Tainted Love

‘One of the things?’ Fenwick’s voice rose in disbelief. ‘How many more are there?’

Louise shook her head. ‘I told you. It doesn’t matter. You have my word she’s a reformed character.’

‘Really?’ His voice became a sarcastic drawl. ‘I thought you said she was innocent.’

‘She is.’

‘Then she wouldn’t need to be reformed, would she?’

‘I...’ Louise Carlton frowned over her brother’s logic. ‘Stop trying to confuse me, Fen. We both know you’re cleverer with words—and pretty much everything else. But I do know people better than you.’

‘Possibly,’ he conceded. ‘At any rate, you saw through that bitch I married.’

‘Fen!’ his sister reproved in shocked tones.

‘What? I mustn’t call her a bitch, because she’s dead,’ he scoffed. ‘Is that it?’

‘Well, yes...’ Louise admitted that that was what she meant.

‘I called her such long before she drove off a cliff with her toy-boy lover,’ he pointed out. ‘I don’t see why she should be canonised now she’s dead.’

‘Maybe not,’ his sister agreed, ‘but you have to be careful. It wouldn’t be very nice if Miles overheard you.’

‘Miles isn’t likely to,’ he dismissed. ‘Having discovered there was another candidate for housekeeper, he took himself off to his hut in the woods and is no doubt scheming on how to get rid of the lady, should I be rash enough to employ her.’

‘You told him about Clare?’ Louise said in exasperation.

‘That she was coming, yes,’ her brother confirmed, ‘that she was an arch-villain, no. If I had, knowing Miles, he would probably have wanted me to hire her.’

‘And you won’t consider it?’ Louise’s tone switched to appeal.

But Marchand was adamant, responding with dry sarcasm, ‘Not unless I go barking mad, in which case I’d want you to have me committed first.’

‘Very funny.’ Louise pulled a face at her brother’s sour humour. ‘Well, I hope you’ll at least be polite and give her an interview.’

‘If I must.’ He sighed heavily, then apparently consulted his watch as he ran on, ‘Always assuming she turns up. It’s already twenty past the hour.’

‘Yes, I wonder where she’s got...?’ Louise trailed off, her question answered as she looked from her brother to the open French windows and caught sight of Clare.

Her face mirrored her shock, then dismay, but her brother didn’t notice as he went on, ‘Well, if she doesn’t materialise soon, I won’t even interview her.’

‘Fen...’ His sister tried to alert him to Clare’s presence, while casting an apologetic glance in her direction.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ Fenwick continued regardless, ‘if your pet safe-robber can’t be bothered to show up on time—’

‘Fen!’ Louise whispered his name fiercely, at the same time nodding towards the window.

He must have finally caught on, as Clare saw a figure rise from the chair a second before she decided to cut and run herself. She didn’t literally run, but walked quickly away, believing neither would be anxious to follow.

She was wrong. Marchand not only followed but, when his shouted, ‘Hold on!’ was ignored, caught up in a few strides and grabbed at her arm.

Forced to turn, Clare came face to face with Fenwick Marchand for the first time. It was a shock.

She had expected him to be of the same age as Louise—about fifty. But he was much nearer forty. She’d also expected him to look like his voice—bloodless, pompous and self-righteous. She couldn’t believe this tall, fair, beautiful man could be a scholarly professor of politics.

He mirrored her look of disbelief. What had he expected? A woman with a number stamped across her forehead?

In some ways Clare had changed little during her three years in prison. Now twenty-six, she still had the small, gamine features that made her look young for her age. And, though her once abundant mass of red hair had been ruthlessly cropped short, the boyish cut emphasised that youthfulness. But she was too thin and too hard-eyed to be considered a beauty any more.

Marchand continued to stare at her until he felt her pulling at his grip, then he muttered, ‘I’m not going to apologise, you know.’

‘No one asked you to,’ Clare responded coldly.

‘You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping,’ he went on. ‘It’s normal to come to the front door of a house.’

‘I did,’ Clare spat back. ‘Here!’

She shoved the lion door-knocker in his hand. He stared at it in puzzlement.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘From your front door, and no, I wasn’t pinching it,’ she said before he could suggest such a thing. ‘It came off in my hand.’

‘How odd,’ he commented, still frowning.

She retorted, ‘Not really. Someone had already unscrewed it from its plate.’

‘Ah.’ Enlightenment dawned on Fenwick Marchand. ‘I think I can guess who. I’ll see he’s punished.’

‘Don’t bother on my account.’ Clare shrugged. ‘He’s saved us both time.’

‘What do you mean?’ the man demanded.

‘You won’t have to go through the motions of an interview now,’ Clare explained, ‘and I won’t have to make a wasted effort to impress you. I’ll leave you to square things with Louise,’ she concluded briskly, and would have walked away if he hadn’t tightened his grip on her arm.

‘Hold on,’ he protested. ‘You can’t just walk off like this.’

‘Why not?’ Clare rallied.

‘Well...I mean to say...you have come for an interview, after all,’ he argued, somewhat inarticulately for a professor.

‘You’re not about to offer me a job, are you?’ Clare challenged point-blank, and, at his lack of response, added, ‘So, there’s not much more to say.’

Again she tried to walk away and again he stopped her, muttering, ‘You’re making me out to be very narrow-minded. I’m not.’

‘Really?’ Clare’s tone suggested she couldn’t care less what he was like.

His lips thinned slightly. ‘Look, if it were just me, I’d be willing to give you a chance, but I need someone who’ll also keep an eye on my son and, frankly—’