heart cramped so tightly she had to fight for breath. ‘Yes, perhaps... But...not that photo, Paul.’
‘I always liked Mr Jack.’
‘So did I.’
But Jack had wanted to own her—just as her father had wanted to own her. And, just like her father, Jack had turned cold and distant when she’d refused to submit to his will. And then he’d left.
Five years later a small voice inside her still taunted her with the sure knowledge that she’d have been happier with Jack on his terms than she was now on her own terms, as her own woman. She waved a hand in front of her face. That was a ridiculous fairytale—a fantasy with no basis in reality. She and Jack were always going to end in tears. She could see that now.
Very gently, Paul reached out and placed the photograph facedown on the table. ‘I’m sure there must be a nice photograph of you and your mother somewhere.’
She snapped back to the present, trying to push the past firmly behind her. ‘See if you can find a photo of me and Barbara.’
Paul rolled his eyes in a most un-butler-like fashion and Caro laughed and patted his arm.
‘The things I ask of you...’
He smiled down at her. ‘Nothing’s too much trouble where you’re concerned, Miss Caro.’
She glanced up the grand staircase towards the first-floor rooms.
‘I’ll keep an eye on Mrs Fielding,’ he added. ‘I’ll try to dissuade her if she wants to go out. If she insists, I’ll send one of the maids with her.’ He glanced at the grandfather clock. ‘They’re due to come in and start cleaning any time now.’
‘Thank you.’ She didn’t want Barbara doing anything foolish—like trying to sell that snuffbox if she did have it. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
* * *
Despite the loss of the snuffbox and all the morning’s kerfuffle, it was Jack’s face that rose in her mind and memories of the past that invaded Caro, chasing her other concerns aside, as she trudged across Westminster Bridge.
The sight of that photograph had pulled her up short. They’d been so happy.
For a while.
A very brief while.
So when she first saw his face in the midst of the crowd moving towards her on the bridge, Caro dismissed it as a flight of fancy, a figment of her imagination. Until she realised that blinking hadn’t made the image fade. It had only made the features of that face clearer—a face that was burned onto her soul.
She stopped dead. Jack was in London?
The crowd surged around her, but she couldn’t move. All she could do was stare.
Jack! Jack! Jack!
His name pounded at her as waves of first cold and then heat washed over her. The ache to run to him nearly undid her. And then his gaze landed on her and he stopped dead too.
She couldn’t see the extraordinary cobalt blue of his eyes at this distance, but she recognised the way they narrowed, noted the way his nostrils flared. She’d always wondered what would happen if they should accidentally meet on the street. Walking past each other without so much as an acknowledgment obviously wasn’t an option, and she was fiercely glad about that.
Hauling in a breath, she tilted her head to the left a fraction and started towards the railing of the bridge. She leaned against it, staring down at the brown water swirling in swift currents below. He came to stand beside her, but she kept her gaze on the water.
‘Hello, Jack.’
‘Caro.’
She couldn’t look at him. Not yet. She stared at the Houses of Parliament and then at the facade of the aquarium on the other side of the river. ‘Have you been in London long?’
‘No.’
Finally she turned to meet his gaze, and her heart tried to grow bigger and smaller in the same moment. She read intent in his eyes and slowly straightened. ‘You’re here to see me?’
His demeanour confirmed it, but he nodded anyway. ‘Yes.’
‘I see.’ She turned to stare back down at the river. ‘Actually...’ She frowned and sent him a sidelong glance. ‘I don’t see.’
He folded his tall frame and leaned on the railing, too. She dragged her gaze from his strong, hawk-like profile, afraid that if she didn’t she might reach across and kiss him.
‘I heard about your father.’
She pursed her lips, her stomach churning like the currents below. ‘You didn’t send a card.’
He didn’t say anything for a moment. ‘You send me a Christmas card every year...’
He never sent her one.
‘Do you send all your ex-lovers Christmas cards?’
She straightened. ‘Only the ones I marry.’
They both flinched at her words.
In the next moment she swung to him. ‘Oh, please, let’s not do this.’
‘Do what?’
‘Be mean to each other.’
He relaxed a fraction. ‘Suits me.’
She finally looked at him properly and a breath eased out of her. She reached out to clasp his upper arm. She’d always found it incredibly difficult not to touch him. Through the fine wool of his suit jacket, she recognised his strength and the firm, solid feel of him.
‘You look good, Jack—really good. I’m glad.’
‘Are you?’
‘Of course.’ She squeezed his arm more firmly. ‘I only ever wanted your happiness.’
‘That’s not exactly true, though—is it, Caro?’
Her hand fell away, back to her side.
‘My happiness wasn’t more important to you than your career.’
She pursed her lips and gave a nod. ‘So you still blame me, then?’
‘Completely,’ he said without hesitation. ‘And bitterly.’
She made herself laugh. ‘Honesty was never our problem, was it?’ But the unfairness of his blame burned through her. ‘Why have you come to see me?’
He hauled in a breath, and an ache started up in the centre of her. ‘Hearing about your father’s death...’ He glanced at her. ‘Should I give you my condolences?’
She gave a quick shake of her head, ignoring the burn of tears at the backs of her eyes. Pretending her relationship
