Sins (14 page)

From the minute she had seen Rose’s new hairstyle on Saturday, Janey had not stopped demanding that Rose tell Josh that she wanted her own hair cutting in exactly the same style, and she was still doing so now, only
breaking off to say to Ella enviously, ‘Lucky you, going to Venice, where the sun will be shining and it will be warm.’

‘I shall be working, not sunbathing,’ Ella pointed out, checking her watch. Yes, it was definitely time for her to leave, but first she must make one last check of her handbag, just to make sure that she really hadn’t forgotten anything.

Seated on the opposite side of the heavy old-fashioned mahogany partners’ desk in Mr Melrose’s office, Dougie tried hard not to stare too obviously at Emerald’s mother.

Physically she presented no surprises to him. He had not worked for Lew for several months without learning something, and it hadn’t taken him much effort to source some reasonably recent newspaper photographs of Amber. If he had been asked to describe her in one word, that word would have been ‘classy’. From the top of her elegantly styled chignon to the toes of her navy-blue leather shoes, Amber almost glowed with a special patina of good looks, good manners and a gentleness that spoke of the kindness that Dougie was sure he could see in her eyes.

It was that softness and the kindness allied to it that had surprised him. It hadn’t been obvious from the press photographs he had seen, and it had taken him off guard. All the more so because Emerald was her daughter. How could two women so closely related be so very different?

Amber eyed the young Australian seated opposite her
sympathetically. She had warmed to him instantly, feeling rather sorry for him as he explained the chain of events that had led to him being orphaned. It had been interesting to learn about his life in Australia. He was a wealthy young man in his own right, and from one or two comments he had let drop, it had been plain that he had been brought up to look unfavourably on the British upper class, with its archaic practices.

‘I’ll admit that when I first got your letters I didn’t altogether like the thought of me being this duke bloke,’ he had told them.

So what had made him change his mind, Amber wondered. He had told them that he worked for a society photographer and the young Australian had admitted himself that he often felt ill at ease amongst the upper-class set. His admission had increased Amber’s sympathy for him, reminding her of how out of place she herself had sometimes felt as a young woman growing up amid wealth but not aristocracy. Despite his rough edges, though, Dougie had a natural pride in himself that Amber admired, even whilst she acknowledged that if he did prove to be the duke he would need a lot of help getting used to his new role.

He would, she felt, bring a freshness to the dukedom, like a clean gust of air blowing into a dusty room that had been closed up for too long. Robert would have liked and approved of him, she thought, considering her late husband. Jay would like him too. They would be able to talk together about farming matters. As those thoughts formed, Amber knew that she had already accepted him as part of her extended family, and equally
that she already felt a maternal sense of protectiveness towards him.

He was obviously used to standing up for himself and living his own life, but he would be vulnerable in his new role, and the sharks that would swim close to him would not always be easily recognisable. He would need support, and who better to provide that, Amber decided, than the family he already had.

‘Well, there are several things that need to be confirmed before a formal announcement can be made,’ Mr Melrose was saying, ‘but…’

He looked at Amber, who smiled back at him before turning to Dougie to say warmly, ‘I don’t quite know whether to congratulate you or commiserate with you, Dougie. Or should I say, Your Grace?’ she added, teasing him gently.

Dougie shook his head, half bemused and half embarrassed.

‘You’ll want to see the Eaton Square house, I expect, and Osterby, of course,’ Amber continued. ‘I have a confession to make with regard to the London house. I’m afraid that I’ve allowed my daughter to move into it for the duration of her season and that her coming-out ball is to be held there.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Dougie began, and then stopped as both Mr Melrose and Amber looked curiously at him. ‘That is to say, I remember reading about it,’ he amended, ‘and of course I’m delighted. That is, I mean that I don’t…well, there’s no problem at all with your plans, so far as I’m concerned.’

‘That is very generous of you,’ Amber told him. ‘I know
you’ll have made your own friends here in London but I’d like to introduce you to the rest of the family soon, if you think you could bear it. My stepdaughters and my niece live here in London, in Chelsea, and I know they would love to meet you. Jay, my husband, spends most of his time at Denham, our estate in Macclesfield, and our twin daughters are still at school. They’ll be home for Easter in a few days, though, and if you haven’t made any other arrangements it would be so nice if you would join us at Denham.’

Amber had caught Dougie off guard. He hadn’t made any plans for Easter, and in many ways he would be very happy to accept her invitation. As he was beginning to realise, there was going to be a lot more to being a duke than being called Your Grace. However, whilst Amber seemed ready to welcome him into the family, Dougie couldn’t see Emerald being equally welcoming. She wasn’t going to be at all pleased when she learned that they were related.

Before he could say anything Mr Melrose was announcing with evident relief, ‘Amber, my dear, that is an excellent suggestion and typically generous of you.’

It was, Dougie admitted. After all, she owed him nothing, not really.

‘You must give me your address and your telephone number,’ Amber was saying, ‘and I shall give you ours so that we can make arrangements for your visit.’

It was too late to back out now; it would be too rude, Dougie realised.

Outside in the thin April sunshine he mounted his motorbike, kick starting it. He had followed his employer’s
example and bought himself the sturdy but sleek chrome machine, and had soon learned to weave it in and out of the busy London traffic at high speed.

‘Shit!’ Ollie cursed as he stared in bleary-eyed disbelief at the alarm clock, before sinking back against his pillow. How the hell had he managed to oversleep so badly?

It was almost midday. He was due at
Vogue
’s offices at noon for a briefing, before leaving for Venice with a bunch of models,
Vogue
’s fashion editor, makeup artists, staffers, and no doubt trunks full of clothes. He ran his hand over his stubbly jaw. His eyes felt as though someone had throw a handful of grit in them and his mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage.

His brain was refusing to wake up, creaking into action like an asthmatic old car, wheezing and protesting at every demand made on its clapped-out engine. Clapped out–that was exactly how he felt. No way was he going to make
Vogue
’s office for half-past twelve, never mind twelve. He sat up in bed, dropping his head into his hands and squeezing his eyes tightly closed against the thudding pain in his head.

He really should not have drunk that suspect bottle of wine last night after his bacon sandwich. He had been thirsty, though, and in the mood to celebrate, and the wine had been there.

The thin ray of reluctant sunshine edging its way past the faded curtains made him wince, as it lanced his aching eyes and then dappled his naked torso honey gold. His olive-toned skin tanned easily, and as soon as the weather
warmed up he’d be off down to Brighton to get himself a tan and check out the girls in their swimsuits.

Quarter to one, gone that now. Hell.
Vogue
’s fashion editor would have his guts for garters, and his balls off as well. No way was he going to make the appointment. But he could still make the boat train, if he went direct to the station.

His earlier malaise forgotten, he was galvanised into action, getting out of bed to reach for the jeans he had left lying on the floor, and pulling on a sweater before heading barefoot for the door and the public telephone in the hallway to the flats. He’d ring
Vogue
and tell them that due to unforeseen circumstances he’d meet up with them on the platform.

He grinned to himself before starting to whistle under his breath. It would be OK. It always was for Oliver Charters.

Ella grimaced beneath the weight of the bags her boss had given her to carry. She had travelled from the office to the station in a taxi with the three models and the makeup artist, and had somehow or other ended up having to help the makeup artist carry her things as well as her own and her boss’s.

The platform was a chaotic mix of travellers and those who had come to see them off, heads turning to stare at the models in their ‘departure outfits’, ready to be photographed embarking onto the train, providing the photographer ever actually turned up.

The fashion editor had given vent to her feelings about his absence with a string of profanities that had turned the air in the offices as blue as her blood, and her assistants had been dispatched to try to drum up a stand-in.

Now that they were on the platform Ella looked round anxiously for her own boss, exhaling faintly with relief when she saw her. Their brief was to source information for an article about the way the social scene in Venice was changing, as the old guard of fashionable visitors, such as Coco Chanel and her peers, gave way to the likes of
Princess Grace of Monaco and Greek shipping millionaires, as well as the perennial British upper classes, continental aristocrats and pretty society girls.

Ella was travelling in sensible clothes, wearing a tweed coat over her plain jumper and skirt, but in deference to the specialness of the occasion she had crammed a small hat with a pretty veil down on top of her now windblown curls. She was satisfyingly aware for the first time that only this week, when she lay down in bed, she could actually feel her ribs. Losing weight had become an exciting challenge now that she knew how it was done. She’d lost over a stone and she could dare herself to lose as many pounds as she wished.

To Ella’s relief, at the same time as she spied the features editor, a porter finally arrived to relieve her of her case, leaving her free to hurry to her boss’s side, keeping a firm grip on her handbag and the portable typewriter which she’d been told must never leave her possession.

Ollie surveyed the seething mêlée on the platform with a grimace. He hated
Vogue
shoots, but there were certain benefits, like the money and a chance to flirt with the models, and, if he was lucky and they were willing, do more than merely flirt.

He hadn’t had time to shave, merely managing a quick shower from which his overlong hair was still slightly damp, like the white T-shirt he had pulled on without bothering to dry himself properly, before stepping back into his jeans.

His well-worn leather jacket would keep the spring wind at bay, and he had managed to find clean underwear, socks and a T-shirt to throw into his camera bag before gathering up all his equipment and hot-footing it to the station.

The fashion editor greeted him with a baleful look and a threat never to employ him again, but he shrugged off her anger with a mocking smile, confident that once she saw his photographs she would forget all about his lateness.

He studied the models with an experienced assessing eye–not so much as models, more as potential bed mates. He rather thought he favoured the redhead. She’d got that look about her that suggested she’d know all the right moves. As he turned away his attention was caught by the sight of Ella making her way towards her boss, and his smile widened.

They’d had a couple of run-ins at the office since the night he’d seen her in the taxi and he’d begun to enjoy tormenting her, all the more so because she never quite managed to conceal her dislike of him.

Shouldering his bag, he made his way purposefully towards her, blocking off her access to her boss by placing himself in front of her

‘Afternoon, princess.’

Oh, no, the photographer was Oliver Charters! Ella’s heart sank. She detested the cocky East Ender. He was arrogant and full of himself when he had no right to be, acting as though he was something special, ignoring the rules that other people–people like her–automatically obeyed, causing mayhem whenever he
came into the office, flirting with the models, and generally acting as though the world revolved around him.

As for that ridiculous name he had given her…Her face started to burn in anger.

‘I have told you before not to call me that,’ she reminded him through gritted teeth.

‘It suits you,’ Ollie told her unrepentantly.

A gap appeared to one side of him and, seizing her chance to escape, Ella quickly sidestepped him, the sound of his mocking laughter following her as she finally managed to reach her boss.

If she’d known that he was going to be the photographer she would have refused to come, Ella told herself, following her boss onto the train.

The Fashion Department had a carriage to themselves to accommodate the models, the makeup artist and the trunk full of clothes, along with Ollie and the fashion editor herself, whilst Ella and the other junior members of staff were sharing a carriage with other travellers. Ella had ended up scrunched up in her seat, penned in by a hugely fat businessman next to her. Still, at least she was away from that obnoxious photographer.

As the English countryside flashed by, Ella tried to enjoy the scenery but couldn’t help thinking about Oliver Charters. That wretched man was like a constant irritant, rubbing her nerves raw and making her feel on edge. Her head ached and she was finding it hard to sit still, even though she had barely slept, as angry thoughts about him flew round inside her head.

Emerald frowned irritably. The only reason she had attended this dull luncheon party was because she had heard that the duke was coming, and now he obviously wasn’t.

‘Well, it looks like you’ve made a conquest,’ one of the other girls murmured in Emerald’s ear, indicating who she meant. Lavinia Halstead was already as good as engaged to her second cousin in a match that had been encouraged by their parents almost from the moment of their births, and because of that she had the air of someone who was above all the anxiety of finding a suitable beau before the end of the season.