Diamonds are for Deception: The Carlotta Diamond / The Texan's Diamond Bride / From Dirt to Diamonds

‘How long have you been in business?’

‘About two and a half years.’

‘Not bad going,’ he said admiringly.

As the orchestra started to play a quickstep, he rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Would you care to dance?’

The mere thought of being held in his arms made her go funny all over, and as she hesitated he added with the faintest hint of derision, ‘Or perhaps you only disco?’

‘I’d love to dance,’ she said coolly. Rising to her feet, she put her hand in his and quivered as shock waves ran through her.

CHAPTER THREE

DRAWING her into his arms, Simon held her firmly, but not too tightly, nor too closely. Even so her pulses began to race and her knees turned to jelly.

She sent up a silent prayer of thanks that although she was shaken, and hadn’t danced for some time, she had enough experience not to miss a step or stumble.

Which was just as well, as he proved to be an extremely good dancer, light on his feet and innately graceful, with a natural sense of timing and rhythm.

Though Charlotte was five feet eight inches in her stockinged feet, the top of her head was just on a level with his mouth. Used to being as tall as her partner, if not taller, she found this heightened her newly awakened sense of femininity.

As they moved in perfect unison round the floor, she glanced up, and, seeing his quizzical expression, felt a little thrill of triumph.

Bending his head, he asked, ‘Now, where did you learn to dance like this?’

‘My father taught me. Before he died, ballroom dancing was my parents’ hobby.’

‘I do apologise.’

‘For what?’

‘For daring to breathe the word disco.’

‘Oh, I can disco too,’ she told him cheerfully.

‘A woman of many parts.’

He drew her closer and they enjoyed the rest of the dance before returning to their table.

They had just regained their seats when, with perfect timing, their meal arrived. It proved to be delicious, and for the most part they ate in an appreciative silence.

It wasn’t until they were at the coffee stage that Simon picked up the threads of their earlier conversation by remarking, ‘You said your mother went to live in Australia?’

‘Yes, she married a businessman from Sydney. I was surprised when she agreed to go all that way; she’d always hated the thought of flying.’

Thoughtfully, she added, ‘To be honest, I hadn’t really expected her to remarry. She and Dad were such a devoted couple. As I told you, my father died when I was eighteen.’

‘Any brothers or sisters?’ Simon enquired.

‘No, there was just me. My parents couldn’t have any children. I was adopted.’

‘That’s tough.’

She shook her head. ‘I was one of the lucky ones. My adoptive parents were nice, decent people, and though they brought me up strictly, they loved me and gave me everything I needed.’

‘What age were you when you were adopted?’

‘I was just a baby.’

‘So presumably you don’t remember anything about your natural parents?’

‘Nothing at all. I only know what Mum told me as soon as she thought I was old enough to understand, and what I picked up from the letters and documents she’d kept.’

Responding to his tacit interest, she went on, ‘I know my real mother’s name was Emily Charlotte, and that in 1967, when she was just twenty, she married a man named Stephen Bolton. But some ten years later it seems he left her for another woman. She was working as a secretary when she became involved in an affair with her boss, who was a married man. On discovering that she was pregnant, she appealed to him for help. Apparently he tried to persuade her to have an abortion, and when she flatly refused, he washed his hands of her. Unfortunately she’d lost both her own parents and had no one to turn to.’

‘It must have been a hard time for her. So what year were you born?’

‘1980. It appears to have been a difficult birth that she never fully recovered from, and six months later, weak and depressed, she caught flu and died before anyone realised how ill she was.’

‘So you were Charlotte Bolton before the Christies adopted you?’ Simon observed casually.

‘No. After her husband left her, my mother reverted to her maiden name of Yancey.’

‘An unusual name,’ he commented.

‘Though my grandparents lived in London, a letter written to my grandfather, Paul Yancey, suggested that he might have been born in Georgia.’

‘Any idea where your grandmother originated?’ he asked almost idly.

‘None at all. The only thing I know about her is that her name was Mary.’

With a smile, she added, ‘Unlike the Farringdons, my ancestry is a closed book, and I’m afraid it will have to stay that way.’

‘Who said, if ignorance is bliss it’s folly to be wise? The Farringdons are a pretty unconventional bunch to belong to,’ Simon pointed out with a wry smile.

Then as the orchestra began to play a tango, dismissing the past, he asked, ‘Shall we dance?’

This time she went into his arms without hesitation, as if she belonged there.

The rest of the evening passed, on Charlotte’s part at least, in a haze of excitement and pleasure, while they talked and danced.

Though Simon drank hardly anything, he kept her glass topped up, and when twelve o’clock came and they started for home, she was still on a high and just the slightest bit squiffy.

By that time the traffic had thinned somewhat, and they made good time back to Bayswater through the midnight streets. When they drew up outside the shop, he unfastened his seat belt and turned towards her.

Wondering if he was about to kiss her, she felt every nerve in her body tighten, and her lips parted, half in panic, half in anticipation.

When he just sat and studied her face in the mingled light from the dashboard and street lamp, feeling foolish, she rushed into speech. ‘Thank you, it’s been great fun. What do you want to do about the books? Would you like to take them with you, or shall I send them on?’

‘That’s one of the things I meant to talk to you about, but somehow the time has just flown. Perhaps you’d care to read this?’

He felt in an inner pocket, and, handing her an unsealed envelope, flicked on the interior light.

She withdrew the single sheet of thick cream notepaper, to find it covered with a laboured scrawl, which read:

Dear Miss Christie,

My grandson has informed me that you have succeeded in finding the set of books he contacted you about. I would like the chance to thank you in person, and I would be pleased if you could bring them down yourself and spend the weekend at Farringdon Hall, as my guest.

Nigel Bell-Farringdon.

Completely thrown, she stammered, ‘D-does he mean this weekend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, but I have to be in the shop tomorrow.’

‘Didn’t you say your assistant will be back by then? Couldn’t she cope for one day?’

‘Well, I suppose so, but…’

‘But what? Simon asked.

‘I’d need to ask her… And it’s such short notice when she’s just come back from her holiday. Perhaps if I made it next weekend?’

‘Next weekend might be too late,’ Simon stated abruptly.

‘Too late?’

‘My grandfather is extremely ill. He could die at any time.’

‘Oh.’ She was nonplussed.

‘So we’re trying to comply with his every wish.’

‘I quite understand, but I—’

‘When he expressed a desire to meet you, I offered to write the note for him. But, though he was in great pain at the time, he insisted on writing it himself. It took a great deal of will-power on his part,’ Simon added quietly.

Moved, she agreed, ‘Very well, I’ll certainly come if Margaret can take care of the shop.’

‘He suggested sending a car for you, but I told him I would be delighted to pick you up.’ Then, as if it was all settled, ‘Shall we say ten o’clock?’

Apparently having achieved what he’d set out to do, he left his seat briskly and came round to open her door and help her out.

Thrusting the note into her bag, she fumbled for her key. When she finally located it, Simon took it from her and turned it in the lock.

Then, his head tilted a little to one side, he stood looking down at her, almost as if he was waiting for her to make some move.

After an awkward pause, she said in a rush, ‘Thank you again for a lovely evening.’

‘It was my pleasure.’

She was wondering if he was expecting to be invited up, when he touched her cheek with a single finger. ‘Goodnight; sleep well.’ Turning on his heel, he walked away.

That lightest of caresses made her heart beat faster and her legs were unsteady as, closing the door behind her, she made her way up the stairs.

Without putting on the light, she crossed the living-room and looked out of the window.

The street was empty. His car had gone. She felt a keen disappointment, a sense of loss, that for one idiotic moment made her want to cry.

You’ve had too much champagne, she told herself silently, and now you’re getting maudlin.

In any case he hadn’t gone forever; she would be seeing him again in the morning.

That train of thought brought its own doubts and uncertainties. What on earth had she been thinking of to let herself be railroaded into spending the weekend at Farringdon Hall?

The shop was far too busy to leave Margaret to cope on her own. So why hadn’t she said so, and politely refused the invitation?

Partly because she’d been touched by Sir Nigel’s note, and partly because she’d wanted very much to see Simon Farringdon again.

There! She’d admitted it.

But it was sheer stupidity to give way to such feelings. A man of his age and eligibility was almost certainly married or in a long-term relationship. And even if by some miracle he wasn’t, the grandson of Sir Nigel Bell-Farringdon was way out of her league, and the sooner she accepted that, the better…

As Charlotte stood gazing abstractedly down into the street, she saw a taxi draw up and her flatmate’s lanky frame climb out and cross the pavement.

There were quiet footsteps on the stairs and a moment later the door opened and Sojo crept in. On spotting the dark figure standing by the window, she gave a yelp of fright.

‘It’s all right,’ Charlotte said quickly. ‘It’s only me.’

‘What are you trying to do?’ Sojo demanded. ‘Give me heart failure?’

‘Sorry if I startled you.’ Charlotte was contrite.

‘Why on earth are you hovering there in the dark?’

‘I was looking out of the window.’

‘I thought you’d be in bed.’

‘I’ve only just got in.’

Sojo reached for the switch by the door and flooded the room with light. ‘Yes, I can see you have. What happened? Did Wudolf have a change of heart and decide not to go to the States after all?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘But something’s happened, I can see by your face. You look bewitched, bothered and bewildered. Let’s have a hot drink, and you can tell me all about it.’

‘Don’t you want to go to bed?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Do you?’

‘I doubt if I could sleep if I went,’ Charlotte admitted.

‘Then I suggest you get it off your chest.’

While they sat in front of the living-flame gas fire and sipped mugs of hot chocolate, Charlotte related the events of the day and evening, ending, ‘When we got back, Simon gave me a note from his grandfather. Though Sir Nigel is very seriously ill, apparently he wants to meet me.’

She found the note and handed it to Sojo, who read it avidly, before exclaiming, ‘What fun! Fancy being invited to the ancestral home, as well as being wined and dined by Sir Simon Farringdon.’

‘He doesn’t seem to use his title.’

‘Well, whether he calls himself Sir or not, he sounds really something.’

‘He’s certainly very attractive.’ Charlotte tried hard to appear underwhelmed.

Throughout her recital she had stuck to facts and left out her feelings, but Sojo wasn’t fooled for an instant. ‘You have the kind of dazed look that suggests you still don’t know quite what’s hit you. Tell me, how many times have you thought of Wudolf today? No, don’t bother to answer; I can see by your face. Well, all I can say is, the lord be praised.’

Then shrewdly, ‘Unless it’s out of the frying-pan into the fire. What do you know about our Simon?’

‘Apart from the fact that he’s Sir Nigel’s grandson, very little. And this proposed trip to Farringdon Hall—’

‘Proposed? You are going, aren’t you?’

‘I will if Margaret can manage.’

‘Of course she can manage,’ Sojo blithely insisted.

‘Well, if I do go, it’s just business.’

‘Business my foot!’ Sojo said inelegantly. ‘It’s my bet that young Simon suggested the visit.’

‘He’s not that young.’

‘So it wouldn’t be cradle-snatching?’

‘Of course not. He must be somewhere in the region of thirty.’

‘Perfect. All you have to do is smile at him and you’ll be home and dry.’

Charlotte shook her head. ‘The Farringdon family are blue-blooded and wealthy; they live in a different world. I’d never fit in.’

‘Stuff and nonsense. With a face and figure like yours and the voice and manners of a lady, you’d fit into an aristocratic background as if you belonged. And speaking of aristocratic backgrounds, where exactly is Farringdon Hall?’

‘It’s about twenty miles from London, somewhere near Old Leasham.’

‘Know anything about it?’ Sojo asked.

‘When Simon Farringdon first got in touch with me, purely as a matter of interest I looked it up in Britain’s Heritage of Fine Historical Houses. It’s described as ‘‘A small, but delightful Elizabethan manor house, with thatched dovecotes and a charming walled garden…’’’

Reaching out a hand, Charlotte took a thick volume from the bookshelf and flicked through the pages. ‘Here, read it for yourself.’

The book balanced on one knee, Sojo read aloud,

‘Built on the site of a much older, fortified house, and surrounded by a large estate, Farringdon Hall has been the home of the Bell-Farringdon family for almost five hundred years. During her heyday, Queen Elizabeth I is rumoured to have made many private visits there. The interior of the house is noted for its splendid fireplaces, superb oak panelling and fine plasterwork, but the highlight is undoubtedly the Great Chamber with its magnificent barrel ceiling. There are three oak staircases rising from the panelled hall. The two rear ones lead up to the old nursery suite and the attics, which have remained unaltered since the house was built, while the main staircase leads to the family rooms, one of which is said to be haunted…

‘Fantastic! Sojo, who was into ghosts, gave an excited wriggle. ‘I must say I’m starting to envy you. A ghost and Simon Farringdon in the same house! What more could you possibly ask?’

When Charlotte finally got to bed, though she hadn’t expected to, she slept almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

In spite of having had such a late night, she awoke at her usual time and, pulling on her robe, went through to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and a rack of toast, before phoning Margaret.

Almost before she had finished explaining, Margaret said, ‘Of course I’ll take over for you.’

‘It’s bound to be busy,’ Charlotte pointed out. ‘Are you sure you can manage?’

‘My niece will be more than willing to lend a hand. She’s always liked books. The part-time job she had during the summer is finished, and as an out-of-work ex-student she can use a spot of pocket money.’

‘That’s great.’

‘So you just go and enjoy yourself.’

Instead of reiterating that it was just business, Charlotte said, ‘I’ll certainly try.’

Appearing in the kitchen in her pyjamas, her blonde hair in wild disarray, Sojo helped herself to coffee and toast before enquiring, ‘I take it that was Margaret. Can she manage?’

‘She’s going to get her niece to help.’

Spreading butter and marmalade with a liberal hand, Sojo observed with satisfaction, ‘So you’re all set. With a bit of luck you might even see the ghost.’

‘I’m not terribly sure I want to,’ Charlotte said.

Sojo sighed. ‘You have no sense of the dramatic. The scenario goes like this… You see the ghost and, scared stiff, you scream. Simon Farringdon comes running. You fall into his arms and… Well, I’ll leave the rest to you and propinquity.’

‘Thanks,’ Charlotte murmured drily.

‘Just one thing; once you get ensconced at Farringdon Hall I hope you’ll remember all my helpful advice and invite me down. Oh, and when he does get round to proposing, and a man of his class will—he’ll need children to inherit everything—I’ll be your bridesmaid.’

‘He may already have a wife and family,’ Charlotte pointed out.

‘You didn’t find out if he was married? What on earth were you doing with your time?’

‘I could hardly ask him,’ Charlotte objected.

‘Though surely he can’t be,’ Sojo thought aloud. ‘If he was, he wouldn’t have been rash enough to take another woman out dancing and dining.’

‘But this wasn’t a date,’ Charlotte emphasised. ‘It was simply a business dinner.’

‘Go away! You’ll be telling me next that you’re not quivering like a jelly at the mere thought of seeing him again… Now I must dash… When you get back I shall expect a blow-by-blow account of all that’s happened… And don’t forget, so long as he’s not actually married you have my permission to go get him.’

When she had showered and dressed, trying to keep her excitement under control, Charlotte selected what she was taking for the weekend, and packed it.

Well before ten o’clock she was ready and waiting, her small case zipped up and Sir Nigel’s set of books replaced in the strong cardboard carton they had been delivered in.

Aware that she mustn’t let Simon Farringdon see what a devastating effect he had on her, for the past hour she had been lecturing herself on the necessity to appear cool and in control.

Afraid that anything less businesslike might give the wrong impression, she had put on a fine wool suit in aubergine, and taken her hair up into a neat coil.

She was standing in the bow-window when, punctually at ten o’clock, a dark blue car drew up outside and Simon climbed out.

Her heart beating faster, she gathered up her belongings and forced herself to walk down the stairs and open the door without undue haste.

He was waiting on the doorstep, casually dressed in a well-tailored grey sports jacket and cords. Though she was wearing high heels, he still seemed to tower over her.

‘Spot on time,’ he congratulated her.

That white smile, and the way his lean cheeks creased, made her breath come faster and threatened to destroy her hard-won composure.

‘You have a different car.’ She said the first thing that came into her head.

‘Yes. I picked my own car up from the Hall this morning. The previous one was hired when I got back from the States a few days ago.’

Taking the case and books, he stowed them in the boot before helping her into the passenger seat.

As he slid in beside her, remembering what had happened the previous evening, she panicked and fumbled for her seat belt.

Straight-faced, he asked, ‘Sure you can manage?’

‘Quite sure, thank you,’ she assured him, and realised by the gleam of amusement in his tawny eyes that he knew perfectly well what effect he had on her, and was enjoying teasing her.

It wasn’t a comfortable realisation, and now it was too late she admitted that she’d been an absolute fool to come. She had known from the beginning that he was right out of her league, yet she had still allowed her desire to see him again to overrule her common sense.

So, having made the mistake, she was stuck with it. Somehow she had to play it cool and refuse to let him throw her.

Though that might be easier said than done.

As they drew away from the kerb, he asked, ‘No problem with the shop, I hope?’

‘No. Margaret has a niece who’ll be willing to lend a hand.’ She was pleased that her voice sounded comparatively steady.

‘Good. In that case you can stop worrying and just sit back and relax.’

But how was she to relax when she was so aware of him? When in spite of all her resolve, his sheer masculinity posed such a threat to her composure that she was still trembling inwardly?

Sensing her unease, and deciding there was no point in making her wary, he went on mundanely, ‘As the weather’s still beautiful, it should prove to be a nice journey, and hopefully make a pleasant start to the weekend…’

His voice held only a host’s concern for his guest, and a quick glance at him told her that his manner had altered subtly, and for the moment at least he did not pose an active threat.

‘Grandfather is most anxious that you should enjoy your visit.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ she lied. Then carefully, ‘I was very sorry to hear how ill Sir Nigel is. I hope he’ll soon be a lot better.’

‘Unfortunately we can’t hope for much in the way of improvement. His illness is terminal. All the doctors can do is keep him as comfortable as possible and relatively free from pain.’

Shocked, she said, ‘It must be very difficult for him to cope with a visitor at a time like this.’

‘On the contrary, just knowing you were coming has pepped him up enormously. He’s always enjoyed the company of women, especially beautiful ones, and since Grandmother died last summer I think he’s been lonely. Though he’d never admit it.’

‘Then your parents don’t live at the Hall?’ Charlotte asked.

‘They used to—both my sister and I were born there—but they were killed in a car crash when I was six and Lucy was just a baby. Our grandparents brought us up.’

‘And you both still live there?’

‘I do.’ She saw his jaw tighten, before he added, ‘But Lucy’s married now and lives near Hanwick.’

‘Still, Sir Nigel has you.’ Somehow she resisted the temptation to mention a wife.

‘Unfortunately I’m not always here. I’ve had to be in the States quite a lot on business, and even when I am in the UK I’m usually only home at weekends. I stay at my London flat during the week.’

In spite of everything her heart lifted. It didn’t sound as if he had either a wife or a live-in lover.

‘Since Grandfather’s been seriously ill, I would have preferred to commute so I could be on hand at night in case anything happened. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He hates to be regarded as an invalid. In some ways it’s a pity I’m not married. It’s always been Grandfather’s dearest wish that I should take a wife, settle down in the ancestral home and raise a family.’

‘Why haven’t you?’ The question was out before she could prevent it.

A shade wryly, he said, ‘I’ve been waiting to meet a woman I wanted to be with for the rest of my life.’

He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Now, shall we have some music?’

‘That would be nice,’ Charlotte agreed.

‘What kind do you prefer?’

‘I like most classical music, including some grand opera. And I’m fond of comic opera, especially Gilbert and Sullivan…’

‘How delightfully old-fashioned,’ he teased. ‘But do go on.’

‘I like some jazz, some middle-of-the-road, some pop tunes—especially the older ones.’

He nodded approvingly. ‘It seems we share very similar tastes. One of which we can perhaps indulge later this evening.’

She gave him an uncertain glance, and he explained, ‘As luck will have it, there’s a Gilbert and Sullivan charity concert tonight at the Oulton village hall. The newly formed local Amateur Operatic Society are singing a selection of songs from HMS Pinafore, The Mikado, The Gondoliers et cetera, and, as a patron, I was sent a couple of tickets. I had intended to give them to Mrs Reynolds, our housekeeper, but if you’re agreeable it might be fun to go.’

‘I’d love to.’ It would pass the evening, and there’d be no danger of being left alone with him.

He flicked open one of the car’s compartments to show a collection of CDs. ‘So what’s it to be?’

‘Gershwin?’ she suggested.

A few seconds later the car was filled with the haunting strains of ‘Rhapsody in Blue’.

The weekend weather had been forecast as unsettled, with a front working its way through that would bring heavy rain and gale-force winds. But at the moment, as Simon had remarked, it was a beautiful day. The blue sky was cloudless and sunshine poured down, lighting up the autumn foliage and ricocheting from the gleaming bonnet of the car.

With a little sigh, Charlotte settled back to listen to the music and enjoy the drive as much as possible.

The CD had come to an end, and after her late night she was half dozing, when Simon’s voice penetrated the pleasant haze.

‘This is the village of Old Leasham we’re just going through. It’s a sleepy little place now, but in the past it was an important staging post, as you can tell by The Post-Horn, which is an old coaching inn.’

‘I gather Farringdon Hall is fairly close?’ Charlotte remarked.

‘The main entrance is about a mile further on, while the Hall itself lies midway between Old Leasham to the south, and Oulton to the north. This is the boundary wall just coming up.’

Beyond the last cluster of white cottages a high wall built of old lichen-covered stone came into view. With an ornate tower on the corner, it formed a right angle, running left along Farringdon Lane, a narrow tree-lined track that bordered the estate, and straight on along the main road.

When they reached the imposing entrance, Charlotte saw it was guarded by two ferocious-looking lions on plinths, one each side of the tall black and gold wrought-iron gates.

A security camera perched on top of a metal pole scanned them, and a moment later the gates slid aside. As they drove through, a uniformed man appeared from the gatehouse.

Sliding down the car window, Simon enquired, ‘What is it, Jenkins?’

‘May I enquire how Sir Nigel is?’

‘In good spirits, still.’

‘Mrs Jenkins has made some of the special crab-apple jelly Sir Nigel is so partial to. Would it be in order to send a pot up?’

‘Of course. I’ll take it now if you like.’

Beaming, Jenkins disappeared to return almost immediately with a small muslin-covered basket.

Putting it carefully on the back seat, Simon said, ‘I’m sure Grandfather will thoroughly enjoy it. Please thank Mrs Jenkins.’

‘That I will, sir.’

As they drove away, he gave them a smart salute.

For a mile or so the road wound through rolling, lightly wooded parkland, on fire with the reds and golds and copper tints of autumn. Finally the colourful drifts of fern and bracken gave way to cultivated gardens surrounded by thick yew hedges cut into fantastic shapes.

They came to the Hall itself through an archway of yew, and, though Charlotte had known more or less what to expect, the first sight of it brought a gasp of sheer pleasure.

Calling it delightful had been no exaggeration, she thought. Built of mellow stone, it was both graceful and symmetrical, with a short wing at either end and a central door.

Its mullioned windows were uniform, apart from one wide, three-tiered expanse that rose roof height, and must be, she guessed, the window of the Great Chamber.

Bringing the car to a halt on the gravel, Simon sat without speaking, watching her entranced face.

When she finally turned to him with shining eyes, he queried, ‘Do I gather you like the old place?’

‘It’s lovely,’ she answered simply.

Having helped her out and retrieved her case and the carton of books, as well as the crab-apple jelly, he said, ‘It isn’t all that big. Apart from the attics and the servants’ quarters, there are only nine bedrooms. After you’ve met Grandfather and had lunch, I’ll show you round.’

As they approached the heavy, black-studded oak door it opened, and a plump, elderly woman with a kind face and grey curly hair appeared to lead them into a beautifully panelled hall.

Simon made the introduction. ‘Charlotte, this is Mrs Reynolds, our housekeeper… Ann, Miss Christie.’

‘How do you do?’ Charlotte murmured.

Returning her friendly smile, the housekeeper said, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Christie. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you—’

‘As Cook’s ill,’ Simon broke in, ‘if you want to get on with lunch, I’ll take Miss Christie up. Which room have you given her?’

‘Sir Nigel suggested the Bluebell Room.’

‘Very well. What time is lunch? If possible I’d like to see Grandfather first.’

‘The sooner the better.’ Mrs Reynolds gave her opinion briskly. ‘If necessary I’ll hold the meal back. In all the years I’ve been at the Hall I’ve never known Sir Nigel to be so impatient.’

‘In that case, we’d better not keep him waiting any longer than we can help… If you can put this in the pantry?’ He handed her the crab-apple jelly.

Carrying Charlotte’s case and the books, he escorted her up the main staircase, elaborately carved in oak, and turned right along the landing.

Opening the second door on the left, he ushered her into a cosy room simply furnished with a double bed, a wardrobe, a bow-fronted chest of drawers and a cushioned armchair.

The wallpaper was patterned with a woodland scene of bluebells and green leaves, while the carpet, pleasantly faded by time, picked up the colours.

A small black fireplace was screened by a tall pitcher of cream and pink gladioli, and the casement windows were partly open, the balmy air wafting in the scent of thyme and late roses.

Putting her case on the padded window-seat, Simon remarked, ‘I’m pleased to say that some years ago a central-heating system was installed and en suite bathrooms were added to most of the bedrooms…’

Opening a door papered to blend in with the walls, he revealed a well-appointed bathroom. ‘Perhaps you’d like a few minutes alone to freshen up?’

Feeling curiously nervous about meeting Sir Nigel, and unwilling to delay matters, she said, ‘I’m ready now, if you are.’