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As head of a home construction company-Painless Homes with Gordon Payne—and a member of the local shire council, he was a man of considerable standing in the community. Ashley had thought him a valuable business client, someone who would direct others to her agency if her service satisfied him. After hearing the dismissed secretary’s story earlier this afternoon, she had decided then and there to cut him from her files, regardless of cost or consequences.
She was still inwardly fuming over the treatment that this pompous pain of a man had dished out to a young woman whom any sensible employer would cherish. Cheryn Kimball was too good for him. That was the problem.
Cheryn was not only highly qualified in all the areas Gordon Payne had demanded, she presented herself with style and polish and had a natural charm of manner that would endear her to most people. She had been traumatised, reduced to floods of tears by the unjust haranguing and arbitrary dismissal over doing what she believed to be her job.
‘And I don’t want a woman who talks back at me!’ the monster ego raged.
That hit a particularly raw point with Ashley. Roger had felt he had the right to silence her by icily declaring, ‘I am the head of this house!’ What was she supposed to have been? The tail? The feet running after him all the time? She had discovered, too late, there were only one-way streets with Roger.
Ashley barely stopped herself from glowering at Gordon Payne. What he wanted was a mechanical robot programmed to toadying submission. Yes, master. At your service, master. Whatever you say, master.
The warm indulgence he had displayed towards his previous long-time secretary was explained in Cheryn’s report. The woman had been mollycoddling him for the past twenty years. Even though she had retired, she had ‘dropped in’ at the office each day this week to ‘break Cheryn in to the way dear Gordon likes things done,’ and deliberately, jealously undermined Cheryn’s confidence in her position and abilities.
Just like Roger’s mother.
Ashley shuddered.
Roger’s mother had considered herself a cut above everyone else since she was supposedly connected to some great line of landed gentry in Britain. Such pretensions had obviously contributed to Roger’s sense of superiority. Her condescending manner had been a constant burr under Ashley’s skin.
She hadn’t wished Roger and his mother dead. She had made up her mind to divorce both of them. The fight for freedom had just begun when fate intervened and released her from the trauma of battling a custody case over William.
Of course, any reasonable person wouldn’t have tried to drive across a bridge that was partly submerged by torrential floodwaters. Roger hadn’t liked being beaten by anything. He and his mother had been swept away by a force bigger than both of them. They had probably drowned with a sense of outrage that such a thing could have happened.
Now here was this odious man reminding her of all she had put behind her. She wished she could wave a magic wand and give him a taste of servitude under someone like himself. Unfortunately her power of reprisal was strictly limited to a figurative kick out the door.
‘I won’t be paying your commission until you find me a suitable secretary,’ was the predictable ultimatum. ‘And I want someone in the office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning to get on with the work. A temporary will have to do until you come up with the right person.’
‘I’m sorry you’ve been disappointed, Mr. Payne,’ Ashley said coolly, ‘but may I remind you that our contract was for me to supply you with three interviewees with the qualifications you listed. I did so. You chose Miss Kimball. You owe me five hundred dollars, and I expect to be paid.’
‘You guaranteed satisfaction,’ he answered angrily.
‘You specified initiative as one of the qualities you required, Mr. Payne. Miss Kimball believed she was saving you the embarrassment of sending out grammatically incorrect letters. Many employers would value such care, knowledge and attention applied to their correspondence.’
That stung him. ‘I tell you she got it wrong!’ Gordon Payne’s face developed angry red patches. ‘When I specified initiative I meant for her to supply me with what I needed, when I needed it, without having to ask all the time. She failed that, too!’
‘There is a difference between initiative and mindreading, Mr. Payne. I do have a reader of tarot cards and a magician in my files, but I don’t have any clairvoyants or mind-readers. Not amongst those seeking either permanent or temporary employment. I suggest you try some other agency.’
The red patches deepened to burning blotches. He stood up, using his size to intimidate. He was a bullish figure of a man, short-necked, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested. His rather fleshy features were framed by crinkly brown hair, giving him a deceptively boyish look for a man in his forties. There was a mean glitter in his dark eyes.
‘Don’t get smart with me, Mrs. Harcourt,’ he snarled. ‘I hold a position of influence in this town. I could do you a lot of good.’
The threat that he could also do her a lot of damage was left hanging, unspoken but clearly implied.
Ashley was on the petite side, below average height, delicately boned, slim-framed. She achieved what she hoped was a mature and dignified stature by wearing smartly tailored business suits and pinning her long blond hair into a French pleat, but her appearance was essentially dainty and feminine.
Gordon Payne undoubtedly thought he could make mincemeat out of her and eat her for breakfast. What he didn’t know was she was one hundred per cent steel-proofed against being bullied into anything she didn’t want to do. If he’d looked more closely he might have seen some sign of that in the flintlike directness of her wide grey eyes.
She remained seated. This was her office, her home, her castle, and no-one was going to shift her from the position she had established for herself. ‘I appreciate the offer, Mr. Payne,’ she said calmly. ‘I regret I can’t return the favour. I’ve already done my best for you.’
He pressed the knuckles of one hand on her desk and leaned forward, his chin stuck out pugnaciously. ‘You don’t know what side your bread is buttered on, Mrs. Harcourt. You have wasted a great deal of my time, with no satisfactory result, and I expect you to make up for it.’
‘How do you suggest I do that, Mr. Payne?’
‘By supplying me with temporaries until you come up with a permanent who’s satisfactory to my needs.’
‘That was not part of our agreement,’ she stated decisively. ‘I have advised you that I cannot satisfy your new requirements and suggested you try another agency. Our business together is concluded, Mr. Payne.’
He glared at her as though he couldn’t believe his ears.
Ashley pushed her chair back and rose smoothly to her feet. ‘I’ll see you out.’
‘Like hell you will! I haven’t finished with you yet.’
He stood his ground belligerently. Ashley had the distinct feeling he would block her path to the door if she skirted the desk and made a beeline for it. A physical confrontation would make him feel superior again. She stood completely still, hoping to defuse the aggression emanating from him.
‘What more do you wish to say, Mr. Payne?’ she enquired blandly.
‘I can do you a lot of harm, Mrs. Harcourt,’ he drawled, relishing the prospect of dealing in fear.
‘Harm is a two-edged sword.’
‘What can you do to me?’ he jeered.
The smugness of the man goaded Ashley into a fighting reply. ‘I have contacts, too, Mr. Payne. I could make sure that no-one will ever want to work for you personally again.’
He gave a derisive laugh. ‘Money will take care of that.’
He was probably right. The power of money to corrupt even the highest principles was well proven. Ashley hated Gordon Payne’s knowing use of it. The urge to knock him off his cocky perch gathered a compelling force as she remembered all the mean power games Roger had played on her.
Withholding money. Withholding use of the car. Demanding an account for everything she did while he didn’t have to account for anything. Let Gordon Payne account for his behaviour, she thought blisteringly, losing all sense of discretion as she went on the attack.
‘Money won’t restore your reputation,’ she asserted cuttingly. ‘When Miss Kimball’s story shows you up as a fool who doesn’t know the English language—’
‘I was right!’
The ugly humour was replaced by ugly fury. Ashley didn’t care. She remorselessly drove the point home.
‘No, Mr. Payne. You could not have been more wrong. You made a clown of yourself by defending the indefensible.’
Naked hatred glittered at her. ‘Think yourself a balltearer, do you? One of those offensive, insulting females who are so envious of men, they’ll do anything to pull them down.’
Ashley’s chin lifted in lofty disdain of his opinion. ‘You’re certainly one of the men who justify the whole feminist movement.’
He sneered. ‘I take it you’re not a merry widow.’ His gaze dropped to her breasts, her waist, her hips, his mouth curling salaciously. ‘What you need is a man to get rid of your screwed-up frustrations.’
‘A typically sexist statement to gloss over your own inadequacies, Mr. Payne.’
That thinned his fleshy lips and snapped his gaze back to hers. ‘Well, we’ll see who turns out to be inadequate, Mrs. Harcourt.’ He picked up her favourite Lladro figurine from the desk. ‘You have a fondness for clowns?’
She held her tongue, momentarily shocked by the malevolent gloating in his eyes. The wonderful clown he held in his hand was a masterpiece of expression, reflecting the sad ironies of life. Because she had stood up to Gordon Payne, it was about to be destroyed. She could see it coming, could do nothing to stop it and knew her adversary relished her helplessness. The realisation that she had been headstrong and foolish in challenging him came too late.
‘I’ll enjoy putting you at the centre of a circus, Mrs. Harcourt. I could start by having this home block of yours rezoned as wetlands. Then, of course, there’s the licence for this agency. Needs investigation for legitimate practice. A visit from an industrial relations officer. A tax audit…’ He lifted her figurine clown to shoulder height, ready to smash it down. ‘This is what’s going to happen to you…’
Ashley hadn’t meant to cry out. She had resolved to suffer the inevitable in silent, contemptuous dignity. Yet an inarticulate croak of protest burst from her throat at the sheer, wanton destructiveness about to be enacted.
‘You called, madam?’ a very English voice enquired.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_e6ab93a7-323d-5a0a-ac9b-a21d2ec719e9)
ASHLEY’S gaze was instantly drawn to the office door, which had been thrust open. Gordon Payne turned to look, too, the hand holding the Lladro clown lowering instinctively with the sudden appearance of a witness. They both stared in stunned silence at the totally unexpected vision of the man in the doorway.
He was not your ordinary, everyday person.
Ashley had never applied the word elegant to a man before, yet it leapt straight into her mind. Elegant, smashingly handsome and subtly dangerous.
He was tall and lean, beautifully dressed in a three-piece suit that had obviously been tailored for him, the smooth sheen of the blue-grey fabric shouting no expense spared. His white silk shirt had a buttoned down collar, and he wore a gorgeous tie in brilliant shades of blue.
His face was no less impressive, a squarish jawline, high cheekbones, straight nose, a perfectly moulded mouth, rakishly arched black eyebrows over the most dynamic blue eyes Ashley had ever seen. His black hair was thick and mostly straight. It was parted on the left side and swept across his high, wide forehead in a dipping wave.
In his right hand he carried a silver-knobbed black walking stick that tapered to a silver tip. He was not using it for support. He held it well below the knob, and his fingers had the long, agile look that suggested he could twiddle the cane much as Fred Astaire had in dancing routines. Or wield it very quickly as a lethal weapon.
He looked to be in his early thirties, but there was a world of knowledge in the eyes that scanned the scene he had thrust himself into with such timely éclat. He gave Ashley a quirky little smile, as though personally inviting her to relax and enjoy the moment. It was oddly intimate, forging an instant connection between them that embraced both understanding and acceptance that he was here for her.
It dazed Ashley. She had never experienced such a mental touch before. Not from a man. He didn’t even know her. They had never met before. She was absolutely certain of that. Yet there was this strange feeling of recognition that he had always been meant to enter her life and play some vital part in it.
‘Would you like me to see the gentleman out, madam?’ he prompted with all the aplomb of a traditional British butler.
Ashley found her voice. ‘Please,’ she said gratefully, not caring from whence he had come, deeply relieved that he was offering to rid her of the menacing presence of an enemy she had recklessly made in unbridled and incautious anger.
‘Who the devil are you?’ Gordon Payne challenged sharply as her rescuer stepped into the room to carry out her request.
‘Cliffton, sir,’ came the lilting, blithe reply. He actually did twiddle the walking cane. In the flash of an eye it was suddenly resting in both his hands. ‘The fortunes of the Harcourt family have been linked to the fortunes of my family for centuries.’
Centuries! Ashley’s mind boggled at the claim. Apart from which, she wasn’t a Harcourt. She had only married one, and not one that was a high recommendation of the name, either. Nevertheless, she was not about to spoil her white knight’s pitch.
‘It is both an honour and a pleasure to be of service once again,’ he continued, smiling affably at Gordon Payne, who seemed mesmerised by Cliffton’s approach. The way he was weaving the cane through his fingers with the dexterity of a magician was definitely having a hypnotic effect.
‘May I, sir?’ The cane was whipped under one arm like a shillelagh and both hands were out to relieve Gordon Payne of the Lladro clown. ‘This piece is more for viewing than touching,’ he advised with the air of an art connoisseur. ‘If I put it back on its stand, I’m sure you’ll appreciate its fine craftmanship better. There’s a line and proportion to these things…there! You see?’
Somehow he’d deftly removed the figurine from Gordon Payne’s grasp and set it on the desk, positioning it perfectly on its rectangular block and giving the clown’s hat an affectionate pat as though it was an old friend.
‘Now, sir, if you wouldn’t mind, sir.’ The cane was flicked into use again, pointing to the door. ‘It is time to take your leave of Mrs. Harcourt. I’ll see you on your way, sir.’
Ashley could almost feel Gordon Payne bristle as he recollected himself. Cliffton had snatched control from him, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. Yet some animal instinct must have warned him to avoid a trial of strength with the English stranger. He shot a last venomous glare at Ashley.
‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’
Then he swung on his heel and marched out, not waiting to be ushered or escorted to the front door of the house. Cliffton, however, dogged his steps, ensuring that he left without playing any malicious havoc with her possessions on his way. Ashley trailed after both of them, drawn to watch the end of a scene she now deeply regretted.
Making an enemy of Gordon Payne could rebound very badly on her. He had far more weapons than she did. It was self-defeating to start a fight she couldn’t win. Hadn’t Roger taught her that, over and over again? If the elegant Englishman had not arrived…Who was he, really? What was he? And why was he here?
She paused in the hallway just outside the office, noticing that he favoured his right leg, a slight limp, reason for the walking stick, yet he executed a smart, skipping sidestep that would have graced any dance floor, beating Gordon Payne to the front door with a deft panache that allowed him to open the door with a flourish.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said with a respectful nod.
Gordon Payne stopped, stiffened and stared at him, flummoxed at being comprehensively outmanoeuvred. All he could manage was a crude snort in reply. Then he shook his shoulders as though dislodging a monkey on his back, propelled his feet forward again and made his exit from Ashley’s house.
Harold Alistair Cliffton closed the door after him on a glorious high of triumphant satisfaction. He had out-butlered George, rescued the fair maiden and polished off the dragon. Maybe he had just found his true vocation in life. Being of service.
On the other hand, Harry suspected his exhilaration had much to do with being of service to Ashley Harcourt. He turned to face her again, aware that she had followed to watch the curtain line of his masterly performance.
The photographs had not done her justice. They hadn’t captured the essence of Ashley Harcourt at all. Harry couldn’t quite put words to that essence, but it was something that sparked an instant response in him, an excitement, a sense of meeting someone special.
The moment their eyes had met…zing! Like an electric charge. He had felt truly alive again. Grey eyes, completely unlike Pen’s soft brown, yet there was something in them that called to him, just as Pen’s had. Perhaps a sureness of who and what she was, a belief in herself.
He wanted to know more about her. He wanted to know everything about her. The idea came to him in an inspired flash. Why not keep on playing the butler? It wasn’t at all difficult. In fact, he was enjoying the role immensely. It also had a great many advantages.
A butler was in the happy position of always being on hand. Installed under the same roof as Ashley Harcourt, he could get to know her very well, indeed. Harry rather relished the idea of putting Ashley to bed at night and waking her up in the morning with steaming hot…coffee. Like George, he’d be Father Confessor, confidant, adviser, helpmate, on the spot to test the waters for other possible attachments.
It allowed him to thoroughly investigate the situation for getting George an heir for Springfield Manor. This could become an extraordinary exploit that would add to the legends already surrounding his illustrious family—how Harry brought the Black Sheep strain back into the fold!
Alternatively, it might eventuate that young William need not fill the position of heir at all. His mother was beginning to inspire a lively set of other possibilities. He wondered how long her silky blonde hair was when unpinned and flowing free. On a pillow.
Ashley remained rooted near the door into the office, studying the extraordinary man who had erupted into her life with sensational effect. Not only with Gordon Payne. She was acutely conscious of a sense of tingly anticipation, as though she knew intuitively that his startling actions were only the forerunner of more startling actions.
He aimed another quirky smile at her, his bright blue eyes twinkling with unholy mischief. He gestured to the door and commented, ‘I thought him a mite touchy.’
Ashley couldn’t help being amused. To describe Gordon Payne as touchy seemed a masterful understatement. ‘I shouldn’t have lost my temper,’ she said with a rueful grimace.
Cliffton looked sympathetic. ‘Touchy people are often aggressive and unpredictable.’
‘It was stupid of me.’
One eyebrow lifted in considering assessment. ‘Perhaps a tad impetuous, madam. Still, there is an arguable case for throwing caution to the winds and letting fly. Gets a load off the chest, so to speak.’
Ashley could barely stop her mouth from twitching. He was so attractive, so…debonair. Another word she had never applied to a man! Not in real life. Her mind drifted to the Scarlet Pimpernel and she hastily pulled it back to a somewhat frayed level of common sense. Don’t forget dangerous, she cautioned herself.
‘What would you have done if he hadn’t let you take the Lladro clown?’ she asked.
‘Broken his wrist most likely,’ came the imperturbable reply. ‘Brings to mind the incident with Good Queen Bess,’ he mused. ‘My ancestor, Hugo, broke the wrist of the Spanish ambassador who presented a gift to the queen, then tried to take it back when she dismissed his king’s request.’
Ashley’s mind slipped again. Spanning centuries seemed quite normal with Cliffton. ‘If you’d done that,’ she said, trying to latch onto something practical, ‘the figurine would have fallen and broken.’
He grinned. ‘Never missed a catch at first slip. I used to play in the first eleven cricket team at school.’
Ashley had no trouble imagining Cliffton being first at a lot of things. But he didn’t seem conceited about it. Nor did he emit an air of superiority. Not like Roger. Whatever his abilities, he simply accepted them as completely natural.
Which brought her back to the questions that needed answering. She couldn’t let this discussion run on as though they were old and intimate friends. Common sense insisted she had to establish who this man was and what he was doing here.
