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I gather she's an autocratic old lady, and probably a snob. I was given the impression she despised me as a self-made man, nouveau riche, vulgar. She has never worked in the store, of course; she didn't start at the bottom, like me, or have to learn the business. She's a lady, and she owns it without knowing anything about how it is run. She has always left that to the men—her husband, her son, and now her grandson. I didn't meet him; I didn't even meet her lawyers, come to that. They didn't discuss the matter so much as just say no, and then refused to talk any more. They made it clear that I was getting the brush-off. They couldn't even be bothered to meet me, I wasn't important enough, they practically laughed at me for daring to make an offer. And now she's asking me to dinner. I don't believe it.'
'They must be very scared,' Caro said, thinking of Gil Martell with angry satisfaction. Would he be there tonight? Maybe his grandmother would make him apologise to her? He would hate it if she did! Caro hardly knew him, but alr
eady she realised that Gil Martell had more than his fair share of pride, not to mention an inflated idea of his own self-importance. Well, she wanted to see him climb down from that pinnacle he thought he lived on—climb down and go on his knees to her! Nothing less would salve her own humiliation over being thrown at his feet like a slave-girl flung down in front of her new owner.
'I wish I had time to buy a new dress!' she thought aloud and her father laughed.
'As if you need one! You have wardrobes full of lovely things!' He got to his feet, looking at his watch in consternation. 'Time to go—it's just three o'clock and we're going to be late for the meeting. Now, where the devil are those reports?'
Caro, for once, found it hard to concentrate on work that afternoon. Her mind was occupied elsewhere and she had to keep dragging her attention back to the matter in hand, aware of her father's concerned glances, the puzzled expressions of the other members of the committee.
She was glad to get away from the office at six o'clock, and when she got home went straight upstairs. After all, she only had an hour in which to get ready to see Gil Martell again, and there was a lot to do!
Fred was always punctual; he had learnt to live by the clock at a very early age and old habits died hard. Whatever the pressure of business, he made sure he was on time for appointments, and at seven-thirty precisely he and Caro were on the doorstep of Lady Westbrook's beautiful house, ringing the doorbell and, while they waited for the door to open, gazing with admiration at the elegant cream facade.
'It's a huge place for one old woman to live in,' Fred murmured in a low voice.
'Maybe her grandson lives here too?' Caro's nerves were jumping like grasshoppers and she was breathless. She didn't know if she was up to facing Gil Martell across a dinner table, and swapping polite small talk with him.
She stiffened as the front door opened. A short, stout woman in a neat grey dress greeted them politely, took their coats and showed them into the drawing-room, where Lady Westbrook was waiting. Caro merely got a brief impression of a high-ceilinged hall, glossy with panelling and highly polished parquet, then she was watching the old woman rising from a straight-backed Victorian armchair.
Lady Westbrook was oddly familiar to her; for a second Caro was thrown by the resemblance to Gil Martell—those dark eyes, the long nose and autocratic air all looked somehow different on a woman, especially such an old one.
There were obvious differences, other than that: her hair must have been black at one time but was now totally white, as fine as spun silk around her spare-boned face. Her skin was wrinkled and her body seemed almost fleshless—yet, as she came forward with a smile to shake hands with Fred Ramsgate, she moved with unmistakable grace and her face held charm. Fred visibly responded, his own face softening. He was very susceptible to charm in a woman of any age, from two to a hundred!
'This is my daughter Caroline,' Fred introduced, and the two women shook hands, exchanging glances.
'And so you work with your father? Do you find that interesting?' Lady Westbrook seemed incredulous, and Caro laughed shortly.
'Very, I enjoy my work. I'm a qualified accountant, and did a course at a business school when I left school.'
'Women's lives have changed so much since I was young!' Lady Westbrook said, and Caro wondered if she envied her, or disapproved. 'Do sit down, my dear, sit here, near me. My eyesight isn't as good as it was, and I like to be able to see my guests. Now, what would you both like to drink? A dry sherry or a sweet one?'
The housekeeper poured them all sherry and vanished, and Lady Westbrook delicately sipped from her glass, then turned her commanding dark eyes upon Fred.
'We do not want to ruin our meal by talking business, do we, so shall we get it out of the way beforehand?'
Caro's face tightened; she and her father exchanged looks. 'As you wish,' Fred said flatly.
Lady Westbrook studied him, her face expressionless. 'I am, of course, presuming that you are still interested?'
'Still interested?' he repeated, and she nodded.
'In buying Westbrooks.'
Caro sat up, almost spilling her sherry. Fred's mouth dropped open. Whatever he had been expecting it had not been that, but he hurriedly pulled himself together.
'Yes, yes, of course, very interested.'
'Very well, then, tomorrow I will instruct my people to open negotiations with you,' Lady Westbrook said, and at that instant the door was flung open with a crash and Gil Martell appeared, his face dark with rage.
Caro's nerves leapt violently, as if at the touch of fire. She had wondered if he was going to be there, and how he would look at her. Well, now she knew. He was in a nasty temper again—was that his usual mood or was it only when he saw her? He glared across the room at her and her father, and then threw a furious look at his grandmother.
'What the hell is going on here?'
'I do not recall inviting you to dinner, Gilham,' Lady
Westbrook icily said. 'You are forgetting your manners.
