nodded. ‘Yes, I'll give her a ring.'
She waited for Mrs. Cook to move out on to the landing and then she passed her on her way to the bathroom. She knew the housekeeper suspected there was more to this than she could possibly know, but now that she had learned about the concert what more could Emma tell her? There was nothing more.
Emma was in her bedroom, brushing her hair, when the doorbell rang. There was nothing unusual in that. Trades-people were always calling. But when Mrs. Cook came to the foot of the stairs and called up to her, her heart began to thump a little more vigorously.
‘Miss Emma! There's someone here to see you.'
Emma rose to her feet, looking helplessly at her unbound hair. It would take ages to fold it into its pleat, so she hastily plaited it into a thick braid and secured it with an elastic band. Her suit looked rather ridiculous with the childish hair-style, but it would have to do.
She hurried down the stairs and then came to an abrupt halt when she saw Miguel Salvaje standing below her. She wanted to turn and dash back up the stairs again, but he had heard her and swung round to face her.
‘Good morning, señorita,’ he greeted her, gallantly bowing his head, and Emma took a deep breath and descended the rest of the stairs.
‘Good morning, señor.'
Not one would have recognized the elegantly attired soloist of the night before as this casually dressed stranger. Close-fitting denim jeans topped by a navy roll-necked sweater and a waist-length denim jerkin disguised him most effectively, and he could have been taken for a student.
‘You are surprised to see me?’ he inquired, in his lazy accented voice.
Emma shook her head slowly. ‘N-not entirely,’ she admitted. ‘But—’ she glanced round to make sure Mrs. Cook was not hovering in the background, ‘I thought you had a rehearsal today.'
He tipped his head on one side. ‘I did. I do. But I am afraid I am – how do you say it – playing truant? Si?'
‘Si.’ Emma made a helpless gesture. ‘Why have you come?'
‘Ah!’ he shrugged. ‘Are you going to offer me some of that excellent coffee I can smell from the kitchen?'
Emma hesitated. ‘Well, I suppose so.’ She crossed the hall and thrust open the lounge door with rather jerky movements. ‘If – if you'll go in there and wait, I'll speak to Mrs. Cook.'
‘Very well.’ He did as she had suggested and with an exasperated shrug Emma hastened down the hall.
Mrs. Cook was busy at the sink and she looked up reprovingly as Emma entered the room. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Has he gone?'
‘No.’ Emma looked at the percolator bubbling on the stove. ‘He – er – do you think we could have some coffee?'
Mrs. Cook dried her hands. ‘I expect so.’ But her tone was not encouraging.
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