Dishonourable Intent

‘Is that her excuse?’ queried Will wryly, and Archie pulled a sympathetic face.

‘Probably. Though, as I said, she’d be the last to say so.’

‘To say what?’ demanded Lady Rosemary, overhearing them, but then subsided again when she met her grandson’s eyes. ‘Oh, well,’ she muttered, pressing her palms together and surveying her other guests with determined brightness. ‘Shall we adjourn to the drawing room for coffee?’

Will made his escape soon after nine-thirty.

His taste for conspiracy had palled somewhat, and although he had agreed to pick Emma and her parents up the following morning and bring them back to the Abbey for lunch he was more than ready to relinquish their company tonight.

It was still light as he drove back to the Abbey, and the scents of wild blossom and newly mown hay were a balm to his restless spirit. He was tempted to call at the pub in Lingard village and enjoy a pint of beer with the landlord, but the knowledge that he would have to drive back to the Abbey afterwards deterred him. He’d already drunk more than enough this evening, and with the prospect of playing host tomorrow ahead of him he decided he would be advised to be temperate.

The outline of the Abbey was visible long before he reached the park gates. Its grey stone walls were clearly silhouetted against the amber sky, and he knew a momentary sense of pride that his ancestors had lived here for more than two hundred years. There had actually been a monastery on the site for much longer than that, but that had been destroyed during the dissolution that had taken place in the sixteenth century. The present building owed its origins to the early part of the seventeenth century, with successive occupants making additions and alterations to its ivy-hung faade. Although it was by no means a luxurious residence, certain comforts such as central heating had made the old place infinitely more habitable. It would be a shame, he thought ruefully, if it was allowed to deteriorate even more. He owed it to himself, and to Lingard, to do everything in his power to prevent that from happening.

He frowned when he saw the small sports car parked on the gravelled sweep in front of the house. He wasn’t expecting any visitors, and none of the servants owned such a vehicle. It was possible that it was some relative of theirs who was visiting, but he couldn’t imagine Watkins allowing anyone to park in front of the building.

He certainly wasn’t in the mood to be sociable with anyone, and, jamming on the brakes, he brought the Range Rover to a halt beside the offending car. Whoever it was had better have a bloody good excuse, he thought aggressively, vaulting out of his seat. Slamming the door, he strode towards the house. The forecourt wasn’t a car park, after all.

The heavy door opened to his hand, proving that Watkins had not yet got around to locking up. Inside, the stone floor of the vestibule threw up a chill after the warmth of the air outside, but he scarcely noticed the difference as he pressed on into the vaulted hall.

Here, worn Persian rugs helped to mitigate the chill that emanated from the thick walls. The walls themselves were hung with fading tapestries, which offered little in the way of warmth or comfort, but they were familiar, and Will was loath to part with them. He had already sold everything of any real value in his efforts to keep the old place going, and the threadbare hangings were an integral part of his heritage.

He had halted in the doorway to the small family parlour, and was scowling at the fact that in his absence someone had taken the liberty of lighting a fire in the grate, when he heard Watkins’ wheezing breath behind him.

‘Oh, my lord!’ he exclaimed, and it was obvious from his expression that he knew what to expect. ‘You’re back!’

‘It would appear so,’ remarked Will, with forced cordiality. ‘Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?’

Watkins patted his chest with his gnarled fist, as if by doing so he could relieve the congestion that had gathered there, and offered his employer an appealing look. ‘You’ve—er—you’ve got a visitor, my lord,’ he said hoarsely. ‘She—she arrived just after you’d left.’

‘She?’

For the life of him, Will couldn’t think of any female who might turn up on his doorstep unannounced, but before Watkins could marshal his explanations a disturbingly familiar voice interrupted them. ‘Hello, Will,’ he heard with unbelieving ears. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I made myself at home.’

CHAPTER TWO

FRANCESCA!

Will turned with stunned eyes to see his ex-wife crossing the hall towards him. Rocking back on his heels, he stared at her as if he’d never seen her before, and certainly she looked much different from the woman he remembered.

Gone were the jeans and casual clothes she’d regularly worn, and in their place was an elegant navy business suit and high-heeled pumps. Her long, slender legs—one of the first things that had attracted him to her, he remembered unwillingly—were encased in gossamer-thin navy tights, and her hair, which she’d always worn loose, was confined in a tight knot at the back of her head. Her features, thinner than he remembered, surely, were thrown into sharp relief by the severity of her hairstyle, but if the intention had been to maximise the austerity of her appearance she had not succeeded. On the contrary, she looked quite wildly beautiful, a sensuous, sensual woman wrapped up in a sombre shell.

“That—mat’s what I was trying to tell you, my lord,’ Watkins mumbled, watching his employer’s reaction with anxious eyes. ‘Miss—Mrs—um—your wife arrived earlier this evening. I hope you don’t mind: I had Mrs Harvey prepare the guest suite in the west wing.’

Will was tempted to remind the old man that Francesca wasn’t his wife any more, but it was obvious from his fumbling form of address that he hadn’t forgotten. ‘It’s Mrs Quentin,’ he said. And then, arching a brow at Francesca he asked, ‘That is still how you like to be addressed?’

‘It will do,’ she agreed, with a tightening of her lips. ‘How are you, Will? I must say, you look well.’

‘Thank you.’ Will didn’t return the compliment, even if the awareness of her sophisticated appearance hung between them with an almost tangible air. ‘Do you want to tell me what you’re doing here, Francesca? I don’t remember issuing an invitation, and I’m afraid it’s not particularly convenient right now.’

The muscles in her cheeks contracted, almost as if he had hit her, and Will knew an unwarranted sense of guilt at the sight. Dammit, he thought, she ought not to have come here. He didn’t owe her anything. If she was short of money, she’d certainly come to the wrong place.

‘If you’ll excuse me, my lord.’ Watkins was of the old school, where it was never polite to be rude to a lady. Particularly not a lady who had once lived at Lingard Abbey, who had shared every aspect of his employer’s life, his ambitions, his bed...

‘Mrs—er—Mrs Harvey has prepared some sandwiches, my lord,’ he added swiftly, gesturing into the room behind Will. ‘There’s some tea—um—Mrs Quentin preferred it to coffee. Shall I fetch another cup?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Will shortly, aware that he was behaving unnecessarily boorishly, but unable to do anything about it. For God’s sake, he thought, he’d got Emma and her parents coming for lunch tomorrow. Imagine having to tell them that he was playing host to his ex-wife.

‘Then if that’s all, my lord...’

‘Of course, of course.’ Will strove for normality and, avoiding looking at Francesca, he gave Watkins a constrained smile. ‘You get along to bed,’ he dismissed the old man pleasantly. ‘Oh—and perhaps you’d inform Mrs Harvey there’ll be three guests for lunch tomorrow.’

Watkins’ eyes darted to Francesca in some perplexity. ‘Three guests, my lord?’

‘Excluding Mrs Quentin,’ said Will flatly. ‘Goodnight, Watkins. I’ll make sure the doors are locked.’

Watkins nodded, offered Francesca a somewhat awkward farewell, and ambled off towards the leather-studded door that gave access to the kitchen and servants’ quarters. He walked slowly and Will had to stifle his impatience, but once the heavy door had swung to behind him he allowed Francesca the full weight of his frustration. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he snapped. ‘The Abbey is not a private hotel. You can’t just turn up here when it suits you. You walked out, Francesca. Lingard is no longer your home.’

‘I know that.’ Francesca crossed her arms at her waist and wrapped them about herself, almost as if she was cold. She looked beyond him, into the lamplit room, where the fire was glowing so invitingly. ‘Can’t we sit down, at least?’

Will glanced over his shoulder. As Watkins had said, Mrs Harvey had prepared a tray of tea and sandwiches, and it was presently waiting on the carved chest beside the sofa. It had apparently been placed there while Francesca was—where? Being shown to her room? Settling in? His jaw hardened. It irritated him that she should have come here. She had no rights where he, or this house, was concerned.

But something, some latent spark of humanity, perhaps, prevented him from asking her to leave at once. One night, he thought, but in the morning she was out of here. He had no desire to renew their acquaintance, whatever she might think.

Nevertheless, he stepped aside to allow her to enter the parlour, and she brushed past him with evident relief. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have said she was on the edge of hysteria. But Francesca didn’t have nerves; she was always in control of her emotions.

He hesitated before joining her. It was obvious he was going to have to speak to her at some time, but he objected to being forced to accommodate her tonight. Yet if he left it until the morning who knew how soon he would get rid of her? And with the Merritts expecting him at eleven he didn’t have a lot of time to spare.

So, despite his unwillingness, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and followed her into the room. But he deliberately left the door open. He had nothing to hide, and if she did it was just hard luck.

Francesca had seated herself on the sofa, at the end nearest the fire, and Will was surprised. Although it was a warm night outside, the parlour was cool, but as she was wearing a suit he wouldn’t have expected her to be cold. Yet it seemed as if she was. Every line of her hunched form pointed to it. And, although she helped herself to a cup of tea, she made no attempt to touch the sandwiches.

The parlour was not a large room by the Abbey’s standards, and the heat from the grate caused Will to loosen the collar of his shirt and pull the knot of his tie an inch or two away. He would have taken off his jacket, but he didn’t want her to get the impression that he was comfortable with the situation, so he remained where he was, behind the sofa opposite, with the width of the hearth between them.

‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’ she asked, glancing up at him, her elbows resting on her silk-clad knees, the teacup cradled between her palms. Her drawn features mirrored the anxiety that was evident in her eyes, and although he chided himself for feeling any sympathy for her he came around the sofa and straddled its hide-covered arm.

‘Okay,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m sitting down. So, what is this all about? I should warn you, Francesca, I’m not in the mood to play games. If you’ve got something to say, then for God’s sake get on with it.’

Her nostrils flared at his insensitivity, and once again Will felt a reluctant sense of compassion. It seemed that, whatever had brought her back to the Abbey she was either too ashamed—or too apprehensive of his reaction—to tell him, and she was looking for his support, not his sarcasm.

‘I drove up from London this evening,’ she ventured, and twin creases bracketed his mouth.

‘Yes. I gathered that,’ he said, wondering what this was leading to. ‘I assume that is your car parked on the forecourt.’

‘Well, it’s a friend’s car, actually,’ she offered, and his mouth flattened as he wondered which particular friend that was. Male, he assumed; Francesca had always had plenty of men friends. Though there were a couple of girls she had shared rooms with at college whom she’d used to keep in touch with. ‘I thought it was less likely to be noticed,’ she added. ‘He—er—he knows my registration, you see.’

Will’s brows drew together. ‘Who are we talking about now?’ be asked tersely. ‘This—friend?’

‘What friend? Oh—you mean the car!’ Francesca sipped her tea. ‘No, that belongs to Clare—one of the women I work with.’

Will tried not to get impatient. ‘What’s wrong with your own car? Has it broken down?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘If that’s what this is about—’

‘As if!’ Francesca stared at him disgustedly. ‘Do you honestly think I’d have come to you if all I wanted to do was change my car?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ Will’s eyes hardened. ‘Perhaps the problem is I can’t imagine anything that I might be willing to do for you,’ be retorted sharply. ‘And if some man is giving you grief, think again!’

The china teacup clattered into its saucer, and spots of brown liquid dotted the white cloth. For a moment, he thought she must have burned her mouth, but then he realised she was crying. Huge, shuddering sobs were shaking her thin shoulders, and she’d wrapped her arms about her knees and was rocking back and forth, like a child in pain.

Will stared at her, aghast. In all the years he had known her, he had never known Francesca to cry—not like this, at least. Even when they’d split up, she had maintained a mask of indifference when she was with him, and if her eyelids had sometimes looked puffy he’d put it down to lack of sleep.

But this—this was different. Whatever was wrong with her it was something she obviously couldn’t handle herself. The thought that she might have discovered she had some terminal disease caused a shaft of pain inside him.

But something had to be done now. He bad to say something, do something, to bring her out of this paroxysm of grief. She’d regret giving in and letting him see her this way, once she was over it, he thought cynically. But he didn’t think it was an act. Playing for sympathy wasn’t Francesca’s style.

Or it hadn’t been. He scowled. Dammit, it was more than five years since he’d seen her, and anything could have happened to her in that time. But he didn’t think she could have changed her personality. She’d lost weight, sure, but she didn’t strike him as having lost her self-respect.

‘Fran,’ he said persuasively, the name he had had for her sliding automatically off his tongue. ‘Hey,’ he added, his spread fingers curling impotently over his thighs, ‘it can’t be that serious. Come on. Lighten up. I didn’t mean what I said.’

‘Didn’t you?’

Her head had been buried in her hands, but now her fingers parted to reveal drowned amber eyes. She still shook, but the aching sobs had eased somewhat, and he wondered if he was in danger of being treated as a fool all over again.

‘Perhaps not,’ he muttered, in two minds as to how to deal with this, and she fumbled in the purse at her feet for a tissue to dry her face. ‘Fran—Francesca—what is going on? Are you going to tell me?’ He balled one fist inside the other. ‘I gather the problem is some man.’

She nodded then, scrubbing at her eyes with the tissue as Will felt a rekindling of his anger. Dammit, he thought, what did she think he was? Some kind of agony husband? Ex-husband, he amended harshly. Any problems she had, she should deal with herself.

‘It’s not what you think,’ she said at last, when she had herself in control again, and Will arched a sceptical brow.

‘No?’ he queried flatly. And then he said, ‘You’ve admitted it’s a man, haven’t you? How many distinctions are there?’

‘Quite a lot, actually,’ she answered quickly, using the tissue to blow her nose. ‘I didn’t say it was a man I’ve been involved with.’ She shivered. ‘As a matter of fact, we’ve never even met.’

‘What?’ Will hooked his leg over the arm and slid down onto the sofa proper. ‘What are you saying? That some man is pestering you?’ He felt a disproportionate sense of anger. ‘For pity’s sake, Fran, why haven’t you reported him to the police?’

‘I have.’ She drew a trembling breath. ‘There’s nothing they can do.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! Of course there’s something they can do. They can arrest the man. If he’s giving you a hard time, that’s all the proof they need.’

‘No, it’s not.’ Francesca’s shoulders drooped. ‘Being—pestered by someone doesn’t constitute a felony. In any case, they don’t know who he is.’

‘You haven’t told them?’

‘I don’t know who it is,’ she retorted huskily. ‘He—I—he’s too clever to let them catch him in the act.’

Will stared at her. ‘In the act of what?’ His stomach tightened. ‘Has he touched you?’

‘Not yet,’ answered Francesca in an uneven tone. ‘I’ve told you, we’ve never met But—I think he’s tried to break into my flat.’ Her abhorrence was apparent. “That’s when I knew I had to get away.’

Will sank back against the squashy upholstery, disbelief warring with a growing sense of outrage. It couldn’t be true, he told himself. Francesca was lying; she had to be. It was inconceivable that her life was in any kind of danger.

Swallowing the bile that had gathered at the back of his throat, he regarded her steadily. ‘Perhaps you ought to tell me how long this has been going on,’ he suggested, propping one booted foot beside the tray, and she nodded.

‘Yes.’ She moistened her lips. ‘Well—about six months, I suppose, altogether. To begin with, I didn’t know what was going. an.’

Will breathed deeply. ‘Six months!’ he said. ‘So long?’

‘Well, according to the police, a stalker can take years before he approaches his victim. To begin with, he gets his kicks from watching them without them knowing what’s going on.’

Will blew back the hair from his forehead. Despite himself, he was responding to the frankness of her tone. If she was lying, she was making a bloody good job of it. And if she wasn’t—His lips tightened. Frustration didn’t even begin to cover how he felt.

‘Go on,’ he said, not trusting himself to make any constructive comment, and, resting her arms along her thighs, she shredded the tissue she was holding as she continued.

‘At first—at first I thought I was imagining it. As you probably know, I’m still working for Teniko, and just recently—within the last year, that is—my hours have been changed. Sometimes, I start later in the morning, but I don’t get home until later in the evening.’

‘Why?’

She flushed. ‘Because—because I’ve been promoted. And Teniko have moved their head office to California, which means we often have satellite conferences in the evening.’

‘In the evening?’ Will knew it wasn’t important, and he was perfectly aware why the meetings would be so late. But he needed a little time to come to terms with this, and talking about normal things, like her working hours, enabled him to get some perspective.

‘It’s morning in San Francisco,’ Francesca explained, answering him anyway. ‘We’re presently involved in developing some new computer software, and as the virtual reality market is a very competitive field our meetings are always confidential.’

‘I don’t want to hear about your job,’ said Will shortly, and he was annoyed to hear the irritation in his voice. He didn’t want her to think he cared a damn what she was doing with her life, but at the same time he didn’t want her to think he was bitter either. He wiped his expression clean of any emotion before asking evenly, ‘Are you saying you’re alone when you leave the building?’

Francesca nodded. ‘Sometimes. At least, there are very few other commuters about. The rush hour’s over, you see. Most people have already left their offices. And—and it’s much easier to follow someone if they’re not tied up in a crowd.’

‘Easier for you to see them, too,’ Will commented, not at all convinced by that argument.

‘Only if they want to be seen,’ said Francesca. moistening her lips. ‘I don’t always see him, but I know that he’s there.’

‘I see.’ Will watched the way she pulled out another tissue and proceeded to shred it, also. ‘So—this man, whoever he is, follows you.’ He made an impatient sound. ‘You’re saying the police can’t do anything about that?’

Francesca sniffed. ‘I’m not sure they even believe me.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they’ve never seen him.’ She swallowed. ‘He’s very clever, Will. Sometimes—sometimes I used to think I was going mad.’

Will breathed deeply. He wanted to dismiss what she was saying. He wanted to tell her he didn’t believe her either, and leave her to deal with her own life. But he couldn’t. Truth to tell, the strongest urge he had was to vault across the carved chest, with its tray of tea and sandwiches, and go and comfort her. To pull her into his arms and tell her not to worry; he would handle it.

Instead, he scooped up a couple of the smoked salmon sandwiches Mrs Harvey had prepared for Francesca’s supper, and ate them. He was suddenly fiendishly hungry. Probably because he’d eaten so little at Mulberry Court. He refused to countenance any other explanation for his hunger, despite the connotations. He was not eating to compensate for any other need.

‘It’s true,’ she said, evidently deciding that this tackling of the food signalled a certain scepticism on his part. ‘I always know when he’s following me. It’s a funny feeling—a kind of sixth sense a woman has. Only—’ she scrubbed at her cheeks again ‘—there’s nothing remotely funny about it.’

‘And that’s all he does? Follow you?’

‘He did.’

‘Has anyone else seen him?’

‘Only my landlady.’ She hesitated. ‘She was in the flat one evening, when I saw him standing outside the building. He was wearing one of those black hoods at the time. I couldn’t see his face.’

‘So how did you know it was him?’

‘Because I recognised the way he was dressed.’ She gazed at him frantically. ‘He always wears a hooded jacket. One of those brushed cotton jackets, I think it is. that people wear for jogging.’

‘Perhaps he is a jogger?’

The look she gave him was bleak. ‘He follows me, Will. Don’t you understand? He enjoys frightening me. I’ve taken books out of the library to try and understand what he gets out of it. It’s the element of uncertainty—of fear—that gives him the most pleasure.’

Will hesitated. ‘The night you saw him—outside your apartment, you said—didn’t you call the police then?’

‘What would have been the use? There’s no law that says a man can’t stand in the street. I’ve even started using my car for work, instead of getting the bus. But he always knows where to find me.’

Will knew an almost uncontrollable sense of fury, a raw anger that simmered in his gut. He didn’t want to be, but he could feel himself being drawn into this. He might not want her as his wife any longer, but he was damned if he was going to let her be terrified to death by some pervert.

‘Eventually—eventually, I started getting phone calls,’ she went on, her voice growing thinner. ‘You know the sort of thing—starting off with heavy breathing and progressing from there. I bought an answering machine, in the hope that that would stop him, but it didn’t. When I came home some evenings, there were maybe half a dozen of his messages waiting on the tape.’

Will swore. ‘The police must have taken notice of you then.’

‘Oh, yes. They did. They advised me to change my number.’ Her lips quivered. ‘Then it started all over again.’

Will blinked. ‘He got your new number? How? God, it must be someone you know!’

‘No.’ She trembled. ‘I think he must have got into the apartment. There’s no other way we could think of to explain how that had happened.’

Will stiffened. ‘We?’

‘Yes, we.’ Francesca tried to compose herself. ‘Tom Radley. He’s a friend. He works at Teniko, too.’

Will nodded, aware that his reaction to the fact that she had a man friend wasn’t exactly dispassionate. Yet why shouldn’t she have an admirer? he asked himself. He hadn’t exactly lived the life of a monk since she’d left.