Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford

a startled echo in her voice.

      ‘No, I don’t suppose it does, although we’ve always been a Protestant family – ‘ His voice trailed off lamely. He regretted the comment. He found religious and racial prejudice intolerable in others. He hoped Doris did not misunderstand him.

      Before he got a chance to clarify himself, Doris exclaimed, ‘Look here, cheer up, darling. I’ll be back in a couple of days and we can discuss this further. In the meantime – ‘ She stopped and, after a moment, went on carefully, ‘I almost hesitate to suggest this, because I know prying is not your style, but if you want me to, I’ll make a couple of calls to Chicago. I might be able to find out something about the Tempest family. Discreetly of course, without mentioning your name, or involving you.’

      ‘No, I don’t think that’s necessary, Doris. Thanks anyway. If Kim ever discovered we’d done such a thing, he’d be hurt and furious, and understandably so. And you’re right, it’s not to my taste at all. However I will take your advice and let sleeping dogs lie for the time being. Kim and I will be at Langley together for several weeks, and I’m sure I’ll get an opportunity to go over this with him.’ He paused to light a cigarette, then dashed on, ‘Actually, if anyone asks any questions about the Tempest family, it should be Kim. And of Katharine, don’t you think?’

      ‘Yes, I do, darling, and please don’t worry so much.’

      ‘No, I won’t. I feel better now that I’ve talked to you. Thanks for listening, Doris.’ His voice dropped, became more intimate and tender. ‘Incidentally, for what it’s worth, I’ve missed you, my darling.’

      ‘That’s worth a lot to me, you silly man!’

      They talked for a few minutes longer, said fond goodbyes, and hung up. The smile she had brought to his eyes lingered there for a moment. Doris had the marvellous ability to allay his anxieties, whatever they might be. Perhaps she was right, too, about Kim and Katharine. Maybe it was merely a youthful infatuation which would soon cool off. Not only that, he was taking Katharine and the children to dinner tomorrow evening. With a bit of luck he might glean more information, especially if he formulated his questions skilfully.

      ‘Good morning, your grace.’

      David looked up quickly, startled to see Mrs Moggs, their daily, hovering in the doorway. He had not heard her come into the house. ‘Good morning, Mrs Moggs,’ he said wondering where on earth she had found her extraordinary hat. It was an exotic creation trimmed with poppies and cornflowers. He then remembered it had been a Christmas present from Francesca, one of her more exuberant flights of fancy into millinery design. He had made unflattering remarks about it at the time, but apparently Mrs Moggs adored it.

      ‘Now, your grace, ‘ow about a nice steaming ‘ot pot of tea?’ Mrs Moggs suggested, still loitering in the doorway.

      ‘No, thank you. I’ve had my morning tea, Mrs Moggs.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Er … er … Mrs Moggs, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this again, but one only addresses a duke as your grace.’

      ‘Dukes, earls, viscounts, marquesses, lords, barons, they’re all the same to me, your grace, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ she beamed. ‘Fair makes your blinking head swim, it does, having to call ‘em all by different things, as I was saying to my Albert the other day. An’ my Albert says – ‘

      ‘Quite so, Mrs Moggs,’ David murmured hurriedly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish.’

      She beamed at him again, hitched her shopping bag onto her arm, and then did a little pirouette and disappeared. He shook his head in exasperation, but nevertheless a smile of amusement flew across his face. Mrs Moggs was impossible, and an infernal nuisance, always ‘popping in’ as she called it, when he was deep in work. But Francesca thought she was marvellous and continually refused to get rid of her. How fortunate he was in having Francesca. She had turned out very well, that girl, and he had no doubts about her.

      He pulled his address book towards him, found Giles Martin’s number in Yorkshire and dialled it, ready to start haggling about the price of the two prize heifers.

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      Wherever she went Katharine Tempest invariably created a flurry of excitement, for there was a magical quality about her, one that evoked the most romantic of images. It was compounded of a variety of ingredients: the spectacular looks that startled with their impact; the innate sense of personal style; the instinctive flair for selecting and wearing with great panache the most eye-catching of clothes, and finally, but by no means the least, the dignity in her bearing. All of these added up to the kind of magnetism that was spellbinding, and so, not unnaturally, attention was centred on her when she entered the Arlington Club. And, as always, she eclipsed everyone present, especially the women, who all paled in comparison.

      Katharine did not slavishly follow current fashion trends, except for skirt lengths, and all her clothes reflected a very personal and individualistic taste; they were made by a dressmaker, mostly from Katharine’s own designs. Her choices might have looked outré, even ridiculous, if worn by others, but on her they simply added to the ravishing looks and underscored her appeal. Today she cut quite a swathe in her newest outfit, and more than a few women in the club envied her ability to carry it off with such aplomb. She was wearing a full flared cape, cut like a highwayman’s cloak, and made of the softest wood in the brightest of scarlets. Underneath the cape was a matching skirt, full and gathered at the waist and cinched by a wide black suede belt. Her sweater, made of the finest, silkiest cashmere, was also black, and against this gleamed a heavy gold chain holding a large gold Maltese cross. Black suede boots and a matching bag, plus her white kid gloves, completed the outfit, which was elegant yet youthful and dashing and a dramatic counterpoint to her altogether dramatic looks.

      Her thick, dark-chestnut hair, pulled back severely from her face and held firmly in place by a red-velvet hair band, fell almost to her shoulders in a soft page-boy style. After her brisk walk to the club, her usually pale complexion had a tinge of natural colour across the high cheekbones, and the luminous eyes were set off by a touch of turquoise eye shadow so that they looked even larger and more compelling than ever.

      Katharine was early for her luncheon date and so she swept up to the small bar adjoining the restaurant and slid onto a stool. Joe, the bartender, raised a hand in greeting and waved from the other end of the bar, where he was serving a customer. Katherine proffered him one of her most dazzling smiles, as always the glittering and vivacious actress in public. Years before she had made her stage debut in the West End in 1955, she had begun to mentally perfect the image she would project when she was a star. This image sprang from her own inner vision of herself, along with her idealized conception of how a star should look and behave. In essence, this was based on the Hollywood screen goddesses of the late ‘thirties and early ‘forties, those legendary ladies who were the embodiment of glamour and allure, with their gorgeous clothes, exquisite grooming and ineffable charm. Although not particularly vain personally, Katharine, nonetheless, consciously set out to create that identical aura of glamour for herself. She did so very simply because she thought it was an essential element in the persona of a star, and therefore professionally desirable, if not, indeed, an imperative.

      ‘Hello, Joe,’ she said gaily, as the bartender positioned himself in front of her.

      ‘Top of the morning to you, Miss Tempest.’ After giving her an appreciative glance, he asked, ‘And what’s your pleasure today?’

      Katharine wrinkled her nose. ‘I think I’d like one of your special concoctions, Joe, please.’

      ‘What about a mimosa, Miss Tempest? It seems to me it’s just the thing on this lovely day.’

      ‘That sounds delicious. Thank you, Joe.’

      Joe moved off to mix the drink and Katharine looked around, pulling off her gloves in the process. She nodded to a couple of Fleet Street journalists she knew, who