Reform of the Rake

CHAPTER TWO

LOWRI had very little time for daydreams about Adam Hawkridge next day. The department was short-staffed due to influenza, and she was run off her feet during working hours. When she got back to the flat, weary and footsore, she forced herself to do a thorough cleaning job on the room vacated that day by the outgoing occupant, spent the evening arranging her things, then took a much needed shower before allowing herself the luxury of something to eat.

As Lowri emerged from the bathroom, Barbara, the owner of the flat, told her she was wanted on the phone. ‘Man. Very attractive voice.’

Lowrie flew to the telephone, blushing unseen at her own disappointment when she heard her father’s resonant tones. She assured him she was fine, told him about her day with Sarah, promised to ring more often and sent her love to Holly, at which Geraint Morgan coughed, hummed and hawed and finally blurted out the reason for his telephone call. Holly was pregnant. Lowri would soon have a little brother or sister.

Lowri congratulated her father enthusiastically, assured him she was overjoyed, then put the receiver down feeling rather odd. Deciding it was lack of food, she made herself scrambled eggs in the poky, chaotic kitchen, added a pot of tea and took her tray back to her room, in no mood now to join the others in the communal sitting-room. Later she rang Sarah to share the news.

‘You sound shattered,’ said Sarah bluntly.

‘I am, a bit. I’m really very happy for Dad, but it was a bit of a body-blow, just the same.’

‘Only natural. You two were so close after your mother died. Not your usual father/daughter arrangement.’

‘Sorry to moan at you, but I had to talk to someone.’

‘I’m glad you did—I can moan at you in exchange. Rupert’s Mrs Parks threw a wobbly today.’

‘Why?’

‘It started with the broken window in the office and the move into the conservatory while it was mended. Then Rupert topped it off with twice as much work as usual this morning because he was struck with inspiration last night and dictated into his machine into the small hours—’

‘Sarah, can’t you think of a way to keep him in bed?’ gurgled Lowri. ‘I’ll get you a sexy nightie at cost, if you like.’

‘Don’t be rude!’ Sarah retorted, then sighed heavily. ‘Anyway, Mrs Parks has taken herself off, vowing never to darken our door again, and I’m saddled with the typing, heaven help me. I don’t know how I ever coped with working for Rupert in the old days before we got married—too besotted with him to mind all the fireworks, I suppose.’

‘Can I help? I get Friday and Saturday off this week. I could lend a hand then, if you like.’

‘Oh, Lowri, would you? Rupert pays well—’

‘I don’t need money!’

‘Of course you need money. Don’t be a goose. Anyway we’ll sort that out when you come.’

In the end Sarah insisted Lowri come for a meal on the Thursday evening and stay the night, fresh for work in the morning. Lowri needed little persuasion. A couple of days’ typing for Rupert was a small price to pay for a stay in the airy, comfortable house in St John’s Wood.

The coach house window was intact, and the comfortable little office behind it in perfect order when Lowri settled down to start work on Rupert Clare’s current novel a few days later.

‘First of all,’ advised Rupert, ‘read through the draft so far. Sarah’s printed the disks Mrs Parks typed, so spend this morning familiarising yourself with the characters and the plot. There’s a kettle and coffee and so on in the other room when you take a break, but come over to the house for lunch before you start on any typing.’

Lowri, long one of his most ardent fans, smiled happily. ‘Right, boss. I’m looking forward to a sneak preview of the latest Rupert Clare bestseller—nice work if you can get it!’

‘It may not be a bestseller,’ he said gloomily. ‘I’m tackling a new period for me in this one: dark deeds in fog-bound Victorian London.’

Lowri breathed in a sigh of pleasure. ‘Sounds great to me.’ She rustled the sheaf of papers on the desk. ‘Right then, eyes down and looking for the next hour or so.’

The story gripped her so completely from the first paragraph that Lowri hardly noticed Rupert leave, and looked up at Sarah blankly when her cousin appeared a couple of hours later to announce that lunch was ready.

‘Lunch?’

‘Yes, you know—soup, sandwiches, stuff like that,’ said Sarah, laughing, then frowned. ‘No cups? Didn’t Rupert tell you to make yourself some coffee?’

Lowri bit her lip guiltily. ‘He did, but I forgot. I was so absorbed I didn’t notice the time.’

‘That’s a novelty! Mrs Parks could never work for more than half an hour at a time without a dose of caffeine to keep her going.’

Lowri stood up, stretching. ‘Sounds as though the lady’s no loss.’

‘She will be to me if I have to stand in for her,’ said Sarah with emphasis. ‘Come on. Dominic’s in school, Emily’s gone off to spend the afternoon with her chum, and Rupert’s having lunch with his agent so it’s just the two of us.’

It was pleasant to gossip with Sarah over the meal but Lowri was adamant about returning to the office after half an hour, eager to finish the first portion of the draft so she could start on the real work of typing up Rupert’s next tapes. The novel, which bore all the hallmarks of Rupert’s style in the vivid characterisation and complex, convoluted plot, was an atmospheric story of revenge.

‘It’s riveting,’ said Lowri, as she finished her coffee. ‘All that underworld vice simmering away behind a façade of rigid Victorian respectability. I can’t wait to find out Jonah Haldane’s secret!’

Lowri’s enthusiasm resulted in more progress in one afternoon than the less industrious Mrs Parks had achieved in the two previous working days. When Rupert came to blow the whistle at six that evening he was deeply impressed, and obviously found Lowri’s reluctance to call a halt deeply gratifying.

‘Enough’s enough for one day, nevertheless, little cousin,’ he said firmly. ‘Sarah says you’re to pack it in, have a bath, then if you can bear it, read a story to Emily. We had to promise her that to keep her from storming your citadel hours ago.’

‘Of course I will,’ said Lowri, stretching. ‘Though something a bit different from yours, Rupert.’ She shivered pleasurably. ‘It’s a bit terrifying in places.’

‘Sarah says you like it.’

‘Like it! I can’t wait to see what happens next.’

‘You’re very good for my ego, Lowri,’ said Rupert as he walked with her across the garden. ‘A little sincere encouragement does wonders. Writers get bloody depressed some days.’

‘You needn’t,’ returned Lowri with certainty. ‘This is your best ever, Rupert. And I should know. I’ve read every book you’ve written.’

He gave her a friendly hug and pushed her into the kitchen, where Emily and Dominic were eating supper while Sarah clattered saucepans on hobs set into an island which gave her a view of the large kitchen while she worked. At the triple welcome showered on her Lowri felt suddenly enveloped in something missing in her life since her father had married again: a sense of belonging. ‘About time you knocked off,’ said Sarah, waving a wooden spoon. ‘The idea was to help Rupert out a bit, not work yourself to death, Lowri Morgan.’

When Lowri was packed and ready to return to Shepherds Bush, Rupert fixed Lowri with a commanding green eye.

‘Sarah and I have a suggestion to make. Feel free to refuse if you want, but hear me out.’

Lowri looked from one to the other, her dark eyes questioning. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘It’s about the work you’ve been doing for me—’

‘Something wrong?’

‘Wrong!’ snorted Sarah. ‘The exact opposite, Lowri. I’m the only one who’s ever worked so well with Rupert. Though you haven’t seen him in a tantrum yet,’ she warned.

‘Tantrum?’ said Rupert, incensed. ‘I may be subject to the odd mood—’

‘Your moods are not odd, they’re horrible,’ corrected his wife flatly. ‘Anyway, Lowri, the gist of all this is that if you’re not totally dedicated to selling knickers Rupert wondered if you’d fancy working for him full time.’

Lowri’s eyes lit up like stars. ‘You mean it?’

‘You bet your sweet life I do,’ said Rupert emphatically. ‘And what’s more, you can pack in that flat and come and live here with us.’

‘But I couldn’t impose on you like that,’ said Lowri swiftly.

‘Not even in the coach house flat?’ said Sarah, smiling. ‘You can be as private as you like over there, live entirely your own life as much as you want, or be part of ours whenever the fancy takes you. We’d even take a small rent for the flat if it would make you feel any better.’

‘Are you doing this because you feel sorry for me?’ asked Lowri suspiciously.

‘Don’t talk rubbish!’ Rupert patted her shoulder. ‘It’s you who’d be taking pity on me. I’m offering you the job, Lowri, because you do it so well. Better than anyone since the reign of my lady wife here. And you won’t have hysterics if—when—I shout at you. Because shout I will when things go wrong, believe me. So before you answer you’d better think that bit over. But if you can stand my moods, and you fancy the job, how about it?’

From the day she moved her possessions into the Clares’ coach house life was transformed for Lowri. The bedsitting-room adjoining her little office was a comfortable little apartment, complete with bathroom and a minuscule kitchen just large enough for Lowri to cook a meal for one occasionally. After the flat in Shepherds Bush the privacy was wonderful, unmarred by the slightest tinge of loneliness, since at any time Lowri knew she could stroll down the long, beautiful garden to a warm welcome in the house. This, however, was a privilege Lowri rationed herself strictly from the start.

But there were definite advantages for the Clares in the situation, nevertheless, since Lowri was happy to act as baby-sitter when the busy social life of the Clares demanded it. Since the retirement of Mrs Dobson, Rupert’s original treasure of a housekeeper, Sarah had taken on Brenda, who came in daily to help with the house. But Brenda enjoyed a hectic social life, and wasn’t keen on baby-sitting too often in the evenings, which left a gap Lowri was only too glad to fill.

As the horse-chestnuts came into bloom and a green smell of spring came floating through her open office window, Lowri felt that fate had been very kind to her indeed. She sniffed at the heady vanilla scent of trees in blossom and heaved a contented sigh as she applied herself to the work which grew more absorbing by the day. The novel was now in its third quarter and working up suspensefully to the climax which Rupert flatly refused to reveal to Lowri in advance. Not even Sarah was any wiser, which apparently was nothing unusual. Rupert liked to keep his plot to himself until the very last sentence was recorded on tape.

Then one weekend Lowri’s presence as a guest was commanded at one of Sarah’s parties. And the tempo of life quickened again.

Lowri had helped out during the day, mainly by taking charge of Emily while Sarah concocted delicious cold dishes for the party meal, but once Dominic and Emily had eaten supper and the latter was settled in bed with a story Lowri dashed back to her flat to get ready, tingling with anticipation. She had a new, flattering black dress to wear, bought with her first cheque from Rupert, but, most important of all, Adam Hawkridge would be one of the guests.

The party, as always at the Clare home, was a lively, entertaining occasion from the start, and Lowri, circulating with platters of canapés, no longer felt shy as she mingled because so many of the guests were already well known to her by this time. Sarah, stunning in a plain white dress with turquoise and diamond hoops in her ears, her black hair coiled high on her head, was in her element at Rupert’s side as they welcomed their guests, most of whom had some literary connection. But the guest who had none was nowhere in sight. Adam Hawkridge was late. Lowri found it hard to stop watching the door, but when he finally put in an appearance her heart sank at the sight of his tall, blonde companion. When he noticed Lowri his face lit with the familiar, blazing smile, and he threaded his across the crowded room towards her, leaving the voluptuous blonde with Rupert and Sarah, and another man new to Lowri.

‘Hello, Lowri!’ He squeezed her hand and took the silver dish from her, dumping it unceremoniously on the nearest table. ‘How’s the little cousin? Are you enjoying the new job? Is Rupert a despot to work for?’

‘Hello—Adam,’ responded Lowri shyly. ‘I’m fine, the work is fascinating, and so far Rupert’s very kind.’

‘And so he should be.’ He kept hold of her hand to take her across the room. ‘Come and meet Caroline.’

‘Where’s Fiona?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ he returned carelessly. ‘Out partying with some other guy, at a guess.’

When they joined the others Adam barely had time to make introductions before the man with Caroline moved in on Lowri with practiced expertise.

‘I’m Guy Seton, Caroline’s brother,’ he announced, and took Lowri by the hand. ‘Afraid I’m a gate-crasher. The delightful Mrs Clare assures me she doesn’t mind.’

Lowri gazed into a pair of narrow, hot dark eyes under hair almost as fair as the sexy Caroline’s, and felt an odd pang of apprehension. Guy Seton exuded such restless energy that he made her feel uneasy.

Rupert, who obviously did object to the gatecrasher, smiled warmly at Lowri. ‘So there you are, little cousin,’ he said, with emphasis on the relationship. ‘Having a good time?’

‘Too busy handing round food for that,’ said Sarah, and flapped a hand at Lowri. ‘Leave all that now. Brenda will help with supper.’

To her annoyance Lowri found herself neatly separated from the rest by Guy Seton. Adam, who had momentarily deserted Caroline for a delighted redhead on the far side of the room, spared a disapproving frown for Guy’s manoeuvre, Lowri noted wistfully, as the latter hurried her through the open French windows on to the terrace outside. The slim, restless man perched on the stone balustrade, one leg swinging as he patted the place beside him.

‘Come. Tell me your life story, little Welsh cousin. Was your father a fan of matchstick men—is that how you got your name?’

Lowri perched uneasily beside him, not at all happy about finding a constricting arm round her waist. ‘No. Mine’s spelt with a final “i”—Welsh for Laura, nothing to do with Lowry the artist. And my life-story isn’t interesting in the slightest.’

‘You interest me a bloody sight more than the so-called literati in there.’ His arm tightened. ‘What’s a nice little Welsh maiden like you doing in the big city, Lowri with an “i”?’

She sat rigid in his clasp, disliking the innuendo he managed to inject into the word ‘maiden’. ‘I work for Rupert.’

‘Lucky Rupert.’

Lowri shifted uncomfortably, but Guy Seton held her fast. ‘Don’t be frightened, poppet,’ he said, chuckling. ‘I shan’t eat you.’

‘Which reminds me—there’s a perfectly good supper waiting inside,’ she said firmly, and disengaged herself. ‘Shall we go and sample some of it?’

Guy Seton possessed a thick skin, she found, quite impervious to her unsubtle hints that his monopoly of her company wasn’t welcome. He stuck to her side like glue, and short of causing a scene there was nothing she could do about it. Something about his hectic, almost feverish attentions filled her with unease. Lowri had no illusions about her looks. She was more rounded than she would have liked for her lack of inches, and regarded her large, dark eyes as her only redeeming feature. Besides, she had good reason to distrust a sudden rush of attention like Guy Seton’s, wary of men who came at the gallop after only one glance. And by staying so close all the time Guy was destroying her hopes of a chat with Adam at some stage. Not, she noted, depressed, that there was much chance of that. Adam had now returned his attentions to the sultry Caroline, who was smouldering up at him in a way which made it obvious she wanted him to round off the evening in her bed.

‘Are you a friend of Adam’s?’ she asked Guy, her eyes on the absorbed couple across the room.

‘Not a friend, precisely,’ said Guy. His mouth thinned as he followed her gaze. ‘I was in school with him. He’s Caroline’s “friend”. She’s crazy about him. Women flock round Hawkridge in droves. Can’t think why. He’s no oil painting.’

‘No,’ agreed Lowri. ‘He’s not.’ But he’s twice as attractive as you, Guy Seton, she added silently, because he’s got warmth. You’re a cold fish, I think, for all the burning glances and febrile charm.

‘Caro’s so blatantly panting to share Hawkridge’s bed I’m amazed she insisted I came with them tonight. But I’m glad I did.’ Guy gave her a smile of confident intimacy. ‘Instead of playing gooseberry to those two, I can take you home instead.’

Lowri’s answering smile was frosty. ‘No need. I live here.’

‘Hell.’ He scowled. ‘That’s a blow.’ He eyed her up and down, his eyes undressing her. ‘Rupert Clare’s bloody lucky, having two gorgeous women at his disposal under the same roof.’

Enough was enough. Lowri glared at him. ‘I’m very fond of Rupert, but I live in the coach house to be precise, not under his roof. Nor am I at anyone’s disposal.’ She thrust her empty glass in his hand. ‘Goodnight, Mr Seton.’ And without another word she hurried through the hall to the kitchen and slammed the door shut behind her.

‘What’s up?’ Brenda looked up from loading the dishwasher in surprise. ‘Someone ruffle your feathers out there?’

‘Someone certainly did,’ said Lowri, seething. ‘Any coffee going, Brenda? I’ll give you a hand to clear away.’

‘Coming up, love,’ said Brenda, filling the kettle. ‘Won’t say no to a bit of help. Terry’s coming for me in half an hour—mustn’t keep him waiting.’

‘Terry?’ said Lowri, laughing. ‘What happened to Wayne?’

Brenda winked, thrusting a hand through her spiky blonde hair. ‘What he doesn’t know about he won’t grieve over, eh?’

A few minutes later Lowri stole along the pergola lining the path which led to the coach house. She gained her little sanctum with a sigh, partly of relief for eluding the disturbing Mr Seton, but mostly of regret for having so little opportunity to talk to Adam. Which was stupid, she told herself as she hung up the black dress. Any time he’d had to spare from Caroline had been spent on the redhead with the cleavage. She cleaned off her make-up irritably, rubbed some moisturiser into her olive skin, gave her lengthening hair a good brush and got into a nightshirt and the vividly embroidered black silk kimona her father and Holly had given her for Christmas, by which time she felt ominously wide awake. She slid into bed and reached for a well-thumbed copy of Northanger Abbey. Jane Austen’s dry wit rarely failed to soothe, and with a sigh Lowri banked up her pillows, settled herself comfortably and put thoughts of Adam and the annoying Mr Seton firmly from her as she settled down to read.

She was halfway through the first chapter when a knock on the outer door brought Lowri bolt upright. She sprang off the bed, startled, and went out through the office, certain it must be Sarah or Rupert with some emergency. She unlocked the door then screeched in fright as Guy Seton pushed her back inside the office, slammed the door shut and stood with his back to it, a wild look about him which scared her rigid.

‘Now, now, Lowri,’ he said menacingly. ‘This isn’t at all friendly, is it? I need some comfort, some tender loving care, sweetheart.’

‘Well, you won’t get it from me!’ she snapped. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

‘Why not? I asked if I could see you home. And here you are, and so am I. Let’s party!’ He stalked towards her, the restless, feverish aura about him now so pronounced that Lowri could have kicked herself for not recognising the cause sooner. Her unwanted visitor was obviously high on something a lot more dangerous than champagne.

‘Guy, please,’ she said, backing away. She tried to smile. ‘It’s late and I’m tired—’

‘Then come to bed,’ he said hoarsely, and reached for her.

Lowri fought him off savagely, but despite his slim build Guy Seton was strong; deceptively so. He managed to drag her, kicking and struggling, into the bedroom and on to her bed. Beside herself with rage, Lowri twisted and turned like an eel, her nails raking down his face, her teeth sinking into the mouth crushing hers, and Guy let out a howl and drew back, face contorted, clenched fist raised. Then suddenly he was flat out on the floor, felled by a savage blow from Adam Hawkridge, who stepped over the unconscious man without a second look, and hauled Lowri into his arms.

‘Are you all right? Did that bastard hurt you?’ he barked.

Her teeth were chattering so much Lowri found it hard to reassure him that apart from the odd bruise and the fright of her life she was fine.