‘Oh…’ She glanced at Bertie and bit back the word that sprang to her lips. ‘Mao!’ she called. But he’d gone. Suppose he never came back? Two hours ago she wouldn’t have cared, but if Bertie liked him she would buy free-range chicken from Fortnum’s and mince it to paste for the precious creature. Maybe there was a picture of a cat somewhere…
Carenza picked up a discarded newspaper, using it to shade her eyes from the glare off the sea.
‘Isn’t that your uncle’s case?’ Sarah said, turning her head upside down to read the headline. “‘FAR EAST FRAUD TRIAL.’’ Yes, look, there’s a picture of him.’ She snatched the paper and grinned. ‘Wow, but he’s sexy!’
‘Oh, puh-lease! He’s old enough to be your father.’
‘Only just.’ She sighed. ‘I remember him coming to speech day, years ago… He looked so lost. So…solitary. I fantasised for weeks about him. Comforting him, bringing him back to life…’ She pulled a face. ‘Well, you know…’
Carenza rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘I know. You and half the women in London according to my mother, silly cows. He’d lost the love of his life and his baby daughter. Getting over that kind of thing…well, I don’t suppose you ever do. It’s only work that keeps him going. Mum says if he doesn’t ease off he’ll probably end up Lord Chief Justice.’
‘What a waste.’ Then Sarah read, “‘Defendant Changes Plea’’? What does that mean?’
Carenza frowned, retrieved the paper from her friend so that she could see for herself, then groaned. ‘What it means, Sarah, is that I’m in big trouble. I’ve let his house to a woman with a howling infant…’ They exchanged a horrified glance. ‘And he’s probably on his way home right now. How on earth could I have been so stupid?’
‘You’ve had a lot of practice?’ her friend offered, helpfully.
There were plenty of pictures. A Dutch still-life over the mantle in the semi-basement dining room next to the kitchen. A series of cartoons of barristers in wig and gown on the stairs, and a Stubbs upstairs in the drawing room. ‘Look at the lovely horse, Bertie,’ she prompted. Bertie was not impressed.
There were prints of famous nineteenth-century cricketers lining the main staircase and landing; she assumed they were famous, or no one would have bothered to frame them.
No cats.
The large bedroom was richly decorated in a warm red, furnished in antique walnut. It didn’t quite go with Carrie’s image; the cargo pants, the stud in her nose and the radical hairdo.
The second bedroom was furnished as a study, with floor-to-ceiling shelves containing law books. She remembered the cartoons and wondered if it was a family thing. Maybe her new landlady had inherited the house and the books. It would explain a lot.
There was a wonderfully large desk with room for her scanner as well as the computer. She hadn’t had time to connect them, yet. Once Bertie was in bed, she promised herself, she’d make a start, try to catch up.
She hadn’t been in the third room. Carrie had whizzed past, muttering something about it being a store room, not used in years. The door was stiff, as if it hadn’t been opened in a while, but beneath the dust the room was painted in cheerful yellow and white so that it would look sunny on even the greyest of days. There were no pictures, though, just some boxes that looked as if they hadn’t been disturbed for years.
She returned to the kitchen in the hope that Mao might have come back. He hadn’t, but Bertie, overcome with exhaustion, finally dozed off in the crook of her arm.
Hungry, but anxious not to disturb the sleeping baby, she found half a packet of chocolate biscuits left by Carenza, settled carefully into a large and very comfortable armchair and tucked in to them.
She must have fallen asleep mid-bite because when Mao, miaowing and clattering his claws against the window, woke her, there were crumbs adhering to the chocolate liberally smeared down the front of her shirt; the remains of the biscuit had succumbed to gravity and were lying, chocolate-side-down on the carpet.
She let in the cat, bathed and fed Bertie and finally put him into his cot. Then she flung her crumby, chocolate-stained shirt into the laundry basket along with everything else she was wearing, pulled on a T-shirt because it was the first thing that came to hand, brushed her teeth and fell into bed.
In that brief moment before sleep claimed her, she had a momentary vision of the chocolate biscuit lying on the Persian rug in the drawing room and knew she should get up and do something about it.
And turn on the burglar alarm.
Then nothing.
Patrick dropped his bag in the hall and crossed to the alarm to punch in the code number. It wasn’t switched on. Carenza had obviously forgotten to set it. He really should have known better than to give in to his sister’s pleading and let her stay here.
Tomorrow he’d write her a cheque, she’d disappear like snow in August and everything would be back to normal.
Well, very nearly normal. It might be the middle of the night in London, but he’d slept on the plane and it would probably take days for his body clock to readjust. Right now, he was wide awake and hungry.
He just hoped there was something edible in the fridge. He snapped on the kitchen light, swallowed hard and determinedly ignored the sinkful of un-washed dishes.
It was harder to ignore a faint, disturbingly familiar scent that he couldn’t quite place. Probably because it was overlain with the smell of steamed fish.
The gritty crunch of biscuit crumbs beneath his feet distracted him, doing nothing to improve his temper. Forget a cheque. Carenza would be grateful to escape when he’d finished with her. House-sitting indeed. She couldn’t be relied upon to sit in a cardboard box.
Jessie’s first thought, as she woke up with a guilty start, was panic. It was too quiet. She leapt out of bed, peered anxiously into the cot, then groped for her spectacles and put them on for a closer look. Just to be on the safe side. A week of this and she’d be a nervous wreck.
But there was nothing the matter with Bertie. In the faint spillage of light from the landing, she could see that he was fast asleep. She touched his cheek; it was warm, but not too warm. He was just fine. Gorgeous in fact, with a peachy bloom to his cheek and his dark hair curling softly around his ears.
The cat was fine, too.
She froze, horror struck. Faye would have a hissy fit if she could see her precious infant sharing his sleeping quarters with Mao, who had curled up and made himself thoroughly at home at the bottom of the cot.
She picked him up. He protested. Bertie stirred. She forced herself to cuddle the cat, murmur sweet nothings as she stroked him, even as her skin goosed at the touch of his fur.
Mao looked at her through suspicious, narrowed eyes as if he knew exactly what she was thinking as she tiptoed towards the door.
She had just made it to the landing when she realised what had woken her. There was someone in the kitchen.
CHAPTER TWO
JESSIE had any number of choices. Call the police. Scream. Barricade herself in with Bertie and Mao and wait until the burglar had helped himself to whatever he fancied and went away. Scream. Confront the villain. Scream…
Oh, stop it! she told her wittering brain. The police. She had a mobile; she’d call the police. She pushed her spectacles down her nose and looked around. Where was it? When had she last used it? Oh, hell, it was in her handbag and that was downstairs. With the burglar. Which dealt with option number one.
And she’d thought her life couldn’t get any worse.
Screaming, seriously screaming,