the old building in good repair seemed to take up virtually every penny of her income from the trust. Every day Lonsdale House seemed to become more and more expensive to maintain in good order. Although she’d managed to pay the bills so far, a large and worrying problem had arisen over the roof timbers, which were apparently in a terrible state and would have to be replaced.
How on earth was she going to find the money? The small amount of money she earned from working for David Webster wasn’t enough to pay for her food, let alone anything else. And Betty had only a small private pension. It had seemed, therefore, that the obvious solution would be for her to try and get a full-time job. However, since open days at Lonsdale House required at least two people to be in attendance, that idea had proved to be totally impractical, because any salary she might earn would only have to go to pay the wages of a curator. It seemed to be an insuperable problem, and one which she couldn’t seem to resolve however hard she tried.
‘If only you could sell some of those paintings,’ Betty said, echoing her own thoughts. ‘There’s one or two in the dining-room—nasty, gloomy things they are too!—which we could well do without.’
‘It’s no good.’ Angelica shook her head. ‘I’ve already tried to persuade the trustees to part with some of the minor paintings, which would certainly solve all our problems. But they simply won’t budge from the terms of old Sir Tristram’s will.’
‘Well, I’d better get back to work before my old bones completely seize up,’ Betty said, putting down her cup and easing herself up from the chair. ‘And you’d better get a move on. I hope you’re not intending to go out in those dirty old jeans?’
‘No, of course not.’ Angelica grinned, putting an affectionate arm around the elderly woman’s stout figure as they left the kitchen. ‘You know what your trouble is, don’t you? You simply can’t seem to understand that now I’m grown-up I no longer need a nanny!’
‘Humph!’
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ignoring Betty’s loud snort of derision, ‘I’ve still got a lot of work to do before deciding what to wear for the tour this afternoon.’
‘You’ll have trouble finding anything decent,’ Betty reminded her gloomily. ‘With the rainwater gushing through that wardrobe of yours, it will be some time before we can get anything dried out.’
Angelica shrugged. ‘Never mind—I expect I’ll find something to wear. And as a last resort I can always raid Granny’s old costume hampers. After all, it’s only a short two-hour walk around the City. And since the group is likely to consist mostly of young students, it really won’t matter what I look like,’ she added as they continued to climb up the old oak staircase.
Later that afternoon, over four miles away in the City of London, Luke Cunningham had just finished signing the papers in front of him.
‘OK, that’s it, Norma.’ He raised his head to give his middle-aged personal assistant a warm smile of approval. ‘Is there anything else I ought to look at?’
‘There is just one item. Mr Richards was anxious for you to see this, as soon as possible.’ She handed him a file.
Gazing down at her boss, who was swiftly scanning the papers in front of him, Norma reflected that the last two years seemed to have passed by in a flash. Ever since the dynamic, high-powered Mr Cunningham had won the fierce take-over battle for Cornhill International, merging it with his own private merchant bank, it had seemed as if the whole of this huge, seven-storey office block in the City of London had been turned upside-down!
Almost from the first day he’d arrived in the office, news of Luke Cunningham’s rapid expansion of the company had seldom been out of the financial press. With the newspapers full of stories about the ‘Hot-Shot City Financier of the Nineties’, Norma had been unsure about her ability to cope with such an energetic and vigorous man— who reportedly ate secretaries for breakfast! However, Mr Cunningham had seemed to be very pleased with her efforts. Quickly finding herself promoted to the post of his personal assistant, she’d also been given a massive rise in salary, and two extra girls to help share the workload in the office.
Despite being permanently run off her feet, she loved her job—even if her elderly, invalid mother was apt to become tetchy when Norma had to work late at the office. She also had the considerable satisfaction of knowing that she was deeply envied by almost every other woman in the building.
‘I’d kill for your job—Mr Cunningham is so gorgeous and sexy!’ one of the young typists had sighed the other day, before Norma had briskly put the silly girl firmly in her place.
However, as her eyes now flicked over his dark head, Norma couldn’t help recalling a phrase often used in her favourite romantic novels. ‘Tall, dark and handsome’ was a description which might have been coined for the new chairman. Not only was he much taller than most men, there was something powerful and decidedly dangerous about the way he moved. Beneath the exquisitely cut, handtailored suit his body was lean and hard, with broad, muscular shoulders and narrow hips. His thick, dark hair swept down over his well-shaped head, clinging seductively to the nape of his neck, while his hard, tanned features and firm chin were those of a man to be reckoned with. It was an impression reinforced by the glittering grey eyes set beneath heavy eyelids, which even her middle-aged heart found profoundly disturbing.
And so did a lot of other women, Norma acknowledged wryly. A single multimillionaire of thirty-six, living in a small penthouse apartment overlooking Hyde Park, was bound to have a full social life. And Mr Cunningham was clearly no exception. Every day there seemed to be one glamorous female after another on the telephone—while his astronomically large bills for bouquets of flowers must surely be keeping the local florist in business!
Luke closed the file, leaning back in his leather chair for a moment, gazing at the shafts of brilliant sunlight streaming in through the large plate-glass window at the far end of the room.
‘OK, Norma—tell Richards I’ll see him tomorrow morning,’ he said, before rising to his feet and walking slowly across the thick beige carpet.
Staring down through the window at the tall trees in a nearby churchyard, whose, fresh green leaves were dancing in the light breeze, Luke was suddenly swept by an almost overwhelming urge to quit this modern, multi-storey building of glass and steel. And why not? It was far too nice a day to be cooped up inside a stuffy office block.
Ten minutes later, Luke had left the large building. Relishing the rare opportunity to stretch his legs and enjoy the bright sunshine of a warm June afternoon, he walked slowly down Bishopsgate, one of the main thoroughfares of the busy City of London.
Always fascinated by the history and ancient customs of the city in which he worked, he decided to stroll in the direction of the Thames, from whose docks and wharfs had flowed the wealth responsible for making London the heart of a world-wide trading empire. Striding through Leadenhall market with its ornate, glass-roofed arcade and on past the Monument, he crossed over London Bridge.
But when, some time later, he was slowly retracing his steps over the dark waters of the Thames, the sight of a young couple walking hand in hand reminded him it really was about time he came to a firm decision about Eleanor.
The senior partner of a prestigious accountancy firm, Eleanor Nicholson was a clever, forceful and sophisticated woman who’d made no secret of the fact that she wished to marry him. And he was quite sure that Eleanor would make a perfect wife. She was cool, calm and collected, and there was very little that was capable of disturbing her unruffled composure. She was always beautifully dressed, cooked like
