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troubled.

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to do that. I’m never going to do that.’ There was something else in the envelope, too. A note in the chairman’s own hand, she discovered, wishing her well. ‘Mr VanStratten and Monsieur Delaroche argued very persuasively on your behalf,’ the note added, ‘but eventually it had to be a majority decision.’

      Her hand clenched round the paper, crushing it. That—lecherous hypocrite, speaking up for her? she thought incredulously. Dear God, that had to be the final blow.

      Aloud, she said, ‘There’ll be something else I can do. Someone else I can turn to. I’ll call Nigel. Ask for his advice.’

      ‘He hasn’t been so helpful up to now,’ George muttered.

      ‘But now the chips are down,’ Helen said with more confidence than she actually felt. ‘He’ll find some way to rescue us.’

      Rather than run the gauntlet of his mother’s disapproval again, Helen rang Nigel’s mobile number.

      ‘Yes?’ His voice sounded wary.

      ‘Nigel?’ she said. ‘Darling, can you come round, please? I really need to see you.’

      There was a silence, then he said, ‘Look, Helen, this isn’t a good time for me.’

      ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but please believe that it’s a far worse one for me,’ she told him bluntly. ‘Something’s happened, and I need your advice.’ She paused. ‘Would you prefer me to come to you instead?’

      ‘No,’ he said hastily. ‘No, don’t do that. I’ll be about half an hour, and I’ll use the side gate into the garden. I’ll meet you by the lake.’

      ‘Bringing your cloak and dagger with you, no doubt,’ Helen said acidly. ‘But if that’s what you want, then it’s fine with me.’

      She’d spoken bravely, but she rang off feeling sick and scared. Suddenly her entire life seemed to be falling in pieces, and she didn’t know why, or how to deal with it.

      Whatever, facing Nigel in working clothes wasn’t a good idea. She dashed upstairs and took another quick shower, this time using the last of her favourite body lotion. From her scanty wardrobe she chose a straight skirt in honey-coloured linen, with a matching jersey top, long-sleeved and vee-necked.

      She brushed her hair loose and applied a touch of pale rose to her mouth.

      War paint, she thought ironically, as she took a last look in the mirror.

      Nigel was already waiting when she arrived at the lakeside. The breeze across the water was ruffling his hair and he was pacing up and down impatiently.

      ‘So there you are,’ he greeted her peevishly. ‘What the hell’s the matter?’

      ‘I think that should be my question.’ She halted a few feet away, staring at him. ‘You don’t tell me you’re coming down, and then you avoid me. Why?’

      His eyes slid away uncomfortably. ‘Look, Helen—I know I should have spoken before, but there’s no easy way to say this.’ He paused. ‘You must know that things haven’t been good between us for quite a while.’

      ‘I’ve certainly realised we don’t see as much of each other, but I thought it was pressure of work. That’s what you told me, anyway.’ She clenched her shaking hands and hid them in the folds of her skirt.

      ‘And what about you?’ he asked sharply. ‘Always fussing about that decrepit ruin you live in—scratching round for the next few pennies. You’ve had a good offer for it. Why not wise up and get out while it’s still standing?’

      She gasped. ‘How can you say that—when you know what it means to me?’

      ‘Oh, I know all right,’ he said bitterly. ‘No one knows better. I discovered a long time ago I was always going to play second fiddle to that dump, and you took it for granted that I’d settle for that. No doubt that’s what you want to talk about now. What’s happened? Deathwatch beetle on the march again?’

      ‘I do have a serious problem about the house, but that can wait,’ she said steadily. ‘What we obviously need to discuss is—us.’

      ‘Helen, there is no ‘us’, and there hasn’t been for a long time. But you refuse to see it, for some reason.’

      Her nails dug painfully into the palms of her hands. ‘Maybe because I’m in love with you.’

      ‘Well, you’ve got a weird idea of what love’s about,’ Nigel commented sourly. ‘Frankly, I’m sick and tired of this ‘hands off till we’re married’ garbage. I’ve tried everything to get you into bed, but you’ve never wanted to know.’

      She bit her lip. ‘I—I realise that now, and I—I’m sorry.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘I thought you were prepared to wait too.’

      ‘No,’ he said brutally. ‘Men only beg for so long, then they lose interest.’ He shook his head. ‘There’s only ever going to be one passion in your life, Helen, and that’s Monteagle. No guy stands a chance against a no-win obsession like that.’

      She said carefully, ‘You mean—you don’t want me any more?’

      He sighed. ‘Let’s be honest. It was a boy-girl thing at best, and it certainly didn’t make it into the grown-up world. Although I hope we can stay friends,’ he added hastily. ‘Face it, you’ve never been interested in sex—or even curious. A couple of kisses have always been enough for you. But now I’ve met someone with a bit of warmth about her and we’re getting married. I brought her down this weekend to meet my parents, so I really don’t need you ringing up every five minutes.’

      ‘I see.’ Helen swallowed. ‘You know, I had the strangest idea I was engaged to you myself.’

      He shrugged. ‘I know we discussed it,’ he said awkwardly. ‘But there was nothing definite. For one thing, I’d have had a hell of a fight on with my parents.’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ Helen said unevenly. ‘I always knew they didn’t like me.’

      ‘It wasn’t that,’ he told her defensively. ‘They felt we were wrong for each other, that’s all. And they didn’t want me tipping everything I earned down that money pit of yours, either.’

      He paused. ‘I have ambition, Helen, and I’m not ashamed of it. I want a wife who can help with my career—someone who likes entertaining and can provide the right ambience. Let’s face it, you’d hate that kind of life.’

      The wind was cold suddenly—turning her to ice.

      She said quietly, ‘And I haven’t any money—to make up for my other deficiencies. Isn’t that part of it?’

      He gave her an irritated look. ‘Money matters. Are you pretending it doesn’t?’

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘Particularly when I’ve just been turned down for my grant.’

      ‘Well, what did you expect? Clearly they don’t want to throw good money after bad,’ he said. ‘That’s not good business practice.’

      She winced painfully. ‘Nigel,’ she said urgently, ‘I—I’m trying to save the home I love. I thought you might be able to suggest something—someone who could help. Who might be prepared to invest in the estate…’

      ‘This is a joke—right?’ His tone was derisive. ‘I suggest you look round for a rich husband—if you can find someone as frigid as you are yourself. And how likely is that?’

      The pain was suddenly more than she could bear. She took a step towards him, lifting her hand, driven by a half-crazy need to wipe the sneer from his face.

      Nigel retreated, throwing up an arm to ward her off, his smart brogues slipping suddenly in the mud created by the recent bad weather.

      Helen

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