A Real Engagement. Marjorie Lewty

He had seen her mother through her divorce seven years ago and helped her through the bad time afterwards. Her mother had always relied on him and he had never failed to do all he could for them both.

      When Josie was shown into his impressive office he greeted her affectionately and settled her into a comfortable chair opposite him at his big desk.

      His shrewd grey eyes smiled at her. ‘I was going to phone to ask you to call in and have a chat about your property in France, Josie,’ he said, drawing a folder towards him.

      ‘My property? It isn’t mine; it’s my father’s. I’ve just had lunch with him and he asked me to have the deeds transferred into his name and let his solicitors have them.’

      Sebastian frowned and drew some papers from the folder. ‘I don’t get this, Josie. Tell me exactly what he said.’

      Josie had a good memory, and she recounted her father’s words accurately, adding, ‘He said if there was anything due to me his solicitors would see me right.’

      Sebastian’s lip curled. ‘Very generous of him!’

      Josie looked worriedly at him. She had always known that Charles and Uncle Seb didn’t get on. ‘You don’t think there’s anything wrong, do you? Charles seemed a little mixed up, but I’m sure he wouldn’t try to cheat me.’

      Sebastian examined the papers before him. After a long pause he lifted his head and said, ‘Listen, Josie. I knew both your mother and your father, even before they were married, and I’m not at all mixed up about what happened. I’ve always handled your mother’s affairs, and I dealt with the transaction regarding the house in France on her behalf. Your house is one of two. The original owners had a large villa divided to make two quite separate houses. Soon after your parents were married the houses both came on the market at the same time. Your father wanted to buy them both and put them together again to make one large villa which he could sell at a good price. He bought the larger house, but there wasn’t enough in the kitty to buy both. It was early in his career and he didn’t want to approach his bank manager to ask for a larger overdraft. About that time your mother had a legacy from a godmother, and she used the money to buy the second, smaller house. I dealt with the purchase for her and the house was, of course, put into her name. It has always belonged to her. So, as you are the sole beneficiary under your mother’s will, the house belongs to you. We held the deeds at this office and they are at present away, being transferred into your name. You could, of course, sell the house to your father, but it wouldn’t be a little matter of “seeing you right”. It must be worth a good deal of money.’

      Josie’s smooth brow was creased. ‘But I don’t understand. Why didn’t I know about it? Why didn’t Mother tell me?’

      Sebastian sighed. ‘Your mother was no business woman. She left everything of that sort to Charles. She probably never gave the matter another thought—never even knew where the house was.’

      Josie had been sitting forward, listening to all this, and now she lay back in her chair. ‘So I own a house in France! Marvellous! Where is it, Uncle Seb, and have you seen it?’

      He nodded. ‘I saw the outside of it a couple of years ago when we were touring the South of France. It’s in the hills above Menton, which is a delightful town on the Côte d’Azur, about a mile from the Italian border.’

      Josie clapped her hands. ‘It sounds heavenly. When can I see it?’

      ‘Any time,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been in touch with the agents down there, and they have had instructions to cancel any further lettings. So your house is now vacant. I gather that someone has bought the adjoining property. I hope you’ll have decent neighbours.’

      ‘Splendid,’ Josie said. ‘I’ll go down as soon as I can. I can’t wait to see my house.’

      Sebastian frowned slightly. ‘Just a word of warning. I don’t know what sort of state you’ll find it in, after being let out all these years.’

      ‘I don’t care,’ Josie told him gaily. ‘So long as it has four walls and a roof, I can deal with everything else.’

      Sebastian stood up and walked to a cupboard, murmuring about the optimism of youth. He took out a key, which he handed to her together with a note he scribbled on a pad. ‘This is the address of the house, Mon Abri, and the address of the agents in Menton.’

      Josie stowed the key and the note carefully away in her shoulder bag as she walked to the door.

      They stood together at the top of the stairs.

      Josie said, ‘I’m so thrilled about this, Uncle Seb. It’s the nicest thing that has happened to me in years, perhaps the nicest thing ever. Thank you for everything.’ She reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘I promise to let you know what happens.’

      ‘Yes, do that, Josie. And if you want any help you know where to find me.’

      ‘I’ll remember that,’ Josie told him, and with a little wave she ran down the stairs.

      She didn’t know, of course, how Sebastian lingered on the landing, looking down at her, or how his clever eyes softened as he thought that every time he saw Josie she grew more lovely, more like her mother at that age. But Marion had been soft and clinging. Josie had a kind of gallant independence, with her frank look and her laughing eyes and the tilt of her head. She’d had a bad time, caring for her mother and trying to keep up her design work all these years, and she’d never had time for the fun that all girls expected. She deserved a break, and he hoped this new interest would give her one. She was very young, though, at twenty-three, to be taking charge of an unknown house in a foreign country. He hoped that all would go well with her.

      Josie felt as if she was walking on air as she left Uncle Seb’s office. It was very hot and the rush-hour crowd, fighting its way irritably to bus or tube, seemed denser than usual, but she hardly noticed when a large, angular woman jostled her or when a fat, red-faced man stepped on her foot without apology.

      Soon she would be away from all this, away from the poky two-room flat she was renting in a shabby old house in Bloomsbury. She would be in her own home—already she thought of it as home—on the Côte d’Azur, with the blue Mediterranean below.

      When she reached her flat it felt hot and stuffy, and she opened the window, drew the curtains and made a pot of tea in the minuscule kitchen. She removed from the table in the sitting-room the design she’d been working on when Charles had phoned, put the tray down and got out a notebook and pencil. Then, with the excitement of a child planning for a holiday, she began to make a list, starting: 1. Give month’s notice and pay rent in lieu. 2. Visit bank and find out about travellers’ cheques. 3. Pack up everything and decide where I can leave it until I send for it. 4. Choose clothes to take—not more than will go into hand luggage. And so on until she reached the bottom of the pad.

      Josie sat back to drink her tea. Yes, there was going to be quite a lot to do, but if she worked hard she would get through it in a few days. Then—off to Menton. She hugged herself. A week today she would be in Menton, breathing the tang of fresh sea air, starting out on a new life. She couldn’t wait to begin.

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘WHAT the hell are you doing here? Squatting? Que faites-vous ici? Allez-vous en—vite!’

      The deep, angry voice sounded to Josie like thunder as it reached her through thick layers of sleep. She hated storms. She reached for the duvet, to pull it over her head. It wasn’t there. ‘Damn!’ she muttered. It must have fallen on the floor again.

      She rolled over and put out a hand to the familiar bedside lamp. There was no lamp, no table beside the bed either. She opened her eyes wide in the darkened room.

      Then she froze as she saw the huge figure looming up above her, and she knew she was having a nightmare. She tried to scream, but no sound came through her parched lips. The menacing figure did not move. Josie clutched her throat. She was icy cold and shaking all over.

      Then