AMANDA BROWNING - Trail Of Love

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

THE seat Kay Napier sat on so uncomfortably stood in the immaculately kept gardens of a quiet London square. Her large, troubled green eyes rested on the building opposite. Having come this far, it would be foolish not to go on, but the doubts which had been her disagreeable companions these last few weeks had risen up to hold her back. Did she really want to go in there and make a fool of herself? Yet wasn’t it better to find out the truth? She sighed. What truth? The truth was that she was Kay Napier, a twenty-four-year-old actuary, and she shouldn’t let one unpleasant incident make her doubt the beliefs of a lifetime.

Yet it had, and did, because sensible advice was very rarely taken. She needed to have her life put back into its proper perspective. She had believed there was nowhere she could go to achieve that, now her mother was dead, but a week ago the solution had hit her; there was somebody she could ask. The Endacotts themselves. The family lived in Northumbria, but Sir Charles Endacott was head of the family’s merchant bank here in London. The very bank, in fact, that she sat across from now, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t totally crazy.

When fate had produced a cancelled appointment, giving her some free hours in which to deal with her problem, her course of action had been clear. It still was, she thought with a wry smile, and recalled what Macbeth had said, ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly’. She would go in, get her answer, and then get on with the rest of her life.

With which bracing advice she climbed to her feet and headed for the gate set in the wrought-iron railings. The door to the elegant Regency building swished open almost soundlessly, which reminded Kay, although it was hardly necessary, that a great deal of money changed hands inside these portals.

The receptionist looked up with a friendly smile as Kay approached her desk. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked pleasantly.

Kay assumed her most businesslike expression. She might be in a quandary, but it wouldn’t do to let anyone else know it. ‘Yes. I would like to see Sir Charles Endacott, please.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

Mentally kicking herself for forgetting something so basic, Kay saw her spur-of-the-moment project being scuttled before it reached first base. This now required some delicate handling, not to say outright bluff. Her smile was confident. ‘No, I don’t, but I’m sure you’ll find he will see me.’

The young woman returned the smile with a polite one of her own. ‘I’m sorry, but without an appointment Sir Charles doesn’t see anyone,’ she said firmly.

At any other time Kay would have admired her efficiency, but not today. ‘I’m sure exceptions can be made?’ Her glance said, surely, as one woman to another: we can come to some sort of arrangement.

‘If you’d care to make an appointment, I’m sure Sir Charles will be only too happy to see you, on that day .’

Kay straightened her spine. She wasn’t prepared to give in, now that she was here, and if it took a downright lie to get her past this female Cerberus, she’d use it. ‘I’m sure he would, but he might not be too happy about missing me today!’ she countered sweetly.

The receptionist was no fool, but at that implication she hesitated. ‘I see.’ She clearly wasn’t too sure if she was hearing the truth but didn’t want to take the risk of insulting a friend of her employer. ‘You’ll appreciate that Sir Charles is a very busy man. It may not be convenient. However, if you’ll take a seat for a moment, I’ll have a word with his secretary.’

Kay sank into a seat by the window, marvelling at her own temerity. She watched as the receptionist held a low-voiced conversation on the telephone. Was she being described? she wondered, and shivered. It could be from nerves, or the building’s air-conditioning, which was working flat out because this was one of the hottest summers on record. The heat troubled her, for her skin was so fair that it simply burned instead of tanning. It was a legacy of her rich copper-coloured hair, which, when free of its confining French pleat, fell in lush waves to her shoulders.

She had wanted to look smart, yet cool, and she knew the grey linen pencil skirt with matching jacket suited her tall, slim figure. There had been times when she had described her figure as boyish, but that was no longer true. Her hips might be narrow, but her legs were long and shapely. Her breasts were undoubtedly small, but they were in perfect proportion to the rest of her. There could be no doubting her femininity.

A slight frown marred the perfection of her finely boned face as she dropped her gaze to the manila folder she held on her lap. Even white teeth chewed uneasily at lips that usually described a perfect, if slightly full bow. The source of all her recent uncertainty lay inside.

As if to reassure herself that she hadn’t dreamed it all, she reached inside and withdrew a folded paper. It was her birth certificate, and although she virtually knew the details by heart she still opened it. Sarah Jane Napier, born twenty-four years ago to Ronald and Jean Napier.

Nobody called her Sarah, of course, but she had always known the reason for that—or thought she had. Kay had been a pet name, a fancy of her mother’s which had stuck. There was nothing unusual in that. But then she hadn’t been in possession of her mother’s diary. Or that letter, which she had destroyed but somehow couldn’t forget.

Just then she heard the receptionist put the receiver down, and, quickly tucking the paper away, Kay rose and approached the desk once more. The young woman was extremely polite.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. If you take the lift to the top floor, Mrs Rivers will meet you.’

Kay saved her smile until she was inside the lift. So far so good. However, it was only a small success. She was to be met, which meant they weren’t giving her the chance to go anywhere they didn’t want her to. She’d have to think fast. This Mrs Rivers sounded a very different kettle of fish. All the same she found herself quite looking forward to the encounter.

She laughed. Lance would have a fit at her behaviour! That brought her up short. Lance Young was the man she expected to marry one day, yet she hadn’t even discussed this visit with him. She hadn’t wanted to bother him. Now it occurred to her to question why not.

She realised she’d said nothing because he’d only call her foolish. Lance was a very meticulous, private man in his late thirties. He respected her sensible outlook, her career-mindedness. This—sudden insecurity—he would think frivolous. Instinctively she had kept her own counsel. And, if the fact that she couldn’t confide in him her personal worries hurt, the disappointment was small, for in everything else they were like-minded. Neither believed in a ‘grand passion’. Their marriage would be one of mutual respect. It had always given Kay a sense of well-being to know where her life was going.

Seconds after that warming thought raised her spirits, the lift doors opened again to reveal Sir Charles’s doughty secretary. Mrs Rivers was a compact, grey-haired woman who was friendly enough in an impersonal way. She led Kay to her office before opening the attack.

‘I understand that you wish to see Sir Charles, but there seems to be some confusion as to whether you have an appointment or not.’ The secretary consulted an open diary on her desk briefly.