‘Yes…’ Naomi’s already creased forehead became even more lined. ‘That is so true.’ The old woman was silent for a moment, then she added in more upbeat tones, ‘Shaun phoned again—did I tell you?’
‘Yes.’ Rachel heaved a breath. ‘Yes, you did. Naomi…it is over between us. I know you’re fond of him, but—’
‘But the two of you are perfect for each other! I believe it, and I know Shaun does, too.’
‘No.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘Naomi, I don’t want to disappoint you because I know Shaun’s your nephew—’
‘Great-nephew,’ Naomi corrected. ‘His mother is my sister’s daughter.’
‘He’s a relation,’ Rachel continued. ‘I like him, I like him a lot, but…it just wasn’t working out between us.’
‘You need someone.’ Naomi’s voice was firm. ‘Like Shaun.’
Rachel didn’t bother to argue any further. In many respects Naomi was like her Aunt Clara had been—stubborn, sure of her own point of view. Indeed, the two woman had virtually grown up together, albeit one as the mistress and the other as the maid.
They walked in silence towards the back of the house, both women, so varied in age and appearance, deep in their own thoughts.
‘I’ve shown him into the drawing room,’ Naomi announced, as they reached the kitchen door. ‘Do you want to spruce yourself up a bit before you go in?’
Rachel paused, glancing at her reflection in the pantry window. Her long blonde hair was shiny and clean, if a little ruffled. She lifted her hands and resecured the ribbon , which was hanging loosely down her back. ‘I don’t look that bad, do I?’ she asked.
‘Your clothes aren’t very smart,’ Naomi informed her with her customary bluntness. ‘It’s as well to give a good impression.’
Rachel looked down at her clean, if rather tatty denims and comfortable violet jumper. ‘Oh, well, it can’t be helped,’ she replied. ‘I don’t suppose my appearance will make much of a difference to things. Besides, it’s not worth changing. I want to get back and continue going through Aunt Clara’s things afterwards.’ Rachel threw Naomi a self-deprecating smile.
‘I’m still foolishly hoping that I’ll discover some hidden treasure that will get us out of this financial nightmare—a forgotten Constable, or a rare first edition, something of that sort.’
‘From what I’ve seen you’ve got as much chance of that as of me winning the lottery!’ Naomi announced with a snort.
‘But you never buy a ticket for the lottery,’ Rachel replied, her thoughts elsewhere, most particularly with the ordeal of having to face another creditor.
Naomi’s face curved into a grim smile. ‘Exactly!’ she retorted.
Rachel paused, before entering the drawing room. She felt so tired. Nothing could have prepared her for the shock of the last few days. Her aunt’s sudden death had been bad enough, but to discover that her finances were in the mess they were had only served to drag Rachel’s emotions down further.
Still, she was determined to get through this one way or another—to see the whole sorry episode through to the end. She felt it was her keen duty to do all she could to protect the Grange as far as was humanly possible. It had been in her family for generations, and although she took it for granted, hating the miles of draughty corridors and high-ceilinged rooms, she didn’t want to see it lost to the bank.
Sonia, one of the women from the village who had been working at the Grange for as long as Rachel could remember, smiled sympathetically at her as she descended the stairway, carrying yet another sackful of rubbish from her Aunt Clara’s chambers. ‘Looking better up there,’ she commented. ‘You’ll soon have this all sorted out, don’t you worry.’
Rachel returned her smile, preparing to open the drawing-room door, and wished she shared the woman’s confidence.
‘Sorry to have kept you,’ she began briskly, as she walked into the drawing room. ‘Only, as you can imagine, it’s a bit hectic around here at the moment.’
The man, who was standing at the far end of the room before the fireplace, turned as she spoke, and the first stab of recognition felt like a knife, twisting deep in her stomach.
Rachel stared, her blue eyes wide with shocked surprise. She clutched her chest involuntarily as a kind of protection for her heart, which had jolted painfully at the first sight of him and was now pounding away like a steam engine out of control. She shook her head, a slow, disbelieving movement that felt as strange and as awkward as the situation that now presented itself.
It was…No. No! She forgot to breathe. Yes, yes! It was him. Her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her; grief and stress and a too-vivid imagination hadn’t made her lose her sense. He was here, in this bright, sunny drawing room with its faded chintz and eclectic assortment of flowers and books and china ornaments, looking even more out of place than he had done all those years ago.
Rachel stared at the dark, silky hair, tamed and cut now into a short, almost severe style, at the strong jaw and finely moulded mouth, and felt a wave of dizziness overcome her. Jean-Luc! She reached out trembling hands and gripped the back of a nearby chair for support.
‘Hello, Rachel.’ His voice was deep, smooth—not so heavily accented now, but still with the same mesmeric quality. ‘How are you?’
He hesitated for a moment, then crossed the room towards her, holding out his hand in formal greeting—as if, she thought, to greet her thus was the most natural thing in the world.
He hadn’t expected this—that she should look virtually the same. He had learned of her rise up the career ladder, and had convinced himself that she would look altogether more sophisticated, more a woman of the world, more, in fact, like many of the women he now dated. But she didn’t. Here she was, six years older, and she was still as fresh and young and as beautiful as ever…
Rachel forced her gaze away from Jean-Luc’s face, stared at his strong, tanned fingers for a moment in a daze and then found herself shaking his hand. ‘I’m…fine,’ she murmured automatically. ‘Just fine…’
‘I’ve come at a difficult time.’
‘Yes.’ She couldn’t think straight, hardly knew what to think. He looked older, more sensationally attractive, if that were possible, but different. Sharper, groomed, more…polished and refined, not like the Jean-Luc Manoire she had known and loved. Not at all.
‘I was sorry to hear about the death of your aunt.’
‘Were you?’ Now that the horrendous initial shock was over, Rachel could begin to think a little more clearly. ‘I don’t see why,’ she added stiltedly. ‘You always disliked her.’
‘And that translates to wanting to see her dead, does it?’ His voice was mild, but there was the hint of steel at the edge of each perfectly spoken syllable.
Rachel released a taut breath. It had been a foolish remark, born out of shock and sheer nervousness. He wasn’t the sort of man you could treat casually—she should have remembered that.
She glanced down at the faded carpet, desperately trying to compose herself, and said, ‘No, of course it doesn’t.’
‘You sound weary. You look—’
‘I know how I look!’ Rachel’s voice was tinged with anger. She pursed her lips, determined to save him the trouble of lying. ‘I look a mess!’ She cleared her throat, conscious of her trembling voice. She usually looked immaculate—her