It Started With A Kiss - Mary Lyons

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was kept so busy trying to sort out the deeply depressing problems concerning the roof timbers, and worrying about how to find the money to pay for the essential repairs, that she barely had time to think about her disastrous encounter with the strange man.

      She wasn’t just concerned with problems about the roof, of course. Not only had it been a mammoth exercise to take most of her clothes to the dry-cleaners, but she’d also been forced to call in professional firms both to dry the large Persian carpets and to inspect the valuable paintings—all yet more unavoidable expense.

      It didn’t seem to matter how many times she did her sums, the figures obstinately refused to add up. From the way the money was flowing out of her account, it wouldn’t be long before she found herself in serious financial trouble. In fact, after receiving two tough warning letters from her bank manager, it looked as if she was going to have to take some drastic action very soon.

      Luckily there had been no fall-out from her tour of the City. Not wishing to look for trouble, she’d been very careful and guarded when talking on the phone to her boss, David Webster. Knowing just how pessimistic he could be, she was certain that he’d have informed her immediately of any complaints or comments about her proficiency as a guide. So it seemed as though the tall, unknown man. was every bit as anxious as she was to forget the whole distasteful incident.

      

      It was, therefore, with a reasonably light heart that she prepared to set out, a few afternoons later, on her next tour of London.

      Entitled The Village of Chelsea, it explored the highways and byways of what had once been a small village, surrounded by country estates and summer palaces belonging to royalty, and some of the most interesting men and women in the history of British art and literature.

      It was a tour which she had personally designed and put together, taking place on the same day every week as laid down in the small printed brochures produced by David. With Lonsdale House situated in Cheyne Walk, overlooking the River Thames, the tour also had the great merit of taking place virtually outside her own front door. Besides which, guiding people around her favourite area of London for a leisurely, two-hour stroll in the warm sunshine, was nothing but a pleasure and a delight. And, since there was no possibility of being faced by the nervous apprehension which had overtaken her in the City a few days ago, Angelica was feeling happily confident as she ran downstairs into the large hall.

      ‘That’s a definite improvement,’ Betty said, eyeing the girl’s fresh summer dress, whose plain fitted bodice and softly gathered skirt emphasised her slim waist. Angelica had pinned her long, pale gold hair into a loose knot on top of her head, small tendrils of hair escaping to frame her face with soft curls, her wide blue eyes reflecting the colour of her blue cotton dress.

      ‘I don’t know what you think you looked like ‘the other day. It was a disgraceful sight, and I can only hope that you didn’t meet anyone we know,’ the older woman added grimly, before continuing her job of dusting the marble busts of long-dead Reman emperors, set on plinths in the hall.

      ‘Don’t be such an old fuss-pot!’ Angelica grinned. ‘You know very well that, with everything sopping wet, the only thing I could do was to raid Granny’s boxes of theatrical costumes.’

      ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Betty gave a heavy sigh. ‘I still miss your grandma so much, you know. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of all the fun times we used to have together in the theatre.’

      ‘Yes, I know,’ Angelica murmured sympathetically.

      She, too, deeply regretted the loss of her grandmother. Even in her old age and during her last, long illness, the elderly woman had possessed a bright, sparkling mind and a vibrant personality. Angelica knew, from the trunks of old costumes, photographs and posters, that her grandmother had once been outstandingly beautiful, and a star on the musical comedy stage, before leaving the bright lights behind her to marry old Sir Tristram’s grandson. Betty, who’d been her dresser in the theatre for many years, had insisted on accompanying her to Lonsdale House where, as her old nanny had so often pointed out, they’d all lived happily every after.

      ‘Ooo… the parties we used to have!’ Betty murmured, pausing in her dusting to stare into space for a moment. “There always seemed to be so much life and laughter in this house. But nowadays it’s more like a morgue,’ she added with a heavy sigh.

      Angelica had to admit that Betty was right. She herself could just remember the glittering dinner parties and crowded, exciting receptions which had taken place when she’d been a small girl. However, as her grandmother had grown older and more infirm, fewer and fewer people had come to the house. Following her grandmother’s death two years ago, the large building now seemed to have become nothing but a dusty museum. Although Angelica made sure that Lonsdale House was open to the public once a week—as she was obliged to do by the terms of the trust—they very seldom had more than one or two visitors.

      She really couldn’t blame people for not coming to the house in droves, she told herself glumly. Sir Tristram’s collection might be an interesting and fascinating one, but even she could see that the whole place required a completely radical overhaul. But, in order to put a fresh approach into action, she knew that she would need both expert advice and a great deal of money.

      ‘You’d better hurry up. If you don’t get a move on, you’ll be late!’ Betty’s warning voice broke into her dismal thoughts.

      ‘Yes—you’re right,’ Angelica muttered with a quick glance at one of the many large clocks scattered about the hall. Swiftly gathering up her handbag, she ran towards the front door. ‘Oh, by the way, I won’t be back until quite late this afternoon,’ she added. ‘I’ve promised to go and have tea with old Lady Marshall.’

      ‘Rather you than me, any day. That old hag is a right battleaxe!’ the older woman called out, her scornful peal of laughter echoing in Angelica’s ears as she hurried down the street.

      There was clearly no love lost between her old nanny and Lady Marshall. Unfortunately, Betty had known the imperious old lady when she’d been plain Doreen Summers, kicking up her legs in the back row of the chorus. ‘A very flighty piece she was, too,’ Betty had said. ‘If Doreen hadn’t caught old Sir Edward Marshall’s eye, and frogmarched him to the altar, goodness knows where she might have ended up!’

      However, as Angelica got off the bus at Sloane Square, she was far less interested in Lady Marshal’s past than in her present position as chairman of the board of trustees responsible for the maintenance and upkep of Lonsdale House… Of course, Betty was quite right. There was no doubt that the elderly lady was an extremely tiresome and difficult womam. Unfortunately, with her very strong, forcful personality, she had become the dominant voice among the other trusts, who all weakly bowed to her will.

      Having greeted the group of people gathered together for her tour, with some latecomers still arriving, Angelica was still preocaupied with wondering exactly how to dealt with Lady Marshall. It was vitally important that the elderly woman should fully understand the immediate, desperate problems she was now facing with Lonsdale House.

      Collecting the small fee for the tour, and automatically handing back the small yellow receipts, plus any necessary change, Angelica was just wondering if she could put forward the idea of obtaining advice from the Victoria and Albert Museum, when a deeply voiced ‘thank you’ caught her attention.

      Looking more closely at the long, tanned fingers of the hand into which she was just placing a receipt, whose wrist was clasped by a distinctly familiar, wafer-thin gold watch, she suddenly felt faint. All the breath seemed to have been driven from her body, as though she’d been hit by a swift, violent blow to the solair plus. Feeling quite sick, her eyes ’slowly travelled up the dark sleeve of the immaculately cut suit towards the broad shoulders and…

      This couldn’t be happening to her! Angelica clamped her eyelids tightly shut for a moment, fervently praying that she was mistaken. Could she be suffering from a very brief, temporary hallucination? But when she opened her dazed blue eyes again she realised that she was way out of luck. Because standing there and regarding her with a

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