accommodation in London being so hard to come by, he was able to charge more or less what he wanted for her appalling room, and she knew that if she didn’t produce the money within a very short space of time he would have no compunction at all in evicting her. She had the money but, once it was gone, what would happen to her then? She could manage this quarter, possibly the next quarter’s rent, but after that …
Her solicitor was clearing his throat nervously and playing with the papers stacked untidily all over his desk. A cloud of dust rose from some of them, and Lark grimaced faintly. The office looked as though it could do with a good clean; there was grime on the windows and a film of dust on top of the filing cabinet.
‘Er … I asked you to come in this morning, because I’ve been … er … approached by …’ He stopped talking and fiddled again with the papers, ducking his head as though he wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say.
‘Yes?’ Lark prompted him.
‘Yes … an old client of mine, a widow whose husband has left her very, very comfortably circumstanced … She … um … she’s the chairwoman of a small private charity, and she’s looking for a young woman to help her with her paperwork. She wants somebody who would be prepared to live in. She’s based in London, but spends some time in Boston. She is herself actually an American who was married to an Englishman.’
Lark frowned, not quite sure what the point of his long, rambling statement was, until he looked at her and said rather nervously, ‘It occurred to me that such a position might suit you, Miss Cummings. I know you … er … had to leave your previous post.’
Lark stared at him, unable to believe her ears. Here she was worrying about how on earth she was ever going to find another job, and right out of the blue she was being offered one which, by the sound of it, also included accommodation. Or perhaps she had misunderstood him. She looked at him and said firmly, ‘Are you sure about this? Would she want me under the circumstances, or doesn’t she know?’
‘Oh, yes, yes, she knows all about you,’ he hastened to reassure her. ‘Yes, she seemed most keen to interview you. She said you sounded just exactly what she had been looking for.’
It sounded too good to be true. Lark didn’t move in the sort of circles where elderly ladies still employed live-in companions, but she was widely read and knew all about the pitfalls of such employment. Perhaps she would be expected to work twenty-four hours a day for nothing more than a pittance and her food. Before she could actually voice these fears, her solicitor went on hurriedly, ‘The salary is excellent—really, very generous, and of course there will be no living expenses. All those will be included. Mrs Mayers always travels first class, and she assured me that when she travels you will travel with her.’
Lark raised her eyebrows and asked enquiringly, ‘And does the charity pay for all this first-class travel?’
Her solicitor looked shocked. ‘Oh, no, no, certainly not! As I’ve already told you, Mrs Mayers is independently wealthy. She’s charming, quite charming, and you really are a very fortunate young woman in being offered such a post.’
Lark frowned, a little puzzled by his attitude. Initially she had gained the impression that he had been the one to recommend her for the job, and yet now it sounded as though he had doubts about her suitability. She was just about to question him further when his telephone rang. He picked it up, covered the mouthpiece and pushed a piece of paper over to her.
‘That’s the address,’ he told her. ‘I’ve arranged an interview for you for two-thirty this afternoon, although I don’t think you’ll have any problems. Mrs Mayers is quite convinced that you’ll suit her.’
He turned away from her when he spoke into the telephone, making it plain that he expected her to leave. Feeling rather bemused, Lark did so. When she had come to see him this morning, the very last thing she had expected was the offer of a job—especially not one that sounded almost too like a fairy-tale, and too good to be true.
It probably was too good to be true, she admitted as she walked down three flights of stairs and out into the cool air. Although officially it was spring, it was still almost cold enough to be winter, the trees barely in bud. She shivered beneath the cold wind, wishing she could afford to go and sit somewhere warm and order herself a decent meal.
No cooking was allowed in the bedsits, but in reality all the tenants had their own small gas or electric rings. Hers was tiny and only really fit for heating up a can of soup or the odd tin of beans, neither of which was particularly tempting at the moment.
She was hungry, but lunch was a luxury she could no longer really afford. Would this Mrs Mayers really want to employ her? The salary her solicitor had mentioned had indeed been generous, far more generous than the amount she had been receiving with the PR company.
She had tried to ask him what her duties would be, but he had been very vague on the subject, saying that Mrs Mayers would explain everything to her. She felt oddly reluctant to go for the interview, which was ridiculous under the circumstances. Had the ordeal of the last few months scarred her so much that she was actually afraid of meeting new people? Afraid of seeing in their eyes the dislike and contempt she had already seen in so many people’s eyes, including those of James Wolfe?
James Wolfe—there he was again, back in her thoughts. How on earth had he managed to get there, and how on earth was she going to get rid of him?
He had absolutely no right to keep on pushing his way into her life, into her mind, into her thoughts, she thought distractedly as she hurried down the street. It was barely twelve o’clock; two and a half hours before she needed to attend her appointment, but it was on the other side of London in St John’s Wood …
Lark stood outside a pretty little Victorian villa that some rich man had probably built for his mistress. There was a time when St John’s Wood had been notorious for such dwellings. Now, of course, it was eminently respectable and an area to which only the extremely wealthy could aspire.
Her particular destination was set behind a high wall. Lark tried the gates and then realised that they were locked. A discreet metal plaque set into one of the brick pillars startled her by bursting into speech.
‘Do come in, Miss Cummings. We’ve unlocked the gates for you now.’ The woman’s voice was late middle-aged rather than elderly, pleasant, with more than just a hint of warmth. Had she heard it in any other circumstances, Lark would have felt immediately drawn to its owner. As it was she felt too nervous, too on edge to do anything than give a startled glance at the gates and then try them again.
This time, of course, they opened. The front garden was large by London standards. Early shrubs were just beginning to burst into blossom against the walls, crocuses were dotted here and there on the smooth green lawn. Despite its very obvious elegance, the house had an almost comfortable air about it.
A dark blue Rolls-Royce was parked discreetly to one side of the front door. Was she supposed to go to the front door, or should she go round the back? Lark wondered bemusedly. It was the kind of house that made one start thinking about such things. Her dilemma was solved for her when the front door opened.
She walked into the parquet-floored hall, and was immediately struck by the pleasant scent of sandalwood which greeted her.
‘Ah, I’m glad you like it. Some people don’t. I can’t understand why, can you? It always makes me think of sailing ships and the China seas, possibly because originally sandalwood was from the Orient. Oh, dear me, please excuse my chatter, I’m always like this when
