Blackmailed by the Rich Man. Julia James

we had succeeded, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But as matters stand I do not expect you to torture yourself with an attempt to be grateful.’

      ‘But why should you do that?’ she asked. ‘When you knew what the verdict would be? You don’t look like someone who supports lost causes.’

      He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I felt you did not deserve to lose yet again.’ He gave her a measured look. ‘So—what do you plan to do now? Will you take advantage of Monsieur Newson’s offer—if it still stands?’

      ‘I’d rather burn the place to the ground.’

      ‘The insurance company might find that suspicious,’ he murmured.

      ‘Probably—if we were insured,’ Helen said shortly, and for the first time saw him look taken aback.

      ‘You like to take risks,’ he said.

      ‘Sometimes I don’t have a choice in the matter. I found my grandfather had let the premiums lapse.’ She drank the rest of her tea and put down the mug. ‘And now please leave. I’ve answered enough questions, and you have no further excuse to be here.’

      ‘Except my own inclination,’ he told her brusquely. ‘And I ask again—what will you do next?’

      ‘I shall open the house up for visitors, as I do every Saturday.’ Her smile was swift and hard as she rose to her feet.

      ‘I think no one would blame you if, for once, the house remained shut.’

      ‘I’d blame myself,’ she said. ‘Because Monteagle needs every penny I can earn. And, anyway, I’d rather have something to do.’ She paused. ‘Please don’t feel you have to take the tour again, or pay any more visits here,’ she added pointedly. ‘I’m sure you have places to go and people to see, so let’s both of us get on with our lives. Shall we?’

      But he ignored that. ‘Is that truly how you see your future?’ His brows lifted. ‘Welcoming crowds of the curious and the bored pour toujours? Serving them tea?’

      She met his gaze. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If I have to. I told you—I’ll do anything to save Monteagle.’

      ‘Will you?’ he asked softly. ‘I wonder, ma mie. I very much wonder. For example, will you have dinner with me this evening?’

      Her lips parted in sheer astonishment. She said unevenly, ‘My God, you never give up, do you? Do you think I’m in any mood to listen to another of your insensitive—tasteless invitations? Can’t you understand that I’ve just lost the man I love?’

      ‘You are planning to starve to death as an act of revenge?’ He had the gall to sound faintly amused.

      ‘No,’ Helen said stormily. ‘But I’d rather die than have dinner with you.’

      He was laughing openly now, to her fury. ‘A fate worse than death, ma belle? I always thought that involved far more than simply sharing a meal.’

      She marched to the door and held it open. ‘Just get out of my house and don’t come back.’

      ‘Your house,’ Marc said softly, unmoved and unmoving. ‘And how much longer will you be able to call it that, unless you find financial support—and quickly? You said you would do anything to save Monteagle. So, can you afford to reject my offer of assistance unheard?’

      There was silence in the room, broken only by the crackle of the burning wood and the swift flurry of her own ragged breathing.

      She felt like a small animal, caught in the headlights of an approaching juggernaut. Only she’d been trapped, instead, by her own words, she realised bitterly.

      She said thickly, ‘What—kind of help?’

      ‘We will not discuss that now. Your mood is hardly—receptive. Also,’ he added silkily, ‘you have work to do. We will speak again later.’

      He walked past her and she shrank backwards, flattening herself against the thick wooden door as she remembered, only too well, his last leavetaking. The hardness of his body against hers. The touch—the taste of his mouth.

      He favoured her with a brief, sardonic smile. À tout à l’heure!’ he told her quietly, and then he was gone.

      Did you take an order from the people in the far corner, Miss Helen?’ asked Daisy, entering the kitchen with a stacked tray of dirty dishes. ‘Because they’re playing up at having to wait.’

      Helen, lost in thought at the sink, started guiltily. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she muttered. ‘I forgot all about them. I’ll serve them next,’ she added hurriedly, collecting one of the larger teapots from the shelf.

      ‘Your mind’s not on it today, and no wonder. You should have gone for a nice lie-down in your room,’ Daisy said severely. ‘I’d have got George to do the waiting on.’

      ‘I’m fine,’ Helen said untruthfully. ‘And I really prefer to be busy,’ she added placatingly.

      Daisy sniffed. ‘There’s busy and busy,’ she said. ‘You’ve just put cream in the sugar basin.’

      Swearing under her breath, Helen relaid the tray and carried it out into the sunshine.

      Once again she’d been astonished at the number of visitors, but they hadn’t been as easy to handle as last week’s selection.

      ‘You don’t see much for your money,’ one man had complained.

      ‘We’re hoping to extend the tour to other rooms in the house quite soon,’ Helen had explained, but he’d glared at her.

      ‘Well, that’s no good to me,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve already paid.’

      And a large family party had demanded why there were no games machines for kiddies, or even a playground, and why they couldn’t play football in an adjoining field.

      ‘Because my tenant wouldn’t like it,’ Helen had said, in a tone that brooked no further argument.

      It had been an afternoon of moans and niggles, she thought wearily, and from the look of strained tolerance she’d glimpsed on Marion Lowell’s face at one point, she wasn’t the only sufferer.

      Altogether, this was the day from hell, she thought. And she still couldn’t decide what to do about Marc Delaroche and his dinner invitation.

      Instinct told her to refuse. Reason suggested that if Monteagle’s welfare was involved she should at least give him a hearing. But not over dinner, she thought. That was too much like a date rather than a business meeting.

      ‘And about time.’ Helen was greeted truculently by a red-haired woman as she reached the corner table and set down the heavy tray. She and her glum-looking husband peered suspiciously at the plates of scones and cakes. ‘Is this all we get? Aren’t there are any sandwiches? Ham would do. We’ve got a growing lad here.’

      Growing outwards as well as upwards, Helen noticed with disfavour, as the child in question dug a podgy finger into the bowl of cream.

      She said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, it’s a standard tea. But everything is home-made.’

      The little boy glared at her. ‘Aren’t there any crisps? And where’s my drink?’

      ‘He doesn’t like tea,’ his mother explained in a tone that invited congratulation. ‘He wants orange squash.’

      Helen repressed a sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

      Back in the kitchen, she halved oranges from the fruit bowl, squeezed out their juice, and put it in a glass with a pinch of sugar and some ice cubes.

      Improvisation, she told herself with mild triumph as she took the drink outside.

      ‘What’s that?’ The boy stabbed an accusing finger at it. ‘I want a real drink. That’s got