Potent As Poison. Sharon Kendrick
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stepped forward.
‘Night, Mrs Carson,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Afraid you’ve just missed one.’
Rick’s eyes narrowed. ‘Missed what?’
‘My bus,’ said Elizabeth coolly.
‘Bus?’ Rick Masterton looked momentarily disconcerted. ‘But you have your own car, surely?’
She shook her head. She preferred the freedom of public transport, walking or taking a short bus ride to the Tube station, where at least she was able to work as she travelled home. Besides, parking was a nightmare. ‘No one drives in London,’ she said, forcing her voice to be airy.
‘Well, I do. My hire car is outside—you must let me give you a lift home——’
There was not, she realised, going to be a polite way of doing this. She turned to the commissionaire. ‘Frank?’ She smiled. ‘Please see Mr Masterton to his car—I have a couple of papers in my office which I have to go back for.’
‘Certainly, Mrs Carson.’
She turned her face to look into the darkly handsome face. ‘I’ll say goodnight, Mr Masterton.’ And Elizabeth held out her hand towards him.
He took it, in front of the commissionaire he played his part beautifully, but Elizabeth couldn’t miss the unmistakable glittering of irritation which fired at the depths of those incredible eyes.
ELIZABETH took the lift straight back up to her office, her hands trembling as she sat down at her desk and buried her head in her hands. ‘Please, God—no,’ she muttered brokenly, when the door to the adjoining room was thrust open and there stood Jenny—an astonished look of horror on her face.
‘Mrs Carson!’ she exclaimed, as she hurried over. ‘Elizabeth,’ she said gently. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Elizabeth looked up unseeingly, her eyes bright.
‘What is it?’ repeated Jenny. ‘Do you need a doctor?’
Elizabeth shut her eyes again briefly.
‘You need something,’ said Jenny firmly.
Through a cotton-wool haze, Elizabeth heard the sounds of Jenny clattering around with bottles and glasses and moments later a glass of pale brown liquid was put into her hand.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
‘Brandy. Drink it.’
Normally calm, unflappable, in control—Elizabeth drained the glass like an obedient child, welcoming the warmth which licked at her stomach like fire.
Jenny sat down in the chair opposite, bolt upright, as though she were about to take dictation. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
Whether it was the large shot of brandy on an empty stomach, or simply the need to unburden herself to someone, she didn’t know—but Elizabeth did want to talk.
Apart from John, she had entrusted the story to no one—for years she had been filled with a sense of shame at what had happened, but the shame had at times been punctuated with a fevered yearning for the man who had turned her from child to woman in a few short hours.
‘I can’t tell you,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s too—shocking.’
Jenny gave a sad smile. ‘I don’t think so, my dear. I brought up a child of my own out of wedlock, remember?’
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. ‘You mean you knew ...’
‘That your husband wasn’t Peter’s father? Yes, I knew. Oh, just from little things you said, really. I’ve been working for you for a long time, remember. You can trust me, you know.’
‘I know I can.’ There was a pause. ‘That man—Rick Masterton—was ...is ...’ She looked up, her hazel eyes wide and frightened. ‘He’s Peter’s father, Jenny!’
She had expected some kind of appalled reaction, not Jenny’s slow and thoughtful nodding of the head.
‘That explains your behaviour,’ she said quietly. ‘But I don’t understand. Today, he didn’t seem to——’ her voice tailed off.
‘He didn’t recognise me,’ finished Elizabeth bitterly. ‘If anything was needed to convince me that I meant nothing to him, it was our little reunion today. Because there wasn’t even a flicker of recognition. That’s how much I really meant to Rick Masterton.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Jenny.
Elizabeth sighed as she started speaking, her voice very quiet, sounding as faraway as her thoughts. ‘It all began one summer evening, almost ten years ago,’ she said slowly, as the memories began to form. ‘I wasn’t Elizabeth then, I was Beth—and fresh out of the orphanage. I went to stay with a friend in London ...’
It had been one of those magical August summer evenings, the air warm, the ice-blue sky gilded with a golden haze from the sun, when the whole world had looked a gloriously happy place, and doubly magical for Beth, who had travelled down from Wales to stay with her friend Donna who had left the orphanage the year before to live and work in London.
‘I still can’t believe it!’ Beth had squealed fervently as she stared yet again at the slip of paper which listed her exam results.
‘Well, I can!’ retorted Donna. ‘And you deserve four “A” grades and your scholarship. Imagine! I said you were the brightest girl that they’ve ever had at the orphanage, didn’t I?’
‘But Oxford,’ said Beth, shaking her head a little as if in bemusement, so that her long pony-tail swung like a horse’s tail around her long, slender neck. ‘Do you suppose I’ll ever fit in there?’
‘With your brains, you’ll fit in anywhere,’ said Donna firmly. ‘Now go and run a bath—we’re going out to celebrate.’
‘I’ve hardly any money——’ protested Beth.
‘And you won’t need any—we’re going to a party.’
‘A party?’
‘Don’t look so shocked—it’ll be a perfectly decent party.’
‘I’m not really a party person,’ said Beth doubtfully. ‘Whose is it?’
‘Oh, the MD’s nephew is over from the States—they’ve hired some swanky rooms overlooking the river. They won’t mind if I bring a friend.’
‘Sure?’
‘Positive!’
But ‘party’ seemed far too humble a description for the glittering affair which Donna took her to, thought Beth, as she hovered nervously by the picture window under which the Thames glittered slickly. She had never seen such a collection of exotic creatures as the guests who mingled, danced, drank champagne and laughed uproariously.
She must look terribly out of place, she thought, chewing her bottom lip a little, and if the truth were known she felt out of place. Donna had taken her in hand, had dressed her for the party since Beth had brought nothing suitable, and didn’t have anything suitable in any case. Unfortunately, Beth was far more generously endowed that Donna, with lush, youthful curves of hip and breast. In the spangled emerald dress, her creamy breasts had spilled seductively over the bodice, making her resemble a heroine off the front cover of some historical bodice-ripper, according to Donna. ‘You look quite different,’ she said, her head to one side. ‘And if you wore strong cool colours all the time—like this emerald, or purple, or black or blue—the colour would be reflected in your eyes. OK?’
‘OK,’ agreed Beth hesitantly.
‘And