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couldn’t have known,’ she said. ‘Please don’t worry about it.’

      ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

      She shook her head. ‘I was an only child.’

      ‘No relations at all?’ He was frowning.

      ‘My father’s sister is still alive,’ she said. ‘But we’re not close.’ She paused. ‘My father put all his energies into work after my mother—went. He was very successful, and eventually sold his business for a great deal of money. He should have been secure for life. He invested in a secondhand book shop, which he ran himself as a hobby. He was really happy, probably for the first time in years.’

      ‘And?’ he prompted when she hesitated.

      ‘Only someone persuaded him to play the stockmarket. He ended up owing enormous sums—debts he couldn’t possibly pay. We lost everything. The house, the shop, the furniture—it was all sold off.’

      She shook her head. ‘My aunt seemed to feel that Dad had shamed the family name, and she wrote us off, even though he’d helped her husband out several times in the past.’

      ‘And she wasn’t prepared to do the same, and couldn’t live with the guilt,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s quite a familiar story.’

      A story that she couldn’t believe she’d actually told him. It was something, like her grief, which she’d kept private, hugged fiercely to herself. She’d never confided in anyone. How had he, of all people, managed to break through the shell?

      She gathered her defences. ‘What do you know about it?’

      ‘I come across similar cases all the time in my work. I’m a financial adviser—a troubleshooter, if you like. I go into companies, large and small, which have hit problems, and try and provide realistic solutions.’

      ‘I hope,’ she said, ‘that you don’t look at me in the same light.’

      ‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘Your path is clearly strewn with primroses.’

      ‘Because,’ she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘I don’t need your charity.’

      ‘And I wouldn’t dream of offering it,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m very highly paid for what I do.’

      ‘Encouraging people at their wits’ end to get into more debt?’ she said bitterly. ‘Raising false hopes?’

      He finished his coffee and set down his mug. He said slowly, ‘Your poor opinion of me seems to have all kinds of ramifications.’

      ‘We’re strangers,’ she said. ‘I don’t have an opinion.’

      ‘Lady, you could have fooled me,’ he drawled. ‘I’d say I was tried and condemned before you ever set eyes on me.’ He leaned forward, his grey eyes fixed on her face.

      Today,’ he said. ’You did me a tremendous service. When we were at my house, I suggested that we make a fresh start. I’d still like to do that.’

      ‘Why?’ she asked baldly.

      ‘Because I want to be your friend.’ He spoke very gently. His eyes were gentle too, and his mouth curved suddenly in a smile without mockery. Despite herself, Phoebe felt a sudden pang of emotion akin to longing twist deep inside her. And it frightened her.

      She said tonelessly, ‘That’s very obliging of you, Mr Ashton. But I have enough friends already.’

      ‘Indeed.’ He got to his feet. ‘Well,’ he went on, his face and voice expressionless, ‘that must make you unique to the rest of the human race. Then can I ask instead that you don’t consider me an enemy when we meet in future?’

      Phoebe rose too. ‘It’s unlikely our paths will ever cross again, Mr Ashton.’

      ‘I’m sorry to hear that because I know Tara has her heart set on seeing you.’ He walked to the door, then turned. He said quietly, ‘Phoebe, please don’t allow your judgement of me to affect my daughter. That wouldn’t be fair. Good night.’

      She heard the front door close behind him, and sank back onto her chair, aware that her legs were shaking under her.

      ‘And that’s not fair either,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘Oh, so clever, Mr Ashton.’

      

      She couldn’t sleep that night, although she tried the usual anodynes of a warm bath and hot chocolate. She found herself tossing restlessly from one side of the bed to the other.

      Dominic Ashton filled her mind, precluding all else.

      She could hardly believe her own bad luck. On his own admission, he’d only been back at Fitton Magna a short time. If she hadn’t been offered that temporary job at the tea rooms, she might have moved away from West combe in complete safety, her peace of mind intact.

      Peace of mind? a scornful voice in her head seemed to ask. You don’t even know what that means. For six years you’ve been torturing yourself over this man. Doing endless penance for something that wasn’t even your fault. Flaying yourself over a humiliation that he doesn’t even remember. Not even your name rang any bells with him. It was all far too trivial for that. You’ve been beating yourself to death for nothing, you stupid bloody idiot

      And now you’ve seen him again. You’ve talked to him and the world hasn’t come to an end. In fact, this could just be the impetus you need to get you out of West combe and onto this new life that you want. If you’re not careful, you could end up feeling grateful to him.

      ‘Oh, no,’ Phoebe said aloud, and forcefully. ‘Not that. Never that’

      She pushed the quilt away, got out of bed, put on her robe and trailed downstairs.

      There were still embers glowing in the grate, and she added a few sticks and some lumps of coal, then curled up in the corner of the settee, staring at the flames.

      Whatever she did, the bad dreams, the obsession with Dominic Ashton as the villain who had scarred her for life had got to end, she told herself. And that wouldn’t happen unless she went back to the beginning. Remembered, and placed in perspective, everything that had happened.

      Up to now, she’d never really allowed herself to do that, telling herself it hurt too much. Finding it easier to focus only on the culmination of the whole wretched chain of events.

      Now she made herself recall how it had all begun.

      Which, of course, had been with Tony...

      

      ‘You fancy him, don’t you?’ asked Tiffany, laughing.

      Phoebe blushed. ‘No, of course not’

      They were in Tiffany’s bedroom, trying on clothes. Phoebe looked at herself in a tiny scarlet Lycra skirt and a black bustier. She’d never worn anything like them in her life. She’d never been allowed to. Her father was ultraconservative about clothes. When Phoebe needed anything, a personal shopper from one of the big department stores was employed and her instructions were clear.

      In fact, it was amazing that her dad had allowed her to spend a few days at Tiffany’s. But then, as she admitted to herself, if he’d had any idea what a comparatively short time Phoebe had known her, he would probably have refused. The fact that Tiffany had only arrived at the school the previous term had been kept strictly under wraps.

      Tiffany’s house was a revelation. It had been designed along the lines of an ante-bellum mansion of the American Deep South, because, as Tiffany’s mother had explained, she’d spent her honeymoon in New Orleans and felt it was her spiritual home.

      The decor was lavish. Phoebe, more used to book-lined walls and faded chintzes, thought, a shade uncomfortably, that it was like a Hollywood movie set. Every bathroom gleamed with gold fittings. Every window seemed to droop under the sheer weight of swagged and festooned velvet. The kitchen seemed as elaborate as the

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