he expressed a desire to meet you, I offered to write the note for him. But, though he was in great pain at the time, he insisted on writing it himself. It took a great deal of will-power on his part,’ Simon added quietly.
Moved, she agreed, ‘Very well, I’ll certainly come if Margaret can take care of the shop.’
‘He suggested sending a car for you, but I told him I would be delighted to pick you up.’ Then, as if it was all settled, ‘Shall we say ten o’clock?’
Apparently having achieved what he’d set out to do, he left his seat briskly and came round to open her door and help her out.
Thrusting the note into her bag, she fumbled for her key. When she finally located it, Simon took it from her and turned it in the lock.
Then, his head tilted a little to one side, he stood looking down at her, almost as if he was waiting for her to make some move.
After an awkward pause, she said in a rush, ‘Thank you again for a lovely evening.’
‘It was my pleasure.’
She was wondering if he was expecting to be invited up, when he touched her cheek with a single finger. ‘Goodnight; sleep well.’ Turning on his heel, he walked away.
That lightest of caresses made her heart beat faster and her legs were unsteady as, closing the door behind her, she made her way up the stairs.
Without putting on the light, she crossed the living-room and looked out of the window.
The street was empty. His car had gone. She felt a keen disappointment, a sense of loss, that for one idiotic moment made her want to cry.
You’ve had too much champagne, she told herself silently, and now you’re getting maudlin.
In any case he hadn’t gone forever; she would be seeing him again in the morning.
That train of thought brought its own doubts and uncertainties. What on earth had she been thinking of to let herself be railroaded into spending the weekend at Farringdon Hall?
The shop was far too busy to leave Margaret to cope on her own. So why hadn’t she said so, and politely refused the invitation?
Partly because she’d been touched by Sir Nigel’s note, and partly because she’d wanted very much to see Simon Farringdon again.
There! She’d admitted it.
But it was sheer stupidity to give way to such feelings. A man of his age and eligibility was almost certainly married or in a long-term relationship. And even if by some miracle he wasn’t, the grandson of Sir Nigel Bell-Farringdon was way out of her league, and the sooner she accepted that, the better…
As Charlotte stood gazing abstractedly down into the street, she saw a taxi draw up and her flatmate’s lanky frame climb out and cross the pavement.
There were quiet footsteps on the stairs and a moment later the door opened and Sojo crept in. On spotting the dark figure standing by the window, she gave a yelp of fright.
‘It’s all right,’ Charlotte said quickly. ‘It’s only me.’
‘What are you trying to do?’ Sojo demanded. ‘Give me heart failure?’
‘Sorry if I startled you.’ Charlotte was contrite.
‘Why on earth are you hovering there in the dark?’
‘I was looking out of the window.’
‘I thought you’d be in bed.’
‘I’ve only just got in.’
Sojo reached for the switch by the door and flooded the room with light. ‘Yes, I can see you have. What happened? Did Wudolf have a change of heart and decide not to go to the States after all?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘But something’s happened, I can see by your face. You look bewitched, bothered and bewildered. Let’s have a hot drink, and you can tell me all about it.’
‘Don’t you want to go to bed?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Do you?’
‘I doubt if I could sleep if I went,’ Charlotte admitted.
‘Then I suggest you get it off your chest.’
While they sat in front of the living-flame gas fire and sipped mugs of hot chocolate, Charlotte related the events of the day and evening, ending, ‘When we got back, Simon gave me a note from his grandfather. Though Sir Nigel is very seriously ill, apparently he wants to meet me.’
She found the note and handed it to Sojo, who read it avidly, before exclaiming, ‘What fun! Fancy being invited to the ancestral home, as well as being wined and dined by Sir Simon Farringdon.’
‘He doesn’t seem to use his title.’
‘Well, whether he calls himself Sir or not, he sounds really something.’
‘He’s certainly very attractive.’ Charlotte tried hard to appear underwhelmed.
Throughout her recital she had stuck to facts and left out her feelings, but Sojo wasn’t fooled for an instant. ‘You have the kind of dazed look that suggests you still don’t know quite what’s hit you. Tell me, how many times have you thought of Wudolf today? No, don’t bother to answer; I can see by your face. Well, all I can say is, the lord be praised.’
Then shrewdly, ‘Unless it’s out of the frying-pan into the fire. What do you know about our Simon?’
‘Apart from the fact that he’s Sir Nigel’s grandson, very little. And this proposed trip to Farringdon Hall—’
‘Proposed? You are going, aren’t you?’
‘I will if Margaret can manage.’
‘Of course she can manage,’ Sojo blithely insisted.
‘Well, if I do go, it’s just business.’
‘Business my foot!’ Sojo said inelegantly. ‘It’s my bet that young Simon suggested the visit.’
‘He’s not that young.’
‘So it wouldn’t be cradle-snatching?’
‘Of course not. He must be somewhere in the region of thirty.’
‘Perfect. All you have to do is smile at him and you’ll be home and dry.’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘The Farringdon family are blue-blooded and wealthy; they live in a different world. I’d never fit in.’
‘Stuff and nonsense. With a face and figure like yours and the voice and manners of a lady, you’d fit into an aristocratic background as if you belonged. And speaking of aristocratic backgrounds, where exactly is Farringdon Hall?’
‘It’s
