Without Trust. Penny Jordan
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She let herself into her bedsit and was immediately struck by the contrast to Mrs Mayers’ sitting-room. Her aunt and uncle’s home was comfortably furnished, but it lacked the warmth that Mrs Mayers’ home possessed.
Stubborn was how she had described her son, and yet, listening to her, Lark had known immediately how much she loved him. It was there in her voice, in her smile. She had once known that kind of love, before her parents’ accident.
If there was one thing she detested, it was people who consistently felt sorry for themselves, she told herself fiercely. And yet it was through no fault of her own that she had become involved in Gary’s dishonesty.
Gary had escaped from the consequences of what he had done, but he had unfairly left her to face them. Deliberately, or simply because he had panicked and known no other way of protecting his mistress? Lark was convinced that Lydia Meadows was his mistress, just as she was convinced that it was for her benefit that he had been stealing from his company.
But Gary was dead, and she would have to stop thinking about the past and put her mind on the future.
She sat down tiredly. Could she take the job with Mrs Mayers? And what about Mrs Mayers’ son?
She had been aware of a slight inflection of uncertainty in Mrs Mayers’ voice when she spoke about him. Did that mean that she herself was not sure that he would approve of her choice of employee? If he did not, where would that leave Lark?
Mrs Mayers had assured her that the decision was hers and hers alone, but it had been obvious to Lark that she respected her son, and no doubt valued his judgement …
Her head was starting to ache, and she pressed the palm of her hand to her temple wearily. She couldn’t make a decision now. She would have to sleep on it. She wished there was someone with whom she could discuss what was happening—a friend whom she might confide in. But she had no close friends.
Her aunt and uncle had frowned on her bringing friends home when she lived with them, and those friends she had made at university had now all gone their separate ways.
She hadn’t been in her new job long enough to make new friends. Or was it simply that her aunt and uncle’s reluctance to admit new people into their lives had rubbed off on her, and that she had been wary of allowing anyone to come too close to her? She had once been accused of that by one of the young men she had met at university. But friendship hadn’t been what he’d wanted from her.
At six o’clock she made herself beans on toast—a meagre meal that would have to suffice until breakfast the following morning. Her slenderness was getting very close to the point where she was almost becoming thin. If she took the job with Mrs Mayers she would never have to worry about where her next meal was coming from … She refused to listen to the tempting inner voice.
She wasn’t going to take the job simply for selfish reasons. She had liked Mrs Mayers too much to do that. She could help the older woman, she knew that. From a quick glance at the files Mrs Mayers had shown her, she had realised that they were in a muddled and disorganised state, but she had felt that there was something that Mrs Mayers was holding back, something that was worrying the older woman, and she very much suspected that that something was Mrs Mayers’ son’s reaction to the news that his mother was employing a young woman who had only by the skin of her teeth escaped receiving a prison sentence.
She remembered how evasive Mrs Mayers had been when she had asked her about her reasons for approaching her with the offer of this job. Lark suspected that the truth was that Mrs Mayers had somehow or other learned in conversation with her solicitor what had happened, and that out of the kindness of her heart she had immediately and unthinkingly suggested that she could offer Lark a job. That was the kind of woman she was.
But Lark felt that she owed it to her to point out the problems that she might be storing up for herself by taking her on. And yet wasn’t the job exactly what she needed? And with the added benefit of living accommodation thrown in as well?
It wasn’t just the luxury of the house that drew Lark. It was the warmth that seemed to pervade it. A warmth that she guessed sprang from Mrs Mayers herself. Lark had found herself wishing that she might have had an aunt or a godmother like the American woman. Someone to whom she could have turned when her parents were killed.
How cold and withdrawn her aunt seemed when compared with Mrs Mayers. Or was it simply that she herself was far more sensitive to such things since the ordeal of the last few months? It was true that since she had grown up there had been an enormous distance between herself and her aunt and uncle, but she had put it down to the fact that she was growing up rather than to any lack of emotion for her on their part.
Now she knew the truth. They had never loved her in the way that she had always believed they did. In fact, they had resented her, and very deeply. That had been made abundantly clear to Lark following Gary’s death.
It didn’t take her long to clear up after she had eaten. She was still wearing the clothes in which she had gone for her interview. She ought to change out of them and press them so that they would be ready to wear the next time that she needed them. If she ever needed them again …
She had just changed into an old pair of jeans and a warm sweatshirt when she heard someone knocking on her door. Visitors were such an unusual occurrence that it was several seconds before she could actually accept the fact that it was her door which was being knocked on.
She went to open it and then hesitated uncertainly. While she hesitated, the knocking increased in volume, its imperative summons demanding that she open it immediately.
The man standing there was instantly familiar to her, but the shock of seeing him so totally unexpectedly robbed her of the ability to do anything other than simply stand and stare, her heart giving a gigantic leap and the breath squeezing out of her lungs as she looked into James Wolfe’s cool grey eyes.
Her first panicky thought was that somehow or other there had been a mistake and that he had come to drag her back to court. Her fear of that thought was so great that she actually started to try to close the door.
But, as though he had anticipated such an action, he stepped into the room, forcing her to move back or risk coming into physical contact with him. If he had appeared formidable in court, it was nothing to the effect he was having on her senses now.
Somehow, being stripped of his court robes had invested him with an even more intensely masculine aura. As he reached out to push her door closed behind him, her attention was caught by the sinuous strength of his wrist. A gold watch glinted discreetly in the dim light of her room.
She watched him tensely, unable to understand what he was doing here, and yet too shocked to frame any coherent questions.
‘You should never open your door without finding out who’s on the other side of it,’ he reproved her casually. ‘Not these days—not in London.’
Weakly, Lark collapsed on to her shabby, lumpy settee.
‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice sounded cracked and strained, artificially high and totally unfamiliar. She noticed that her hands were shaking and, to hide it from him, she folded them and tucked them underneath her. She didn’t want to betray any weakness in front of this man, but she realised immediately that he had seen the small, betraying gesture.
Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. Triumph? No, it hadn’t been that. Then what? Compassion? No, never, not from a man like James Wolfe.
‘What are you doing here?’ she repeated huskily. ‘Or can I guess?’ she demanded bitterly, her brain suddenly working properly. ‘You hated it, didn’t you, that the case was dismissed? You wanted them to convict me.’ Suddenly she was back inside the court room, the silence around her charged with expectations, as the jury waited for her to respond to his allegations.
She drew a quivering breath, unaware of his frown as he studied her, unaware of anything other than the terror of the moment when she had known that no one would believe her. That, innocent as she was, innocence on its own was