big and old before.’
One of the bonuses of those long-ago car maintenance classes had been that she’d got to drive a lot. None of those cars had been an aristocratic Rolls, but they had been old and cranky—and some of them had been very big. She had no doubt that she could move the car without demolishing the picture-postcard corner.
She was right.
The Rolls came gently to rest in front of the café. The audience at the tables gave a small, polite round of applause. The rest of the crowd dispersed now the fun was over. The young man recovered his temper and thrust out a hand.
‘How did you do that?’ he said, in what appeared to be genuine awe. And, before she could answer, ‘Crispin Taylor-Harrod. Oh, boy, did you save my bacon. Can I buy you a drink?’
Jo accepted coffee. Soon she was sitting beside him in the sunshine, sipping the headily fragrant stuff that bore no relation at all to the mid-morning brew of her last employer.
‘What a bit of luck, bumping into you. I knew it was no good calling the garage to come and help. Old Brassens hates driving anything with right-hand drive. What are you doing round here?’
Jo told him. Well, not everything, obviously. Nothing that would put Mark or the Sauveterres at risk if Carol and Brian had organised pursuit. Just enough to make pleasant conversation in the sunshine before she went back to the serious business of tracking down a living wage.
Crispin frowned when she finished. ‘You want a job? Seriously?’
‘Yes,’ said Jo simply.
‘And you don’t mind what you do?’
‘No. Well,’ she amended hurriedly, ‘within reason. No gogo dancing, no brain surgery.’
He laughed, but his eyes were narrowed as if he were thinking deeply.
‘And you know about old cars?’
Jo was taken aback. ‘I know about old bangers. Nothing in the league of a Roller.’
He dismissed that with a wave of the hand. ‘Yes, but you know about gearsticks and double de-clutching and stuff. You could drive them if you had to move them in and out of a garage, say?’
Jo agreed gravely that she did and she could.
‘Do you like cars?’ He sounded as if it were virtually impossible.
Jo thought about it. ‘Yes, on the whole. They don’t make promises and they don’t let you down unless they can’t help it. They don’t spring many surprises as long as you look after them.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Would you like to?’
‘Like to what?’
‘Look after them?’
‘Look after—’ She broke off, staring at the gleaming aristocrat parked in front of the café. ‘Them? How many Rollers do you have, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Not me. My brother, Patrick. He has a collection.’
‘Well, if he’s a collector he must want to look after them himself.’
‘Inherited,’ said Crispin simply. ‘He’s going to sell them all. He told me to come here and take a look. He’s got some expert coming from Rouen to put the cars back into running order. I’m supposed to be his little helper on the spot. But—well, it’s not really my bag, and I’ve had an invitation to do some sailing up the coast of Spain. So I wondered…’ He looked at Jo speculatively. ‘I’d pay you.’
‘I’m not qualified,’ protested Jo.
Crispin laughed heartily. ‘Good Lord, neither am I. You just have to book in the experts and take notes. I’ve got all the contact details. And it would get me out of prison.’
‘Prison!’
But prison in Crispin Taylor-Harrod’s terms turned out to be a fifteenth-century château, complete with turrets and a world-famous garden, albeit run down. The trouble was…
‘It’s miles from anywhere. No girls.’
Also no transport, no nightclubs, no bands.
‘And my mate Leo has asked me on a boat which is wall-to-wall babes in bikinis,’ said Crispin dreamily. ‘Sex and sangria—that’s what I need. Bit of beach life. Not a load of rusting radiators that haven’t been out on the public road in twenty years.’
‘It seems to me,’ said Jo, torn between laughter and the first stirrings of hope, ‘that you weren’t the ideal choice for the job.’
Crispin grinned unrepentantly. ‘Ah, but I came first. There was a bit of unpleasantness at college, and my mother threw me out. My brother Patrick said I could come here and do something useful. But what he really meant was stay out of trouble and do some revising.’
‘You can’t pay me to do that,’ said Jo, disappointed.
‘Oh, I’ve done all the revising. Nanny Morrison saw to that.’ He tapped his teeth with the little coffee spoon. ‘And now I want to get me some trouble before it’s too late and I have to go back to school.’ His face fell suddenly. ‘Nanny Morrison. I’d forgotten. Blast and botheration.’
‘What?’
‘My brother Patrick doesn’t employ women,’ said Crispin simply. ‘On principle. Nanny doesn’t count. But nothing under fifty need apply.’
‘That’s illegal,’ said Jo, affronted.
Crispin shrugged. ‘Patrick’s house. Patrick’s law.’
Jo bristled. ‘Nobody is above the law.’
Crispin gave a crack of laughter. ‘You should meet my brother Patrick.’
‘He sounds extremely arrogant,’ she said crushingly.
‘Yup. Arrogant, bullying, absolutely no feeling for a young man in his prime, and a hotshot wizard at just about everything.’
‘Revolting,’ she said, from the heart.
‘Yes, but he’s a good guy really,’ said Crispin, changing tack with surprising suddenness. ‘He likes his own way, but he’s not mean with it. Last year he was up for some big award—the Ajax Prize, or something—and when he got it my ma wanted him to go off with a load of big cheeses to celebrate. But he said he didn’t get to the States often and he wanted to spend time with his brother. So he came out clubbing with me and the boys instead.’ He smiled reminiscently. Then his face darkened. ‘Pulled all the talent in sight, too. Me and the boys didn’t stand a chance.’
Jo sniffed. Patrick Taylor-Harrod could be a love god in person. She would still detest him. His stupid prejudice stood between her and the job of a lifetime.
‘But it’s so unfair. I could do this job.’
‘Well, nobody argues with Patrick,’ said Crispin fatalistically. ‘Nanny Morrison
