A Pretend Engagement (7 page)

`You'll come! Great! I'll come and pick you up. Shall we say-'

`I think it will be better if I drive myself,' she interrupted. She didn't think Mr. Beaumont would take kindly to her friends calling at his holiday hideaway. Not that she thought it would matter much who knew where he was now that Avaricious Antonia had run him to earth. Not, come to think of it, that Leon Beaumont was having much of a holiday either. He hadn't stopped working since he'd go there !

Russell said he'd book a table at a hotel they both knew, and they arranged to meet in the car park of the hotel at seven-thirty. Varnie was glad to end the call.

To her surprise, Leon Beaumont went and filled the kettle and set it to boil. Clearly he was thirsty. Clearly she was not going to make him a drink. `As "Johnny's friend", perhaps I should have that cup of tea,' he commented smoothly, when she just stood there looking at him.

`I didn't think you'd appreciate me telling. Russell who you were and what you're doing here.'

`That's why you suggested you'd meet him rather than allow him to come here and collect you?'

`That, and the fact I didn't want to advertise that I'm being blackmailed to skivvy for the grouch of the year.'

`Hell's teeth!' His sharp exclamation shattered the air. `Without question you are the most Yippy female it has ever been my misfortune to meet!' `Thank you,' she replied pleasantly. In her view Leon Beaumont didn't deserve any better. There was a lot she would do, a lot she would put up with from sisterly love, but being subservient was not one of them. But all at once she started to feel totally fed-up. `Tea or coffee?' she asked shortly, going over to the work surfaces.

`Tea,' he elected. `What happened to "I've had it up to here with men""

'Russell? He's a friend.'

`That's different?"

'Don't you know any women who are just friends and nothing more?' As she said it, Varnie studied the tall, good-looking man, virility exuding from every pore. She didn't wait for an answer. `No, I don't suppose you do,' she said cryptically. And, to her amazement, he laughed. It wasn't prolonged laughter, but his eyes lit up, and as she looked at him Varnie felt quite breathless. Ridiculous! She coughed, feeling choked suddenly, and quickly, to cover her slip in mentioning Johnny and Russell knowing each other, `Russell's a friend of Johnny's too we all met up one time.' And, before Leon could make anything out of that, `All right with you if I leave you a casserole to help yourself from when you're ready?'

She'd fully expected him to be difficult. But, to her surprise, `I think I can manage that,' he agreed, paused for a moment, and then added, `You'll be home before midnight, I take it?'

Varnie stared at him. Surely he wasn't telling her to be back before the clock struck twelve? `I must remember to wear my glass slippers!' she retorted, and left him to make his own tea.

In her room, however, she restlessly began to wonder what on earth was wrong with her. For heaven's sake, she was used to dealing with difficult people. You couldn't work in the hotel business and expect everyone who stayed with you to be all sweetness and light.

While it was true that Beaumont Esquire was very far from being all sweetness and light, why on earth was she so scratchy with him all the time? Hang on a minute-had she forgotten she was here as his housekeeper when that had never been her intention? To be fair to him, though, he did not know that, did he? He thought-and she had never said a peep to the contrary-had, in fact, fed him the information- that her being there was by prior arrangement with his assistant.

If she had to be scratchy with anybody, then surely it was his assistant she should be scratchy with. And would be, she determined, the very moment she set eyes on that diabolical brother of hers. Although she knew in advance from previous upsets with Johnny that she would soon forgive him and they would be back to normal in no time.

And anyhow-she roused her down-on-the floor feelings-Leon Beaumont might think her the most lippy female it had ever been his misfortune to meet, but he wasn't exactly backwards when it came to forthrightly speaking his mind too!

Varnie was still feeling restless and out of sorts when, as she knew she had to, she returned downstairs to prepare her `temporary employer' his evening meal. He was no longer in the kitchen and she was glad about that. She wasn't yet ready to see him again as she faced the fact that, while she was perfectly free to leave, no matter how fed up she was, because of Johnny there was no way that she could leave. Which in turn left her inwardly at war with herself, and outwardly at war with Leon Beaumont.

Her innate sense of fairness came and gave her a nudge. The poor man, he worked like a Trojan-he was supposed to be on holiday, for goodness' sake. Couldn't she be just a little bit nicer to him? She had to smile at that thought. As if he'd care! He would probably think she'd gone soft in the head if a day passed without her rearing up about something. It had been like that from the beginning, she mused as, the casserole in the oven, the kitchen all clean and tidy, she went up to her room to shower. The thing was, though, that she way normally most even-tempered, and only ever reared up in anger in the direst of circumstances. She hadn't even gone for Martin Walker's jugular when she'd learned how he had taken her up the garden path. So what was so special about Leon Beaumont that she should react to him the way she did?

She had no idea, but as she showered and changed into smart trousers and a pale yellow silk shirt that particularly suited her she determined that she would try her hardest to be more her usual self with him in future. She would try to be nicer.

Going downstairs to check on the casserole, she saw that it was cooking nicely and should prove quite tasty. From the kitchen she went and laid the table in the dining room, and did a few more chores prior to returning to the kitchen. She hated unpunctuality, and planned to leave at seven so as to be in good time to meet Russell at seven-thirty.

At six-forty-five she went up to her room to check on her appearance and to pick up a jacket and her shoulder bag. She had previously heard the motor to the shower in the master bedroom. It had now stopped, and she felt she had given its occupant sufficient time to be respectably dressed. She went along and tapped on his door.

Leon opened it after a very short while. His dark hair was damp and he was buttoning up the front of his shirt, a smattering of dark hair showing through the opening. Her heart did such a ridiculous flip that for a moment she quite forgot exactly why she had come and knocked on his door in the first place.

What she did remember, most oddly, was the way he had warned her on Saturday morning to stay out of his bedroom. `Don't worry, I don't want to come in,' she said, her voice strangely husky. She saw his lips twitch, her heart went soppy again- and she determinedly pulled herself together. `Your dinner will be ready at seven- thirty. But it won't spoil if you want to eat a little later.'

`Thank you,' he answered politely, for all the world as if he had been giving himself the same `be nicer' lecture she had not so long ago given herself.

`There's some cheesecake left from yesterday for afters. Or cheese and biscuits if you prefer.'

`I'm sure I won't go hungry,' he answered mildly.

She felt awkward, and she never felt awkward. `I'll leave you to it, then,' she said, turning away.

`Have a pleasant evening,' he bade her.

A few minutes later she got into her car, telling herself that it would be good to have a night off. And she would enjoy spending some time with Russell Adams. Yet, most peculiarly, it was not thoughts of Russell that filled her head as she drove along. Nor did she think of Russell again until she drove into the hotel car park and she saw him there waiting for her. Her head had been much too fully occupied with thoughts of the man she had left behind at Aldwyn House. In fact, thoughts of Leon Beaumont seemed to have filled her mind constantly. Now, wasn't that the oddest thing?

FOR once Varnie did not feel like getting up the next morning. She awoke at her normal time, but instead of leaving her bed to shower, prior to starting her day, she lay there and reviewed the events of the previous evening.

Her dinner with Russell had been an uncomplicated affair. He was easy to talk to and she had found, when he'd again asked about her men-friends, that she was telling him of Martin Walker. `So I'm a bit off men just now-present company excepted,' she had told him with a smile, knowing instinctively that Russell felt the same as she-that they were friends and would never be, or want to be, more than that. She had an idea anyhow that he was still not over the woman whom he had once `come close' to marrying.

They had dawdled over dinner and had dawdled over coffee, but at half past ten had stood in the hotel's car park about to part. Russell had said he was working in the north of England for the next few weeks, but would ring Aldwyn House on his return on the off-chance that she might be there.

`You never know,' she had answered lightly, and they had thanked each other for a pleasant evening, kissed cheeks, and he had stood in the car park and watched as she had driven away.

To her surprise the outside front porch light had been on when she'd reached Aldwyn House. She'd been surprised at Leon Beaumont's act of thoughtfulness. It had not been on when she had left. She had found she was smiling as she parked her car and went in.

Her temporary employer had not yet retired for the night. By his normal lifestyle she guessed that eleven o'clock at night was early. She had noticed that the drawing room light was on. She had gone in. He had been reading, but had lowered his book to look at her, his eyes taking in the curve of a smile still on her mouth.

`You seem in good humour,' he remarked off-handedly.

Instantly Varnie was ready to rise. But, when never before had she bitten back some 'lippy' retort, she discovered, most weirdly, that she did not want to fight with him.

`You know how it is: good food, good wine, g '

`Good company?' he finished for her-and she just had to burst out laughing. They might live in the same house, temporarily, but no way could they be said to enjoy each other's company.

`No offence,' she said.

`None taken,' he replied mildly, his eyes flicking from her laughing mouth to her sparkling eyes. `You haven't imbibed too much, I hope?"

'With these bendy roads to contend with?' she asked. He almost smiled. Her heart gave the most idiotic hiccup. Br can I get you anything-before I g-go up?' she enquired, feeling oddly breathless all at once.

`Thank you, no,' he replied, and she suddenly felt a need to get out of there and turned to leave the drawing room. `Goodnight, Varnie,' he bade her quietly.

'Goodnight-Leon,' she managed, and went quickly.

She had not fallen asleep straight away. Had been awake for quite some while, her thoughts not on the man she had spent her evening with, but the man who had put the porch light on to guide her home. Stuff and nonsense, she ridiculed herself now, springing out of bed. She went to have her shower, but had no clear idea of what she was `stuff and nonsensing' about. Ridiculous!

Even more ridiculous, she found-and could not quite believe it, was that she was feeling most peculiarly shy about seeing Leon again. Shy? Honestly! She had never been shy! It must be the fact that they had been cooped up in the same house together for days on end.

Though when Varnie tried to analyze that thought she realized, since Leon was shut up in the study each day for hours at stretch, about the only time they were in each other's company for any prolonged length of time was when they breakfasted together. Which made the whole idea that she might feel shy with him just that utter nonsense.

Utter nonsense or not, Varnie found that the only way to counter that shy feeling was to be as off-hand as he had appeared to be when she had first entered the drawing room last night.

As usual he was in the kitchen before her, and poured her a cup of coffee. `Breakfast won't be long,' she said shortly. The kitchen was large; he seemed to fill it.

`I thought you hadn't drunk too much?' he answered, his tone equally short. `I didn't!' she snapped.

`Then you're doing a fine impression of somebody badly hungover.'

She felt very much like asking how much he'd imbibed last night because he sounded much the same. But, perhaps aware the fault washers, she swallowed the feeling and got on with grilling his bacon. And so the day started, and so the week went on. For no reason she could think of she just could not be natural with him. And, to show how much it bothered him, he barely spoke to her.

Friday arrived-perhaps he'll go back to London for the weekend, or even permanently, she hoped. He did not. Saturday arrived. He was still there. Varnie wanted to ask him how much longer he was staying, but knew in advance she would get no sort of an answer. She left clean linen and towels outside his door and went shopping for fresh supplies.

On Sunday she decided to do something about the state of the garden. True, everywhere was damp, and with the garden wearing its winter mantle it was never going to look its best. But she donned a thick sweater and trousers and set about raking leaves, and actually found she was enjoying herself.

An hour later, when Leon strolled out to watch her progress, she had a very tidy mountain of leaves piled up. `Did I disturb you?' she asked, suddenly realising that the occasional clink of rake against stone-the garden seemed to grow stones-might have interfered with his concentration in the study.

He ignored the question, but surveyed the great heap of leaves she had just raked up. `That lot will never burn,' he commented.

She did not care for his lofty attitude. She knew full well that she would never get a bonfire going with sodden leaves. So, in turn, she favoured him with a pitying look. `I don't expect, as a mere townie, you have ever heard of a compost heap?' In actual fact to make a compost heap had not occurred to her until then.

Leon gave her a steady stare, then coolly remarked, `You're back!' She eyed him warily. She had no idea what he was talking about. `The lip,' he enlightened her. `Lip?"

'Even your sauce is preferable to the mardy madam you've been for most of this week.'

`Me, mardy? That's rich! Anyone would think you'd got a mouthful of ulcers, the way you've been.'

His lips twitched. He controlled them. `Pass me the rake,' he commanded, then ordered, `And go and make some coffee.'

She stared at him and was aware, as her heart started to pound, that something fairly mammoth was happening to her that she did not want to happen. She felt breathless again, and thrust the rake at him. `Do it properly!' she instructed, and went swiftly indoors.

By the time she reached the kitchen her world had righted itself and she knew just how absurd she was being .Mammoth? For goodness' sake! Nothing was happening to her other than she was stuck here with him and, because of Johnny, was likely to have to stay here with him until he decided he'd had enough of country air.

She had to admit, however, as her rebellion started to wane, that she was feeling a whole lot brighter suddenly. She made coffee and went out to tell Leon that coffee was ready with a smile, absent since Tuesday evening, playing around her mouth- Leon preferred her sauce to her mardiness?

Rounding the side of the house, Varnie watched the tall man in his good-quality shoes and trousers, shirt and light sweater who seemed to be enjoying his labours as she had. Back and forth went the garden rake.

`You've done this sort of thing before,' she accused when, as if aware he was being watched, he looked over his shoulder.

He stopped work. `I can do with the exercise,' he replied, and she suddenly felt all soft inside about him; he'd been glued to his desk all week.

`Would you prefer your coffee out here or indoors?' she asked. `I can bring it out if...' Her voice tailed away as a car halted at the bottom of the drive.

They both stared at it. Then, as the driver's door opened and its faintly familiar- looking occupant emerged, Varnie's sixth sense went to work. She looked swiftly to Leon. Oh, my word, thunder clouds! She might think she vaguely knew the man from somewhere-Leon definitely knew him.

Annoyance was all about Leon as he threw the rake from him and began to stride aggressively down towards the gate. Oh, grief! Recognition clicked. She had only seen the man once and that once, had been in a newspaper picture. He had been on the ground, holding his jaw-after Leon had thrown the punch that had floored him. The man was Neville King and, by the way Leon was approaching the gate, Neville King was about to receive another one.

Instinctively, and without another thought, Varnie raced after Leon. She wasn't thinking. All she knew was that she did not want Leon to hit the man who believed he was his wife's lover-and nor did she want Neville King to hit Leon. Though there was little doubt in her mind who would come off second best.

`I take it your wife told you this address?' Leon did not bother with a greeting, his question tough and uncompromising as he reached down to unlatch the gates just as Varnie got there.

She blocked the gate-fastening with her body. And, for no reason other than if those gates were opened both men would be better placed to knock seven bells out of each other, she grabbed a hold of Leon's hand. For her pains she was made to weather a look that said, What the hell do you think you're doing? But she was more concerned to prevent bloodshed than worried that Leon wasn't enamored of her hand holding tactics.

`You must be Neville King,' she said brightly, smiling nicely at the newcomer and ignoring her glowering employer. Neville King did not look as if he would accept refreshment from the annoyed man her side of the gate, which gave her the courage to state, `Leon and I were just about to have coffee. Would you like to join us?'

Neville King shook his head. `No, thanks,' he replied civilly, and as she looked at him, looked into his face, she saw that he was a man who was dreadfully worn and tormented. She guessed it was not just the drive from London that was the cause for his weariness and torment. He was so in love with his wife, and Antonia King was, or had been, playing around with the man he had clearly come to North Wales to see. 'Toni told me last night that she was here last Tuesday,' Neville King turned to Leon Beaumont to state accusingly.

`So?' Leon challenged toughly.

`She said you were living here with your lady-friend. I've come to find out if it's true.'

`Mrs. King didn't stay for coffee or tea either.' Varnie joined in the conversation hurriedly plainly Neville King did not believe all the lies his wife told him. `She was only here for a short while,' Varnie rushed on, feeling more than a touch desperate when Leon, while still looking clench jawed at the other man, prised her hand away from his. It was his right hand. No way was she going to let that hand form a fist to once more flatten Antonia King's husband. `In fact,' Varnie continued hastily, `with Leon busy in the study, too busy to see anyone, I just had time to tell her-tell her...' Varnie started to falter ..."our good news,' she brought out softly. Though, to be more exact, while her words might have been said softly they were said reluctantly, as far as she was concerned.

`You and...? You two are lovers?' Neville King asked bluntly. A non-permissible question, in Varnie's opinion-unless you looked into his unhappy, dejected sad eyes. The man was suffering, truly suffering. Never had she seen a man looking more tortured.

`That-' Leon began to clip-only to break off when Varnie galloped in, full pelt.

`Not that it's anybody's business but ours. Though-' she threw a sweet smile in Leon's nonresponsive direction `-I have to confess I'm-er-no stranger to Leon's bedroom.'

Leon turned. She wouldn't look at him, but she knew that he had his eyes on her and was probably staring at her as if she had just sprouted horns at the top on her head.

`How long has this been going on?' Neville wanted to know.

`Bloody cheek!' Leon barked, moving aggressively by her side, but all Varnie could think was that Neville must be anxious to know how long his wife's affair with Leon Beaumont had been going on, and how long it had been ended.

`Quite some while,' she volunteered, and, hoping her grandfather would not mind in the circumstances-he' d had a terrific sense of humour, so he'd probably be laughing somewhere saintly, `There has been a close bereavement in my family recently,' she explained rapidly. And, the words popping out of her mouth unsought, unthought-if she had thought she would never have said them, `Because of that Leon and I have decided to postpone the announcement of our engagement out of respect for-' `You're engaged!' Neville King's attention was all hers. `You two are engaged?'

Oh, help--he'd kill her! `Well, not officially.' She didn't seem able to stop. `Out of respect, as I... But, yes, we're very definitely engaged.' She beamed. And, braving a glance to Leon's totally outraged expression, `Leon did the bended knee bit-didn't you, darling?' she said. Unable to sustain looking at the glint of pure murder in his eyes, she moved her glance to the middle of his furious forehead. `And I,' she ended simply, `said yes.'

`I've had enough of this.' Leon almost drowned out the last bit, but Neville King had heard it, and actually seemed very much relieved-even as Leon thundered, `If you've got anything to say, say it, and get off this property!'

`I've heard what I came to hear,' Neville King mumbled. But as he turned to go back to his car he smiled, actually smiled at Varnie.

And Varnie, turning away from the gate, didn't know whether to sprint back to the safety of the house or merely walk. 'That-um-coffee will be getting cold,' she commented on a strangled kind of note. She did not dare look at the man by her side, but knew that he was staring down at her. He said not one word. Ominous! Oh, Lord. `It's getting a bit chilly,' she addressed the house, in front of her. Still nothing but that ominous silence. `I think I'll um-go in.".

She took off at a fast walk-Leon let her go. She did not trust that-she had an idea she was in big trouble. She remembered his fury when she had told him how she'd told Antonia King that they were live-in lovers. Oh, grief. He had called her conniving, as good as accused her of aligning herself with him for her own benefit, of broadcasting that they were lovers for her own ends... Oh, help, she was in big, big trouble.