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Enough to be going along with,' he interrupted, and she was glad of that, because she'd run out of reasons, and all she had left was hot air and bluster.
The shares had been her best card; if he married her and she gave him her voting rights he would have the majority shareholding, and that, surely, would be tempting to a man such as he.
She held her breath, her heart pumping, sensing she had his interest now, and he commented, rising to his feet, almost smiling, 'May I have time to give your-- he hesitated, but only fractionally '—your delightful offer the consideration it merits?' And, taking the carefully blank expression on her face for acquiescence, he glanced at his watch and returned his attention to the papers strewn on his desk.
'I shall be away over the weekend and in Brussels on Monday. So shall we have dinner on Monday evening?' His eyes drifted over her slender height as she pushed herself to her feet, making her feel uncharacteristically gauche, dry-mouthed and tongue-tied. 'I'll send Thornwood to pick you up at seven-thirty.'
Cleo left her car on the sweep of gravel at the front of Slade House and carried her overnight grip towards the impressive Edwardian building. She rarely visited now, but she needed to see her uncle and aunt, to reassure herself that she was doing the right thing in not allowing herself to follow her instincts and tell Fenton to go ahead and do his worst because she wouldn't give him one of her nail parings!
She hadn't phoned to let them know to expect her; her mind had been edgy, jumpily occupied with trying to work out how Jude's 'considerations' would take him, which way he would jump. She had learned to anticipate the way his mind worked when it came to complicated dealings in his capacity of chief executive of one of the most successful merchant banks in the City.
But this was different, very different. And the more she had tried to extend her own mind, to tune it in to his, the more confused and uncertain she had become. She couldn't get him out of her mind.
When the butler opened the door she wiped the frown from her brow, her voice level and cool, 'Good afternoon, Simmons. Is my aunt in?' then walked past him into the huge hall. 'They're not expecting me, I'm afraid.' She surrendered her camel trenchcoat, her cream kid gloves, the overnight grip, and the butler's expressionless mask gave nothing away; not ' surprise, certainly not pleasure. No one, not even the servants in this huge luxurious house, was spendthrift when it came to displaying emotions, or in having emotions, quite probably.
'Mrs Slade is in the drawing-room, miss. I'll see your things are taken to your room.'
'Thank you, Simmons.' She turned away, her graceful stride taking her over the polished parquet to find her aunt.
Ten years ago she had been fourteen years old, and she had come to this house because her parents had been drowned when their yacht had capsized in a freak storm off the Cornish coast. She had looked, then, for affection, warmth—for mere interest, even—but had found nothing save a cool concern for her material well-being. She had been luxuriously housed, fed the right food, sent to the right schools, but that was as far as the caring had gone. She had never found the warmth of affection she had so desperately craved in those first terrible years of bereavement. And as she had grown older she had learned to do without it.
Only her uncle had ever taken any interest in her. He had seen her as a person, with needs of her own, fears and hopes of her own, rather than just another responsibility. He was fond of her, she knew, in his own abstracted way. But he had been more often in his office than at home and she had seen little of him. And when he had gone into semi-retirement, due to illness, she, of course, had been living and studying in London, visiting rarely.
Grace Slade was in the drawing-room, a tea-tray on a low table beside her.
She was a spare, formidably handsome woman and it was a beautiful room, perfect. But then the Slades demanded perfection in everything, even in people. It was hard to live up to such standards.
'This is a surprise.' Her aunt's voice was coloured with asperity, just a tinge of it, and Cleo sighed. She should have phoned, would have done, but her mind had been in a tangle.
She sank down on a Regency sofa which was upholstered in oyster brocade and said, Td like to stay overnight, drive back tomorrow after lunch.' She was stating her right to be here, using cool dignity. This house was her home, her aunt one of her guardians, for another year. Inhibiting, but a fact.
And Grace had taught her by example how to stand on her dignity. Yes, her aunt had taught her well. But sometimes Cleo wondered if the sterility of dignity, of the austere self-command she had learned to wear like a cloak, made her lacking as a human being. Wondered if the suppression of deep emotion was a loss, turning her into a machine, programmed to display good manners, breeding and dedication to the duty which was the good standing of the family.
But now, looking at her aunt—poised, elegant, in perfect control—Cleo decided that she had probably chosen the right path when she had sought to please by emulation, all those years ago, when gaining the approval of her aunt, and possibly her affection, had been something she had striven for.
And her single foray into the realm of emotion had been a disaster, landing her in her present sordid predicament. It would never happen again.
'Shall I ring for fresh tea?' Grace wanted to know, her eyes dispassionate.
'You look tired after your drive.'
As well she might, Cleo thought drily, but it had nothing to do with the drive. Two sleepless nights in a row, the image of Jude Mescal tormenting her mind, would hardly make her look sparkling. But she said, 'No tea for me, thank you, Aunt. How is Uncle?'
'As well as can be expected. He frets about the business, which doesn't help.
As I've repeatedly told him, it's in Luke's hands now.'
They talked for a while, their conversation polite but wary, until Cleo excused herself and went to find her uncle. He was in the library, the most comfortable room in the house in Cleo's opinion, sitting on the leather chesterfield, a photograph album open on his knees.
'The older I get the more I tend to peer into the past,' was his greeting. Cleo wasn't surprised; Uncle John often came out with such statements, seemingly apropos of nothing, it was one of the humanising things about him that had made her fonder of him than she was of either her aunt or her cousin Luke. 'No one told me you were coming.' His mild eyes questioned her and she sat down beside him, sinking into the squashy leather.
'No one knew. I just arrived—it was a spur of the moment decision.'
'Ah.' He looked vaguely puzzled, as if he couldn't comprehend a decision being taken, just like that. Years of living with Aunt Grace had made him very careful, ver
y precise, leaving nothing to. chance.
'And how are you?' Her smoky eyes searched his face. He looked older, much more frail than when she'd seen him last a couple of months ago.
