Charade In Winter

Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [e-mail] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Charade in Winter

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT was cold. Much colder than she had expected it would be, even though she had been warned that Northumberland in November was not the place for hothouse plants—Lady Morgan’s words, not hers. Her breath turned to vapour in the frosty air, a minute contribution to the mist that was thickening between the trees all around her, giving their bare branches a skeletal shrouding. Alix dug her hands more deeply into the pockets of her sheepskin coat as the tail-lights of the bus disappeared into the encroaching dusk of the afternoon, and then turned reluctantly to the glimmer of light issuing between the half-drawn curtains of the lodge. Had she been mad to agree to this charade? she wondered uneasily. Was she going to regret her impulsiveness before she had even encountered her prospective employer? Was the chill of the day seeping into her bones, undermining her determination to succeed? Or was it simply that she doubted her own ability to cope in what was, to her, an entirely alien situation?

Although there could not be too many buses stopping at the gates of Darkwater Hall, her arrival seemed to have aroused no curiosity, and she looked down resignedly at her two suitcases. As no one else was there to carry them for her, she would have to carry them herself. But how far? The lodge stood just inside the tall iron gates that were at present closed against any intruders, but beyond a curve of gravelled drive that disappeared between thickly planted trees into the mist she could see nothing.

Deciding it was pointless to stand there speculating when action was obviously necessary, Alix looped her handbag over her shoulder and, taking a case in each hand, walked towards the tall gates. An iron ring suspended by the stone gateposts invited tugging, and with an irrepressible feeling of stepping back in time she reached for it.

The sudden barking of dogs was startling and seconds later two enormous wolfhounds rounded the corner of the lodge and came charging towards the gates. She stepped back automatically, the brief spell of unreality evaporating before such an aggressive presence. Instead, the animals renewed all her former uncertainties, and had she not had the suitcases to impede her she might well have changed her mind about going on with this. As it was, she stood in frozen immobility, half mesmerised by the beasts leaping at the gates in front of her, until a man appeared and silenced their noisy uproar. He was an elderly man, dressed in dark trousers and a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, a peaked cap concealing his thatch of silvery hair. He looked neither pleased nor surprised to see her, and without further ado began to unbolt the gates.

‘This is Darkwater Hall, isn’t it?’

Alix felt obliged to say something, and the man nodded, holding back the dogs by their collars, and indicated that she should come inside. Rather gingerly Alix obeyed, wondering rather foolishly whether he intended letting the dogs loose on her as soon as the gates were closed again.

The gate swung closed behind her, and the man spoke for the first time, his accent thick with the Northumbrian brogue: ‘You afraid of dogs?’

Alix put down her cases. ‘Not particularly,’ she admitted, and then stiffened as he did as she had feared and released the wolfhounds. They came bounding towards her, barking once more, but the man seemed unconcerned.

‘They’ll not harm you,’ he said, securing the gates again, ‘not unless you was to run or do something silly like. They’re guard dogs, but they’re not vicious.’

Alix managed a half-smile, suppressing the urge to push the wet noses away from her legs. ‘You know who I am?’

The man regarded her levelly. ‘Well, as we don’t get young women coming to the gates with suitcases every day, I’d hazard a guess that you was Mrs Thornton, is that right? You’re expected. And it’s not an afternoon for standing on ceremony, is it?’

‘No, it’s not.’ Alix’s pulse rate slowed as the dogs began to lose interest. ‘Er—how far is the Hall?’

The man glanced at her, glanced at her suitcases, and then came forward to pick them up. ‘Best part of a mile,’ he replied laconically, ignoring her dismayed gasp. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to walk it. We can go up in the Rover.’

‘Thank goodness!’ Alix’s relief was evident, and the man cast a derisive look at the heels of her boots.

‘Them’s riding boots, I suppose,’ he taunted, and when Alix looked confused, he added, ‘Well, they surely don’t look like walking boots!’ and laughed at his own joke.

Alix didn’t find it particularly amusing, but at least his humour helped to relieve the situation, and she managed to ignore the implications behind locked gates and guard dogs and a drive almost a mile in length.

She could see now that a Landrover was parked to one side of the lodge. The lodge itself was a single-storied dwelling, built of local stone, with lead-paned windows and a sloping roof with hanging eaves. It might have been quite picturesque, but in the drifting spirals of mist that crept around it from the forest behind, it, too, had a slightly menacing air.

The Landrover was reassuringly ordinary, and judging from its appearance had spent part of the day ploughing through acres of mud. The man flung her cases into the back with a distinct disregard for their well-being, and Alix felt an almost irresistible urge to rescue them before they, too, became encrusted with mud. But a kind of masochistic desire to go on with this affair kept her still and silent, and she consoled herself with the thought of what an opening to her feature this would make.

The dogs were apparently left loose in the grounds, and when the Landrover’s engine was started they slunk away into the shadows surrounding the lodge. The vehicle’s headlights made little headway in the mist, but at least they revealed how thickly wooded the area was, and how impossible it must be to see the house from the road. Probably a deliberate choice of landscaping made many years ago when the original inhabitants of the Hall were in residence. Alix had looked up the history of the Darkwaters, thinking that possibly there might be some family connection between old Lord Darkwater and the Morgans: but she could find none. Oliver Morgan’s reasons for buying Darkwater Hall and coming to live here were as obscure as ever.

The drive was winding among the trees, and realising she was wasting valuable time, she asked quickly: ‘Do you and your wife live at the Lodge, Mr…er…’

‘Giles, ma’am. And I’m not married. Never have been. I manage quite well for myself, and I have the dogs. They’re company enough for me.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ murmured Alix dryly, aware of another pang of discomfort. Were there any other women at Darkwater Hall? And if not, to use a cliché, might she not have bitten off more than she could chew? What did she know of the family that was reassuring? They always made news, but that was more for their notoriety than their popularity, and Joanne Morgan’s death in unusual, not to say mysterious, circumstances could not be dismissed. Until now, she had barely stopped to ask herself why Oliver Morgan should require the Darkwater library to be catalogued when he had taken such pains to put himself beyond the reach of would-be sympathisers and press alike. Surely a man in his position would avoid unnecessary visitors in his home—and cataloguing a library, however extensive, could not be an urgent task. But when Willie had first shown her the advertisement, the opportunity it presented had been the most important consideration, and she had not even considered that Lady Morgan could be interviewing some entirely unsuspecting girl on her son-in-law’s behalf.

Then she chided herself impatiently. There had been men at the interviews, as well as girls. Oliver Morgan could not have foreseen that the qualifications required might not have been found in a man. He could not have guessed that all but two of the applicants would be deterred by the remote location of Darkwater Hall, or that Alix’s magazine would dispose of her final competition by offering the other girl a more lucrative position elsewhere. Besides, this was no time to be getting cold feet. Nothing she had read about Oliver Morgan had led her to believe he was a patient man—as witness his physical ejection of one of her colleagues from an exhibition he had been holding in Kensington, when it had been suggested that without his wife’s patronage he might well have found his work harder to sell—and whether or not the exercise was worthwhile she was committed to attempting the job she had been brought here to do. If, in the process, she could discover a little more of the truth behind Joanne Morgan’s death and why her husband should now choose to shut himself away in the wilds of Northumbria, so much the better. This was one story no one else should deprive her of, ungrammatical though that might be.

Her only real regret was that she had had to use her mother’s name, without her knowledge, to get the references she needed, but when she read the feature her daughter intended to produce, surely she would understand. And if there was no story… Alix lifted her slim shoulders in a gesture of dismissal. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get herself fired, should it? Although even she had had no idea of the circumstances of her employment, and she doubted anyone could get away—she hesitated over the word escape—from Darkwater Hall without its master’s permission.

As Giles seemed disinclined to indulge in casual conversation, the remainder of the journey was accomplished in silence, a silence unbroken by the calls of birds or the sounds of darting insects. The ominous deepening of the mist increased their isolation and aroused in Alix a tension she had never before experienced. With it came thoughts hitherto suppressed—what if Oliver Morgan had had her investigated? What if he had already discovered she was not who she claimed to be? Would he have allowed her to come here in those circumstances? Surely not. Surely if he had even suspected she was a member of the profession he clearly abominated, he would have refused her admission at the gates. Unless he had his own methods for dealing with recalcitrant journalists…

But what? She sighed. This was ridiculous! She had always had a vivid imagination and now she was allowing it free rein. And in what direction? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen pictures of Oliver Morgan, she had. She knew what he looked like. Tall and dark, with those hard, intelligent features that older women seemed to go for. Of course, he was quite old—forty-one or two, but in no way did he resemble the devil, with horns and a tail. And besides, what could he do to her? Her editor knew where she was. The bus driver, and he had certainly paid her enough attention, would surely remember dropping her at the gates of the Hall. And now there was Giles…

Alix cast a sideways look at him. Of course, he could be discounted. No doubt he was loyal to his master, and might be prepared to overlook her disappearance. And after all, Joanne Morgan had died in curious circumstances…

‘Here we are, ma’am.’

Alix started violently. ‘What? Oh—yes.’ She licked her lips. ‘That—didn’t take long.’

‘No, ma’am?’ Giles looked surprised. ‘I got the impression you were getting bored.’

‘Bored?’ Alix almost laughed out loud. ‘Oh, no, I wasn’t bored.’

Giles contented himself with a wry grimace, and thrusting open his door, descended from the vehicle. For a moment Alix remained where she was, peering through the mud-spattered windows at the house. Wreathed in mist, like the lodge, there wasn’t a lot to see, but its stone walls were creeper-clad and solid, the bays on either side of the iron-studded door tall and narrow-paned. Curtains had already been drawn against the darkening day, but the light beyond was heartening.

Giles appeared at her side of the Landrover, and swung open the door. ‘Will you come with me?’ he requested, and gathering herself with more haste than enthusiasm, Alix obeyed.

She shivered as they mounted the steps to the door, but before Giles could reach the iron bell-rope, the door was opened, and a stream of light dispersed the gloom. An elderly man stood within its illumination, grey-haired and slightly stooped, yet with a not unkindly face.

‘Come in, come in, Mrs Thornton,’ he urged, when Alix hesitated, waiting for Giles to introduce them then added as she stepped over the threshold: ‘I heard the engine coming along the drive, and I guessed you’d be feeling the cold here after London.’

‘Thank you.’

Alix stood aside as Giles deposited her cases on the polished floor of the entrance hall, briefly savouring the warmth within, and then felt another wave of anxiety engulf her as, after a tacit farewell, the heavy door was closed, trapping her inside the house. Trapping! She quelled the sudden rush of panic. She must stop feeling as if every step she took brought her nearer to Nemesis.

She looked swiftly round the hall, professionally noting the comforting wealth of her surroundings. Panelled walls, gleaming with the patina of age, a fan-shaped staircase, carpeted in green and gold, that forked into two at the first landing and circled the floor above with a carved gallery, a crystal chandelier that cast its light in a thousand trembling prisms. Even the chest that supported a bowl of red and bronze chrysanthemums was inlaid with lacquered panels, and mocked the striking contemporism of the telephone, which seemed strangely out of place. Nevertheless, to Alix, it was a link with the outside world, and therefore more than welcome.

‘Did you have a good journey?’

The butler, if he could be termed as such, was speaking, and Alix looked at him with more assurance. ‘Yes, thank you. But it’s a terrible afternoon.’

The butler nodded. ‘The mist—yes, I know. We get a lot of it at this time of the year. It’s the dampness, you see, rising among the trees. There are so many trees…’

‘Not that many. Are you trying to frighten the lady, Seth?’

A film of perspiration broke out on Alix’s forehead. She had been so intent on behaving normally that she had been unaware of a door opening across the hall and of the man standing in the aperture, watching them with sardonic amusement. But his words echoed so closely her own imaginary fears that for a minute she was convinced he had called the butler Death. She turned so pale that the man shook his head and moved forward in reluctant apology, regarding her with evident impatience.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he drawled, and even in her distraught state she noticed how attractive his voice was—deep and husky, almost as though he had a cold, but without the nasal overtones. He looked older than his pictures, as she had expected, and yet he still had the power to disturb her, and she had not expected that. ‘What’s the matter?’ he continued. ‘Has our weather convinced you we must have some nefarious purpose for living in such a God-forsaken spot?’

His perception was so acute that her unwilling admiration brought a little colour back into her cheeks, and his heavy lids shadowed eyes cooling to steel grey. ‘So,’ he commented dryly, ‘I was right. The lady has imagination, Seth. We must see we don’t stimulate it more than we can help.’

‘No, sir.’ The old man bent to lift Alix’s cases. ‘Shall I show Mrs Thornton to her room, sir?’

Oliver Morgan’s dark brows ascended. ‘Is that her name?’ He paused, and the cold appraisal he gave Alix would not have disgraced a dealer at a cattle auction. ‘We haven’t yet been introduced, have we?’

His behaviour brought Alix a measure of defensive composure, and holding up her head, she replied sharply: ‘Your staff don’t appear to consider introductions necessary, Mr Morgan. It is Mr Morgan, isn’t it? Not another of his employees!’

His lips twisted in wry acknowledgment of her audacity. ‘Yes, I’m Oliver Morgan, although I beg leave to doubt your uncertainty in the matter. However…’ he indicated the open door behind him, ‘I suggest we consider the proprieties satisfied, and continue our discussion in the library.’

Alix looked down at her sheepskin coat, and guessing her thoughts, Morgan added briefly: ‘Leave your jacket with Seth. He’ll see that your things are taken up to your room while I offer you a drink to dispel your fears, real or imagined.’

The buttons of her coat had never seemed more difficult to unfasten, but at last Seth helped her to shrug out of it and picking up her bag she followed Oliver Morgan into a room lined with books from floor to ceiling. It was a large room, with an iron-runged ladder leading to a narrow gallery which gave access to the books too high on their shelves to be reached by normal methods. The floor was carpeted, there were half a dozen easy chairs, a rather worn-looking table with drawers, and a tapestry-covered sofa faced the hearth, the papers strewn upon it indicating that this was where Oliver Morgan had been sitting. Flames leapt up the chimney from the pile of logs burning in the huge grate, giving the room a comfortable, lived-in air.

Oliver Morgan closed the door behind them, and Alix walked uncertainly towards the fireplace, not quite sure whether she ought to sit down as he did. Still, this was to be her area of activity, and she looked around at the shelves of books with feigned enthusiasm.

Her host had moved to a trolley beside the sofa, and was presently examining the contents of various bottles. Unobserved, Alix attempted to describe him for her own satisfaction, convinced that her initial reactions to him had been merely due to her overactive imagination. In a tweed jacket hardly any less shabby than that of his lodgekeeper, and dark brown cords, his streaked black hair hanging over his collar at the back, he was hardly a figure to quicken her pulse rate, and yet there was an unconscious sensuality about his movements that belied the ill-fitting carelessness of his clothes. She was a tall girl herself, but he was taller, and she guessed that the reason his clothes hung upon him was because he had lost weight. Then he lifted his head, and she felt the same sense of disruption she had experienced in the hall. His own reactions were completely different, however. His features betrayed a certain irritation when he looked at her, and his mouth, with its fuller lower lip, was uncompromisingly straight.

‘Whisky or sherry?’ he asked now, and guessing he expected her to choose sherry, she chose the opposite. ‘Straight?’ he queried, pouring a liberal amount of the spirit into a heavy-based glass, and Alix quickly asked for water.

Shrugging, he opened an ice-flask and dropped two cubes into her glass. ‘No water,’ he said as he handed it to her, and although she was tempted to say something more, she kept silent.

‘Sit down,’ he said, gesturing towards the easy chairs, and taking him at his word she subsided into the nearest one. He remained standing, which was rather disconcerting, and more disconcerting still was his first comment: ‘I have to tell you, Mrs Thornton, you’re not exactly what I expected.’

Alix was glad of the glass in her hand. Raised to her lips, it successfully provided a barrier between herself and an immediate reply. But eventually, of course, she had to answer him. ‘What—exactly—did you expect, Mr Morgan?’

He had poured himself whisky, too, and this he swallowed straight before speaking again. ‘You’re younger,’ he remarked at last. ‘How long have you been married? Doesn’t your husband object to you working so far away from London?’

‘My—my husband and I are separated,’ she responded, giving the reply she had rehearsed.

‘Really?’ His expression mirrored a certain contempt. ‘I wonder why.’

Alix stiffened. ‘I don’t think that need concern you, Mr Morgan. I’m here to do a job, and providing I do it satisfactorily—’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’ He cut her off abruptly. ‘That still doesn’t alter your age—’

‘I’m twenty-six, Mr Morgan.’

‘Are you?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You look younger.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He shrugged indifferently. ‘I suppose it’s of no matter. Presumably Grizelda thought you were suitable.’

‘Grizelda?’

‘My aunt—my mother-in-law, Lady Morgan. She did interview you, didn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He turned thoughtfully back to the trolley and poured himself another whisky. ‘What did she tell you?’