Kitabı oku: «A Convenient Gentleman», sayfa 4

‘Oh, I do. That’s why I have to get married, you see.’

‘Yes, but you didn’t have to… Oh, blasted bankers!’ He slammed his fist down on the table. ‘I’ll do fer him, I will. And when yer pa finds out…’

Caro gave a final sniff. ‘Father doesn’t have to find out, Mr Matthews.’

‘Well, how’re you going to hide a baby, girl? Be sensible!’

‘What baby?’

‘Ah.’ He stared at her puzzled face and after a moment said carefully, ‘I think you’d better tell me what happened, girl. Slowly, this time.’

So she told him, stalking up and down the kitchen in indignation as she spoke, oblivious to the look of dawning relief on Mr Matthews’s face. He was smiling by the time Caro finished, which cheered her up no end.

‘So, you think it’s a good idea, Mr Matthews?’

‘What?’ He sobered up swiftly. ‘No. No, it’s a real bad idea. You can’t do it.’

‘But I have to. I have to find a husband in the next day, if I’m to get a special licence. The problem is, how?’

‘The problem ain’t how to get married quick, girl—the problem is the forty years after! You can’t just go and get a man off the streets…’

‘Yes, I can!’ She stared at him as if he was a genius. ‘That’s exactly what I can do! I’ll marry…oh, someone, I don’t care who, but someone who needs the money… That drunk in the bar this morning, for instance! All I have to do is pay him off out of the money the bank will give me, and then later I can get the marriage annulled! I mean, I don’t ever want to get married, but I might, one day, and no one need ever know… Oh, it’s a wonderful scheme! Thank you for thinking of it!’

Mr Matthews slumped on his stool, clutching his chest. His heart was surging in a way that terrified him. ‘You can’t…’ he said weakly, but she wasn’t listening.

‘Now, I want you to go and find that man and offer to pay him…well, I’ll leave that up to you, but don’t make it too much. I’ll go to the Town Hall this afternoon and arrange for a special licence and then… Oh, I’ve got so much to do!’

She spun around at the door and raised a cautionary finger. ‘And you will check his name, won’t you, Mr Matthews, please. I don’t want to be saddled with a name like Ramsbottom, or Piggot or…or Froggatt!’ She laughed gaily and the door slammed behind her.

Mr Matthews sat alone in the kitchen and listened to his charge’s feet exuberantly pounding up the stairs. Bleedin’ heck, he thought. What am I going to tell her pa?

Chapter Four

T hings were progressing very well, indeed, Caro thought. Obtaining a special licence had been easy enough, as was arranging with the minister at St Andrew’s to officiate at a small, private wedding to be held later that week. It hadn’t even been necessary to give the name of her affianced—she had simply smiled demurely and ignored the question when it came, and effectively given the impression of a shy but eager bride-to-be. She had even bought herself a wedding ring, although she had baulked at the five pounds something so unnecessary had cost. In a town literally built on the goldfields, she had somehow expected that the price of a plain gold ring would not be exorbitant.

She had detoured by the wharves on her way home and had a little chat with the porters there, promising them a generous tip should any disembarking passengers be directed to the Castledene. The afternoon she spent thoroughly cleaning out the remaining spare bedrooms in the hotel, rewarded for her efforts when a party of four—a group of mining engineers arrived just that day from Wellington—rang the bell at the desk to ask about accommodation. While she could not yet offer them a meal in the dining room, they seemed very satisfied with the luxurious private rooms she showed them to. She was kept very busy for the next couple of hours, flying up and down stairs with her arms full of towels, jugs of hot water and boots to be polished. When her guests had left for dinner, directed to the same hotel Caro had dined at the previous night, she sat down at the bottom of the stairs, her head spinning. She was enjoying herself enormously, but she hadn’t looked in on Aunt Charlotte for hours, and she hadn’t eaten anything since the early morning.

In the kitchen she found the pot of soup Mr Matthews had made earlier that day, together with a couple of loaves of bread, so she prepared a tray and took it up to her aunt. Charlotte appeared a little better, but flatly refused to eat anything.

‘But I am thirsty, darling,’ she said croakily, and then pulled a face when Caro produced a fresh jug of water. The cold water made her cough, a deep, unsettling sound, and Caro resolved to call the doctor in if her aunt’s health was not improved in the morning.

Mr Matthews was waiting for her in the kitchen.

‘Well?’ she demanded as she put the untouched tray on the table and pulled up a chair. ‘Did you find him?’

‘I did,’ he said ominously, but she chose to make nothing of his sour expression.

‘Good. I asked the minister if he could marry us tomorrow—that’s Friday, at one o’clock. That gives me time to see Mr Froggatt before the bank closes late afternoon.’ She swallowed a spoonful of the soup Charlotte had rejected and licked her lips appreciatively. Mr Matthews surely had to be the best cook in the world. ‘Oh, and did you find out what his name is?’

‘Gray,’ he said. ‘Wiv an “a”.’ Mr Matthews sat down heavily across the table. ‘First name’s Leander.’

‘Caroline Gray.’ She tried the name, rolling it over her tongue, deciding that it was a name of distinction. ‘Caroline Gray. Yes, I like that.’

‘Cost you a hundred quid,’ he snarled and she dropped her spoon in shock.

‘A hundred pounds! My word, he must fancy himself dreadfully! Tell me you’re joking!’ At the shake of his head she picked up her spoon again. ‘Well, tell him I’ll go to ten pounds and no more. There must be hundreds of men who’d get married for less!’

‘Not this one.’ Mr Matthews propped his chin on his hands and met her eyes squarely. ‘Said if you won’t pay he ain’t interested. He’s a toff, girl. Might only be worth ten quid. Might only be worth half a crown. But he’s been raised as quality and that lot’ve got queer ideas ’bout money. They always act like they don’t know nothing ’bout money, even when they ain’t got none. You follow me?’

‘No. I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.’ Caro placed her spoon and emptied dish in the washing basin and smoothed her skirt down. ‘But if this Gray fellow thinks he’s too good to marry me, I’d like to know why. Where is he?’

Mr Matthews’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘I’m not saying!’

‘By which I take it he’s in the Castledene bar.’ She glanced at the mantleclock. It was only just after five o’clock. The bar would scarcely be busy at this hour, and her guests would only now be sitting down to eat at the hotel in Princes Street. ‘I’m going to talk to him, Mr Matthews. Are you coming or not?’

As if the poor man had any choice. He followed miserably in Caro’s wake as she stormed through the doors of the bar. The barman of the previous night looked up in surprise but, when he saw who was following Caro, he rapidly decided against challenging her. The ugly little man had spent almost half an hour in quiet, intense conversation with the young drunk in the corner, and when the barman had gone up to them to demand that they order another drink to justify staying on the premises, the little man had given him a look that had him shaking in his shoes. The barman bent his head and concentrated on wiping out the beer mugs.

Leander Gray was sitting at a table, slumped against the wall, his attention absorbed by the card he was holding in his hand. From right to left and back again he flicked it between his fingers, over and over, at blurring speed. Then he looked up and saw her. As he got to his feet the card disappeared so swiftly that she wondered if she had been seeing things.

‘Miss Morgan, I presume?’ he said in that irritating manner, so correct and studiously polite that she could not be sure that he was not privately making fun of her.

She inclined her head a fraction. ‘Mr Gray. I believe we should talk.’

‘About what, Miss Morgan?’

‘About the completely unrealistic cost of your services, sir.’

His dark gaze flicked behind her to Mr Matthews. ‘In that case, I don’t believe we have anything to discuss, Miss Morgan.’

‘On the contrary, Mr Gray.’ She folded her hands before her waist and raised her chin. He was just a penniless drunk, after all, with nothing to lose by marrying her except the sharing of a perfectly innocuous name. And yet…

His oddly blank eyes challenged her, making her mouth suddenly dry. Damn him, she thought furiously. How dare he act as if she were nothing and he the master of all? He would marry her, and then she would have the greatest of pleasure in tossing him out and throwing his ten pounds—or twenty, or whatever it took!—out into the snow behind him.

Deciding to change tack, she switched on her warmest smile. That usually served to disarm most men. ‘Mr Gray, we have a matter to discuss that could be of benefit to us both. But I don’t think that here’—she inclined her head towards the barman who had drifted over to ostentatiously remove a speck of dirt on a nearby table—‘is the most suitable place to hold such a conversation. Could I suggest that we move to the hotel?’ She let her eyes flick over his decidedly lean frame. ‘I could offer you a light meal, perhaps a warm room for the night?’

He kept her waiting just a second too long to be polite.

‘No, thank you, Miss Morgan.’

She stiffened in rage. ‘Mr Gray, I don’t believe that you’re in a position to have a choice!’

His shoulders lifted in the slightest of shrugs. ‘One always has a choice, Miss Morgan.’

Damn it, he was laughing at her! Not for the world was she going to let him get away now! She leaned forward, her fingers resting on the edge of the table, her face set in contemptuous lines. ‘Does one choose to turn one’s back on fifty pounds, Mr Gray?’

‘My price, Miss Morgan, is one hundred pounds.’

‘Sixty!’

‘Ninety.’

‘Seventy-five or you can forget it, Mr Gray!’

She heard Mr Matthews choke at the vast sum, but it was too late—she’d made the offer, and with money she didn’t have. But at least the obnoxious Mr Gray bent his head in acceptance of her bid. She’d won after all, just as she had known she would. Ignoring Mr Matthews’s outraged glare boring holes between her shoulder-blades, she nodded graciously. ‘Good. I knew you’d eventually see sense. This way, please.’

Scarcely daring to check that he was following, she walked stiffly out of the bar doors and back into the hotel, through the lobby and the dining room into the kitchen. Once there, because she didn’t know what else to do, she put the kettle on the stove. When she had regained sufficient equilibrium to look up, he was there, standing by the kitchen table, calmly watching her. She caught her breath on an exhalation of relief. She had done it! He belonged to her now!

Mr Matthews appeared to have made himself scarce, and that suited her. Across the table she and Mr Gray studied each other in silence, the only sound the gentle steaming of the kettle.

‘Would you care for a bowl of soup, Mr Gray?’ she said at last.

‘Thank you, Miss Morgan.’

She served him and sat down opposite him to watch him eat. If he was hungry—and she suspected that he was—then he didn’t show it. His table manners were perfect; he broke his bread and handled his spoon in exactly the way Caro’s mother had always insisted her children eat, although she noted the slight tremor of his hand that she thought might be a symptom of his addiction to alcohol. His fingers were long and shapely and, despite his rough appearance, perfectly clean. All, in all, he was something of a mystery. But she really didn’t have the time to speculate on how a man of obvious refinement had sunk to living rough on the streets. She had a business to save. She put her elbows on the kitchen table and leaned forward.

‘Can I take it that Mr Matthews has told you what I require of you for my…seventy-five pounds?’ She found the last words very hard to say—what had possessed her to bid so much for his services?

He looked at her levelly. ‘You require my presence at the church and my name on a wedding certificate, Miss Morgan.’

‘And I hope you understand that that’s all I require,’ she said tartly.

‘Indeed, Miss Morgan. Anything more would cost considerably more than seventy-five pounds.’

His words were delivered so politely that she almost missed the impudence of his message. Her mouth fell open, but before she could recover herself sufficiently to speak, he rose to his feet. ‘If you will excuse me…’

She stood up, too, aware for the first time that he was considerably taller than she was. ‘And where are you going, Mr Gray? Back to the bar?’

‘I was not aware that your seventy-five pounds entitled you to more than my presence at the church at the designated time, Miss Morgan,’ he said mildly enough.

She busied herself tidying up his soup dish and plate. ‘The wedding is tomorrow, at one o’clock. We have some guests staying at the hotel, but there is a room ready for you, and I would suggest that you use it. Just for tonight, mind.’

‘How very kind of you.’

She glared at him. His deferential manner was far more aggravating than any open hostility could have been. ‘I’m not being kind. I’m merely protecting my investment. It will be no end of bother if you get too drunk tonight to remember anything and I have to find someone else to marry tomorrow afternoon!’

He gave a slight bow. ‘Then I commend you on your sound business sense, Miss Morgan. You have my admiration, if not my gratitude.’

Caro lit a lamp with swift, jerky movements, too furious to be careful with the tinderbox and consequently burning a finger in the process. She almost wished that she had taken heed of Mr Matthews’s warning now, and chosen someone else to marry. Someone who would be grateful for ten pounds—ten pounds, mind!—and didn’t act as if he were the one bestowing the favour on her. Who on earth did this man think he was, after all? She slid a quick look from under her lashes at him standing by the warm stove. Scruffy, unkempt individual that he was… She found herself wondering what he would look like after a haircut.

She filled a jug with hot water and handed it to him. Then she led him up to his room in silence, the lamp throwing long shadows on the wall as they mounted the stairs. The room she showed him to was the smallest one they had, although perfectly comfortable and she had aired it only hours earlier. She put the lamp on the dressing table and moved over to draw the curtains. It was snowing lightly again, and she thought momentarily about lighting a fire. But the room was small enough to be snug, and there were two eider-downs on the bed. Besides, she told herself firmly, he was probably used to being cold.

‘Would you like me to light a fire?’ she heard herself offer.

‘Thank you, no. I’ll be very comfortable.’ He poured the steaming water into the wash basin. He doesn’t have a nightshirt, Caro thought absently, watching him. He’ll take off his clothes and wash, and I haven’t given him anything to wear in bed…

Good Lord! What was she bothering about that for? She nodded abruptly and moved past him, to the safety of the hallway.

‘I’ll bid you goodnight, then, Mr Gray.’

‘Goodnight, Miss Morgan.’

It was past midnight when her other guests arrived, rather jolly from a little too much ale and the boisterous walk back through the snow. Stifling her yawns, Caro lit them each a lamp and saw them to their rooms. By the time she crawled into her own bed she was exhausted.

As her eyes closed she thought of Leander Gray down the hallway. He might be cold in his bed, but at least she had ensured that he would be sober and marriageable for their wedding later that day. Just for a moment she wondered if she might not be making a major mistake… But it had been a long day and any doubts disappeared as sleep overwhelmed her.

The faint sound of agonised coughing awoke her at dawn. She’d forgotten all about Aunt Charlotte! Pulling her shawl around her shoulders Caro ran down the hallway to her aunt’s room, almost tripping over her nightgown in her haste.

Charlotte was huddled in her bed, her hair plastered to her skull with perspiration, her face deathly white in the pale dawn light. Caro drew up short at the sight of specks of blood on the pillows and her aunt’s nightgown. Mr Matthews, following in her wake, muttered an expletive under his breath and for once offered not one word of complaint when Caro sent him off to find a doctor.

‘Oh, Aunt Charlotte, Aunt Charlotte!’ Caro wet a cloth and tenderly wiped her aunt’s flushed face and hands. ‘I’m so sorry…’

But Charlotte was beyond speech. She grabbed the towel from Caro’s hands and coughed violently into it. When she fell back against the soiled pillows, her chest heaving with exertion, the towel was bright with blood.

The doctor came within the half-hour, harried by Mr Matthews. By now quite desperate with anxiety, Caro kept herself busy preparing hot water and clean towels while he made his examination. Doctor Scourie was a tall, pleasant-featured Scot, but when he called Caro outside to the hall his face was set in grim lines.

‘It’s not good news, lass,’ he said without preamble. ‘It’s an infection of the lungs. She’s had the condition for a while, I’d say. She should have sought help a long time ago.’

For a second the hallway spun around her, but Mr Matthews’s hand, warm under her elbow, steadied her.

‘Will…will she die?’ she whispered.

Doctor Scourie hesitated, watching her carefully. ‘It’s possible, lass. She’s not a strong woman—almost malnourished. I take it you know she’s a heavy drinker?’

‘I…I couldn’t say…’

‘She drinks like a fish,’ Mr Matthews interjected and gave her arm a little shake. ‘So, doc—how long’s she got?’

‘If she stays here and keeps drinking she’ll be dead by spring. On the other hand, send her to a kinder climate, dry her out…’

‘We’ll do that!’ Caro said fervently. ‘If it will save her life, we’ll do it today!’

Doctor Scourie patted her hand. ‘Not today, lass—it remains to be seen if she can recover from this fever, first. But after a fortnight or so, and only if she’s strong enough, you could risk a journey to somewhere warmer. Auckland, perhaps, or maybe the Bay of Islands. Oh, and you might like to remove the bottles of liquor under her bed, Miss Morgan. I suspect they’ve been her sole source of nourishment for a while now.’

Feeling horribly neglectful, Caro extracted the doctor’s fee from a very grumpy Mr Matthews and paid him. The doctor had given Charlotte something to dull the pain, and her aunt was drowsy by the time Caro returned. Caro made her as comfortable as possible and extracted the four bottles of gin and three of brandy from under the bed, despite her aunt’s weak protestations that ‘they’re just for emergencies, darling!’.

The comings and goings had woken the other guests and Caro was fully occupied for the next hour, seeing them off and cleaning the rooms. As she bundled up dirty sheets and emptied chamber pots, she thought of the two newly-earned pound notes sitting in the drawer of the registry desk. The hotel could have earned twice that amount if the dining room had been open for business. And what had the Castledene bar earned last night? Probably one hundred times that amount, with no rental to pay…

She wondered where Harold Thwaites had taken himself off to. She hadn’t seen him since Mr Matthews’s arrival in Dunedin, and now that her aunt was sick it was imperative that he be made to contribute to the running of the hotel.

In the kitchen she piled the used sheets into the sink and stopped to think. Presumably the hotel sent all its laundry off the premises; being built in on three sides, the Castledene possessed no wash house. If she were to wash the linen herself, where would she dry the sheets? Even if she laid them all over the kitchen, there was barely enough wood in the stove to boil a kettle of water, let alone gallons of water to wash the linen and provide heat to dry it. And then there were the soiled tablecloths in the dining room—she had simply put them aside while she swept and cleaned up. It would take her days to wash them all. Yet how could they afford a laundrywoman when she had spent money she didn’t have on a husband who she only needed in order to get the hotel further into debt at the bank?

For almost the first time in her life she felt utterly worn out. She slumped into a chair and buried her face in her hands.

Mr Matthews tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Pot of tea on the bench and I’ve bought some bread.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him gratefully. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.’

He froze in the act of pouring out the tea. ‘What d’you mean, girl?’

‘When you take Aunt Charlotte to Auckland, I’m going to miss you.’ She pulled a cup towards her and blew gently on the steaming liquid. ‘Oh, by the way, can you give me seventy-five pounds? I need it to pay for my wedding this afternoon.’

Mr Matthews slopped tea all over the table in indignation. ‘Now see here, girl…’

‘In fact, you might as well give me a hundred pounds. We need firewood, and I’ve got to find out who does the laundry for the hotel—I haven’t got time to do it myself. Will that leave you enough money to take Aunt Charlotte to Auckland? And then there’s the question of where you’re going to stay while you’re there. It could take months before she recovers, and you can’t stay in just any old place—’

‘I’m not taking yer aunt nowhere!’ Mr Mathews exploded. ‘That baggage brought more grief to yer ma and pa than anyone alive, and I’ll be damned before I so much as lift a finger to help her! Yer off yer head, girl! This talk of rescuing the hotel an’ getting married in an hour an’—’

‘An hour?’ Caro checked the clock on the mantel-piece, gave a little scream of horror and stood up so fast that her chair fell backwards. ‘It’s after midday already! I wanted to get to the laundry this morning, too! Oh, drat!’

Picking up her skirts, she ran up to her bedroom, banging peremptorily on Mr Gray’s door as she passed. It was only as she was hastily dragging a comb through her hair that the thought occurred to her that she hadn’t seen her fiancé that morning. It would, she decided, be a fitting finale to an already disastrous morning if her intended had vanished in the night. But when she came out into the hallway, tying the ribbons of her bonnet, he was there, standing quietly at the top of the stairs.

‘Miss Morgan.’ He gave a small, formal bow. She pulled the ribbons under her chin tight and glowered at him.

‘So, you’re still here.’

‘Still here, Miss Morgan.’

‘Well, come on, then.’ She ran down the stairs to where Mr Matthews dithered, his bearded little face screwed up in misery. ‘Please keep an eye on my aunt, Mr Matthews. I won’t be long.’

Outside the sun was shining weakly but cheerfully, and she set a brisk pace to St Andrew’s on Carlyle Street, although Mr Gray with his long legs had no trouble in ambling alongside her. Caro didn’t bother talking to him—what, indeed, did one talk about to someone with whom one had nothing whatsoever in common? Instead, her mind was whirling with plans for the two thousand pounds she planned to ask Mr Froggatt for that afternoon. A cook—no, a chef. A proper chef—and a scullery maid, and one housemaid to start with until the Castledene became really busy…

‘We’re here, Miss Morgan.’ Her fiancé touched her elbow and she realised that she had walked right past the church in her haste.

St Andrew’s was a charming small church, built from the locally quarried stone and lined with glowing kauri timber felled in the forests of the far north. The sunshine filtering through the stained-glass windows was intensified and coloured softest rose as it fell on the polished floorboards. It was the perfect setting for a small wedding, but Caro scarcely noticed her surroundings. All she wanted was to get the event over and done with.

There was a short delay while two witnesses were persuaded to come in from the street, but otherwise the service went with satisfying speed. Caro was aware of the puzzled frown on the minister’s face as he performed the ceremony, obviously wondering about the haste of the marriage and the dishevelled appearance of the groom. In truth, she had just the faintest niggle of unease as she signed her maiden name for the last time, but all it took was a few vows and a flourish of the pen and she was officially Mrs Leander Gray. Her husband spoke his vows quietly and firmly and, as she watched him sign his name in a beautifully executed copperplate, she was pleased that she had had the foresight to keep him sober the previous night.

Outside the church she offered him her hand.

‘Thank you, Mr Gray. If you return to the hotel, Mr Matthews will have the fee we agreed upon for your services.’

He took her hand but didn’t let it go, holding it firmly when she tried to withdraw it.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Mrs Gray.’

A little quiver went through her at the sound of her new name, but she hid it by looking pointedly at their clasped hands.

‘I know exactly what I’m doing, thank you. And now that you’ve done what was required of you, you may leave. I believe Mr Matthews has your payment ready for you at the hotel, should you wish to collect it today. That aside, there is no reason for us ever to see each other again.’

‘Not even when the time comes to annul the marriage?’

She tugged her hand free. ‘In a month or two I can apply for an annulment, Mr Gray. Your presence would be most unwelcome within that time.’

‘I see.’ For one dreadful moment she thought he might object further, but then he bowed, with that peculiarly out-of-place courtesy. She watched him walk back down Carlyle Street and heaved a sigh of relief. Now for Mr Froggatt.

She was ten minutes early for her appointment with the banker, but this time she wasn’t kept waiting at the counter.

‘Well, Miss Morgan, and what can I do for you?’ boomed Mr Froggatt as he pulled out a chair for her.

‘It is Mrs Gray now, Mr Froggatt.’ She had pointedly removed her left glove and the plain gold band glinted on her otherwise unadorned hand. ‘You did say that the bank would assist me in reopening the Castledene Hotel after I married…’

‘I don’t believe I said any such thing, Mrs Gray. As I recall it, I said the bank might reconsider winding up Mrs Wilks’s business.’ He leaned back in his chair, studying her shrewdly. ‘Your husband—is he a man of business?’

‘I…I beg your pardon?’ she stammered, caught completely off guard.

He made an impatient gesture with his hand. ‘Your husband, Mrs Gray. Can he guarantee any loan that the bank makes to you?’

She stared at him blankly. ‘But I am the one asking for the loan, Mr Froggatt, on behalf of my aunt…’

‘Your aunt, Mrs Gray, is up to her neck in debt! I am not prepared to put this bank into further jeopardy by extending the loan!’ He saw the stricken look on her face and added a little more gently, ‘It should be your husband here, Mrs Gray. This is not a suitable activity for a woman. Is your husband in business?’

‘No,’ Caro said with only the briefest of pauses. ‘He’s a gentleman.’

‘Ah.’ The banker steepled his fingers ominously. ‘So he has a private income?’

‘Yes, he does.’ Well, it was private, she reasoned to herself. She certainly didn’t know what it was.

There was such a long silence that she began to debate with herself as to whether she should walk out or throw herself on the floor and beg for clemency. Mr Froggatt cleared his throat.

‘I’d have to meet your husband, Mrs Gray…’

‘Oh, certainly!’

‘If you could bring him here, perhaps this afternoon—’

‘Tomorrow would be better,’ she broke in. She was bound to have thought of something by tomorrow. Then, seeing his raised eyebrow and remembering that tomorrow was Saturday, she plunged on. ‘You could come to dinner at the hotel and meet him there. You and Mrs Froggatt!’

He looked surprised, but not displeased. ‘Well…’

‘Then you can see the hotel for yourself, Mr Froggatt, and I can explain what I—what we—plan to do with the Castledene. Shall we say six o’clock?’

He rose to his feet and nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gray. Six o’clock it is.’

Caro didn’t remember getting back to the hotel. Once in the privacy of her bedroom, she threw herself on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She had never before admitted to being wrong, and she didn’t want to do so now. But there was no way to avoid the fact that she had made the biggest mistake of her life.

There was a tap on the door and Mr Matthews looked in. With a groan Caro grabbed her pillow and rolled over to bury her face.

‘Go away!’

He padded in on stockinged feet. ‘Brought you a cuppa tea, girl.’ He placed it carefully on the chair beside the bed. ‘Thought you might need it.’

Caro raised a flushed, hot face to him. ‘What am I going to do, Mr Matthews?’ she wailed. ‘Now the bank wants to meet my husband! I’ve invited Mr Froggatt and his wife to have dinner with us tomorrow night! They’re expecting to meet a cultured English gentleman with a private income, and my husband is a drunken tramp of no fixed abode! I’ll never get the loan and I’ve just wasted seventy-five pounds on a worthless vagabond. And don’t you dare tell me you told me so!’ she added furiously.

Mr Matthews picked up the cup of tea and sat down heavily on the chair.