this was Penwyth, she mused, trying to keep a sense of perspective. It was certainly imposing, yet apart from viewing the rooftops from a position higher up the valley, she had never been this close before. The tenants never came here, or very seldom anyway. They paid their rents to the estate’s agent, and had no reason to approach the Glyndowers themselves.
Parking the Renault, she quickly pulled down the sun visor above the passenger seat and gave her reflection a critical appraisal in the mirror that was attached. Her nose was not shining and her lipstick was not smudged, but her pupils were slightly dilated. Blinking, to remedy this revealing feature, she tucked the strands of honey-brown hair behind her ears, and wondered if she ought to have worn a skirt instead of slacks. It was too late now to alter this, however, and gathering up her handbag, she opened her door and climbed out.
Drawing the collar of her suede jacket about her ears, she hurried towards the porch, sheltering under the overhang as she rang the bell. It was quite a modern bell, of the press-button variety, but hanging beside it was the iron bell-rope which had once been pulled to gain admittance. Shades of Dickens, she thought ruefully, and then stiffened as the heavy door was opened.
The elderly man who faced her was vaguely familiar. She recognised him from occasions she had seen him about the village. She thought her aunt had told her his name was Morgan, but she couldn’t be sure.
‘Yes miss?’ he enquired now, sparse brows descending. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Oh—yes.’ Catherine glanced round at the downpour which had opened behind her. ‘I—er—I have an appointment with Mr Glyndower. My name is Tempest, Miss Tempest.’
‘Mr Rafe is expecting you, miss?’
‘I believe so.’
Catherine glanced round again, hoping he was not about to keep her waiting on the doorstep. It was cold, as well as wet, and she felt at enough of a disadvantage as it was.
‘You’d better come in, then,’ the butler invited grudgingly, and, relieved, Catherine stepped into the warm mustiness of a hall that was panelled in a dark wood that gleamed with the patina of age. The floor reflected a similar lustre, but the wooden blocks were worn and strewn with rugs. As the door was closed behind her, Catherine heard the distinct chink of glass, and glancing upward, she caught her breath in admiration for the magnificent chandelier suspended overhead. She could imagine it illuminated on a cold winter’s evening, its warming glow reflected in the panelling, and casting shadows on the shallow treads of the staircase that curved along one wall.
‘If you’ll wait here, I’ll see if the master is in his study,’ declared the butler formally, and Catherine hid a smile at the use of the title. The master, she thought, shaking her head. One could get delusions of grandeur for less.
‘Miss Tempest?’
He had come upon her unawares, and she was annoyed. She had intended to control this interview from start to finish. Now, swinging to face him, she was immediately at a disadvantage, shaken by his sudden appearance, and by the immediate attraction she felt towards him. That hadn’t changed, even though she had convinced herself that it must, and she chided herself for allowing a girlish infatuation to effect her so strongly.
‘It is—Catherine Tempest, isn’t it?’ he was saying now, holding out his hand towards her, and despite her misgivings she was forced to take it, hoping he would not associate the dampness of hers with anything more than the weather.
He hadn’t changed. He was still the most disturbing man she had ever met, and as soon as it was possible she snatched her hand away, twisting her fingers together, forcing herself to appear composed. She had known she should not have agreed to conduct this interview, had known her reasons were not wholly altruistic. She had wanted to see him again, to speak to him as an equal, and now she was here, and she felt tongue-tied.
As if aware of her embarrassment, Rafe turned aside then, gesturing towards the open doorway she now saw behind him, inviting her into his study. On unsteady legs, she preceded him into the room, and schooled her features as he closed the leather-covered door behind them.
As he moved behind the square desk that dominated the room, she allowed herself a surreptitious appraisal of the boy who had grown into such an attractive man. Those summer days at Penwyn had never seemed so distant, or her own relationship with him so remote and unreal. He was truly his father’s successor, while she—she was still just the niece of one of his tenants, and no amount of success in her own field would alter that. He was older, of course. There were strands of grey in his dark hair, and the lines beside his mouth were deeply engrained. But his hair was still as thick as it had ever been, and longer than he used to wear it, and his mouth as deeply sensual as his lower lip denoted. He wore casual clothes—moleskin pants that clung to the powerful muscles of his thighs, a black shirt that accentuated the darkness of his skin, evidence of the time he spent outdoors, and a dark green corded jacket, with leather patches at the elbows.
‘Now, Miss Tempest,’ he said, indicating that she should take the leather chair opposite him. ‘Why did you want to see me?’
Catherine made a movement towards the chair, and then stilled. It might be easier standing up, although she sensed his mild impatience when he was obliged to remain standing, too. Clearing her throat, she endeavoured to meet his gaze, and was surprised to find a certain guardedness about his eyes.
‘My uncle asked me to speak to you,’ she said, and then wished she had not put it quite like that. ‘That is—he would have spoken to you himself, but—well, I offered to come.’
‘Did you?’ His dark eyebrows ascended.
‘Yes.’ He wasn’t making it any easier for her. ‘You—you must know why I’m here.’
‘I have a strong suspicion,’ he agreed evenly. Then: ‘Won’t you sit down? I’m sure you’d find it much more comfortable.’
Catherine hesitated only a moment longer before moving forward, albeit reluctantly, to seat herself in the chair he offered. With a sigh of satisfaction, Rafe Glyndower took his own leather armchair, and with long fingers beating a tattoo on its arm, he said: ‘Your uncle wants to know whether any decision has yet been made about the mine.’
Catherine pressed her lips together. ‘Yes.’
He nodded. ‘I guessed as much.’ His fingers stilled.
‘Naturally, he’s worried,’ Catherine justified herself. ‘It is his livelihood—the livelihood of his family. Naturally, he wants to know what’s going on.’
‘Naturally,’ agreed Rafe Glyndower dryly, and she wondered for a moment whether he was mocking her. But his expression was perfectly serious, and in any case, his next words drove all thought of mockery out of her mind. ‘You can tell him that no decision has been made—yet. When I do know anything definite, he’ll be the first to hear.’
‘Thank you.’ There was not much else she could say, even though she had still to voice her own opinion in the matter. ‘I’ll tell him what you’ve said. I know he’ll be relieved.’
‘Good.’ Was there a trace of anger in his voice now? ‘I’m glad to have been of service.’
Was that all? Catherine sought for words to express herself. ‘Do you—that is—do you know when you’ll have something definite to relate?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ He, was
