‘Laurence’s name doesn’t appear on your birth certificate—’
‘How could it?’ she responded swiftly. ‘He didn’t stay around that long.’
Jem turned towards her. His eyes were sad, compassionate, as though he didn’t want to hurt her but believed he had no choice.
‘I can’t see Laurence ever turning his back on a child. It’s out of character. He wouldn’t do it.’
‘But you didn’t ask him. Did you?’ Eloise hugged his jacket about her shoulders. ‘You didn’t show him my letter.’
‘No. Not yet.’ He stopped by the door of a lighted café. ‘Do you want a coffee?’
Eloise glanced up and then through the window. The staff were clearing the tables. ‘I want to go home. I’ll be fine now, you go back to the gala.’
‘I’m not going.’ He slicked back his dark hair. ‘I’m cold, drenched and I’m going to see you home.’
‘What about Sophia Westbrooke? Won’t she be looking for you?’
‘Sophy will go home with Andrew.’
‘Will she mind?’
‘Why would she? They know I hate these kinds of events. I don’t really like London. Too noisy. Too many people.’
They turned the final corner and stood beneath a street light, the rain glinting as it was illuminated in the soft beam.
‘I’d read that.’
He glanced across at her. ‘What else did you read?’
Eloise let her eyes scan the distance. She took a shallow breath. ‘Your father is the late Rupert Norland. He died in a speedboat accident when you were fourteen and your mother married Viscount Pulborough eighteen months later. You were expelled from school. You design furniture and you’re not married.’
‘That’s all?’
She glanced across at him. His hands were nonchalantly in his trouser pockets, his face mildly interested. ‘You’ve a half-brother called Alexander who’s at Harrow and who will ultimately inherit Coldwaltham Abbey. Rumour has it you were all but engaged to Brigitte Coulthard, heiress to the Coulthard retail empire. Since then, nothing particularly serious.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you want any more? I’m good at research.’
‘So I see. I’ve no secrets then,’ he said dryly.
Eloise pulled his jacket closely about her shoulders. ‘Have I?’
‘No.’ He gave a half smile. ‘I’m pretty good at research myself.’
There was a silence before Jem lunged forward and hailed a passing black cab. As the driver swerved over, switching off his ‘for hire’ light, Jem turned back. ‘Where to?’
‘Hammersmith.’
He nodded and Eloise noticed the way the rain was now dripping down the back of his neck, his shirt sticking to his back. His jacket around her shoulders was sodden, the bottom of her fine silk dress hung in miserable folds and her shoes were ruined.
She didn’t care. About that or about anything. A strange fatalism seemed to rest upon her. Jem seemed inclined to make decisions and she didn’t have the energy to stop him.
Settling back in the deep seat of the taxi, she didn’t even comment when he took the seat next to her. It seemed natural he should. She didn’t ask where he was going or whether this was taking him out of his way.
What if he were right? What if Viscount Pulborough wasn’t her father? It was a small chink of doubt which made her feel like she was betraying her mother. But he was so certain. So very certain.
She turned her head away and watched the raindrops bead and weave their way across the window. Beyond it was all a blur of night.
Would her mother have lied? Eloise couldn’t believe that. Wouldn’t.
‘Where to, luv?’ The taxi driver half turned his head to talk through the open window.
Eloise jumped. ‘Second on the left. Number fifteen.’ She glanced across at Jem. His face was hidden in darkness but she knew he was watching her. She shrugged out of his jacket. ‘You’d better have this back,’ she said, passing it to him. ‘Thank you.’
He took the jacket and felt inside the inner pocket for his wallet as the taxi pulled up outside her home. Jem opened the door and helped her out on to the pavement.
Eloise stood foolishly and watched him walk round to pay the driver. The rain had stopped but the pavements were dark and the air smelt damp.
Jem came back to join her as the taxi pulled away. As she watched the tail-lights disappear she glanced up at him. ‘You’ll never get another taxi round here.’
He shrugged. ‘Then I’ll walk.’
‘That’s silly.’ Eloise shivered, her thin wrap doing nothing to keep her warm.
‘Perhaps, but I’ll be happier if I know you’re safe.’
She turned and fitted her front door key into the lock. ‘Do you want to come in for a coffee? You could ring for a taxi.’ The words were out of her mouth before she even knew what she’d said.
‘Coffee would be good.’
In the ‘guide to all single women living alone in London’ this was another foolish thing to do. You didn’t ask a man you’d met that evening back to your flat. But even though Jem Norland was many things she loathed, she wasn’t frightened of him.
She wasn’t even sure she loathed him any more. It had burned itself out. It was the situation she hated and someone to talk to, anyone, was better than no one.
The traditional nineteen-thirties front door opened into a small lobby. ‘My flat is upstairs,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘The house was divided ten years ago.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Six months. I was lucky to get it.’
Jem followed her up the staircase and waited while she unlocked the second door.
‘The lounge is through there. You’d better go in,’ she said curtly. ‘I’m just going to get changed.’
Eloise walked straight towards her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She stood resting her back against the cold woodwork.
What was she doing? There had been no need to ask him in for coffee. No need at all.
There was no need for him to have accepted either, she reminded herself. No reason why he should have bothered to see her home. If he were so certain her mother was lying there’d be no reason for him to want to talk to her.
Eloise pulled out some dry underwear, jeans and a pale pink jumper from her chest of drawers, kicking off her Eduardo Munno sandals as she did so.
She slipped the narrow straps off her shoulders and let the damp fabric of her dress pool on the floor. Her skin felt cold and her hair was wet. It was so tempting to curl up beneath her duvet. To shut her eyes and let the day’s problems melt into sleep. To forget all about Jem Norland waiting in her lounge.
Waiting. She pulled on her jeans and pulled the soft angora jumper over her head. He must be frozen—but she hadn’t got anything for him to wear. She made a detour and grabbed a towel.
Why was he here?
She didn’t want to talk about her mother. Not if he was going to criticise her and question her honesty.
In many ways it would have been better if she’d just folded up the letter again and forgotten all about it. Or burnt it, maybe. She should have trusted her mum’s judgement. There must have been very real reasons why