Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       About the Author

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       Endpage

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      ‘CHESSIE—oh, Chess, you’ll never guess what they’re saying in the post office.’

      Francesca Lloyd frowned slightly, but her attention didn’t waver from her computer screen as her younger sister burst into the room.

      ‘Jen, I’ve told you a hundred times, you’re not supposed to come to this part of the house, and especially not during working hours.’

      ‘Oh, nuts.’ Jenny perched on a corner of the big desk, pushing aside some of the neat piles of paper to make room for herself. ‘I simply had to see you. Anyway, The Ogre won’t be back from London for hours yet,’ she added airily. ‘I checked that his car wasn’t there before I came round.’

      Chessie’s lips tightened. ‘Please don’t call him that. It’s neither kind nor fair.’

      ‘Well, nor is he.’ Jenny pulled a face. ‘Besides, you may not need this job for much longer.’ She took an excited breath. ‘I heard Mrs Cummings telling the post mistress that she’s had instructions to open Wenmore Court again. And that means that Alastair’s coming back at last.’

      Chessie’s fingers stilled momentarily on the keyboard. For a moment her heart leapt, painfully—almost brutally.

      She kept her voice even. ‘Well, that’s good news for the village. The house has been closed up for far too long. But it won’t make much difference to us.’

      ‘Oh, Chess, don’t be silly.’ Jenny gave an impatient sigh. ‘It makes all the difference in the world. After all, you and Alastair were practically engaged.’

      ‘No.’ Chessie turned on her. ‘We were not. And you’ve got to stop saying that.’

      ‘Well, you would have been if his beastly father hadn’t sent him to business school in the States,’ Jenny retorted. ‘Everyone knows that. You were crazy about each other.’

      ‘And much younger, too.’ Chessie began typing again. ‘And a hell of a lot has happened since then. Nothing’s the same.’

      ‘Do you really think that would make any difference to Alastair?’ Jenny demanded scornfully.

      ‘I think it might.’ It still hurt to remember how the weekly letters had dwindled to one a month, and then petered out altogether before the end of their first year apart.

      Since then, her only contact had been a brief note of condolence following her father’s death.

      And if Alastair had known that Neville Lloyd had died, then he almost certainly knew the circumstances of his death, she thought, wincing.

      ‘God, you can be a real drag sometimes,’ Jenny accused. ‘I thought you’d be thrilled. I ran all the way home to tell you.’

      ‘Jen, we shouldn’t make assumptions.’ Chessie tried to speak gently. ‘After all, it’s been three years and a lot of water under the bridge. We’re not the same people any more, Alastair and I.’

      There’d been a time when she’d rejoiced in those three words, she thought sadly. When they’d had meaning—even a future …

      She squared her shoulders. ‘And now I’ve got to get on. Please don’t let Mr Hunter come back and catch you here again.’

      ‘Oh, all right.’ Jenny slid mutinously off the desk. ‘But how great it would be if Alastair asked you to marry him. Imagine being able to tell The Ogre what to do with his rotten job.’

      Chessie stifled a sigh. ‘It is not a rotten job,’ she returned levelly. ‘It’s good, and well paid. It keeps food in our mouths, and a roof over our heads. And it allows us to go on living in our old home.’

      ‘As servants,’ Jenny said with intense bitterness. ‘Big deal.’ And she went out, slamming the door behind her.

      Chessie sat very still for a moment, her face troubled. It was disturbing that even after all this time, Jenny had not been able to come to terms with the admittedly devastating change in their circumstances.

      She could not seem to cope with the fact that Silvertrees House no longer belonged to them—or that the only part of it they were entitled to occupy was the former housekeeper’s flat.

      ‘Yet, why not?’ Chessie asked herself, wryly. ‘After all, that’s what I am—the housekeeper.’

      ‘I don’t want, or need, a lot of staff,’ Miles Hunter had told her at that first, fraught interview. ‘I require the house to be run efficiently, and without fuss, plus secretarial support.’

      ‘Meaning what, precisely?’ Chessie looked impassively back at her potential employer, trying to weigh him up. It wasn’t easy. His clothes, casually elegant, were at odds with the harshly etched lines of his face, accentuated by the scar that ran from his cheekbone to the corner of his unsmiling mouth. The cool drawl gave nothing away, either.

      ‘I use a very old portable typewriter, Miss Lloyd. I always have, but my publishers now require my manuscripts on computerised disks. I presume you can handle that?’

      She nodded wordlessly.

      ‘Good. On the domestic side it will be up to you what additional assistance you require. I imagine you’ll need a daily help at least. But I insist on peace and quiet while I’m writing. I also value my privacy.’

      He paused. ‘I’m aware this may be difficult for you. After all, you’ve lived at Silvertrees all your life, and you’re used to having the free run of the place. That, I’m afraid, can’t happen any more.’

      ‘No,’ Chessie said. ‘I—I can see that.’

      There was another brief silence. ‘Of course,’