Dragons Lair
Sara Craven
Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
IT was rather stuffy in the small room. The air was heavy with the scent of ageing leather, paper and old-fashioned furniture polish—none of them unpleasant in themselves but oddly oppressive when served up in such a rich mixture. Or was it simply her over-charged emotional state which made them seem so? Davina Greer could not be sure.
She pressed her tongue over her dry lips and cast a longing glance at the tall Georgian windows which gave the impression of having been hermetically sealed since the day they were installed. Then she transferred her gaze to her hands, clasped tensely together in her lap. They were nice-looking hands, she thought judiciously. A little too slender perhaps, but perfectly capable as she had proved over and over again during the past two years. And very bare.
Her lips tightened slightly as almost involuntarily her right hand moved protectively to conceal her left. Surely by this time she should have forgotten what it had been like to wear, briefly, that broad band of antique gold, just as she had tried to forget the emotions she had experienced when it had been placed on her finger.
And in that at least she had succeeded, she thought. Wasn’t that precisely why she was here today?
Mr Bristow was still on the telephone, his voice reassuring, his head nodding firmly as he pressed each point home. They’d hardly had time to do more than exchange a conventional greeting before the call came through, so she had no idea what news he had for her. She stared at the buff folders tied with tape littering the polished top of his desk. One of them she supposed concerned her, but she had no idea which it was. She tried unobtrusively to crane her neck and read some of the names and references printed on the folders, but it was obvious that Mr Bristow was briskly winding up the call, so she leaned back in the comfortable leather chair and tried to give an impression of relaxation.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said as he replaced the receiver. ‘Slight case of panic, I’m afraid.’
‘And you’re looking at another.’ She tried a laugh, but it wasn’t a great success.
Mr Bristow’s eyes studied her keenly for a moment, then he reached for one of the files. It was a very thin one, she noticed, containing only a few papers.
She tried again. ‘I—I hope you have good news for me?’
Mr Bristow pursed his lips. ‘I’m afraid not, or more truthfully, I have no news at all. Your—er—Mr Lloyd has simply not answered any of my letters.’
‘I see.’ Davina bit her lip. ‘Well, perhaps he hasn’t received them. If he’s still moving around all the time …’
Mr Bristow shook his head. ‘When there was no response to the first letter, I sent the remainder by recorded delivery,’ he said. ‘And Mr Lloyd is certainly not—moving around at present. He’s been back in Britain for some considerable time, or so we discovered when we traced him.’
‘Back in Britain?’ Davina echoed bewilderedly. ‘But when? There’s been nothing in the papers about it.’
‘Perhaps he wanted it that way,’ Mr Bristow suggested. He gave the papers in front of him a frowning look. ‘I can assure you that our information is quite correct. He’s resident at present at'—his frown deepened—'Plas Gwyn, Moel y Ddraig. I’m not at all sure my pronunciation is correct, but …’
‘I get the general idea,’ Davina said with a touch of impatience. She was secretly appalled, and her mind was whirling madly. She had accustomed herself for so long to the idea that Gethyn was at a safe distance on the other side of the Atlantic that the news that he had returned quietly, without the blaze of publicity which had attended the majority of his comings and goings in the past, was a severe shock.
At least she could be thankful that he was not actually here in London, she told herself.
She swallowed, forcing herself to speak calmly. ‘So he’s back in Wales. Well, that should make things—easier, surely?’
‘Not if he refuses to reply to our letters,’ Mr Bristow pointed out. ‘Can you think of any explanation for his continuing silence? When you first consulted me, you gave me the strongest impression that your—Mr Lloyd would be only too glad to consent to a divorce.’
Davina’s hands were gripped together so tightly that her knuckles showed white. She said evenly, ‘That was what I had every reason to believe. My—my husband’s—exploits during our separation have been well-enough documented.’ The colour rose faintly in her cheeks. ‘I can’t imagine a single reason why he should wish to prolong this—farce a day longer than necessary.’
Mr Bristow sighed. ‘As I pointed out to you before, newspaper gossip in itself does not constitute acceptable evidence. And you realise of course that if your husband does not give his written consent to the divorce you would have to wait a further three years for your freedom.’
‘But that’s monstrous!’ Davina was indignant.
‘It’s the law,’ Mr Bristow reminded her placidly. He hesitated for a moment. ‘I can always write again, pressing Mr Lloyd for a reply, but I was wondering … Have you—er—Miss Greer—considered the personal approach?’
‘Are you suggesting that I should go to Gethyn and—ask him to agree to a divorce?’
‘It has been done before,’ Mr Bristow said drily. ‘It could result in a perfectly amicable arrangement,