Hell Or High Water Page 10

  She heard Charles’s car arrive as she was fastening the chain about her neck, and a feeling of anxious apprehension forced her to sink down on to the side of her bed for a minute, to restore her ruffled composure. She knew Charles was hoping to meet Jarret this evening, so that he could compare his reactions with hers, but somehow the prospect of being present at their meeting was something she would rather avoid. She still had not mentioned Vincent’s identity to Jarret, and while she doubted Charles would say anything, there was always the chance that Jarret himself might connect the names. It was fully another five minutes before she descended the stairs, and then it was her mother she encountered first in the hall below.

  ‘So there you are!’ Mrs Chase’s tone was the cool one she had adopted of late. ‘Charles is here and waiting for you. I was just about to come and find you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Helen was polite, and her mother sighed.

  ‘You might have let me know when you got back,’ she added. ‘You were late, weren’t you? It was after six when I heard the car.’

  Helen nodded. ‘I had some book-keeping to do after the shop was closed,’ she explained, reluctant to dissemble but unable to avoid it. ‘I—er—I expect Mr Manning told you I was home.’

  ‘Yes, he did, when I asked him. But I’d prefer not to have to ask about your whereabouts in future.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Helen said the word again, and with an impatient wave of her arm her mother disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

  Charles was alone in the drawing room, pacing short-temperedly before the hearth, obviously annoyed that she had not been there to greet him. Helen, who had expected Jarret to be with him, felt a little put out herself, and her fiancé’s first words did not improve the situation.

  ‘I thought we agreed on seven o’clock!’ he remarked,making no effort to return the tentative kiss she bestowed on his cheek. ‘It’s now nine minutes past the hour, which gives us precisely twenty-one minutes to get to the Arrow-smiths’.’

  Helen stifled her protest, not wanting to argue with him, and said with assumed lightness: ‘I doubt if the Arrow-smiths will turn us away if we arrive at a quarter to eight, Charles. Seven-thirty is just a guideline.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Charles fingered his bow tie, ‘I expect punctuality from other people. The least I can do is try to return it.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so pompous!’ Helen made the retort without really thinking, and instantly regretted it. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but it’s not that important, surely. Besides,’ she glanced behind her apprehensively, ‘I thought you wanted to meet—Jarret Manning.’

  ‘I did. I do.’ Charles lifted his chin, as if his collar was too tight. ‘Only as you can see, the fellow isn’t around.’

  ‘I expect he’s in the library,’ said Helen doubtfully, half wishing Jarret would appear, but he didn’t, and with her mother’s reappearance, Charles said that they were leaving.

  In the hall, however, as her fiancé was helping her on with the lambswool jacket she sometimes wore in the evenings, the library door opened, and Jarret stood looking at them. He hadn’t changed. He was still wearing the black cords and matching waistcoat he had been wearing earlier, the sleeves of his dark blue open-necked shirt turned back over his forearms.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said politely, his smile encompassing all of them, even her mother who was hovering in the background. ‘Are you just leaving?’

  Helen knew it was up to her to perform the introductions, and this she did, watching the reactions of both men with interest, unwillingly aware that despite her fiancé’s more formal attire, Jarret seemed the most self-assured.

  ‘Manning.’ Charles’s greeting was the usual one to someone he considered inferior to himself. ‘Settled in, have you? You’ll find this a very pleasant place to work, I’m sure.’

  Jarret’s eyes had a sardonic gleam and Helen herselfcringed for Charles’s patronising tone. ‘I’m sure I shall, Connaught,’ he responded amiably enough. ‘Particularly when everyone is so friendly. One gets the feeling one is really welcome.’

  ‘Oh, yes, well—’ Charles was not quite sure how to take this. ‘Grand part of the world to be in. Travelled a bit, you know, but I’m always glad to be home again.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’

  Somehow Jarret had succeeded in putting Charles on the defensive now, and Helen was amazed at the transition. ‘Anyway, we have to be going,’ he asserted, urging Helen towards the door. ‘Very nice to meet you, Manning. You must come over for a drink one evening—Helen will show you the way. I know my brother will be pleased to see you again. I expect Helen told you he’s home for a couple of weeks.’

  Helen went crimson with embarrassment and Jarret’s eyes seeking hers in frowning interrogation did nothing to assist her. ‘Your brother?’ he echoed, and Charles nodded.

  ‘Vincent. Vincent Connaught,’ he said, and Jarret’s brows ascended.

  ‘Vince Connaught is your brother?’ he exclaimed, shaking his head disbelievingly. ‘Well, what do you know!’

  ‘Helen!’ Charles turned to her now, as if her omission meant something to him. ‘Helen, didn’t you give Mr Manning Vincent’s message? He was saying only the other day that he’d heard nothing from you.’

  Helen licked her lips. ‘I forgot,’ she said, and despite Jarret’s challenging look, she refused to admit otherwise. ‘I—er—Mr Manning only arrived today, Charles. I—I haven’t had time.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me Vincent was home either,’ her mother put in at this point. ‘How is he, Charles? Wasn’t he out in the Far East, the last time I was speaking to your mother?’

  ‘He was.’ Charles explained the situation, and Helen averted her eyes from the impatient accusation in Jarret’s. Any minute, she expected to hear him ask why she hadn’t mentioned it that afternoon they had spent together, but instead he remained silent, only the brooding slant of his mouth an indication of censure to come.

  To her relief, Charles’s explanation was brief, and a few minutes later they had said their farewells, and he was helping her into the Range Rover. Then, circling the vehicle, he joined her, putting the Rover into gear and starting down the drive before he spoke.

  ‘That was rather thoughtless, wasn’t it?’

  The accusation should have come from Jarret, and either way, Helen was in no mood to respond lightly to it. ‘What was thoughtless, Charles?’ she enquired now, deliberately prevaricating, and he cast a reprimanding look in her direction.

  ‘Not telling Manning that Vincent would like to get in touch with him.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were so concerned about Vincent, or his friends,’ retorted Helen tightly. ‘And as I pointed out inside, the man only moved in today.’

  ‘But didn’t you say he’d already made a couple of visits, to bring down his books and personal belongings?’ countered Charles, turning on to the Malverley road. ‘Couldn’t you have told him then? You mentioned something about showing him over the grounds.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Helen was fast losing patience. ‘Honestly, if I’d known it meant that much to you, I’d have made a special point of informing him.’

  Charles sighed at this, and made a conciliatory gesture. ‘Of course, it’s not that important,’ he conceded now. ‘And perhaps you were right not to mention it. After all, we don’t want the fellow arriving at Ketchley at all hours of the day and night.’

  ‘I doubt that’s likely,’ remarked Helen dryly. ‘And in any case, you have invited him.’

  ‘Only for a drink,’ her fiancé protested. ‘And I could hardly avoid that.’

  Helen shrugged. ‘Oh well, let’s talk about something else.’

  Charles frowned. ‘I can’t understand your attitude, Helen. The man seems civil enough.’

  ‘Civil!’ Helen was scornful. ‘Didn’t you think he was rather insolent?’

  ‘Insolent?’ Charles considered this. ‘No. No, I can’t say I thought he was insolent. A little conceited perhaps,but that�
��s to be expected, I suppose.’

  Helen turned to stare out of the window. In all honesty, she knew that Jarret was not conceited. Many things he might be, but believing his own publicity was not one of them, and for a man with such literary charisma he was amazingly unassuming about his work. However, to admit this to Charles would promote exactly the kind of discussion she most wanted to avoid, and deciding enough had been said on the subject, she began asking Charles about his horses. He was easily diverted. They were the great love of his life, and listening to him expounding the merits of one and another of them, she wondered if she would ever get to care about them as he did. It seemed unlikely, but then he had no interest in the shop, and the working aspects of their life together were entirely apart from their personal relationship. All the same, she couldn’t help wishing she was not so timid, and that Charles showed a little more pride in her business acumen.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT was a little after eleven when she arrived home, and throughout the journey she had been planning how she could avoid a possible confrontation with Jarret. She was sure he would be waiting up for her, ready to do battle over why she had chosen to withhold Vincent’s message, and while there was a certain masochistic satisfaction in anticipating his anger, common sense warned her of the dangers of challenging a man like him.

  Consequently, she invited Charles in for a cup of coffee, only to discover she had wasted her time. Her mother was alone in the drawing room, engrossed in the gruesome outcome of a late-night movie on television, and in no mood to indulge in small talk. Instead, Helen was obliged to make the coffee and serve it in silence, and not until Charles had taken himself off home did Mrs Chase volunteer the information that Jarret was out.

  ‘He phoned Vincent after you’d gone, and they arranged to meet at the pub in the village,’ she offered crisply, during a commercial break. ‘He’s got a key, so I’m not worried. Go to bed, if you want to. This film doesn’t finish until after midnight.’

  So Helen went to bed, but not to sleep. Even after she heard her mother come upstairs, she still lay awake, and it was not until she heard the powerful throb of the Ferrari’s engine, some time in the early hours, that she completely relaxed. Even then her slumbers were dogged by a recurring nightmare, in which Jarret was pursuing her on the back of one of Charles’s horses, and she awakened in the morning with a headache, resolving not to drink so much wine in future. She refused to attribute her dreams to her anxieties over Jarret, and went down to breakfast feeling distinctly raw.

  There was no sign of their guest, of course, and as she munched her toast and drank several cups of strong black coffee, she reflected rather sourly on the advantages of working at home. Obviously, Jarret could lie in this morningafter his late night, and the hours he chose to work were his own, not dictated by shop or office requirements. He didn’t have to drive the twelve miles to Malverley with a thumping headache, or face a series of customers with smiling courtesy. He could stay in bed all day if he wanted, and feel fresh and invigorated this evening when she would be as limp as a wet rag.

  She was surprised therefore when Jarret appeared as she was pouring her fourth cup of coffee. The fact that even unshaven he looked as relaxed and self-confident as he had done the night before did nothing for her assurance, and when he lounged into a chair at the table, she wished she had forgone the final indulgence.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, after her gaze had slid away from him, and she responded politely, keeping her head down. ‘What’s wrong with you this morning? Charlie give you a hard time?’

  Helen’s head jerked up at that. ‘Charles and I had a very pleasant evening,’ she retaliated, and added recklessly: ‘Must you come to the table in that condition?’

  ‘Oh—this?’ He ran exploring fingers over the shadow of his beard. ‘Does it offend you? I’m afraid I’m not used to encountering a beautiful woman at the breakfast table.’

  ‘No?’ She heard the mockery in his voice, but couldn’t help rising to it. ‘I should have thought you were.’

  ‘Would you?’ The mocking look in his eyes deepened. ‘But then you don’t know a lot about me, do you?’

  ‘Enough,’ she retorted, picking up her coffee cup, and he toyed thoughtfully with the knife beside his plate.

  ‘Vince and I had quite a reunion last night,’ he went on. ‘In spite of your obstruction.’

  ‘Drinking!’ declared Helen scathingly, and a lazy smile touched his lips.

  ‘Yes—drinking,’ he agreed blandly. ‘Was that what you were trying to save me from?’

  ‘Me?’ Helen could not have been more astounded. ‘It’s nothing to do with me if you choose to ruin your health. I was merely expressing an opinion of the kind of reunion you probably had.’ She put down her coffee cup, and pushed back her chair. ‘And now, if you’ll accept my apologies, some of us have work to do—’

  He stepped into her path as she came round the table, getting up lithely from his chair and successfully blocking her exit.

  ‘Mr Manning—’ Her automatic protest was silenced by the anger in his expression, and despite her dislike of him she couldn’t help but be aware of his disturbing sexuality.

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Helen,’ he advised her harshly. ‘I work, believe me, I work! And damned hard sometimes, so don’t go getting the idea I came down here to take a rest-cure. I didn’t. I intend to finish this book, and when I do, there’s another all lined up and waiting for me.’

  Helen was trembling, as much from the painful throbbing in her head as from his aggression, and as if suddenly becoming aware of her pallor, Jarret’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Are you ill?’ he demanded, spreading cool fingers on her hot forehead, and although she flinched away from him, he had glimpsed the bruised darkness of her eyes. ‘What is it?’ he persisted. ‘I don’t frighten you that much, do I?’

  ‘You don’t frighten me at all!’ she denied hotly, turning aside. ‘If you must know, I have a headache, that’s all. I intend to take some aspirin before leaving.’

  ‘You’re driving to work with a headache?’

  Helen nodded. ‘I have to.’

  ‘At the risk of being accused of chauvinism, why don’t you take the morning off?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘I can’t. It’s our busiest day. I can’t leave Karen to handle it alone.’

  Jarret frowned. ‘Okay, so I’ll drive you.’

  ‘You!’ Helen could not have been more surprised.

  ‘Why not? You’re not fit to handle a car. Take your tablets, and meet me out front when you’re ready.’

  ‘I—I can’t…’

  Jarret had walked towards the door, but now he halted, one hand raised in resignation against the door jamb. ‘Why can’t you?’

  Helen felt wretched. ‘You…you haven’t had breakfast…’ and I’ve been rude to you, and I’ve been thinking bad thoughts about you, and I didn’t give you Vincent’s message, her conscience silently appended, though she did not voice these protests.

  ‘So what?’ Jarret shrugged. ‘I can survive. Believe it or not, I have been known to miss a meal now and again.’

  Helen took a couple of steps towards him. ‘It’s very kind of you, but—’

  ‘God! It’s not kind at all,’ he snapped. ‘I’d do the same for anyone. Do you have a coat to get or anything?’

  Helen glanced down at her businesslike skirt and waistcoat, the ruffled jabot of her blouse the only touch of femininity, and nodded. ‘A jacket,’ she conceded, and he inclined his head.

  ‘Okay. Five minutes. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ she agreed reluctantly, and he swung about and walked towards the front entrance. Obviously he considered his sweater and jeans adequate protection against the mildly misty day outside, and when Helen emerged a few minutes later, having swallowed the aspirin and feeling slightly better, the Ferrari was idling at the door. Jarret pushed open the door from inside, and she quickly folded herself into the seat beside him, casting him a nervous smi
le as she fastened the safety belt. She had not seen her mother to tell her that Jarret was running her to work, but it couldn’t be helped. No doubt she would find out soon enough.

  The drive was soon negotiated, and they turned on to the road to Malverley, keeping a steady pace that was quicker than Charles’s negotiation the night before, but without giving the powerful car its head. The conditions were just not suitable as dozens of commuters made their way to their offices, and Jarret seemed quite content to remain in the stream.

  ‘So,’ he said, after there had been several minutes of silence, ‘why didn’t you tell me about Vince?’

  Helen had expected it, and yet when it came, she was not prepared for it. ‘Oh—you know what I said,’ she murmured awkwardly. ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Now you didn’t really expect me to believe that, did you?’ he argued. ‘I could tell that last night. You were waiting for me to contradict you.’

  Helen sighed. ‘All right, so I didn’t tell you on purpose.’

  ‘But why didn’t you tell me? Where was the harm?Vince tells me you and he are good friends, so it’s not because you disapprove of him—’ He broke off suddenly as another thought struck him. ‘Unless—unless it’s me you disapprove of.’ He uttered a short laugh. ‘You know, I never thought of that.’

  Helen pressed her lips together. ‘And you know that’s not the answer either,’ she muttered in a low voice. Then, with another sigh, she shook her head. ‘If you must know, I put off telling you because—because I was—afraid you might discuss me with him.’

  Jarret frowned. ‘Isn’t it natural that we might?’

  Helen hunched her shoulders. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘What you really mean is—you were alarmed in case I told Vince I’d kissed you, weren’t you?’ Jarret commented flatly. ‘You need not have worried. Vince and I got over those sort of confidences when we left our teens.’