Long Night's Loving. Anne Mather

else, it seems.’

      ‘That’s not my fault!’

      ‘So you say.’

      ‘It’s the truth.’ Maggie shook her head helplessly. ‘If you’d let me explain...’

      ‘Later,’ he said, wearily now. ‘Luke’s waiting for his supper. I suggest you put some clothes on and join us.’

CHAPTER THREE

      MAGGIE wished she’d brought a change of clothes with her when she saw that Luke had put on a fresh shirt and tie, too. He got awkwardly to his feet as she walked into the drawing room fifteen minutes later, and she offered a rueful apology for being late.

      ‘No sweat,’ he averred, glancing at Neil, who was standing in his previous position on the hearth. ‘Did you have a rest?’

      Hardly, thought Maggie half-impatiently, her eyes seeking Neil’s, as if for confirmation. Had he told Luke what had happened? She rather doubted it. She sighed. Of course. He wouldn’t want to embarrass the other man.

      ‘I had a bath,’ she said, aware that Neil was watching her and wondering what he’d say if she told Luke he’d entered her bedroom without permission. More than that, he’d entered her bathroom, and shown no shame at the intrusion. He’d violated her privacy. No wonder he hadn’t told his friend.

      ‘Good idea,’ approved Luke, totally unaware of the undercurrents in the room, or, if he was, making a valiant effort not to show it. ‘I enjoy a shower as much as anyone, but nothing beats the comfort of a hot bath on a cold day.’

      ‘Or night,’ said Maggie, accepting the glass of sherry he offered her. She sipped it experimentally. ‘Mmm, this is nice. Amontillado.’

      ‘That’s right.’ Luke was pleased. ‘I remember now. It’s your favourite.’

      ‘I don’t recall Maggie having a favourite,’ retorted Neil, spoiling the moment. ‘Unless it was Scotch. I remember she was once very fond of that.’

      Maggie refused to be provoked and, as if grateful for her forbearance, Luke urged her to sit down. He joined her on the sofa again, clearly glad to be off his injured leg, and Maggie contented herself with looking about the room.

      Like the bedroom upstairs, the high ceiling gave it an added elegance. Tall Chinese cabinets were set against wine silk walls, with a proliferation of pictures in between. There were two pairs of end tables, adorned by either vases of flowers or in one case a Tiffany lamp, and beneath the long windows, swagged now with dark green velvet curtains, a grand piano stood, with its lid upraised. Maggie guessed that when the curtains were open the view from its matching stool must be quite impressive.

      ‘Your bedroom’s warm enough?’ Luke persisted, obviously feeling an obligation to make their guest feel at home, and Maggie nodded.

      ‘It’s lovely,’ she assured him, pressing her back against the cushions behind her, and Luke reached for his own glass of Scotch, residing on the table nearby.

      ‘I suppose Lindsey’s quite grown-up now,’ he continued, and although Maggie refused to look in Neil’s direction she sensed his close attention to her answer. She was tempted to change the subject, to see how he’d react. But she didn’t.

      ‘She’s seventeen,’ she agreed instead, taking refuge in her sherry. Then she asked, ‘Do you ever see Barbara these days?’

      She hadn’t meant to embarrass him, but it was obvious she had. Luke and Barbara had got married soon after herself and Neil, but it had been apparent, right from the start, that it wasn’t going to work. Maggie had had the suspicion that Luke had only got married to prove he could sustain a relationship, and by the time he’d realised his mistake Barbara was expecting twins.

      The twins—both boys—must be nearly sixteen now, she thought—about a year younger than Lindsey. It would have been good if they’d lived close by. When she’d known them they’d been a lot like Luke: shy and sensitive. They might have had an improving influence on her daughter.

      ‘Barbara’s married again,’ Luke conceded at last, and Maggie sensed that Neil resented her enquiry more than he did. She didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if Luke had been heartbroken when they’d split up. And he’d maintained a good relationship with his sons, which said a tot for his character.

      ‘Would you like to come through?’

      Mrs Fenwick’s arrival eased the moment, and Luke got almost eagerly to his feet. His face twisted in pain as he jarred his knee, but it proved he welcomed the opportunity to avoid any further discussion of his affairs.

      The dining room was across the hall, and Maggie took more notice of her surroundings. When she’d first entered the house, she’d allowed Luke’s welcome to distract her, but now she was able to admire the Italian tiles beneath her feet, and the huge stone fireplace, above which the portrait of a seventeenth-century woman and her children took pride of place.

      ‘That’s Neil’s Velazquez,’ said Luke, seeing her interest and grateful for any diversion, however oblique.

      ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Maggie, wondering when Neil had become such a connoisseur. Was that what this house had done to him? Turned him into a man she barely recognised?

      The dining room was panelled in oak, with a long polished table that was presently set for only three. But, looking along its length, Maggie could quite believe it could seat at least twenty, and she wondered if her ex-husband often gave dinner parties.

      If he did, that too was a change from his previous way of living. When they’d been together, he had deplored the parties given by his friends and colleagues in the music business—parties where drugs and alcohol had been freely available, and you weren’t considered to be enjoying yourself unless you were high. Maggie hadn’t liked them to begin with, but they had been a way of asserting her independence, and when things between them had become unpleasant she had gone on her own...

      The food Mrs Fenwick served was superb, and quite endorsed Luke’s assertion that she was a better cook than Mrs Benson. The previous housekeeper had served what she called ‘good English food’ but Maggie would have argued with that presumption. She was sure Mrs Benson’s stodgy puddings and soggy vegetables would have turned a stronger stomach than hers.

      They ate a creamy watercress mousse, saddle of lamb with new potatoes and green beans, and a fruit compote to finish. Nothing stodgy, nothing heavy, nothing to lie uncomfortably on the stomach when you retired. The whole meal was a delight, as was the freshly brewed coffee that followed, which was served back in the drawing room, in front of the fire.

      In spite of her misgivings earlier, the conversation during the meal had not been stilted, even if they had stuck to uncontroversial issues. And, toasting her toes before the fire, Maggie reflected that they could be old friends—at least, that was the image an outsider might be forced to believe.

      ‘Does—er—does Mrs Fenwick do everything?’ she asked, accepting a second cup of coffee, and this time Neil chose to answer her himself.

      ‘In a house this size?’ he asked wryly. ‘No, I don’t think she could manage alone, even though she is very efficient. But she and her husband are the only members of staff who live on the premises.’

      Maggie arched a dark brow. ‘Her husband? The man we saw at the gatehouse when we arrived?’

      ‘No.’ Neil was patient. ‘The man you saw was Frank Pitt. He works on the estate. Mrs Fenwick’s husband is the gardener, and occasional chauffeur.’

      ‘I see.’

      Maggie was impressed. By her reckoning that was at least four people working directly for Neil, and goodness knew how many more in the stables and about the estate. Some of the land was tenanted, of course—she remembered that from when they had first come here—but it was obvious that Neil took his position