‘Is this where we’re going to live?’ demanded Robert, voicing the question which had trembled on his mother’s lips, and Logan nodded.
‘Yes. That bungalow directly ahead of us belongs to Madame Fabergé.’
‘And where is our house?’ Robert persisted, but Charlotte again intervened.
‘I expect—Madame Fabergé will explain where we’re going to stay, Robert,’ she told him quellingly, avoiding looking at the man beside her. Then: ‘Now what are you doing?’
Robert grinned. ‘Taking off my sandals. I can’t wait to try the water.’
‘Robert! At least let’s meet my employer first.’
Logan slowed the station wagon as they neared the sand-strewn slope beside the bungalow. ‘Didn’t I explain?’ he asked with deliberate irony: ‘You already did—meet your employer, I mean. I employed you, Mrs Derby. Didn’t I make that clear?’
Charlotte’s lips trembled, and she pressed them together to hide the fact before gasping distractedly: ‘You know you didn’t!’
Logan’s thick lashes shaded his eyes, but his expression was unmistakably smug. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I am. Does it make any difference?’
Charlotte’s breathing felt constricted. ‘You—you—–’ she began chokingly, and then became aware of Robert’s startled eyes watching her. Pressing a hand to her throat, she moved her head in a helpless gesture of defeat, and the station wagon slowed to a halt as a small boy came darting round from the back of the building to meet them. The child’s face was tear-stained, and his tee-shirt and shorts were grubby with sand.
‘Uncle Logan! Uncle Logan!’ he yelled excitedly, and Logan swung out of the vehicle to catch the small figure up in his arms.
‘Olà, Philippe!’ he exclaimed, one long finger tracing the marks of tears on his cheek. ‘What have you been doing now?’
‘Nothing.’ Philippe looked sulky for a moment, and then his attention was attracted by Robert getting out of the back of the station wagon. ‘Who’s that?’
‘That’s Robert,’ answered Logan easily, turning towards the older boy. ‘Perhaps he might be persuaded to play with you sometimes. Providing you remember you are only four years old.’
Robert grinned. ‘Hi, Philippe,’ he said, somewhat self-consciously. ‘How are you?’
Philippe wriggled down from Logan’s arms, surveying the newcomer’s five feet from half that height, and Charlotte deemed it time she made her presence apparent. She pushed open her door and got out just as a plump woman of medium height came down the verandah steps to join them.
It was reasonable to assume that this was Lisette Fabergé. She was carrying a baby of perhaps nine months, a fat little thing wearing nothing but a nappy, and she was obviously in some distress. Her dishevelled appearance matched the dishevelled appearance of her son.
‘Oh, Logan, thank goodness you’re back!’ she exclaimed, with evident relief, ignoring Charlotte standing beside the car and going straight to the man.
Logan turned towards her, sparing a smile for the baby before his concern made itself apparent. Tall and masculine, he dwarfed Lisette, and Charlotte felt an ugly feeling of resentment stirring inside her. So much solicitude for Lisette Fabergé’s widowed state, while she had had to cope alone with the fears of her unwanted pregnancy! Watching Lisette’s fingers curving possessively round the muscular flesh of his forearm, her eyes turned up to him in appeal, made her feel physically sick, and she slammed the car door with unwarranted force.
Immediately Lisette’s wide blue eyes switched in her direction, appraising her and dismissing her in one scornful stare. She was an attractive girl, somewhere around her own age, Charlotte guessed, but there the resemblance ended. For years Charlotte had been accustomed to dressing in styles suitable to the wife of a man with Matthew’s money while Lisette’s clothes were stained and unpressed and obviously cheap. She was not at all the chic Frenchwoman Charlotte had expected.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said indifferently, and Charlotte realised she was not French at all, but English. Then she turned back to Logan. ‘Phil swallowed one of Isabelle’s safety-pins just after you’d left, and I’ve been frantic!’
‘Was it open?’ asked Logan at once, a fleeting trace of resignation crossing his face.
‘I don’t know,’ cried Lisette, and Philippe started to cry again.
Logan crouched down beside the boy. ‘Now stop that,’ he said gently. ‘You must know whether the pin was open or not.’
Philippe sniffed. ‘It wasn’t.’
‘You’re sure about that?’ Philippe nodded, and Logan straightened again. ‘So where’s the problem?’
Lisette’s jaw trembled. ‘He didn’t tell me that!’
‘Didn’t he?’
‘No. He just ran away when I tried to catch him, and Isabelle was screaming for her tea, and—–’
‘—and you shouted at him and frightened him,’ finished Logan patiently. ‘I know.’
‘Oh, Logan, you’re so good with him!’
Charlotte turned away to stare across the stretch of sand to the water’s edge. Dear God, was there no end to her punishment? she wondered bitterly. Eleven years of living with a man she did not love should have been enough for anyone.
Fortunately, Robert was unaware of her feelings. His own thoughts lay in an entirely different direction, and it only took Philippe’s tentative indication towards the ocean to send them both charging across the sand to the water’s edge. Charlotte opened her mouth to call her son, and then closed it again when Logan spoke.
‘This is Mrs Derby, Lisette,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll find her assistance a great help with the children.’
Charlotte turned reluctantly and approached them. Isabelle was wriggling impatiently in her mother’s arms, and glad of anything to divert her awareness of Logan’s penetrating gaze, she held out her arms towards the baby. Isabelle hesitated only a moment before returning the invitation, and with a shrug Lisette dumped the child on to her. Isabelle was wet, among other things, but Charlotte had never liked the cream silk dress she was wearing, and decided ruefully that at least now she had a reason for getting rid of it. She knew Logan was watching her with guarded eyes, but now she felt less vulnerable.
‘I can’t imagine why a woman like you would want to come out here,’ remarked Lisette by way of an opening, obviously as aware of the differences between them as Charlotte was. She was looking down at her own grubby shirt and pants with dislike, clearly favouring the dress Charlotte was so willing to discard.
‘Needs must,’ Charlotte said now, deciding to be honest about that at least.
‘Really?’ Lisette looked sceptical. ‘I would have thought a job was the last thing you’d need.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ replied Charlotte, more easily, pulling Isabelle’s sticky fingers
