Lucy Gordon: A Mistletoe Proposal

‘I didn’t-’

‘Conceited, arrogant, bullying, faithless, treacherous-’

‘If you’d only-’

‘Leave, now!’

‘If I could just-’

‘No, you can’t “just”. Leave! ’

‘I understand that-’

‘Listen, the last man who came in here wouldn’t go when I told him to, and you saw what happened to him.’

‘All right,’ Roscoe said hastily. ‘I really only came to return your property.’

‘Thank you, sir, for your consideration,’ Pippa responded in a formal voice that was like ice, ‘but if you don’t leave of your free will you’ll do so at my will and that-’

‘I’m going, I’m going.’

He departed quickly. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation, this was no time to argue. For some reason, she was ready to do murder. It was unfair, but there was no understanding women.

From Pippa’s window, a curve in the building made the front door visible. She stood there watching until she saw him get into his car. Then she turned and glared at the photograph of her grandparents on the sideboard.

‘All right, all right. I behaved terribly. He came to return my things and I was rude to him. I didn’t even thank him. Why? Why? I don’t know why, but I was suddenly furious with him. How dare he see me naked! Yes, I know it wasn’t his fault; you don’t have to say it. But you should have seen the look on his face when he saw me on display. He didn’t know whether to fancy me or despise me, and I could strangle him for it. Grandpa, stop laughing! It’s not funny. Well, all right. Maybe just a bit. Oh, to blazes with him!’

Down below, Roscoe took a quick glance up, just in time to see her at the window before she backed off. He sat in his car for a moment, pondering.

He’d gained only a brief glimpse inside her bedroom, just enough to see a double bed and observe that it was neatly made and unused. He’d barely registered this but now it came back to him with all its implications.

So she really had refused him, which meant she was a lady of discrimination and taste as well as beauty and glowering temper. Excellent.

Later that night, before going to bed, he went online and looked up Mata Hari:

Dutch, 1876-1917, exotic dancer, artist’s model, circus rider, courtesan, double agent in World War One, executed by firing squad.

Hmm! he thought.

It was a word that occurred to him often in connection with Pippa. With every passing moment he became more convinced that she would fit his plans perfectly.

The two men regarded each other over the desk.

‘Not again!’ David Farley said in exasperation. ‘Didn’t he promise to reform last time?’

‘And the time before,’ Roscoe sighed. ‘Charlie’s not really a criminal, he just gets carried away by youthful high spirits.’

‘That’s your mother talking.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Why can’t she face the truth about Charlie?’

‘Because she doesn’t want to,’ Roscoe said bluntly. ‘He looks exactly like our father, and since Dad died fifteen years ago she’s built everything on Charlie.’

The door opened and Roscoe tensed, but it was only a young woman with a tea tray.

‘Thanks,’ David Farley said gratefully.

He was a burly man in his late forties with a pleasant face and a kindly, slightly dull manner. He cultivated that dullness, knowing how useful it could be to conceal his powerful mind until the last moment. Now he poured tea with the casual skill of a waiter.

‘Has your mother ever come to terms with the fact that your father committed suicide?’ he asked carefully.

Roscoe shook his head. ‘She won’t admit it. The official story was that the car crash was an accident, and we stuck to that to discourage gossip. Now I think she’s convinced herself that it really was an accident. A suicide would have been a rejection of her, you see.’

‘Of all of you,’ David ventured to say. He’d known Roscoe for years, right back to the time he’d been a young man who admired and loved his father. He too had suffered, but David doubted anyone had ever considered this.

Now, much as he’d expected, Roscoe shrugged aside the suggestion that he actually had feelings and hurried to say, ‘If I can pull Charlie through this without a disaster I can get him onto the straight and narrow and stop her being hurt.’

‘Do you know how often I’ve heard you say that?’ David demanded. ‘And it never works because Charlie knows he can always rely on you to rescue him from trouble. Just for once, don’t save him. Then he’ll learn his lesson.’

‘He’ll also end up with a criminal record, and my mother will have a broken heart,’ Roscoe said harshly. ‘Forget it. There has to be a way to deal with this, and I know what it is. It’s important to put the right person on the case.’

‘I shall naturally deal with this myself-’

‘Of course, but you’ll need a good assistant. I suggest Miss Philippa Jenson.’

‘You know her?’

‘I met her yesterday and was much impressed by her qualities,’ Roscoe declared in a carefully colourless voice. ‘I want you to assign her to Charlie with instructions to give him her full attention.’

‘I can give Pippa this case, but I can’t take her off other cases. She’s much in demand. Don’t be fooled by her looks. She’s terrifyingly bright and one of the best in the business. She qualified with some of the highest marks that have ever been seen, and several firms were after her. I got her by playing on her sympathies. She did her pupillage here and I managed to persuade her that she owed me something.’

‘So she really is qualified? She looks so young.’

‘She’s twenty-seven and already becoming well known in the profession. This lady is no mere assistant, but a formidable legal brain.’

The last three words affected Roscoe strangely. The world vanished, leaving only a young, perfect female body, glowing with life and vigour, dainty waist, generous breasts partly hidden by the luscious hair that tumbled about them, beautiful face glaring at him with disdain.

A formidable legal brain!

‘What…what did you say?’ he asked with an effort.

‘Are you all right?’

The vision vanished. He was back in the prosaic offices of Farley & Son, facing David Farley across a prosaic desk, drinking a prosaic cup of tea towards the end of a prosaic afternoon.

‘I’m fine,’ he said quickly. ‘I just need to settle things with Miss Jenson. Can I see her?’

‘She’s in court this afternoon, unless perhaps she’s returned. Hang on.’ He seized the phone, which had rung. ‘Pippa! Speak of the devil! How did it go?… Good…good. So Renton’s pleased. You made his enemies sorry they were born, eh? I knew you would. Look, could you hurry back? I’ve got a new client waiting for you. Apparently you already-’

He checked, alerted by Roscoe’s violent shake of the head. ‘You’re already known to him by repute,’ he amended hastily. ‘See you in a minute.’

Hanging up, he stared, puzzled. ‘Why didn’t you want me to say you’d already met?’

‘Best not. Start from scratch,’ Roscoe said. Inwardly, he was musing about the name Renton, which he’d glimpsed on the papers he delivered last night, plus a mountain of figures.

‘So she has a very satisfied client?’ he mused.

‘One of many. Lee Renton is a big man in the entertainment field, and getting bigger. There were some grim accusations hurled at him by someone who’d hoped to take advantage of him, and failed. Financial stuff, all lies. I knew Pippa would nail it.’

‘So her adversary is sorry he was born?’ Roscoe queried.

‘Nasty character, up to every trick. But then, so is she. Great on detail, reads each paper through thoroughly. Nothing escapes her. She’ll be here in a moment. The court is just around the corner.’