Page 8 of The Threat of Love

'What else? Are you keeping something back? Tell me, Caro, I want to know everything that happened. Why are you looking like that?'

'Nothing else happened! But I don't want you to waste your time on Gilham Martell. Let our lawyers deal with him.'

The intercom on his desk buzzed—he scowled, and jabbed a finger down on a button, barking, 'I'm busy.'

His secretary's quiet voice said, 'Lady Westbrook on the line for you, sir.'

Fred Ramsgate's face altered. 'Lady Westbrook?' He glanced at Caro, his mouth wry. 'She's heard, and she's ringing to apologise—what's the betting? What a family! They embarrass my daughter and knock her about, then think they can talk me out of suing, and Martell doesn't even ring me himself, he gets his grandmother to do it! I've a good mind not to talk to her. They needn't think they can sweet talk us out of suing them!'

'I hate Gil Martell,' Caro said fiercely, saw her father's startled face and swallowed. She didn't want to arouse any curiosity about her feelings towards Gil Martell. Hurriedly, she added, 'But maybe you should talk to Lady Westbrook?' Why had Gil's grandmother rung, anyway? 'I'm curious about what she's going to say— aren't you?' she added lightly, smiling at her father.

'I suppose so,' Fred admitted, grimacing. 'And it will be a pleasure to hear that old dragon-lady having to eat humble pie!' He brusquely told his secretary to put the call through.

'Good afternoon, Mr Ramsgate,' a sharp, yet manifestly old voice said a few seconds later.

'Afternoon, Lady Westbrook,' Fred grunted. 'How are you?'

'Well enough; how are you?' Fred asked in that surly tone.

'I am well, thank you.' Lady Westbrook paused and Caro waited tensely for whatever she was about to say, but instead of mentioning the incident at the department store that afternoon, the old lady said, 'Mr Ramsgate, I am ringing to invite you to dinner.'

'Dinner?' Fred repeated, looking taken aback. 'You're inviting us to dinner?'

'Us?' Lady Westbrook sounded puzzled. 'Oh, of course, you mean your wife.'

'My wife's been dead for years,' Fred said flatly. 'I meant Caro—my daughter. You'll want her to be there. This concerns her, too, remember.'

'Oh?' Lady Westbrook sounded unsure about that, and Fred's brows met.

'Of course it does!' he said in a rough voice. 'Think of us as one person, Lady Westbrook. She isn't just my daughter, she's also my right hand. One day she'll take over from me, and we're very close, both as father and daughter, and as business partners. What matters to me, matters to her—and vice versa.'

'Oh, I see,' said the old lady, her voice clearing. T understand.'

Caro hoped she did; she hoped Lady Westbrook now realised just what her grandson had done when he'd insulted and humiliated Fred Ramsgate's daughter.

'Then I shall be happy to see you both at dinner,' Lady Westbrook said. Caro wondered what she looked like— her autocratic, assured tone was very reminiscent of the way her grandson talked and looked. 'Now, how soon can you come? The sooner, the better, I think, don't you?'

'I agree,' Fred muttered.

'Have you your diary there? This is very short notice-but I suppose you aren't free tonight?'

'Tonight?' Fred glanced down at his leatherbound diary, which lay open on the desk, then looked up at Caro, silently questioning her. She nodded agreement and her father said into the phone, 'No, we aren't doing anything tonight.'

'Then will you both come to dinner? Seven-thirty for eight?'

'Seven-thirty,' said Fred in a faintly breathless voice. 'Yes, we'll be there.' 'Do you know Regents Park?' T live there, so I ought to.'

'Really? I didn't know that. I'm in Marlborough Crescent, number one. Are you familiar with the road?'

'We're just around the corner from you.' Fred mentioned their address and Lady Westbrook laughed.

'Oh, I know the house. You have a wonderful magnolia tree in the centre of your front lawns; I always admire it when I drive past.'

Fred couldn't help smiling at that; his magnolia was his pride and joy.

'Well, then, I will see you at seven-thirty.' The phone clicked and Lady Westbrook was gone.

Fred slowly replaced his receiver, his expression almost incredulous. 'I don't believe she's invited us to dinner-she wouldn't even speak to me when I made the offer for the store. Her lawyers dealt with the whole thing. She refused to meet me, didn't acknowledge my letters.

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