Seduction Never Lies, page 6
Instead, she called, ‘I’m home,’ and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
She was pouring the tea when her father appeared, leaning a shoulder wearily against the door frame.
He said, ‘Someone’s coming from the diocesan surveyor’s office to look at the church, and prepare a report.’
‘But they did that before, surely. Isn’t that why you launched the restoration fund?’
‘I gather the surveyor’s visit is to check what further deterioration there’s been in the stonework of the tower, and to carry out a detailed examination of the roof. Apparently they’ve heard we have to put buckets in the chancel when it rains.’
‘Then that must mean they’re going to do the repairs,’ Tavy said, handing him a mug of tea. ‘Which is great news.’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘We can always hope.’ He made an effort to smile. ‘And pray.’ He turned away. ‘Now, I’d better find the estimates we had last time.’
Tavy felt uneasy as she watched him go. Surely there wasn’t too much to worry about. Holy Trinity’s congregation might not be huge but it was loyal. And if the response to the original appeal had tapered off, the prospect of restoration work actually beginning might kick-start it all over again.
I’ll talk to Patrick about it this evening, she thought. He’d texted her at lunchtime to suggest they met for a drink that evening at the Willow Tree, a fifteenth century pub on the outskirts of Market Tranton that was one of their favourite haunts.
And while she was glad that she was going to see him, because it was an opportunity to put things completely right between them again, it also meant she had to get there under her own steam, also known as the local bus which luckily stopped a few yards from the pub door.
But presumably, after Saturday evening’s debacle, Patrick was even more wary about openly picking her up in his car in case his mother got to hear of it.
Oh, damn Jago Marsh, she muttered under her breath, taking an overly hasty slurp of tea and burning her tongue.
After all, if she hadn’t been pushed into spending the evening with him, there would have been no trouble with Mrs Wilding and her relationship with Patrick might no longer have to be the best-kept secret in the universe.
To add to her woes, it also looked as if June Jackson had been right about the weather. Raindrops were already spattering the kitchen window, so the other new dress she planned to wear would now have to be covered by her waterproof, and her sandals exchanged for navy loafers. Same old, same old, she thought resignedly.
On the other hand, the price of petrol forbade her from asking Dad if she could borrow the Peugeot. That was one of the economies they had to make, and it was important to do so cheerfully.
Which was why it was going to be poached eggs on toast for the evening meal, as her father had finished off yesterday’s steak and kidney pie for lunch, without a word about the pastry, which could easily have been used to mend one of the holes in the church roof.
But as her mother had always said, for pastry you needed a light hand and a tranquil heart. And at the moment, she possessed neither.
And said again, this time aloud and with feeling, ‘Oh, damn Jago Marsh.’
CHAPTER FIVE
THE PUB WAS busy when Tavy walked in, but she immediately spotted Patrick standing at the bar, and slipped off her raincoat to display the full charm of the indigo dress as she went, smiling, to join him.
‘What a hell of a day,’ was his greeting. ‘I’ve got you a Chardonnay. Hope that’s all right.’
‘Fine,’ she said untruthfully, telling herself he must have forgotten she much preferred Sauvignon Blanc, and faintly piqued because he hadn’t noticed the new dress. ‘What’s been the matter?’
He shrugged. ‘Oh, just another bloody Monday, I suppose. Look, those people are going. Grab their table while I get another pint.’
Bad-tempered Mondays seemed to be a family trait, thought Tavy ruefully as she sat down. Something, perhaps, to bear in mind for the future. Or devise some way of omitting Monday altogether and starting the week on Tuesday instead.
When he joined her, she said, ‘It seems to have been one of those days all round. The diocesan surveyor is going to take another look at the church. I think my father’s worried about it.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
Tavy bit her lip. ‘I was hoping for some positive thinking,’ she said quietly.
‘Not much of that around where money’s concerned, I’m afraid.’ His tone was blunt. ‘And Mother’s always said Holy Trinity would cost a fortune to put right. It’s been neglected for too long.’
‘But not by Dad,’ she protested. ‘The problems started before he came, and he’s done his utmost to get the diocese to take action. Your mother must know that.’
‘At the moment, she has her own troubles,’ he said stiffly. ‘As you of all people must be aware.’
Tavy sighed under her breath and took an unenthusiastic sip of her wine. It was clear that getting back on terms with Patrick, currently staring moodily into his beer, wasn’t going to be as simple as she’d first hoped. Because she could never explain how the thing with Jago Marsh had begun or why she’d been pressured into accepting his invitation to dinner.
On the whole, it was best to keep quiet and hope that Jago Marsh would do the same, if not for her sake, then out of what appeared to be genuine respect for her father.
She leaned back in her chair, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation around her, the buzz of people letting their hair down after a working day, the squeak of the door as customers came and went, and, underlying it all, the soft throb of music from the digital jukebox.
She began, almost in spite of herself, to feel soothed and waited to feel that special lift of the heart that being with Patrick usually produced.
The door hinges protested again, accompanied by a draught of cold, damp air, and then, as if a switch had suddenly been thrown, there was silence.
She glanced up in surprise, and saw that everyone was looking towards the door, standing on tiptoe, craning their necks, exchanging looks and comments. And knew, in one heart-stopping instant, exactly who the newcomer must be to be so immediately and universally recognised.
He was wearing his signature black—this time jeans and a T-shirt—smiling and exchanging greetings with people in the crowd that was parting for him, giving him access to the bar. Acknowledging the star in their midst.
Fiona Culham walked beside him in a dress the colour of mulberries, very cool, very chic, very much in command of the situation. Possibly even revelling in it.
Tavy saw Jago glance round. Felt him fleetingly register her presence, then, thankfully, move on.
‘Oh, God,’ Patrick muttered. ‘This is all I need.’
But just what I need, Tavy told herself resolutely. Jago and Fiona, the perfect pairing. So, no repetition of the other night’s nonsense. No waiting, dreading the moment when I’d see him again, because whatever game he’s been playing is now over, and there’ll be no more...anything between us.
So I can quit worrying and get on with my life. Just as I wanted.
‘Hi,’ said Fiona. ‘I see it’s the usual scrum in here tonight. Mind if we join you?’
There was certainly room enough at the table. Stunned, Tavy glanced at Patrick, waiting for him to say something. Make some excuse. Preferably that they were just leaving.
Only to hear him say stiffly, ‘Of course, no problem.’
‘Thanks.’ Fiona sank gracefully down on to the chair next to him, then laughed as a blast of raw rhythmic frenzy surged into the room, amid applause. ‘Oh, someone’s put on Easy, Easy. How very sweet.’
Her mocking gaze surveyed Tavy’s evident bewilderment. ‘Poor Octavia. You’ve no idea what I’m talking about, have you? This was Descent’s first big hit, my pet. Made them superstars overnight.’
‘And what are they now?’ Tavy asked coolly, needled by the other’s patronising tone. ‘White dwarfs?’
‘Well, at least we haven’t disappeared into a black hole,’ Jago said silkily as he joined them, seeming to appear once again from nowhere. ‘Much as many people might wish. But not the landlord, fortunately.’ He smiled round the table, the tawny eyes glittering when they rested briefly on Tavy’s flushed face, and the spill of auburn hair on her shoulders. ‘In fact, he’s sending over champagne as a “welcome to the district” offering.’
He took the seat opposite her, stretching out long legs, making her hurriedly draw back her own chair to avoid any risk of contact. And seeing his mouth curl cynically as he registered her hasty movement.
‘Free champagne,’ Fiona echoed and gave a little trill of laughter. ‘Wow.’ She put a perfectly manicured hand on Jago’s arm. ‘I can see it’s going to be non-stop party time in future.
‘You must have a house-warming—when the Manor’s fit for you to move into. Although my father says you’d be better off pulling it down and starting again. After all, it’s hardly a listed building.’
‘That’s one viewpoint certainly,’ Jago said courteously. ‘But not one I happen to share.’ He paused, looking at Patrick. ‘And on the subject of friends and neighbours, shouldn’t you introduce me?’
‘Of course. How totally dreadful of me,’ Fiona gushed. ‘This is Patrick Wilding who’s a fabulous accountant, and whose mother runs the most marvellous girls’ preparatory school in the village.’
She added, ‘Funnily enough, Octavia has a little job there too, when she’s not rushing round the district, of course, doing good works.’ She smiled brilliantly, ‘So, Patrick, meet Jago Marsh.’
‘How do you do?’ Jago leaned forward, proffering a hand which Patrick accepted with barely concealed reluctance, muttering an awkward reply.
Which, in the good manners stakes, left Jago leading by a length, thought Tavy, biting her lip as the champagne arrived in an ice bucket, accompanied by four flutes.
As Jago began to fill them, she said, ‘I already have a drink, thank you.’ Sounding, she realised with vexation, like a prim schoolgirl.
‘Which you don’t seem to be enjoying particularly,’ he said, looking at her untouched glass. He put a gently bubbling flute in front of her. ‘Have this instead.’
‘Not for me, thanks,’ Patrick said shortly. ‘I’ll stick to beer.’
‘But I still hope you’ll join me in a toast.’ Jago raised his glass. ‘To new beginnings,’ he said softly. ‘And new friends.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Fiona touched her glass to his. Her smile flashed again. ‘Particularly those.’
This time, it was Tavy’s turn to mumble something. She managed a fleeting look at Patrick, who was responding to the toast as if his beer had turned to prussic acid.
But the champagne was wonderful, fizzing faintly in her mouth, cool against her throat. She leaned back in her chair listening to the music, thinking that it hardly matched its title. That it wasn’t ‘easy’ at all, with its intense, primitive rhythm, but wrenched and disturbing as if dragged up from some dark and painful place. An assault on the senses.
It wasn’t her kind of music at all, she told herself swiftly, but she couldn’t deny its almost feral impact.
Fiona was talking to Jago. ‘It must make you feel wonderful, hearing this again. Remembering its amazing success.’
He shrugged. ‘To be honest, it just seems a very long time ago.’
‘But you were headline news,’ she persisted. ‘Everyone wanted to know about you.’
‘Indeed they did,’ he said. ‘And what the papers couldn’t find out, they made up.’
‘And the band’s name,’ Fiona rushed on. ‘People said you really meant to be called “Dissent” because you were in rebellion against society, only someone got the spelling wrong on your first contract.’ And she giggled.
‘I’m afraid the story is wrong.’ His voice was quiet, the tawny eyes oddly brooding. ‘Pete Hilton, the bass player and I studied Virgil’s Aeneid at school, and we took our name from Book Six where the oracle says, “Facilis descensus Averno”. Easy is the descent into Hell.’ He added wryly, ‘Before pointing out that very few who get there make it back again.’
He paused. ‘However, it failed to mention that sometimes the demons you find there make the return journey with you.’
Tavy stared at him. His voice had been level, even expressionless but there had been something in his words that had lifted all the hair on the back of her neck.
‘You learned Latin?’ Fiona did not mask her surprise.
‘We all did at my school,’ he said, and smiled at her. ‘Including, of course, your husband, who was in my year.’
Seeing Fiona Culham thoroughly disconcerted didn’t happen often, thought Tavy, a bud of illicit pleasure opening within her, but it was worth waiting for.
‘Oh,’ the other girl said at last. ‘You mean my ex-husband, of course.
‘I had no idea you were at the same school.’
He said gently, ‘And why should you?’
As the music ended in a wave of clapping and stamping from the other customers, he looked across at Tavy. ‘So, what did you think of that blast from the past, Miss Denison?’
‘Not much, I bet,’ Fiona said dismissively. ‘Octavia never listens to anything that can’t be found in Hymns Ancient and Modern.’
‘She’s a good judge,’ Jago said lightly. ‘As someone said, why should the devil have all the best tunes?’
‘But I didn’t think yours was a tune.’ Tavy’s voice was quiet. ‘It was too angry. It made me feel uncomfortable.’ She added, ‘But I expect that was the intention.’
There was an odd silence, then Patrick said, ‘I’m getting myself another pint.’ And went.
‘You must excuse me too,’ said Fiona, brightly. ‘I need to powder my nose.’
Leaving Tavy alone at the table with Jago Marsh in a silence which was suddenly almost tangible.
And which he was the first to break. ‘So he isn’t just the employer’s son?’
‘No,’ she said, slightly breathless, shakily aware that his eyes were travelling slowly over her, lingering shamelessly on the softly rounded curves tantalisingly displayed by the low neckline of the indigo dress, as if the fabric that covered her no longer existed. As if he was remembering exactly how much he’d seen of her at their first meeting. And, judging by his faint smile, enjoying every moment of the memory.
Making her wish almost desperately that she’d worn something less revealing, and tied her hair back instead of leaving it loose.
And that there was something altogether more substantial than a pub table between them.
Fight back, she thought as, in spite of herself, a slow tingle of awareness shivered through her body. Don’t let him do this to you.
She lifted her chin. ‘We’re—involved.’
He nodded reflectively. ‘And how does the employer feel about that?’
‘That is none of your business!’
‘Oh, dear,’ he said lightly. ‘That bad, eh?’
‘Not at all,’ she denied swiftly. ‘I simply prefer not to discuss it.’ Especially with you...
His eyes never left her. ‘So, exactly how deep is this involvement, or am I not allowed to ask that either?’
Colour rose in her face. ‘No you’re not.’
‘Which totally confirms my suspicions,’ he murmured.
‘Well, you have no right to suspect anything,’ Tavy countered, her flush deepening. ‘Or to indulge in any kind of unwarranted speculation about my personal life.’
‘Wow, that’s serious stuff,’ Jago said, grinning at her. ‘I shall consider myself rebuked.’
‘Now I’ll ask you something,’ she said. ‘What made you choose the Willow Tree of all places tonight?’
‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘In case you think I’m stalking you or something equally sinister. In fact, the former Mrs Latimer suggested it. She and her father came up to the Manor this morning to introduce themselves, and, as they were leaving, I asked her if she’d like to go for a drink.’
He paused. ‘You see? My life, unlike yours, is an open book.’
‘But one I’d prefer not to read,’ she said crisply, seeing with relief that Patrick was returning from the bar, edging gingerly through the crowd with his brimming glass, his face flushed and sullen. ‘Just as I’d rather we kept our distance from each other in future.’
‘That could be tricky,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Hazelton Magna being such a very small village.’ He added softly, ‘Besides, Octavia, you were the one who came calling first. If you remember.’
She took a gulp of champagne to ease the sudden tightness in her throat.
She said thickly, ‘I’m hardly likely to forget.’
His smile seemed to touch her like the stroke of a finger on her skin. ‘Then at least we have that in common,’ he murmured and rose politely as Fiona also reappeared.
After that, it was downhill all the way. Once the complimentary champagne was gone, Jago, to Fiona’s open satisfaction and her own secret dismay, simply ordered another bottle.
She tried to catch Patrick’s eye to hint it was time to go, but her signal was ignored and he went off to the bar in his turn to obtain a third, or, she realised, startled, possibly even a fourth pint.
Which meant that he’d be in no fit state to drive, she thought, taking a covert peep at her watch, and trying to remember the timing of the last bus.
She’d never known him drink as much before. A pint and a half or maybe a couple of glasses of red wine were generally his limit.
I should have talked to him when I first got here, she told herself unhappily. Persuaded him to tell me what was troubling him. Why his day had been so rotten. Now, there’s no chance.
