When The Devil Drives. Sara Craven

To walk away from Simon and the mess he’d created, and let him sort it out for himself, while she began to rebuild her life at a safe distance from Chalfont House, the mill, and everything and everyone concerned with it.

      But it wasn’t as simple as that. Simon had been hard hit by Cecilia’s death, and although Joanna was four years his junior she’d learned, in its aftermath, to mother him with almost fierce protectiveness. She couldn’t simply abandon him to his fate now.

      The dizzy Fiona would be no help, she thought ruefully, totally preoccupied as she was by nausea and vague aches and pains all over her body. And Joanna was still a partner in the Craft Company, although admittedly she’d taken little active part in the running of the business since her marriage.

      She had forgotten Simon’s propensity for taking the easy way out of any difficulty, she thought, with an inward sigh.

      ‘So when are you planning to see him?’ she asked quietly.

      ‘He’s coming here tomorrow afternoon.’

      ‘Here?’ Joanna stared at him, appalled. ‘Why not at the Craft Company?’

      Simon shrugged, his expression pettish. ‘It wasn’t my choice. When I telephoned him, his secretary simply gave me the appointment. There was no consultation about it. She just told me what time he’d be arriving.’

      ‘I can believe it,’ Joanna said grimly.

      It was the first time a Blackstone had ever set foot in Chalfont House, she realised with a sense of shock. And, if there was anything she could do, it would also be the last.

      She said, ‘We’ll have to try and fend him off, Simon.’

      ‘How?’

      Joanna considered for a minute. ‘Well—Martin left me some money, not all that much, admittedly, but it’s a start, and there’s the commission Aunt Vinnie paid me at the gallery. I saved most of it. If we can keep him at bay for a few weeks with that, we might be able to raise the rest of the capital elsewhere.’

      ‘Do you think I haven’t tried?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve done everything I can think of. I tell you, Jo, it’s hopeless.’

      ‘No!’ Joanna said fiercely. ‘There is hope—there’s got to be. He’s not going to take everything away from us.’

      ‘Perhaps he doesn’t want to,’ Simon suggested hopefully. ‘You are rather taking his intentions for granted, you know. Condemning him without a hearing.’

      Joanna gave him a level look. ‘I have no illusions about Cal Blackstone, or his intentions.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Isn’t it time you were getting off to the workshop?’

      ‘Hell, yes. But I’d better pop up and see Fiona first. She didn’t have a particularly good night.’

      Poor old Si, Joanna thought as her brother left the room, his brow furrowed with anxiety. Fiona’s vagaries were just one more problem for him to worry over. Troubles never seemed to come singly these days.

      She moved over to the sofa and plumped up the cushions which Simon had crushed. As she straightened, she looked up at the big portrait of Jonas Chalfont which hung over the ornate mantelpiece. A harsh face looked down at her, its expression arrogant and dominating, thick grey brows drawn together over his beak of a nose.

      She took a breath. The portrait had been painted in her grandfather’s heyday, when the Chalfont family were a force to be reckoned with in the Yorkshire woollen industry. Master of all he surveyed, she thought wryly, studying the sitter’s proud stance.

      It had been soon after the portrait had been finished, however, that Jonas had sacked Callum Blackstone following a violent argument, and evicted him and his small son from their tied cottage. Holding the frightened child in his arms, as bailiffs dumped their possessions into the street, Callum had publicly sworn revenge.

      ‘As you’ve taken from me, Jonas Chalfont, I’ll take from you,’ he’d declared, standing bareheaded in the rain. ‘Aye, by God, down to every last stick and stone!’

      And nothing’s gone right for us since, Joanna thought wearily. Oh, Grandfather, you didn’t know what you were starting.

      Know your enemy, had been one of Jonas’s favourite maxims, but he had totally underestimated his former overlooker’s sheer force of will and determination to succeed. Just as Simon had failed to assess Cal Blackstone’s deviousness of purpose in offering to help the Craft Company financially.

      But then Si had never taken the family feud too seriously anyway, Joanna recalled.

      ‘Isn’t it time we started to live and let live?’ he’d demanded angrily when Joanna had flatly refused to attend a dinner party to which Cal Blackstone had also been invited.

      ‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ Joanna had returned with a toss of her tawny hair. ‘If people invite that man, they needn’t bother to ask me as well.’

      But, as she’d grown up, she’d found it was well-nigh impossible to avoid Cal completely. The Chalfonts were no longer the powerful social mentors they’d once been, and Cal, single, wealthy and darkly attractive, was a welcome visitor to every household in the area except theirs.

      Joanna had found to her exasperation that to keep out of Cal Blackstone’s way entirely was to risk social isolation. More and more she’d found herself running into him at point-to-points, parties and charity functions. To her annoyance, she’d actually been introduced to him a number of times by a series of well-meaning people who clearly shared Simon’s view that it was time a truce was called in this family war.

      But none of these people had been hounded and cheated by the Blackstones, Joanna thought violently. To them, Cal Blackstone was simply a charming young man, if a trifle sardonic, who drove a series of fast cars, dated all the most attractive girls in the West Riding, and could always be relied on for a hefty donation to any good cause. No one cared any more about past rights or wrongs, it seemed.

      And once she and Cal Blackstone had been formally introduced, he took pains to remind her of the fact by seeking her out to greet her at every encounter. In fact, Joanna decided, he took an unpleasant delight in forcing himself on her notice, engaging her in conversation, and even inviting her to dance.

      And the fact that she had ignored all his overtures and was never anything but icily civil in return seemed only to amuse him.

      If she continued to keep him rigidly at a distance, eventually he would get tired of his cat-and-mouse games with her, she’d assured herself.

      But she’d been wrong about that—totally wrong. Which was why she knew, none better, just what Cal Blackstone’s real motives were, and exactly what he had planned for the remaining members of the Chalfont family.

      She shivered, wrapping her arms defensively across her body, as she made herself relive once more in nerve-aching detail that rain-washed autumn afternoon on the high moor road above Northwaite when she’d discovered for herself how ruthless, how relentless an enemy he was …

      ‘Damnation!’ Joanna stared down at the offside wheel of her Mini, her heart sinking. ‘Of all times to get a flat tyre!’ she muttered to herself, as she went to find the jack.

      The rain was sweeping in sheets across the Northwaite valley below, and the hills were dankly shrouded in low cloud and mist.

      By the time she’d fetched the jack, and squatted uncomfortably in the road beside the car, the rain had plastered her tawny blonde hair to her skull, and droplets of water were running down her forehead into her eyes, so that she had to pause every few seconds and brush them away.

      She’d never had to change a tyre before, and she realised, to her shame, that she only had the haziest idea of how to go about it. Watching other people was not the same as personal experience, she decided wretchedly, as the jack stubbornly refused to co-operate with her efforts to fix it in place.

      Send me someone to help this time, she bargained