between the two, this almost certainly was Scott.
The two men moved around opposite sides of the Panda to head for the door. Ross was the taller by a couple of inches, and the more substantial in build, his chest broad and solid beneath the thin white sweater. Clad in similar casual style, Scott looked distinctly boyish by comparison.
Claire stirred herself reluctantly to go out into the hall as the two of them passed the window. Whatever was to come had to be faced. The sound of the doorbell brought Jill out from the sitting-room.
‘He’s here!’ she exclaimed unnecessarily. ‘I’ll let him in.’
‘He’s not alone,’ Claire warned, and saw the light in her eyes fade a little. ‘He has his brother with him.’
Jill rallied with surprising speed. ‘Then we’ll just have to set another place.’
There was food enough for four, Claire supposed, although she didn’t see Ross Laxton sitting down quietly to dinner. There could only be one reason why he had elected to accompany his brother tonight instead of waiting until morning, and that was to see that he made no rash promises.
She stayed where she was in the hall as Jill went to open the door, preparing herself for the coming encounter. Marriage might or might not be the best solution, but if it really did turn out to be what both of them wanted then she would fight tooth and nail for their right to make that decision.
Jill’s invitation to enter sounded astonishingly composed. With features less forceful all round than his brother’s, though certainly no less eye-catching, Scott looked apologetic.
‘Not my idea,’ he disclaimed, with obvious meaning. ‘Any more than this afternoon was my idea.’
‘Mine entirely on both counts,’ Ross confirmed. ‘I saw no point in waiting till tomorrow.’
Claire ignored him, her attention focused on the younger man.
‘I can’t pretend to be happy about all this,’ she said, ‘but there’s no point in railing at you about it either. We can talk over dinner. It’s just about ready.’ She added, with the intention of changing the conversation, ‘Perhaps you’d prefer a sherry or something first?’
‘We didn’t anticipate anything,’ said Ross, before Scott could answer. ‘Certainly not a meal.’
‘We usually eat around this time,’ Claire responded shortly. ‘I saw no reason to alter our routine.’ She started to turn, adding over a shoulder, ‘I’ll need to lay another place at table. Take them through to the sitting-room, Jill.’
Safe in the dining-room, she took a moment to compose herself before going to the sideboard to get extra cutlery from the drawer. This wasn’t going to be an easy encounter.
The mats were in a cupboard beneath the old oak trolley which her mother had picked up for a song at one of the house sales she had used to frequent. None of the furniture in the house was worth a great deal in terms of antiquity, but each and every piece had been collected with discernment. With one or two exceptions, the delft plates on the shelf had mostly come from local markets, their faded colours taking on new life in the soft evening light.
Her mother had loved this house from the moment she had seen it, she had always said. Both she and her father had been loving people altogether. They would have known how best to deal with all this.
That way lay depression, Claire warned herself, shutting off the images. It was up to her to handle the situation—with Jill’s happiness the prime consideration. Let Ross Laxton beware!
The three of them were seated on opposite sides of the stone fireplace: Jill and Scott together on one two-seater sofa, holding hands with an air of defiance and Ross on the other, looking like a fish out of water. There were no drinks in evidence, and Claire wasn’t about to ask again. In any case, she didn’t want anything to spoil.
‘If you’d like to come through, we may as well get started,’ she said.
Ross was first on his feet, filling the room with his presence. ‘Lead on,’ he invited with a derisive glint in his eyes. ‘Something smells very good, I must say!’
He was mocking her efforts to act normally, Claire reflected. Well, two could play that game. She gave him a bland little smile.
‘I hope it tastes as good as it smells.’
‘I’m sure of it,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t dare do otherwise.’
Jill and Scott were on their feet now, both of them obviously aware of the cross-current running between their respective siblings.
‘This is really good of you, Claire,’ said Scott. ‘Especially considering the shock it must have been to have it sprung on you that way,’ he added, with a glowering glance at his brother.
‘I apologise,’ proffered Ross smoothly. ‘I was labouring under some degree of shock myself.’
Claire returned his gaze with determined containment. If he thought that such tactics would disarm her, he was mistaken. His intimation earlier that Scott might not be Jill’s only sexual experience had cut too deep to be so easily dismissed.
‘I’m sure you were,’ she said. ‘Shall we leave it at that for the moment, and go and eat?’
She led the way, sensing Ross at her back—a little too close for comfort. She placed him at the foot of the oblong table, opposite her own seat, with Jill and Scott on either side, where they could gaze into each other’s eyes to their hearts’ content. One only had to look at the pair of them to see that they both felt the same way. Scott came across so differently from what she had anticipated after meeting his brother. There was a resemblance in looks, perhaps, but no resemblance whatsoever in personality.
She made no apologies for the lack of a starter, but gave both men two trout apiece, leaving them to help themselves to potatoes and salad. The succulent pinktinged flesh gave off a delicate aroma as Ross slid the skin aside and eased out the whole skeletal framework with an expertise that Claire could only envy. No matter how carefully she dissected trout, she almost always at some point managed to get bones in her mouth, and disposing of them politely in public posed quite a problem.
Conversation was desultory while they ate, most of it prompted by Ross himself. Claire regarded his overtures with suspicion, sensing an attempt to lull the lot of them into believing him reconciled to the situation. There was no way a man of his kind would have changed his views so radically in the space of a couple of hours. Which meant that the crunch was still to come.
Whatever his motives, he finished every last morsel of the trout, laying down his knife and fork with a sigh of what appeared to be genuine satisfaction.
‘Congratulations,’ he commented. ‘Those were beautifully cooked!’
‘All down to the microwave,’ disclaimed Claire, unwilling to accept the compliment under false pretences. ‘Modern technology has its uses.’
‘Especially when unexpected guests turn up,’ came the dry rejoinder. ‘Congratulations anyway. Not everyone can time a microwave correctly.’
It had done that itself too, but she let it pass, seizing the initiative before he could take it from her. ‘We’re not here to talk about
