Alison Fraser - Tainted Love

‘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 abruptly, meaning to close the subject.

She felt no obligation to go further and state that there would be no boyfriend, now or later. She’d only ever loved one man. She’d worshipped him from the age of twelve, humiliated herself for him more times than she cared to remember, made love with him in beds of straw and backs of cars, and, through everything, remained blind to the point of stupidity.

‘Good.’ Fen Marchand’s chilly tones brought her back to the present. ‘Because I value my privacy and would not appreciate it being invaded by some male stranger staying overnight in my attic. I trust you take my meaning, Miss Anderson?’

Clare nodded and kept her opinion to herself. She really didn’t want to lose this job before she’d even begun. She had something to prove first.

‘Right, well, you can start tomorrow morning. Breakfast,’ he announced briskly, and had walked past her to the door before he thought of asking, ‘You can cook, can’t you?’

‘Just about.’ She gave him the answer she felt the question deserved.

His face clouded over once more, but he said nothing, as he turned on his heel and marched off downstairs.

Clare could guess what he was thinking. Here he was, giving a chance to one of his sister’s no-hopers, and getting precious little gratitude in return. He was right, too. Clare felt nothing towards him except a growing dislike.

But she had to make an effort, Clare told herself, at least try to be the polite, colourless housekeeper he wanted. If only subservience were a more natural part of her character. She grimaced as she thought of her mother. Yes, your ladyship. No, your ladyship. Of course, your ladyship. In all those years, had her mother ever wanted to say, Go to hell, your ladyship?

Possibly she had, but circumstances had made her dependent on the Holsteads. She’d been a nanny to another county family when she’d met Clare’s father, Tom Anderson. He’d been an assistant trainer at Lord Abbotsford’s racing stables. After a fairly brief courtship, they’d married and were given one of the cottages on the estate. Clare had arrived a year later and, within months of her birth, her father had been killed in a riding accident. Lord Abbotsford had made no offer of financial compensation, but, ‘out of the goodness of his heart’, had allowed Mary Anderson to remain in the cottage in return for some help in the nursery.

The Holsteads had two children, Sarah and John. Sarah had been two years older than Clare but the two had played together until Sarah had gone away to boarding-school at eleven. Johnny had been five years older and a complete tyrant to the two girls.