your mother about?’ he added. ‘Her ladyship, should I say?’
‘No, actually you shouldn’t,’ she corrected. ‘My mother remarried.’
‘Of course,’ he concluded, ‘and presumably lost the title. Poor old Rosie. That must have been traumatic for her.’
It had been. In fact, her mother, Rosalind—who had never allowed anyone to call her Rosie in her life—had been very slow to take a second walk up the aisle. Only an ultimatum from her new husband had forced the issue.
‘Is she around?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Arabella?’ he added casually.
But Esme wasn’t fooled. Jack Doyle had never been casual where Arabella was concerned.
‘No, she’s in New York,’ Esme relayed, then, after a pause, ‘With her husband.’
She watched for a reaction but there was none. Jack had always kept his emotions under wraps. Well, almost always.
‘She lives there?’ was all he said.
‘At the moment,’ she confirmed.
It wasn’t a lie. Arabella would be there for some time yet. Just as being with her husband wasn’t a lie. No need to tell this man that the two were sitting on opposite sides of a divorce court.
‘Well, I’d really love to chat—’ she curled her hand round the doorknob ‘—but I’m expecting someone.’
‘Yes, I know.’ The amused look was back on his face.
It was a moment or so before Esme caught on. ‘You’re it—the man from Jadenet?’
He gave a nod. ‘I’m it—or he, to be more precise.’
Jack watched her changing expression, but found he couldn’t interpret it. Initially he’d been pleased when Esme had been the one to appear at the door. He had always liked her. The best of the Scott-Hamiltons. Now she was so much prettier—beautiful, even—but had also grown disappointingly similar to her mother.
‘Phone the estate agent,’ he suggested, ‘check my credentials if you like.’
He proffered her his mobile phone.
Esme ignored it, her uncertain look turning into a positive scowl. She believed him but his whole attitude riled her.
‘You have no idea, have you?’ she accused.
Doyle frowned. He imagined he’d been trying to help her. ‘Obviously not.’
‘Do you know how many years there’s been Scott-Hamiltons in this house?’ she demanded with atypical arrogance.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he drawled back, ‘since the Magna Carta?’
Having never been a great history student, Esme hadn’t the first idea when that was, but it was scarcely relevant, as he was laughing at her.
He always had, only in the past there had been a degree of fondness in it.
‘What’s the point?’ she dismissed at length. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Being of simple peasant stock, you mean?’ he concluded, an edge behind the banter now.
Esme was left wishing she hadn’t started this. She was coming over as the snob of the century, and that wasn’t really her at all. Jack Doyle had just thrown her off balance.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to. I know what your family thought of me. I heard it from the horse’s mouth, remember?’
Esme coloured. She remembered. She was unlikely to forget, having her own memento from that day.
‘I always thought you were different, though, Midge.’ Dark grey eyes studied her once more.
Esme wanted to say, I was different. I am different. But it seemed so much safer to hide behind the class barrier.
‘Don’t call me Midge,’ was all she eventually muttered. ‘I’m not ten any more.’
‘No.’ Jack underlined the word as he noted once again the new Esme. Slim and long-legged but shapely where it counted, at breasts and hips. ‘I can see that.’
His eyes stopped just short of undressing her. One of life’s ironies. Ten years ago she had longed for him to look at her this way. Now it was anathema to her.
‘Papers,’ she almost barked at him, ‘I assume you have some.’
‘Papers?’
‘To prove you have a viewing appointment.’
Jack’s mouth tightened as he wondered who Miss High and Mighty Scott-Hamilton thought she was—or who he was, for that matter.
He reached a hand into the inside pocket of his suit and took out his wallet. From it he withdrew a business card.
It was extended with a thin-lipped smile and Esme didn’t need clairvoyance to know she’d annoyed him. She took the card but, without her reading glasses, the small print danced in front of her. Perhaps it would have with her glasses on, thrown back as she had been to her past.
She screwed up her eyes and the print started to come into focus, but not before he suggested, ‘I’ll read it for you if you like.’
This time his tone was milder, less sarcastic, but it still sliced through her. Midge wasn’t the only nickname bestowed on her by her big sister Arabella when they were children, only she’d confined the use of Dumbo to outside parental range.
‘I’m not that thick, you know!’ she snapped back.
He looked surprised, as if such a thought had never crossed his mind. ‘Have I ever suggested you were, Mi—Esme?’
In fairness, no. He was the one who’d suggested otherwise.
‘I just remember you wearing reading glasses,’ he added.
She cringed a little. Was she forever printed on his mind as a plump, bespectacled teen? At the time she’d longed for him to look her way, to notice. It seemed he had. She just hadn’t measured up.
She stared back down at the card until the bold lettering came into focus:
Jack Doyle
Managing Director
J.D. Net
She didn’t bother scrutinising the telephone number. She was too busy absorbing the rest. He was MD and it wasn’t Jadenet as she’d heard her mother say—but J.D. Net. As in, Jack Doyle Net?
What else had her mother said about their prospective buyer? Some American internet entrepreneur worth mega-bucks. Had her mother
