Edge Of Temptation

‘By the way,’ she muttered reluctantly, ‘someone’s coming to see you in the morning—some female. I don’t know who she is. Says her name is Tempest, or something.’

‘Tempest?’ Rafe’s dark brows descended. ‘Who is she? Some friend of yours?’

‘Mine?’ Lucy sounded amused. ‘You must be joking! Her uncle lives in the valley, apparently. She said you would know who she was.’

Rafe stared at his wife broodingly for a moment. Then, recognition dawned. ‘Catherine Tempest?’

‘I think that was what she called herself. Why? Do you know her? Who is she?’

‘Only Mervyn Powys’s niece!’ Rafe’s jaw tightened. ‘I wonder what she wants. Didn’t she say anything?’

‘Only that she wanted an appointment to see you.’ Lucy’s lips twisted mockingly. ‘Some admirer of yours, is she? One of these “people” you keep talking about?’

‘No!’ Rafe expelled his breath impatiently. ‘As a matter of fact, she was born and brought up near London. Her mother was Powys’s sister, but she left the valley twenty-five—maybe thirty years ago.’

‘Then how do you know this girl?’ demanded Lucy shortly. ‘How does she know you?’

Rafe’s expression softened slightly. ‘She used to spend her summer holidays at the farm. When I was a boy I used to spend time down there, too.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Lucy was scathing. ‘A boy-and-girl relationship.’

‘No, nothing like that.’ Rafe was tight-lipped. ‘My God, she was only a kid! Nine, ten at most.’

‘And you were?’

‘Fifteen, sixteen—I don’t know.’

Lucy looked amused. ‘Hero-worship, then.’ She shook her head. ‘No wonder Thomas is such an undisciplined little devil! I don’t suppose your father approved of you being so familiar with the tenants.’

‘My father always cared for their welfare.’

‘How feudal!’

‘It was why you married me, remember?’ retorted Rafe, stung into uncharacteristic bitterness. He had never referred to the reasons why Lucy, the daughter of a self-made millionaire, should have succumbed so eagerly to his amateurish attempts at seduction. Twenty-one, and fresh out of university, his experiences with girls had been limited to minor successes with waitresses, and office workers. Lucy Redvers, a year his senior, and already socially sophisticated, had seemed much too experienced to find him attractive. It was months before he understood, months before he realised the fact that as heir to his father, Lord Penwyth, he was infinitely more desirable in Lucy’s eyes than any wealthy businessman might have been. But by then, of course, it had been too late. They were married, and any doubts he might have had he stifled.

Now Lucy’s lips quivered, and had he not known better, he might have been disarmed by the break in her voice. ‘I married you because I loved you, Rafe,’ she declared tearfully, pulling out a handkerchief. ‘I don’t know why you say such cruel things to me. Just because I’m trying to help us both, to help all of us. You’re so bigoted. You won’t accept Daddy’s help—–’

‘His charity, you mean? No.’ Rafe was adamant, but there was a note of frustration in his tones. ‘Oh, Lucy, why do you do this? Do you never try to put yourself in my position? Why do you persistently ignore the human problem here?’

‘I have problems, too, and I’m human,’ she retorted indignantly. ‘You—you’re impossible! You know you’ll have to give in, sooner or later.’

Bitterness turned to bile in the back of Rafe’s throat. The trouble was, he knew she was speaking the truth. In spite of himself, he was going to have to grant that permission; that, or have it taken out of his hands. How much longer could Penwyth survive without an influx of capital? One year? Two, at most. And then what? Bankruptcy? Penury? An unpalatable prospect for himself, an impossible one for Lucy, and for Tom. And his father …

‘Yes,’ he said now, the word torn from him. ‘Yes, I expect you’re right. But that doesn’t—–’

The sentence was never finished. Lucy was grasping his arm, gazing up at him with eyes avid with excitement. ‘You mean—you mean—–’

‘I mean—I’m going to speak to my son,’ said Rafe flatly, pulling his arm from her grasp, leaving the room and mounting the stairs on leaden feet.

CHAPTER TWO (#u4580d0f3-cf02-51d1-a3e6-c09a0a4ff0fd)

CATHERINE Tempest swung her small Renault on to the private road that led to Penwyth manor house with some misgivings. The road was a gravel track, loosely made up and moist after the rain, and the tyres protested as they slid across its surface, but Catherine scarcely noticed. She was intent on the interview ahead of her, and in no way convinced that she was doing the right thing. It was strange really. If she had not taken it into her head to open a boutique in Pendower, she might never have become involved in her uncle’s affairs, and this business about drilling for lead in the valley would not have concerned her.

But she had always loved the valley. She remembered those holidays as a child, spent on the slopes above Penwyn. She even remembered the horse she used to ride, a disreputable old gelding, with a temper to match its uncertain colouring. Perhaps it was her maternal ancestry which had instilled such a sense of belonging inside her. Certainly she had never felt a stranger here, and although she had lived in London for more than twenty-five years, she had seldom experienced the happiness there that she had enjoyed in the valley.

Of course, in latter years her visits to Penwyn had necessarily decreased, both in frequency and dimension. Since leaving school eight years ago, she had had neither the time nor the funds to spend eight weeks every year running free across these hills, and since opening the boutique in Hammersmith, she had been too absorbed with business affairs to pay more than an occasional weekend’s visit to Penwyn.

The fact that the Hammersmith boutique had been so successful had enabled her to look farther afield, however, and despite her mother’s opposition, she had decided to open a second branch in Pendower, the small country town only ten miles from her uncle’s farm.

Mrs Tempest, widowed these ten years, had recently remarried, so Catherine felt no sense of belonging with her. Her stepfather was all right, but there was obviously friction between them, belonging as he did to one of those freakish political organisations with fanatical doctrines long out of date. Catherine had already moved into a flat of her own in London, in spite of all the empty rooms in the house her father had bought for them, and it was only a small upheaval to transplant herself temporarily into a small cottage in Pendower.

It was a whim really, a foolish ideal of recapturing the dreams of her childhood, and she had told herself she could afford one mistake. The fact that the shop had prospered seemed more good luck than anything, and it was ironic when her affairs were going so well that her uncle’s should be going so badly.

Lately, she had spent more and more time at the farm, and the reasons were here, at Penwyth. Her uncle was making himself ill with worry, and her cousin, Owen, was not much better. Owen had recently married, and his wife was expecting a baby. None of them had ever considered having to leave the valley, and the tenancy of the farm. had been passed down from father to son for generations.

A gust of wind sent a shower of raindrops from the overhanging trees on to the windscreen of the car, and Catherine automatically set the wipers in motion. She was almost there. She could see the ivy-hung walls of the manor house on the rise above her and she changed into a lower gear to negotiate the slope. Her knees felt distinctly wobbly as she thrust the lever forward, and she had to concentrate on what she was doing to rid herself of the feeling of impending disaster.

What was she doing here? she asked herself uneasily. Why had she allowed herself to be persuaded to speak to Mr Glyndower on her uncle’s behalf? What could she possibly say to deter him? And why should she imagine he would listen to her? She wasn’t involved, not directly anyway, and just because she had a little more experience in negotiation than either her uncle or her cousin, it did not mean she could conduct this interview with success. What had bargaining for materials to do with farming, or outfitting boutiques to do with mining for lead?

Her fingers were slippery against the wheel, despite the chilly autumn day outside. She was nervous—oh, how nervous she was!—and how she longed to turn the car and drive back to Pendower and put all thoughts of her uncle’s problems behind her.

She expelled her breath on a sigh. He would probably not even remember her. It was years since she had seen him, and then only from a distance. They had never been friends, not in the real sense of the word. They had known one another, shared a common interest in horses and riding, even played together, although he had been so much older, almost grown-up in Catherine’s eyes, but never really talked together. They had danced together once …

Her mind recoiled from that particular recollection. He would not remember that, but she did. After all, it was only—what? Eight years ago? The last year she had come to Penwyn for the summer. Her last year at school. That last holiday before she started work in one of the big stores in Oxford Street, and learned about clothes and the aptitude she had for designing them. There had been a country ball, she remembered, a village affair, with the squire’s son and his lady graciously attending the proceedings. A barn dance had been announced, she recalled, and the Glyndowers had been persuaded to join in. Her own partner, a boy of her cousin Owen’s age, had swung her into the line, and halfway through the dance she had halted before Rafe Glyndower.

Her lips quivered in remembrance. He had been totally unaware of her identity, and she had not attempted to enlighten him. They had danced a few bars of a waltz together, and then the music had changed again, and they had both moved on to other partners. It had been a perfectly innocent incident, he had been polite, but nothing more, yet Catherine remembered the feel of his hand at her waist, and the strength of his body, long after the ball was over.

She drew an uneven breath. She wondered if he remembered her name, if nothing else. It was unlikely, she supposed. After all, a lot could happen in sixteen years, and it must be that long since he had played with her at the farm. He was virtually the squire now. His father was senile, or so it was rumoured, feeble-minded after the stroke which had put him into the county hospital. Rafe had been married for quite a number of years; his wife was beautiful, and, by all accounts, could wrap him round her little finger; and they had a son called Thomas.

It was smattering with rain as she drove beneath the arch that gave on to the courtyard before the heavy oaken door. So this was Penwyth, she mused, trying to keep a sense of perspective. It was certainly imposing, yet apart from viewing the rooftops from a position higher up the valley, she had never been this close before. The tenants never came here, or very seldom anyway. They paid their rents to the estate’s agent, and had no reason to approach the Glyndowers themselves.

Parking the Renault, she quickly pulled down the sun visor above the passenger seat and gave her reflection a critical appraisal in the mirror that was attached. Her nose was not shining and her lipstick was not smudged, but her pupils were slightly dilated. Blinking, to remedy this revealing feature, she tucked the strands of honey-brown hair behind her ears, and wondered if she ought to have worn a skirt instead of slacks. It was too late now to alter this, however, and gathering up her handbag, she opened her door and climbed out.

Drawing the collar of her suede jacket about her ears, she hurried towards the porch, sheltering under the overhang as she rang the bell. It was quite a modern bell, of the press-button variety, but hanging beside it was the iron bell-rope which had once been pulled to gain admittance. Shades of Dickens, she thought ruefully, and then stiffened as the heavy door was opened.

The elderly man who faced her was vaguely familiar. She recognised him from occasions she had seen him about the village. She thought her aunt had told her his name was Morgan, but she couldn’t be sure.

‘Yes miss?’ he enquired now, sparse brows descending. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Oh—yes.’ Catherine glanced round at the downpour which had opened behind her. ‘I—er—I have an appointment with Mr Glyndower. My name is Tempest, Miss Tempest.’

‘Mr Rafe is expecting you, miss?’

‘I believe so.’

Catherine glanced round again, hoping he was not about to keep her waiting on the doorstep. It was cold, as well as wet, and she felt at enough of a disadvantage as it was.

‘You’d better come in, then,’ the butler invited grudgingly, and, relieved, Catherine stepped into the warm mustiness of a hall that was panelled in a dark wood that gleamed with the patina of age. The floor reflected a similar lustre, but the wooden blocks were worn and strewn with rugs. As the door was closed behind her, Catherine heard the distinct chink of glass, and glancing upward, she caught her breath in admiration for the magnificent chandelier suspended overhead. She could imagine it illuminated on a cold winter’s evening, its warming glow reflected in the panelling, and casting shadows on the shallow treads of the staircase that curved along one wall.