Dishonourable Intent. Anne Mather
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forcefully. ‘He lost a pair of electric shears this afternoon. He’s always leaving his tools lying about, and then expressing surprise when they disappear.’
Archie chuckled. ‘He’s getting old, Will. We all are. Your grandmother included, only she’d never admit it.’
‘Is that her excuse?’ queried Will wryly, and Archie pulled a sympathetic face.
‘Probably. Though, as I said, she’d be the last to say so.’
‘To say what?’ demanded Lady Rosemary, overhearing them, but then subsided again when she met her grandson’s eyes. ‘Oh, well,’ she muttered, pressing her palms together and surveying her other guests with determined brightness. ‘Shall we adjourn to the drawing room for coffee?’
Will made his escape soon after nine-thirty.
His taste for conspiracy had palled somewhat, and although he had agreed to pick Emma and her parents up the following morning and bring them back to the Abbey for lunch he was more than ready to relinquish their company tonight.
It was still light as he drove back to the Abbey, and the scents of wild blossom and newly mown hay were a balm to his restless spirit. He was tempted to call at the pub in Lingard village and enjoy a pint of beer with the landlord, but the knowledge that he would have to drive back to the Abbey afterwards deterred him. He’d already drunk more than enough this evening, and with the prospect of playing host tomorrow ahead of him he decided he would be advised to be temperate.
The outline of the Abbey was visible long before he reached the park gates. Its grey stone walls were clearly silhouetted against the amber sky, and he knew a momentary sense of pride that his ancestors had lived here for more than two hundred years. There had actually been a monastery on the site for much longer than that, but that had been destroyed during the dissolution that had taken place in the sixteenth century. The present building owed its origins to the early part of the seventeenth century, with successive occupants making additions and alterations to its ivy-hung faade. Although it was by no means a luxurious residence, certain comforts such as central heating had made the old place infinitely more habitable. It would be a shame, he thought ruefully, if it was allowed to deteriorate even more. He owed it to himself, and to Lingard, to do everything in his power to prevent that from happening.
He frowned when he saw the small sports car parked on the gravelled sweep in front of the house. He wasn’t expecting any visitors, and none of the servants owned such a vehicle. It was possible that it was some relative of theirs who was visiting, but he couldn’t imagine Watkins allowing anyone to park in front of the building.
He certainly wasn’t in the mood to be sociable with anyone, and, jamming on the brakes, he brought the Range Rover to a halt beside the offending car. Whoever it was had better have a bloody good excuse, he thought aggressively, vaulting out of his seat. Slamming the door, he strode towards the house. The forecourt wasn’t a car park, after all.
The heavy door opened to his hand, proving that Watkins had not yet got around to locking up. Inside, the stone floor of the vestibule threw up a chill after the warmth of the air outside, but he scarcely noticed the difference as he pressed on into the vaulted hall.
Here, worn Persian rugs helped to mitigate the chill that emanated from the thick walls. The walls themselves were hung with fading tapestries, which offered little in the way of warmth or comfort, but they were familiar, and Will was loath to part with them. He had already sold everything of any real value in his efforts to keep the old place going, and the threadbare hangings were an integral part of his heritage.
He had halted in the doorway to the small family parlour, and was scowling at the fact that in his absence someone had taken the liberty of lighting a fire in the grate, when he heard Watkins’ wheezing breath behind him.
‘Oh, my lord!’ he exclaimed, and it was obvious from his expression that he knew what to expect. ‘You’re back!’
‘It would appear so,’ remarked Will, with forced cordiality. ‘Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?’
Watkins patted his chest with his gnarled fist, as if by doing so he could relieve the congestion that had gathered there, and offered his employer an appealing look. ‘You’ve—er—you’ve got a visitor, my lord,’ he said hoarsely. ‘She—she arrived just after you’d left.’
‘She?’
For the life of him, Will couldn’t think of any female who might turn up on his doorstep unannounced, but before Watkins could marshal his explanations a disturbingly familiar voice interrupted them. ‘Hello, Will,’ he heard with unbelieving ears. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I made myself at home.’
FRANCESCA!
Will turned with stunned eyes to see his ex-wife crossing the hall towards him. Rocking back on his heels, he stared at her as if he’d never seen her before, and certainly she looked much different from the woman he remembered.
Gone were the jeans and casual clothes she’d regularly worn, and in their place was an elegant navy business suit and high-heeled pumps. Her long, slender legs—one of the first things that had attracted him to her, he remembered unwillingly—were encased in gossamer-thin navy tights, and her hair, which she’d always worn loose, was confined in a tight knot at the back of her head. Her features, thinner than he remembered, surely, were thrown into sharp relief by the severity of her hairstyle, but if the intention had been to maximise the austerity of her appearance she had not succeeded. On the contrary, she looked quite wildly beautiful, a sensuous, sensual woman wrapped up in a sombre shell.
“That—mat’s what I was trying to tell you, my lord,’ Watkins mumbled, watching his employer’s reaction with anxious eyes. ‘Miss—Mrs—um—your wife arrived earlier this evening. I hope you don’t mind: I had Mrs Harvey prepare the guest suite in the west wing.’
Will was tempted to remind the old man that Francesca wasn’t his wife any more, but it was obvious from his fumbling form of address that he hadn’t forgotten. ‘It’s Mrs Quentin,’ he said. And then, arching a brow at Francesca he asked, ‘That is still how you like to be addressed?’
‘It will do,’ she agreed, with a tightening of her lips. ‘How are you, Will? I must say, you look well.’
‘Thank you.’ Will didn’t return the compliment, even if the awareness of her sophisticated appearance hung between them with an almost tangible air. ‘Do you want to tell me what you’re doing here, Francesca? I don’t remember issuing an invitation, and I’m afraid it’s not particularly convenient right now.’
The muscles in her cheeks contracted, almost as if he had hit her, and Will knew an unwarranted sense of guilt at the sight. Dammit, he thought, she ought not to have come here. He didn’t owe her anything. If she was short of money, she’d certainly come to the wrong place.
‘If you’ll excuse me, my lord.’ Watkins was of the old school, where it was never polite to be rude to a lady. Particularly not a lady who had once lived at Lingard Abbey, who had shared every aspect of his employer’s life, his ambitions, his bed...
‘Mrs—er—Mrs Harvey has prepared some sandwiches, my lord,’ he added swiftly, gesturing into the room behind Will. ‘There’s some tea—um—Mrs Quentin preferred it to coffee. Shall I fetch another cup?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Will shortly, aware that he was behaving unnecessarily boorishly, but unable to do anything about it. For God’s sake, he thought, he’d got Emma and her parents coming for lunch tomorrow. Imagine having to tell them that he was playing host to his ex-wife.
‘Then if that’s all, my lord...’
‘Of course, of course.’ Will strove for normality and, avoiding looking at Francesca, he gave Watkins a constrained smile. ‘You get along to bed,’ he dismissed the old man pleasantly. ‘Oh—and perhaps you’d inform Mrs Harvey