uncertain where she should go. Harriet had only shown her the small sitting room, and she was looking about her doubtfully when a door behind her opened and the man Jude appeared.
He evidently intended eating dinner with them, she thought, viewing the dark trousers and fine suede jacket he was wearing. Even his brown silk shirt had a lace jabot, though he wore no tie, the strong column of his throat dark against the fabric. His dark hair had been smoothly combed and lay thick against his head, with only the merest fraction overlapping his collar at the back.
His appraisal of her was no less comprehensive, she realised, flushing as he detected her eyes upon him. ‘Well, well, Miss Shelley,’ he remarked sardonically, propping one hand against the jamb. ‘You look lost. Can I help you?’
‘I—I was looking for Harr—for Miss Ferrars,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘Do you know where she is?’
‘Still dressing, I should think,’ he answered, moving his shoulders in a dismissing gesture. ‘Come and have a drink with me.’ He nodded to the room behind him. ‘We usually foregather in here.’
‘Oh—very well.’ Sara wasn’t enthusiastic, but there wasn’t much else she could do, so she crossed the floor towards him, stiffening as he stood aside to let her pass, and she smelt the faint aroma of Scotch on his breath.
‘Why do I get the impression your name should be Lamb, not Shelley?’ he remarked lazily, and she cast an indignant look up at him.
‘Lady Caroline Lamb was associated with Byron, not Shelley,’ she retorted, pleased to have thwarted him, but he was not finished.
‘I might have been referring to Mary Shelley,’ he pointed out drily, his grey eyes showing amusement. ‘But actually, I wasn’t even thinking of them.’
Sara was confused, and showed it. ‘Mr Jude—–’
‘Just Jude,’ he corrected. ‘And before you ask, it was a quotation from Isaiah I was referring to. Now, shall we have that drink?’
SARA saw that she was in what appeared to be a library. There were bookshelves from floor to ceiling on three walls and a desk, set beneath long windows, on the fourth. An open fire broke up one wall of shelves, and as it was getting dark outside, it was reflected in the window panes, warm and inviting.
But Sara was scarcely aware of her surroundings. She was still puzzling what Jude had said to her, and it irritated her anew that he apparently had the knack of disconcerting everyone who came into contact with him.
‘What will you have? Sherry? Gin? Whisky?’
Her brooding introspection was interrupted by that lazily attractive voice, and she turned to find him examining the bottles contained in a small cabinet.
‘Do you have—Martini?’ she asked, choosing something innocuous, and his mouth turned down wryly as he completed his inspection.
‘Only vodka and Pernod,’ he told her without contrition. ‘Let me make you a cocktail. I do quite a passable Screwdriver.’
‘Sherry,’ declared Sara firmly, deciding she needed to keep her wits about her, and she watched him reluctantly as he filled her glass.
‘So—what do you think of us?’ he enquired, retrieving his glass, which contained the Scotch she had detected earlier. ‘Not quite what you expected, I imagine. Bearing in mind what you told me earlier.’
‘I wish you’d forget what I told you earlier,’ Sara retorted. ‘I—I was nervous then. It was a long time since I’d last seen Aunt—I mean, Harriet. Now that I’ve got to know her again, I realise how immature I must have sounded.’
‘I imagine anyone over the age of thirty would appear quite ancient to a schoolgirl,’ Jude remarked, propping himself against the bookshelves. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
He gestured towards a leather sofa set to one side of the fireplace, but Sara gave an involuntary shake of her head. She felt more capable of facing him on her two feet, and besides, she resented his arbitrary assumption of the role of host. It lent weight to her suspicion that his position at Knight’s Ferry was not a straightforward one, and the less pleasant aspects of this conclusion were not something she wanted to contemplate right now.
‘Tell me,’ she said, with great daring she thought, ‘what exactly do you do, Mr—er—Jude? My aunt—that is, Harriet—mentioned something about—horses?’
Jude’s mouth compressed. ‘Midnight? The mare?’ He shrugged. ‘She hasn’t foaled yet, if that’s what you mean.’
Sara moistened her upper lip. ‘That wasn’t exactly—–’
‘Oh, I see.’ His expression hardened. ‘You mean am I the stable hand?’ He finished the whisky in his glass. ‘Without wanting to disappoint you, no. That is not my primary function.’
Sara cradled her glass between her palms. The obvious rejoinder to this was beyond her ability, so instead she said, rather weakly: ‘Does Miss Ferrars have many horses?’
‘One or two,’ he replied after a moment, moving away from the bookshelves to fix himself another drink. ‘Five, to be precise. Why? Do you like horses? Do you ride?’
‘I have—ridden, yes.’ Sara was tentative. ‘Mostly abroad. Nothing very startling, I’m afraid.’
‘But you do like it? Riding, I mean?’
Sara shrugged. ‘Quite.’ She was reluctant. ‘Why? Does Harriet?’
‘Harriet?’ Jude put the stopper back into the whisky decanter and surveyed her mockingly. ‘I doubt if Harriet’s ever swung her leg across a saddle,’ he replied rather crudely. ‘Outdoor sports are not her scene.’
Sara pressed her lips together. So why had he asked her? she wondered impatiently. Surely he didn’t imagine she might consider riding with him. His arrogance was equal to it, and her eyes flashed fire as she met his cynical gaze.
‘You know Harriet very well, don’t you, Mr Jude?’ she declared with grim temerity. ‘I wonder if she realises how outspoken you are on her behalf.’
Jude laughed then, a faintly derisive laugh that brought the hot colour to her cheeks. ‘Oh, I think she might,’ he retorted, with gentle irony, and the door behind him opened before Sara could ask him what he meant.
Harriet’s appearance made Sara realise how conservative her own choice of dress had been. This evening, the older woman was wearing bronze tapered pants and a glittering sequinned jacket, with a wealth of chunky jewellery dispersed about her person. Her heels were higher than any Sara would dare to wear, but she moved easily, faltering only momentarily when her gaze met that of Jude.
‘Oh, you’re here,’ she murmured, her fingertips brushing almost absently over his sleeve. Then she caught sight of Sara and withdrew her hand. ‘My dear, how lovely you look! Doesn’t she, Jude?’ She turned to the man with a strange expression, almost daring him to contradict her. ‘Don’t you think Sara looks delightful?’
‘I
