s not even a real cousin.’

‘Oh?’ Francis looked interested. ‘I thought Mary said he was your cousin.’

‘He is in a way,’ she admitted, wishing she had not mentioned the relationship since it would inevitably involve her in the usual explanation. ‘He’s a sort of second cousin, it’s rather complicated really, and it doesn’t make any difference to the fact that he has no say in how I run my life, that’s altogether my affair.’

Her companion’s dark eyes looked at her knowingly. 'That sounds very much as if the subject has been raised before,’ he said with a half smile she disliked. ‘It sounds as if you’ve quarrelled about it or at least had words.’

‘In a way I suppose we have,’ she admitted reluctantly, disliking the subject being mentioned by what was, after all, a stranger. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about Patrick, I’m here to enjoy myself and I intend to do just that.’

'1 hope you will,’ he told her earnestly. ‘Would you like to dance?’ The small space reserved for dancing was not too crowded and she nodded agreement, glad of the chance to avoid further mention of Patrick. Perhaps the dancing would make him forget his curiosity about her cousin, for curious he obviously was.

They danced together more than once, returning to their table only briefly between numbers, and she found that she was indeed enjoying herself as she had intended. They moved well together and she had to admit that he was a good dancer, though a little flamboyant. It was a trait that suited her present mood, however, and she was aware, in the once or twice that she glanced at him, that Patrick was literally keeping an eye on her, a knowledge that caused her to behave with rather less than her usual reticence.

She flirted outrageously with her partner, much to his delight and the evident disapproval of her cousin, if his discouraging frown was anything to go by. She had no other intention than being mildly flirtatious, but Francis apparently took the whole thing more seriously and she began to regret her impulsive lack of inhibition. He was holding her so close that she felt bound to complain, for she could scarcely breathe, let alone see where she was going.

'You don’t have to squeeze me to death,’ she told him as they negotiated a turn and he all but swept her off her feet.

‘I could quite easily,’ he vowed, the champagne no doubt lending fervour to his declaration. ‘I could go on holding you for ever and ever. I mean it,’ he insisted, pulling her dose again and burying his face against the softness of her hair. ‘I’d like to go somewhere else, though, somewhere a bit quieter and way from this crowd and your cousin’s eagle eye. Let’s go, Shara.’

'Not yet,’ she protested, leaning back to look up into his face, her green eyes smiling tantalisingly. ‘I want to dance. Don’t you want to dance with me?'

‘Of course I do,’ he said, his voice lower and a little thick as he whispered in her ear. ‘But let’s go somewhere quieter, more secluded.’

'You were the one who wanted to see all the stage celebrities,’ she reminded him, ‘and now the place is chock-a-block with them you want to leave. I think you’re just being difficult.’ She felt mildly argumentative, thanks to the champagne, and his smile did nothing to still the uneasiness she felt.

Laughing softly, he tightened his arm around her.

‘And I think you’re slightly tiddly,’ he told her. ‘It’s all that champagne, it makes your eyes glow, they look like two emeralds, all shiny and bright. Come with me, Shara.’

‘I don’t want to go,’ she argued mildly, and moved away from him to return to their table, inadvertently sitting in his place so that now she could see Patrick directly in front of her. ‘If you don’t want to dance we’ll sit down or you can take me home.’ She was conscious as she spoke of Patrick’s rather scornful look as he noted her flushed cheeks and over-bright eyes. She nodded recognition when Liz Merril turned her head to look at her, and disliked the knowing smile on the other girl’s face. No doubt she would make some comment to Patrick when she turned back and would probably make him even more disapproving.

Francis held both her hands in his, his own eyes bright as jet. ‘Shara, please.’

She glanced at her wrist-watch and smiled at him as she shook her head. ‘I really would like to go home, Francis, when you’re ready. It’s after one o’clock.’

He looked disgruntled at her request, glancing at Patrick over his shoulder as he spoke. ‘So it’s after one o’clock. You don’t have to be in by midnight, like Cinderella, do you?’

‘No, of course I don’t,’ she said, smiling but determined. ‘But it is late and I’ve had rather too much champagne, my head’s spinning round.’ She curled her fingers over his hand. ‘I’ve had a lovely time, Francis, and I’ve really enjoyed myself.'

‘There isn’t too much champagne,’ he argued, determined to win on one point at least. But if you want to go home 111 take you. I don’t want you to pass out while you’re with me and your cousin here to see it all. He might take exception and turn nasty; he looks as if he has a temper.’

She looked surprised for a moment. ‘I don’t think he has, not really, and he certainly wouldn’t blame you if I was silly enough to drink too much and make an exhibition of myself.’

‘Hmm. Well, just let me finish my drink and I’ll take you home.’ His dark eyes surveyed her for a moment speculatively. ‘I suppose I was rather rushing things a bit just now, wanting you to myself. After all, the competition’s pretty stiff, isn’t it? I can’t be very exciting compared to David Clyde.’ His knowledge surprised her and not altogether pleased her. She frowned, releasing her hands from his and picking up her bag from the table, her eyes lowered.

‘What makes you mention David Clyde?’ she asked, and he laughed shortly, a little embarrassed, she suspected, and already regretting his curiosity.

'No special reason,’ he said. ‘It was Mary who said she’d seen you together on Sunday morning. She said you flashed past in a red sports car, but she had time to recognise David Clyde and your red head. She was curious and a bit envious. She’s crazy about him.’

She smiled at the information. ‘I was with David on Sunday,’ she admitted. ‘He took me on a sightseeing torn: of London.’

‘Lucky him,’ he said dryly, his smile quizzical as he sipped the last of his champagne. ‘He’s got quite a reputation as a ladies’ man, hasn’t he?’

‘I believe so,’ she said quietly, finding his curiosity irritating. ‘I met David the day I arrived in England and he took me out on Sunday morning. He’s also taking me to lunch tomorrow. That’s the sum total of our acquaintance and I have no way of knowing if I shall see him again after tomorrow, so you needn’t build a big romance out of it, Francis, and neither need Mary.’ Her smile took the sting out of the words, but for a moment his dark eyes flashed anger at being put in his place, then he too smiled.

‘I’m sorry, Shara, I had no right to quiz you like that. I couldn’t help being curious about you and David Clyde, though, you see there’ve been rumours for a year or two now that your cousin and he have been at loggerheads.’

‘They aren’t exactly close friends,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘But Patrick doesn’t interfere in my life to the extent of choosing my friends.’

'No, of course not.’ He sounded unusually humble as they rose to go and she touched his hand briefly and smiled, glancing only casually at her cousin and Liz Merril as they left the club.

He would have come into the house had he been invited, she felt sure, but she firmly refused to allow him any farther than the doorstep. He kissed her rather more forcefully than she liked and laughed when she protested. ‘Are you afraid that Baron Hardup might catch us?’ he teased, referring to his original name for Patrick.

‘I’m not worried at all!’ she retorted. ‘I just don’t like you kissing me like that, that’s all.’

‘Don’t you like me?' He looked plaintive and boyish and she was hard put to it not to laugh at his expression.

‘Of course I like you,’ she said, ‘I like you very much, but I haven’t known you very long, have I?’

'You haven’t known David Clyde very long either,’ he said, and added hastily, when he saw her frown, ‘I will see you again, won’t I?'

‘I shall see you at Mary’s engagement party for sure, shan’t I?' she said, smiling at his look of disappointment.

'Not until Mary’s party?’ he asked, dismayed. ‘I hoped ‑’ He stopped, his smile knowing. ‘Oh, yes, of course. David Clyde. The competition’s a bit fierce, isn’t it?’

‘It’s no competition,’ she told him shortly, ‘and I wish you’d stop bringing David into every sentence, Francis. I’ve had a lovely time tonight and I don’t want you to spoil it. I’m seeing David for lunch tomorrow, but if you want to see me again before Mary’s party—well, it’s up to you, isn’t it?’

‘I do, Shara.’ He moved closer to her, close enough for her to see the dark glow in his eyes and feel the warmth of his breath on her cheeks as he spoke. ‘I’d like to see you tomorrow night. Are you free, then?’

'Yes, I’m free as far as I know,’ she said, and he sighed his satisfaction.

‘Good, then I’ll come for you about eight o’clock, shall I?’

‘All right, I’ll be ready. Good night, Francis.’ She allowed him another brief kiss before she let herself into the house and firmly closed the door, smiling to herself as she did so at the sigh of disappointment he gave.

The sound of his car engine had scarcely died away from the quiet mews when Patrick arrived and she turned a little uncertainly to greet him. The way they had argued over David the last time they had met and remembering the disapproving looks he had been sending her during the evening, she was wary in her greeting. ‘Hello, Patrick.'

He closed the door quietly behind him and locked it, before he answered her. ‘Did you enjoy yourself?' he asked, and she hoped she imagined the tinge of sarcasm in his voice, but felt her face flush anew under the disconcerting gaze he turned on her.

'Yes, thank you, did you?'

He crossed to the cabinet in the comer of the room and, opening it, reached for a bottle of whisky, ignoring her question and instead asking one of his own. ‘Who was your boy-friend, anyone I know?'

She resented the question and the tone it was asked in, but did her best to stifle the resentment. ‘I should think it unlikely,' she said. 'He's the brother of one of the girls I knew in France. His name’s Francis Kohn.'

He arched an expressive brow as he sipped his drink. ‘Kohn? The steel family?’ She nodded and he laughed shortly at her faint look of surprise as he walked across the room towards her. ‘I’m not a complete ignoramus outside my own profession, you know. I have some shares in Kohn Steel, some that my father left me, among other things. Is your boy-friend the son and heir? If so he stands to be very rich one of these days.’

‘I believe he is the only son,' she said stiffly, disliking the tone he used when he referred to Francis. ‘And he isn’t my boy-friend. I only met him this afternoon.’

‘Really?’ That expressive brow was raised again and she was certain now that he was going to mention having seen them at the Top Folk and in particular her own rather indiscreet behaviour. 'You soon get on intimate terms with people, don’t you?'

She felt her fingers curl at her sides and bit her lip in an effort not to retort as she so wanted to. ‘It isn’t difficult to become friendly with some people,' she said stiffly. ‘Francis is a very easy-going person and it isn’t difficult to be at ease with him.’

He took another sip from his drink, his lips curled into that infuriating smile she hated. 'You looked very much at ease with him,' he told her, ‘in fact you were looking at him, at one time, as if he was die only man on earth, hence my reference to him as your boy-friend. Sorry if I was mistaken, it was just the impression I got from seeing you together.’ He seemed not to notice her clenched hands, nor the fury in her green eyes as she looked at him, but talked on blithely. ‘I should have realised, of course, that the amount of champagne you had must have had something to do with it’

'You have no right to ‑' She almost choked on the words that refused to sound calm and quiet as she intended they should, and the smile on his face did nothing to placate her, rather it made her more angry than ever. 'You have absolutely no right to talk to me like that! It has nothing to do with you how much champagne I drank, and at least I haven’t started drinking again the minute I come in.' She glared meaningly at his whisky glass and he laughed.

'You are a little fury, aren’t you?' He seemed undeterred by her anger and there was something in the way he spoke and the purposeful way he put down the half-empty glass that tingled a warning down her spine. She would have moved towards the stairs and escaped to her room, but he stopped her with a hand on her wrist Not a hard grip, but firm enough to prevent her moving; her wide-eyed look of momentary panic seemed to amuse him and he smiled slowly. ‘Maybe I have had more than is good for me,' he admitted, 'but I’m not drunk by any means and you know it’ He leaned closer to her and under the harshness of the electric lights she could see the fine lines of laughter round his eyes and at the comers of his mouth. She must have shown her brief panic, for he laughed softly and tightened his hold on her wrist. ‘You’re not afraid of me, are you, Shara?’

She shook her head, but her uncertainty was plain in her eyes and the rapid, warning thump of her heart almost deafened her. ‘Of course not,' she denied, ‘but I’d like to go to my room if you don’t mind, it’s very late and I am rather tired. Please let me go.’

He looked down at her for a long moment, his deep blue eyes exploring every smooth curve of her features, holding her half-wary gaze until she swept her long lashes down to hide it. ‘Please, Patrick!’

‘Please, Patrick!’ He mimicked her unkindly, but a moment later released her arm, suddenly impatient. ‘All right, go to your room.’

She stood for a moment, rubbing her wrist where he had held her, her eyes uncertain. ‘Good night.’

‘Good night.’ He did not even look at her, but picked up his glass again and tossed off the rest of the whisky while she moved towards the stairs. She climbed them slowly, refusing to look back, an unnatural stiffness in her back and the way she held her red head.

The following morning, at breakfast, he appeared to have forgotten the incident and she was nothing loath to let it remain forgotten, answering his customary greeting with no more or less cordiality than usual. They had almost finished their meal before he said much at all and then it was to mention David, a subject she would as soon have left untouched.

‘You’re seeing Clyde for lunch today, aren’t you?’ he asked, and she tried hard to stem the prickle of resentment she felt at the question.

That’s right,’ she agreed. ‘I’m seeing him about half past eleven.’ She was very tempted to add ‘if you don’t mind’, but she resisted it. It was too exhausting quarrelling with him. The loss of temper, she was bound to admit, was usually on her part; he merely seemed to find any righteous anger she displayed amusing.

‘I assume you’ve let Polly know that you won’t be in?’ he said, and she nodded.

‘Of course, I always tell her if I’m not going to be in for a meal.’ Her tone implied that it was time he knew that much about her, but he seemed unconcerned that he had offended her, however mildly.

She was a little late leaving the house for her meeting with David and he was waiting for her rather anxiously when she emerged from the mews. She apologised for being late as he helped her into the car and he smiled his forgiveness. His light grey eyes swept over her from red head to neatly shod toe, and he sighed his approval. ‘It was well worth waiting for you,’ he said as he climbed in beside her. ‘You look absolutely stunning.’ He reached into an inside pocket and handed her a ticket. ‘Oh, by the way, before I forget it; that’s a ticket to see my show at the Playhouse and I thought we could have dinner afterwards if you’d like to.’ There was nothing uncertain or hesitant about David, she thought with a smile; he knew what he wanted and he made no bones about it. In a way he was very like Patrick, very sure of himself, and she supposed it was part and parcel of their profession and their charm.

He drove them to the little Italian restaurant where they had lunched before and she was content to go wherever she was taken. Anyway, the food here was excellent and the atmosphere of the place quiet and relaxing. She felt like relaxing after being with Patrick, who always seemed to put her nerves on edge, though perhaps it was unfair to put the entire blame for that on him when she knew that her own resentment had a lot to do with it.

The waiter who served them was Cockney in speech but his liquid dark eyes and expressive gestures betrayed his origin as he showed them to their table. He eyed Shara with a barely veiled interest and smiled knowingly at David. ‘They know you here,’ she ventured, and he admitted it with a smile.

‘They do,' he said. 'I come here fairly often. It has everything a restaurant should have, to my way of thinking. Excellent food, good service and an air of discretion.'

She arched an enquiring brow over the latter. ‘Is discretion so important to you?' she asked, and he laughed softly, covering her hand with his own.

‘Of course,’ he said. Tm something of a villain, I thought you realised that by now. Hasn’t your saintly cousin primed you on my sinful reputation yet? He must be slipping.’

She flushed at his jeering reference to Patrick and pulled away her hand. ‘Patrick hasn’t said much about you at all, David, and I wish you didn’t dislike each other so much. It makes it very difficult for me.’

‘Poor little you,’ he mocked, then laughed shortly as he picked up the menu to study it. 'You can hardly expect me to love him after yesterday, can you?’

She had hoped he would not mention the audition and its disappointing result, but she should have known better. ‘David, please don’t go on blaming Patrick for that. I’m sure it wasn’t his fault you didn’t get the part, although he refuses to defend himself.’

He looked momentarily surprised, then eyed her curiously. ‘Has he needed to?’ he asked. ‘Did you say something to him about it?’ Her silence was reply enough and he laughed gleefully. ‘I believe you did, you dear sweet angel. You sprang to my defence and he must have hated it—oh, you are a darling, Shara!’

She found his enthusiasm rather spiteful and frowned. ‘I did mention it to him,' she admitted. ‘But I’m sure I was wrong to think he had anything to do with your being turned down. I’m sure he wouldn’t let his personal feelings come into it, David, please believe that’

He leaned across the table towards her and took her hands between both of his, ignoring the hovering waiter waiting to take their order. ‘Look, my lovely girl, you can believe in your cousin’s best intentions if you like, but don’t, in the name of reason, expect me to share your faith. Pat Owen still hates me for taking Linda away from him and he wouldn’t have me in anything he was casting, not in a thousand years.’

‘Oh, stop it, David! If you thought you had no chance of getting the part you shouldn’t have gone for the audition, but you were so certain that you would get it.'

‘I thought I would,’ he admitted, ‘but that was before he knew you’d been out with me.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ she told him impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter to Patrick who I go out with. Why on earth should it? I’m only a distant relative that he has to put up with for the next two years, he doesn’t even notice me half the time.’ She knew what she was telling him was untrue, but she desperately wanted to convince him. ‘He told me that you— you simply weren’t suitable for the part, that’s all.’

‘That’s all!’ He raised his hands dramatically. ‘My dear, sweet girl, that part would have been the making of me, professionally, and you say that’s all!’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, but please, don’t blame Patrick for it, it wasn’t his fault.’ She remembered her own outburst against Patrick and his chilling reception of her accusations, but she could not sit there and let David talk about him so bitterly.

The light grey eyes studied her curiously for a moment, noting the anxious expression in her green eyes, then he smiled, shaking his head slowly. ‘The famous Owen charm has made quite an impression on you, hasn’t it?’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s living in such close proximity to it for nearly two weeks.’ She flushed at the implication and shook her head in denial, though she admitted, to herself, that there was probably an element of truth in what he said. It was very difficult to remain angry with Patrick for very long.

‘You’re talking nonsense, David,’ she told him. ‘And please,’ she added plaintively, ‘can we eat? I’m famished.’ To her relief he merely smiled and signalled to the waiter.

David could be very good company when he was not on the subject of Patrick and she soon forgot their momentary disagreement as the meal progressed. It was while they were lingering over coffee that she sensed rather than saw David stiffen suddenly and she looked up curiously to see the cause. He was looking across the small room towards the entrance to where a couple had just come in. The man was short, stout and almost completely bald and the woman a tall, svelte-looking brunette. She walked beautifully and with the self-confidence of beauty, most male heads turning as she walked down the length of the room with her escort.

David laughed, rather self-consciously as he watched them. ‘Well, well,’ he said softly, ‘if it isn’t the inimitable Maybury, and with Solly Ledman, no less.’

‘Linda Maybury?’ Shara longed to turn her head and have a really long look at the girl who had so nearly married Patrick and on whose behalf he had come to blows with David. The waiter had seated them so that the other couple were just out of her sight unless she deliberately turned her head, and she found the position madly frustrating. In the brief time she had been able to see the actress she had judged her to be very attractive and certainly eye-catching, particularly in company with her short, fat companion. The name Solly Ledman sounded familiar, although she could not remember where she had heard it before. ‘Who did you say she was with, David?’ she asked, and he pulled a wry face as he answered.

‘Solly Ledman,’ he said ruefully, ‘your Patrick’s co-producer on that film they’ve been casting.’ He saw Shara’s look of realisation and smiled grimly. ‘That explains why I didn’t get the part. Dear Linda is forgiven and gets the leading female role, but he’s taking no chances on a repeat performance as far as I’m concerned.’

CHAPTER FOUR

There was no sign of Patrick when she returned home, but Polly greeted her with a wry smile and a bouquet of carnations and freesias which she handed to her dong with a vase of water. ‘These came for you while you were out,’ she told her. ‘They smell gorgeous.’ She watched, openly curious, while Shara took the accompanying card from its envelope, and cocked her head to one side, her gnome-like face frankly inquisitive. ‘Another knight errant?’ she asked.

The message was brief and written in a neat, small hand that was unfamiliar. ‘Tonight. Francis,’ was all it said, and she smiled, looking at Polly’s expectant face. ‘They’re from Mr. Kohn,’ she told her. ‘You remember I had dinner with him last night.’

‘Nice young man,’ Polly commented generously. ‘You inspire ’em to say it with flowers, don’t you?’ she added with a broad smile. ‘And very nice, too, everybody benefits from it.’ She turned in the act of going back to her kitchen. ‘Are you going out tonight? Just so’s I know how many to get dinner for.’

‘Yes, I am,’ she said. ‘I’m seeing Mr. Kohn again.’

Polly nodded agreeably. Apparently Francis was quite acceptable in her eyes; her disapproval was seemingly reserved solely for David Clyde.

‘That means that Mr. Owen will be having dinner on his own, then,’ she said, and Shara looked her surprise.

‘Isn’t he going out after the show?’ Polly shook her head.

‘Oh well. I’m sorry about that, but I don’t imagine he’ll mind very much. He’ll probably be glad to have his home to himself again for a while.’

‘Don’t talk silly!’ Polly retorted, with the familiarity she was allowed. ‘He loves having you here; he’s been as different again this last couple of weeks since you came.’

Shara stared her disbelief for a moment, then laughed. ‘Different perhaps,’ she conceded, ‘but not because he’s pleased, I’m quite sure. I seem to amuse him and, on occasion, irritate him, but he shows no signs of actually enjoying my company.’

‘Huh! A lot you know about it!’ Polly retorted. ‘You don’t know him as well as I do. I can read him like a book and I say he loves having you here, so you take my word for it.’

Shara laughed at the pugnacity on the odd little face. ‘I’d be prepared to argue that point,’ she said, ‘but you believe it if you want to.’

‘I shall and I do,’ Polly decided firmly, turning to go into the kitchen without further argument and leaving Shara with a strange feeling of unrest that she could not account for.

She arranged the flowers in the vase that Polly had provided her with and smiled to herself as she smelled the sweet heady perfume of the freesias. With most of David’s bouquet still in good order the room did look well provided with flowers. As she stood the vase of freesias and carnations in the centre of the table her eye fell on her handbag and reminded her of the ticket David had given her at lunchtime. She had not looked at it until now and as she read the date on the front of it she put a hand to her mouth in dismay. ‘Oh no!’ She stared at it wide-eyed for a moment. If only she had looked at it before, she would have noticed the date and she could have done something about it. It was for tonight, and tonight she was supposed to be having dinner with Francis Kohn.

She stood for several uncertain minutes, her mind racing to find a solution. It would be only right of course to let David know that she could not see him, since she had promised to see Francis, but on the other hand it would be simpler, or so she told herself, to tell Francis that she could not after all see him tonight. It would be far easier to rearrange a dinner date than to cancel a theatre ticket and a dinner date, and this she decided to do, firmly quelling the part of her mind that told her that her prime reason was because she would rather see David again than Francis.

She found the Kohns' telephone number in her diary and dialled, waiting what seemed an interminable time before anyone answered, then a rather timorous female voice informed her that the whole family were out and asked if she could do anything to help. 'I'd like to contact Mr. Francis Kohn,' Shara told her. ‘Can you tell me where I can reach him?’

The voice could not tell her, because Mr. Francis was somewhere in the country and she did not know where. The voice further assured her, though rather hesitantly, that he would be in later in the afternoon and Shara decided that the only solution was to leave a message for him. It was a brief and rather formal message in the circumstances, but as it had to be passed to him by a not very bright-sounding female, she thought it best to keep it brief. He would be almost sure to give himself plenty of time before he met her, so that he would have plenty of warning and he would not be too unreasonable about it, she felt sure.

Several times as she was getting ready, she felt a prickle of conscience about Francis and she wondered if she should have rung again to see if he had returned, but she told herself that she had done as much as she could to settle the embarrassing situation in which she found herself. She only hoped that Francis would understand and believe her message that she had remembered a previous date, hoping the lie would never find her out. If only David had not swept her along as usual, giving her no time to think about anything except the immediate present, she would have looked at the ticket before.

She heard Patrick come in while she was upstairs changing and wondered if she should tell Polly that she had changed her plans, then decided it was hardly of interest to Polly. All she was concerned with was that she would not be in for dinner and that Patrick would be dining alone. He was ready to leave again for the theatre when she came downstairs and she remembered that his curtain went up half an hour later than David’s.

He looked at her with flattering intensity when she appeared and smiled appreciatively. ‘You look too good to be true,’ he told her. ‘Are you going my way? If you are you could share my taxi.’

She shook her head, wishing she did not feel so ridiculously pleased at his admiration. ‘I’m not going your way, thank you, Patrick. I’m going the opposite way. Thank you all the same.’

‘I gather you’re on the town again tonight.’ He smiled his mocking smile and she shook her head again, trying to stifle her resentment at what she took to be criticism.

‘No, just an ordinary evening out, that’s all. Nothing spectacular.’

He laughed softly, his dark blue eyes glinting with good humour as he looked at her.

‘In other words, mind my own business, hmm?’

‘I didn’t say that!’ She flushed as she made the denial. ‘Why do you always have to put words into my mouth?’ He looked genuinely surprised at the accusation and she wondered if she was perhaps transferring some of her guilt about Francis to him.

‘Do I? I didn’t know. If I do, I’m sorry.’

She bit her ho at his apology and turned to look at him, tall and businesslike in a well-cut grey suit, looking more like a stockbroker than an actor, his eyes curious as to the cause of her uneasiness. ‘No,’ she said slowly, shaking her head. ‘I'm sorry, Patrick. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like I did.’

He made no answer for a moment while she turned to rearrange the freesias that Francis had sent her, her fingers nervously busy among the scented blooms, then she heard him move and his shadow fell between them as he blocked the overhead light. One arm circled her shoulders and turned her towards him, then he lifted her chin with one finger and looked down at her for a moment before he bent his head and kissed her gently but firmly on the mouth.

‘Good night, my beautiful heathen.’ He spoke softly. ‘Have fun.’ He was gone and the door closed quietly behind him before she recovered from her surprise. He sometimes referred to her as a beautiful heathen—more, she suspected, to annoy her than for any sort of reproach, but she refused to be annoyed by it and in fact was quite happy with it as a nickname, it was almost a joke between them now, but he had never before kissed her on her mouth. Always, when he made the gesture at all, it was on her forehead or one cheek, and there had been something in the way he had turned her to face him that sent a strange tingle down her spine when she thought about it.

The sound of a taxi outside in the mews brought her sharply back to reality and after a glance at her watch she hastened to open the door to the driver. She called a goodbye to Polly, over her shoulder, and went out.

The play in which David was appearing, playing the second lead, was rather ponderously modern, with deliberate shock tactics masquerading as realism, and she did not enjoy it very much, instead finding her mind constantly returning to Patrick, with no thought of Francis even entering her head. It was only during dinner afterwards that she remembered him and mentioned to David the predicament she had found herself in. His pale grey eyes gleamed wickedly as he bent his fair head over her captive hand and his smile was pure self-satisfaction.

‘So you put him off, although he had prior claim. Pm flattered, my lovely!'

She laughed uneasily, wondering at his colossal conceit, for she had no doubt that her decision had been no more than he would have expected.

‘You needn’t be,’ she told him. ‘It was just that a dinner date was easier to postpone than a theatre ticket.'

‘I doubt if your Mr. Kohn agrees with that,' he said with a laugh, and looked at her with such intensity that she lowered her eyes and attempted to manage her coffee with her one free hand. He sat quite still for a moment or two, watching her with that rather speculative expression in his eyes while she waited for him to speak, knowing that he was about to say something that was important, at least to him. ‘I have something Pd like you to see, somewhere you haven't been before,' he said slowly, at last. ‘Will you come?'

She raised her eyes, made uneasy by the dark gleam in his and the tone of his voice. ‘I don't know, David.' She sounded doubtful, managing to free her other hand with difficulty, since he was holding on to it so tightly. ‘It depends where it is you want me to go. It will be rather late when we leave here, won't it? Too late to go anywhere else.'

He shook his head, his smile tight and almost too cat-like as he looked at her across the small table. ‘Not for where I have in mind,' he said, his voice deep and a little husky. ‘I thought you'd like to see my flat. It's not as expensive as your cousin's palatial quarters, of course, but Zed Mekle, the designer, did the decor for me and it's really quite something to see.'

Shara gave her full attention to her coffee, trying not to look and sound as naive as she felt he must think her. ‘I can’t do that, David, not so late at night.’

‘Why not?’ His surprise was probably genuine, she thought, and wondered if she was being just a bit too old-fashioned, but her instincts told her that David would not be satisfied with a visit to do no more than admire the decor of his flat, and she shook her head adamantly.

‘You know why not,’ she told him, ‘and please don’t insist, David.’

His good-looking face twisted into a caricature of his usual smile and there was a glint of sheer malice in the light grey eyes as he looked at her. ‘Darling, that attitude went out with button boots and crinolines. Don’t be a spoilsport.’

She felt her colour rise at his sneer and wished that they were somewhere less public so that she did not feel so vulnerable. ‘I can’t help what you think, David. I’m not coming to your flat at this time of night and that’s final.’

‘Afraid of what Patrick might say?’ he jeered, and the jibe found its mark so that she turned anger-bright eyes on him—more angry because she knew that what he said had a basis of truth.

‘No, I’m not afraid of what Patrick might say,’ she said, her voice tight with anger. ‘I just don’t want to come to your flat at this time of night.’

‘Why?’ he demanded, watching her almost gleefully, it seemed.

‘It’s obvious why,’ she said. ‘I’m not a fool, David, and neither are you.’

‘It isn’t the done thing for nicely brought-up young ladies to do,’ he sneered. ‘And yet you quite happily share his house with him!' She stared at him for a moment, too stunned to protest, then she picked up her evening purse from the table and stood up. ‘Shara!’

She ignored his protest and walked, angrily erect, out of the restaurant and into the foyer. The cloakroom girl gave a brief, understanding glance at her flushed face and angry green eyes and found her coat for her. She stepped outside into the warm night air, standing for a moment to enjoy the comparative coolness of it on her hot cheeks.

The doorman looked at her enquiringly, noticing, as the girl had done, the angry colour in her face and eyes. ‘Taxi, madam?’ He barely concealed his surprise at seeing her alone but read his own story into her angry face. She nodded and he stepped to the edge of the kerb and raised a hand.

‘Never mind.’ It was David’s voice that stopped him and the man looked enquiringly at Shara before returning to his place beside the door, still keeping a curious eye on them as they moved away.

David took her arm and guided her past the front of the restaurant to the alley where the car was parked, Shara uncertainly quiet, undecided whether to pull angrily away from him or to walk meekly along with him as she was doing. The shortness of the walk decided it for her and David himself said nothing until they were standing by the car in the dark little alley with no one in sight but an inquisitive cat that came to investigate them.

‘I’d like to go home,’ she said as they came to a halt. She was still stiff with anger and her voice shaky with it. He turned her to face him, looking down at her for a moment before he lifted her chin with one finger and tried to make her look at him.

‘I’m sorry, Shara. I really am sorry, won’t you forgive me?’ There was warmth and persuasion in the deep voice and she could not help but raise her eyes to meet his. They looked more than usually light in the yellow of the street lamp and his expression was one of genuine contrition.

‘I—I don’t know.’

‘Must I regret one rash word for the rest of my life?’ It was a line of dialogue direct from the play she had seen him in earlier and the sheer impudence he showed in using it struck her ever-ready sense of humour so that she half smiled and, seeing her weakening, he put both hands on her arms. ‘Forgive me?’

She nodded, sighing deeply at the inevitability of it. ‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘Although you don’t deserve it after that quote.’ His light eyes glinted wickedly at her.

‘And you’ll forget I was a boor and not remind me of it?’

‘Yes, unless you step out of line again.’ She felt his fingers tighten on her arms and sensed the tingle of warning again. ‘But I shan’t come to your flat with you.’

He shrugged, seemingly resigned. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t resist trying.’ He opened the car door and helped her in.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, as he came round the car and folded his length behind the steering wheel, and he cocked a tentative eyebrow at her.

‘I thought we’d go for a ride and blow away those cobwebs,’ he said. ‘It’s a lovely night. ‘She agreed to the plan a little uncertainly, but as he drove them to the outskirts of town and the air became cooler and the roads quieter she slowly relaxed, enjoying the smoothness of the ride and the warm wind they were creating as they went. They drove mostly in silence and it was only as they were turned once more back towards town that David mentioned their previous disagreement ‘Will you tell Owen about my asking you to my flat?’ he asked.

‘I don’t expect so,’ she said, thinking that it would be unlikely that she would ever let Patrick know about tonight if she could help it He would have been furious with David, she felt sure, and perhaps not as sympathetic towards herself as might be expected.

‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘And I hope you won’t refuse to come out with me again, will you?’

‘I don’t expect I shall,’ she said, leaning back in the narrow seat to look at the full moon over their heads. ‘Do you think I’m very old-fashioned, David?’

He half turned his head to look at her, smiling slightly. ‘I think you’re a very lovely and a very, very desirable girl,’ he said, ‘and I’m going to take you home before I blot my copybook again by showing you how desirable.’

She knew that something was wrong as soon as she opened the door and walked into the sitting-room, for Patrick got up from one of the armchairs and stood looking at her in such a way that she felt very small and unaccountably guilty, though she could not think why.

‘Where the devil have you been?’ he demanded, before she had time to close the door behind her, and she flushed at the accusing tone of his voice.

‘I’ve been to the theatre,’ she said. ‘You knew that, Patrick, I told you I was going.’

‘You told Polly you were having dinner with Francis Kohn,’ he accused, and she bit her lip, suspecting the worst.

‘I know I did,’ she admitted, ‘but I had to change my plans.’

‘And you didn’t consider it necessary to let Kohn know?’ He was angrier than she had ever seen him and she protested hastily in her own defence.

‘But I did! I rang Francis earlier. None of the family was in at the time, but I left a message for him with one of the servants and she promised to give it to him when he came in.’ It was obvious he doubted her word from the way he looked at her. 'I did, Patrick.’

‘Then why did Francis Kohn come here for you just before eight o’clock?’ he demanded. ‘Couldn’t you have told someone of your change of plans?’

‘I told you, I rang ‑’

‘I mean told Polly or even me,’ he interrupted impatiently. ‘Then we could have told him where you were. As it was we knew nothing.’

‘Francis came here?’ Her dismay was plain to see and he must have realised at last that she was telling the truth. ‘But why didn’t that stupid woman tell him? Why didn’t she give him my message?’ She shook her head. ‘She sounded a bit silly, but I thought she would manage to pass on a simple message.’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘Was he very angry?’

‘He was more puzzled than angry, but I said there must have been some reason for you going off like that without explanation and I think he eventually believed that you’d confused the date or something. I thought you might have been mistaken where you were to meet and I rang the Top Folk to ask if they’d seen anything of you, which they hadn’t. Then Liz Merril rang me some time later, about the new script, and she said she’d seen you going into the Playhouse. Then I realised who was at the back of it all.’

‘You’re wrong, I ‑'

‘I’m not wrong!’ His eyes blazed at her in a fury she would never have believed him capable of. ‘You let Clyde talk you into treating Francis Kohn abominably!’

She felt horribly guilty about Francis, all over again, and Patrick’s outburst did nothing to help, so that she faced him, trembling with temper and near to tears, her hands clenched at her sides. ‘Don’t yell at me, Patrick, and don’t blame David. It had nothing to do with him, it was my fault entirely. I should have tried harder to get in touch with Francis, but there was so little time.’

‘You have been with Clyde?’

‘Yes of course, I have. He gave me a ticket for his show when I saw him at lunch-time and like an idiot I didn’t check the date until it was too late, then it seemed easier to cancel my dinner date with Francis than to waste the theatre ticket. I had to let one of them down, I couldn’t help it. Even you must see that.’

The deep blue eyes condemned her. ‘So it had to be Kohn, of course.’

‘I’ve told you, I left a message for him at his home. I can’t help it if that silly girl didn’t tell him. I can’t think why he didn’t get it.’

‘It’s simple,’ he said dryly. ‘He didn’t go home first. He keeps a flat in the centre of town and he went straight there, it was quicker. He didn’t want to keep you waiting.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, but I wasn’t to know he’d do that, was I? Anyway,’ she added crossly, ‘I don’t suppose he made half as much fuss as you have about it.’

He looked at her with that discomfiting gaze, the deeply cleft chin thrust aggressively. ‘Possibly not,’ he told her, ‘but he didn’t spend nearly two hours sitting here worrying himself sick about you either. Trying to think what could have happened to you, or if you were hurt or—or worse.’ She shook her head slowly, her eyes wide with disbelief as he turned away from her as if he found her realisation of the situation embarrassing.

'You were worried in case something had happened to me?’ she asked. He did not look at her when he spoke, but poured whisky into a glass and sipped it experimentally before adding soda water to it.

‘You’re such a little idiot, anything might have happened 1:0 you,’ he said shortly. ‘I just didn’t know, and then when Liz said she’d seen you going in to see Clyde’s play, I vowed I’d spank you the minute you came in that door.’

‘I’m sorry, Patrick.’ She sounded much more meek than she felt. ‘I didn’t realise you’d be so worried about me. I won’t let it happen again, I promise.’

He turned and looked at her then, a smile round his mouth that made her remember how he had kissed her before he went out that evening. ‘Just see that it doesn’t,’ he told her. ‘Now that you’re home, perhaps we can both get some sleep.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Although she tried to dismiss David’s remark about her sharing Patrick’s home as no more than a moment of spite, Shara found herself unable to forget the implication in it and during the next couple of weeks it was on her mind constantly. She could no longer pretend that it was without foundation. She was living quite happily in Patrick’s house without a qualm about the ethics of the situation; or she had done so until now. Polly was there, of course, and she supposed that she could be counted as a chaperone, but the fact remained that Patrick was not a close enough relative for the situation to be without its questionable side.

She doubted if Polly would agree with her, but she wished she could discover someone else’s point of view without making it too obvious. If David had seen fit to put an interpretation on her presence in the house, there was no knowing whether anyone else had done the same.

It would not be easy, she realised, to find anywhere of her own with the housing position as it was in London, but then there was nothing that made it essential for her to stay in town, except that she would find it less lonely until she knew more people. She could in the meantime, she supposed, go into a hotel, but the thought of exchanging her pretty, bright little room for the impersonal strangeness of a hotel appealed not at all. It was really too bad of David to put such disturbing ideas into her head.

Her frequent preoccupation had not escaped notice and she had been aware several times that Patrick was watching her curiously.

‘Is something worrying you?’ he asked one morning at breakfast, and she started almost guiltily so that he frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Patrick. What did you say?’

‘What is wrong?’ he said, still frowning at her preoccupied expression.

She merely toyed with the handle of her coffee cup and did not look at him. He was not the best person to ask an opinion of in this instance, for he would surely lose his temper about it and that would be no help at all. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she said slowly. ‘What makes you think there is?’

He rested his elbows on the edge of the table, both hands round the huge mug he always drank his coffee from, looking at her over the rim of it, his eyes speculative. ‘For one thing,’ he said quietly, ‘you’ve been very quiet during the last couple of weeks and you look as if you have something on your mind. I may be wrong, but I don’t think I am. Is something wrong, Shara?’

She shook her head, attempting a smile which failed miserably. ‘No, of course not. What could be wrong?’

He sighed resignation, suspecting that she was unwilling to tell him, yet certain that there was something worrying her. ‘It could be anything,' he told her. ‘But there is something, I’m certain of it, and I don’t like to see you so—so quiet.’ For a moment a smile hovered round his mouth as he looked at her. ‘It’s sufficiently unlike you to be noticeable,’ he teased her gently. ‘For the last few days you’ve definitely had something on your mind other than the problem of which dress to wear. Is it Clyde?’ There was the customary edge of hardness on his voice as there always was whenever he mentioned David, and she did not answer immediately. ‘Is it, Shara?’ She realised suddenly that her silence had been answer enough for him and she saw him frown, even though she shook her head in denial.

‘No, it’s nothing to do with David. At least,’ she added, ‘not directly.’

He sipped his coffee slowly, saying nothing for a moment, the steady, penetrating gaze watching her all the time. ‘Do you want to tell me about it, or would you rather I minded my own business?’ he asked at last.

‘No!’ She flushed at the impression she had evidently given him, but was still hesitant about answering him. ‘I mean I wouldn’t rather you ‑1 mean I don’t ‑Oh, I don’t know what I mean!’ She met his eves and saw a warmth and understanding there that encouraged her, but still she hesitated. 'You’ll probably think I’m being very silly.’

He smiled as if he thought it more than probable. ‘Why not tell me and find out?’ he suggested.

Still uncertain about the wisdom of it, she frowned her indecision for a moment. ‘It was David who first put it into my head,’ she said slowly, at last. ‘But I have wondered since if he’s the only one who—who thinks on the same lines.’

‘On what lines?’ he prompted quietly when she showed signs of changing her mind.

‘Well, you see it was when he asked me ‑’ She glanced up at him for a moment from under her lashes, even more uncertain about telling of David’s rash suggestion that had led to the retort. ‘He—he asked me to go to his flat, that night when you wondered where I was, you remember?’ She saw his mouth tighten ominously. ‘I don’t think he really meant it seriously, he was just ‑’

‘Go on,’ he said shortly. ‘I can decide Clyde’s motives for myself.’ He raised his head suddenly and looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘Did you go?’

‘No, of course not!’ Her expression showed the hurt she felt at his needing to ask such a question, so that he apologised hastily.

'I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you that,’ he said. ‘But I know how David Clyde can wrap almost any woman around his little finger. It’s a gift he seems to have,’ he smiled wryly, ‘and I know the effect it has on you.’

‘Not to that extent,’ she protested. ‘I thought you knew me well enough by now.’

He smiled at her ruefully and she told herself that Patrick was no easy person to stay angry with for very long, any more than David was. ‘I should have known, Shara. I’m sorry.’ She found herself smiling her forgiveness almost involuntarily. 'How did Clyde take your refusal?’ he asked, and saw her hesitate again before she answered.

'He was very angry with me,’ she said slowly as if choosing every word carefully. ‘He told me it was old-fashioned to think like that, but when I wouldn’t change my mind ‑’ She tried not to word it as bluntly as David had done, but saw no alternative and Patrick was watching her expectantly, his eyes glittering in anger that was directed only against David. ‘He said—that I wouldn’t come with him to his flat, but that—that I would quite happily share your house with you.’

He was silent for a moment, studying the thick black coffee in the mug he held, his knuckles white-boned with the grip he had on it. ‘And what was your reaction?’ The question was so quietly asked and so unexpectedly mild that she felt she might have made too much of the incident altogether. Perhaps he did think her silly to make so much fuss about it.

‘I was—angry. I got up and walked out of the restaurant without him.’

For a brief moment the blue eyes gleamed with amusement at the idea of David Clyde being deserted in a crowded restaurant.

‘Did he come after you?’ he asked and, when she nodded, smiled cynically at the inevitability of it. ‘And he talked you round?’

'He apologised,' she said defensively, as much on her own behalf as David’s. ‘He was very sorry, and I couldn’t very well hold a grudge over anything so trivial, could I?’

‘But you’ve decided since that it wasn’t so trivial and it’s been worrying you?’

'Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I couldn’t help wondering if someone else beside David had the same idea.’

‘Did he suggest they may have? I mean did he say that someone else had raised the subject to him, or was it purely his own idea?' She looked uncertain, a slight frown on her face as she thought over the incident in the restaurant. It was difficult to know from the way David had worded it, whether the idea had been his alone or whether someone else had mentioned it first.

‘I—I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about anyone else, but I couldn’t tell. I’ve thought about it so much during the last couple of weeks and—well, I suppose it could look— odd, couldn’t it, Patrick?’ Her appeal asked for a denial, but he merely shrugged and took a long drink from the huge mug of coffee. She looked down at her fingers, so carefully folding the square of linen on her lap. ‘So I thought perhaps, in the circumstances, it might be better if I looked for somewhere of my own in town. A flat or something.’ She felt miserably reluctant at the prospect and wished he would be a little more reassuring.

'You mean,’ he said quietly, at long last, ‘that if you move out now, people will think we’ve quarrelled and that we no longer live together?’

'Patrick!’ She stared at him wide-eyed, seeing too late the glint of humour in his eyes as he looked at her across the table.

‘My dear Shara,’ he said, as if reasoning with an obtuse child, ‘forget about it. As far as most people are concerned I’m sure nothing is farther from their minds than some nasty little scandal. Clyde would think the worst because he’s made that way, but I’m sure you’re worrying unnecessarily about it becoming general. As far as most people are concerned, I’m your cousin and also some sort of guardian, they don’t read anything else into the situation.’

'You don’t think I should get a place of my own?’

If you want to, do so by all means, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.’ He smiled at her wickedly. ‘And there’s always Polly to act as chaperone.’

Someone other than Polly might be concerned, she thought, as Liz Merril came to mind. She still did not know how serious it was with her and Patrick, but if Liz Merril’s feelings were anything to judge by, it was possible that he might be marrying her and while it might be acceptable to Patrick to have her living there, she doubted if Liz Merril would look at it so charitably. Also there was Linda Maybury. Now that he would be working again with her, in close proximity, there was no telling what would develop between them. It was a point to ponder and it did nothing to solve her own dilemma.

‘More problems?’ he asked, watching her expression change yet again, and she shook herself back to reality. With the thought of Linda Maybury still uppermost in her mind she gave voice to her thoughts almost without consideration.

‘David and I saw Linda Maybury lunching with Solly Ledman the other week,’ she said, and saw him stiffen slightly, though he made no other sign that the subject was distasteful. She waited for some comment from him and when he made none she went on. ‘I think David realised then that she was why he lost that role in your film, rather than your feelings towards him.' It was the first time that the matter of Linda Maybury and David had been mentioned directly between them and she wondered if he would be prepared to talk freely about it or tell her to mind her own business.

For a moment he looked at her steadily, a hint of a smile round his mouth. ‘I hate to say I told you so,' he said.

‘But you didn't,’ she retorted, ‘that’s the whole point, you let me think it was your way of getting your own back. You didn’t tell me it was because—well, because you were working with Linda Maybury again.’

‘Linda is playing the female lead,’ he said quietly. ‘Solly thought it unwise to have them working so closely together in view of past history.’ He looked at her with that slightly mocking smile again. ‘And I didn’t want to spoil your illusion of me as a mean-minded loser.’

‘Oh, Patrick, I didn’t!’ He laughed softly at her look of dismay and she shook her head. ‘Mr. Ledman doesn’t like David either, I suppose, if he can overlook past history as far as Linda Maybury and you are concerned.’

To her surprise he did not even take offence at her obvious jibe but merely shook his head slowly. ‘Solly is a good judge of character and wisely he decided not to trust David Clyde once he had chosen Linda for the part. A clash of personalities in a cast can cost a great deal of money in hold-ups.’ He smiled wryly at her ‘He has little option as far as I’m concerned, I’m co-producer.’

‘You don’t mind?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘Working together again, I mean.’

The deep blue eyes were distant for a moment, then he smiled. ‘No, I don’t mind. Anything that was between Linda and me was over long ago. We’re both working actors and as such we can leave personalities out of it and get on with the job.’

‘She’s very attractive,’ Shara ventured, and he nodded thoughtfully.

‘She is. It’s an advantage in our profession.’ And that, his tone implied, was as much as he intended to say on the subject, so she fell silent, thoughtful still, at the possibility of their previous feelings for each other being revived by their close contact.

It was a couple of weeks later, as he was preparing to leave for the theatre, that he surprised her by mentioning her coming birthday, something she expected him to have forgotten. ‘It’s your birthday in a couple of days, isn’t it?’ he asked, and she nodded, seeing his eyes glinting with good humour as he looked at her briefly. ‘You’ve been a good girl. I shall have to bring you home a lolly for a birthday treat.’ Knowing that any reference to her comparative youth was a touchy subject with her, he watched her face for signs of the familiar flush of resentment, but instead she smiled at him sweetly and dipped him a mock curtsy.

‘Thank you, Uncle Patrick,’ she said demurely, and seconds later burst into laughter at his expression of surprise. ‘I’ve decided to pay you back in your own coin,’ she informed him. ‘Whenever you treat me like a child, I shall behave like one and give you the deference due to your age.’

‘And at the same time prove that you’re not a child,’ he said ruefully. ‘Only a woman could think of a revenge like that!’

She laughed again, pleased at her minor victory. ‘I’m glad you realise it at last,’ she told him, and he made a moue of regret at her as he shrugged into his coat.

‘I’m learning all the time,’ he told her. ‘You know my father always used to say that it was impossible to ever really know what a woman was thinking, one could only make wild guesses and hope to be right at least once in a hundred times.’

‘That’s a very cynical remark,’ Shara objected, ‘and it doesn’t sound very much like Uncle George. He was always very sweet to me when I saw him.’

‘But he left me in charge of your inheritance,’ he pointed out. ‘And that rather proves my point, I think.’ A point she conceded with a wry face that made him smile.

He was almost to the door when he turned and looked back at her. ‘Are you going out tonight?' he asked, and she nodded.

‘I’m seeing Francis later on. Why?' she added curiously. ‘Have you any special reason for asking?'

He shrugged. ‘No, merely displaying an avuncular interest.’ He hesitated, looking down at his hands for a moment as if uncertain of his next words. ‘If you can manage it, try to be free for Friday night, will you?'

‘Friday night?’ she echoed, puzzled for a moment. ‘That’s my birthday.’ She looked at him for a long moment, her heart behaving in the most erratic way and her fingers plucking nervously at the bracelet she wore. ‘I’m not going anywhere on Friday night as far as I know.’

‘Good.’ He nodded his satisfaction. ‘I’d like to take you to dinner after you’ve seen my play. If you’d like to, of course,’ he added hastily.

‘I’d love to,’ she said, and smiled. ‘It’s eight years since I saw you in anything last. I remember coming backstage afterwards and I was rather overawed by it all'

He looked surprised. ‘I didn’t even know you’d been to see me at all,’ he said. ‘I can’t think how I came to forget, though.’

‘It was easy,’ she told him ruefully. ‘I was only fourteen at the time and I don’t think you had very much time for little girls—that was the impression I got, anyway.’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘I’ll try to make up for it this time,’ he said, and went out before she could find a suitable reply, closing the door quietly behind him.

She had not told the complete truth when she had said that she was uncommitted for Friday night, but the arrangement was tentative enough for her to be able to alter it with an easy conscience, although what David would say when he discovered that he was being passed over in favour of Patrick she hated to think. She wondered too how much fuel it would add to his suspicion. He would make much of it, she felt sure, even though it was no more than a family celebration of her birthday, so she told herself.

It was while she was lunching with him the next day that she told him and he frowned over the information with every appearance of being disgruntled, as she expected. ‘You promised to have dinner with me,’ he told her. ‘What made you change your mind?'

‘I didn’t actually promise,' she denied. ‘I said I would have to see. I’m very cautious ever since I confused the date that time with you and Francis. I didn’t say, definitely say I’d see you, David, and now I’m telling you for certain. I can’t, not on Friday.’

‘I see. Then do I take it that Francis won the toss this time?’ It was a mean jibe and she flashed an angry look at him which he met with a mock gesture of fright. ‘I’m sorry, my sweet. I didn’t mean to be spiteful, but you really get under my skin.’ He took her hands in his, smiling at her ruefully. ‘I should resent it, you know, it’s strictly against my code of ethics to allow females to rattle me the way you do.’

She shook her head. '1 didn’t know that you had a code of ethics, David, I thought they were something you dispensed with.’ She laughed at his exaggerated wince of reproach and met his curious gaze.

‘Then who is taking precedence over me? May I know?’

She hesitated to tell him but suspected that a refusal to do so would make him think the worst. ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow,’ she said slowly, ‘and Patrick is taking me to dinner after the show.’

‘Patrick?’ His light grey eyes gleamed maliciously. ‘So he does know you exist after all? Of course he always did have good taste, I’ll give him his due.’

‘Oh, David! For heaven’s sake. I'm going to the theatre and then we’re having dinner together, you always exaggerate so. It’s my birthday and Patrick is, to a certain extent, the only family I have. I suppose he thought it right to take me out to celebrate, there’s no more to it than that.’

‘No?’ He arched his brows. ‘If you say so, my lovely.’

‘I do say so,’ she told him crossly. ‘Because it’s true!’

‘All right, all right!’ He held up his hands defensively. ‘I’m sorry. But all I can say is that Patrick Owen must find the situation very appealing if he knows you're turning me down in his favour. Revenge, after all, is very sweet, isn’t it?’

‘He doesn’t know,’ Shara said shortly. ‘And I’m quite sure he wouldn’t think anything so childish if he did. Now please let’s not talk about it any more.’

He complied with surprising good grace and they made no further mention of it although it stayed uppermost in her mind for most of the afternoon. When she returned home she found herself feeling unaccustomedly shy whenever Patrick spoke to her. It was too bad of David, she thought crossly, to put such discomfiting thoughts into her head, however unlikely they were. Several times during dinner she glanced at her cousin’s dark profile as he sat, apparently unaware of her scrutiny. It would have been so much simpler, she told herself, if Patrick had been older and less attractive.

CHAPTER SIX

It was another sunny day, she could see as she opened her eyes, and she smiled suddenly as she remembered that today was Friday, her birthday. She had always enjoyed birthdays and Christmas, a childish pleasure she had never outgrown and she hoped she never would, though Patrick would probably find it very amusing if he knew.

He had almost finished his breakfast when she came down and he left the table as she came into the room and walked across to her. He bent his head and kissed her briefly on her cheek. ‘Happy birthday, Shara.'

She was a little disappointed at the reticence of his greeting, but she murmured her thanks and moved to the table while he picked up his mug of coffee and went to stand by the window, looking out into the mews with every appearance of disinterest.

There was a package by her place on the table and she picked it up, squeezing it experimentally while she glanced across at him, standing there apparently uninterested, by the window. It was a long flat package tied with a ribbon and she removed the ribbon with fingers that refused to be steady, releasing a card that fluttered to the table.

The message was brief. ‘To my beautiful heathen. Patrick.’ That was all, but there was no need for any other words, for no one else ever called her that slightly disreputable nickname. She looked across at him again, sensing the stillness of uncertainty in him as he waited for her to open the package. The straight, dark profile against the white curtains and the brightness of the morning sun gave her a sudden, lifting surge of elation that was more than anticipation, as her unsteady fingers removed the paper to reveal a black leather jewellery case. She scarcely breathed as she opened the lid and gazed at the contents.

Her soft ‘Oh!’ of delight when she saw what was in there made him turn his head and look at her as she gazed unbelievingly at what she held. Breathtakingly bright against a black velvet lining, gleaming emeralds winked at her, snug in their setting of warm, dull gold. It was a smaller, less ostentatious necklace than the one she had so admired in the jewellers’ window, but so full of the beauty of the world and so magnificently set that she felt her eyes fill with tears as she lifted it from the case.

It seemed unbelievable that he should have given her anything so beautiful and so obviously valuable that she scarcely believed her eyes as she gazed at it. ‘It’s beautiful!’ she breathed at last, and turned to look at him, her pleasure colouring her cheeks and putting a shine into her green eyes that vied with the emeralds for beauty.

‘It’s not the same one, of course,’ he said very quietly. ‘But it’s very similar, and you did say it should belong to a heathen princess.’

‘I said a pagan princess,' she argued gently, her bright eyes on him. ‘And I’m not even a princess at all. I’m not even a heathen really.’ She tried to still the deafening pounding of her heart as she looked at him.

‘To me you’re a beautiful heathen,’ he said, his eyes on her flushed cheeks and softly shining eyes. ‘And being a princess is only an accident of birth.'

‘I—I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you,' she said softly. ‘It’s so lovely, Patrick, I can’t find words to say what I ‑’ She shook her head, looking at him for a long moment, then she crossed the room in one impulsive rush and flung her arms round his neck, kissing him warmly beside his mouth, while he stood, too surprised for a moment to move; finally hugging her dose to him, his face buried in the soft unruly riot of her hair.

‘That’s thanks enough for anybody,’ he told her at last, releasing her, so that she stood breathless and bubbling with excitement, the necklace held high to catch the morning sun as it came in through the window.

‘Put it on,’ he told her. ‘Let me see what a heathen princess looks like in her finery.’ She complied willingly enough, moving to a mirror so that she could see her reflection smiling back at her and his, just behind her, a glow of appreciation in the deep blue of his eyes as he looked at her.

‘I feel almost humble,’ she told him softly as she looked at the glow of the stones against her creamy skin. ‘When I think of all the ages of time it has taken for these stones to become what they are.’

He laughed softly behind her. 'You’re a strange child,’ he said, 'to think of jewellery like that.’ For once she did not resent the reference to her youth but lowered her gaze, suddenly remembering uneasily David’s teasing words. She laughed in an endeavour to dismiss the discomfiting thoughts that crowded her mind.

‘It’s being brought up by a geologist,’ she reminded him. ‘I learned the history of gems at a very early age. They’re more than just ornaments to me.’ She turned to face him and found him uncomfortably near so that she caught her breath. ‘I can’t really believe it’s mine,’ she said softly. ‘I think I shall wake up soon and find that I’m not really a heathen princess at all and my finery only a dream.’

‘Oh, it’s real,’ he assured her. ‘I was afraid you might not like it.’

‘Not like it!’ she echoed, shining-eyed. ‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had and—and I can’t help feeling that you’ve been—well, very extravagant for a mere cousin.' She met his eyes teasingly. ‘And a heathen at that.' ‘You’re no mere anything,' he told her, ‘and you’re practically the only family I have now, except for Aunt Clementina, of course, and she’s neither heathen nor beautiful enough to wear emeralds.'

Laughter bubbled up in her at his solemn declaration and she turned again to look at her reflection. ‘I’m glad you gave me preference over Aunt Clementina,’ she said. ‘And thank you again, Patrick, thank you a thousand times over.’

‘Will you wear it tonight?’ he asked, and she nodded emphatically.

‘Of course,' she assured him.

She wore it with a gold dress that fitted her to perfection and gave her the appearance of a golden statuette above which her gloriously red hair gleamed richly and the emerald necklace blazed its splendour against the creamy white of her throat. The dress was short and simple so that nothing detracted from the jewels and only Shara herself vied with them for notice.

Polly cooed ecstatically over the picture she made, and fussed around her like a mother hen. ‘You look like a royal,’ she informed her, unconsciously following Patrick’s line of thought and bestowing the highest form of praise she could summon. ‘You really do, love.'

Shara felt almost like a princess as she smiled at Polly’s eager face. ‘I’m very lucky,' she said, her fingers at her throat. ‘I know I am, Polly.'

‘Bless you,' Polly said, hugging her affectionately. ‘You deserve it, love.' They both turned their heads when the doorbell rang suddenly, for it was too early yet for Shara’s taxi. ‘Now who can that be?’ the little housekeeper mused as she moved towards the door, while Shara moved so that she could see who the caller was.

She saw Liz Merril’s fair head when Polly opened the door and saw the look of surprise in the other woman’s blue eyes as she caught sight of her. She had been prepared to leave the bulky typescript she carried, but when she saw Shara she changed her mind and came into the room, her blue eyes sharp with interest.

‘Darling!’ she exclaimed in her rather affected drawl. ‘You look absolutely marvellous. Who’s the lucky man?’

Shara felt unaccustomedly awkward faced with the direct question from the woman she knew was in love with Patrick. ‘It’s my birthday,’ she explained. ‘And Patrick’s taking me to dinner after the theatre.’ She was sure she did not imagine the gleam of hardness in the blue eyes, and the short, harsh laugh she gave a moment later made her even more certain.

‘Oh, I see. You’re the reason I’ve been neglected tonight, are you? I wondered who my rival was.’

Shara flushed uneasily, especially at the term ‘rival’, but she smiled pleasantly at the other girl, touching the necklace unconsciously. ‘It’s a sort of family celebration,’ she said.

‘Oh yes, of course.’ Liz’s eyes went unerringly to the gleaming emeralds and glinted with either malice or envy, Shara could not be sure which it was. ‘Darling, that is absolutely magnificent! Is it the family heirloom? I just know those emeralds are real, I have a nose for those kind of things and that must have cost a fortune, or very near it.’

‘It’s—it’s my birthday present from Patrick,’ Shara said uncertainly, and flinched at the look of sheer hatred that gleamed for a moment in the blue eyes. Both she and Polly stared in amazement a moment later as, without another word, Liz Merril turned about and walked across the room stiffly erect and seconds later the door slammed behind the slim figure, leaving a silence that could be felt.

Polly was the first to recover and her gnome-like face creased into a knowing smile as she shook her head at the closed door. ‘Well, well,’ she remarked jauntily, ‘somebody is suffering from a bad case of green-eyed jealousy, aren’t they?’

Shara was less inclined to treat it so lightly and the memory of the other girl’s angry exit stayed with her through the evening, although once the play was over and she was joined by Patrick, she began to forget her and enjoy herself. David had never been farther from her mind.

She was a little surprised to find that they were to have dinner at the Top Folk as she would have thought it a place where gossip was rife, and Patrick was too well-known to hope to escape unnoticed. He appeared not to worry about any rumours that might be started by their being seen together and ordered champagne, raising his glass in salute to her.

‘Many, many happy returns of the day,' he said, smiling at her over the rim of his glass. ‘To my beautiful heathen.’ She acknowledged the toast with a bob of her head and only the merest pout of reproach at the now familiar nickname.

‘I’ve had a wonderful birthday,’ she told him. ‘And it’s all thanks to you. Thank you, Patrick, for making it so marvellous.’

‘I’m glad you've enjoyed it,’ he said, and eyed her curiously for a moment before he asked, ‘How did you manage to keep this evening free for me?’

She laughed, toying with the stem of her glass as she avoided his eyes. ‘I told David I was having a celebration dinner with you,' she said, and saw his expressive brows rise as he sipped his drink.

‘You mean you broke a date with David Clyde to have dinner with me? I’m very flattered.’

‘It was only a tentative arrangement,’ she said, ‘so it was all right to alter it.’

‘Just the same,’ he said, ‘I am flattered.’

‘Well, it was only right on my birthday, wasn’t it?’ she asked. ‘After all, you are my only family. Except for Aunt Clementina, of course.’ She looked at him solemnly, but the glint of laughter in her eyes belied her tone and they both laughed, while he raised his glass again.

‘To Aunt Clementina,’ he said. 'May you two meet one day.’ He glanced at the tiny dance floor and spoke before she could think of an answer. ‘Would you like to dance?’

She nodded agreement and they circled the tiny space left for dancing almost in silence. He was a good dancer and she felt relaxed and extraordinarily lighthearted as she enjoyed the sensation of being in his arms far more than she cared to admit, so that she felt sorry when the number ended and he guided her back to their table.

‘No! No more,’ she protested when he would have refilled her champagne glass. She looked at him straight-faced, her expression belied by the sparkle of mischief in her green eyes. ‘I have a guardian/cousin, who doesn’t like to see me drink too much champagne.’

He bobbed acknowledgement of the jibe, but nevertheless refilled her glass. 'This is a special celebration,’ he told her. 'I’m sure he won’t mind just this once.’

She raised her glass, smiling at him over the rim of it. ‘To the holder of the purse-strings,’ she said softly. 'May he always prove so generous.’ She was conscious, as she made the lighthearted toast, that he was looking at her, suddenly serious.

'You don’t think I’m too hard on you, do you, Shara?’ he asked.

She shook her head, the question taking her by surprise. Not only the question, but the edge of anxiety on his voice when he asked it.

‘Of course not,’ she said gently. ‘You’re not hard at all. I was only joking, Patrick.’ He looked at her, still serious, for a moment, then shook his head and laughed.

‘I’d hate to gain a reputation as a Scrooge,’ he said lightly, and added, in an unfamiliar drawl that reminded her of Liz Merril, ‘Such bad publicity!'

‘Well, you need not worry,' she told him. ‘I have no complaints.’ She sipped her champagne, her gaze attracted by a couple who were just leaving, weaving their way to the entrance through the maze of tables and bound to pass near their table.

There was something familiar about the man, though she could not immediately put a name to him, but he was approaching their table with an expression on his face that foretold a greeting. It took her a second or two to recognise him as Solly Ledman, Patrick’s co-producer of his new film and the man she had seen lunching with Linda Maybury. This time his companion was less young and glamorous. She was a short, stout little woman whose black hair was liberally streaked with grey and whose dark, Jewish features were spread happily with some fifty years of living.

It was the woman who spoke first, touching Patrick’s hand as she came within reach, her plump fingers curling familiarly over his. 'Pat!’ she said loudly. ‘How nice to see you again!’ Patrick turned sharply, startled at first, then hastily got to his feet, his face betrayed his pleasure at the sight of the stout little woman.

‘Freda!’ He grasped her arms and hugged her enthusiastically, kissing her with a lack of inhibition that surprised Shara, but at which the woman beamed delightedly. The big, dark and oddly beautiful eyes looked at Shara curiously and approvingly and Patrick hastened to perform introductions.

‘Shara,’ he said, ‘this is my secret love, Freda Ledman, and her husband, Solly. My second cousin, Shara Grey.’ Her hand was seized and shaken enthusiastically and the beautiful eyes beamed at her happily.

‘A second cousin, no less,’ she said, ‘and I never knew Pat had any family but his poor papa.’ She turned her gaze on Patrick again, suddenly as tragic as she had been ebullient.

‘Ayee, Pat, I was so sorry to hear about your papa, such a young man to go.’

Patrick accepted her sympathy in silence but with a gentle squeeze of her plump shoulders.

‘It’s Shara’s birthday today, so we’re celebrating,’ he told them, and once more the volatile little woman beamed her delight.

‘So it’s your birthday, my dear. We should drink to that.’ she said, putting an arm round Shara’s shoulders.

‘We already have,’ Patrick told her, indicating the almost empty champagne bottle, and Freda Ledman laughed.

‘So you should too,’ she said. ‘You’ve finished your meal, why don’t we all go over to our place and have a little celebration, eh?’ She glanced at her husband. ‘That would be fun, eh, Solly?’

‘Sounds like a good idea,’ her spouse concurred indulgently, ‘but what do Pat and his lady think about it, eh?’ The reference to her as Patrick’s lady brought an added flush of colour to Shara’s cheeks, a point that did not escape Freda Ledman’s notice.

‘Of course, I should have more tact, hmm?’ There was a twinkle in the dark eyes that it was impossible to misinterpret. ‘I don’t want to break up a cosy twosome, do I?’

‘Oh, you won’t do that!’ Shara hastened to assure her, conscious as she spoke of Patrick’s half amused look. Again the woman’s dark eyes flicked between them, the broad face creased into a beaming smile.

‘I should be such a spoilsport,’ she said, one plump hand on Shara’s arm. ‘You finish your evening with Pat, my dear, and tomorrow we’ll celebrate your birthday again, huh? If you aren’t both going somewhere else tomorrow night, get Pat to bring you over to our place and we’ll have a drink to celebrate. How’s that?’

Shara, uncertain how to reply to the invitation, looked at Patrick, only to find him looking at her in the same enquiring way.

‘All right, Freda, thank you,' he said at last. ‘We’ll be there.' Shara thought briefly of David and what he would have to say when he knew about this new arrangement and, surprisingly, found herself caring less than she expected. She liked Freda Ledman and she was not averse to spending another evening in Patrick’s company.

‘It’s Becca’s twenty-first birthday next week,’ Solly Ledman told them, managing at last to break into his wife’s garrulity. ‘We’re having a house party at Meaden over the week-end, with a dance and plenty of fun for the young folks. Why don’t you and Shara come down? A break from town will do you good, Pat.’ He nudged Patrick, grinning broadly as he winked one eye. ‘You and I can hide ourselves away somewhere quiet, eh?’

‘I’d like to, Solly,’ Patrick told him with an answering smile, ‘but I can’t answer for Shara. She’s usually pretty much in demand, especially at week-ends. What about it, Shara? Can you be spared, do you think?’

‘I can if you can,’ she retorted, and heard Freda Ledman chuckle fatly.

‘That’s settled then.’ Solly Ledman nodded his satisfaction. ‘Though I suppose we shan’t see either of you until after the show on Saturday if you have to wait for Patrick, Shara.’ He thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. ‘Ah! I know,’ he said. ‘Young Frankie Kohn is coming down on Saturday morning and he’s coming alone in his car so he could bring you, Shara. I’ll ring him, it seems a shame for you to miss a whole day because Pat’s working.’

‘Francis Kohn?’ Shara asked curiously, and the little man beamed.

‘You know Frankie Kohn?’ he asked. ‘A nice boy, Frankie.’

‘I know Francis,’ Shara admitted, ‘but I know Mary, his sister, even better. I’ve known her for years, in France.’

‘Good! Then there’s no problem. I’ll ring Frankie and let him know he has a passenger on Saturday morning. You will come, huh?’

‘I’d love to, thank you,’ she smiled, ‘but you need not ring Francis, Mr. Ledman. I’m having lunch with him on Tuesday, I can ask him myself then.'

‘Aah! Sharp little eyes regarded her knowingly for a moment. ‘You go around with young Frankie, eh? Well ‑’ He shrugged. ‘He’s too young to settle down yet, I suppose, give him tune.’ The words puzzled her, but no more than the sudden impulsive tug his wife gave at his sleeve and the slight shake of her head.

‘We’ll see you nice and early on Saturday morning then,’ Freda Ledman said. ‘And tomorrow night after the show you’ll come round to our place with Pat. O.K.?’

Shara watched them go, wondering what it was that had caused the sharp edge on Solly Ledman’s voice and the sudden warning tug at his sleeve. When she and Patrick were alone again she mentioned it and he smiled.

‘I rather think,’ he said slowly, ‘that the Kohns and the Ledmans have hopes of their respective offspring making a match of it. Solly and David Kohn were at school together and they’ve both prospered in their respective fields, though perhaps Kohn has the edge on Solly financially. I’ve gathered, from things that have been said in the past, that both lots of parents would like to see Becca and young Kohn marry.’

‘I see.’ She looked thoughtful, realising now why her reference to a lunch date with Francis had not been very well received. ‘And what do the two people most concerned feel about it?’

Patrick shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Becca seems to be fancy free enough and she’s certainly pretty, but you’d know better than me what young Kohn’s feelings are. He didn’t look like the settling down type to me from the little I’ve seen of him.’ He looked at her steadily, with that searching gaze of his. ‘He isn’t getting serious about you, is he?’

‘Good heavens, no!’ Her surprise was genuine and she thought he looked relieved. ‘We enjoy each other’s company, but there’s no more to it than that.’ She flicked him a brief, mischievous smile. ‘Perhaps I’m too young to settle down, too.’

‘Perhaps,’ he agreed with an enigmatic smile that made her uneasily aware that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes over-bright. He looked across the room briefly. ‘Shall we dance?’ There was something about his manner that had changed in those few minutes. Something like a self-satisfied smile on his face as he took her in his arms, drawing her close to him and resting his face against her hair. He held her right hand clasped tightly between them, pressed against him, so that she could feel the steady beat of his heart under her palm. She did not stop to ask herself a reason for his change of manner as he held her in an embrace more suited to a lover than to a cousin-cum-guardian, and she found herself enjoying it more than she felt she should.

She half closed her eyes, feeling inordinately lighthearted, a feeling that seemed to almost lift her feet off the ground as they danced. It was really a wonderful birthday, she told herself, one that she would never forget. Patrick’s dark head bent lower until his cheek brushed hers. ‘Happy?’ The word whispered against her ear, stirred the tendrils of her hair and she nodded as best she could without speaking. ‘Good.’ His lips pressed gently against her throat with an intimacy that at once stunned and excited her.

‘Hello, Shara.’ The voice startled her so that she turned her head sharply away from Patrick to look over her right shoulder. David’s light grey eyes were looking at her— glinting like flints in the fairly dim lighting, a tight smile making his mouth appear thin and rather bad-tempered. ‘Having fun?’ he asked, in a way that needed no answer.

She stared at him silently, noticing the frown, in a brief glance, that marred the face of the pretty blonde he was dancing with. She glanced hastily up at Patrick to see his reaction to the meeting, but instead of the frown she expected, she saw a gleam of triumph in the deep blue eyes as they looked at David. It was enough to tell her what she needed to know, that and the self-satisfied smile that still touched his mouth. She now knew the reason for the close intimacy of the embrace he had held her in. Even the seemingly impulsive kiss had been perfectly timed to coincide with David’s arrival and had obviously had the effect he intended it should, making David angry and apparently jealous. The other couple were gone again now, lost among the others dancing, but the object had been achieved and Shara felt a chilling coldness in her at the way she had been used as an instrument of revenge. There was no other way of looking at it, she thought bitterly. The music finished before she had summoned enough courage to walk away from him, but she shook her arm free from his guiding hand as they went back to their table.

Her eyes, when she looked at him, were more hurt than angry and she felt the sharp prick of tears, blinking hastily to banish them He looked at her and instinctively stretched out a hand to cover her curled fingers, though his look was unrepentant.

‘I hope you found your revenge sweet,’ she said flatly, wishing her voice would not tremble so. ‘You knew David was here, that’s why you looked so pleased, that’s why you—why you danced with me the way you did. It was just to make David jealous, to get your own back.’

He was silent for a moment, his hand still holding hers. ‘I admit it,’ he said quietly, at last. ‘But I admit I didn’t expect you to take it quite so much to heart.’ She made no attempt to move her hand from his clasp but sat, alarmingly uncertain of her own feelings, while he watched her with that disconcerting steadiness until she shook her head.

‘Don’t look at me like that!’ she said crossly. ‘It was all so—so wonderful, I was enjoying my celebration, and now you’ve spoiled it all I’

‘Shara!’ He tightened his fingers so that she winced at the strength of his grip. ‘I’m sorry. It was unforgivable of me to behave as I did, but please don’t be so angry about it.’ He looked at her unhappy face and at the small hand curled tightly in his own. 'I didn’t, in all honesty, expect to get away with it. I thought you would have objected to—well, to the way I was holding you long before Clyde came within reach.’ She ventured to look at him and saw a smile quite different from the cynical one she disliked so much. It curved his straight mouth into an expression of warmth and understanding and was reflected in the deep blue eyes as they looked at her. ‘That was no way for a heathen princess to behave either, you know.’

Her free hand moved to touch the gleaming emeralds at her throat and she smiled despite herself, but she wished he had not realised how much she had enjoyed those few moments of intimacy before David arrived.

‘If I were the heathen princess I purport to be,’ she told him, ‘I should have had you thrown to the lions for your presumption. I shall know better in future.’ In future, she thought bitterly, I shall know better than to be fooled so easily.

She quite expected the telephone call she received from David the following morning and was prepared to face his curiosity as well as his reproach. The former, she thought, would be his prime reason for calling; he would be quite unable to resist finding out the reason for her apparently intimate evening with Patrick and his first words confirmed her suspicions.

‘Did you enjoy your strictly family birthday party last night?’ he asked, and she sighed audibly.

‘We had a good time, David, thank you,’ she said.

‘I can believe it,’ he told her dryly. ‘From what I saw you were having a very good time. Do you still insist that Pat Owen is nothing more than a second cousin who hardly notices you exist? Really, my sweet, I can’t have been the only one putting the obvious construction on that little scene last night. I can well imagine that Fiona Blane, nee Liz Merril, will be fit to scratch your beautiful eyes out when she gets wind of it, and she will. News like that has a habit of travelling fast, and your esteemed cousin, or whatever he claims to be, wasn’t making much of an effort to be discreet, was he?'

She bit her lip when she thought of Liz Merril and the way she had stalked out angrily last night, after learning that the necklace she had so accurately estimated as valuable was a present from Patrick. Liz Merril would not take kindly to the kind of rumour David was suggesting would circulate after last night, and she wondered if Patrick realised quite how much of a stir he had caused and would cause. When she recalled the glimpses of hardness in the other girl’s blue eyes, it was not a comforting thought.

‘David, you’re wrong,’ she told him, knowing she would not be believed. ‘You’re quite wrong about—what you saw last night. Believe me, you are.’ She could imagine his tightlipped smile of disbelief as he listened to her.

‘I sincerely hope I am,’ he said, ‘but actions speak louder than words, my sweet, so if I am wrong then how about having dinner with me tonight and putting paid to the rumours before they have time to take root? Will you?’

She hesitated, seeking an answer that would not give him the wrong impression all over again. ‘I—I’m sorry, David, I’m afraid I can’t. Not tonight. I’ve arranged to go to some friends for a drink.’ She laughed shortly. ‘It’s a sort of belated birthday celebration.’

‘I see.’ She fully expected him to put down the receiver and end the conversation there and then, but instead he sighed deeply as if his patience was running short. ‘All right, my sweet, when can I see you again? I suppose I have to take my turn in the queue.’

‘I’m free tomorrow,’ she ventured, and before she could say more he leapt at the opportunity with flattering speed.

‘I’ll be round for you about half past ten,’ he said, ‘when your saintly cousin has gone to his devotions, is that all right?’

‘Don’t talk like that!’ Her hasty retort surprised even herself, and as for David, he was struck silent for a moment.

‘Sorry,’ he said at last, sounding a little disgruntled but made no further comment on the subject. I'll see you at half past ten tomorrow morning then, shall I?'

‘Yes, all right, David. I’ll let Polly know I won’t be back for lunch, shall I?'

He chuckled, his humour almost restored. ‘You’d better,’ he told her. ‘And this time I think we’ll find somewhere different to have lunch. Somewhere noisy and crowded, where everyone can see us.’

‘If you like,’ she murmured, uncertain that she liked the idea or his motive in suggesting it. ‘I leave it to you.’

‘Good.’ He sounded inordinately pleased with himself now that he was getting things his own way again. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, my sweet Goodbye.’

She had an uncomfortable feeling that she was the centre of a tussle of revenge between the two men and it was not a feeling she enjoyed. Patrick, she knew, would not use her again as he had last night, but she could not be so sure of anything David might do. His suggestion that they should go somewhere noisy and crowded where they could be seen and possibly talked about had struck a discordant note and she had disliked his making it However, it would at least ensure that David was on his best behaviour. In the mean-time she had managed to keep it quiet that she would be spending another evening with Patrick, even though it would be at the Ledmans' home.

'This is only their town flat,’ Patrick informed her as they approached the block of modem, brick-built flats from the car park. ‘They have a country house which is Meaden where we’re going next week-end. It’s in Surrey, real country style.’ He glanced at her as he opened the swing doors for her. ‘Do you like the country, or are you a town bird?’

‘Oh no!’ she said. ‘I love the country, I’d love to live there always.’

‘So would I,’ he said, ‘but I should have to be able to get into town to the theatre every night. I keep promising myself a country house, but it hardly seems worth it for one. Two if you count Polly.’ She found the note of pathos uncharacteristic and she told herself that there were still sides to Patrick’s nature that she had yet to discover. She glanced surreptitiously at the dark, still face of her cousin as they waited for the lift to take them to the top floor. The air of sadness about him she found hard to define, and she wondered for a moment if he still thought about Linda Maybury in the same way. It was something she was reluctant to face and she talked, determinedly cheerful, while they went up in the lift.

Freda Ledman herself opened the door to them and invited them in amid a chatter of welcome that made Shara smile at its enthusiasm. Solly’s welcome was a little less ebullient but none the less warm, and he seemed to have completely forgotten the moment of distrust he had exhibited last night over Francis Kohn. While they still exchanged greetings in the tiny hallway a girl emerged from one of the other doors.

She was prettily dark and looked slightly foreign as Freda Ledman did, and her looks betrayed her as her mother’s daughter. The smooth olive skin and wide lustrous eyes were exactly as Freda Ledman’s must have been twenty or so years ago. Seeing Patrick she beamed him a smile, also reminiscent of her mother, and shook back the long black hair that fell around her face.

‘My favourite man!’ she declared, throwing her arms round his neck and making a mock swoon when he kissed her on one cheek.

‘You don’t know my cousin Shara, do you, Becca?’ he said, disentangling himself from the girl’s arms. ‘Shara, this is Becca Ledman, a very old friend of mine.’

The girl pulled a face at him, then turned to shake hands with Shara, her dark eyes flicking over her in friendly curiosity.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Fm glad to meet you at last, I’ve heard a terrific lot about you from Frankie Kohn.’

Remembering what Patrick had told her of her parents’ ambitions and how Solly Ledman had reacted to her saying she had a lunch date with Francis, Shara felt oddly uneasy as she admitted the acquaintance.

‘I know Francis,’ she said. ‘But it’s Mary I know best, actually.’

The other girl’s gaze was frank but quite friendly, though Shara suspected she was being weighed up pretty thoroughly. ‘Frankie said you were beautiful,’ she said, endearingly honest. ‘He’s quite badly smitten, you know.’ The wide beam spread over her darkly pretty face again when she saw Shara’s look of uncertainty and she laughed. ‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ she told her blithely. ‘He’ll recover, he always does.’

Freda Ledman shook her head over her daughter’s embarrassing frankness and smiled apologies at Shara. ‘Becca, my baby, if you’re going out, you go before you make our guest wish she hadn’t come.’ She took Shara’s arm and led her into a big, over-furnished but cosy sitting-room. 'You come and sit down, my dear, and don’t take too much notice of Becca, she talks too much. Ayee! Such a child she is for chattering; Solly says she gets it from me, maybe she does, I don’t know.’

‘Late dinner?' Patrick asked as Becca put her head round the door briefly to say goodbye, and Freda shook her head.

‘That’s what they call it,’ she said. ‘But really they go star-spotting at the Top Folk, you know.’ She smiled at Patrick. ‘She is star-struck, that girl, wants to be an actress, no less, would you believe it? And that Frankie encourages her in her foolishness. Still, Frankie is a good boy,’ she added as if afraid she might be considered over-critical. ‘He’s a good boy, eh, Solly?’

Her husband nodded agreement, but there was a trace of something that could have been anxiety when he looked at the door that had just closed behind his daughter. ‘Girls are a worry,’ he told Shara, his smile taking some of the seriousness out of the remark. ‘Does your papa worry about you, Shara?’

Before she could answer for herself, Patrick spoke up hastily, flicking her a brief glance first. ‘Shara has no father, Solly,’ he said. ‘Her parents died some years ago and since then she’s been knocking around Europe for the last six years on her own, so it’s not quite the same situation as in Becca’s case.’

‘An orphan!’ Freda’s beautiful eyes were eloquently tragic as she looked at her. ‘For six years no less! It’s a terrible thing for a young girl to be without parents and a proper home. There’s no place like a good home; no place at all.’

‘My father acted as a sort of unofficial guardian to Shara,’ Patrick went on to explain, ‘after her folks died.’

‘Your poor papa? And now he is gone too.’ The lustrous, expressive eyes held all the sadness of the world for a moment and she shook her head. ‘He was a good man, eh, Pat?’ She looked across at Shara, smiling sympathetically. ‘He would take care of a poor little girl like a father, huh?’

Shara felt that ‘poor little girl’ was exaggerating her plight somewhat, but the sympathy was genuine, she knew, and Freda Ledman’s rather flamboyant way of expressing it was part and parcel of her volatile charm.

‘Fm afraid Father saw very little of her,’ Patrick said. ‘He sent her to school in France and Switzerland and made sure that she was—properly finished, I believe is the term.' He glittered amusement at Shara and she could not restrain an answering smile.

Freda Ledman had not finished her enquiry into Shara’s past and Patrick, from experience, knew that she would not relinquish the floor until she had. ‘And now your poor papa is gone,’ she said, ‘you are the guardian, eh, Pat?’ She cocked a curious eye at him, intrigued by the prospect, and Patrick shook his head, smiling at her curiosity, but before he could reply, Shara answered for herself.

‘Patrick’s not my guardian, Mrs. Ledman,’ she told her. ‘He’s trustee for the money that Uncle George left me, that’s all.’

‘Ah! There’s money, eh?’ The dark eyes twinkled wickedly at her. ‘He keeps a sharp eye on your spending, does he?’

‘Not too sharp,’ Shara admitted with a laugh and a grin of impudence at Patrick. ‘He’s very good really. I’m afraid I am rather extravagant.’

‘And why not?’ Freda asked reasonably. ‘That’s what money is for, isn’t it? You got a nice place to live now you’re in England, eh? Pat’s got a lovely home, I know.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Shara agreed, feeling that this could be dangerous ground.

‘And aren’t I always telling him he should get a pretty wife to share it with him?’ the other woman said, smiling at Patrick indulgently. ‘Now he’s got a pretty cousin instead. Ah well, maybe it’s a start, eh?’

Shara flushed, hastening to try and amend any false impression. ‘I had nowhere else I could go when I arrived in London, so Patrick very kindly took me in,' she said, and glanced at him briefly as she spoke.

He laughed shortly, accepting a drink from his host. ‘Shara dear,’ he told her with a drawl that was not altogether to her liking, ‘you make yourself sound like little orphan Annie and me like a benevolent uncle.’ He raised his glass in thanks to Solly Ledman before turning his amused glance on her again. ‘I wish you wouldn’t. I don’t feel in the least like a benevolent uncle.’

‘An uncle?’ Freda laughed the idea to scorn. ‘What would a man of your age want to play uncle to a pretty girl for?’

‘I've no desire to play uncle to anyone,’ Patrick assured her with a grin, and she smiled her satisfaction.

‘Are you looking for somewhere of your own, Shara?’ Her host was watching her keenly, noting the soft flush in her cheeks when his wife asked the question and seeing the way Patrick looked at her, as if he waited for her answer with some anxiety.

‘Of course she doesn’t want another place on her own, Solly,’ his wife told him. ‘You want to break up a happy family? Don’t talk silly, my love, of course Shara doesn’t want a place of her own, do you, my dear?’

For once Solly ignored his wife, his eyes fixed on Shara, speculative and shrewd. ‘Do you, Shara?’

‘Well—yes, in a way I do,’ she admitted, not looking at Patrick as she spoke. ‘It’s not easy to find anything, though, is it? I mean it’s pretty difficult finding a small flat or apartment?’

‘As it happens,’ Solly told her slowly, ‘I know of a little place not far from where Pat lives, in Fedley Road. It’s a mews flat and rather pricey, but if you like I can fix it for you to see over it.'

For a moment she made no answer, the unexpectedness of the offer putting her mind in a turmoil She should have a place of her own, that was becoming increasingly obvious, especially since Freda Ledman had made it fairly plain that she shared David’s opinion of her relationship with Patrick though there had been nothing spiteful in her implication, Shara felt sure. ‘That’s very kind of you,' she said at last, keeping her eyes averted because she knew that Patrick was watching her. ‘I—I would like to see it, if you can arrange it.’

'Tomorrow suit you?' Solly moved over to the telephone. He was obviously a man who did not believe in wasting time, and she nodded, still somewhat in a daze.

He dialled a number and spoke briefly to someone for a few moments, and it was only as he replaced the receiver that she realised that he had mentioned eleven o’clock tomorrow morning for the appointment. There would be no alternative but for David to come with her and perhaps help her to make up her mind, although she had little doubt that he would be strongly in favour of her moving out of Cabey Mews. Anywhere away from Patrick. Of her own feelings she was much less sure. She had grown very attached to the pretty little room over the mews and she would miss Polly and her quaint ways. She looked across at Patrick and met the steady, slightly bewildered blue eyes, with a qualm of conscience.

‘That’s all fixed, then,’ Freda Ledman said, her moue of reproach at her husband seemingly ignored. ‘Solly’s a great fixer,’ she told Shara. 'You want it, Solly can get it.’ The only trouble was, as far as Shara could see, was that she was not at all sure that she did want it.

It was well after midnight when they left the Ledmans’ home and they drove home in a taxi, in almost complete silence. Polly had long since gone to bed and Patrick opened the door quietly, putting the bolt across after he closed it. ‘Do you mind if I have a drink?' he asked, and without waiting for an answer, crossed to the cabinet in the comer. She took off her gloves and stood watching him in silence as he poured whisky into a glass and splashed soda into it. Then he turned and looked at her, the usual steady and disconcerting gaze searching her face. ‘Why, Shara?’

She made no pretence of not knowing what he was talking about, but wished he had left it until some other time. She needed time to think about it herself before she tried to explain it to him why she had so impulsively accepted Solly Ledman’s offer. She wished, too, that he did not have that flicker of hurt in his eyes as he looked at her.

‘The opportunity was too good to miss,’ she said. ‘You know how difficult it is to get a place in town, Patrick; I had to take it.’

‘Had to?’ He swallowed half the whisky in one go. ‘I don’t see that you had to. Unless ‑’ He half smiled; the cynical smile that twisted his mouth into a caricature of itself. ‘Unless you really have taken David Clyde’s words to heart’

‘It isn’t only David 1’ She bit her lip on the last word and shook her head, walking across the room to rearrange some roses in a vase—anything so as not to look at him.

'You mean Freda?’ he asked, and shook his head when nodded. 'You shouldn’t take notice of anything Freda says. She’s a darling and I love her dearly, but she’s incurably romantic.’

‘She’s also very perceptive,’ Shara said quietly. ‘So is her husband, that’s why he made that offer to find me a place of my own.’ She raised her head and looked at him. ‘It’s no use burying our heads in the sand about this, Patrick. David and the Ledmans can’t be the only ones who find the situation—well, unusual. Liz Merril has put her own construction on it too.’

His head jerked up at the mention of Liz Merril, his eyes narrowed, the glass half-way to his lips. ‘Liz?’ he said. ‘Where does she come into it?'

She told him, hesitantly and not without a trace of regret, about Liz Merril’s sudden and angry departure the previous evening and he pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘So you see,’ she added, ‘it really is time I found somewhere else, or it could be very awkward for you, Patrick.’

‘For me?’ He smiled wryly. ‘Isn’t it usually the female half of the partnership who collects most of the brickbats in these affairs?’

‘It’s not one of—it’s not like that at all!’ she protested, flushing at the inference in his words. ‘But everyone is going to think so as long as I stay here in your house. Getting a place of my own is the only answer, you must see that.’

‘If that’s the way you want it,’ he said, and she clenched her hands at his trying to put the blame for the situation on to her.

‘It’s not the way I want it!’ she said, shortly. ‘But it’s the only thing to do!’

‘All right, Shara,’ he said, apparently agreeing at last. ‘But I assure you that you have no need to go on my account. Gossip never has worried me and I’ve no intention of letting it do so now. You take your flat if you like it when you’ve seen it. I’ve no doubt Clyde will support your decision only too eagerly.’

‘It’s my decision entirely, Patrick, it has nothing to do with David. Except indirectly,’ she added, and he twisted his mouth into that cynical smile again, putting the empty whisky glass down carefully on the cabinet before he came across to her.

She could feel the rapid beat of the pulse in her throat and knew that her fingers were curled, tightly clenched, at her sides as he stopped in front of her, close enough for her to see the curve of his mouth in that detestable smile, and the fine lines at its comers. He had not drunk enough during the evening to make him drunk, but there was a glitter in his eyes that sent a tingle of warning down her spine and she would have moved past him to the stairs, but his hands closed round her arms as if he suspected her intention, and after a breathless second of indecision, he pulled her to him and held her tightly. He stood for a moment, looking down at her with an intensity that was almost frightening.

‘Please, Patrick!’ She found the deep, blue eyes even more disconcerting close to and tried to break his hold on her arms.

‘Please, Patrick!’ He mimicked her as he had done once before, only this time he did not immediately release her, but bent his head and kissed her mouth, forcing her head back, while his arms went round her, almost crushing the breath from her, and she did not resist at all. It did not even enter her head to do so.

Then he released her as suddenly as he had kissed her, and turned away, so that she could not see his expression. 'We may as well give them something to talk about, since that seems to be the general inclination,’ he said, and added, without turning round, ‘You’d better go, Shara, before ‑’ He spun round suddenly and laughed shortly, his expression sobering when he saw her flushed cheeks and unhappy eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply.

She shook her head slowly, unable to find words to answer him, uneasily aware of her own lack of resistance. Moving towards the foot of the stairs, she paused on the bottom step and looked back at him. ‘Patrick ‑’ He raised his head and looked at her, still with that oddly intense look, so that she shivered involuntarily. ‘I ‑’ She shook her head again, hastily lowering her own eyes. ‘Good night,’ she said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

When Shara came downstairs next morning it was to find Patrick already gone and Polly in a slightly puzzled state of mind because of his absence and his departure from routine. ‘He went to early Mass,' she informed Shara before she could ask. ‘Though why he should, heaven knows. He’s not done that for a long time.’ The shrewd black eyes looked at her enquiringly. ‘Did you two have a fight last night after you came home?'

Shara smiled briefly at the wild guess that was Polly’s reason for an uneasy conscience, then shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘we didn’t fight, Polly.’

‘Hmm.’ Polly eyed her doubtfully. ‘He must have had something on his conscience that he wanted to be rid of, to have gone off without his breakfast.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantel. ‘Still, he’ll be back soon, I’d better get a move on.’ The information that he would be back was not altogether welcome as far as Shara was concerned, for it would mean that he would be home when David came for her—not a prospect she viewed with pleasure, for by then Polly would have gone out and it would be either herself or, worse, Patrick who answered the door to him. She must make sure, she decided grimly, that it was herself.

She was ready and waiting long before Patrick returned and he could not help but notice the frequent and almost guilty way she kept glancing at the front door and at the clock. ‘Are you going somewhere else before you go to see the flat?’ he asked, breaking the uneasy silence that had existed between them ever since Polly’s departure.

‘Yes. I—I’m seeing someone at half past ten. I forgot about it last night when Mr. Ledman made that appointment, but it won’t really matter.’

'Someone being David Clyde, I suppose?' he asked, looking at her over the rim of his coffee mug, his brows arched expressively. She did not answer, but merely nodded, and he laughed shortly. ‘I suppose he expected me to be out when he came, as I usually am.’

‘I expect so,’ she admitted, and succumbed to the curiosity that had niggled at her ever since she had come downstairs and found him already gone. ‘You were very early this morning,’ she said. ‘Not your usual time for Mass.’ He looked at her and laughed after a long steady look which made her colour, though she did not know quite why. ‘Did it worry you because I went early?' he asked.

'Not in the least,’ she retorted, annoyed at the question. ‘But Polly was puzzled about it. She seemed to think you had something on your conscience that wouldn’t wait.’

To her surprise he did not laugh the idea to scorn.

‘She could be right,’ he said quietly, and for a moment she held his gaze, until the deafening thud of her own heartbeat made her lower her eyes and move restlessly to the window.

‘I’ll go to the top of the mews and wait for David,’ she said, trying to make her voice sound normally casual. She turned with the intention of putting the idea into action, but saw him shaking his head.

‘There’s no need,’ he told her. ‘I’m not likely to suddenly hit out and attack him, you know. Why should I?’ For a moment she met his eyes again and now saw only amusement and mockery there, so that she flushed like a schoolgirl at her own fanciful visions of what would happen if the two of them met.

She had no time to think of a suitable reply before David’s long and flamboyant assault on the doorbell shrilled through their silence and she started almost guiltily. Picking up her gloves and bag on the way, she turned as she went up the two steps to the front door. ‘Goodbye, Patrick.’

The deep blue eyes looked at her long and steadily and when he answered it seemed to her that the words had an ominously final sound about them. ‘Goodbye, Shara.’ There was a suspicion of tears in her eyes as she closed the door behind her and her smile was rather wan when she turned to greet David, but if he noticed anything amiss he made no comment on it, but greeted her with his usual self-confident smile.

‘Shara my sweet,’ he told her as he helped her into his car with his customary gallantry, ‘you’re always so well worth waiting for. One of these days I shall run off with you.’ She laughed uncertainly as he turned the little car out of the mews. ‘I don’t think so,’ she told him. ‘I’m not really your type, David.’

‘I disagree,’ he argued. ‘You’re exactly my type. Just what do you consider is my type, Miss Grey?’

She recalled his dancing partner of Friday night and hazarded a guess. ‘Perhaps small blondes with blue eyes.’ His laugh showed that he had followed her train of thought. ‘You’re wrong, my sweet, Penny was only a very poor substitute for you, though rather more amenable, I might add.’ He turned briefly and looked at her. ‘If you remember, you were otherwise engaged on Friday night.’

‘I was celebrating my birthday with my cousin,’ she said flatly, and he laughed again, a short harsh sound that she disliked because it made him sound cruel.

'You were dancing very much cheek to cheek with someone you have, at other times, gone to great lengths to disclaim as a real cousin,' he told her. ‘Don’t suddenly trot out the family celebration bit. You’ve both demolished that idea, darling.'

‘Don’t be spiteful, David.' She wished her colour would not rise so easily and betray the fact that his jibe had gone home. 'You didn’t have to see me again if you took exception to what you imagined you saw.'

He was silent for a moment, then he chuckled, a quite different sound from the laugh earlier.

‘I’m so mad about you, my sweet, I have to keep seeing you, and that’s an admission I haven’t made easily or lightly, I might tell you.’

‘I know, David.’ She felt a qualm of guilt about David, especially now that he had made that seemingly lighthearted profession, which she knew must have cost him dear in precious pride. She thought he was genuinely fond of her and it was something she would rather not have known. David was good fun to be with, but she wanted it to go no farther than that.

He flicked a smile at her and she saw the warmth in his light grey eyes as he looked at her. ‘If I promise not to mention Friday night again, will you forgive me?’

She smiled her relief. ‘Of course, if you’ll do something for me.’

‘Anything,’ he told her extravagantly. 'You name it and it’s yours.’

‘Do you know where Fedley Road is?' she asked, and he nodded, chancing another glance at her face.

‘Yes, I know it,’ he said, ‘it’s just along here on the left. Why?’

'There’s a mews!—Marton Mews,’ she said. ‘Do you know it?’

Again he nodded. ‘Marton Mews is a very expensive, slightly toffee-nosed collection of luxurious flats,’ he told her bluntly. ‘Yes, I know it, and again, why?’

‘I’d like to go there first if you wouldn’t mind,’ she said. ‘I have an appointment to—to look over a flat, at eleven.’

He pursed his lips in a silent whistle; his eyes, when he glanced at her, glittering with curiosity. ‘So—0,' he said softly and with evident satisfaction, ‘your saintly cousin has blotted his copybook, has he? You’re moving out!’

‘Nothing of the sort!’ she denied hotly. ‘It has nothing to do with Patrick. I have nothing to complain about his behaviour. It’s just that the opportunity of this flat occurred and I decided to look at it.’

‘But you are moving out?’ he insisted.

‘If I like the flat, yes, I shall be leaving Cabey Mews,’ she said, and wished the idea appealed to her more. The thought of leaving Patrick’s lovely home gave her no joy at all and she knew there was much to which she had become accustomed, even attached. ‘It was never intended that I should stay there permanently, you know,’ she added, to convince herself as well as David.

‘No?’ He swung the car into the arched entrance of Marton Mews. ‘Your intention or his?' She refused to answer what was obviously intended to be a provocative question, but looked around her at the quiet, elegant serenity of the houses. It looked far more opulent than Cabey Mews and also a little less friendly, she thought, although that could have been merely lack of familiarity.

They were early, but fortunately the man she was to meet had arrived well before eleven so that they were not kept waiting very long. It was a ground floor flat and rather more spacious than the ground floor at Cabey Mews, but the furnishings were less to her taste and her guide did not miss her expression of distaste.

‘You could alter the furnishings to a certain extent,’ he told her, ‘but it’s all in very good condition and quite new.’

‘It’s very nice,’ she said hastily. ‘Very nice indeed. As you say, I can do a certain amount of alteration if I want to.’ She looked at David enquiringly and he nodded encouragement, grinning his approval.

‘I like it,’ he told her. ‘It’s pleasantly mod without being freakish.’

‘Shall I ‑?’ She looked around her uncertainly, wishing, without quite knowing why, that it was Patrick who was there to help her make up her mind instead of David.

‘Take it,’ David decided for her. ‘You’ll love it once you’re in and independent. Take it, my sweet, before the man changes his mind.’

The little man shook his head hastily, his smile reserved for Shara. ‘I shan’t do that, Miss Grey, please take your time. As an agent it’s my job to let the place to a desirable tenant but not to rush you into anything you’ll regret. You take your time, miss, and have another look round if you’d like to.’

David was watching her with a glint in his eyes that challenged her to change her mind about moving and she suddenly felt rather lonely and empty. She no longer pretended to herself that she might enjoy having her own place or that she would enjoy being on her own after having Patrick and Polly always to talk to, but she knew it was essential that she did move out of Cabey Mews and before too long. David for one would never again believe that Patrick was no more than a cousin who was trustee of her inheritance from Uncle George, and Freda Ledman, too, had made it quite obvious that she scented a romance. It was high time she moved out and scotched the rumours once and for all.

‘I’ll take it,’ she said impulsively, and David smiled his satisfaction, his grey eyes gleaming at what he fondly imagined to be a victory.

He overflowed with enthusiasm at the idea all through lunch, apparently not noticing Shara’s unusual quietness. ‘You can move in tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘You’ve only your personal stuff, haven’t you? No furniture?’

‘No,’ she said, preoccupied. ‘Only my personal things, that’s all.’

‘Then I’ll fetch you tomorrow morning, shall I? See you safely installed?’ He could not wait, it seemed, to see her away from Patrick and she found his enthusiasm unnerving.

She shook her head, her eyes thoughtful. ‘No, not tomorrow, David. Please don’t try to rush me into anything. I’d like to talk it over with Patrick first.’

He frowned at the idea. ‘He’ll try to stop you leaving,’ he warned her, but again she shook her head.

'No, he won’t,’ she denied. ‘But it isn’t very good-mannered, after all he’s done for me, to just pack my things and move out at a moment’s notice. Please let me choose my own time, David.’

‘All right, if that’s what you want.’ He shrugged, still smiling, but obviously resenting her refusal of his offer to help. For the first time he seemed to sense her reluctance to leave Cabey Mews and he took her hand in his, pressing it to his lips, while his light eyes searched her face curiously. 'You do want to move out, don’t you, my sweet?’

It was too difficult a question to answer without giving the wrong impression and she did not reply for several seconds, looking down at her finger tracing patterns on the while tablecloth. ‘I—I don’t know,’ she said at last. ‘I've been very happy at Cabey Mews for the past month or so. I—I feel at home there and I know I shall miss Polly very much.'

‘What about Pat Owen?’ The question was inevitable, she supposed. ‘Will you miss him too?’ She thought of the many things about her cousin that she had become accustomed to over the last weeks and knew she could only answer one way if she was to be truthful. She would miss seeing Patrick in the morning at breakfast with his hair just slightly dishevelled and his strong fingers curled round the huge mug he always drank his coffee from; the deep blue eyes looking at her over the rim of it as he teased her. She remembered her birthday, only two days ago, when he had given her that beautiful and quite unexpected present, and last night when he had kissed her—to give them something to talk about. ‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘I shall miss Patrick a lot.’

It was not the answer David had either expected nor wanted to hear, and he showed his displeasure in no uncertain way with a black frown that spoiled his good-looking face and caused several comments among people who knew him and who were lunching nearby. He in turn was more silent for the rest of the meal and drove her home without the usual flow of blithe chatter he regaled her with, though he was nice enough when they parted at the top of the mews and kissed her gently and with less flamboyance than usual.

When she arrived back it was to find Liz Merril curled up in one of the armchairs, and the sight of the other girl did nothing to cheer her rather sad mood. She supposed that Liz Merril would continue to visit Cabey Mews long after she herself had departed, and the thought rankled uneasily in her mind.

The blue eyes looked less friendly than they had that first Sunday when Shara had arrived home to find her there in almost the exact same position as now, looking quite at ease in the depths of the big armchair. She smiled readily enough as Shara came into the room, as if she had already forgotten her show of temper or whatever it had been that had motivated her hasty departure on Friday night. She arched her fine brows enquiringly.

‘Hello, Shara, been seeing the sights again?’

Shara could feel Patrick watching her, but she refused to look at him, smiling instead at the other girl. ‘No, not this time,’ she said. ‘I’ve been to lunch with David. Nothing exciting, but quite pleasant.’

‘Oh, I see, you’re still seeing your knight errant, are you?’ Her eyes flicked momentarily to Patrick, as if to make quite certain that he noted Shara’s luncheon companion.

‘Sometimes,' Shara told her discouragingly. ‘He came with me to see a flat I’d heard about, actually.’

‘A flat?’ The blue eyes sharpened with curiosity. ‘Are you flat-hunting? I didn’t know that.’ Evidently she was not very much in Patrick’s confidence, Shara thought, or else he had not thought it worth mentioning.

‘Not any more,’ she told her quietly. ‘I’ve decided to take one in Marton Mews.’

Liz tipped her blonde head to one side, her eyes curious. ‘Mmm. Marton Mews, eh? Very select. You must have influence in high places, or is it David that has the influence?’

Shara flushed at the implication and she heard Patrick move to protest. ‘It was Solly Ledman who found the flat,’ he told Liz, an edge of disapproval on his voice. ‘He offered it to Shara if she wanted it, and she apparently did.’ Shara tried not to notice the tone he said the last words in, but she knew without looking at him that he was not pleased at her decision. On the other hand the prospect seemed to please Liz Merril as it had David and perhaps for the same reason, because it would keep Shara and Patrick apart.

‘Aah, a life of luxury and no eagle-eyed cousin to watch over your comings and goings,’ she said, an edge of malice on the drawling voice that it was impossible to miss. ‘Are you spreading your wings in earnest, darling, or is this just a preliminary flutter?’ She glanced curiously at Patrick’s closed expression. ‘Or have you and Pat come to blows?’

‘No, of course not!’ If Shara resented the questioning she tried hard not to show it, but it was difficult in the face of the other girl’s obvious delight at her departure. ‘I was told about the flat, that it was available, and the opportunity was too good to miss. It’s as simple as that.’

‘So you’ve actually taken it?’ Patrick’s quiet voice made her turn and look at him and she met the steady gaze, feeling horribly and unaccountably guilty.

‘Yes, I’ve taken it.’ He sat forward in his chair, his hands together between his knees, the knuckles white across the bone with the tightness of his clasp and with such an air of dejection about him that she felt again the prickle of tears at the back of her eyes as she looked at him. Hoping he was not going to raise objections to her going or try to change her mind, for she had a terribly certain feeling that she would do just that, if he asked her to.

‘When are you going?’ he asked instead, and she shook her head, sensing Liz Merril’s curiosity at the obvious strain in the conversation.

‘I—I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet. I—I thought ‑’

‘We’ll talk about it later,’ he interrupted, and added, suddenly and determinedly cheerful, ‘In the meantime let’s talk about Liz’s new venture. She’s writing a novel, Shara. She’s a secret Agatha Christie at heart, did you know that?' Shara left the subject of her own affairs with relief, but she felt sure that Liz Merril would far rather have pursued them than the subject of her own work. She relinquished the matter with quite good grace, however, and regaled them with the plot of her proposed novel, while Shara listened, only politely attentive.

Through dinner she more than once felt the curious gaze of the blue eyes on her and wondered if Liz would attempt to question Patrick about her reason for moving, while he was taking her home that night. She pondered too, on what he would tell her about it That the idea pleased her, she made little or no attempt to hide and Shara supposed that, if her mind followed the same pattern as David’s had done, it would be a relief for her to know that Patrick would soon be alone again.

While Patrick was taking his visitor home, Shara went upstairs to her room, unable to face the prospect of discussing her move with him at that late hour, as would be inevitable if she waited up. Perhaps tomorrow morning she would feel less emotional about it and be able to discuss it more sensibly. Tomorrow was time enough.

Tomorrow was bright and sunny again and no day for feeling low, she told herself firmly as she bathed and dressed, humming to herself, determinedly cheerful. She presented a cheerful face to Patrick when he looked up from his newspaper.

‘Good morning, Patrick.’

As if he found her bonhomie a little forced he smiled wryly as he folded the paper and put it away.

‘You look and sound extremely pleased with life this morning,’ he said quietly. ‘Any special reason?’

‘No.’ She shook her head as she helped herself to toast and butter. ‘But it’s such a lovely morning that it seems a pity to waste it on being gloomy. Aren’t you cheerful too?’

‘So-so,’ he agreed cautiously, evidently puzzled by her manner. ‘But I’m never at my best first thing in the morning, as you should know by now.’ It was a remark calculated to bring a note of intimacy into the conversation and she wished he had not done that.

‘I—I hadn’t noticed,’ she said, 'You usually seem bright enough.’

For a moment he smiled wryly, his gaze fixed on her face disconcertingly, then he shook his head slowly. ‘Tell me about your fiat,’ he said. ‘Is it all right?’

‘It’s very nice,’ she said, making an effort to sound enthusiastic. ‘Rather mod but not freaky.’ She quoted David unthinkingly and flushed when she remembered the origin of the phrase. ‘I—I thought you—that you might give me your opinion on it before I actually move in. If you have the time, of course,’ she added hastily.

‘Is my approval so important?’ he asked with his cynical smile in evidence. ‘Or are you worried in case I won’t O.K. the rent?’

‘Nothing of the sort!’ she protested, flushing at the way he had taken her suggestion. ‘I just thought that ‑’ She caught his eye then and saw the warmth and understanding she had hoped to see.

‘I’m flattered to be invited to comment,’ he said more quietly. ‘Of course I’ll come and see it, Shara. When are you thinking of moving in?’

She could have wished that he sounded a little more reluctant to see her go after all. ‘I—I had thought of going today, but perhaps that would be rushing it a bit. Could you put up with me until the end of this week?’

‘It isn’t a case of putting up with you at all,’ he objected quietly. ‘You know that, Shara. You make it sound as if the move was being made at my instigation, and you know that isn’t so.’

‘I know,’ she acknowledged apologetically.

‘But I can see now that it’s for the best,’ he added surprisingly, and she swallowed hard on the prickling threat of tears that would have made her look such a sorry sight had they actually appeared. This was not a moment to cry, although she had never felt more like it. She wondered, briefly, just how much Father Miller had influenced his sudden realisation, during that early visit to church yesterday morning.

‘I’ll—I’ll go next Monday, after we’ve been to the Ledmans’, if that’s all right with you.’ He nodded agreement.

‘I’ll see you safely in,’ he promised, and smiled at her. ‘You’ll be in very select company in Marton Mews, you know. There are more stockbrokers than actors there and they’re—well, they’re not always so easy to get to know.’ He looked worried for a moment as he looked at her. ‘You may be a little lonely at first.’

‘It looks very sober and respectable,’ she said, determined not to think of the more gloomy side of the prospect. ‘But I expect they’re quite friendly once one gets to know them.’

He was watching her again in the way that was so familiar. Over the rim of his coffee mug, his eyes steady and a little anxious. ‘I’d better get Polly to find you a reliable housekeeper before you move in, you can’t cope on your own.’ She made no reply, only jabbed disconsolately at her toast with a buttery knife. ‘Are you sure you’ll be happy there?’

She wrestled again with the threatening tears and nodded, using a throat-clearing cough as an excuse for her unsteady voice. ‘I’ll try,’ she said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was quite early on Saturday morning when Francis Kohn arrived to take Shara to Meaden, the Ledmans' country house, and his pleasure at being a fellow guest was flattering if a little disconcerting when she remembered her host’s ambitions for his daughter.

The house itself was much larger than she had visualised and set in the soft, gentle Surrey countryside well away from its nearest neighbour, and almost hidden among the huge elms that surrounded it.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she told Freda Ledman, when she greeted them. ‘Quite the loveliest house I’ve ever seen, and the setting is perfect.’

'I'm glad you like it,’ Freda Ledman said, her beaming smile well in evidence as she showed her round. ‘We love it, it’s so lovely and quiet away from town. Pat adores it here, you know. Such a country boy he is! And how he used to love to ride, too. Linda and he used to ride for miles when ‑’ She stopped short, her beautiful eloquent eyes anxious that she had not stopped soon enough.

‘I know about Patrick and Miss Maybury,’ Shara told her, anxious to cover her obvious embarrassment. ‘But I never knew she’d been here with him. I wish I could ride, but somehow I never got around to learning.’ She laughed lightly. ‘I was always too much of a social butterfly, I suppose, although I love the country.’

‘You should learn to ride!’ Freda told her, full of her bubbling enthusiasm again. 'Pat would teach you in no time. Me,’ she looked down at her own ample proportions and pulled a face, 'I’m not made for anything so energetic; and the poor horse, eh?’ She laughed mightily at her own shortcomings and Shara thought again how impossible it was not to like her. ‘Anyway,’ she said, pausing for breath, ‘when Pat has his own country house, then you can learn all right, hmm?’

Shara smiled at the thought, remembering how he had said he kept promising himself a house in the country but that it hardly seemed worth it for one. ‘I know he would like one,’ she said. ‘He’s a countryman at heart.’

‘Well, now he can be one,’ Freda said blithely, ‘and still be near enough to town to get to the theatre each night. Elm Acres isn’t very far out and it’s quite an easy run.’ Shara stared at her for a second, unable to believe her own ears. If she had not mistaken Freda Ledman’s words, Patrick had either bought or was about to buy a house in the country and he had said not a word to her about it. ‘Elm Acres,’ she said cautiously. ‘It sounds lovely.’

‘It was lucky that it came on the market just when it did,’ Freda chattered on gaily, unaware of the chill that her companion felt at the news, or of the hurt that filled her at not being told about the house. Tat liked it when he saw it first about two years ago, and he always said he’d like to have it if it ever came on the market As soon as I heard about it from Mrs. Morley, in the village, I let him know.’

‘When was that?’ Shara asked, trying to sound casual, and Freda Ledman pinched her lower lip thoughtfully for a moment.

‘When? Now let me see—it would be last week some time. After you’d been to see us, you and Pat. He didn’t argue about anything, price or anything. He wanted Elm Acres and he just took it right away without hesitation.’ She laughed, her dark eyes eloquent as she looked at Shara. ‘He should have a proper home of his own,' she said, shaking her head. ‘With a wife and children. He’s a good man and an attractive one, too, it’s not right he should still be a bachelor.’

‘I expect he’s happy as he is,' Shara said, with a smile that did not reach her eyes. ‘He has plenty of girl-friends and a lovely place in town with Polly Lawton to take care of him. What more does he need?'

‘A wife,’ Freda said adamantly. ‘That’s what he needs, and unless I'm very much mistaken he’s made up his mind to marry, or almost anyway. The house is the first step, I think.’ She tapped her nose with one finger, a gleam of mischief in her eyes. ‘You see, I think I know that man better than he knows himself, sometimes.'

Shara wished she could have said the same about herself.

Most of the house-guests arrived during the day and the place was a hive of chatter and activity so that Shara had little time to brood over the news that Freda Ledman had so inadvertently sprung on her that morning. They were, for the most part, young people of Becca’s age, with a sprinkling of slightly older ones who were well known enough in the acting world to appeal to Becca’s star-struck nature.

Becca herself was as lively a hostess as her mother and there was no lapse in the determined gaiety of the gathering. It was during the afternoon, when Shara was engaged in a discussion with a group of others, including Francis and Becca, that another visitor arrived and at the sound of the voice in the hall, Becca’s head jerked up sharply and she moved towards the half open door. ‘Linda!’ she said as she crossed the room, hurrying to greet the newcomer, and Shara felt a sudden chill that fluttered down her spine and made her shiver involuntarily.

Francis grinned at the girl’s departing back. ‘Bec was hoping Linda Maybury would come,’ he told Shara. ‘She’s a real fan. Hoping,’ he added with a wry smile, 'that she may be able to emulate her one day.'

‘Well, perhaps she will,’ Shara said, waiting for the moment when she would really see Linda Maybury for the first time, and wishing with all her heart that she had found some excuse not to come to Meaden that week-end. She had liked the idea of Patrick being there, but she had not bargained for Linda Maybury.

Francis, unaware of her feelings, laughed shortly. ‘Not a chance,' he said, brutally frank. ‘Linda is fabulously lovely. Bec’s only pretty, she doesn’t stand a chance.'

'Looks aren’t everything,’ Shara told him shortly, defending her hostess against what she felt was an unfair comparison. 'Becca is a very nice girl'

'Oh, I know she is,’ Francis agreed obligingly, 'but being nice isn’t enough in that profession. You need something else, too.’

'Like the ability to say one thing and mean another,’ Shara said bitterly, remembering what she knew about the actress, and realised a moment later, when he looked at her curiously, that he must find her reaction a bit odd. 'I mean,’ she added hastily, 'that’s what acting is, isn’t it? And Becca is so patently open and honest that it’s difficult to imagine her being any other way.’

As she spoke, the subject of their discussion reappeared, accompanied by her latest visitor. Shara had been curious about Linda Maybury ever since she had heard about her and Patrick, but this was the first time she had really seen her well enough to be able to judge for herself just how beautiful she was. She came into the room as if it was a stage and, unhesitatingly, every eye turned to her. Tall and lithe, she made Shara think, uncharitably, of a cat.

That she was beautiful there was no denying, and she was well aware of it. Her huge, black-fringed dark eyes surveyed the room and its occupants from under half-closed lids as she walked beside the much shorter Becca. Her skin was creamy white and her hair very black, dressed elaborately high and pinned with a jewelled comb on the crown. She was strikingly eye-catching and Shara felt a sinking coldness in her as she watched the almost royal progress across the room.

‘What an entrance!' Francis whispered in Shara’s ear. ‘She’s really great, isn’t she?’

‘She’s very beautiful,’ she admitted reluctantly, and Francis, misreading her tone, squeezed her hand.

‘Not as beautiful as you,’ he assured her. ‘There’s nothing warm and vital about la Maybury, she’s the original ice queen.’

‘Not everyone agrees with you,’ Shara told him as Becca and her guest approached them.

‘You know everyone except Shara, I think,’ Becca said. ‘You two haven’t met, have you?'

The dark eyes swept over Shara in one brief but all-embracing estimate and Linda Maybury half smiled as she extended a hand.

‘I'm sure we haven’t,’ she said. The voice was cool and deep, a very attractive voice, though Shara suspected that the slight huskiness was deliberately cultivated. ‘Hello, Shara.’

‘Shara is Pat Owen’s cousin,’ Becca explained, and Shara felt the light touch of the fingers tighten briefly before she withdrew her hand. ‘Pat’s coming down later tonight.’

‘I see.’ It was not her imagination, Shara felt sure, that saw an increased interest in the deep, dark eyes. ‘I never knew that Pat had any other family than his father. Are you an Owen, too, Shara?’

‘No, I'm a Grey,’ Shara told her, trying not to sound too distant. ‘Patrick is my second cousin, in fact.’ It was going to be impossible, she told herself, to be normally polite and pleasant for the rest of the week-end. It was strange that, if Freda Ledman knew about the affair between Patrick and Linda Maybury, she had invited them both to the house at the same time, unless ‑She remembered Freda’s broad hints earlier, that Patrick had finally decided to get married and settle down, and she hated the thought of this cool, sculptured beauty being the woman he had chosen.

She could well imagine David being attracted to her, however briefly, but Patrick was another matter. It was difficult to think of his naturally warm and friendly nature being sufficiently attracted to this rather distant woman, to think of marrying her. Yet, according to Polly, he had been practically engaged to her. He had also been sufficiently incensed on her behalf, even after he discovered her deception, to hit out at David and risk a scandal.

‘Do you live in town?’

The slightly drawling voice recalled her and she smiled hastily and nodded. ‘Actually I’m moving into a flat in Marton Mews tomorrow. I’ve been staying with Patrick.’

‘Have you?’ The fine brows elevated almost to her hair line and there was a hardness in Linda Maybury’s eyes that reminded Shara of Liz Merril. ‘He never said a word about you. I wonder why.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t think I was worth mentioning,’ Shara said softly, her eyes wide and ingenuous.

A faint flush tinged the creamy cheeks. ‘Perhaps,’ the actress agreed sweetly as she moved on with Becca, to speak to another of the guests.

‘Miaow!' It was Francis’s voice that whispered in her ear and Shara turned sparkling green eyes on him. ‘What was all that about, Shara? You two haven’t met before, have you?’

'No,’ Shara said thoughtfully, ‘but I think we may do again.’

It was quite late that night when Patrick arrived; well after eleven, and the dance was in full swing, so that, apart from a brief greeting, Shara had no chance to speak to him.

He was obviously pleased to see his new leading lady, she noticed, for he kissed her on her cheek and almost immediately began to dance with her; a privilege he evidently reserved for her alone since he danced with no one else, except his two hostesses. He never came near Shara either to ask her to dance or to enlarge on their first brief ‘hello’, a situation which Freda Ledman noted with her beautiful, shrewd dark eyes, but upon which she made no comment.

He had driven out from town in his own car which he so seldom used because of the difficulties involved in parking it and it was earlier than she expected the following morning when Shara heard the engine start up and she got out of bed, her curiosity getting the better of her sleepiness. He would need the car, of course, to get him to Medden, the next village, and the nearest one with a church of his own denomination.

She saw him drive down the drive and disappear amid the trees, gratified to see that he was alone. It would seem that Linda Maybury either did not share his religion or his taste for early rising. It was a lovely morning, warm and tranquil, and the silence here seemed quite different from that in the mews. It was not, in fact, really a silence at all, only a sort of sunny stillness in which the birds whistled and cheeped busily as they stirred the warm air with their flight. From her windows she could just see where the road wound between the high hedges, beyond the tall green of the trees, and smell the nose-tingling scent of newly mown grass from the neat lawns that fronted the house.

There was no sound of movement in the house and she supposed that everyone was either still asleep or else enjoying the opportunity to lie in for a while. It was too lovely a day to waste, she told herself as she dressed quietly and let herself out of the front door. As she crossed the hall, she heard voices from the kitchens and presumed that breakfast was being prepared. She would not go far, she decided, just far enough to develop an appetite for breakfast.

The grass beside the gravel drive was deliriously cool under her feet and she was tempted to take off her thin sandals and walk barefoot on it, but the thought of someone seeing her either from the house or the road made her change her mind. The high hedges either side of the narrow road were alive with birds and once or twice she started as something darted out of the thick leaves and across the road in front of her.

It was less distance than she had anticipated to the village, and the first cottages came into sight as she rounded another bend, quiet and somnolent yet in the morning sun, though a small brown dog greeted her noisily at one of the garden gates as she passed. Beyond the small, snug group of cottages were cross-roads with a signpost pointing in two directions, one arm pointing towards London and the other towards Medden. The latter tempted her, as she thought of Patrick returning from church along there. It would be pleasant to ride back with him and perhaps she would find an opportunity to mention Elm Acres, though that might not be wise at this point.

The signpost was situated at the centre of a small triangle of grass and firmly supported by a huge piece of stone. For a moment she blinked uncertainly as she saw the stone and its occupant, but there could be no mistaking who it was. Linda Maybury sat there, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, leaning back against the wooden post.

The girl glanced briefly at her wrist-watch and tossed back the thick black hair that this morning fell around her shoulders like a sheet of black silk. Shara saw it with something like envy for its almost straightness and touched her own unruly red curls. It would be impossible now to continue as she had been without passing the other girl and she had an uneasy suspicion that she was there with a purpose. There was something in her manner that made Shara think she was waiting for someone, perhaps by appointment, and almost as the thought entered her head she heard the hum of a car engine along the Medden road.

Linda Maybury heard it too and her dark head lifted eagerly to face the sound, an expression on her face that was easy to interpret even from where Shara stood. The girl rose from her uncomfortable seat as the sound drew nearer; tall and slim in a sleeveless white dress that flattered her slim figure and made her impossible to overlook on that quiet country road.

Shara stayed only long enough to see Patrick halt the car beside her and to see her lean across and kiss him as she slid into the passenger seat. She could not hear what was said, or even if words were exchanged, but she wished fervently that she had not decided to come for this walk. She heard the car engine surge into life again and experienced a momentary stab of panic as she sought hastily for an exit. To be seen there by the two of them was the last thing she wanted and she climbed quickly over a wooden stile, blessedly close at hand.

There was a suspicion of a path across the field and, since it appeared to run roughly in the right direction, she followed it The grass felt slightly damp through her thin shoes, but she was not troubled by it, only casting slightly anxious glances from time to time at the herd of cows that followed her progress with bovine enquiry.

Freda Ledman raised her hands in surprise when she met her in the hall shortly afterwards, and smiled her beaming smile. ‘Just right for breakfast, Shara,' she told her. ‘My, but everyone is so full of energy this morning, and after that late night, too, I feel ashamed for being tired.’ She led the way into the dining room where breakfast was laid and where Patrick and Linda were already seated, with Francis and one of Becca’s young friends between them. ‘Another early riser,’ Freda announced as she came into the room.

‘Would you believe it, this child has been out walking, no less?'

Francis pulled a face at the idea, but Linda Maybury arched her fine brows and glanced hastily at Patrick.

‘Which way did you go?' Patrick asked, his eyes on her sun-flushed face, and she wondered just how much of his motive was pure interest and how much curiosity to know if she had seen him with Linda.

‘Towards Medden,' she said, helping herself to toast, while Freda Ledman poured her coffee, and she saw the slight frown that creased his forehead, though whether he was worried or puzzled she could not tell.

‘We—I saw nothing of you,’ he said, hastily correcting the slip. '1 could have given you a lift back if I had.’

She smiled briefly as she explained, ‘I came back across the fields, it was such a lovely morning it seemed a shame to waste it.'

‘I agree,’ he told her, a trace of cynicism in the smile he gave her. ‘But I hadn’t realised quite what a country-lover you were. You surprise me all the time, don’t you?’

There was a glint of devilment in Francis Kohn’s dark eyes as he flicked a look from Patrick to Shara. ‘You should know each other pretty well by now,’ he said blithely. ‘You’ve been together long enough.’

The silence that fell could have been cut with a knife and during the time it endured Patrick held his coffee tightly between his hands, so that the bones showed white over his knuckles where he gripped the cup. Shara felt the colour flush hotly into her cheeks and would have liked nothing better than to have fled from the room. ‘Does one ever really know one's own relations?’ Patrick asked quietly at last and in a tone that made little or nothing of the implication, though Shara could see the tightness of the muscles in his jaw even from where she sat.

Linda Maybury was looking at Francis with such an expression in her deep eyes that he should have shrunk to a mere nothing. ‘A few weeks staying with a cousin is scarcely living together,' she said in her deep drawl. 'You have a vivid imagination, Frankie.'

‘Maybe.’ He shrugged, already regretting his words and uneasy with Becca’s dark eyes fixed reproachfully on him. ‘You were an early bird this morning, too,' he told Linda, seeking a change of subject. ‘But you managed to get a ride back, I noticed.'

‘I was lucky,' Linda said non-committally. ‘I met Pat on his way back from church. If I’d taken to the fields, as Shara did, I would probably have had to walk both ways too.’ So, Shara thought, that was what the others thought; that Linda had gone for a walk as she had done herself, and had been lucky enough to meet Patrick on his way back. Patrick, she noticed, made no attempt to disagree with her but merely smiled to himself in a way that made her angry.

Most of the guests left on Sunday night, but a few, including Patrick, Shara, Francis and Linda, stayed on until Monday morning. ‘I’m trying to persuade Frankie to stay a day or two longer with us,' Freda said as they breakfasted, ‘but he says he has to take Shara home. Now I ask you, what is wrong with Pat taking home his cousin? Why not, hmm? You got no other plans, have you, Pat?'

‘None that matter,' Patrick replied, after a hasty glance at Linda Maybury. ‘And I’ve promised to see Shara safely installed in her new flat this morning anyway, so what could be easier? There’s no need for you to come to town just to bring Shara when I have an empty car, Francis, I’ll take her. If,’ he said with obvious sarcasm, ‘she doesn’t mind making the exchange, of course.'

The steady, disconcerting blue eyes looked at her across the table and the ghost of that cynical smile hovered at the corners of his mouth, so that Shara felt the familiar singe of resentment as her cheeks flushed with colour. ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she said softly, ‘if Miss Maybury doesn’t.’

When they drove back to London it was in complete silence almost. A silence which neither of them made much effort to break for they were both preoccupied with their own thoughts. Shara could not help remembering the meeting she had witnessed between Patrick and Linda Maybury, along that quiet country road. A meeting which he evidently still believed had been unobserved, although Francis’s remark at breakfast on Sunday morning must have given him food for thought.

That he had bought Elm Acres seemed to her to be another indication that he was once more under Linda Maybury’s spell, and Freda Ledman’s barely veiled hints that he was seriously thinking of marriage, to Shara, could mean only one thing. He was contemplating taking the actress there as his wife.

It was when they were nearly back to Cabey Mews that Patrick raised the subject of Francis’s lack of tact, and when he spoke she had the impression that he had had the matter on his mind ever since they had left Meaden.

‘It seems that David Clyde isn't the only one with you and me on his mind,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it is as well you’re getting a place of your own after all.’

‘Francis didn’t mean ‑’ she began.

‘Francis Kohn meant exactly the same thing that Clyde did,’ he interrupted her. ‘Though I can’t think what his motive was for being so tactless.’

She looked at the dark profile presented to her and wondered if he was as ignorant of the reason as he pretended to be. ‘Can’t you?’ she said softly. ‘I would have thought it was obvious why he did it.’

‘Oh? Then perhaps you’ll enlighten me.’ He swung the car into Cabey Mews and they slid to a halt before number six, but he made no move to get out, only turned in his seat to face her, his brows arched enquiringly.

‘He saw you come back on Sunday morning with Miss Maybury and put two and two together.’ She chose her words carefully, made more nervous by the steady discomfiting gaze on the blue eyes on her. ‘Francis enjoys putting the cat among the pigeons and he wanted to make Linda Maybury—angry.’ She hastily avoided saying ‘jealous’.

‘Well, this time two and two made five,’ he said dryly. ‘And why should he think Linda would be angry about his tactless insinuation about you and me? Because I happened to see her walking and gave her a lift back, it doesn’t give him grounds for thinking she would take exception, or even be interested in, my domestic arrangements, surely.’

‘I—I don’t know about that. I suppose he thought that—thought there was something between you.’ She could not look up and meet his eyes; let him know that she had seen the other girl waiting for him; seen the kiss they had exchanged as she got into his car.

‘And what gave him that idea?’ he asked, and she felt a rising anger temper her feeling of guilt.

‘Well, there were rumours of a romance between you at one time,’ she said. ‘I saw one report myself in a magazine, and Francis is an avid reader of theatre and film magazines, he’s as likely to have seen it as me.’

‘But that was a long time ago,’ he pointed out. ‘Have you told him about—about the trouble with Clyde?’

The accusation took her breath away for a moment and she simply stared at him.

‘No, of course I haven’t!’ she said at last. ‘I don’t discuss your affairs with anyone; I have no right to, but that doesn’t stop me from seeing what’s going on and I don’t suppose I'm the only one who’s observant.’ In her own defence she had said more than she intended and she looked down at her hands, tightly clasped in her lap; conscious of his eyes watching her steadily.

‘Observant?’ he said quietly. ‘What is there to observe?’

She shook her head without looking up. ‘I—I don’t want to talk about it, Patrick. It’s nothing that concerns me and ‑’ She looked up at him and attempted a smile that failed dismally. ‘Hadn’t we better go in,’ she said, ‘before Polly comes out to see what’s wrong?’

He looked at her for a long moment in silence, then shrugged, turning to open the car door. ‘If you’re determined to make a mystery out of it, there’s nothing more I can say.’ He came round to her side and for a moment, before he opened the door and handed her out of the car, she felt very small and rather unhappy. He opened the front door and stood back to let her precede him into the house. ‘You’d better get your things together,’ he said as they went in, ‘while I have a word with Polly.’ Get her things together; almost as if he was glad to see her go, as he probably was, she told herself miserably.

While she packed up her belongings, up in the bright little room she had grown so attached to, she thought of Elm Acres. If Patrick had bought the house in the country, as Freda Ledman said, it would mean that he would be leaving here soon, as well. He, and Polly, of course. It had been some small comfort to her to know that her own move was not far away from Cabey Mews, but if this house was sold and Patrick moved miles away into the country it would mean that she was very much alone.

She pushed a dress into a trunk determinedly, her lips set tight on the thoughts that rose unbidden to her mind when she thought of Elm Acres. She had been on her own for six years and had managed to be independent in that time, she could be so again. It was silly to think she would miss anyone after only two months. If Patrick and Polly could manage without her, then she could be happy without them; she would just have to get used to it, that was all. But she bit her lip as she slammed down the lid of the trunk and felt a tear roll down one cheek as she looked around the room. She had enjoyed these past two months at Cabey Mews perhaps more than any other time in her life, and she was very reluctant to leave it. She blinked for a moment or two, then impatiently brushed away the betraying tear and opened the bedroom door.

As she came downstairs, Polly came out of the kitchen, and she could see traces of tears on the odd, gnome-like little face and a look of despondency in the black eyes that watched her descend. It would make it so much worse if Polly was going to make a show of emotion at her going. ‘Ah, there you are, love,’ she said. ‘Did you manage? I didn’t pack any of your things while you were away in case you’d changed your mind over the week-end.’ She looked at her hopefully and Shara shook her head.

‘No, I haven’t changed my mind, Polly,’ she said gently. ‘In fact I’ve had my decision endorsed, so there’s no use thinking about it.’

‘I don’t see ‑’ Polly began, but shrugged when she saw the expression on her face. ‘Oh well, if it’s done it’s done, I suppose. The van’s here for your trunks, if they’re ready to come down.’

Patrick had been sitting on the arm of one of the chairs and he got up slowly when she came into the room, his expression blandly non-committal as he looked at her through a haze of cigarette smoke. ‘Are you ready, Shara?’ he asked, and she nodded, not trusting herself to speak, while Polly gave him a look that was far from her usual indulgent one, before she popped back into the kitchen to summon the van men.

Shara watched in silence as her trunks were brought down the narrow stairs and obediently handed over one of her keys to the flat, at Patrick’s request. ‘Just put them inside somewhere,’ he told the men, who appeared to know him well, judging by their manner. ‘And try not to make any marks on the landlord’s furniture, won’t you, Ben?’ This last was addressed to the taller of the two, who nodded his head and grinned amiably.

‘O.K., Mr. Owen, you leave it to us.’

‘Friends of yours?’ Shara asked, as the men dosed the door behind them and drove off, and Patrick smiled.

‘You might say so,’ he said. ‘They work for me and they can be trusted, that’s why I asked for them. If we give them time to get there first, we can follow on, in the meantime Polly love, could you rustle up some coffee for us, please? Polly went in silence and without her usual smile and Patrick raised an expressive brow at her departing back.

‘I’m out of favour,’ he declared, seemingly unworried by it. He signed her to a chair before sitting down again himself. ‘Because I haven’t tried to talk you out of going. Polly has no notion of the world’s preoccupation with other people’s morals, I'm afraid, and she can’t see why you have to go. At the moment she looks upon me as a heartless villain with no thought for a poor orphan girl. She thinks I’m turning you out into the hard, cruel world to fend for yourself.’

'Oh, surely you’re exaggerating,’ she protested, wondering if he was serious or not. 'Polly knows it was my own idea in the first place.’

‘I think the truth is,’ he said, ‘that she’s become very attached to you in the last two months and she doesn’t like the idea of you living alone.’ He looked at her steadily, but with a warmth and understanding that did nothing to stiffen her wilting determination. ‘I think she’s afraid you may become too involved with David Clyde without me around to act as a deterrent.’

‘That’s silly, Patrick. I’ve been taking care of myself for the last six years, I’m not a child.’

He smiled, slowly and without the usual cynicism. ‘So you’ve often told me,’ he said. ‘And I do believe you.’

‘Anyway,’ she said in an effort to steady the sudden rapid beating of her heart as he looked at her, ‘I told Polly you’d be glad to have your home to yourself again.’

‘You told Polly that?’ He looked at her as if he only half believed her. ‘Why? Did you believe it or were you just saying it?’

‘I—I believed it,’ she said, not looking at him and wishing she did not feel so horribly tearful.

‘And you still believe it?’ he insisted.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I think so; it will give you a lot more freedom not to have me always around, won’t it?’

He put out the cigarette, narrowing his eyes against the smoke that rose from the ashtray. ‘You’re quite wrong, you know,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve enjoyed having you here. I can see now that it’s for the best that you leave_; but it gives me no pleasure to see you go. It just wouldn’t be possible to go on as we have been, not any longer.’ She made her own guesses at the reasons that suddenly made it impossible for her to stay there in his estimation and for a moment saw again the tall slim figure of Linda Maybury waiting for him by the signpost.

‘Of course not,’ she agreed, as casually as she knew how. ‘There are other people to consider as well, I realise that. But don’t think I’m not grateful to you for all you’ve done, Patrick; for having me here and for—for everything. I’ve never enjoyed anything as much as I have staying here. I knew it couldn’t go on indefinitely, it ‑’ She shook her head as the prickling tears threatened again. ‘Thank you for everything,’ she said simply.

For a moment he neither moved nor spoke, then he leaned forward in his chair and took one of her hands in both of his. ‘Shara, if you ‑’ At that point Polly came in with a loaded tray and he hastily drew back, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid, while Shara felt her hands trembling as she clasped them together in her lap.

‘You could at least have stayed for lunch,’ Polly complained as she came through the door into the room. ‘All ' this rush to move out, anyone would think you were being evicted!’ The last was directed at Patrick and, catching his eye, Shara flushed uneasily and looked away again.

‘All right, Polly,' he said quietly, taking the tray from her and setting it down on a small table between them. ‘We know how you feel about it, love, but there’s nothing else for it. Now be a good soul and let me in peace, will you?’

‘I wonder your conscience isn’t bothering you!’ Polly retorted as she dosed the kitchen door firmly behind her, and Patrick shook his head ruefully.

‘It will take me an awful long tune to live this down,’ he told her. 'I know Polly.’

‘Perhaps a new house will help,' Shara said, and saw his head jerk up and his hand pause half-way to the coffee pot.

‘A new house?’ The blue eyes watched her steadily and she looked down at her hands again, wishing she had not spoken about that. Not at this moment. When she was silent he picked up the coffee pot and half-filled her cup, topping it with milk, just the way she liked it ‘You’d better tell me the rest,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry. I—I shouldn’t have said anything about it, I didn’t think.' She shook her head, spooning sugar into her cup absently.

‘Well, you have,' he said quietly, 'so you’d better go on.’

'I—I can’t I’d much rather not, please, Patrick.’

‘Don’t “please, Patrick” me,’ he insisted. ‘I want to know what you’ve heard and where you heard it I’ve had enough mysteries for one day.’

‘I don’t ‑’ she began, only to be interrupted, inevitably.

‘Tell me,’ he said adamantly. He was not as angry as she had somehow expected him to be when he discovered that his secret was out, for she thought he knew well enough what it was she had heard.

‘Freda Ledman told me on Saturday just after I arrived at Meaden,’ she said. ‘We were talking about liking the country and how you loved the country and ‑’

He nodded slowly, a wry smile on his face. ‘Freda! I might have known, of course.’ He poured out his own thick, black brew and sipped it experimentally. ‘Just what did she tell you, Shara?'

‘That you’d bought, or were buying, a house in Surrey. Elm Acres, she said it was called. She even knew the name of it.’ Her tone of voice should have been reproach enough, but he appeared not to notice it. ‘I didn’t tell her I didn’t know anything about it at all; I—I couldn’t.’ She looked at him with all the hurt she had felt plain in her eyes. ‘I didn’t want her to know that you hadn’t told me anything about it, so I pretended I knew.’

‘I suppose Freda was indulging in her usual speculation?' he mused, without saying what that involved, and Shara said nothing. If Freda’s usual speculation meant that she expected him to marry before very long, he was right, but then she could hardly tell him so. ‘What else did she guess about?' he asked. No apologies, she noticed, for not having told her about the house.

‘Nothing else,’ she denied, and looked up startled when he laughed shortly.

‘That’s a lie, Shara. If there’s one thing I’ve learned during the past few weeks, it’s to know when you’re lying to me.’

‘I’m not lying!’ she protested, but he merely smiled that cynical smile that she disliked so much. ‘And don’t smile at me like that, I hate it!’

‘I’m very sorry about that,’ he said, with a solemnity that was belied by the laughter in his eyes. ‘I’ll try not to do it in future when I’m with you.’

Her brief anger spent, she bit her lip as the hovering tears threatened again. ‘No—I'm sorry, Patrick. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I don’t want to quarrel with you on my last day here.’

‘Why not?’ He sounded genuinely surprised, but his eyes still teased her. ‘I’ve quite enjoyed our little battles, I thought you had. I expected fireworks from a redhead and you haven’t disappointed me.’

‘I’m glad you’ve been amused,’ she said stiffly, disliking his lighthearted manner. She glanced at her wrist-watch and at the clock on the mantel. ‘I—I think I should be going, Patrick. I don’t want to be too late.’ The deep blue eyes searched her face for a moment and he looked as if he would speak, but instead he shook his head and got up from his chair.

The flat looked less attractive than it had the first time she had visited it with David and she felt her spirits sink to zero as she walked in. Her trunks and the suitcase standing in the centre of the room gave it a desolate air, and only Patrick, standing by the wide, discreetly curtained window, made it seem a little more like home. But Patrick would be going soon, back to Cabey Mews and Polly.

She swallowed determinedly on the lump that rose in her throat and smiled at him. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked brightly.

‘Hmm.’ He looked round at the modem decor and the rather harsh colours. ‘Well, it’s your flat and if you like it that’s all that matters.’ Polly had arranged for a friend of hers to come in as housekeeper and cook, but she would not be sleeping in and she would not be arriving until later that afternoon.

‘Don’t be too enthusiastic,’ she laughed, making a rueful face at him. ‘It could be worse.’

‘You’ll be completely alone at night,’ he said dubiously. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right, Shara?’

‘Of course I’ll be all right,’ she said with an assurance she was far from feeling. ‘I’ll be fine. There are people above me and on either side. I’ll be perfectly all right’

He looked around him again and moved from the window to stand close to her, silent for a moment, his steady gaze fixed on her. ‘Any time you want to, Shara, you can always come home; you know that, don’t you?'

‘I know,’ she said softly, ‘and thank you, Patrick.’

‘Do you need some help with your things?’ he asked, seeming reluctant to leave her to herself, and she shook her head.

‘It’s all right, I can unpack later. There’s no hurry.’ She did not want him to go and yet she wanted to be alone so that she could let those threatening tears flow freely, without him seeing them.

‘Then I’ll go,’ he said, but paused half way to the door. ‘What are you doing about dinner tonight? Will your good lady have arrived by then?’

‘Oh yes.’ She smiled her thanks at his concern. ‘But I shall be out to dinner. I’m seeing David.’

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ He still hesitated, looking at her as if he sought further excuse to remain. ‘Goodbye, Shara. For now,’ he added hastily, and before she could reply, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her mouth as he had done only once before, only this time he held her longer, his arms tightly round her as if he hated to let her go, and she felt the tears run warmly down her cheeks as she hid her face against him. He bent his head and spoke softly against her hair. ‘Au revoir, my beautiful heathen.’ He was gone and the door closed quietly behind him, while Shara still stood as he had left her, crying softly for no good reason that she could think of.

CHAPTER NINE

‘I don’t think Mrs. Emmett approves of me,’ David said one day as he waited for Shara to get ready for a lunch date, and she laughed.

‘I don’t see how you can say that after little more than a month,’ she said. ‘You’ve only seen her about a dozen times, and then only briefly when she answered the door to you.’

‘I can tell from the funny way she looks at me,’ he insisted, his expression of mock fear making her laugh more. ‘She looks as if she suspects me of all the seven deadly sins and a few more besides. Anyway,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘she’s a friend of Polly Lawton’s, isn’t she? You can bank on it that sweet Polly has primed her on my sinful past.’

Shara shook her head, still amused. ‘Don’t be such an idiot, David, of course Polly hasn’t said anything about you, past or present. And Mrs. Emmett is a very good housekeeper. I like her and I’m very satisfied with her, so don’t you dare upset her or I shall be furious!’

Mrs. Emmett was a large and motherly soul who had been a friend of Polly Lawton’s for a number of years and she had taken to Shara as quickly as Shara had to her. She had noticed, however, that she did tend to treat David rather warily, and she supposed it was possible that Polly had considered it her duty to warn her friend about his reputation. Patrick, on the other hand, was treated quite differently whenever he called at the flat. She always had a smile for him and a greeting. She appeared not to dislike Francis either.

‘I wouldn’t dream of upsetting her,' David averred piously. ‘I just wish she wouldn’t fix me with her eagle eye every time I come here that’s all. It’s making me think Pat Owen has installed a fifth column to keep an eye on me.’

Shara laughed outright at the suggestion and picked up her bag and gloves from the table, passing him to get to the door. 'You are an idiot,’ she told him. ‘Are you coming or do I go on my own?’

David had discovered a new club which was rapidly replacing the Top Folk as the fashionable place to be seen and he had taken her there once or twice recently. It was not exactly her taste, with its rather garish decor, and the clientele was much less impressive than at the Top Folk, but the food was good and the service fast but rather off-hand—something which the frequenters seemed to accept without complaint. The lighting was dim and a peculiar shade of yellow which made everyone look unhealthily sallow and did little to compliment even the best looks.

'You don’t like it here much, do you?’ David asked, blithely uncaring one way or the other it seemed.

‘I don’t mind,’ she allowed grudgingly, ‘as long as I don’t look as much like an anaemic Chinaman as the rest of you do.’

‘You look gorgeous,’ he assured her. ‘You always do, my sweet, that’s why I like being seen with you. It’s very good for my ego.’

She smiled wryly over the last and would have made a suitably crushing reply, but she had spotted Liz Merril at almost the same moment as the blonde girl had seen her and started in their direction. She was accompanied by a tall, fair young man who followed her across the room with seeming reluctance, and looked far from happy. When she came nearer Shara could see the reason for his uneasiness, for Liz Merril had obviously drunk far more than was good for her and she was quite unsteady on her feet, although she managed to manoeuvre her way between the small tables without mishap.

There was a slightly glassy look in her blue eyes and her blonde hair hung about her face in a loose and casual style that Shara had never seen her wear before and which made her look strangely old in the uncomplimentary light. She put one hand on the edge of their table as she approached, to steady herself. ‘David darling!’ she said, her voice uncharacteristically shrill and without its usual drawl. ‘It’s so nice to see you again.' She glanced briefly at Shara. ‘Still playing knight errant to Pat’s little cousin, I see.’

Normally David would have been on his feet, his impeccable manners prompting the action if nothing else, but now he stayed where he was and his straight, rather cruel mouth curved into a knowing smile. His light eyes flicked briefly to her escort and back again. ‘You’ve changed partners, I see, Liz darling,' he said, drawling his words in pseudo-sweetness. ‘Is Pat Owen too busy these days?’ It was a brutally callous remark and Shara flinched as if it had been directed at her, while Liz Merril blinked rapidly, trying to marshall her muddled wits for a suitable reply.

‘I don’t like you, David,’ she announced at last. ‘I don’t like you at all. I never did really.' She looked at him owlishly and he smiled again, his eyes glinting malice, and Shara was uncomfortably reminded of Polly’s story of how he had turned on Linda Maybury and lashed her with his tongue. David could be very cruel, there was no doubt about that, and for a moment she shuddered at her own possible fate. ‘Wouldn’t it be a good idea if you went home and slept it off, darling?’ he said softly to Liz Merril. ‘You’re more than slightly high and it doesn’t suit you.’

‘I’m not high,’ she objected, her voice loud enough to attract the attention of people at the adjoining tables. ‘I may be a bit merry, just a tiny bit merry, but I am definitely not high.’ She blinked a moment uncertainly, shaking her head, and Shara felt indescribably sorry for her. Her escort hovered rather futilely in the background, as if he found her at once an embarrassment and an object of pity. He was undecided, Shara thought, whether to intervene or just accept the role of onlooker. Liz Merril was a woman with a very strong character and it would take a brave man to try and dissuade her from any course she had decided on. Patrick, she thought, could have managed it.

‘Miss Merril—Liz.’ Shara ventured to put a hand on the other girl’s arm. 'Wouldn’t it be better if you went home?’ Her pity was plain in her voice and in her eyes, and the other girl turned on her, resentful of her intervention, the blue eyes focussing with difficulty.

‘Shara,’ she said. ‘Pat’s little cousin.’ Her eyes went to Shara’s throat. 'Not wearing the family heirloom, I see. Did he take it back from you when you went?’

Shara, conscious of several pairs of interested eyes, felt her colour rise at the suggestion, but determined not to blame the other girl for being spiteful. ‘If you mean the emerald necklace,’ she said quietly, ‘that was a birthday present from Patrick, as I told you. Naturally I still have it.’

‘Naturally,’ Liz Merril echoed solemnly. ‘You did the best thing when you left him,’ she informed her. 'We should both have known that Maybury would worm her way back eventually. I did you an injus—injustice.’ She put a hand on Shara’s arm, shaking her blonde head from side to side mechanically. ‘I thought it was you I had to worry about, but it was Maybury, and I should have known. Now he’s going to marry her.’ The blue eyes were no longer hard when they looked at Shara but blank with misery, and Shara felt her own heart chill suddenly as she stared at her.

‘I—I think you must be mistaken, Miss Merril.’ She heard her own voice, flat and unemotional. ‘I’ve heard nothing about Patrick getting married to anyone, and I think I would have. He would have told me.’ Only he wouldn't, she thought miserably, any more than he told me about buying Elm Acres.

The blonde head was shaking again, slowly but insistently. ‘I know he is,’ she said. ‘I heard it on very good authority. This time he’s going to marry her, and he’s even bought a house in the country because she likes the country, you see.’ So even that was common knowledge now! She was aware of David’s light grey eyes fixed on her curiously and she hastily summoned a smile as she answered.

‘I know about the house,’ she said. ‘But Patrick’s been promising himself a home in the country for a long time. He told me so.’

One finger was laid along Liz Merril’s nose and she narrowed her eyes, nodding wisely, though it did not help her equilibrium. 'Ah, but he’s only got around to actually buying one now that he’s marrying her? she said solemnly. ‘Just when Maybury comes back into his life, suddenly he buys a house in the country.’

Shara scarcely knew what to say. Her own thoughts were chaotic and suddenly Liz Merril looked incredibly weary. The blue eyes closed briefly as if she felt tired and she shook her head slowly. ‘I think I’ll go home,’ she said flatly. ‘I don’t feel very festive today.’

‘Will you be all right?’ Shara asked, all her sympathy going out to the blonde girl. She remembered that brief revealing moment at their first meeting, when it had been so painfully obvious how she felt about Patrick, and for a moment she condemned him for his seeming callousness, not only on Liz Merril’s behalf but also on her own. She had seen him often enough in the past three weeks or so since she moved into her own flat for him to have mentioned his plans to marry, but he had said nothing, leaving her to find out from another source, from a stranger. Admittedly it could be said that it was no concern of hers, but she had thought their relationship close enough for him to have given her a hint that he intended marrying Linda Maybury after all. She remembered his answer when she had raised the subject of his working with Linda again. He had been adamant that anything that had been between them had ceased to exist and that the partnership was purely a working one.

Liz Merril’s blue eyes looked at her curiously for a moment and then, surprisingly, she smiled. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said. 'No need to worry about me at all. I’ll be all right.’ She shook her head again, as if to clear it, and laughed shortly. ‘I suppose I’m no worse off than you, am I?’ she asked.

Shara could only stare at her blankly for a moment during which time the fair young man decided finally to take action and, taking her arm, he led her unprotesting through the maze of tables to the exit. Neither of them spoke for a minute after the blonde girl and her escort had gone, then David touched her curled fingers tentatively, a half smile on his Ups as he looked at her. ‘Come on, my sweet, don’t let Liz’s drunken ravings put you into a state for the rest of the day.’

‘I’m not in a state, David.’ She smiled at him, but it was a smile that did not reach her eyes. ‘And poor Liz wasn’t as drunk as all that.’

‘She’s as tight as an owl,’ he decreed, and frowned, momentarily puzzled. ‘It’s not like Liz, I have to admit. She must have been pretty stuck on your esteemed cousin to take it so much to heart.’

‘She’s very much in love with him,’ Shara said quietly. ‘I realised that the first time I met her, and you were very cruel to speak to her like you did, David.’

He shrugged, not over pleased at being criticised. ‘I haven’t much patience with lovesick females,’ he said.

‘Especially when they drown their sorrows in drink.’ She determinedly bit on the retort that rose to her Ups and instead shook her head, her eyes full of pity for Liz Merril.

‘Poor Liz,’ she said softly.

He arched his brows enquiringly as he studied her. ‘What about poor Shara?’ he asked. ‘Should we feel sorry for her too?'

‘No, of course not!’ Her cheeks flushed and her green eyes flashed at him indignantly. ‘You’ve no need to start that nonsense again, David. I’m—I’m fond of Patrick, naturally, he’s my cousin and he’s been very good to me, but anything else is purely supposition on your part, and it’s wrong, what’s more.’

‘All right, all right!’ He raised his hands in the familiar defensive gesture. ‘But there was talk at one time ‑’

‘Only by you,’ she interrupted sharply. ‘Really, David, you just won’t believe me, will you?'

'I do believe you,’ he said. ‘But only because I want to.’ There was an expression in his eyes, half serious, half mocking, as if he wondered just how much truth her protestations held.

She was unusually quiet through lunch, a fact that did not go unnoticed, though David made no verbal comment on it. He came in with her, as he usually did when he brought her home, and smiled when he learned that Mrs. Emmett was out shopping. ‘How tactful of her,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the old girl isn’t so bad after all.’ He stroked an imaginary moustache and rolled his eyes at her. ‘Alone at last, me proud beauty,’ he said in the exaggerated tones of old-time melodrama.

‘I doubt if Mrs. Emmett had your nefarious schemes in mind when she went out shopping,’ Shara told him with a smile. ‘And I don’t suppose she’ll be gone very long, either.’

‘Long enough,’ he said, closing the door behind him, and Shara ducked past him to put on the catch.

‘I’ll leave it unfastened,’ she said ‘It will save her getting her key out when she comes back.’

David frowned. ‘I’d like some warning when she’s coming in,’ he protested, and Shara shook her head.

‘You’re not going to need a warning,’ she told him, only half serious, ‘because you’re going to behave yourself.’

‘Shara.’ He turned as she walked past him again and put his arms round her, bringing her to a standstill, her red head well below his chin. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t like me,’ he told her, ‘because I’m quite sure you do.’ Half laughing, he drew her closer, and she tussled with her conscience as it told her that it was only because of what Liz Merril had said that she was allowing him to become so dangerously near to being serious.

‘I do like you,’ she said, raising her face to look at him. ‘I shouldn’t see you as often as I do if I didn’t like you, David, but that doesn’t mean that I’m prepared to—to have an affair with you. To become serious, I mean. I like you and I like being with you.’

‘Of course you do, my sweet.’ The pale grey eyes were bright with something that sent a shiver through her as she looked up into them. ‘And I’m completely besotted with you, as well you know.’

She laughed uneasily, wishing Mrs. Emmett would come back, though only because it would mean that the housekeeper would be blamed for ending the episode and not herself. It was a coward’s way out, she realised, but she was a little afraid of David’s reaction if she rejected him too insistently. She could not help remembering how he had spoken to Liz Merril and how he was reputed to have berated Linda Maybury. ‘I don’t want you to be besotted with me,’ she told him. ‘And that’s a horrid word, too.’

‘It’s true,’ he insisted. ‘I’m as mad as a March hare about you, Shara, and you may as well face the fact.’

‘I don’t want ‑’ The rest of the sentence was cut short as his mouth covered hers, fiercely possessive, and he held her tight enough to make her fear for her ribs when she breathed. She moved as well as she could and turned her head. ‘Don’t, David, please!’

'Shara, Shara.’ His voice was husky as he put his lips against her throat, his hold on her almost cruelly tight as she tried to free herself.

'David, please!’ She felt a rising panic at his strength and his single-mindedness and pushed against him, futilely, she realised. 'David! Let me go!’

‘All right, Clyde.’ She became still suddenly at the sound of Patrick’s voice and David swung round angrily, his pale eyes glittering malice as he looked at his old adversary.

‘I didn’t hear you knock,’ he said coldly. ‘Or don’t you bother in other people’s homes?’

Patrick stood in the doorway looking darkly aloof; only the angry gleam in the deep blue eyes betraying his feelings. 'Nevertheless I did knock,’ he told David, unruffled by the attack, his eyes on Shara’s flushed cheeks and slightly dishevelled hair. ‘But I’m not surprised you didn’t hear me in the circumstances. I did hear Shara, however, and she sounded to me as if she was objecting.’

David’s smile was pure self-confidence and satisfaction. ‘Just window-dressing,’ he said flatly. ‘You should know that.’

‘As it happens I don’t.’ Shara looked at him uneasily, wondering if he realised that she had been almost as much to blame for the incident as David After all, with David, such a thing had been bound to happen sooner or later, and she had asked him into her flat.

‘Oh?’ David’s brows arched quizzically, determined, it seemed, to be offensive. ‘Don’t tell me you never kiss those lovely dollies you escort about the town.’

Patrick still refused to be drawn, but Shara could see the tight little lines about his mouth and knew the signs only too well. ‘If a girl objects so obviously when I kiss her,' he said quietly, ‘I take it she doesn’t want to be kissed—not by me, anyway.’ For a moment the deep blue eyes held hers and she was reminded of the times he had kissed her, when she had made no protest at all.

David flicked a glance from one to the other, seeking the reason for Patrick’s enigmatic words and for the sudden soft flush in Shara’s cheeks as she hastily lowered her eyes. She sensed that David would not let the matter drop, nor would he be prepared to meet Patrick half-way in a truce, so the only thing was for David to leave and this she sought to achieve as easily as possible.

‘For heaven’s sake!’ she said lightly, ‘don’t let’s make a major issue out of it. Do come in, Patrick, you don’t have to stand on the doorstep. David was just going.’ He nodded thanks and, ignoring David’s discouraging glare, came into the room.

‘I wa ‑’ David would have voiced his objection, but she put a finger firmly over his lips and turned him towards the door.

‘You were just going, David,’ she said firmly, unable to resist a smile at his expression. ‘And thank you for a lovely lunch. I enjoyed it enormously.’

‘Even Liz Merril’s little performance?’ he asked, very quietly, and Shara glanced hastily at Patrick, who appeared not to have heard, but stood in the centre of the room looking with interest, either real or assumed, at a magazine she had been reading.

‘Ssh!’ she warned. ‘If you start any trouble,’ she added in a whisper, 'I'll never speak to you again, David. I mean that.’

He glared at Patrick balefully over the top of her head. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘I’m just going. I’ll see you tomorrow night, won’t I?’

She flicked a glance over her shoulder before she shook her head.

‘I’m—I’m not sure, David.’

‘You promised,’ he objected, and she shook her head.

‘I didn’t promise. You asked me and I said I would if I hadn’t anything else booked for then, but I have to check in my diary first.’

‘There’s no need to check,' Patrick said quietly from behind her, and she turned and looked at him a slight frown between her brows, her eyes curious. ‘You’re having dinner with me tomorrow night,' he informed her, his gaze as steady as a rock, and she nodded slowly.

‘Oh yes, of course,’ she said, quite certain that she had made no such arrangement or she would have remembered. ‘I’d—I’d forgotten.’

David’s look of suspicion made her flush uneasily as she avoided his gaze, but Patrick apparently suffered no such qualms of conscience and he smiled almost pleasantly at the other man. ‘All right, I admit defeat,’ David said grudgingly, ‘but only this time. I’ll ring you tomorrow, Shara, and this time we’ll make it a definite date.’

She nodded as she walked the few steps with him to the door and let him into the tiny hallway feeling a little conscience-stricken as she opened the outside door for him. ‘Thank you again, David.’ She tiptoed and kissed his cheek. ‘You’re very sweet,’ she added. ‘Goodbye.’

For a moment he looked down at her, his light eyes speculative, then he pulled her to him and kissed her firmly and determinedly on her mouth, grinning his satisfaction at her expression as she glanced hastily over her shoulder. ‘Au revoir, my sweet’

Patrick still stood as she had left him, in the centre of the room, tall and rather ominous, she thought, in the dimness that temporarily blinded her after the brightness of the sunlight outside. He put down the magazine he held and looked at her steadily, a hint of a smile round his mouth. ‘You have David Clyde eating out of your hand,’ he informed her, with every appearance of being serious, ‘and that is no mean achievement.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she denied, though only halfheartedly. She was much more interested to know why he had claimed that fictitious dinner date with her and even more intrigued by her own unquestioning compliance with him. She sat down in an armchair, indicating that he should do the same, her eyes curious as she looked across as him.

‘You don’t think it’s an achievement or you don’t agree he’s eating out of your hand?’ he asked, the half smile still in evidence.

‘I don’t think David’s eating out of my hand,’ she said. ‘He’s not the type. David would never get that fond of any woman, I think. He can be very cruel when he ‑’ She stopped, conscious of the growing hardness in his eyes when she mentioned David’s cruelty. ‘Oh, not to me,’ she hastened to add.

‘Liz Merril?’ He looked at her with what she had several times termed his inquisitor’s look and she lowered her own gaze to stare down at her hands in her lap. ‘I heard him mention Liz just now,’ he said a mite impatiently when she did not answer.

‘It was nothing very much,’ she said, wishing he had not overheard what David had said. ‘Liz—well, she’d had rather a lot to drink at lunch time and she was—she was a bit maudlin, that’s all.’

The deep blue eyes stared at her in disbelief and a frown creased his forehead. ‘Liz? At lunchtime? I can’t believe it, Shara, are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ she said, impatient in her turn at his lack of perception. ‘I felt really sorry for her. She looked terribly unhappy and David was horrid to her.’

'Yes, he would be.’ He still looked puzzled, but to her relief he did not pursue the matter. ‘I’m still surprised that he lets you get away with as much as he does.’

‘Me? I don’t see that I get away, as you call it, with anything.’

He laughed then, shaking his head at her pout of indignation. ‘Oh, Shara, you really believe that, don’t you? I’m surprised he hasn’t either given up altogether or put you over his knee by now, the way you keep him in suspense; and a man like Clyde, too. It’s hardly feasible.’

She stared at him in silence for a moment. 'You seem to be the expert on these matters,’ she said at last, a glint of challenge in her eyes. ‘Which would you do?’

He laughed softly, taking a cigarette from his case and lighting it before he answered. ‘I’m not an expert by any means,’ he said, narrowing his eyes against the rising smoke that all but obscured the expression in them. ‘And I’m older than Clyde, I have more patience. I can wait.’

CHAPTER TEN

‘Why did you tell David that I’d arranged to have dinner with you tonight?’ Shara asked, the following evening after they had finished their meal and sat with the last of the wine, listening to the music from a discreetly subdued band. It was the first time she had put into words the question that had been puzzling her ever since his bland and completely untrue statement the day before. Why she should have mentioned the matter now, she had no idea, unless it was because the wine and the pleasant lethargy she felt after dinner made her less caring about his answer. His smile was enigmatic when he looked at her over the rim of his glass.

‘Why didn’t you tell him you hadn’t?’ he countered, and laughed at her frown. 'You could have done, you know. I rather expected you would, as a matter of fact.’ He was looking at her in that steady disconcerting way he had, so that she could find no reasonable excuse.

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted slowly and saw the look of amusement in his eyes. ‘You—you took me by surprise,’ she added defensively. That at least was partial truth, though she had had plenty of opportunities since to tell David that there had been a mistake and that she could see him after all. Only she had said nothing; let David think that the dinner had been previously arranged and met Patrick after the theatre as he suggested. He was smiling at her now, as if he guessed something of her thoughts.

‘Poor Shara,’ he said softly. ‘I put you in a spot, didn’t I? I’m sorry; but you don’t mind having dinner with me, do you?’

‘Of course I don’t.' She glanced at him from under her lashes, unable to resist the temptation to let him know his secret was known to her. ‘I’m only flattered that you can spare me the time.'

He drew his brows into a frown and his perplexity looked genuine enough, though she doubted it was. ‘That sounded unpleasantly like sarcasm,’ he told her. ‘And I can’t imagine what I’ve done to deserve it.’

As always, she was sorry almost immediately, for having made a spiteful remark to him, and she looked suitably remorseful. ‘I'm sorry,’ she said. 'I shouldn’t have said it quite like that.’ She hesitated, but from the look he fixed her with it was obvious that she would be obliged to explain the jibe. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all, that you have time for anyone else but—but Miss Maybury,’ she finished lamely, and his expressive brows flicked upwards in surprise.

‘Why?' he asked flatly, putting the onus once more on to her, and she shook her head.

‘I’m sorry I mentioned it,’ she said, desperately seeking a way out. ‘It’s none of my business, anyway, and if you don’t want to tell me yourself, then it doesn’t matter. I don’t mind, I have no special right to know what your plans are. It’s no concern of mine.’

‘Shara.’ He put out a hand to cover hers, a hint of a smile round his mouth as he looked at her. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d tell me what all that preamble was about. Please.’

‘Oh, don’t be obtuse!’ she said crossly, feeling horribly inquisitive for having raised the matter and annoyed with him for insisting on pursuing it in the face of her obvious reluctance. ‘You know perfectly well what I meant. Everyone knows, so Liz Merril said, and I believe her. She was a little drunk, I know, but she knew what she was saying. Poor Liz!’

‘And what did she say?’ He was not looking at her now, but studying the pattern on his wine-glass, as if it absorbed his whole attention. 'What is it that everyone knows?’ Shara sighed, an exaggerated sigh, to let him know that his deliberate obtuseness annoyed her. ‘That you’ve bought Elm Acres with the intention of living there with Linda Maybury after you’re married.’

‘I see.’ He neither confirmed nor denied the fact, she noticed. ‘And why are you so concerned with Liz Merril’s welfare suddenly? I thought you didn’t like her very much, that was the impression I always had.’

She hesitated momentarily, surprised that he should have noticed what she had fondly imagined was a well hidden dislike for the other girl. ‘Oh, you know quite well what I mean,’ she said, feeling her throat constricted as she swallowed determinedly on threatening tears. She was hating this cross-examination and he must know it, but he still continued to watch her with that relentless blue gaze that made her feel small and rather treacherous as she remembered that glimpse of Liz Merril’s innermost thoughts. ‘I—I saw it the first day I met her, though she made an effort ever afterwards to conceal it. You must know Liz Merril is in love with you.’

‘You’re very observant,’ he commented, as if that was the most important fact of her statement.

‘You do know,’ she accused. ‘And you don’t even care!’ Anger as well as tears lent a glistening shine to her green eyes as she looked at him across the table, and he raised his own eyes at last.

‘I do know,’ he said quietly, ‘and I do care. I didn’t know until Liz more or less told me so herself. Not in so many words, but it was obvious, painfully so.’ For a moment he frowned and looked embarrassed as if he would find the moment difficult to forget. ‘I told her I thought it would be better if I saw her rather less often than I have been. I had a good reason and I thought she’d understand.’ He had never before spoken so freely about his personal relationships and she guessed he did not find it easy.

‘I thought something like that must have happened,' she said quietly, ‘after I saw her yesterday.’

He shook his head, as if he found Liz Merril’s drunkenness regrettable but understandable. ‘I had no intention of getting serious with her and I thought she knew that. I should have seen the way things were going, I suppose, but I didn’t, and now Liz has been hurt. No one regrets it more than I do, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’ The last sounded almost like an appeal and she found it difficult to blame him for a situation that had got out of hand. It was a situation that a woman would have better anticipated than a man.

‘You told her you were getting married?’ She asked the question though she knew the answer before he made it. Only something as final as his marrying someone else could have brought his friendship with Liz Merril to its unhappy end, and she felt some of the coldness the other girl must have experienced run through her own body.

‘I told her I hoped to be married before very long,’ he said, speaking slowly and in his deep, quiet voice so that every word sounded sincere, although he had lowered his eyes again to study his fingers, restless on the stem of his glass.

‘I see.’ There seemed little else to say now that the truth was out at last and she felt suddenly tired, as if her whole being had slowed down and was about to come to a standstill. ‘I’d like to go home, Patrick, if you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘It’s nearly half past one and I’m rather sleepy after all that wine.’ She attempted a laugh, but it sounded harsh and a little hysterical.

‘Of course.’ He did not demur, but paid their bill and joined her in the entrance hall. ‘I hadn’t realised it was so late,' he told her as they got into the taxi summoned by the vigilant doorman.

‘You don’t have to come right home with me,’ she told him as they neared Marton Mews. 'You can get the driver to drop me off at the top of the mews and I can walk down.’

‘I’ll do no such thing,’ he said brusquely. 'I’ll see you in. Don’t forget I'm your sort of guardian. That’s what you call me, isn’t it?’ In the light of a passing street lamp she saw the cynical smile touch his mouth briefly.

‘I’m quite capable of taking care of myself from the top of the mews!’ she retorted. ‘I’m not a baby, Patrick.’

‘As you are never tired of telling me,’ he said as the taxi turned into the mews and stopped at her front door. 'Wait for me,’ he told the driver, and took her key from her. She blinked her surprise when he followed her into the fiat and pushed the door to.

‘It’s very late,’ she said, switching on a table lamp and turning to face him, ‘and it wouldn’t be very wise to start a rumour about you coming into my flat at nearly two o’clock in the morning, would it? Not in the circumstances.’

‘The circumstances are my affair,’ he told her calmly. ‘And I doubt if any of your eminently respectable neighbours are still up at this hour, so there’s no one to start a rumour, is there?’

‘The taxi-driver,’ she said, determined not to be talked down and conscious of the increasingly rapid beat of her heart as he shook his head, smiling at her slowly.

‘Don’t make mountains out of molehills,’ he told her. ‘I had a reason for coming in with you, but a perfectly respectable one. I’d like you to see Elm Acres now that the decorators have finished. I think you’ll like it.’

She looked at him silently for a moment, too surprised to answer and uncertain what her reaction was to the invitation. ‘Do I have to like it?’ she asked at last, cautiously. ‘Shouldn’t it be ‑•’ She stopped short, aware that he was watching her with a curious intensity and wishing she could do something about the wild, deafening throb of her pulse. 'I'd like to see it,’ she said, her voice not quite steady. ‘I’m very curious about it.’

The same cynical smile flicked briefly at his mouth again. ‘I knew you would be,’ he told her. ‘That’s why I didn’t tell you about it in the first place. I wanted it to be redecorated first. It was in pretty poor shape and it wouldn’t have looked very much of a bargain except to someone who could visualise its possibilities under the dilapidation.’

‘And you didn’t think I had that much vision?’

‘I didn’t know,’ he said. 'You constantly surprise me. Anyway, I wanted to keep it a secret until it was restored to some of its former glory, but of course Freda gave the game away.’

‘Yes,’ Shara said thoughtfully, ‘she did. She also told me that you would be getting married, but she didn’t say who to. I'm not sure whether she actually knew or if she was guessing from your manner. I rather got the impression it was the latter.’

He laughed softly, shaking his head over Freda Ledman’s runaway tongue. ‘She didn’t know,’ he said, ‘or she would have told you, I have no doubt. Dear Freda, she’s a love, but she can’t keep anything under her bonnet.’

‘Does it have to be such a secret?’ she asked, a little impatiently. ‘Are you so ashamed of your love for her?’ She had tried not to sound too cross; disliking the way her voice hardened over the last words, and he looked momentarily surprised as he shook his head slowly. He stood only a few feet away from her, with the light from the table lamp shining upwards into his face so that the deep blue of his eyes looked black and unfathomable, while the laughter lines round his mouth and eyes were exaggerated to give the strong face a darkly sad look.

‘I’m not ashamed of my love for her,’ he said softly. ‘But she’s not of my faith and that does complicate things to a certain extent. I told you once, if you remember, that when I marry it will have to be for a lifetime; I can’t in all fairness make a mistake over anything so important My father was a different faith from my mother and they are my encouragement; their marriage was a perfectly happy one and I hope mine can be too, but it involves a great deal of heart-searching first.'

She looked at him, her green eyes gentle in the soft light, understanding at last. ‘Of course,’ she said softly. ‘Haven’t you asked her yet?’

He shook his head.

‘No, not yet.' For some inexplicable reason the answer pleased her and she smiled again; the lamp light glinting on her red hair and making it appear glinting red-gold. She glanced at her wrist-watch, then back to his darkly expressive face.

‘It’s very late,’ she said quietly, ‘and your taxi must be running up an enormous fare out there.’

‘Will you come?' he asked, apparently unconcerned about the expense of the taxi, and she nodded.

‘Of course I’ll come,’ she said. ‘I’d love to see Elm Acres. When will you take me?’

‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘If you can come tomorrow, can you?' He smiled wryly at her. ‘Or do I have to let David Clyde take precedence this time?’

She shook her head. ‘No one will take precedence,’ she promised. ‘No one at all.’

‘Good.’ He smiled his satisfaction. ‘Then I’ll get Polly to pack up a basket for us and we’ll have a whole day in the country, shall we?’ She nodded eagerly. ‘I’ll come for you as early as I can tomorrow morning and it won’t matter if we don’t get back until midnight.’

She laughed, suddenly and deliciously lighthearted. ‘I love Sundays,’ she said. ‘It’s my favourite day. I’ll be ready and waiting and I’ll tell Mrs. Emmett I shan’t want her at all tomorrow.’

He seemed to catch something of her mood and laughed too. ‘She can keep Polly company,’ he said, ‘while we commune with nature and eat cold chicken and salad in the wilds of Surrey.’

‘Is it?' she asked, and he raised curious brows. 'Wild,’ she enlarged with a laugh. 'You make it sound like a safari.’

‘It’s surrounded by trees and there’s a small lake,’ he said with a solemnity belied by the glint in his eyes. ‘But I can’t guarantee lions and tigers. Are you still interested?’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ she smiled. ‘I’m sure I shall love it.’

‘I hope so,’ he said softly, and bent his head to kiss her gently beside her mouth. ‘Good night, my beautiful heathen. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Looking out of the window next morning, she breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the early sun glinting on the windows of the flats opposite. It would be lovely in the country, she thought blithely, fresh and bright and perfect for a first look at Elm Acres. The telephone rang as she made herself coffee in the tiny kitchen and she stared at it for a moment, reluctant to answer it in case it should be Patrick, ringing to say that he could not after all take her to see the house. After the way she had looked forward to it, it would be unbearable if he let her down now.

Slowly she put down the coffee pot on the table and went into the other room, the cold weight of disappointment already in her heart as she lifted the receiver. ‘Hello, my sweet, did I wake you?’ David! Her sigh of relief was almost audible as she answered.

‘Of course not, David, I was in the kitchen making coffee. I’ve been awake for ages.’

‘Could I come round and share your coffee?’ he asked, evidently expecting her to agree, judging by the tone of his voice. ‘I'd be very good, honestly.’

She laughed at his vow, wishing he had not rung her this morning of all mornings. ‘I’m sure you don’t know how,’ she teased him, ‘but in any case I can’t ask you round, David, because I’m going out for the day and I haven’t much time. I’m sorry.’

‘Oh?’ She could visualise the frown of resentment at her refusal. 'Which are you sorry for? Not asking me round for coffee or because you’re going out for the day?'

‘Don’t be difficult,' she admonished lightly. ‘I’m looking forward to my day in the country, but I’m sorry I haven’t time to ask you round for coffee.'

‘I was going to ask you to spend the day with me,' he said, sounding more than ever disgruntled. ‘You always seem to have other ideas these days, don’t you, my sweet?’ She made no answer, but felt her spirits sink at his obvious bad temper. ‘I suppose you’re going to the Ledmans' again,’ he guessed. It was plain curiosity, she thought, that had prompted the guess, and she hesitated to correct him. ‘Are you?’ he insisted, made more curious by her silence. ‘Are you going to the Ledmans’?’

She sighed inwardly at the inevitability of things. ‘No, actually I’m not,’ she said slowly. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come with you, David, but thank you for inviting me.’ If she had hoped to curb his curiosity so easily she was to be disappointed as she knew she would be. She remembered Patrick’s surprised comment on David’s apparent patience with her changes of mind and wondered if it was about to come to an end. It had always been at the back of her mind since she had heard about him from Polly, that one day he would in all probability turn on her as he had on Linda Maybury and she had always hoped she would foresee it and be able to avoid being too hurt by it. Polly had warned her often enough and she had chosen to ignore her warnings, continuing to be flattered and amused by his undoubted charm. Now an edge of something she had never heard before in his voice sent a shiver of warning down her spine.

‘I didn’t know you knew anyone else with a country house,’ he said shortly. There was a brief silence, then she heard his fingers snap together. ‘Unless—so that’s it! Your saintly cousin has just joined the landed gentry, hasn’t he? The house he’s bought for when he and la Maybury are joined in holy wedlock. Don’t tell me you’ve been invited to view the love nest, my sweet? How very droll!’ Pure, vicious spite edged his voice and he laughed in a harsh unfamiliar way that warned her of worse to come.

‘I’m going to look at Elm Acres,’ she said, already feeling some of the pleasure of anticipation slipping away from her. ‘Patrick’s coming for me any minute now, so I’d better go, David.’

‘And tomorrow?’ he asked ignoring her desire to cut the conversation short. ‘Can I see you tomorrow or are you committed to him for good?’ She found herself hesitating, not wanting to quarrel with him irrevocably, but more wary of him now that he had shown her the other side of his character.

‘I don’t know, David.’ Her uncertainty was plain in her voice and he laughed shortly.

‘You don’t know,’ he mocked. ‘I suppose you’ve taken offence because of what I said, but you must admit, my sweet, that the situation has its ironic side in the circumstances.’

She bit her lip as she faced the unpleasant fact that she had been trying to ignore ever since Patrick had proposed the outing last night. ‘I don’t quite see that it concerns you at all, David,’ she said, hoping her voice sounded steadier at the other end of the line. ‘Patrick is my cousin ‑’

‘Your second cousin,’ he corrected her nastily, but she ignored the interruption.

‘I see nothing strange in my going with him to look at his new home—and now, if you’ll excuse me, my coffee is getting cold, and Patrick will be here soon.'

She heard his intake of breath and the angry drumming of his fingers on the receiver. ‘Damn Owen,’ he said viciously, giving way to temper at last. ‘And damn you for a silly little ‑’ She banged the receiver down hard, her fingers trembling with some emotion she found hard to define, the stinging threat of tears hurting her eyes as she stared at the telephone. That he had been about to berate her as he had done Linda Maybury, she was in no doubt, and she felt thoroughly miserable that all the good times she had had with David should have to end in bitterness.

David was a bad loser and when he knew himself to be losing, he lashed out. It was fortunate that the conversation had been on the telephone and not face to face, for at least it had given her the opportunity to cut him short before his abuse became too humiliating to bear. For a moment she stood blindly staring at the silent telephone, uncertain about her own reaction; whether she regretted the end of the association or the way it had ended. Before she had too much time to wonder about it, a knock on the door brought her back to reality and she turned to answer it.

Patrick greeted her briefly and cheerfully, then noticed her glistening eyes and unhappy face. ‘Shara!’ He put his hands on her arms and looked down at her anxiously. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’ She shook her head, too unsure of herself to answer immediately, and he put a comforting arm about her shoulders and drew her across the room. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said, and lifted her chin with one finger to look into the miserable uncertainty of her eyes.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, the tears nevertheless filling her eyes as she spoke. ‘I’ve just had a difference of opinion with David, that’s all.’

‘It was enough to make you cry,’ he said quietly, ‘and for that I could break his damned neck.’ He looked down at her steadily. ‘What happened? Was it because you’re coming out with me today?’ She nodded and he continued to study her closely, the supporting finger holding her chin up so that she could not hide her face as she so desperately wanted to. ‘Are you very sorry about it?’ he asked. She looked up into the dark, slightly anxious face and shook her head slowly as well as she could, surprised to find that in a way she was relieved that the dreaded moment was past.

‘It was fun being with David,’ she said softly, ‘but I knew it had to end some time and I was always afraid he would turn on me as he did on ‑’ She bit her Up hastily and felt the colour rise in her cheeks. ‘David is a bad loser,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t like being told no and I said it once too often, I suppose.’ She smiled at him wryly. ‘You did warn me, didn’t you, that he would either put me over his knee or give up?’

‘I did,’ he agreed. ‘Anyway, I'm glad you’ve got David Clyde out of your system; I hope you won’t let him talk you round again.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I shall be given the opportunity,’ she said, with only a trace of regret. ‘And in a way I’m not sorry it’s over.’

‘Good.’ He hugged her briefly, then released his hold on her, eyeing her from top to toe. ‘Are you ready to leave or have you things to do first?’

She glanced at her wrist-watch. ‘You are early,’ she pointed out, ‘but as it happens Fm ready.’

‘I am rather earlier than I expected,’ he admitted, and she looked at him queryingly.

‘You went to early Mass?’ She saw him smile as he nodded.

‘I did. Now, are you ready or not?’ She nodded. ‘Good, then let’s go and make the most of this weather.’

Elm Acres was set in surroundings very similar to Meaden, except that there was, as Patrick had said, a small lake, quite near the house and at the bottom of a smooth grass slope, glistening and glinting in the sun and surrounded by flowering shrubs and paved paths. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful!’ Shara exclaimed as she caught sight of it. ‘It’s absolutely perfect, isn’t it?'

He merely smiled at her enthusiasm and drove on up to the front door. The house itself was older than Meaden and looked mellow and bland in the morning sun; the windows winking and shining like smiling eyes when she looked up at them from the drive.

‘It’s lovely,’ she whispered, entranced by the cool elegance of the rooms and the air of tranquillity about the whole place. The lounge, or drawing room as Patrick insisted on calling it, was much bigger than the one at Cabey Mews, but it was decorated in the same way and with the same furniture it would be much the same room. The sight of it brought a lump to her throat and a surge of nostalgia and she turned to Patrick, her green eyes shining softly. ‘Just like home,’ she said softly, and he smiled. She looked around the room again, visualising it as she remembered the room at Cabey Mews, but the thought of Linda Maybury intruded suddenly and she shook her head to rid herself of the nostalgia. ‘I—I hope she likes it,' she said, unable to bring herself to say the other girl’s name. She swallowed hard on the lump that rose in her throat and was annoyed with herself for feeling the way she did.

Patrick stood just behind her and she could feel the roughness of his sleeve on her bare arm. ‘She does,’ he said softly, ‘she loves it.’

Her laugh sounded unsteady, even to herself, and she dare not turn round and look at him in case he should see the look on her face and guess what was in her heart. ‘You have asked her to marry you, then?’ she said, wondering when he had found the time since last night.

‘Not yet,’ he told her. ‘But I shall, today. I’ve told Father Miller how deeply I feel and he has advised me to follow my own conscience. Since I can’t think that loving anyone as much as I do can be wrong, I shall follow my conscience and my heart.’ She felt horribly desolate suddenly, as if everything she ever cared for was ending and a tear rolled down her cheek and plopped warmly on to her clasped hands.

He put his hands on her arms and turned her round, slowly, to face him. ‘Patrick ‑’ She hung her head, afraid to let him see how she felt.

‘You’re not supposed to cry, my beautiful heathen,’ he told her softly. ‘You’re supposed to be happy.’

‘I hope you will be very happy,’ she said, looking up at him and wishing she could see his face more clearly through the haze of tears, and he pulled her close to him, his arms strong and reassuring.

‘Only if you are, my darling,’ he said gently, and she brushed away the blinding tears and saw for the first time, the expression in his eyes.

‘Me?’ she whispered, ‘but I thought ‑’

‘What did you think?’ he teased her gently. ‘That the rumour about Linda and me was true? You should know better than to listen to gossip, my love.’

‘But you didn’t correct me when I spoke about you marrying her,’ she protested, and saw him smile. ‘You let me think--Oh, I nearly died, I was so miserable, and you let me go on believing it!’

‘How could I tell you you were wrong without telling you it was you I loved and wanted to marry?’ he said. ‘I told you, my darling, I had some heart-searching to do before I could commit myself, and Liz got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I suppose I could hardly blame her, and she must have told everyone she could. That’s how rumours start, isn’t it?’ He looked down at her, his deep blue eyes suddenly serious. ‘I do love you, Shara, and I want to marry you more than anything else in the world. Will you marry me?’

She gathered her whirling thoughts and felt the familiar and rapid pounding of her heart as he looked at her, anxiously, it seemed. Then she smiled. ‘Of course I will,' she told him softly, and lifted her face to him. ‘I love you. I think I’ve loved you for a long time, only I didn’t realise it until just now, when I thought of Linda Maybury sitting in this room with you and being your wife. Then I knew how much I loved you.’ She would have said more, but he drew her into his arms, and the sun shining in through the high windows shimmered them into one dark shape in the bright new room.