The Judas Trap Read online

  Harlequin is proud to present a fabulous

  collection of fantastic novels by

  bestselling, much loved author

  ANNE MATHER

  Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

  publishing industry, having written over one hundred

  and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

  forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

  This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

  for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

  passionate writing has given.

  We are sure you will love them all!

  I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

  I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

  These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

  We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

  The Judas Trap

  Anne Mather

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT WAS certainly remote—Diane had been right about that. Remote and unfamiliar, and undeniably beautiful. In spite of the narrow roads and the high hedges, which gave her a claustrophobic feeling at times, the glimpses of the ocean she saw below the headland were as wild and as blue as she could have imagined. When she opened the car window the air smelt unmistakably of salt, but it was still chilly, and she was glad to close it again.

  Sara had never been to Cornwall before; in fact, she had never been further west than Bristol. She had spent her holidays in Spain and Italy, the certainty of good weather inspiring more enthusiasm than the tourist resorts of her own country. Besides, she had never cared for those regular pictures of bumper-to-bumper traffic streaming into the West Country on every Bank and public holiday. Instead, she had gone abroad to some equally busy spot, the difference being that she could complete her journey in one easy stage—and avoid over-excitement.

  This was different. This was escape. And she was fast learning there was still a part of England where the demands of the automobile did not hold sway. The villages she had passed did not cater to the tourist’s needs, nor did they seek to detain the passing motorist. On the contrary, she had felt a sense of intrusion, of being a trespasser into a world where she was the interloper, a strangely alien world that was as remote from London as it was possible to be.

  It was strange to think that Diane Tregower had been born here, not in this particular spot, but in Falmouth, which was not so many miles away. Who would have dreamed that the daughter of a fisherman could aspire to such heights, could leave the quiet harbour town where she had grown to womanhood, and become one of the most sought-after actresses on the London stage? It was unusual, and unexpected, but life was sometimes like that. Her husband must have cursed the day he invited the famous producer Lance Wilmer, filming in the area, to dinner at Ravens Mill, and set in motion the events which were to end so disastrously.

  Sara shivered. Poor Adam! He must have gone through hell knowing what Diane and Lance had become to one another, and then losing his sight like that…It was terrible, and humiliating somehow, recalling his eventual reconciliation to their affair, and his subsequent plea to Diane to continue to regard Ravens Mill as her home.

  Not that she had ever taken him up on it. In the seven years since their separation she had seen him only once, and that was when he was in hospital, recovering from the accident which robbed him of his sight. She might not have seen him then, but Lance had insisted on it, Diane had told Sara, relating what a story it had made for the press.

  ‘It was quite a poignant little scene,’ she had said, with a slight curl to her lips, and Sara had marvelled that anyone who could portray such convincing emotion in public should in reality feel so little. Diane had no real sympathy, no compassion for the man she had married when she was sixteen and left without a qualm five years later, and it was doubtful whether her involvement with Lance Wilmer was anything more than a means to an end. Diane was ambitious, she had always been ambitious, and an innate aptitude for mimicry with a natural ability to act had given her the confidence she needed. The fact that she was also a very beautiful woman in no way detracted from the undoubted talent she possessed, and with Wilmer’s backing she had been an immediate success.

  Sara’s slim fingers felt clammy against the steering wheel as a signpost warned her that the miles between herself and Ravens Mill had narrowed to single figures. Calm down, she thought. It’s only a house. A nice house with, according to Diane, a magnificent view of the Atlantic Ocean. A lonely house, a quiet house, a retreat, where she could go and soothe her own shattered emotions, sure in the knowledge that no one who knew her would guess where she had gone.

  It had been Diane’s idea, of course. The house was standing empty, she said, virtually unused, Adam having abandoned his lonely vigil years ago to live in a warmer climate. He had inherited a villa in Portugal, she had explained vaguely, not specifying why or from whom, and since the Tregowers, like everyone else, were feeling the pinch, it was cheaper and easier to live out of the country.

  Sara knew that the Tregowers had once been a wealthy family. Their money had financed the now-crumbling tin mines, and compared to Diane’s lot as the eldest daughter in a family of seven children, marriage to Adam Tregower had been quite an achievement. Sara could only assume that the man had been dazzled by Diane’s beauty, for he had been more than ten years older than she was, and obviously more sophisticated. But marry her he had, and as his own parents were dead there had been no one to offer any objections.

  The road was winding round the headland now, and below the labouring engine of the Mini the ground fell away to the ragged rocks that scarred the coastline. Surging white foam gave a lacy illusion of innocence to jagged crags which, as the tide fell away, revealed themselves as savage denizens of this wild and beautiful shore. It was bleak and desolate, cruel even, but its very isolation appealed to Sara’s mood. Diane had been right when she said she could find release here, away from the rough and tumble of everyday living, and Sara was grateful for whatev
er grain of compassion had compelled the woman to offer her the house for the two weeks she could afford to stay.

  Sara’s relationship with Diane Tregower was a curious one. As an editor in a small publishing house, she had few opportunities to meet members of the theatre world, but Lance Wilmer was her father’s cousin, and occasionally, if he needed an extra guest for his dinner parties, he invited Sara along to make up the numbers. It was on one such occasion, at the beginning of their relationship, that Sara had been introduced to Diane Tregower.

  From the start Diane had been attracted to her. The fact that Sara’s blonde good looks had appeared like a pale copy of herself might have had something to do with it, or maybe her weakness had aroused her sympathy, or perhaps at that time Diane had been feeling a little unsure of herself, and Sara’s evident admiration had been a salve to her ego. Whatever the reasons, they had become friends, and Sara, seven years her junior, became her sometimes unwilling confidante. Yet for all that, she was fond of Diane, although her attempts to interfere with Sara’s life were not always welcome. Even so, it was Diane who had revealed Tony in his true colours, and Diane who had arranged for her to get away on her own for a while…

  Her jaw shook for a moment at the remembrance of that particular revelation. She had not been able to believe it at first. Tony had seemed so sure of himself, of his love for her, he had told her so a dozen times. They had even discussed getting married. But then Diane had accidentally mentioned that Sara had a heart condition, and Tony had started finding excuses why they could not meet…

  A few drops of rain speckled the windscreen, and determinedly she thrust her disturbing thoughts aside and concentrated on the road ahead. They were descending now, a hazardous hairpin descent towards a cluster of cottages that appeared to be clinging to the cliff-face above a rocky inlet. Nearer, she could see a harbour wall, and fishing boats drawn within its sheltering arm, and then the road was ascending again towards a headland where, through the now driving rain, she could see a house standing alone and unguarded.

  It had to be Ravens Mill, she realised, the thought banishing her earlier depression from her mind. Diane had described the area in some detail, and it fitted exactly her description of bleakness and isolation. What Diane had not told her was its size, and its formidable appearance, and she gazed in trepidation at the stark stone walls that rose above her.

  A stone gateway gave access to a weed-strewn drive that had to lead to the house, and pulling her mouth down at the corners, Sara stood on her brakes. This wasn’t the sort of place one could spend a couple of weeks in privacy, this was no country cottage where one might regain one’s peace of mind, she thought in dismay. It was a country seat, a family pile, the kind of place where half a dozen servants were needed just to keep down the dust. Diane had given her her key, and picturing a house of reasonable proportions, Sara had equipped herself with a sleeping bag for using until she had tidied the place out and aired bedding, etc, but that seemed ludicrous now. Diane had said a Mrs Penworthy came in now and then to open windows and so on, but sitting there, Sara began to doubt the truth of that statement. Did one open up such a place, just for airing? Could one? There would be so many rooms—reception rooms, sitting rooms, dining rooms, bedrooms…

  Hunching her shoulders, she looked at the square masculine watch on her narrow wrist. It was already after five. It would be dark in a couple of hours, and although she did not look forward to driving back to the nearest town over those roads in this weather, the prospect of spending the night alone in this gloomy mansion did not appeal.

  Glancing behind her, she surveyed the pile of baggage that overloaded the back seat of the Mini and spilled on to the floor. As well as her sleeping bag and pillows there were suitcases containing her clothes, fresh linen and food enough for a couple of days—and the briefcase containing the first draft of her novel. Compressing her lips, she sighed. The book—it was an adventure story for children—needed a lot of work, but in her professional opinion it had the makings of a publishable novel. She had planned to re-write it during these unexpected weeks of freedom. It had been her goal and, she hoped, her salvation, and maybe, with a published book behind her, she would have more confidence in herself and her future.

  She shifted round again in her seat. If she left now, she would never re-write the book: she was sure of that. Back in London, work would overtake her, no matter how understanding her boss had been in allowing her to take her holiday so early, and there was always the possibility that she would give in to phoning Tony again and lose what little self-respect she had.

  The storm suddenly dispersed as quickly as it had appeared, and a watery sun filtered through the clouds. April showers, thought Sara wryly, watching the amber rays strike gold on blank panes. The upper floors of the house were visible between the yews that marked the drive, and on impulse she decided to take a look. After all, it was foolish coming all this way without even venturing inside, and now that the sun had come out its aspect was so much less forbidding. On the contrary, Sara could see that with care and attention Ravens Mill could become a most attractive dwelling place, and she could well imagine Diane’s sense of triumph when she first became mistress of the house.

  The drive had a slight curve that successfully cut off any prying eyes from the road, but the lodge that stood at its gates was unoccupied. Someone, perhaps the boys from the village, had broken several of the windows in the lodge, but so far the house seemed to have avoided accident.

  The gravel of the drive itself sprouted weeds and crab grass, and the yews, left untended, had lost all shape and design. The lawns, that had once swept to the edge of the cliff itself, were no less neglected, and only a scythe would make any impression on such rampant vegetation.

  Blinds were drawn at all the windows at the front of the house, and Sara thought, rather imaginatively, that it seemed to be presenting a guarded face to the world. It was a shame that no one could afford to live here any more, she reflected, wondering if there was anything more melancholy than an empty house.

  She stopped the Mini, switched off the engine, and climbed out. Immediately the chill wind off the ocean caught her breath, and she quickly reached into the car for the jacket of her jersey pants suit which she had discarded during the journey. Pulling it on over the matching brown silk shirt, she was glad of its high collar and the warmth it engendered as she rummaged in her handbag for the key Diane had given her.

  The heavy studded door swung inward surprisingly easily on its hinges as she inserted the key, with none of the creaking and groaning she had been expecting. Half smiling at her own ghoulish imagination, she saw with relief that the sun was filtering through the blinds that shuttered the windows on either side of the door, and she was able to close it against the elements without fear of being unable to see. Nevertheless, she opened one of the blinds as soon as the door was shut, and looked about her with less confidence than curiosity.

  She was standing in the hall of the house, she saw, with an enormously high ceiling arching away above her head. Directly ahead of her, twin staircases curved to a central flight that rose to the first floor, and in the dust-moted shafts of sunlight she could see the square portrait of a man that faced the first floor landing. To right and left, closed doors indicated the sitting rooms and drawing rooms that Sara had envisaged, while in the well of the stairs, a square oak chest shone with the patina of years. Shone…

  Sara’s eyes widened, then she blinked. She had not really noticed before, but now she came to think of it, the place was surprisingly clean considering that no one was living there. Looking down at the polished wooden floor at her feet, strewn with rugs in a variety of shades and colours, she realised it, too, was well polished, and the faint smell that rose to her nostrils was that of beeswax.

  A sense of unease rose inside her. Either Mrs Penworthy was as worthy as her name suggested, or Diane was wrong about the house being uninhabited. What if Adam, like his wife, had offered the place to a friend? What if
right now, the present inhabitants of the house were out for the afternoon, visiting other friends or shopping…

  Her immediate impulse to flee was stifled. Surely if anyone was living in the house, they would have opened the blinds? Besides, wouldn’t Diane have known if her husband was back in England? She wouldn’t have sent her, Sara, down here if there was the remotest chance that Adam was back in the country, would she?

  Her heart slowing its quickened beat a little, she tried to think coherently. After all, Diane had known she was coming down here, and what more natural but that she should ask this Mrs Penworthy, whoever she was, to come in and tidy round in readiness? Surely that was the only explanation, and justification in fact for her decision to come and investigate. If she had turned round and left without even entering the building, she would never have known the trouble that lady had gone to on her behalf, and she assured herself that she ought to be honoured to be treated in this way. A wave of warmth towards Diane engulfed her. It had been kind of her to go to all this trouble. Uncharacteristically so, remembering the callous way she had denounced Tony’s behaviour. How could she in all conscience turn it down?

  ‘So you came, Diane!’

  The deep masculine voice that riveted her to the spot came from an opened doorway to the right of the hall. It was a leather-studded door, the kind of door that indicated its usage beyond, and until that moment had scarcely imprinted itself on Sara’s mind. A library, or a study, she had registered in passing, and moved on to other things.

  But now the door stood wide, and a man was standing in the aperture, the dim light behind him hardly illuminating his still form. A tall man, with a lean body, and straight dark hair that fell smoothly across his forehead. His features were vaguely distinguishable—high cheekbones, a prominent nose, a thin-lipped mouth—but it was not these characteristics she recognised. She had seen pictures of Adam Tregower, and she had no doubt that this was he, but it was his motionlessness that identified him for her—that, and the dark glasses he wore, and the drawn blinds behind him. What would a blind man want with sunlight?