Tainted Love. Alison Fraser
wonderful,’ Clare assured the older woman, her smile showing she meant it. ‘I just didn’t expect anywhere so nice.’
Louise smiled in response. ‘Well, I’m glad you like it. It used to be the servants’ quarters in bygone times—a rather dingy, depressing place—but Fen had it refurbished for my son Gerry to board in while he was up at Oxford. I don’t think it has had any use since.’
Clare frowned, wondering if she’d understood correctly. ‘What about the other housekeepers? Didn’t they stay here?’
Louise looked embarrassed for a moment as she shook her head. ‘Well, no, most of them have lived out, or occupied a couple of adjoining rooms on the first floor...but Fen thought you might prefer up here.’ Louise’s hesitancy cast doubt over her brother’s motives.
Clare was quite sure Fen Marchand couldn’t care less about her preferences. It seemed much more likely that it was his own privacy he was protecting. Having opened his house to a convicted criminal, he’d decided to isolate her as far as possible from the rest of the household.
Well, Clare didn’t object. She’d clean his house and cook his meals as efficiently as she could, and, when not working, keep to her own company. She had no wish to become a so-called ‘part of the family’. Apart from her dislike of Marchand, she believed no housekeeper was ever really such.
Her thoughts went to her own mother. She’d worked for Lord Abbotsford for over fifteen years and her ladyship had often referred to her as ‘almost one of the family’. But, even as a child, Clare had known they were just words, empty words. It had simply been a way of claiming Mary Anderson’s loyalty. When her mother had become ill with stomach cancer, the Holsteads had been conspicuous by their absence.
Clare’s mouth twisted at the memory and it was a bitter expression Fenwick Marchand caught as he walked through the attic door. His eyes narrowed; he was clearly wondering what she was thinking, scheming...
Then Louise turned and spotted him, saying, ‘This was a good idea of yours, Fen. Clare loves it. Don’t you, Clare?’
‘Yes,’ Clare answered as promised, but her tone was leaden.
Not surprisingly, Fen Marchand looked sceptical. ‘I must say you contain your enthusiasm very well, Miss Anderson,’ he muttered in dry sarcasm.
It wasn’t lost on Clare but neither was his position as her boss; she managed to contain her temper.
It was Louise who said, ‘Don’t be such a sourpuss, Fen. You don’t want to scare off Clare before she’s even started, do you?’
From his deadpan gaze, Clare suspected that was exactly what Fen Marchand wanted. When their eyes met and locked, and she refused to look away, he said, ‘I don’t think Miss Anderson scares so easily.’
‘Possibly not—’ Louise totally missed the silent exchange of hostilities ‘—but you could still try to be a little pleasanter. Clare isn’t used to your sense of humour, and, if she were to take to her heels, then where would you be?’ she asked rhetorically.
Her brother answered her all the same, with a dry, ‘Housekeeperless, I presume.’
‘Precisely.’ Louise felt she’d just made her point. ‘And you know you can’t manage on your own, Fen, so try to be nice, hmm?’ she appealed.
If Fen Marchand’s less than nice expression was anything to go by, the appeal fell on deaf ears. But Louise seemed oblivious, taking his silence as assent.
‘Good, so that’s settled,’ she announced with totally unwarranted optimism. ‘Now I must dash. I have a charity do this evening and I simply can’t miss it... Clare, any problems, just give me a call,’ she invited kindly.
‘Thank you.’ Clare smiled, knowing already what her biggest problem would be.
He chimed in, ‘I don’t suppose this advice service extends to me?’
Louise gave a brief laugh. ‘My dear Fen, the last time you took my advice on anything you were five years old. I can’t believe you’ll start wanting it now.’
‘You never know.’ He actually smiled for a moment, but it was solely at his sister and didn’t reach the eyes flicking back from her to Clare.
Once more Clare returned his stare, her eyes telling him she understood. She was here only under sufferance and it was going to be no lifelong career.
‘Well, you know the number,’ Louise replied, and, with a last smile for both of them, stopped her brother from following her by adding, ‘No, it’s all right. I want a last word with Miles, then I’ll show myself out. You stay and tell Clare what her duties are.’
So saying, she went back down the steps, leaving Clare and Fen Marchand to trade hostile stares.
It was he who broke off first, walking past her to place her suitcase on the bed. ‘If you give me the address, I’ll send for the rest.’
‘The rest of what?’ Clare was slow on the uptake.
‘Your luggage,’ he said patiently.
She shook her head. ‘There’s no more. That’s it.’
His eyes widened in surprise. ‘You believe in travelling light. Or aren’t you planning to stay long?’
‘That’s up to you, Mr Marchand,’ she replied coolly. ‘I’ve brought all my possessions and given up my room at the hostel.’
‘In that case,’ he countered, ‘we’d better try and make this work. Firstly, we need some ground rules.’
‘Yes?’ Clare waited for him to continue, assuming all the rules were going to be made by him.
‘Right.’ He slanted his head on one side, studying her for a moment. ‘You don’t smoke, I hope.’
‘No,’ she answered simply.
‘Good, I can’t abide the smell of stale tobacco... What about drink?’
‘Drink?’
‘Alcohol,’ he added with some impatience. ‘Do you drink and if so, how much?’
Clare’s brows lifted. He certainly believed in being blunt and to the point. ‘I haven’t had a drink in three years,’ she stated with absolute honesty.
He was unimpressed. ‘Well, that tells me how long you were in prison,’ he commented drily, ‘but what about before? Was your crime drink-related?’
‘No.’ Clare held in a sigh. ‘I don’t have a drink problem, if that’s what you’re asking...I don’t take drugs, either,’ she added, before he could ask any awkward questions on that line. Questions she might not be able to answer honestly.
‘You don’t smoke. You don’t drink. You don’t take drugs. So, are there any vices you’d like to admit to?’ he asked in a tone that suggested he wasn’t taking her word for anything.
Clare gave a shrug that he could read how he liked. She wasn’t about to tell him the one vice that had led her to prison—her blind, obsessive love for John Holstead, the son and heir of the fifth Earl of Abbotsford.
‘What about men?’ He got on to the subject without any help from her. ‘Is there some boyfriend in the background?’ His lips formed a curve of distaste, as if he imagined any boyfriend she’d choose would be an unsavoury character.
It was too much for Clare, trying hard to keep her temper under control. ‘If I have,’ she rallied, ‘I think that’s my business, Mr Marchand.’
His face darkened at her answer. Free speech was obviously considered his prerogative, and his alone.
‘On the contrary,’ he argued, ‘it would most definitely be my business should you intend that this boyfriend visit you here, at my home.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ Clare declared