toy shop logo.
Ashley moved out to the porch, eyeing her son with exasperation. ‘William, I told you… .’
‘I didn’t ask, Mum,’ he expostulated. ‘Mr. Cliffton said we couldn’t have a proper war game without model cannons and cavalry. It was his idea. I just showed him where they could be bought.’
‘Led him there by the hand, did you?’
‘Aw, come on, Mum. Mr. Cliffton doesn’t need leading. He’s the smartest man I know.’ William broke into a run. ‘I’ll duck upstairs and put these away. Then I can help the chauffeur with the other shopping bags.’
Such virtue was highly suspicious, but Ashley let it pass. She looked at the smartest man William knew and was inclined to agree with her son. Harry’s mouth was twitching with amusement as William bolted past his mother. His blue eyes danced with mischief.
‘I don’t suppose you’d know anything about the cavalry arriving in Gordon Payne’s office this morning,’ she said archly. ‘I got the impression that a few cannons were fired there, as well.’
‘I love cavalry charges. Did you know in the Battle of—
‘Let me guess. One of your ancestors led it.’
‘No. He blew the bugle.’
‘As you did with Gordon Payne.’
He grinned. ‘It seemed like a good tune to play.’
Ashley couldn’t help laughing. ‘It worked. The enemy has been routed, and the money is in the mail.’
‘A celebratory lunch is in order?’
‘It certainly is. And thank you, Harry, both for Cheryn and myself. You’re a great bugle player.’
He laughed, and a sweet harmony danced between them, dispelling the defensive reservations Ashley had meant to hold. Harry was a prince amongst men, and there was simply no sense in dimming the pleasure he brought into her life.
They had a positively sinful lunch. Moet and Chandon champagne, cold lobster and an array of exotic salads, plus a selection of temptations from a French patisserie. William made short work of a large slice of chocolate mud cake. Ashley succumbed to an exquisite mille-fleur. Harry produced everything with irresistible flair, and it would have been absurdly churlish to stand on some independent dignity in the face of such treats.
Last but not least, he presented Ashley with a box of Belgian chocolates. ‘To help pass the time sweetly in your office this afternoon,’ he said with a smile that would have charmed the stoniest heart.
By this time, Ashley’s heart was well and truly under siege. She retreated to the safe confines of her office, which was the sensible thing to do, but she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling it was a stupid waste of time. How long would she have Harry in her life?
She found it impossible to settle to any productive work. Her mind kept wandering to what she could be doing with Harry—lazing the afternoon away on the beach, showing him some of the scenic beauty spots on the central coast, revelling in his sparkling company.
She wondered how he would look stripped down to a brief pair of swimming trunks. It occurred to her that his skin should be very pale, particularly since he had come from an English winter, yet it wasn’t. Where had he got the light golden tan that gave his face and hands such a warm glow of vitality?
Perhaps he accompanied the master of Springfield Manor to the Caribbean to escape the cold. Ashley could well imagine Harry arranging vacations he would find attractive. She suspected he organized quite a lot to suit himself, then used his persuasive powers to make others feel pleased he had gone to so much trouble for them.
A clever manipulator. She mustn’t forget that. Under-neath all the charm, there burned a steady, relentless and ruthless purpose. He would wear her resistance down until she surrendered to his will. But what precisely was his will? Simply to get William to Springfield Manor for his master? Or did he have some personal desire to have her there for himself?
The doorbell rang.
As she rose from her desk she heard Harry and William come into the hallway from the kitchen. It was a butler’s job to answer doorbells, Ashley reminded herself, but she was drawn to the office door to see who was calling anyway.
It was a florist. Harry took receipt of a magnificent bunch of white carnations, thanked the delivery person, shut the door and turned to present them to Ashley as she came forward.
‘Wow! Chocolates and flowers!’ William remarked with unconcealed glee. ‘You’re doing real good, Mr. Cliffton.’
It drew an ironic smile from Harry. ‘They’re not from me, William.’
His face fell. He frowned at Ashley as Harry handed her the carnations, two dozen of them prettily set off with sprays of baby’s breath. ‘Who’s giving you flowers, Mum?’ he demanded.
Ashley was at a loss to answer until she read the accompanying card. Then she laughed. ‘It’s a peace offering from Gordon Payne.’ Harry must have fired a whole salvo of cannons to wring these expensive blooms out of her erstwhile enemy.
William was not amused. ‘Who’s Gordon Payne?’ he asked in a darkly disapproving tone.
‘A gentleman who did some business with me,’ Ashley replied, and took the opportunity to deliver an appropriate rebuke. ‘He was here yesterday afternoon and but for some very timely intervention, young man, you would have broken the windscreen of his Daimler.’
‘Wish I had,’ William muttered.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Mutiny looked her in the eye. ‘I don’t want him coming around to our house and giving you flowers. You didn’t even tell me about him,’ he went on accusingly.
‘I’m not in the habit of discussing my business with you, William,’ Ashley reproved, taken aback by what was plainly an aggressively rebellious stance.
‘If he’s sending you flowers, it is my business,’ he argued. ‘I want Mr. Cliffton to be my uncle. I reckon he’ll be tons better than any uncle Rodney Bixell’s ever had.’ He marched over to Harry’s side. ‘So I’m telling you right now, Mum. This is where I stand.’
Ashley was stunned speechless. She knew children were growing up rather too fast these days, but to have her nine-year-old son claiming the right to choose a live-in lover for her was a bit much to swallow. Even if he was echoing her own secret fancies.
A flood of embarrassment swept a tide of heat up her neck. She couldn’t meet Harry’s eyes. What had William been telling him? Or worse, proposing to him? Did he think she was to be had as easily as Rodney Bixell’s mother?
Harry, characteristically, took William’s declaration in his stride. ‘Thank you for your vote, William,’ he said with superb aplomb. ‘I don’t think you need worry about Gordon Payne.’
William looked up, eyes glistening with hope and something suspiciously like hero-worship. ‘You mean you’ll fight him for Mum?’
‘A duel to the death,’ he promised,
