Emma Darcy: Mischief And Marriage

‘It is both an honour and a pleasure to be of service once again,’ he continued, smiling affably at Gordon Payne, who seemed mesmerised by Cliffton’s approach. The way he was weaving the cane through his fingers with the dexterity of a magician was definitely having a hypnotic effect.

‘May I, sir?’ The cane was whipped under one arm like a shillelagh and both hands were out to relieve Gordon Payne of the Lladro clown. ‘This piece is more for viewing than touching,’ he advised with the air of an art connoisseur. ‘If I put it back on its stand, I’m sure you’ll appreciate its fine craftmanship better. There’s a line and proportion to these things…there! You see?’

Somehow he’d deftly removed the figurine from Gordon Payne’s grasp and set it on the desk, positioning it perfectly on its rectangular block and giving the clown’s hat an affectionate pat as though it was an old friend.

‘Now, sir, if you wouldn’t mind, sir.’ The cane was flicked into use again, pointing to the door. ‘It is time to take your leave of Mrs. Harcourt. I’ll see you on your way, sir.’

Ashley could almost feel Gordon Payne bristle as he recollected himself. Cliffton had snatched control from him, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. Yet some animal instinct must have warned him to avoid a trial of strength with the English stranger. He shot a last venomous glare at Ashley.

‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’

Then he swung on his heel and marched out, not waiting to be ushered or escorted to the front door of the house. Cliffton, however, dogged his steps, ensuring that he left without playing any malicious havoc with her possessions on his way. Ashley trailed after both of them, drawn to watch the end of a scene she now deeply regretted.

Making an enemy of Gordon Payne could rebound very badly on her. He had far more weapons than she did. It was self-defeating to start a fight she couldn’t win. Hadn’t Roger taught her that, over and over again? If the elegant Englishman had not arrived…Who was he, really? What was he? And why was he here?

She paused in the hallway just outside the office, noticing that he favoured his right leg, a slight limp, reason for the walking stick, yet he executed a smart, skipping sidestep that would have graced any dance floor, beating Gordon Payne to the front door with a deft panache that allowed him to open the door with a flourish.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said with a respectful nod.

Gordon Payne stopped, stiffened and stared at him, flummoxed at being comprehensively outmanoeuvred. All he could manage was a crude snort in reply. Then he shook his shoulders as though dislodging a monkey on his back, propelled his feet forward again and made his exit from Ashley’s house.

Harold Alistair Cliffton closed the door after him on a glorious high of triumphant satisfaction. He had out-butlered George, rescued the fair maiden and polished off the dragon. Maybe he had just found his true vocation in life. Being of service.

On the other hand, Harry suspected his exhilaration had much to do with being of service to Ashley Harcourt. He turned to face her again, aware that she had followed to watch the curtain line of his masterly performance.

The photographs had not done her justice. They hadn’t captured the essence of Ashley Harcourt at all. Harry couldn’t quite put words to that essence, but it was something that sparked an instant response in him, an excitement, a sense of meeting someone special.

The moment their eyes had met…zing! Like an electric charge. He had felt truly alive again. Grey eyes, completely unlike Pen’s soft brown, yet there was something in them that called to him, just as Pen’s had. Perhaps a sureness of who and what she was, a belief in herself.

He wanted to know more about her. He wanted to know everything about her. The idea came to him in an inspired flash. Why not keep on playing the butler? It wasn’t at all difficult. In fact, he was enjoying the role immensely. It also had a great many advantages.

A butler was in the happy position of always being on hand. Installed under the same roof as Ashley Harcourt, he could get to know her very well, indeed. Harry rather relished the idea of putting Ashley to bed at night and waking her up in the morning with steaming hot…coffee. Like George, he’d be Father Confessor, confidant, adviser, helpmate, on the spot to test the waters for other possible attachments.

It allowed him to thoroughly investigate the situation for getting George an heir for Springfield Manor. This could become an extraordinary exploit that would add to the legends already surrounding his illustrious family—how Harry brought the Black Sheep strain back into the fold!

Alternatively, it might eventuate that young William need not fill the position of heir at all. His mother was beginning to inspire a lively set of other possibilities. He wondered how long her silky blonde hair was when unpinned and flowing free. On a pillow.

Ashley remained rooted near the door into the office, studying the extraordinary man who had erupted into her life with sensational effect. Not only with Gordon Payne. She was acutely conscious of a sense of tingly anticipation, as though she knew intuitively that his startling actions were only the forerunner of more startling actions.

He aimed another quirky smile at her, his bright blue eyes twinkling with unholy mischief. He gestured to the door and commented, ‘I thought him a mite touchy.’

Ashley couldn’t help being amused. To describe Gordon Payne as touchy seemed a masterful understatement. ‘I shouldn’t have lost my temper,’ she said with a rueful grimace.

Cliffton looked sympathetic. ‘Touchy people are often aggressive and unpredictable.’

‘It was stupid of me.’

One eyebrow lifted in considering assessment. ‘Perhaps a tad impetuous, madam. Still, there is an arguable case for throwing caution to the winds and letting fly. Gets a load off the chest, so to speak.’

Ashley could barely stop her mouth from twitching. He was so attractive, so…debonair. Another word she had never applied to a man! Not in real life. Her mind drifted to the Scarlet Pimpernel and she hastily pulled it back to a somewhat frayed level of common sense. Don’t forget dangerous, she cautioned herself.

‘What would you have done if he hadn’t let you take the Lladro clown?’ she asked.

‘Broken his wrist most likely,’ came the imperturbable reply. ‘Brings to mind the incident with Good Queen Bess,’ he mused. ‘My ancestor, Hugo, broke the wrist of the Spanish ambassador who presented a gift to the queen, then tried to take it back when she dismissed his king’s request.’

Ashley’s mind slipped again. Spanning centuries seemed quite normal with Cliffton. ‘If you’d done that,’ she said, trying to latch onto something practical, ‘the figurine would have fallen and broken.’

He grinned. ‘Never missed a catch at first slip. I used to play in the first eleven cricket team at school.’

Ashley had no trouble imagining Cliffton being first at a lot of things. But he didn’t seem conceited about it. Nor did he emit an air of superiority. Not like Roger. Whatever his abilities, he simply accepted them as completely natural.

Which brought her back to the questions that needed answering. She couldn’t let this discussion run on as though they were old and intimate friends. Common sense insisted she had to establish who this man was and what he was doing here.

‘I could be a mite touchy, too,’ she warned. ‘About having a stranger invade my home and eavesdrop on a private conversation.’

‘No, no, madam. I would not be so ill-mannered as to enter anyone’s home uninvited. Master William let me in.’