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Wealthy Australian, Secret Son,

the exhilarating new novel from international bestselling author Margaret Way available this month from all-new Mills & Boon® Cherish™.

CHAPTER ONE

The present

IT WAS an idyllic day for a garden party. The sky was a deep blue; sparkling sunshine flooded the Valley; a cooling breeze lowered the spring into summer heat. A veritable explosion of flowering trees and foaming blossom had turned the rich rural area into one breathtakingly beautiful garden that leapt at the eye and caught at the throat. It was so perfect a world the inhabitants of Silver Valley felt privileged to live in it.

Only Charlotte Prescott, a widow at twenty-six, with a seven-year-old child, stood in front of the bank of mirrors in her dressing room, staring blindly at her own reflection. The end of an era had finally arrived, but there was no joy in it for her, for her father, or for Christopher, her clever, thoughtful child. They were the dispossessed, and nothing in the world could soothe the pain of loss.

For the past month, since the invitations had begun to arrive, Silver Valley had been eagerly anticipating the Open Day: a get-to-know-you garden party to be held in the grounds of the grandest colonial mansion in the valley, Riverbend. Such a lovely name, Riverbend! A private house, its grandeur reflected the wealth and community standing of the man who had built it in the 1880s, Charles Randall Marsdon, a young man of means who had migrated from England to a country that didn’t have a splendid past, like his homeland, but in his opinion had a glowing future. He’d meant to be part of that future. He’d meant to get to the top!

There might have been a certain amount of bravado in that young man’s goal, but Charles Marsdon had turned out not only to be a visionary, but a hard-headed businessman who had moved to the highest echelons of colonial life with enviable speed.

Riverbend was a wonderfully romantic two-storey mansion, with a fine Georgian façade and soaring white columns, its classic architecture adapted to climatic needs with large-scale open-arched verandahs providing deep shading for the house. It had been in the Marsdon family—her family—for six generations, but sadly it would never pass to her adored son. For the simple reason that Riverbend was no longer theirs. The mansion, its surrounding vineyards and olive groves, badly neglected since the Tragedy, had been sold to a company called Vortex. Little was known about Vortex, except that it had met the stiff price her father had put on the estate. Not that he could have afforded to take a lofty attitude. Marsdon money had all but run out. But Vivian Marsdon was an immensely proud man who never for a moment underestimated his important position in the Valley. It was everything to him to keep face. In any event, the asking price, exorbitantly high, had been paid swiftly—and oddly enough without a single quibble.

Now, months later, the CEO of the company was finally coming to town. Naturally she and her father had been invited, although neither of them had met any Vortex representative. The sale had been handled to her father’s satisfaction by their family solicitors, Dunnett & Banfield. Part of the deal was that her father was to have tenure of the Lodge—originally an old coach house—during his lifetime, after which it would be returned to the estate. The coach house had been converted and greatly enlarged by her grandfather into a beautiful and comfortable guest house that had enjoyed a good deal of use in the old days, when her grandparents had entertained on a grand scale, and it was at the Lodge they were living now. Just the three of them: father, daughter, grandson.

Her former in-laws—Martyn’s parents and his sister Nicole—barely acknowledged them these days. The estrangement had become entrenched in the eighteen months since Martyn’s death. Her husband, three years older than she, had been killed when he’d lost control of his high-powered sports car on a notorious black spot in the Valley and smashed into a tree. A young woman had been with him. Mercifully she’d been thrown clear of the car, suffering only minor injuries. It had later transpired she had been Martyn’s mistress for close on six months. Of course Martyn hadn’t been getting what he’d needed at home. If Charlotte had been a loving wife the tragedy would never have happened. The second major tragedy in her lifetime. It seemed very much as if Charlotte Prescott was a jinx.

Poor old you! Charlotte spoke silently to her image. What a mess you’ve made of your life!

She really didn’t need anyone to tell her that. The irony was that her father had made just as much a mess of his own life—even before the Tragedy. The first tragedy. The only one that mattered to her parents. Her father had had little time for Martyn, yet he himself was a man without insight into his own limitations. Perhaps the defining one was unloading responsibility. Vivian Marsdon was constitutionally incapable of accepting the blame for anything. Anything that went wrong was always someone else’s fault, or due to some circumstance beyond his control. The start of the Marsdon freefall from grace had begun when her highly respected grandfather, Sir Richard Marsdon, had died. His only son and heir had not been able to pick up the reins. It was as simple as that. The theory of three. One man made the money, the next enlarged on it, the third lost it. No better cushion than piles of money. Not every generation produced an heir with the Midas touch, let alone the necessary drive to manage and significantly enlarge the family fortune.

Her father, born to wealth and prestige, lacked Sir Richard’s strong character as well as his formidable business brain. Marsdon money had begun to disappear early, like water down a drain. Failed pie-in-the-sky schemes had been approached with enthusiasm. Her father had turned a deaf ear to cautioning counsel from accountants and solicitors alike. He knew best. Sadly, his lack of judgement had put a discernible dent in the family fortunes. And that was even before the Tragedy that had blighted their family life.

With a sigh of regret, Charlotte picked up her lovely hat with its wide floppy brim, settling it on her head. She rarely wore her long hair loose these days, preferring to pull it back from her face and arrange it in various knots. In any case, the straw picture hat demanded she pull her hair back off her face. Her dress was Hermes silk, in chartreuse, strapless except for a wide silk band over one shoulder that flowed down the bodice and short skirt. The hat was a perfect colour match, adorned with organdie peonies in masterly deep pinks that complemented the unique shade of golden lime-green.

The outfit wasn’t new, but she had only worn it once, at Melbourne Cup day when Martyn was alive. Martyn had taken great pride in how she looked. She’d always had to look her best. In those days she had been every inch a fashionista, such had been their extravagant and, it had to be said, empty lifestyle. Martyn had been a man much like her father—an inheritor of wealth who could do what he liked, when he liked, if he so chose. Martyn had made his choice. He had always expected to marry her, right from childhood, bringing about the union of two long-established rural families. And once he’d had her—he had always been mad about her—he had set about making their lifestyle a whirl of pleasure up until his untimely death.

From time to time she had consoled herself with the thought that perhaps Martyn, as he matured, would cease taking up endless defensive positions against his highly effective father, Gordon, come to recognise his family responsibilities and then pursue them with some skill and determination.

Sadly, all her hopes—and Gordon Prescott’s—had been killed off one by one. And she’d had to face some hard facts herself. Hadn’t she been left with a legacy of guilt? She had never loved Martyn. Bonded to him from earliest childhood, she had always regarded him with great affection. But romantic love? Never! The heart wasn’t obedient to the expectations of others. She knew what romantic love was. She knew about passion—dangerous passion and its infinite temptations—but she hadn’t steered away from it in the interests of safety. She had totally succumbed.

All these years later her heart still pumped his name.

Rohan.

She heard her son’s voice clearly. He sounded anxious. “Mummy, are you ready? Grandpa wants to leave.”

A moment later, Christopher, a strikingly handsome little boy, dressed in a bright blue shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons and grey cargo pants, tore into the room.

“Come on, come on,” he urged, holding out his hand to her. “He’s stomping around the hall and going red in the face. That means his blood pressure is going up, doesn’t it?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart,” Charlotte answered calmly. “Grandpa’s health is excellent. Stomping is a way to get our attention. Anyway, we’re not late,” she pointed out.

It had been after Martyn’s death, on her father’s urging, that she and Christopher had moved into the Lodge. Her father was sad and lonely, finding it hard getting over the big reversals in his life. She knew at some point she had to make a life for herself and her son. But where? She couldn’t escape the Valley. Christopher loved it here. It was his home. He loved his friends, his school, his beautiful environment and his bond with his grandfather. It made a move away from the Valley extremely difficult, and there were other crucial considerations for a single mother with a young child.

Martyn had left her little money. They had lived with his parents at their huge High Grove estate. They had wanted for nothing, all expenses paid, but Martyn’s father—knowing his son’s proclivities—had kept his son on a fairly tight leash. His widow, so all members of the Prescott family had come to believe, was undeserving.

“Grandpa runs to a timetable of his own,” Christopher was saying, shaking his golden-blond head. She too was blonde, with green eyes. Martyn had been fair as well, with greyish-blue eyes. Christopher’s eyes were as brilliant as blue-fire diamonds. “You look lovely in that dress, Mummy,” he added, full of love and pride in his beautiful mother. “Please don’t be sad today. I just wish I was seventeen instead of seven,” he lamented. “I’m just a kid. But I’ll grow up and become a great big success. You’ll have me to look after you.”

“My knight in shining armour!” She bent to give him a big hug, then took his outstretched hand, shaking it back and forth as if beginning a march. “Onward, Christian soldiers!”

“What’s that?” He looked up at her with interest.

“It’s an English hymn,” she explained. Her father wouldn’t have included hymns in the curriculum. Her father wasn’t big on hymns. Not since the Tragedy. “It means we have to go forth and do our best. Endure. It was a favourite hymn of Sir Winston Churchill. You know who he was?”

“Of course!” Christopher scoffed. “He was the great English World War II Prime Minister. The country gave him a huge amount of money for his services to the nation, then they took most of it back in tax. Grandpa told me.”

Charlotte laughed. Very well read himself, her father had taken it upon himself to “educate” Christopher. Christopher had attended the best school in the Valley for a few years now, but her father took his grandson’s education much further, taking pride and delight it setting streams of general, historical and geographical questions for which Christopher had to find the answers. Christopher was already computer literate but her father wasn’t—something that infuriated him—and insisted he find the answers in the books in the well-stocked library. Christopher never cheated. He always came up trumps. Christopher was a very clever little boy.

Like his father.

The garden party was well underway by the time they finished their stroll along the curving driveway. Riverbend had never looked more beautiful, Charlotte thought, pierced by the same sense of loss she knew her father was experiencing—though one would never have known it from his confident Lord of the Manor bearing. Her father was a handsome man, but alas not a lot of people in the Valley liked him. The mansion, since they had moved, had undergone very necessary repairs. These days it was superbly maintained, and staffed by a housekeeper, her husband—a sort of major-domo—and several ground staff to bring the once-famous gardens back to their best. A good-looking young woman came out from Sydney from time to time, to check on what was being done. Charlotte had met her once, purely by accident.

© Margaret Way, PTY., LTD 2011

About the Author

LUCY GORDON cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, charlton Heston and Sir Roger Moore. She also camped out with lions in Africa, and had many other unusual experiences which have often provided the background for her books. Several years ago, while staying Venice, she met a Venetian who proposed in two days. They have been married ever since. Naturally this has affected her writing, where romantic Italian men tend to feature strongly. Two of her books have won the Romance Writers of America RITA^® award.

You can visit her website at www.lucy-gordon.com

Dear Reader,

I must admit to getting a wistful satisfaction from writing about a heroine whose beauty and allure knock men sideways. No hopeless sighing for her. One quirk of her gorgeous mouth, a look from her sultry eyes, and they fall at her feet, begging for her attention. I guess we’ve all indulged that fantasy at some time.

But the underlying truth is never so simple, as I learned from Pippa, heroine of A Winter Proposal. Beneath the surface of the sultry siren is a woman who has been hurt almost beyond bearing, and who has sheltered behind her desirability and her reputation as a good-time girl, determined not to let the world discover her fears.

Those fears include Christmas and mistletoe—both of which bring back suffering she can’t bear to recall.

But then she meets Roscoe, a man as damaged as herself, and as skilled at hiding it. Each of them sees through the other’s defences to the loving hearts beneath. Harsh and forbidding on the surface, Roscoe discovers depths of tenderness within himself, and uses them to rescue Pippa. Through him she finds that Christmas can once more be a time of joy.

But they are not alone in their struggle. Pippa’s beloved grandmother, Dee, has always been a loving presence, offering advice, and standing as a symbol of love’s triumph to inspire her to her own happy ending.

Warmest wishes,

Lucy Gordon

A WINTER PROPOSAL HIS DIAMOND BRIDE

LUCY GORDON

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A WINTER PROPOSAL

LUCY GORDON

CHAPTER ONE

AFTER five years the gravestone was still as clean and well-tended as on the first day, a tribute to somebody’s loving care. At the top it read:

MARK ANDREW SELLON,

9^th April 1915—7^th October 2003 A much loved husband and father

A space had been left below, filled three weeks later by the words:

DEIRDRE SELLON,

18^th February 1921—28^th October 2003

Beloved wife of the above

Together always

‘I remember how you insisted on leaving that space,’ Pippa murmured as she tidied away a few weeds. ‘Even then you were planning for the day you’d lie beside him. And the pictures too. You had them all ready for your own time.’

A family friend had returned from a trip to Italy and mentioned how Italian gravestones usually contained a picture of the deceased. ‘It really makes a difference to know what people looked like,’ she’d enthused. ‘I’m going to select my picture now.’

‘So am I,’ Dee had said instantly.

And she had, one for herself and one for her husband, taken when they were still in robust middle age. There, framed by the stone, was Dee, cheerful and ready to cope with anything life threw at her, and there was Mark, still bearing traces of the stunning good looks of his youth, when he’d been a daredevil pilot in the war.

Below them was a third photograph, taken at their sixtieth wedding anniversary party. It showed them standing close together, arms entwined, heads slightly leaning against each other, the very picture of two people who were one at heart.

Less than two months later, he had died. Dee had cherished the photograph, and when, three weeks after that, she had been laid beside him Pippa had insisted on adding it to the headstone.

Finishing with the weeds, she took out the flowers she’d brought with her and laid them carefully at the foot of the stone, murmuring, ‘There, just how you like them.’

She rose and moved back, checking that everything looked right, and stood for a moment in the rich glow of the setting sun. A passer-by, happening to glance at her, would have stopped and gazed in wonder.

She was petite, with a slender, elegant figure and an air of confidence that depended on more than mere looks. Nature had given her beauty but also another quality, less easy to define. Her mother called her a saucy little so-and-so. Her father said, ‘Watch it, lass. It’s dangerous to drive fellers too far.’

Men were divided in expressing their opinion. The more refined simply sighed. The less refined murmured, ‘Wow!’ The completely unrefined wavered between, ‘Get a load of that! ‘ and ‘Phwoar! ‘ Pippa shrugged, smiled and went on her way, happy with any of them.

Superficially, her attractions were easy to explain. The perfect face and body, the curled, honey-coloured hair, clearly luscious and extravagant, even now while it was pinned back in an unconvincing attempt at severity. But there was something else which no one had ever managed to describe: a knowing, amused look in her eyes; not exactly come-hither, but the teasing hint that come-hither might be lurking around the corner. Something.

A wooden seat had been placed conveniently nearby and Pippa settled onto it with the air of having come to stay.

‘What a day I’ve had!’ she sighed. ‘Clients talking their heads off, paperwork up to here.’ She indicated the top of her head.

‘I blame you,’ she told her grandmother, addressing the photograph. ‘But for you, I’d never have become a lawyer. But you had to go and leave me that legacy on condition that I trained for a profession.’

‘No training, no cash,’ Lilian, Pippa’s mother had pointed out. ‘And she’s named me your trustee to make sure you obey orders. I can almost hear her saying, “So get out of that, my girl.”’

‘That sounds like her,’ Pippa had said wryly. ‘Mum, what am I going to do?’

‘You’re going to do what your Gran says because, mark this, wherever she is, she’ll be watching.’

‘And you were,’ Pippa observed now. ‘You’ve always been there, just out of sight, over my shoulder, letting me know what you thought. Perhaps that was his influence.’

From her bag she produced a small toy bear, much of its fur worn away over time. Long ago he’d been won at a fair by Flight Lieutenant Mark Sellon, who’d solemnly presented him to Deirdre Parsons, the girl who later became his bride and lived with him for sixty years. To the last moment she’d treasured her ‘Mad Bruin’ as she called him.

‘Why mad?’ Pippa had asked her once.

‘After your grandfather.’

‘Was he mad?’

‘Delightfully mad. Wonderfully, gloriously mad. That’s why he was so successful as a fighter pilot. According to other airmen that I spoke to, he just went for everything, hell for leather.’

To the last moment, each had feared to lose the other. In the end Mark had died first, and after that, Dee had treasured the little bear more than ever, finally dying with him pressed against her face, and bequeathing him to Pippa, along with the money.

‘I brought him along,’ Pippa said, holding Bruin up as though Dee could see him. ‘I’m taking good care of him. It’s so nice to have him. It’s almost like having you.

‘I’m sorry it’s been so long since my last visit, but it’s chaos at work. I used to think solicitors’ offices were sedate places, but that was before I joined one. The firm does a certain amount of the “bread and butter stuff”, wills, property, that sort of thing. But it’s the criminal cases that bring everyone alive. Me too, if I’m honest. David, my boss, says I should go in for criminal law because I’ve got just the right kind of wicked mind.’ She gave a brief chuckle. ‘They don’t know how true that is.’

She stood for a moment, holding the little bear and smiling fondly at the photos of people she had loved, and still loved. Then she kissed him and replaced him in her bag.

‘I’ve got to go. ‘Bye, darling. And you, Grandpa. Don’t let her bully you too much. Be firm. I know it’s hard after a lifetime of saying, “Yes, dear, no, dear”, but try.’

She planted a kiss on the tips of her fingers and laid them against the photograph of her grandparents. Then she stepped back. The movement brought something into the extreme edge of her vision and she turned quickly to see a man watching her. Or it might be more exact to say staring at her with the disapproval of one who couldn’t understand such wacky behaviour. Wryly, she supposed she must look a little odd, and wondered how long he’d been there.

He was tall with a lean face that was firm almost to the point of grimness. Fortyish, she thought, but perhaps older with that unyielding look.

She gave him a polite smile and moved off. There was something about him that made her want to escape. She made her way to a place where there were other family graves.

It was strangely pleasant in these surroundings. Although part of a London suburb, the cemetery had a country air, with tall trees in which birds and squirrels made their homes. As the winter day faded, the red sun seemed to be sliding down between the tree trunks, accompanied by soft whistles and scampering among the leaves. Pippa had always enjoyed coming here, for its beauty almost as much as because it was now the home of people she had loved.

Just ahead were Dee’s parents, Joe and Helen, their daughter Sylvia and her infant son Joey, and the baby Polly. She had never known any of them, yet she’d been raised in a climate of strong family unity and they were as mysteriously real to her as her living relatives.

She paused for a moment at Sylvia’s grave, remembering her mother’s words about the likeness. It was a physical likeness, Pippa knew, having seen old snapshots of Great-Aunt Sylvia. As a young woman in the nineteen-thirties she’d been a noted beauty, living an adventurous life, skipping from romance to romance. Everyone thought she would marry the dashing Mark Sellon, but she’d left him to run off with a married man just before the war broke out. He died at Dunkirk and she died in the Blitz.

Something of Sylvia’s beauty had reappeared in Pippa. But the real likeness lay elsewhere, in the sparkling eyes and readiness to seek new horizons.

‘In the genes,’ Lilian had judged, perhaps correctly. ‘Born to be a good time girl.’

‘Nothing wrong with having a good time,’ Pippa had often replied chirpily.

‘There is if you don’t think of anything else,’ Lilian pointed out.

Pippa was indignant. ‘I think of plenty else. I work like a slave at my job. It’s just that now and then I like to enjoy myself.’

It sounded a rational answer, but they both knew that it was actually no answer at all. Pippa’s flirtations were many but superficial. And there was a reason for it, one that few people knew.

Gran Dee had known. She’d been a close-up witness of Pippa’s relationship with Jack Sothern, had seen how deeply the young girl was in love with him, how brilliantly happy when they became engaged, how devastated when he’d abandoned her a few weeks before Christmas.

That time still stood out fiercely in Pippa’s mind. Jack had left town for a couple of days, which hadn’t made her suspicious, as she now realised it should have. Wedding preparations, she’d thought; matters to be settled at work before he was free to go on their honeymoon. The idea of another woman had never crossed her mind.

When he returned she paid an unexpected visit to his apartment, heralding her arrival by singing a Christmas carol outside his door.

‘New day, new hope, new life,’ she yodelled merrily.

When he opened the door she flew into his arms, hoping to draw him into a kiss, but he moved stiffly away.

Then he dumped her.

For a while she’d been knocked sideways. Instead of the splendid career that should have been hers, she’d taken a job serving in the local supermarket, justifying this by saying that her grandparents, both in their eighties and frail, needed her. For the last two years of their lives she’d lived with them, watching over them, giving them every moment because, as she declared, she had no use for boyfriends.

It was then that the innocent beauty of her face had begun to be haunted with a look of determination so fierce as to be sometimes alarming. It would vanish quickly, driven away by her natural warmth, but it was still there, half hidden in the shadows, ready to return.

‘Don’t give in to it,’ Dee had begged in her last year of life. ‘I know you were treated cruelly, but don’t become bitter, whatever you do.’

‘Gran, honestly, you’ve got it all wrong. So a man let me down! So what? We rise above that these days!’

Dee had looked unconvinced, so Pippa brightened her smile, hoping to fool her, not very successfully, she knew.

Only after her death had Dee been able to put the situation right with a modest legacy, conditional on Pippa training for a proper career.

Pippa had changed from the quiet girl struggling to recover from heartbreak. Going back out into the world, starting a new life, had brought out a side she hadn’t known she had. Her looks won her many admirers, and she’d gone to meet them, arms open but heart closed. Life was fun if you didn’t expect too much, and she’d brought that down to a fine art.

‘Aunt Sylvia would have been proud of you,’ her mother told her, half critical, half admiring. ‘Not that I knew her, she died before I was born, but the way she carried on was a family legend and you’re heading in the same direction. Look at the way you’re dressed!’

‘I like to dress properly,’ Pippa observed, looking down at the short skirt that revealed her stunning legs, and the closely cut top that emphasised her delicate curves.

‘That’s not properly, that’s improperly,’ Lilian replied.

‘They can be the same thing,’ Pippa teased. ‘Oh, Mum, don’t look so shocked. I’m sure Aunt Sylvia would have said exactly that.’

‘Very likely, from all I’ve heard. But you’re supposed to be a lawyer.’

‘What do you mean, “supposed”? I passed my exams with honours and they were fighting to hire me, so my boss said.’

‘And doesn’t he mind you floating about his office looking like a sexy siren?’ Lilian demanded.

Pippa giggled.

‘No, I guess he doesn’t,’ Lilian conceded. ‘Well, I suppose if you’ve got the exam results to back you up you’ll be all right.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Pippa murmured. ‘I’ll be all right.’

One man, speaking from the depths of his injured feelings, had called her a tease, but he did her an injustice. She embarked on a relationship in all honesty, always wondering if this one would be different. But it never was. When she backed off it was from fear, not heartlessness. The memory of her misery over Jack was still there in her heart. The time that had passed since had dimmed that misery, but nothing could ever free her from its shadow, and she was never going to let it happen again.

‘I reckon you’d have understood that,’ she told Sylvia. ‘The things I’ve heard about you—I really wish we could have met. I bet you were fun.’

The thought of that fun made a smile break over her face. Sometimes she seemed to smile as she breathed.

But the smile faded as she turned to leave and saw the man she’d seen before, frowning at her.

Well, I suppose I must look pretty crazy, she thought wryly. His generation probably thinks you should never smile in a graveyard. But why not, if you’re fond of the people you come to see? And I’m very fond of Sylvia, even though we never met. So there!

Her mood of cheerful defiance lasted until she reached her car, parked just outside the gate. Then it faded into exasperation.

‘Oh, no, not again!’ she breathed as the engine made futile noises. ‘I’ll take you to the garage tomorrow, but start just this once, please!’

But, deaf to entreaties, it merely whirred again.

‘Grr!’

Getting out to look under the bonnet was a formality as she had only the vaguest idea what she was hoping to find. Whatever it was, she didn’t find it.

‘Grr!’

‘Are you in trouble?’

It was him, the man who’d interrupted her pleasant reverie in the graveyard and practically driven her out by his grim disapproval. At least, in her present growling exasperation that was how it seemed to her.

Not that he was looking grim now, merely detached and efficient as he headed towards her and surveyed the car.

‘Won’t it start?’

‘No. But this has happened before, and it usually starts after a while if I’m firm with it.’

His lips quirked slightly. ‘How do you get firm with a car? Kick it?’

‘Certainly not,’ she said with dignity. ‘I’m not living in the Dark Ages. I just—tap it a little and it comes right.’

‘I’ve got a better idea. Suppose I tow you to the nearest garage, or have you got a special one where you normally go when this breaks down? ‘

‘My brothers own a garage in Crimea Street,’ she said with dignity.

‘And do they approve of your “tapping” the car?’

‘They don’t approve of anything, starting with the fact that I bought it without consulting them. I just loved it on sight. It’s got so much personality.’

‘It’s certainly got that. What it hasn’t got is a reliable engine. You say you have brothers in the trade, and they let you buy this thing?’

‘They did not “let” me because I didn’t ask their permission,’ she said indignantly.

‘Nor their advice, it seems. I hope they gave you a piece of their minds.’

‘They did.’

‘So would I if you were my daughter.’

‘But I’m not your daughter, I haven’t asked for your help and I certainly haven’t asked for your interference. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to leave.’

‘How?’ he asked simply.

In her annoyance she’d forgotten that she was stranded. She glared.

‘It’s three miles to Crimea Street,’ he pointed out. ‘Are you going to walk it? In those heels? Or are you going to call them to rescue you? They’ll love that.’

‘Yes, and I’ll never hear the end of it,’ she sighed. ‘Ah, well, I don’t seem to have any choice.’

‘Unless I give you a tow?’ Seeing her suspicious look, he said, ‘It’s a genuine offer. I can’t just leave you here.’

‘Me being such a poor, helpless damsel in distress, you mean?’

His lips twitched. ‘Well, there must be something of the damsel in distress about you, or you wouldn’t have bought this ridiculous car.’

‘Very funny. Thank you for your offer of help, but I’ll manage without it. Good day to you.’

‘Come off your high horse. Come to think of it, a horse would probably have served you better than this contraption. I’ll fetch my car and connect them.’ Starting to move off, he turned to add, ‘Don’t go away.’

She opened her mouth to reply, had second thoughts and closed it again. It was annoying that she couldn’t help laughing at his jibe, but that was the fact. She was still smiling when he returned in an expensive vehicle that made her eyes open wide.

‘Oh, wow! Are you sure you want that thing seen with my old jalopy?’ she asked.

‘I’ll try to endure it.’ He worked swiftly to connect the cars, then opened his door and indicated for her to get into the passenger seat.

She had to admire the smooth, purring movement of his vehicle, which spoke of expense and loving care, suggesting that this man had an affinity with cars. Since she loved them herself, she could feel some sympathy, even a faint amused appreciation of how she must look to him. He’d implied that she reminded him of a daughter, and she wondered how many daughters he actually had.

‘I’m Roscoe Havering, by the way,’ he said.

‘Pippa Jenson—well, Philippa, actually.’

‘Pippa’s better: more like you.’

‘I’m not even going to ask what is “like me”. You have no idea.’

‘Cheeky Very young.’

‘I’m not that young.’

‘Twenty—twenty-one—’ he hazarded.

‘Twenty-seven,’ she laughed.

It was as well that traffic lights had forced him to halt because he turned quickly to stare at her in surprise. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘I am.’ She gave him a wicked smile. ‘Sorry!’

‘How can I believe you?’ he said, starting up again. ‘You look more like a student.’

‘No, I’m a solicitor, a staid and serious representative of the law.’ She assumed a deep voice. ‘Strong men quake at my approach. Some of them flee to hide in the hills.’

He laughed. ‘I think I’ll get you home first. I won’t ask who you work for. Obviously, you have your own practice which is driving everyone else into bankruptcy.’

‘No, I’m with Farley & Son.’

She saw his eyebrows rise a little and his mouth twist into a shape that meant, ‘Hmm!’

‘Do you know them?’

‘Quite well. I’ve used them in the past. They’ve got a big reputation. You must be impressive if they’ve taken you on. Aren’t we nearing Crimea Street now?’

‘Next one on the left.’

They saw the garage as soon as they turned into the street. The little business that Pippa’s great-grandfather, Joe Parsons, had set up ninety years earlier had flourished and grown. It was now three times the size, and her brothers, Brian and Frank, had bought houses on the same street so that they could live close to their work.

They were just preparing to shut up shop when the little convoy rolled into view. At once they came out onto the pavement and stood watching with brotherly irony.

‘Again!’ Frank declared. ‘Why aren’t I surprised?’

‘Because you’re an old stick-in-the-mud,’ Pippa informed him, kissing his cheek, then Brian’s. ‘And clearly you didn’t mend it properly. This is Roscoe Havering, who came to my rescue.’

‘Good of you,’ Brian said, shaking Roscoe’s hand. ‘Of course a better idea would have been to dump her in the nearest river, but I dare say that didn’t occur to you.’

‘Actually, it did,’ Roscoe observed. ‘But I resisted the temptation.’

The brothers laughed genially. They were both in their forties, heavily built and cheerful.

A few moments under the bonnet was enough to make Frank say, ‘This’ll take until tomorrow. And look, I’m afraid we can’t invite you in. The family’s away and we’ve sort of planned…well…’

‘A night on the tiles,’ Pippa chuckled. ‘You devils! I’ll bet Crimea Street is going to rock.’

‘You’d better believe it!’

‘OK, I’ll come back tomorrow.’

‘Don’t you live here?’ Roscoe asked.

‘No, I’ve got my own little place a few miles away.’

‘Where exactly?’

She gave him the address in the heart of London.

‘I’ll take you,’ he said. ‘Get in.’

Relieved, she did so, first retrieving two heavy bags from the back of her car.

‘Thanks,’ she said as she clicked the seat belt and slammed the door. ‘I’ve got a heavy night’s work ahead of me and I’ve got to give it everything.’

‘No hungry man wanting his supper cooked?’

‘Nope. I live alone. Free, independent, no distractions.’

‘Except visiting your friends,’ he observed.

‘They’re my brothers—oh, you mean in the graveyard. I suppose you thought I looked very odd.’

‘No, you looked as if you were enjoying the company. It was nice.’

‘I always did enjoy my grandparents’ company. I adored them both. Especially Gran. I loved talking to her, and I guess I just can’t stop.’

‘Why should you want to?’

‘Most people would say because she’s dead.’

‘But she isn’t dead to you, and that’s what matters. Besides, I don’t think you worry too much about what other people say.’

‘Well, I ought to. I’m a lawyer.’

‘Ah, yes. Staid and serious.’

She made a comical face. ‘I do my best.’

Outwardly, he showed nothing, but inside his expression was wry. Twenty-seven. Was he expected to believe that? Twenty-four, tops. And even that was stretching it. If she really worked for Farley she was probably little more than a pupil, but that was fine. She could still be useful to him.

A plan was forming in his mind. The details had to be fine-tuned but meeting her was like the working out of destiny. Somewhere, a kindly fate had planned this meeting and he was going to make the most of it.

‘It’s just there,’ Pippa said, pointing through the window to a tall, expensive-looking apartment block.

‘There doesn’t seem anywhere to park,’ he groaned.

‘No need. Just slow down a little and I’ll hop out. Just here where the lights are red.’

She reached for her bags, flashed him a dazzling smile and got out swiftly.

‘Thank you,’ she called, backing off.

He would have called her to wait but the lights changed and he had to move on.

Pippa hurried into the building and took the elevator to the third floor. Once in her apartment, she tossed the bags away and began to strip off.

‘Shower, shower,’ she muttered. ‘Just let me get under the shower!’

When she was naked she hurried into the bathroom and got under the water, sighing with satisfaction. After relishing the cascade for a few minutes, she got out and dried herself off, thinking of the evening’s work that lay ahead. She felt ready for it now.

But then something caught her eye. One of her bags lay open on its side, the contents spilling out, and she could see at once that one vital object was missing.

‘Oh, heavens!’ she groaned. ‘It must have fallen out in his car and he drove off with it.’

The sound of the doorbell revived her hope. Roscoe Havering. He’s found it, brought it back to me. Thank heavens!

Pulling a large towelling robe around her, she ran to the door. ‘I’m so glad to see you—’

Then she stopped, stunned by the sight of the young man who stood there, his air a mixture of pleading and defiance.

‘Oh, no,’ she breathed. ‘You promised not to do this again.’

CHAPTER TWO

FOR most of the journey Roscoe wore a frown. Things were falling into place nicely. Not that this was a surprise. He was an organised man, skilled at controlling his surroundings and making things happen as he wanted, but even he could hardly have arranged matters as neatly as this.

So his frown didn’t imply problems, simply that there were still details to be sorted before he’d fixed everything to suit himself, and he was giving that desirable outcome the concentration it deserved.

Now he could see the large, comfortable house that had once been his home. These days it housed only his mother and younger brother Charlie, although Roscoe had kept his room and usually slept there a couple of nights a week to keep a protective eye on both of them. His mother was looking anxiously out of the window and came to the door as soon as she saw him. She was approaching sixty, nervously thin but still with the remnants of good looks.

‘Is it all right?’ she asked. ‘Have you sorted it?’

He kissed her. ‘Sorted what?’

‘About Charlie. Have you arranged everything?’

For just the briefest moment he tensed, then smiled.

‘Mother, it’s too soon to arrange everything, but I’m working on it. Don’t worry.’

‘Oh, but I must worry. He’s so frail and vulnerable.’

Luckily she wasn’t looking directly at him, or she’d have seen the cynical twist of his mouth. Roscoe had an unsentimental, clear-eyed view of his younger brother. He knew Charlie’s volatility, his ramshackle behaviour, his headlong craziness and his selfishness. All these he saw through a filter of brotherly affection, but he never fooled himself. Frail and vulnerable? No way!

But he knew his mother’s perception was different and he always avoided hurting her, so he simply said, ‘Leave it to me. You know you can trust me.’

‘But you will make them drop those stupid charges, won’t you? You’ll make those horrid people admit that he’s innocent.’

‘Mother, he’s not exactly innocent. He more or less admitted—’

‘Oh, but he didn’t know what he was saying. He was confused.’

‘He’s not a child. He’s a young man of twenty-four.’

‘He’s a child in his heart, and he needs his big brother to defend him.’

‘I’m doing my best. Just leave it to me.’

‘Oh, yes, you always protect him, don’t you? You’re such a good brother. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘Well, you don’t have to,’ he said gently. ‘So it’s all right.’

‘Now come indoors and have your supper.’

‘Fine, I’ll just get my things.’

But, as he leaned into the car, he froze suddenly.

‘Oh, Lord! ‘ he groaned, seizing something from the floor at the back. ‘How did that get there?’ He straightened up, holding a large envelope. ‘It must have fallen out of one of her bags and she rushed off without noticing. Perhaps I can call her.’

He pulled out the contents, all papers, and went through them looking for her phone number. He didn’t find it, but he did notice that these were serious papers. She’d spoken of a heavy night’s work ahead, and would probably need them.

‘I’m sorry,’ he sighed. ‘Can you hold supper? I’ll be back in an hour.’

He was gone before his mother could complain.

‘Jimmy, you promised to leave me alone.’ As Pippa spoke she was backing off, one hand clutching the robe across her breast, the other held up defensively. ‘We agreed it was over.’

‘No, you said it was over,’ he protested. ‘I never said it. I couldn’t say it, feeling the way I do. Oh, Pippa, I miss you so much, if you only knew. But you do know in your heart, don’t you? I couldn’t be so crazy about you if you didn’t feel just a little something for me.’

‘I do feel something for you,’ she sighed.

‘There, I knew it!’

‘But it’s not what you want. It’s mostly pity and a sort of guilt that I let things go so far. Honestly, Jimmy, I didn’t mean to. I thought we were just having a good time with no strings. If I’d known you were getting so serious I’d have discouraged you earlier.’

‘But you didn’t,’ the young man pleaded. ‘Doesn’t that prove you feel something for me?’

‘Yes, it means I feel like a kindly aunt, and that’s not what you want.’

His face fell and she knew a pang over her heart. He was a nice boy, and he’d appeared on the scene just in time to discourage the one before him. She’d been grateful, and after that they’d shared many a laugh, some dinner engagements and a few kisses.

Then things had got out of hand. He’d grown serious, wanting to take her away for a weekend. Her refusal had increased his ardour. He’d spoken of his respect, and proposed marriage. Her rejection had cast him into despair.

‘Couldn’t we give it another try?’ he begged now. ‘You tell me what it is about me that annoys you and I’ll be careful never to do that.’

Reluctantly, Pippa decided that only firmness would be any use now.

‘When you talk like that it annoys me,’ she said. ‘When you haunt me, and telephone at all hours, sending me flowers which I don’t want, bombarding me with text messages asking what I’m wearing, then I get very annoyed.

‘You’re a nice boy, Jimmy, but you’re not for me. I’m sorry if I led you to believe otherwise. I didn’t mean to. Now, please go.’

Something in his eyes made her pull the edges of her robe closer, clutching them firmly. His anguish was being replaced by the determination of a man who would no longer accept no for an answer.

‘Please go,’ she said, stepping back.

‘Not without a kiss. You can grant me that, can’t you?’

‘I think not. Goodbye.’

Pippa tried to close the door but he forestalled her. Now his breathing was coming heavily, the arms that closed around her were strong, and she was no longer sure she could deal with him.

‘Let me go, Jimmy.’

‘Not until I’m ready.’

‘Did you hear me? I said let me go and I meant it. Stop that. Jimmy, no!‘

On the journey back to Pippa’s apartment Roscoe was frowning again, but this time in confusion. On the one hand there was her appearance—young, dainty, vivacious. On the other hand there were the papers with their plethora of facts and figures that only a skilled, serious mind could understand. He tried to fit the two sides together, and couldn’t.

This time he found a parking space and entered the building, going to study the list of residents by the elevator.

‘Can I help?’ A middle-aged man was passing by.

‘I’m looking for Miss Jenson’s address.’

‘Blimey, another one. They pass through here like an army. Mind you, even she doesn’t usually have two in one evening.’

‘Indeed,’ Roscoe said carefully.

‘I tell you, it’s pathetic. They come here with their flowers and their gifts, begging her, pleading with her, but it’s no use. When she’s bored with them she dumps them. I’ve tried to warn some of them but will they listen? You’d expect a man to have more dignity, wouldn’t you?’

‘You would indeed,’ Roscoe said, still guarding his words.

‘But they say she’s magic and they can’t help themselves.’

‘You spoke of two.’

‘Yes, the other one hasn’t been here long so you’d better go carefully. Good-looking young fellow. Shouldn’t think you’d stand a chance. She’s got a pick of them, you know. Best of luck, though.’

He passed on out of the front door, leaving Roscoe wondering what he’d wandered into. But what he’d just heard was good news in that it made Pippa likely to be more useful to him, and nothing else mattered. He located the apartment and got into the elevator.

As soon as the doors parted he heard the noise coming from just around the corner, out of sight, a male voice crying out, ‘You can’t be so cruel—’

Then Pippa’s voice. ‘Can’t I? Get out now or I’ll show you how cruel I can be. I’m told I have very sharp knees.’

‘But I only—ow!’

‘Now go. And don’t come back.’

Roscoe turned the corner just in time to see the young man stagger back, clutching himself, then collapse to the ground. Through the open door he could see a woman, or perhaps a goddess. She was completely naked, leaving no detail of her glorious figure to the imagination. The hourglass shape, the curved hips, the tiny waist, the breasts slightly too large, although his view of them was partly obscured by her glorious hair, not pinned back now but cascading down in a riot of curls.

After a moment he realised that the vision was Pippa, but not the light-hearted girl he’d met earlier. This was a very angry woman, standing triumphant over her defeated foe who was writhing on the ground. Literally.

The vision vanished at once, not in a puff of smoke but in a hasty movement to make herself decent by pulling on a robe as soon as she saw Roscoe. Only the fury on her face remained.

With the robe safely concealing her, she came to the door and addressed the young man. ‘I’m sorry, Jimmy, but I warned you. Don’t come back here, ever.’

Jimmy’s face was sullen as he hauled himself to his feet, all good nature gone. ‘You haven’t heard the last of this,’ he spat. ‘Jezebel!’

Incredibly, a smile flickered over her beautiful features. ‘Oh, come on, you can do better than that. Who was Jezebel, after all? Now, if you’d said Mata Hari I’d have been insulted—or maybe flattered, one of the two.’

‘Mata who?’

‘Oh, go and look it up!’ she said with the exasperation of a schoolmistress. ‘But go!’

Scowling, he dragged himself to his feet and began to limp away, but not before turning to Roscoe. ‘You’ve been warned,’ he spat. ‘She won’t treat you any better.’

Roscoe held up the envelope. ‘I’m just the delivery man,’ he said mildly.

Jimmy flung him a speaking look and limped away. Roscoe waited until he was out of sight before saying, ‘I’m sorry to arrive unexpectedly, but you left this in my car.’

She made as if to take the envelope that he held out, but snatched her hand back as the robe fell open.

‘I’ll take it inside,’ he said, moving past her.

She followed him, slamming the front door, hurrying into the bedroom and slamming that door too. Roscoe wondered at her agitation. After all, she’d been the victor, conquering and subduing her foe. He would have given a good deal to know the history behind that scene.

The apartment was what he would have expected, lush and decorative in a way he thought of as ultra-feminine. The furniture was expensive and tastefully chosen and the shelves bore ornaments that suggested a knowledge of antiques.

In one corner of the room was a desk with a computer and various accessories, all of which were the very latest, he noted with approval. It seemed to tell a different story to the rest of her. Ditzy dolly-bird on the one hand, technology expert on the other.

But probably the computer had been installed by her employers. That explained it.

She came whizzing back into the room, dressed in sweater and jeans. They were sturdy and workaday, unglamorous except that they answered all questions about her figure.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘Certainly I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be?’ She sounded a tad defiant.

‘Just that he seemed rather overwrought—’

‘And he called me Jezebel, implying that I’m a floozie, that’s what you meant.’

‘That’s not what I meant at all.’

Even to herself, Pippa couldn’t have explained why she was on edge, except that she liked to stay in control, and being discovered as she had been was definitely not being in control.

‘Look, I just came back to return your papers,’ he said hastily. ‘Don’t blame me for finding…well…what I found.’ Too late, he saw the quagmire stretching before him.

‘And just what do you think you found? ‘ she demanded, folding her arms and looking up into his face. It was hard because he had a good six inches over her but what she lacked in height she made up in fury.

His own temper rose. After all, he’d done her a favour.

‘Well, I found a girl who’d been a bit careless, didn’t I?’

‘Careless?’

‘Careless with her own safety. What on earth possessed you to get undressed if you were going to knock him back?’

‘Oh, I see. You think I’m a vulgar tease?’

‘No, just that you weren’t thinking straight—’

‘Or maybe you’re the one not thinking straight,’ she snapped. ‘You jump to the conclusion that I stripped off to allure him, and the true explanation never occurs to you. Too simple, I suppose. He arrived after I had come out of the shower.’

‘Oh, heavens, I should have thought of that. I’m sorry, I—’

‘I didn’t get undressed for him,’ she raged on, barely hearing him. ‘I’m not interested in him and so I’ve told him again and again, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Just like a man. You’re all the same. You all think you’re so madly attractive that a woman’s no never really means no.’

‘I didn’t—’

‘Conceited, arrogant, bullying, faithless, treacherous—’

‘If you’d only—’

‘Leave, now!’

‘If I could just—’

‘No, you can’t “just” Leave!’

‘I understand that—’

‘Listen, the last man who came in here wouldn’t go when I told him to, and you saw what happened to him.’

‘All right,’ Roscoe said hastily. ‘I really only came to return your property.’

‘Thank you, sir, for your consideration,’ Pippa responded in a formal voice that was like ice, ‘but if you don’t leave of your free will you’ll do so at my will and that—’

‘I’m going, I’m going.’

He departed quickly. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation, this was no time to argue. For some reason, she was ready to do murder. It was unfair, but there was no understanding women.

From Pippa’s window, a curve in the building made the front door visible. She stood there watching until she saw him get into his car. Then she turned and glared at the photograph of her grandparents on the sideboard.

‘All right, all right. I behaved terribly. He came to return my things and I was rude to him. I didn’t even thank him. Why? Why? I don’t know why, but I was suddenly furious with him. How dare he see me naked! Yes, I know it wasn’t his fault; you don’t have to say it. But you should have seen the look on his face when he saw me on display. He didn’t know whether to fancy me or despise me, and I could strangle him for it. Grandpa, stop laughing! It’s not funny. Well, all right. Maybe just a bit. Oh, to blazes with him!’

Down below, Roscoe took a quick glance up, just in time to see her at the window before she backed off. He sat in his car for a moment, pondering.

He’d gained only a brief glimpse inside her bedroom, just enough to see a double bed and observe that it was neatly made and unused. He’d barely registered this but now it came back to him with all its implications.

So she really had refused him, which meant she was a lady of discrimination and taste as well as beauty and glowering temper. Excellent.

Later that night, before going to bed, he went online and looked up Mata Hari:

Dutch, 1876-1917, exotic dancer, artist’s model, circus rider, courtesan, double agent in World War One, executed by firing squad.

Hmm! he thought.

It was a word that occurred to him often in connection with Pippa. With every passing moment he became more convinced that she would fit his plans perfectly.

The two men regarded each other over the desk.

‘Not again!’ David Farley said in exasperation. ‘Didn’t he promise to reform last time?’

‘And the time before,’ Roscoe sighed. ‘Charlie’s not really a criminal, he just gets carried away by youthful high spirits.’

‘That’s your mother talking.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Why can’t she face the truth about Charlie?’

‘Because she doesn’t want to,’ Roscoe said bluntly. ‘He looks exactly like our father, and since Dad died fifteen years ago she’s built everything on Charlie.’

The door opened and Roscoe tensed, but it was only a young woman with a tea tray.

‘Thanks,’ David Farley said gratefully.

He was a burly man in his late forties with a pleasant face and a kindly, slightly dull manner. He cultivated that dullness, knowing how useful it could be to conceal his powerful mind until the last moment. Now he poured tea with the casual skill of a waiter.

‘Has your mother ever come to terms with the fact that your father committed suicide?’ he asked carefully.

Roscoe shook his head. ‘She won’t admit it. The official story was that the car crash was an accident, and we stuck to that to discourage gossip. Now I think she’s convinced herself that it really was an accident. A suicide would have been a rejection of her, you see.’

‘Of all of you,’ David ventured to say. He’d known Roscoe for years, right back to the time he’d been a young man who admired and loved his father. He too had suffered, but David doubted anyone had ever considered this.

Now, much as he’d expected, Roscoe shrugged aside the suggestion that he actually had feelings and hurried to say, ‘If I can pull Charlie through this without a disaster I can get him onto the straight and narrow and stop her being hurt.’

‘Do you know how often I’ve heard you say that?’ David demanded. ‘And it never works because Charlie knows he can always rely on you to rescue him from trouble. Just for once, don’t save him. Then he’ll learn his lesson.’

‘He’ll also end up with a criminal record, and my mother will have a broken heart,’ Roscoe said harshly. ‘Forget it. There has to be a way to deal with this, and I know what it is. It’s important to put the right person on the case.’

‘I shall naturally deal with this myself—’

‘Of course, but you’ll need a good assistant. I suggest Miss Philippa Jenson.’

‘You know her?’

‘I met her yesterday and was much impressed by her qualities,’ Roscoe declared in a carefully colourless voice. ‘I want you to assign her to Charlie with instructions to give him her full attention.’

‘I can give Pippa this case, but I can’t take her off other cases. She’s much in demand. Don’t be fooled by her looks. She’s terrifyingly bright and one of the best in the business. She qualified with some of the highest marks that have ever been seen, and several firms were after her. I got her by playing on her sympathies. She did her pupillage here and I managed to persuade her that she owed me something.’

‘So she really is qualified? She looks so young.’

‘She’s twenty-seven and already becoming well known in the profession. This lady is no mere assistant, but a formidable legal brain.’

The last three words affected Roscoe strangely. The world vanished, leaving only a young, perfect female body, glowing with life and vigour, dainty waist, generous breasts partly hidden by the luscious hair that tumbled about them, beautiful face glaring at him with disdain.

A formidable legal brain!

‘What…what did you say?’ he asked with an effort.

‘Are you all right?’

The vision vanished. He was back in the prosaic offices of Farley & Son, facing David Farley across a prosaic desk, drinking a prosaic cup of tea towards the end of a prosaic afternoon.

‘I’m fine,’ he said quickly. ‘I just need to settle things with Miss Jenson. Can I see her?’

‘She’s in court this afternoon, unless perhaps she’s returned. Hang on.’ He seized the phone, which had rung. ‘Pippa! Speak of the devil! How did it go?… Good…good. So Renton’s pleased. You made his enemies sorry they were born, eh? I knew you would. Look, could you hurry back? I’ve got a new client waiting for you. Apparently you already—’

He checked, alerted by Roscoe’s violent shake of the head. ‘You’re already known to him by repute,’ he amended hastily. ‘See you in a minute.’

Hanging up, he stared, puzzled. ‘Why didn’t you want me to say you’d already met?’

‘Best not. Start from scratch,’ Roscoe said. Inwardly, he was musing about the name Renton, which he’d glimpsed on the papers he delivered last night, plus a mountain of figures.

‘So she has a very satisfied client?’ he mused.

‘One of many. Lee Renton is a big man in the entertainment field, and getting bigger. There were some grim accusations hurled at him by someone who’d hoped to take advantage of him, and failed. Financial stuff, all lies. I knew Pippa would nail it.’

‘So her adversary is sorry he was born?’ Roscoe queried.

‘Nasty character, up to every trick. But then, so is she. Great on detail, reads each paper through thoroughly. Nothing escapes her. She’ll be here in a moment. The court is just around the corner.’

‘Solicitors don’t usually appear in court, do they? I thought that was the role of barristers.’

‘The old division still exists,’ David agreed, nodding, ‘but its lines are getting blurred. These days, solicitors can act as advocates more often than in the past, and when they’re as good as Miss Jenson we encourage it. You’ve made a good choice.’

‘Yes,’ Roscoe murmured. ‘I have.’

‘Luckily for you, she’s a workaholic or she might be reluctant to add to her workload so close to Christmas.’