Shrouded by the curtains at the long upstairs landing window, she watched him arrive. He was punctual, she noted without surprise. The Jaguar car he parked in front of the house—staking his claim at once, she thought bitterly—was the latest model. Nothing else had changed. He looked no older, no greyer, no heavier as he stood on the gravel below her, his gaze raking the blank windows as though he sensed her presence, and sought her.
Although she knew she couldn’t be seen, Joanna felt herself shrink.
Oh, come on, she castigated herself. This is no way to start. After all, I know what he’s planning, so there must be some way I can stop him.
But, for the life of her, she couldn’t think of one.
As she heard the doorbell peal, she went on swift and silent feet back to her room, and waited for Mrs Thursgood to admit him.
She gave herself a long, critical look in the mirror. Her slim navy linen skirt, and the pure silk cream shirt she wore with it, looked neat and uncompromisingly businesslike. She’d drawn her hair severely back from her face and confined it at the nape of her neck with a wide navy ribbon.
She’d had plenty of time to prepare for this confrontation. Simon had phoned mid-morning to tell her that Fiona was being kept in for observation, at her own insistence.
‘She’s a bit fraught, Jo.’ He’d sounded thoroughly miserable. ‘Hit the roof when I suggested pushing off.’ He’d paused. ‘I feel an absolute worm about this. Do you think you can cope with Blackstone—feed him some story or other to keep him off for a while?’
‘I can try,’ she’d said wearily. ‘Cheer up, Si. I hope Fiona feels better soon.’
Now Mrs Thursgood was tapping at her door. ‘Your visitor’s come, madam. I’ve put him in’t drawing-room.’
Joanna counted to ten, breathing deeply, then walked sedately along the broad landing and down the stairs. She didn’t hesitate at the drawing-room door, but went straight in, closing it behind her.
He was standing on the rug in front of the empty fireplace, studying her grandfather’s portrait. At the sound of her entry, he turned, the grey eyes skimming over her, missing nothing.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Bentham.’ The cool laconic voice grated on her. ‘A historic moment, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Hardly a giant step for mankind, Mr Blackstone,’ she returned with equal insouciance. ‘Perhaps you’d like to state your business.’
‘I’m sure your brother’s informed you of the changes that have taken place during your—period of mourning.’
Joanna shrugged. ‘I understand you now have a financial interest in the Craft Company.’
‘It’s more than that. As far as money’s concerned, I am the Craft Company.’ He glanced round. ‘May I sit down?’
‘If you wish.’ She pretended faintly surprised amusement. ‘Is this going to be a long interview? I do have other plans …’
‘Then cancel them,’ he said pleasantly, seating himself on the sofa. ‘I’d prefer your undivided attention.’ He leaned back, crossing his long legs. ‘I gather Simon will not be joining us.’
She hesitated. ‘His wife isn’t very well.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ He didn’t sound even slightly regretful. ‘She must take after her mother. She’s thoroughly enjoyed very poor health for years. Apparently medical science is baffled.’
He’d captured the lady’s martyred tones with wicked accuracy. To her annoyance, Joanna discovered an unwilling giggle welling up inside her, and hastily turned it into a cough.
‘Can we get back to the business in hand, please?’ She took the armchair opposite to him. ‘I suppose you want to know when you’ll see some tangible return on your investment.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m prepared to bide my time on that. There are other far more pressing matters between Simon and myself.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a small sheaf of papers, held together by an elastic band. He tossed them on to the low oak coffee-table between them. ‘Do you know what these are?’
Her brows snapped together. ‘How could I?’
‘Then I suggest you take a look.’
Reluctantly she reached for the papers, and removed the band. As she studied them, her frown deepened.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You’re not a fool, Joanna,’ he said quietly. ‘You know as well as I do that those are IOUs, and that the signature on them is Simon’s. They’re gambling debts that he ran up at the country club.’
Her mouth was dry suddenly. She’d been doing addition sums in her head as she riffled through them, and the total she’d reached was horrifying, and still incomplete.
She said, ‘Gambling? But Si doesn’t gamble.’
‘He certainly doesn’t gamble well. He’s lost consistently at poker, blackjack and roulette. He’s exceeded the house limit for credit more than once as well, and used my name to get more. I’ve had to bar him from the gaming-rooms.’ He saw the colour drain from her face, and smiled sardonically. ‘I presume this is news to you.’
She said thickly, ‘You know it is.’
‘Then I may as well add that he’s in hock to a bookie in Leeds for several thousand.’
She dropped the papers back on the table with an expression of distaste. ‘You’re very well informed.’
‘I find it pays to be.’
‘Yet it’s hardly ethical. Neither is your presence here this afternoon. These—debts should be a private matter between Simon and yourself, surely. You have no right to involve me.’
‘Sometimes private matters have a tiresome habit of becoming incredibly public.’ He seemed impervious to the ice in her tone. ‘And then you’d find yourself involved right up to the hilt, my dear Mrs Bentham. For instance, I could insist on having a spot audit made at the Craft Company.’
The words hung in the air between them, challenging her.
She swallowed. ‘And what would that prove, pray?’
‘Perhaps nothing. But I’m afraid—I’m very much afraid that there would be certain sums unaccounted for. Simon had to find his stake money from somewhere, after all.’
‘I don’t believe you. In fact, I don’t believe any of this.’ She flicked the IOUs with a contemptuous finger. ‘If Simon had known you were going to raise any of these matters this afternoon, he would have been here in person. He thought you were coming to discuss the Craft Company, and only that. Therefore he obviously has no guilty conscience …’
‘A true Chalfont! Your grandfather had no conscience either. It’s a pity Simon hasn’t inherited his strength as well.’
Joanna got to her feet. ‘I think you’d better leave.’
‘When I’m good and ready,’ he retorted, making no attempt to move. ‘Sit down, Joanna, and hear me out. Simon had good reason for failing to realise I was about to call in his markers.’
She didn’t want to hear any more. Her mind was reeling, blanking out with sheer incredulity. Simon gambling, she thought with horror. Losing thousands he didn’t possess and couldn’t repay. What in the world could possibly have started him on such a course to disaster?
As if, she thought, I didn’t know.
She lifted her head and stared at their enemy. Steadying her voice, she asked, ‘What good reason?’
‘I promised I’d give him time, so he assumed he was safe.’