Wicked Caprice

The crunch had come when her immediate superior had been dismissed because, according to her boss, she couldn’t handle it. It had not been until Isobel, promoted in her place, had discovered what the ‘it’ was that he had been talking about that she had given in her notice. The fact that her grandmother had just died had seemed just an unhappy coincidence until the solicitor had informed her of the legacy the old lady had left her. With it she had been able to buy the cottage, and take her time looking around for an alternative occupation.

The idea of opening the craft shop had been an inspiration, and it had been amazing how quickly the advertisement she had placed in the local newspaper had borne fruit. Until then, the many amateur craftsmen and women in the area had not had a shop window in which to display their wares. They’d been obliged to offer their work at fairs and jumble sales, often accepting less than the articles were worth to obtain a sale. With the opening of Caprice, they had their opportunity, and Isobel was always amazed at how the standard of the merchandise she was offered just went up and up.

The past five years had been the happiest of her life, and it was only the vague apprehension she was feeling about the coming increase in the rent for the shop that was looming like a cloud on the horizon now. It depended how much it was, of course, but it wouldn’t be easy absorbing the increase without putting up the cost of the goods she sold, and while she had great faith in the quality of the workmanship people often wanted designer names these days.

Still, she reflected, opening her front door and stepping into the cool, scented shadows of her hallway, Richard had promised to do his best to limit the increase. If he could persuade his employers not to be too greedy, he would, and the shopkeepers had little choice but to wait and trust his judgement.

Once again, an old lady’s death was proving decisive in determining the direction that her life was going to take. Old Mrs Foxworth, whose estate had once encompassed all the land and property in and around Horsham, had died a little over a year ago, and since then the majority of the estate’s remaining assets had been sold to Shannon Holdings. A public company, with dealings in many of the developed countries of the world, it was a world away from Mrs Foxworth’s agent, with whom they had had an almost intimate association. Barney Penlaw was retired now—compulsorily, some people said—and in his place they had Richard Gregory, who, for all his smiles and old-world courtesy, was still the face of capitalism, she supposed.

When he’d first appeared, about three months ago, Christine had made the same comments about him as she had made about the man who’d bought the shell necklace, and in Richard’s case Isobel had to admit they were not so misplaced. He had made no secret of the fact that he was attracted to her, and although she hadn’t encouraged him she knew his frequent visits to Horsham were not just to report on the expected increase in the rents.

But Isobel remained indifferent to his overtures. He was married, for one thing, and although he maintained that he and his wife were having problems the very fact that there were children proved that this hadn’t always been the case. Besides, she had no wish to get involved with him and possibly jeopardise the rights of her fellow shopkeepers, should their relationship come to grief. She liked Richard: he made her laugh. But she had yet to find a man who satisfied all her needs. Sometimes she thought she never would.

It was a warm evening. June had been a rather wet month so far, but for the past couple of days the weather had improved, and Isobel couldn’t wait to get the cottage windows open. In spite of the pot-pourri she’d brought from the shop and kept in dishes about the cottage to keep the air sweet and flowery, the heat had made the atmosphere a little musty, and dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that swept through an opened blind.

But, for all that, the cottage still charmed her in much the same way as it had always done. Perhaps it was because it was hers, her first real home of her own. The flat she had shared with two other girls in London had never been that, and returning to live with her parents would have created difficulties she could see more clearly in retrospect.

In any event, she had been glad not to have to test that relationship, and in the five years since she’d moved in she had made many small improvements. Not least the installation of an adequate heating system, she reflected wryly. The first winter at Lime Cottage, she’d shivered in her bed.

But now the cottage welcomed her, its oak beams and funny inglenook fireplace gaining in character now that its shortcomings had been dealt with. It wasn’t big, just a living room and breakfast room-cum-kitchen downstairs, and two bedrooms—one of which was little more than a boxroom—and a bathroom upstairs. She’d added an Aga and a shower, and both the kitchen and bathroom had needed modernising, of course. But she had retained the cottage’s harmony, and visitors always remarked on its feeling of warmth.

Isobel put the things she had bought on the kitchen table, unloading perishable items into the fridge before going upstairs to change and take a shower. It was one of her idiosyncrasies that she liked to bathe and change her clothes before sitting down to supper. Then she could look forward to a pleasant evening ahead, with good food, a glass of wine, and possibly some music on the radio.

She had a television, but she seldom watched it, preferring the radio or her own choice of music on compact disc. She wasn’t particularly highbrow in her choice of listening: she enjoyed a lot of modern music, particularly jazz. But her favourite composer had to be Chopin, his sonatas filling the cottage with beauty whenever she felt depressed.

Because it was a warm evening, she didn’t bother getting dressed again, but came downstairs wearing a dark red silk kimono with orchids appliquéd along the satin lapels. It was hardly her sort of thing, but her mother had brought it back from a buying trip to Tokyo, and although the colour was more vivid than she was used to there was no doubt that it was superbly comfortable to wear.

She was stir-frying some vegetables to go with the omelette she intended to have for her supper when someone knocked at the door.

She wasn’t expecting anyone, and although it wasn’t late she had hoped to spend the evening alone. Neither of her parents was likely to call without prior warning, and there’d been no messages on her answering machine from either them or her brother and sister-in-law.

For a heart-stopping moment, she thought of the man who had come into the shop earlier. Was it possible he had decided he wanted to take the necklace tonight after all? But no. That was ludicrous. He didn’t know where she lived, and in any case she never brought other people’s purchases home.

Removing the pan from the heat, she wiped her hands on a paper towel and surveyed her appearance with some misgiving. She had washed her hair in the shower, and although she’d used the drier on it she’d left it loose about her shoulders, and her image now wasn’t at all the one she preferred others to see.

The knocker was rapped again, and she heaved a sigh. With all the windows in the cottage open, she could hardly pretend she wasn’t at home. No, there was nothing for it but to see who it was, and hope she could get rid of them. She grimaced. It might be the vicar, after all.

The idea of the fairly sanctimonious Mr Mason being confronted by the scarlet kimono made her smile, and she was attempting to straighten her expression as she opened the door. But it wasn’t the Reverend Mason, it was Richard Gregory, and he stared at her as if he’d never seen her before.

‘Hello,’ he said, his eyes darkening. ‘You look nice. Are you going somewhere special?’

‘In this?’ Isobel was mildly sarcastic. ‘I don’t think so somehow.’ She paused. ‘How did you know where I live?’

‘Oh, Chris told me ages ago,’ responded Richard without hesitation. ‘Can I come in?’ He lifted his hand. ‘I’ve brought a bottle of wine.’

Isobel’s tongue circled her lips. ‘It’s very kind of you, but-’

‘You’re not going to turn me away, are you?’ His face assumed a mournful expression. ‘I’ve driven all the way from Oxford. I thought you’d be glad to see me.’

Isobel suppressed a sigh. ‘Now why should you imagine that?’ she asked, vaguely resenting his presumption. ‘I’m sorry. I—I should have explained at once. I am going out this evening, actually. I was just getting ready.’ She crossed the fingers of one hand behind her back, and gave him an apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’

Richard’s features suffused with a rather unbecoming colour. He was very fair, his hair so light that it appeared almost white sometimes, and the redness that entered his cheeks gave his face a hectic look. He was obviously disappointed, but there was something more than disappointment in his manner. If she hadn’t known he was such a good-humoured man, she’d have said he was angry. There was something almost aggressive in his stance.

‘And that’s it?’ he said, revealing a side of himself that hitherto she hadn’t encountered, and Isobel felt a momentary twinge of fear. After all, the cottage was at least a dozen yards from its nearest neighbour, and the elderly couple whose property adjoined hers were away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, and something—perhaps an awareness that he was in danger of destroying their friendly association—seemed to bring him to his senses.

‘Yes,’ he said, in an entirely different tone. ‘Yes, I should have phoned first; I realise that now. Well—’ he handed her the bottle ‘—there’s no point in wasting this. Have it with my blessing, and I’ll see you next week.’

Isobel wanted to refuse the wine. The way she was feeling at the moment, she wanted nothing of his to mar the peaceful ambience of the cottage. But it was easier to accept it than risk creating another confrontation, and she thanked him very politely as she bid him farewell.

It was only as she closed the door that she wondered if by chance he could have smelt the stir-fried vegetables. It seemed likely, which might account for his sudden aggressive mood. If he’d thought that she was lying to him, he could have felt resentful, but, either way, she was extremely glad he had gone.

CHAPTER THREE

‘HE WENT to see her on Tuesday night. I know he did.’ Jillian’s voice was filled with outrage. ‘I thought you were going to speak to her, Patrick. You promised me you would.’

Patrick expelled a resigned breath. ‘How do you know he went to see her?’ he asked, avoiding a direct answer. ‘Did you follow him?’

‘Of course not.’ Jillian sounded indignant now. ‘But I did check the milometer like you told me to, and there was over a hundred miles more on Wednesday morning.’

Patrick cast the towel he had been using to dry himself aside and bent closer to the mirror to examine his overnight stubble. He had hardly got out of the shower when his housekeeper had come to tell him that Mrs Gregory was on the telephone. He’d half expected her to ring him last night, but it had been fairly late when he’d got back from Basle.

‘Well?’ Jillian was impatient. ‘Did you speak to her or didn’t you? For heaven’s sake, Pat, I’m getting desperate. Rich has never been so indifferent to my feelings before.’

‘Don’t you mean he’s never been so reckless before?’ suggested her brother drily, wishing he’d never agreed to get involved in this. ‘The very fact that you use the word “before” proves it. How many times does he need to be unfaithful to you before you come to your senses?’

Jillian sniffed. ‘I love him, Pat. You know that. I know he has his faults, but deep inside he loves me too.’

Patrick stifled a groan. In his opinion, Richard Gregory didn’t love anyone but himself. At present, he was enamoured of the rather colourless young woman Patrick had visited on Tuesday afternoon, but Patrick had no doubt that Isobel Herriot was just a passing fancy and that pretty soon there’d be some other contender for his brother-in-law’s affections. It wasn’t as if she was a raving beauty, or possessed any outstanding attribute that Patrick could see. She was simply a village shopkeeper, with a personal axe to grind.

Or at least that was what he’d told himself as Joe Muzambe had driven him back to town. His own unwelcome reactions to the woman he’d put down to a hormonal imbalance. He hadn’t seen Joanna in over a week, due to this problem with Richard and pressure of work. What he needed was an evening with his girlfriend, and time to expunge his sexual frustration. What he didn’t need was an aberrant attraction to Richard’s mistress, who was simply not his type.

‘Then why don’t you speak to him about it?’ he asked now, unaware that he was still avoiding answering her question until she repeated it. Then, ‘Yes. Yes, I saw her. You don’t have anything to worry about, believe me.’

Jillian’s hesitation was expressive. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked at last, and Patrick took another restraining breath.

‘I mean that I can’t imagine what—if anything—Rich sees in her,’ he declared at last. ‘She’s—insipid, Jill. A nonentity. I can only assume he’s in the mood for dowdy spinsters these days.’

Jillian uttered a cry. ‘Do you think that makes me feel any better?’

‘It should.’ Patrick was growing impatient. ‘Believe me, Jill, if you can just close your eyes for another couple of weeks, it’ll all be over.’

‘No!’

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘I mean I can’t close my eyes to what’s going on right under my nose. You don’t know Rich as I do, Pat. This time I think he’s serious. He doesn’t have any time for me; he doesn’t have any time for the children. Susie’s beginning to notice. Just last night she asked me why Daddy doesn’t play games with them any more.’

Patrick closed his eyes. ‘You’re exaggerating.’

‘I’m not.’ Jillian sniffed again. ‘Anyway, what did you say to her? Did you tell her Rich was married? That he has a family who depend on him?’

‘I think she knows,’ admitted Patrick unwillingly, recalling that she’d mentioned Susie’s name. ‘As far as speaking to her goes, I’m not sure that would be an advantage. You could exacerbate the situation, if you see what I mean.’

‘I don’t see what you mean!’ exclaimed Jillian resentfully. ‘And it’s not as if you don’t have any power. What you’re really saying is that you don’t want to help me. That as far as you’re concerned she holds all the cards.’

‘No.’ Patrick’s jaw clamped, and he knew an uncharacteristic urge to hang up on her. This wasn’t his problem, he told himself grimly. God, why couldn’t she have married someone else?

‘Well...’ Jillian was obviously making no effort to hide the fact that she was upset—and disappointed in him. ‘I suppose I shall have to go and see her myself—’

‘You can’t do that.’ Patrick spoke through his teeth. Then, with great reluctance, he went on, ‘All right, all right, I’ll go and see her again. But I’m not making any promises. I’ll just put your point of view across and see what she says.’

‘You won’t put her out of the shop?’

Patrick gasped. ‘Put her out of the shop?’ he echoed. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Well, Shannon Holdings do own the leases on all those shops, don’t they?’ Jillian pointed out silkily. ‘If she wasn’t one of your tenants, Rich would have no excuse to go and see her.’

Patrick’s jaw sagged. ‘And you think that would stop him?’

Jillian gulped defensively. ‘It might.’

‘Forget it,’ said Patrick harshly. ‘Just leave it with me. As I say, I’ll see what I can do.’

With the phone safely returned to its hook, Patrick turned angrily towards the handbasin. Groping for his razor, he avoided meeting his eyes as he applied lather and scraped savagely at his beard. For God’s sake, he thought frustratedly, Jillian was sometimes more trouble than all his overseas operations put together. Or, perhaps more accurately, Richard was. He wondered what she’d say if he suggested getting rid of his brother-in-law instead.

He knew he couldn’t do it, of course. For all his faults, Richard was still family, and because, soon after he and Jillian had got married, he’d lost his position with a Japanese company due to their relocation to Taiwan Patrick had offered him the job.

It had been either that or suffer Jillian’s recriminations. She had been pregnant with their first child at the time, and any idea of moving to the Far East had been out of the question so far as she was concerned. She’d wanted to stay in England; she’d wanted to keep her home and be near her family. It would have been a hard man indeed who could have withstood her pleas.

And, although Patrick was regarded in some quarters as a hard man, he had accommodated her. Since their father had died some years ago, he’d been regarded as the head of the family, and it was a responsibility he hadn’t accepted lightly. Outside Shannon Holdings, it was the only responsibility he was prepared to shoulder. His ex-wife’s greedy machinations had convinced him of that.

He cut his chin with the razor, the blood welling crimson over his jaw. Dammit he swore angrily, swabbing it with a towel and scowling at the stain on the pure white cotton, why couldn’t Jillian solve her own problems? He had no desire to go back to Horsham, no desire to see Isobel Herriot again.

As luck would have it, he had a free morning. He hadn’t been expected to arrive back from the conference in Switzerland until today, and although his managing director would expect to see him at this afternoon’s meeting he had more than enough time to drive to Warwickshire and back again. All he had to do was pick up the phone and call Joe. In a little under an hour, he could be on his way.

Mrs Joyce had breakfast waiting for him, but apart from two cups of coffee and a slice of toast he barely touched it.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked Mrs Joyce fussily, knowing that he usually enjoyed her blueberry pancakes, and Patrick gave her an apologetic smile.

‘I’m afraid I’m not hungry this morning, Mrs Joyce,’ he said, folding his copy of the Financial Times and getting up from the table. ‘Offer them to Joe when he gets here. I know he won’t turn you down.’

‘And have him suffering from indigestion all morning because he’s had to hurry them?’ Mrs Joyce rejoined tartly. ‘If he’s coming to pick you up, you know you’ll be waiting. And Mr Muzambe is nothing if not conscientious.’

‘Aren’t you all?’ murmured Patrick in an undertone, striking his thigh with the rolled-up newspaper as he walked out of the morning room. He didn’t have time to massage Mrs Joyce’s feelings. Right now he was fighting Jillian’s battles, and he still had a business to run.

A couple of hours later, as they approached the turn-off for Banbury and Stratford, Patrick put away the papers he had been working on since they’d left London and applied his mind to the interview ahead. He grimaced. Not that it hadn’t been on his mind ever since he’d spoken to Jillian, he admitted to himself irritably. His efforts to work on the journey were proof of that. He had read the last balance sheet at least half a dozen times.

‘How much further?’ he asked, more for something to say than anything else, and Joe Muzambe looked into the rear-view mirror and fixed him with a thoughtful look.

‘Ten—twelve miles, maybe,’ he answered, transferring his attention back to the road. ‘Is this another fleeting visit, or will you be having lunch with the lady?’

Patrick scowled. ‘How do you know it’s a lady I’m going to see?’

‘I heard,’ replied Joe impassively, slowing for a roundabout. ‘Mrs Gregory isn’t always fussy about keeping her voice down.’

‘No.’ Patrick conceded the point, aware that whatever was said between them would go no further. ‘Let’s hope I have some success this time. I don’t want to make this journey again. I’ve got to go to the States on Monday, and I’m not going to have any more time.’

Joe bowed his bullet-shaped head. In common with a lot of young men of his age, he wore his head shaved, and that, combined with his broad shoulders and powerful physique, was enough to deter any would-be kidnapper. Patrick had had his share of threats, like any man in his position, and Joe served as both chauffeur and bodyguard—and confidant, on occasion.

‘Does that mean you won’t be having lunch in Horsham?’ Joe ventured, accelerating past a pair of cyclists, and Patrick gave him an impatient look.

‘Yes, it does,’ he said shortly, aware that Joe was bearing the brunt of his ill humour. ‘Dammit, this isn’t a social call.’

Joe shrugged, too used to his employer’s moods to be put out. Besides, normally Patrick Shannon was an excellent employer, and it was only when his sister got on his back that other people suffered.

Meanwhile, Patrick was brooding over what to do about the shell necklace. All right, he had bought the damn thing, but he had never intended to return to collect it. OK, Isobel Herriot hadn’t been what he had expected, and just for a few moments there she had briefly laid siege to his senses, but that was all it had been—a momentary aberration. The very idea of him and his brother-in-law sharing the same taste in women was ludicrous—apart from the very real emotions Jillian would feel if he told her he had been attracted to the woman too.

There wasn’t a space to park in the high street this morning, so Patrick had Joe drop him off near the craft shop, and arranged to meet him outside the shop in fifteen minutes.

‘In the car?’ asked Joe, pushing his luck, and Patrick’s eyes narrowed.

‘In the car,’ he agreed, stepping out onto the pavement. ‘If you can find somewhere to park, get yourself a cup of coffee, right?’

‘Right, boss,’ agreed Joe sardonically, and Patrick’s lips twitched at his attempt at humour. Bloody hell, he thought irritably, this was an impossible situation. He should have spoken to Richard first, not his mistress.

The trouble was that speaking to Richard was a little like trying to catch raindrops in your hands. Just when you thought you’d caught one, it slipped away through your fingers. Patrick had spoken to Richard before, and his brother-in-law had made promises he’d never had any intention of keeping. He knew that so long as Jillian wanted him Patrick didn’t stand a chance.

Caprice.

As he’d done on that other occasion, Patrick looked in the shop window before venturing inside. Apart from a child and its mother, who appeared to be talking to someone behind the counter, the shop was empty.

Oh, well, he thought, he didn’t have time to wait any longer. When Joe brought the car back, he intended to be waiting, whether his mission was accomplished or not.

A bell rang as he pushed open the door, and a handful of wind chimes rustled in the breeze. His entry attracted the attention of both the women by the counter, and the child regarded him solemnly, its thumb pushed into its mouth.

It only took a moment to realise that neither of the women was Isobel Herriot. He had hardly expected her to be the young mother anyway, but the girl behind the counter looked like a teenager. His spirits plummeted, the determination that had driven him through the door bringing a resigned droop to his mouth. He might have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Nothing ever was.

‘Hello.’ The girl behind the counter was regarding him with a rather avid interest, and although he wasn’t a conceited man he suspected that there was a certain covetousness in her gaze. ‘Are you looking for Issy?’ she asked, desecrating what Patrick had previously thought of as a very attractive name. ‘She’s in the back. I’ll get her. She was just about to go for lunch.

‘I—well—’

She was gone before he could stop her, and the young woman hanging onto the toddler gave him a reassuring look. ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘If only we could get rid of that wind. Still, it dries the clothes, and saves the electricity. That’s what my husband always says.’