he said brusquely. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘Oh, please!’ Just for a moment her tone veered towards slight hysteria. ‘How far do we have to carry this farce? Grandfather can’t see us now, or know that we’ve gone our separate ways.’
His brows lifted. ‘I was looking at the situation rather more practically. As we’re both going to the Priory, one vehicle is surely quite sufficient.’
She looked at him stupidly, his words registering in some distant recess of her mind. ‘You—you’re staying at the Priory?’
‘I told you I was staying there,’ he said impatiently.
‘I’d forgotten.’ She gave herself a mental shake. ‘Not that it matters. I can go to a hotel.’
‘Like hell you can,’ he said grimly. ‘The Petersons are expecting you, and your old room has been prepared. What am I to tell them if you don’t turn up? That your aversion to me is so great you can’t face spending a night or two under the same roof?’
‘You’re the one with the instant solutions to everyone’s problems,’ she shot at him. ‘You think of something.’
‘I already have,’ he returned. ‘You’re coming to the Priory with me, if it means I have to kick your charming backside every step of the way to the car.’
Lisle was going to say, ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ but the words shrivelled in her throat as she realised there was very little if anything that Jake Allard wouldn’t dare.
‘Very wise,’ he approved sardonically, reading her sudden silence with perfect accuracy. ‘What a tragedy you weren’t the man of the family. You have an infinitely better nose for danger than Gerard has. Now come on. Mrs Peterson promised she’d have supper waiting for us whatever time we got there.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she’s had her orders,’ Lisle said scornfully. ‘But don’t you think you’re being a little premature—coming on like the master of all you survey? You’re not in the driving seat yet.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he said silkily. ‘But when I am, my copper-haired vixen, you’re going to be the first one to know.’
Lisle tossed her head angrily, and giving him a look in which frustrated rebellion and sheer venom were mixed about equally, went ahead of him into the darkness.
The Priory was only a few miles’ drive away, and as the car drew up on the gravelled sweep in front of the house, Lisle could see the massive double doors already opening to reveal Mrs Peterson’s anxious figure in the stream of light from the hall.
‘Oh, Miss Lisle!’ Mrs Peterson’s arms clasped her to her ample bosom. ‘What a homecoming for you, my dear! But he’ll get over it, don’t you fret. He’ll see us all out, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Lisle smiled faintly as she kissed the plump cheek. ‘Sister says he’s a bonny fighter, Petey.’
‘Hasn’t he always been?’ Mrs Peterson smiled at Jake. ‘Good evening, sir, and thank you for bringing her. I’ve laid supper in the small dining room—it’s cosier for two. I’ll go and see to the soup while Peterson takes Miss Lisle’s case up to her room.’
Lisle had been about to intervene, and say she couldn’t eat a thing and would prefer to go straight to her room, but at the mention of soup, hunger betrayed her. She knew Petey’s soups of old, made from bone and marrow stock and thick with fresh vegetables. Even Jake’s presence across the table couldn’t take the edge off such delights, she thought, realising how empty she was. No wonder, really. All she’d consumed since a light lunch had been a gin and tonic, a few canapés, and a cup of coffee at the hospital.
She washed and tidied her hair in the downstairs cloakroom, but left her face innocent of make-up. The last thing she wanted was Jake Allard to think she was employing any deliberate arts to attract him.
When she went into the drawing room, he was standing in front of the log fire, whisky and soda in hand. He said, ‘May I get you something?’
‘The perfect host,’ she said on a jeering note. ‘No, thanks.’ Alcohol might help her to relax, she thought, but it was more important to keep all her wits about her.
He said, ‘You have a very beautiful home.’
‘Indeed I have,’ she agreed. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t persuaded Grandfather to sell it to you, along with everything else.’
Jake looked amused. ‘I still might.’
‘No, you won’t,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘The Priory comes to me in Grandfather’s will. Gerard gets his collection of pictures, the London flat and half the money. He showed us both when he drew the will up a few years ago.’
His brows rose in mocking acknowledgment. ‘Very businesslike. And how reassuring to know exactly where you stand.’
‘Indeed it is.’ Lisle drew a deep breath. ‘And I hope I don’t have to inherit for at least ten years, if not twenty.’
The mockery was wiped away. He said soberly, ‘I wouldn’t count on it, Lisle.’
‘Don’t say that.’ She shook her head in violent negation.
‘Like you, I hope he lives for ever,’ he said quietly. ‘But we need to be realistic.’
She didn’t want realism. She wanted the comfort and reassurance that her grandfather had represented since she was a small child. Without him, she thought confusedly, she would be totally bereft. If the worst did happen, she would leave London and come to live here in the house she loved. Her inheritance should ensure an adequate income, and she could live within it as long as she wasn’t extravagant. She wouldn’t really regret the loss of her job in the public relations department at Harlow Bannerman. She hadn’t been a roaring success there, although she’d often felt she might have been if she’d only been given a chance. But nothing exacting, nothing that might stretch her mind and get the best out of her had ever come her way. The Bannerman name had always been there like a barrier. They had treated her like an unpredictable toddler, treading warily round her, and feeding her the odd unimportant sweet to keep her quiet. They had written her off as useless before she had even got there, she thought resentfully, and no one had ever bothered to discover what her capabilities were since.
She thought, without surprise, that it was probably from the PR department that the rumours about her sexual favours to customers had first emanated. She couldn’t pretend that she was the flavour of the month with many of her colleagues. In fact, she heard herself described as ‘Lady Muck’ on more than one occasion when they thought she was out of the way. At the time, it had hurt, but she had made herself laugh it off. She was Lisle Bannerman, and nothing they could say could touch her.
Only now she knew differently. Mud had been thrown, and some of it had stuck as it had a habit of doing. The kind of things which had been said about her, the kind of implications which had been drawn from her behaviour made her feel unclean, and the thought that some of these vile rumours had found their way back to her grandfather and distressed him was intolerable. Yet he had never uttered one word of warning or reproach, she thought numbly.
Mrs Peterson’s soup was everything she had remembered and more, and the cold roast chicken which followed was accompanied by a salad made infinitely
