Mary Lyons - It Started With A Kiss

In fact, although she’d somehow managed to reassemble her group of walkers, giving no one the chance of discussing what they’d seen as she led them swiftly through the remainder of the tour, she luckily hadn’t set eyes on the awful man again. It was almost as though he’d vanished into thin air. He’d certainly left the church before she did. And although Angelica had thrown cautious glances up and down the street, before turning right to cross the piazza towards the church of St Andrew Undershaft and on down Leadenhall Street, he’d been nowhere to be seen.

It would have been a comfort if she could have dismissed the scene from her mind, as if it had all been a bad dream or nightmare. Unfortunately, it was impossible to pretend that it had been a figment of her overheated imagination. Especially when she could all too easily recall the effect of his kiss on her emotions, the tide of sick excitement flooding through her body as she once more relived the feel of the hard, firm lips and body pressed so closely to her own.

With a groan, she turned over to bury her face in the pillow. She must… she simply must try and forget the whole hideous incident. It was stupid to be reacting in such a childish way to a confrontation which, if she was to be truly honest, had been partly her own fault. If she hadn’t so spectacularly lost her temper, the shameful episode would never have happened. Her only sensible course of action, therefore, must now be to try and dismiss the whole affair from her mind.

After all, she knew nothing about the man or where he came from—not even his name. Fortunately, there was no possibility of his knowing anything about her either. Since she’d never guided a walking tour of the City before—and she certainly wouldn’t ever attempt to do so again!—the odds on their ever meeting in the future must be about a million to one. It was a comforting thought that brought a measure of peace to her troubled mind, and one which enabled her at last to drift slowly off into a dreamless sleep.

The next few days seemed to pass by in a whirl. Angelica was kept so busy trying to sort out the deeply depressing problems concerning the roof timbers, and worrying about how to find the money to pay for the essential repairs, that she barely had time to think about her disastrous encounter with the strange man.

She wasn’t just concerned with problems about the roof, of course. Not only had it been a mammoth exercise to take most of her clothes to the dry-cleaners, but she’d also been forced to call in professional firms both to dry the large Persian carpets and to inspect the valuable paintings—all yet more unavoidable expense.

It didn’t seem to matter how many times she did her sums, the figures obstinately refused to add up. From the way the money was flowing out of her account, it wouldn’t be long before she found herself in serious financial trouble. In fact, after receiving two tough warning letters from her bank manager, it looked as if she was going to have to take some drastic action very soon.

Luckily there had been no fall-out from her tour of the City. Not wishing to look for trouble, she’d been very careful and guarded when talking on the phone to her boss, David Webster. Knowing just how pessimistic he could be, she was certain that he’d have informed her immediately of any complaints or comments about her proficiency as a guide. So it seemed as though the tall, unknown man. was every bit as anxious as she was to forget the whole distasteful incident.

It was, therefore, with a reasonably light heart that she prepared to set out, a few afternoons later, on her next tour of London.

Entitled The Village of Chelsea, it explored the highways and byways of what had once been a small village, surrounded by country estates and summer palaces belonging to royalty, and some of the most interesting men and women in the history of British art and literature.

It was a tour which she had personally designed and put together, taking place on the same day every week as laid down in the small printed brochures produced by David. With Lonsdale House situated in Cheyne Walk, overlooking the River Thames, the tour also had the great merit of taking place virtually outside her own front door. Besides which, guiding people around her favourite area of London for a leisurely, two-hour stroll in the warm sunshine, was nothing but a pleasure and a delight. And, since there was no possibility of being faced by the nervous apprehension which had overtaken her in the City a few days ago, Angelica was feeling happily confident as she ran downstairs into the large hall.

‘That’s a definite improvement,’ Betty said, eyeing the girl’s fresh summer dress, whose plain fitted bodice and softly gathered skirt emphasised her slim waist. Angelica had pinned her long, pale gold hair into a loose knot on top of her head, small tendrils of hair escaping to frame her face with soft curls, her wide blue eyes reflecting the colour of her blue cotton dress.

‘I don’t know what you think you looked like ‘the other day. It was a disgraceful sight, and I can only hope that you didn’t meet anyone we know,’ the older woman added grimly, before continuing her job of dusting the marble busts of long-dead Reman emperors, set on plinths in the hall.

‘Don’t be such an old fuss-pot!’ Angelica grinned. ‘You know very well that, with everything sopping wet, the only thing I could do was to raid Granny’s boxes of theatrical costumes.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Betty gave a heavy sigh. ‘I still miss your grandma so much, you know. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of all the fun times we used to have together in the theatre.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Angelica murmured sympathetically.

She, too, deeply regretted the loss of her grandmother. Even in her old age and during her last, long illness, the elderly woman had possessed a bright, sparkling mind and a vibrant personality. Angelica knew, from the trunks of old costumes, photographs and posters, that her grandmother had once been outstandingly beautiful, and a star on the musical comedy stage, before leaving the bright lights behind her to marry old Sir Tristram’s grandson. Betty, who’d been her dresser in the theatre for many years, had insisted on accompanying her to Lonsdale House where, as her old nanny had so often pointed out, they’d all lived happily every after.

‘Ooo… the parties we used to have!’ Betty murmured, pausing in her dusting to stare into space for a moment. “There always seemed to be so much life and laughter in this house. But nowadays it’s more like a morgue,’ she added with a heavy sigh.

Angelica had to admit that Betty was right. She herself could just remember the glittering dinner parties and crowded, exciting receptions which had taken place when she’d been a small girl. However, as her grandmother had grown older and more infirm, fewer and fewer people had come to the house. Following her grandmother’s death two years ago, the large building now seemed to have become nothing but a dusty museum. Although Angelica made sure that Lonsdale House was open to the public once a week—as she was obliged to do by the terms of the trust—they very seldom had more than one or two visitors.

She really couldn’t blame people for not coming to the house in droves, she told herself glumly. Sir Tristram’s collection might be an interesting and fascinating one, but even she could see that the whole place required a completely radical overhaul. But, in order to put a fresh approach into action, she knew that she would need both expert advice and a great deal of money.

‘You’d better hurry up. If you don’t get a move on, you’ll be late!’ Betty’s warning voice broke into her dismal thoughts.

‘Yes—you’re right,’ Angelica muttered with a quick glance at one of the many large clocks scattered about the hall. Swiftly gathering up her handbag, she ran towards the front door. ‘Oh, by the way, I won’t be back until quite late this afternoon,’ she added. ‘I’ve promised to go and have tea with old Lady Marshall.’