Tainted Love

‘Anyway, Mrs Brown isn’t the issue,’ he said dismissively and rose from behind his desk.

Clare assumed the interview was at an end, but, when she made to stand, he waved her back in her seat. ‘I’m just going to see where Louise has got with the afternoon tea.’

Clare started to say, I think I should just go, but he’d left the room before she could get the words out. Rude man. She was left twiddling her thumbs and wondering if she shouldn’t give everybody a break and leave by the study’s French windows.

She was actually contemplating it when a figure blocked her escape route. He stood at the open window for a moment, staring at her, before deciding to enter.

‘Where’s my old man?’ he demanded in a manner so arrogant that his parentage couldn’t be doubted. The origin of his blond good looks was also fairly evident. The only difference between the two was one of accent—while Fen Marchand spoke with a perfect BBC accent, Miles had a slight American drawl.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Clare answered him offhandedly. She made no attempt to engage him in further conversation.

The young boy wasn’t discouraged. Instead he went round to sit behind his father’s desk. ‘Has he offered you the job yet?’

This time Clare didn’t answer, looking straight through him instead.

‘No? Well, I wouldn’t take it if he does,’ the boy advised. ‘The pay’s lousy, for a start, and my dad’s an even lousier boss. As for me, I can’t help it. I’m disturbed, personality-wise.’

‘You do surprise me,’ Clare said, irony in her tone.

It was lost on the boy. ‘I should have an analyst. All the kids in L.A. have an analyst, but my dad’s too mean to pay for one.’

‘Really?’ Clare sounded less than interested in this information. She didn’t have too much sympathy for poor little rich boys—not any more.

Miles Marchand frowned at her reaction. He was trying to shock, not bore his audience.

He tried again. ‘So, tell me, do you have the hots for him?’

‘What?’ Clare blinked at the leap in conversation.

‘My dad, do you have the hots for him?’ he repeated patiently. ‘That’s what they say in America. It means—’

‘I know what it means, and most certainly not!’ Clare denied, angered for the first time.

‘OK, OK. Keep your hair on.’ Miles Marchand shrugged off his suggestion. ‘I was only asking. Lots of women do. The last housekeeper but one was crazy about him.’

‘So, what did you do to her?’ Clare decided it was time to go on the offensive with this monster. ‘Frogs in the bed? Dead mice on the doorstep?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he dismissed, ‘that’s kid’s stuff. I was much more subtle.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Clare lifted a sceptical brow. ‘Don’t tell me, you just concentrated on being as rude and obnoxious as possible, and that did the trick. Well, I wouldn’t bother wasting your talents on me, kiddo.’

‘Why not?’ he demanded.

‘Well, apart from the fact I’m tougher and meaner than you could ever hope to be,’ Clare claimed extravagantly, ‘it’s not likely your dad’s going to employ me.’

‘Why not?’ the boy repeated.

Clare was tempted to tell him. She was sure the boy would be thrilled to have a real live criminal in the house.

She eventually said, ‘I haven’t the right qualifications.’

‘Oh, that’s no problem,’ the boy replied airily. ‘He’s so desperate, he’ll take anyone.’

‘Thanks,’ muttered Clare and the boy grinned wickedly.

Marchand caught the grin as he returned to the study with a tray of tea things. ‘Miles, what are you doing in here?’ he asked rather sternly.

‘Nothing.’ The boy’s face changed to sullenness as he slipped from his father’s chair.

‘He hasn’t been rude to you, has he?’ Marchand directed at Clare.

Before she could answer, the boy put in, ‘I was just talking to her...wasn’t I?’

Clare nodded and volunteered, ‘About his life in America.’

The boy shot her a look, half-plea, half-threat, and a small smile played on her lips as she kept him on tenterhooks for a moment, before she gave a slight shake of her head.

The man’s eyes switched from one to the other, picking up messages but unable to interpret them.

‘Well, Miles, I haven’t finished interviewing Miss—er—yet,’ he finally said. ‘Your aunt has tea ready for you in the kitchen.’

‘OK.’ The boy shrugged, then said to Clare, ‘Catch you later, maybe,’ as he slouched from the room.

Clare wondered what he meant, what the grin on his face promised. Nothing good, she suspected.

Marchand looked bemused, saying with near wonder, ‘He seems to like you.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure.’ Clare suspected the boy liked noboby right at that moment—including himself. She didn’t know if he was disturbed, but he was certainly mixed-up and unhappy.

‘No, well...he can be a handful,’ Marchand admitted in something of an understatement, before he poured tea into two cups and left Clare to help herself to milk and sugar.

Clare did so as he went on, ‘You see, Miles has been through a difficult time. His mother...she and I parted seven years ago. Miles stayed with me for the first three years, then he went to live with her... She died in an accident six months ago.’

Marchand relayed this information reluctantly, and Clare realised there was a whole lot more he wasn’t saying. But she showed no curiosity and didn’t invite him to continue. The truth was she didn’t want to know about Miles Marchand’s problems. She had enough of her own.

‘He’s not the easiest of children in consequence,’ Marchand concluded, ‘and needs careful handling. However, I should be spending much of my time round the house until autumn term begins and I intend to organise activities for the boy. I would expect a housekeeper to supervise him occasionally, along with the normal household duties... So, any questions?’

‘No.’ Clare saw no point in asking questions. He wasn’t going to employ her. Why should he?

‘None?’ He frowned at her apparent uninterest, and, when she remained silent, added shortly, ‘In that case, if you leave your address, I’ll let you know, Miss...’

‘All right.’ She stood up, placed her half-finished tea on the tray, and surprised him by offering her hand to shake.

‘I’ll show you out,’ he said, when she started to turn and walk from the room.

‘That’s OK.’ Clare would happily have found her own way to the front door, but he followed behind her.

They’d reached the doorstep before he asked, ‘How did you get here? By car?’