Diamonds are for Deception: The Carlotta Diamond / The Texan's Diamond Bride / From Dirt to Diamonds

Sojo reached for the switch by the door and flooded the room with light. ‘Yes, I can see you have. What happened? Did Wudolf have a change of heart and decide not to go to the States after all?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘But something’s happened, I can see by your face. You look bewitched, bothered and bewildered. Let’s have a hot drink, and you can tell me all about it.’

‘Don’t you want to go to bed?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Do you?’

‘I doubt if I could sleep if I went,’ Charlotte admitted.

‘Then I suggest you get it off your chest.’

While they sat in front of the living-flame gas fire and sipped mugs of hot chocolate, Charlotte related the events of the day and evening, ending, ‘When we got back, Simon gave me a note from his grandfather. Though Sir Nigel is very seriously ill, apparently he wants to meet me.’

She found the note and handed it to Sojo, who read it avidly, before exclaiming, ‘What fun! Fancy being invited to the ancestral home, as well as being wined and dined by Sir Simon Farringdon.’

‘He doesn’t seem to use his title.’

‘Well, whether he calls himself Sir or not, he sounds really something.’

‘He’s certainly very attractive.’ Charlotte tried hard to appear underwhelmed.

Throughout her recital she had stuck to facts and left out her feelings, but Sojo wasn’t fooled for an instant. ‘You have the kind of dazed look that suggests you still don’t know quite what’s hit you. Tell me, how many times have you thought of Wudolf today? No, don’t bother to answer; I can see by your face. Well, all I can say is, the lord be praised.’

Then shrewdly, ‘Unless it’s out of the frying-pan into the fire. What do you know about our Simon?’

‘Apart from the fact that he’s Sir Nigel’s grandson, very little. And this proposed trip to Farringdon Hall—’

‘Proposed? You are going, aren’t you?’

‘I will if Margaret can manage.’

‘Of course she can manage,’ Sojo blithely insisted.

‘Well, if I do go, it’s just business.’

‘Business my foot!’ Sojo said inelegantly. ‘It’s my bet that young Simon suggested the visit.’

‘He’s not that young.’

‘So it wouldn’t be cradle-snatching?’

‘Of course not. He must be somewhere in the region of thirty.’

‘Perfect. All you have to do is smile at him and you’ll be home and dry.’

Charlotte shook her head. ‘The Farringdon family are blue-blooded and wealthy; they live in a different world. I’d never fit in.’

‘Stuff and nonsense. With a face and figure like yours and the voice and manners of a lady, you’d fit into an aristocratic background as if you belonged. And speaking of aristocratic backgrounds, where exactly is Farringdon Hall?’

‘It’s about twenty miles from London, somewhere near Old Leasham.’

‘Know anything about it?’ Sojo asked.

‘When Simon Farringdon first got in touch with me, purely as a matter of interest I looked it up in Britain’s Heritage of Fine Historical Houses. It’s described as ‘‘A small, but delightful Elizabethan manor house, with thatched dovecotes and a charming walled garden…’’’

Reaching out a hand, Charlotte took a thick volume from the bookshelf and flicked through the pages. ‘Here, read it for yourself.’

The book balanced on one knee, Sojo read aloud,

‘Built on the site of a much older, fortified house, and surrounded by a large estate, Farringdon Hall has been the home of the Bell-Farringdon family for almost five hundred years. During her heyday, Queen Elizabeth I is rumoured to have made many private visits there. The interior of the house is noted for its splendid fireplaces, superb oak panelling and fine plasterwork, but the highlight is undoubtedly the Great Chamber with its magnificent barrel ceiling. There are three oak staircases rising from the panelled hall. The two rear ones lead up to the old nursery suite and the attics, which have remained unaltered since the house was built, while the main staircase leads to the family rooms, one of which is said to be haunted…

‘Fantastic! Sojo, who was into ghosts, gave an excited wriggle. ‘I must say I’m starting to envy you. A ghost and Simon Farringdon in the same house! What more could you possibly ask?’

When Charlotte finally got to bed, though she hadn’t expected to, she slept almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

In spite of having had such a late night, she awoke at her usual time and, pulling on her robe, went through to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and a rack of toast, before phoning Margaret.

Almost before she had finished explaining, Margaret said, ‘Of course I’ll take over for you.’

‘It’s bound to be busy,’ Charlotte pointed out. ‘Are you sure you can manage?’

‘My niece will be more than willing to lend a hand. She’s always liked books. The part-time job she had during the summer is finished, and as an out-of-work ex-student she can use a spot of pocket money.’

‘That’s great.’

‘So you just go and enjoy yourself.’

Instead of reiterating that it was just business, Charlotte said, ‘I’ll certainly try.’

Appearing in the kitchen in her pyjamas, her blonde hair in wild disarray, Sojo helped herself to coffee and toast before enquiring, ‘I take it that was Margaret. Can she manage?’

‘She’s going to get her niece to help.’

Spreading butter and marmalade with a liberal hand, Sojo observed with satisfaction, ‘So you’re all set. With a bit of luck you might even see the ghost.’

‘I’m not terribly sure I want to,’ Charlotte said.

Sojo sighed. ‘You have no sense of the dramatic. The scenario goes like this… You see the ghost and, scared stiff, you scream. Simon Farringdon comes running. You fall into his arms and… Well, I’ll leave the rest to you and propinquity.’

‘Thanks,’ Charlotte murmured drily.

‘Just one thing; once you get ensconced at Farringdon Hall I hope you’ll remember all my helpful advice and invite me down. Oh, and when he does get round to proposing, and a man of his class will—he’ll need children to inherit everything—I’ll be your bridesmaid.’

‘He may already have a wife and family,’ Charlotte pointed out.

‘You didn’t find out if he was married? What on earth were you doing with your time?’

‘I could hardly ask him,’ Charlotte objected.

‘Though surely he can’t be,’ Sojo thought aloud. ‘If he was, he wouldn’t have been rash enough to take another woman out dancing and dining.’

‘But this wasn’t a date,’ Charlotte emphasised. ‘It was simply a business dinner.’

‘Go away! You’ll be telling me next that you’re not quivering like a jelly at the mere thought of seeing him again… Now I must dash… When you get back I shall expect a blow-by-blow account of all that’s happened… And don’t forget, so long as he’s not actually married you have my permission to go get him.’

When she had showered and dressed, trying to keep her excitement under control, Charlotte selected what she was taking for the weekend, and packed it.

Well before ten o’clock she was ready and waiting, her small case zipped up and Sir Nigel’s set of books replaced in the strong cardboard carton they had been delivered in.

Aware that she mustn’t let Simon Farringdon see what a devastating effect he had on her, for the past hour she had been lecturing herself on the necessity to appear cool and in control.

Afraid that anything less businesslike might give the wrong impression, she had put on a fine wool suit in aubergine, and taken her hair up into a neat coil.

She was standing in the bow-window when, punctually at ten o’clock, a dark blue car drew up outside and Simon climbed out.

Her heart beating faster, she gathered up her belongings and forced herself to walk down the stairs and open the door without undue haste.

He was waiting on the doorstep, casually dressed in a well-tailored grey sports jacket and cords. Though she was wearing high heels, he still seemed to tower over her.

‘Spot on time,’ he congratulated her.

That white smile, and the way his lean cheeks creased, made her breath come faster and threatened to destroy her hard-won composure.

‘You have a different car.’ She said the first thing that came into her head.

‘Yes. I picked my own car up from the Hall this morning. The previous one was hired when I got back from the States a few days ago.’

Taking the case and books, he stowed them in the boot before helping her into the passenger seat.

As he slid in beside her, remembering what had happened the previous evening, she panicked and fumbled for her seat belt.

Straight-faced, he asked, ‘Sure you can manage?’

‘Quite sure, thank you,’ she assured him, and realised by the gleam of amusement in his tawny eyes that he knew perfectly well what effect he had on her, and was enjoying teasing her.

It wasn’t a comfortable realisation, and now it was too late she admitted that she’d been an absolute fool to come. She had known from the beginning that he was right out of her league, yet she had still allowed her desire to see him again to overrule her common sense.

So, having made the mistake, she was stuck with it. Somehow she had to play it cool and refuse to let him throw her.

Though that might be easier said than done.

As they drew away from the kerb, he asked, ‘No problem with the shop, I hope?’

‘No. Margaret has a niece who’ll be willing to lend a hand.’ She was pleased that her voice sounded comparatively steady.

‘Good. In that case you can stop worrying and just sit back and relax.’

But how was she to relax when she was so aware of him? When in spite of all her resolve, his sheer masculinity posed such a threat to her composure that she was still trembling inwardly?

Sensing her unease, and deciding there was no point in making her wary, he went on mundanely, ‘As the weather’s still beautiful, it should prove to be a nice journey, and hopefully make a pleasant start to the weekend…’

His voice held only a host’s concern for his guest, and a quick glance at him told her that his manner had altered subtly, and for the moment at least he did not pose an active threat.

‘Grandfather is most anxious that you should enjoy your visit.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ she lied. Then carefully, ‘I was very sorry to hear how ill Sir Nigel is. I hope he’ll soon be a lot better.’

‘Unfortunately we can’t hope for much in the way of improvement. His illness is terminal. All the doctors can do is keep him as comfortable as possible and relatively free from pain.’

Shocked, she said, ‘It must be very difficult for him to cope with a visitor at a time like this.’

‘On the contrary, just knowing you were coming has pepped him up enormously. He’s always enjoyed the company of women, especially beautiful ones, and since Grandmother died last summer I think he’s been lonely. Though he’d never admit it.’

‘Then your parents don’t live at the Hall?’ Charlotte asked.

‘They used to—both my sister and I were born there—but they were killed in a car crash when I was six and Lucy was just a baby. Our grandparents brought us up.’

‘And you both still live there?’

‘I do.’ She saw his jaw tighten, before he added, ‘But Lucy’s married now and lives near Hanwick.’

‘Still, Sir Nigel has you.’ Somehow she resisted the temptation to mention a wife.

‘Unfortunately I’m not always here. I’ve had to be in the States quite a lot on business, and even when I am in the UK I’m usually only home at weekends. I stay at my London flat during the week.’

In spite of everything her heart lifted. It didn’t sound as if he had either a wife or a live-in lover.

‘Since Grandfather’s been seriously ill, I would have preferred to commute so I could be on hand at night in case anything happened. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He hates to be regarded as an invalid. In some ways it’s a pity I’m not married. It’s always been Grandfather’s dearest wish that I should take a wife, settle down in the ancestral home and raise a family.’

‘Why haven’t you?’ The question was out before she could prevent it.

A shade wryly, he said, ‘I’ve been waiting to meet a woman I wanted to be with for the rest of my life.’

He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Now, shall we have some music?’

‘That would be nice,’ Charlotte agreed.

‘What kind do you prefer?’

‘I like most classical music, including some grand opera. And I’m fond of comic opera, especially Gilbert and Sullivan…’

‘How delightfully old-fashioned,’ he teased. ‘But do go on.’

‘I like some jazz, some middle-of-the-road, some pop tunes—especially the older ones.’

He nodded approvingly. ‘It seems we share very similar tastes. One of which we can perhaps indulge later this evening.’

She gave him an uncertain glance, and he explained, ‘As luck will have it, there’s a Gilbert and Sullivan charity concert tonight at the Oulton village hall. The newly formed local Amateur Operatic Society are singing a selection of songs from HMS Pinafore, The Mikado, The Gondoliers et cetera, and, as a patron, I was sent a couple of tickets. I had intended to give them to Mrs Reynolds, our housekeeper, but if you’re agreeable it might be fun to go.’

‘I’d love to.’ It would pass the evening, and there’d be no danger of being left alone with him.

He flicked open one of the car’s compartments to show a collection of CDs. ‘So what’s it to be?’

‘Gershwin?’ she suggested.

A few seconds later the car was filled with the haunting strains of ‘Rhapsody in Blue’.

The weekend weather had been forecast as unsettled, with a front working its way through that would bring heavy rain and gale-force winds. But at the moment, as Simon had remarked, it was a beautiful day. The blue sky was cloudless and sunshine poured down, lighting up the autumn foliage and ricocheting from the gleaming bonnet of the car.

With a little sigh, Charlotte settled back to listen to the music and enjoy the drive as much as possible.

The CD had come to an end, and after her late night she was half dozing, when Simon’s voice penetrated the pleasant haze.

‘This is the village of Old Leasham we’re just going through. It’s a sleepy little place now, but in the past it was an important staging post, as you can tell by The Post-Horn, which is an old coaching inn.’

‘I gather Farringdon Hall is fairly close?’ Charlotte remarked.

‘The main entrance is about a mile further on, while the Hall itself lies midway between Old Leasham to the south, and Oulton to the north. This is the boundary wall just coming up.’

Beyond the last cluster of white cottages a high wall built of old lichen-covered stone came into view. With an ornate tower on the corner, it formed a right angle, running left along Farringdon Lane, a narrow tree-lined track that bordered the estate, and straight on along the main road.

When they reached the imposing entrance, Charlotte saw it was guarded by two ferocious-looking lions on plinths, one each side of the tall black and gold wrought-iron gates.

A security camera perched on top of a metal pole scanned them, and a moment later the gates slid aside. As they drove through, a uniformed man appeared from the gatehouse.

Sliding down the car window, Simon enquired, ‘What is it, Jenkins?’

‘May I enquire how Sir Nigel is?’

‘In good spirits, still.’

‘Mrs Jenkins has made some of the special crab-apple jelly Sir Nigel is so partial to. Would it be in order to send a pot up?’

‘Of course. I’ll take it now if you like.’

Beaming, Jenkins disappeared to return almost immediately with a small muslin-covered basket.

Putting it carefully on the back seat, Simon said, ‘I’m sure Grandfather will thoroughly enjoy it. Please thank Mrs Jenkins.’

‘That I will, sir.’

As they drove away, he gave them a smart salute.

For a mile or so the road wound through rolling, lightly wooded parkland, on fire with the reds and golds and copper tints of autumn. Finally the colourful drifts of fern and bracken gave way to cultivated gardens surrounded by thick yew hedges cut into fantastic shapes.

They came to the Hall itself through an archway of yew, and, though Charlotte had known more or less what to expect, the first sight of it brought a gasp of sheer pleasure.

Calling it delightful had been no exaggeration, she thought. Built of mellow stone, it was both graceful and symmetrical, with a short wing at either end and a central door.

Its mullioned windows were uniform, apart from one wide, three-tiered expanse that rose roof height, and must be, she guessed, the window of the Great Chamber.

Bringing the car to a halt on the gravel, Simon sat without speaking, watching her entranced face.

When she finally turned to him with shining eyes, he queried, ‘Do I gather you like the old place?’

‘It’s lovely,’ she answered simply.

Having helped her out and retrieved her case and the carton of books, as well as the crab-apple jelly, he said, ‘It isn’t all that big. Apart from the attics and the servants’ quarters, there are only nine bedrooms. After you’ve met Grandfather and had lunch, I’ll show you round.’

As they approached the heavy, black-studded oak door it opened, and a plump, elderly woman with a kind face and grey curly hair appeared to lead them into a beautifully panelled hall.

Simon made the introduction. ‘Charlotte, this is Mrs Reynolds, our housekeeper… Ann, Miss Christie.’

‘How do you do?’ Charlotte murmured.

Returning her friendly smile, the housekeeper said, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Christie. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you—’

‘As Cook’s ill,’ Simon broke in, ‘if you want to get on with lunch, I’ll take Miss Christie up. Which room have you given her?’

‘Sir Nigel suggested the Bluebell Room.’

‘Very well. What time is lunch? If possible I’d like to see Grandfather first.’

‘The sooner the better.’ Mrs Reynolds gave her opinion briskly. ‘If necessary I’ll hold the meal back. In all the years I’ve been at the Hall I’ve never known Sir Nigel to be so impatient.’

‘In that case, we’d better not keep him waiting any longer than we can help… If you can put this in the pantry?’ He handed her the crab-apple jelly.

Carrying Charlotte’s case and the books, he escorted her up the main staircase, elaborately carved in oak, and turned right along the landing.

Opening the second door on the left, he ushered her into a cosy room simply furnished with a double bed, a wardrobe, a bow-fronted chest of drawers and a cushioned armchair.

The wallpaper was patterned with a woodland scene of bluebells and green leaves, while the carpet, pleasantly faded by time, picked up the colours.

A small black fireplace was screened by a tall pitcher of cream and pink gladioli, and the casement windows were partly open, the balmy air wafting in the scent of thyme and late roses.

Putting her case on the padded window-seat, Simon remarked, ‘I’m pleased to say that some years ago a central-heating system was installed and en suite bathrooms were added to most of the bedrooms…’

Opening a door papered to blend in with the walls, he revealed a well-appointed bathroom. ‘Perhaps you’d like a few minutes alone to freshen up?’

Feeling curiously nervous about meeting Sir Nigel, and unwilling to delay matters, she said, ‘I’m ready now, if you are.’

CHAPTER FOUR

HE LED the way down a wide corridor with panelled walls and oak floorboards and tapped at the door of what was obviously the master bedroom.

It was opened at once by an elderly nurse in a neat blue uniform, who slipped out to join them in the corridor.

‘I’ve been trying to get Sir Nigel to have a sleep,’ she told them in a hushed voice. ‘He’s in a great deal of pain this morning, but he’s refused to have his injection until he’s seen you, on the grounds that it makes him muddle-headed.’

Simon nodded and asked, ‘How long?’

‘Ten minutes, fifteen at the outside.’

She ushered them into the dimness and disappeared through a communicating door, closing it quietly behind her.

The warm, still air of the sickroom held the country-house scent of lavender and the hospital smell of disinfectant, but over and above all was an unmistakable atmosphere of tension.

‘Is that you, my boy?’ a voice demanded. ‘For heaven’s sake open the curtains and let some light in. I told that dratted woman I couldn’t sleep, but she treats me as if I were a fractious child.’

Then eagerly, ‘Have you brought our guest?’

‘Yes, she’s here.’

Simon drew back the curtains, flooding the room with light, then a hand at Charlotte’s waist urged her towards the big four-poster.

Though she knew it was silly, she found herself holding her breath, as if something momentous was about to happen.

The man lying there was propped up against a pile of pillows. His silver hair was thick and springy, and though his face was skull-like, the transparent skin stretched too tightly over the bones, it was obvious he’d been a handsome man.

He smiled at his grandson, and Charlotte saw that his teeth were still good. The top middle two had a slight gap between them, which gave him an endearingly boyish look.

Smiling back with an expression of tenderness that brought a sudden lump to her throat, Simon said, ‘Grandfather, here are the books you wanted, and this is Miss Christie.’

After studying her for a moment, Sir Nigel looked up at his grandson and said simply, ‘Yes.’

Then, holding out a hand that was so thin and fragile-looking she was almost afraid to take it, he added, ‘It’s nice to meet you, my dear. May I call you Charlotte?’

‘Of course.’

Still clasping her fingers, his grip surprisingly firm, he patted the bed with his free hand. ‘Do sit down. Let me look at you.’

She obeyed, sitting down with care.

Though illness might be ravaging his body, it hadn’t killed his spirit, and the dark eyes that studied her so intently were fiercely alive.

‘Tell me about yourself, and how you come to be running a bookshop.’

She told him what little there was to tell, adding, ‘I love it, though, with opening six days a week, it’s quite hard work.’

Nodding, he said, ‘My grandson mentioned that you should have been working today. I hope my invitation didn’t cause you too much inconvenience?’

‘None at all,’ she assured him. ‘Margaret, my assistant, was quite willing to take over.’

‘I’m pleased about that.’ After a moment or two, his fingers tightening slightly, he added, ‘Thank you for coming, my dear. It does an old man good to see someone so young and beautiful.’

‘Believe me, it doesn’t do a young man any harm either,’ Simon said lightly.

The two men exchanged glances that underlined a closeness Charlotte had only previously guessed at.

Turning his attention back to his guest, Sir Nigel went on, ‘I’m delighted you were able to track down Claude Bayeaux’s books. I’ll take a look at them when I’ve had the afternoon rest my nurse insists on. I’m afraid my illness means I’m in bed a lot of the time and can no longer play the part of host. But I’m sure my grandson will see that you’re not bored.’

Turning to Simon, he asked, ‘Do you have any plans for today?’

‘Indeed we do. I thought I’d show Charlotte round the house, then take her for a drive and a meal at the Oulton Arms, before we go on to the village hall to hear a Gilbert and Sullivan concert.’

‘Good old Gilbert and Sullivan! Well, my dear, I hope you enjoy it.’

‘Thank you, I’m sure I will.’

When the frail, papery hand released hers, she rose to her feet. ‘Now I’d better go and unpack my things before lunch.’

‘I hope you’ll come to see me again before you go back to London?’

‘I’d love to.’ She smiled at him, and, leaving the men together, headed for the door.