The Bedroom Incident

But if Matthew Lingard’s memory should be jolted—well, the episode had happened in the dim and distant past and he would have dismissed it as—OK, embarrassing—but inconsequential. He obviously possessed a healthy sense of humour so, in retrospect, he would consider it funny. Wouldn’t he? Yes. After all, it was her life which had been disrupted, not his. He would have also accepted that her action had been understandable and no more than he deserved.

She moistened her lips. Once she had been furiously angry with him, but now, whilst there were a few sparks of remembered resentment, she was prepared to let bygones be bygones. Time had healed and grievances had been mended. Besides, what had seemed like a disaster had, in fact, inspired a change of direction for which she was eternally grateful. She had forgiven him—and he would have forgiven her.

‘Are you friendly with Emily?’ Matthew enquired.

Sir George had told him he planned to ask some business associates to join the newspaper guests and said that Emily, his teenage daughter, would also be present. Kristin Blake’s talk of a flatmate and—his eyes dipped to her left hand—lack of wedding ring indicated she was not a business wife, so he assumed she must have been invited to keep the girl company.

‘Sorry? Oh, yes,’ she said absently, and returned to her thoughts.

As Matthew Lingard had not recognised her name from the past, neither had he recognised her as a possible future member of his staff. At her interview, Sir George had explained the editor was away and yet she had thought that, in the meantime, he would have told him all about her in glowing terms.

Perhaps the proprietor had not wished to disturb his editor’s holiday. Or perhaps Matthew had been told, but in the hustle-bustle of organising the new-style Ambassador he had forgotten. She looked at her escort again. Whilst he must be under all kinds of pressure, his lapse was not exactly flattering. Nor encouraging.

Kristin was wondering whether she should refer to her interview when a man in late middle age appeared from beneath the portcullis, followed by a youth who was pushing a luggage trolley. The man wore a black jacket, pinstriped trousers and starched white shirt. His thinning hair was brilliantined back, his carriage was stiff and his smile gracious. As he started towards them along the drawbridge, she felt a bubble of delight.

‘Oh, gee,’ she whispered. ‘A butler.’

‘You haven’t come across a real live butler before?’ Matthew enquired.

‘Never.’

‘It’s a first for me, too,’ he said, sotto voce, and their eyes met in shared amusement.

‘But essential if you live in a castle,’ she said, out of the corner of her mouth.

‘As oxygen,’ he declared.

‘Miss, sir, may we take your bags?’ the man said, in a plummy voice. ‘Sir George is dealing with a business crisis and looks like being tied up for at least the next hour, but please allow me—Rimmer, the butler—to welcome you.’

Although it was generated mostly by nerves, Kristin needed to swallow down a rising giggle. As real Frenchmen often spoke and gesticulated like comic Frenchmen, and as Italian waiters invariably flirted, so he was the perfect English butler stereotype and beyond invention.

She slid her companion another glance and saw from the gleam in his eyes that he was thinking what she was thinking.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and was relieved when the youth stashed her plastic bags onto the trolley with as much solemn care and aplomb as if they had been a set of matching antique leather suitcases.

‘Our pleasure, Miss Blake. I know you must be Miss Blake because Sir George described you in the most flattering terms,’ the butler said, and smiled. He spoke to her companion. ‘Good evening, Mr Lingard.’

‘Good evening, Rimmer,’ Matthew replied, and arched a brow. ‘Sir George described me in flattering terms, too?’

The older man chuckled. ‘What he said, sir, was that you were a tall, dark-haired gentleman who was bound to be wearing jeans.’

‘Is there something wrong with jeans?’ he enquired.

‘Sir George considers them to be a little...casual, sir. Though that’s only his view.’ The butler turned to Kristin. ‘What is your opinion, miss?’

‘I think they’re entirely acceptable so long as they’re well-cut and—’ she gave a wicked smile ‘—you have a pert and infinitely pattable backside, like Mr Lingard.’

Matthew burst out laughing. The retaliation was welltimed and he liked her sense of fun.

‘The biter bit,’ he said.

‘Drinks will be served in the drawing room from seventhirty, with dinner at eight-fifteen,’ Rimmer informed them. ‘Now if you would kindly follow me.’

Kristin turned, studying herself in the full length mirror. One of the perks of working for a women’s magazine was that you came into contact with fashion designers who, on occasion, were willing to let you borrow a creation. So she was wearing a chocolate-brown satin evening dress with a scoop neck, narrow shoulder straps and lace panel down the back. Brown was, she had been gravely informed, the new black and a touch of lace was de rigueur this season.

She frowned at the curves of her breasts. Although the lace panel excluded the wearing of a bra, the bodice was as painstakingly engineered as a motorway bridge. Yet the neckline did dip alarmingly low—lower than anything she had ever worn before. Should she play safe and change into the white beaded tunic and palazzo pants which she had brought? Rimmer had advised that their host expected the ladies to dress for dinner.

Her reflection kicked out a high-heel-sandalled foot

‘Strut your funky stuff, baby,’ it said, by way of a pep talk.

This evening she wanted to be visible and make an impact, and in this dress—boy, oh, boy—she would.

On being shown to her room, she had first unpacked. She had marvelled at the carved four-poster bed with its silver-pink drapes and matching coverlet, gazed out at the formal gardens and the rolling Kent countryside which unfurled beyond, then gone through to the luxurious en-suite bathroom.

Filling the tub, she had tipped in a generous helping of the lavender bath grains which were provided, stripped and carefully skewered her hair onto the top of her head. After enjoying a long soothing soak, she had dried herself, dressed and fashioned her hair into a sophisticated tawny twist.

Kristin headed back into the bathroom to fix her make-up. A bronze eyeshadow was finger-tipped onto her lids and a line of kohl applied. The more she thought about it, the more certain she felt that Sir George had not told his . editor about her interview. And although he had assured her he would be delighted with his choice, he had also mentioned that Matthew Lingard had the final say.

She cast an anxious look at herself in the mirror. He would say yes to her appointment. Wouldn’t he? He must. Her track record was good. She had shown herself to be imaginative and hard-working, and had enthusiastic references to prove it. The paper’s proprietor had been impressed and, surely, Matthew would be impressed, too? She gave a decisive bob of her head. She was worrying unnecessarily.

She had always imagined her long-ago victim to be a cold, arrogant, loutish man, Kristin reflected, but he had seemed surprisingly warm and unassuming and pleasant. Wielding a wand of brown-black mascara, she brushed at her lashes. He was also a first-rate journalist. She could remember reading articles which he had written about politics and world events, and they were always a beat or two ahead of the others.

As she sprayed on a light floral perfume, her thoughts switched to her own writing. Before she went to join the other guests for drinks—and to wow Matthew Lingard—she wanted to jot down a few notes. Notes describing how it felt to be greeted by a butler, and about the excitement of staying in the splendour of a castle, and—she wrinkled her nose—about her plastic bags. She might never use the notes, but over the last few years scribbling down the events of her day had proved to be a worthwhile habit.

Standing beneath the jet of the high-velocity shower, Matthew massaged shampoo into his hair. He felt the thickness at the nape of his neck. He had meant to get his hair cut when he was up north, he thought ruefully, but he had not managed to find the time—thanks to Charlie.

As he rinsed away the bubbling foam, he frowned. Every time he saw his family—his parents also lived in Cheshire—he was faced with the same old demand. When was he going to settle down?

‘You love Charlie, so why don’t you get married and have kids of your own?’ Susan, his sister, had asked, a couple of days ago. ‘In a few years you’ll be forty and then—’

Her shrug had indicated that once he reached the big Four-O he would be past his sell-by date. He did not agree. He ran a hand over his chest, down to the flat plane of his stomach and along a firm, muscled flank. He was in good shape and he planned to stay that way.

Switching off the water, he reached for a towel. He fully intended to marry, but it would be at a time of his choosing—which meant, as his career was currently so demanding and so absorbing, not for the next year or two. Or three.

Though he had yet to meet a woman,who attracted him enough to want to love and live with her for the rest of his life. He had thought he was close on a couple of occasions, but had realised his mistake and sidestepped.

Matthew rubbed at the dark hair on his chest. Perhaps he was becoming choosy in his old age, but it was rare now that he met anyone he fancied, seriously fancied—though he had done today.

Dry, he ran a comb through his hair and walked back into the bedroom. Taking a pale pink shirt and a charcoal-grey suit from the wardrobe, he began to dress. When he met an attractive woman, he noticed the eyes first, then her breasts and next her legs.

Kristin Blake’s eyes were large and light hazel, encircled with lush lashes. The breasts beneath the cream jacket had been high, not too small, not too heavy, and her legs were long. Add fine bone structure, the dusting of freckles over her nose, that wide, soft mouth and everything met his criteria. He had known more classically beautiful women, but there was a freshness about her—combined with a certain vulnerability—which stirred something inside him. She had been instantly and gesiuinely likeable.

Forget Kristin Blake and think about finding an editor for The Ambassador’s features section, he told himself. He had hired a journalist whose work he admired, but she had discovered she was pregnant and had been forced to pull out at the last minute. However, he now had someone else in mind.

There was a knock at his door.

‘Coming,’ Matthew called and, pulling on his jacket, he went to answer it. He smiled. ‘Good evening.’

His visitor was a short, conspicuously substantial man in his early sixties, with apple cheeks and a corona of grey hair. He wore a dark, rather old-fashioned three-piece suit with a snowy white shirt and gold watch chain.

‘Good evening, Matt,’ Sir George said, in his rolling Scottish accent ‘Sorry I was unable to welcome you, but there’s a major breakdown at my bottling plant in Perthshire and the phone’s been humming. Settled in OK?’

‘Perfectly, thanks.’

‘Did you enjoy your holiday?’

‘Very much,’ he said, ushering his visitor into the room. ‘It’s a while since I last saw my folks and it was good to see them again.’

‘You should see them regularly. Families are what life is about, and all work and no play—’ Sir George wagged a reproving finger. ‘I wanted to have a wee word before we go into dinner. You know you need to recruit someone else to run the women’s pages?’

Inwardly wincing at the phrase, Matthew nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ he said. ‘Have you heard of Angela Carr? She’s a good solid journalist who’s worked on several dailies in her time. She went freelance a while back, but—’

‘I’ve interviewed someone,’ Sir George cut in.

His brows lifted. ‘You have?’

‘Someone young, bright and with plenty of fizz.’

Matthew felt a stab of irritation. Before agreeing to take on the role of editor, he had made it clear that his acceptance would be on the strict understanding that he had full control over the editorial content of the paper—which included the hiring of staff. He had insisted he must be allowed to run things his way. He made the decisions, not the proprietor.

‘I realise I was overstepping the mark,’ the older man said, with a smile, ‘but this is a special case and I won’t do it again. I promise. I consider the young lady’s ideal for the job and so will you.’

He was not so sure about that, he thought grimly. Sir George might have made a fortune out of bottling spring water, selling stationery, manufacturing industrial varnishes et cetera, but he knew damn-all about how to run a newspaper. And damn-all about journalists.

‘What did you say to the woman?’ Matthew enquired, wondering if a rash commitment might have been made.

In their dealings, the businessman had shown himself to be hard-headed, thoughtful and conservative, yet with the occasional flash of flamboyance. If his flamboyance had had him offering the job, the offer would be withdrawn, smartish. He refused to be landed with some ‘fizzing’ female.

‘That you’d like her and you will.’ Sir George shepherded him towards the door. ‘I’ll introduce you.’

‘She’s here?’ he protested.

The dinner was a ‘welcome on board’ to the journalists who had been newly appointed and to those who were continuing on The Ambassador’s staff. A muscle tightened in his jaw. The woman was not being welcomed on board. Far from it. Yet her presence signalled an expectation on Sir George’s part and thus put pressure on him.

‘I thought I’d keep her as a pleasant surprise. She’s in the room next door to yours, though she may well have gone to the drawing room by now,’ his host said, but as they stepped out onto the wide, thick-carpeted corridor he smiled. ‘Perfect timing.’

Kristin slipped the key into her brown satin evening bag and turned. She had become so absorbed in making her notes that time had sped by and she had suddenly realised she was in danger of being late.

‘Hello,’ she said, surprised to find her host beaming at her from a few yards away.

Matthew Lingard was standing beside him, though his expression was grave.

‘Kristin, I’d like to introduce Matthew Lingard,’ Sir George said. ‘Matt, this is Kristin Blake, the young lady I interviewed for the women’s pages.’

His smile was slight, without mirth. ‘We’ve already met,’ he said.

CHAPTER TWO

KRISTIN’S gaze travelled across walls of beautiful inlaid panelling, oil paintings and crystal chandeliers. Flytes Keep might be a castle with all the adornments of a stately home, yet it felt warm and lived in. A place of good vibrations. This was due to the bowls of fragrant white narcissi which were spread around, family photographs on the mantelpiece, but, most of all, to the easygoing affability of their host.

Her gaze stopped at the head of the long, white-damask-clothed table where Sir George laughed over a joke. In providing a delicious meal, permanently flowing drinks and giving the whole party overnight accommodation, he was a most generous host.

When inviting her, he had asked if she would care to bring a boyfriend along and she had said no; but the dozen or so business and newspaper men who were present this evening were accompanied by their wives or partners. Only Matthew Lingard and a man she had been introduced to as the arts editor, and whom she suspected could be gay, had come alone.

‘Splendid wine. You need some more,’ declared the man seated on her right, and before she could protest he gestured to a waiter who instantly stepped forward and refilled her glass.

The man ran one of Sir George’s companies which manufactured industrial varnishes, and his name was Freddie. Earlier, as Matthew had told their host that they had met, a door had opened down the hallway and a middle-aged couple had stepped out. Sir George had introduced them and had immediately been called away to the telephone—and Freddie had begun to chat

He had dominated the conversation over drinks. Clearly aware of this trait, his wife had taken the first opportunity to drift away, then Matthew had excused himself and gone to talk with members of his staff. Thus Kristin had been left alone with the balding wordsmith, and it had seemed impolite for her also to depart. She had hoped that when the party moved into the dining room she would be able to escape, but no such luck.

‘We’re sitting together!’ Freddie had exclaimed delightedly, inspecting the place names.

Kristin took a sip of wine. An hour ago she had not known industrial varnishes existed, yet after being told at length about types, consistency and application she felt as if she could pass examinations on the subject. But now, in the pause after the main course of fresh poached salmon, her companion had begun to regale a man sitting opposite with the same numbing screed.

Freddie’s enthusiasm meant she had barely managed to exchange two words with Matthew Lingard, who was seated on her left, let alone attempt to charm him. Though as soon as they had taken their places a matronly brunette who was on his other side had claimed his attention and she had been talking to him—at him—ever since.

Kristin ran her fingers pensively up and down the stem of her glass. The vibrations which came from Matthew were not so good. He had plainly been shocked to discover she was in line for a job on the newspaper—and his anger was thinly veiled. But it was not her fault if Sir George had kept quiet about her interview, she thought rebelliously. Her brow crimped. Though it could be her problem.

‘How long have you known Emily?’ a low male voice asked, and she turned to find that the subject of her thoughts had been released from his verbal barracking, too.

She smiled. ‘Since Wednesday.’

‘Wednesday?’ Matthew repeated, and frowned. He had decided to do some probing to discover how serious the proprietor’s promotion of Kristin Blake was likely to be—which would enable him to mount an appropriate offensive. ‘But I thought you said the two of you were friends.’

Kristin looked along to the other end of the table where a dark-haired girl in a demure white broderie anglaise dress was chatting with guests. Chatting gamely, she noticed.

‘I said I was friendly with her and I am. When we met at the interview on Wednesday—’

‘Emily was there?’ he enquired, in astonishment.

‘Yes. She was eager to meet me—’

‘Hang on,’ Matthew instructed, cutting in again. ‘If you didn’t know his daughter, how come Sir George decided to interview you?’

‘Serendipity.’

‘You mean it was your lucky day at the job centre?’ he asked sardonically.

‘I mean he interviewed me because Emily reads my column, likes it and she’d suggested to him that I might be a suitable applicant for—’

‘Emily suggested you?’ he said, incredulity written all over his face.

‘Correct. And when we met at the interview we immediately hit it off,’ Kristin said, finally managing to complete at least one sentence.

‘So this is what makes you a special case,’ he muttered.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Which paper do you work for?’ he enquired, lifting up his glass.

‘I don’t work for a newspaper, I work for Trend.’

‘T-Trend?’ he spluttered. He had taken a mouthful of wine and suddenly seemed in danger of choking.

‘It’s a women’s magazine.’

Matthew swallowed. ‘I know, I’ve seen it on the newsstands. Trend?’ he repeated. ‘Sweet mercy.’

Kristin’s hackles rose. Typical male response, she thought. He was casually mocking her work—as it had been mocked by men before. She reminded herself of the hundreds of thousands of women who read and enjoyed the magazine, and tried not to care, but she did. The mockery hurt—and irritated.

Keep calm, she told herself. No matter how tempted you are to retaliate—and a high-heeled jab at his shins would be immensely satisfying—you want to charm him, so a smile has to be the wisest option.

‘Poke fun if you must,’ Kristin said, her tone light, then stopped as a young waitress appeared at her shoulder.

‘Are you taking the pudding, miss, or the cheeseboard?’ the girl enquired.

‘Pudding, please,’ she replied, and a cut-crystal dish of chocolate mousse in a coffee sauce was placed before her.

She eyed it with rueful delight, thinking of the calories it must contain and the extra miles she would need to cycle on the bike at the gym.

‘For you, sir?’

‘The cheeseboard,’ Matthew said.

‘Have you ever opened a copy of Trend?’ Kristin enquired, after he had made his selection and the waitress had moved on.

‘No.’

‘Have you ever read anything I’ve written?’

‘So far as I’m aware, I haven’t had the pleasure.’

‘Then why such knee-jerk horror?’ she asked, with a smile.

He slung her an impatient look. ‘Writing a column for a women’s weekly magazine is a little different to running the features section of a national daily newspaper. A quality daily newspaper.’

‘I do realise that.’

‘Alleluia,’ he muttered.

Her smile became forced. He did a good line in sarcasm.

‘However, I don’t just write a column,’ she went on determinedly. ‘I also—’

‘I’m in the throes of offering the job to someone else,’ Matthew declared.

He was bending the truth. He had yet to contact Angela Carr, but he would, he vowed, speak to her the minute he got back to London.

Kristin frowned. ‘Sir George told me about the first woman you’d hired pulling out, but he never said another person had been approached.’

‘Sir George didn’t know. But—’ his eyes met hers in a cool look which contained a warning ‘—I’m the one who makes the choices.’

‘Obviously,’ she murmured.

‘Excuse me,’ said a sandy-haired man who was sitting across from them, ‘but did I hear you say you work on Trend magazine?’

Kristin nodded. ‘That’s right.’

As they had taken their seats, the man had introduced himself to her as ‘getting ready to head the foreign news desk’. She had smiled, said her name, and been claimed by the garrulous Freddie again.

‘My wife reads Trend,’ he said, indicating a bespectacled woman further down the table. ‘She reckons it’s a cut above the other weeklies and there’s a column in it which always has her chuckling. It describes events in the life of the writer, a rather madcap girl.’ He grinned. ‘That wouldn’t be you?’

Kristin hesitated. Because she occasionally mentioned her family and did not wish them to be identified, she wrote under the initials KB. As far as the public at large were concerned, she was anonymous and she wanted to stay that way. She glanced at Matthew. Neither did she wish to be labelled in his mind as ‘madcap’. But her questioner was another journalist and if she worked alongside him—when she worked alongside him—concealing the truth might be tricky.

‘It is,’ she acknowledged, then added, ‘Though the column isn’t always funny. I do write about serious matters.’

‘Maybe, but I often hear chuckling. Hey, Bea,’ he called, and his wife turned in their direction. ‘This young lady writes the column in Trend that you think is so terrific.’

‘You do?’ the woman said, smiling. ‘I just love your wicked streak.’

Matthew raised a thick dark brow. ‘Wicked streak?’ he enquired.

Kristin’s heart sank. The couple were making her sound frivolous, wacky and faintly troublesome, but this was not the kind of image which she wanted to put across.

‘When I was younger, much younger,’ she emphasised, ‘there was a time when I rebelled and went a little... haywire. I’ve referred to that period in my column.’

‘Perhaps you’d tell me something I’ve always wanted to know,’ said the bespectacled woman. ‘Is everything which you write true?’

‘Most of it,’ she replied, ‘though sometimes I use a little poetic licence to give an extra punch.’