The Carlotta Diamond

She hurried out to find a tall, broad-shouldered man, with thick fair hair and a lean, aristocratic face, waiting.

He was somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, she guessed, and extremely well dressed, with a quiet air of authority and self-confidence.

Level brows, several shades darker than his hair, high cheekbones, a strong, bony nose and a mouth that was at once austere and sensual made him one of the most fascinating men she had ever seen.

Becoming aware that she was doing what Sojo would have described as gawping at him, she pulled herself together and said with a smile, ‘Good morning.’

The thickly lashed eyes that met hers were greeny-gold, like the surface of the sea with the sun on it.

Eyes you could drown in.

‘Miss Christie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good morning. My name’s Simon Farringdon…’ His voice was clear and low-pitched. An attractive voice.

‘How can I help you, Mr Farringdon?’ she asked pleasantly.

‘I got in touch with you recently, on my grandfather’s behalf, concerning a set of rather obscure books, Par le Fer et la Flamme, by the eighteenth-century writer Claude Bayeaux…’

‘Of course…I’m so sorry, I’m afraid for a moment your name didn’t register. Your grandfather must be Sir Nigel Bell-Farringdon?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m pleased to say I’ve managed to find the volumes he wants.’

‘Excellent! He’ll be delighted.’

His white smile sent little shivers chasing up and down her spine.

‘I’m hoping they’ll be delivered later this morning. But if not, they’ll certainly—’

‘Excuse me,’ a shrill, impatient voice broke in, ‘but do you have a copy of The Old Fig Tree…?’

Dragging her gaze away from Simon Farringdon, Charlotte found there were several people waiting.

‘It’s by Rachel Radford,’ the woman went on.

‘If you just give me a minute, I’ll check,’ Charlotte assured her politely.

‘I haven’t got a lot of time.’

Simon Farringdon said quickly, ‘As you’re obviously up to the neck, and I’d like a chance to discuss the books with you, perhaps you’ll have lunch with me?’

‘I’m afraid my assistant is on holiday until tomorrow, so I won’t be able to leave the shop,’ Charlotte said regretfully.

‘In that case, dinner tonight. If you give me your address I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.’

It wasn’t until later that she found herself wondering at his calm certainty, how sure of himself he’d been.

Now, feeling a strange surge of excitement, she found herself saying, ‘I live above the shop.’

‘Seven-thirty, then.’ He sketched a brief salute and was gone.

The woman looked pointedly at her watch.

‘I’m sorry,’ Charlotte apologised. ‘I’ll only be a moment or two.’

For the remainder of the day she was on the go constantly, managing only a snatched sandwich and a cup of coffee at noon.

Though there was no time for actually thinking, Simon Farringdon stayed in her consciousness like a burr clung to clothing.

It was almost a quarter to seven before the last customer departed and she was able to lock the door. Dog-tired, both mentally and physically, she climbed the stairs back to the flat to shower and change.

Normally, feeling as she did, she would have looked forward to a quiet night by the fire, but now she felt a fresh surge of excitement and anticipation at the thought of dining with Simon Farringdon.

Disconcerted by his effect on her, she told herself crossly not to be a fool. This wasn’t a date, it was simply a business dinner.

But even that stern reminder failed to dim her sense of expectancy.

Wondering where he was likely to take her, she was trying to decide between a midnight-blue dinner dress and a simple black sheath, when, catching sight of the dress she had worn the previous evening, she realised with a little shock of surprise that she hadn’t given Rudy a single thought.

Simon Farringdon’s attractive face and those extraordinary green-gold eyes had driven everything else from her mind.

How could she have believed herself on the verge of falling in love with one man, and within twenty-four hours be obsessed by thoughts of another? Especially a man she had met only briefly.

It wasn’t like her at all.

Finally deciding on the black sheath, she dressed and—unusually for her, having very little personal vanity—made up her face with care.

Then, hoping for a businesslike look, she re-coiled her cloud of dark hair into a chignon. A style that, had she known it, emphasised her long neck and pure bone structure and gave her an appealing air of fragility in spite of her height.

She had just slipped into her coat and picked up her bag when the doorbell rang. Feeling ridiculously nervous, like a girl on her first date, she took a quick glance out of the window. A sleek silver car was standing by the kerb.

As she hurried down the stairs to open the door it occurred to her that, having magnified his image in her mind into something special, seeing him again she could well be disappointed.

She wasn’t. If anything the impact was stronger.

Dressed in a well-cut dinner jacket, his tanned face smoothly shaven, the light from the street lamp gilding his corn-coloured hair, he would have been almost any woman’s dream escort.

Taking her hand, he said, ‘You look absolutely delightful, Miss Christie.’

He seemed even taller and more charismatic than she remembered, and her voice wasn’t quite steady as she said, ‘Thank you, Mr Farringdon.’

‘Won’t you call me Simon?’

‘If you’ll call me Charlotte.’

‘It’s a deal.’ He smiled at her and her heart turned over. ‘By the way, I’ve reserved a table at Carmichaels. I hope you approve?’

Carmichaels was one of the smartest dining and dancing places in London.

With an outmoded courtesy that she found quite charming, he helped her into the car. Then, sliding in beside her, he reached over to fasten her seat belt. Just for an instant his arm brushed her breasts.

That touch, brief as it was, sent heat running through her and made every single nerve in her body leap uncontrollably.

Her cheeks grew hot and, afraid he would notice, she turned her head and stared resolutely out of the side-window while he fastened his own belt.

She was still tingling when the engine purred into life and, having checked his mirror, he pulled out to join the traffic stream.

Totally thrown by his overpowering masculinity, and her instinctive feminine response to it, Charlotte found herself thinking in startled wonder that no other man had ever made her feel like this.

Not even Rudy.

When she was sure she could keep her voice steady, striving to sound cool and businesslike, she said, ‘I’m pleased to say the books your grandfather wanted were delivered this morning.’

‘That’s great. How many volumes are there? Apart from noting their publication in 1756, the family archives were unclear as to the precise number.’

‘There are six in the set.’

‘Have you had a chance to look at them yet?’

‘Only a brief glance, but they appear to be in excellent condition. Of course they’re a collector’s item, and rare, which is reflected in the price,’ Charlotte commented.

‘Apart from some historical detail I doubt if they would be of much interest to anyone but the Farringdon family or a collector,’ he replied.

‘I must admit I’m curious to know how they came to be written.’

‘In March 1744 Claude Bayeaux, writer and poet, married Elizabeth Farringdon, and, discovering that there were strong French connections—several of the Farringdon men had taken French wives—began to research the family history. Apparently he found it absorbing, and those six volumes—which took him practically twelve years to write—trace the fortunes of the Farringdons from the 12th century up until the 18th…’

‘The title Par le Fer et la Flamme suggests they were fairly militant,’ Charlotte murmured.

‘How very diplomatic,’ Simon mocked, with a glinting sideways glance. ‘In truth, going to war was their way of life. They changed allegiance whenever it suited them and fought for the highest bidder, tactics that made them rich and powerful, not to mention feared. The Farringdon women made their mark in other ways. Many of them, noted beauties with strong characters, married into other powerful families, and wielded influence rather than swords. With one notable exception. In the 15th century, Nell Farringdon is said to have killed her elderly husband, the Earl of Graydon, with his own sword, because he had betrayed one of her brothers…’

Charlotte was still listening, fascinated, as they drew up outside Carmichaels. In a privileged position overlooking Hyde Park, it was quietly discreet on the outside, openly opulent on the inside.

The latest smart society venue, it smacked of money and privilege—public school, Oxbridge, skiing in the winter, taking the family yacht to Monte Carlo in the summer.

In such a setting Charlotte could easily have felt underdressed and overwhelmed, but strangely enough she didn’t. With Simon Farringdon’s hand at her waist, she felt supremely confident.

When they had been greeted with deference and her coat had been whisked away, they were shown to a table on the edge of the dance floor.

Most of the other tables were occupied, and a few couples were already dancing to an old Jerome Kern tune played by a six-piece orchestra.

As soon as they were seated, and had been handed gilt-edged menus, the wine waiter appeared with a bottle of Bollinger’s Recemment Degorge in an ice bucket. Having eased out the cork, he poured the sparkling wine, and waited for Farringdon’s nod of approval before moving away.

Smiling at Charlotte, Simon lifted his glass in a silent toast.

She smiled back and took a sip. It was the finest champagne she had ever tasted, and she said so.

‘I hoped you’d like it.’ He looked straight into her long-lashed eyes, eyes of a clear dark grey with an even darker ring round the iris.

His look was so direct it was more like being touched than looked at. After a moment, her head spinning, she dragged her gaze away and tried to concentrate on the menu.

God, but she was lovely, he thought, studying that haunting heart-shaped face with its wide mouth and delicately pointed chin, the neat little ears tucked close to her well-shaped head and that long, graceful neck…

Now he knew what poets meant by swan-like.

And though she might have neither morals nor scruples, she had class. She wasn’t the kind of woman he could have paid off, even if the Carlotta Stone hadn’t been rightfully hers. So that left him with only one alternative. To seduce her away from Rudy.

Which would be no hardship.

Glancing up, she was shaken afresh to find that Simon was still studying her closely, a lick of flame in his eyes that made her stomach clench.

‘Seen anything you fancy?’ he asked smoothly, indicating the menu.

‘Lots. I just can’t decide.’ To her annoyance, she sounded breathless.

‘Do you like fish?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Then may I suggest Sole Veronique, followed perhaps by the blackcurrant cheesecake?’

‘Sounds delicious,’ she agreed.

His glance brought the waiter hurrying.

When their order had been given and they were alone once more, he asked, ‘Is there a current boyfriend?’

Taken by surprise, she stammered, ‘N-not exactly.’

He waited, his eyes on her face.

When she made no attempt to elaborate, he said, ‘Tell me about yourself. What made you decide to keep a bookshop?’

‘I’ve always liked books, so it seemed the right thing to do, especially as I had quite a lot of stock that I’d inherited from my mother.’

He raised a brow in tacit enquiry.

‘She used to run a second-hand bookshop in Chelsea before she remarried and went to live in Australia,’ Charlotte explained. ‘I’d hoped to take over her business when I left college, but the premises were due for demolition, so when I was offered a lease on the shop I have now and the accommodation above it, which was quite nicely furnished, I snapped it up.’

‘And it’s worked well?’

‘Yes, very well indeed. At first I had a bit of a struggle financially, but now sales are up and I’m able to afford an assistant.’

‘How long have you been in business?’

‘About two and a half years.’

‘Not bad going,’ he said admiringly.

As the orchestra started to play a quickstep, he rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Would you care to dance?’

The mere thought of being held in his arms made her go funny all over, and as she hesitated he added with the faintest hint of derision, ‘Or perhaps you only disco?’

‘I’d love to dance,’ she said coolly. Rising to her feet, she put her hand in his and quivered as shock waves ran through her.

CHAPTER THREE

DRAWING her into his arms, Simon held her firmly, but not too tightly, nor too closely. Even so her pulses began to race and her knees turned to jelly.

She sent up a silent prayer of thanks that although she was shaken, and hadn’t danced for some time, she had enough experience not to miss a step or stumble.

Which was just as well, as he proved to be an extremely good dancer, light on his feet and innately graceful, with a natural sense of timing and rhythm.

Though Charlotte was five feet eight inches in her stockinged feet, the top of her head was just on a level with his mouth. Used to being as tall as her partner, if not taller, she found this heightened her newly awakened sense of femininity.

As they moved in perfect unison round the floor, she glanced up, and, seeing his quizzical expression, felt a little thrill of triumph.

Bending his head, he asked, ‘Now, where did you learn to dance like this?’

‘My father taught me. Before he died, ballroom dancing was my parents’ hobby.’

‘I do apologise.’

‘For what?’

‘For daring to breathe the word disco.’

‘Oh, I can disco too,’ she told him cheerfully.

‘A woman of many parts.’

He drew her closer and they enjoyed the rest of the dance before returning to their table.

They had just regained their seats when, with perfect timing, their meal arrived. It proved to be delicious, and for the most part they ate in an appreciative silence.

It wasn’t until they were at the coffee stage that Simon picked up the threads of their earlier conversation by remarking, ‘You said your mother went to live in Australia?’

‘Yes, she married a businessman from Sydney. I was surprised when she agreed to go all that way; she’d always hated the thought of flying.’

Thoughtfully, she added, ‘To be honest, I hadn’t really expected her to remarry. She and Dad were such a devoted couple. As I told you, my father died when I was eighteen.’

‘Any brothers or sisters?’ Simon enquired.

‘No, there was just me. My parents couldn’t have any children. I was adopted.’

‘That’s tough.’

She shook her head. ‘I was one of the lucky ones. My adoptive parents were nice, decent people, and though they brought me up strictly, they loved me and gave me everything I needed.’

‘What age were you when you were adopted?’

‘I was just a baby.’

‘So presumably you don’t remember anything about your natural parents?’

‘Nothing at all. I only know what Mum told me as soon as she thought I was old enough to understand, and what I picked up from the letters and documents she’d kept.’

Responding to his tacit interest, she went on, ‘I know my real mother’s name was Emily Charlotte, and that in 1967, when she was just twenty, she married a man named Stephen Bolton. But some ten years later it seems he left her for another woman. She was working as a secretary when she became involved in an affair with her boss, who was a married man. On discovering that she was pregnant, she appealed to him for help. Apparently he tried to persuade her to have an abortion, and when she flatly refused, he washed his hands of her. Unfortunately she’d lost both her own parents and had no one to turn to.’

‘It must have been a hard time for her. So what year were you born?’

‘1980. It appears to have been a difficult birth that she never fully recovered from, and six months later, weak and depressed, she caught flu and died before anyone realised how ill she was.’

‘So you were Charlotte Bolton before the Christies adopted you?’ Simon observed casually.

‘No. After her husband left her, my mother reverted to her maiden name of Yancey.’

‘An unusual name,’ he commented.

‘Though my grandparents lived in London, a letter written to my grandfather, Paul Yancey, suggested that he might have been born in Georgia.’

‘Any idea where your grandmother originated?’ he asked almost idly.

‘None at all. The only thing I know about her is that her name was Mary.’

With a smile, she added, ‘Unlike the Farringdons, my ancestry is a closed book, and I’m afraid it will have to stay that way.’

‘Who said, if ignorance is bliss it’s folly to be wise? The Farringdons are a pretty unconventional bunch to belong to,’ Simon pointed out with a wry smile.

Then as the orchestra began to play a tango, dismissing the past, he asked, ‘Shall we dance?’

This time she went into his arms without hesitation, as if she belonged there.

The rest of the evening passed, on Charlotte’s part at least, in a haze of excitement and pleasure, while they talked and danced.

Though Simon drank hardly anything, he kept her glass topped up, and when twelve o’clock came and they started for home, she was still on a high and just the slightest bit squiffy.

By that time the traffic had thinned somewhat, and they made good time back to Bayswater through the midnight streets. When they drew up outside the shop, he unfastened his seat belt and turned towards her.

Wondering if he was about to kiss her, she felt every nerve in her body tighten, and her lips parted, half in panic, half in anticipation.

When he just sat and studied her face in the mingled light from the dashboard and street lamp, feeling foolish, she rushed into speech. ‘Thank you, it’s been great fun. What do you want to do about the books? Would you like to take them with you, or shall I send them on?’

‘That’s one of the things I meant to talk to you about, but somehow the time has just flown. Perhaps you’d care to read this?’

He felt in an inner pocket, and, handing her an unsealed envelope, flicked on the interior light.

She withdrew the single sheet of thick cream notepaper, to find it covered with a laboured scrawl, which read:

Dear Miss Christie,

My grandson has informed me that you have succeeded in finding the set of books he contacted you about. I would like the chance to thank you in person, and I would be pleased if you could bring them down yourself and spend the weekend at Farringdon Hall, as my guest.

Nigel Bell-Farringdon.

Completely thrown, she stammered, ‘D-does he mean this weekend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, but I have to be in the shop tomorrow.’

‘Didn’t you say your assistant will be back by then? Couldn’t she cope for one day?’

‘Well, I suppose so, but…’

‘But what?’ Simon asked.

‘I’d need to ask her…And it’s such short notice when she’s just come back from her holiday. Perhaps if I made it next weekend?’

‘Next weekend might be too late,’ Simon stated abruptly.

‘Too late?’

‘My grandfather is extremely ill. He could die at any time.’

‘Oh.’ She was nonplussed.

‘So we’re trying to comply with his every wish.’

‘I quite understand, but I—’

‘When he expressed a desire to meet you, I offered to write the note for him. But, though he was in great pain at the time, he insisted on writing it himself. It took a great deal of will-power on his part,’ Simon added quietly.

Moved, she agreed, ‘Very well, I’ll certainly come if Margaret can take care of the shop.’

‘He suggested sending a car for you, but I told him I would be delighted to pick you up.’ Then, as if it was all settled, ‘Shall we say ten o’clock?’

Apparently having achieved what he’d set out to do, he left his seat briskly and came round to open her door and help her out.

Thrusting the note into her bag, she fumbled for her key. When she finally located it, Simon took it from her and turned it in the lock.

Then, his head tilted a little to one side, he stood looking down at her, almost as if he was waiting for her to make some move.

After an awkward pause, she said in a rush, ‘Thank you again for a lovely evening.’

‘It was my pleasure.’

She was wondering if he was expecting to be invited up, when he touched her cheek with a single finger. ‘Goodnight; sleep well.’ Turning on his heel, he walked away.

That lightest of caresses made her heart beat faster and her legs were unsteady as, closing the door behind her, she made her way up the stairs.

Without putting on the light, she crossed the living-room and looked out of the window.

The street was empty. His car had gone. She felt a keen disappointment, a sense of loss, that for one idiotic moment made her want to cry.

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