The Accidental Mistress (29 page)

Lizzie stole a sideways glance at the stocky, slightly greying man sitting beside her. She wasn’t quite sure how to address him. Thursgood? Mr Thursgood? Whatever his first name was? Who knew what the protocol for addressing your
boyfriend’s butler was? Presumably it must be somewhere in a Debrett or something, and probably on the internet, but while she was frantically shoving clothes and bits and pieces in a holdall, she hadn’t had the time to look up obscure stuff like that. She’d have to wing it, and hope she didn’t insult anybody. If only she’d paid more attention to
Downton Abbey
!

‘Why yes indeed, miss. My wife and I have been lucky enough to work for Mr Smith several times, on and off, over the years. Although not recently.’

So, if not with John, where had they been? And how did they come to be with him now? She knew so little of his life beyond his visits to the Waverley Grange. She knew he had a flat in London and that he didn’t ever visit Montcalm. Presumably he lived in hotels a lot of the time, maybe the ones he owned.

Thursgood kept his eyes on the road, focused on his driving. He seemed completely unperturbed by her silence, and she supposed that good staff didn’t expect the people who they were looking after to chat to them. She thought she’d noticed a slightly raised eyebrow when she’d climbed into the passenger seat beside him, but his demeanour was pleasant and good-humoured.

If only she dared ask exactly when and how the Thursgoods had been engaged for Dalethwaite. John had barely owned the place more than a week or two.

‘Um … where have you been working most recently?’

‘Mrs Thursgood and I were employed by a Russian gentleman, running his London residence, but he decided to close the house so our services were no longer required. Fortunately, our severance payment was generous, so we were in the process of taking what you might call a little holiday when Mr Smith offered us a position at Dalethwaite,
and we were able to move in more or less straight away.’

‘That’s lucky.’ Lizzie frowned. The couple must have just dropped everything, upped sticks and moved halfway across the country, just to work for John. He must be a good employer, then! ‘But didn’t you mind moving all the way up here?’

Thursgood gave her a quick, sideways smile. ‘Not at all, miss. My wife and I are both originally from this part of the country, so we have family and friends close by. We were already considering looking for a position in this area when Mr Smith contacted us.’ As the car slowed, Lizzie realised they’d reached their destination, and Thursgood took a small remote from his pocket to open Dalethwaite’s imposing wrought iron gates.

‘We both know Mr Smith from our early days in service at Montcalm,’ continued Thursgood, as the Range Rover sped up the long drive, carving between the avenues of mature trees. ‘Of course we knew him as Lord Jonathan back in those days.’

Yikes, they’d known John in the time before he’d shaken off his aristo heritage.

‘Oh, wow, you worked at Montcalm?’

‘Indeed, miss. Although we were both in fairly lowly capacities on the domestic team then.’ A broad smile creased the man’s amiable face. ‘That’s how I met Mrs Thursgood. We’ve been married twenty-three years and we’ve been lucky enough to work together ever since.’

‘That’s wonderful!’

‘We think so, miss.’

When they reached the house, the lucky Mrs Thursgood was on the doorstep to meet her, a thin, dark woman with a wide, merry smile and friendly eyes.

They were both nice, in fact she had a feeling they were probably completely lovely, but it was weird, so weird, being waited on. She had to stop herself trotting around to the back of the Range Rover to grab her own bag.

Mrs Thursgood escorted her upstairs, to the bedroom where she and John had made love, not that long ago, the beautiful master suite.

‘Shall I unpack for you, miss?’

‘Er … no, it’s fine, really. I think I’m probably only staying the one night … for now.’

The older woman’s pleasant face remained impassive. ‘Very well, miss. Will you be requiring supper? There’s a fully stocked pantry … It won’t take me but a moment to prepare a cooked dish, or you could have something cold, if you prefer?’

Lizzie blinked. At a loss. She’d eaten, but it seemed rude not to accept something.

‘Or perhaps just tea, or coffee? I made a lemon cake this afternoon that I think you might enjoy, if you’d prefer just a snack? It’s very good, though I say it myself.’ Mrs Thursgood beamed. ‘It’s one of Mr Smith’s particular favourites.’

Relief washed through Lizzie. Yes, that was easier. Cake always made things better.

‘Shall I serve it in the sitting room, miss? It’s rather cool for the time of year, and there’s a fire laid in there. It’s a lovely cosy room and you can read or watch the television while you wait for Mr Smith to get home. I’m sure he won’t be very long now.’

‘That all sounds brilliant! Thank you very much … I … er … all this is a bit strange to me. Thank you …’

‘Don’t you worry, miss. This is a lovely house. I’m sure you’ll soon feel completely at home. And if there’s anything
you need, anything at all, just dial “0” on the house phone, to let us know. We’ll be in our flat, but it’s just a step away across the back courtyard, and it won’t be any trouble.’

A little while later, in front of the comforting fire, and with two slices of the most awesome lemon cake she’d ever tasted in her belly, Lizzie tried to relax and watch one of her late evening junk viewing favourites on the television. The sitting room was lovely, and under any other circumstances, she would have been thoroughly content there, especially as the cat – whose dish she’d seen on her previous visit to Dalethwaite – had crept in to see her.

‘Alice’, an incredibly pretty-looking tortoiseshell, had sniffed her, sounded her out and pronounced her acceptable. She’d stayed for a little while, then gone off about her inscrutable feline way. Lizzie was fond of Mulder, the house cat at St Patrick’s Road – whom she’d fed before she’d set out, just to be on the safe side – and she was glad there was a feline presence at Dalethwaite too.

Staring at the screen, though, she still saw nothing. Nothing but John, with a knowing, confident look in his eyes.

You’re doing your utmost, aren’t you? Doing everything to tempt me. The most beautiful house I’ve ever seen, the one that I’ve always wanted to live in. Lovely, friendly staff to pick up after me and make my life easy, and cater to my every whim. Even a
cat
, you crafty devil!

Like the iron hand in the velvet glove, he was making it ever less and less rational to resist moving in. And she sensed he was increasingly sure she’d succumb. The bathroom in the master suite was filled with all her favourite bath and beauty products. He must have taken note of everything during their visit to that grand hotel at the seaside, when he’d taken her with him on that business trip, not long after
they’d met. Or perhaps he’d made a mental list when he’d stayed over at St Patrick’s Road on their return, after they’d visited Brent at the hospital.

The drawers in the dressing room were filled with lingerie in her size too, and nightclothes. A gorgeous, thick velour robe hung on the back of the door, and there were slippers to match. And even though he’d not gone so far as to furnish her with an entire alternative wardrobe here, there was a lavish selection of comfy, lounging type clothes in the drawers and cupboards. He’d captured her taste, with simple t-shirts and also the sort of 1950s casual tops that Bettie or Bardot might have worn; a couple of pairs of jeans and some jersey dance pants; soft ballet flats for mooching about the place in and a pair of adorably silly bunny slippers. Not to mention trainers, workout gear and also several bathing suits, so she could take a dip in their gorgeous swimming pool.

Everything was in colours she liked, or neutrals she’d probably also choose.

These were all an example of his kindness, she knew that, and his thoughtfulness. But it still felt as if he believed her moving in with him was virtually a done deal.

But why not? Why do I resist? I love him.

Yet still, it was a huge step. The hugest of her life. Even more radical than abandoning university or any other decision she’d made.

And all the time, she felt the gentle but determined hand of John at her back, pushing her, pushing her into making it, into making that final step.

After another whisky, Brent was gently buzzed, but his senses were pin sharp. The perfect state in which to enjoy a man like Tom.

They’d spent a little time in the bar, slipping into easy chat, a bit of fun; people-watching. The Waverley was the perfect venue for that sort of thing, with its sexy ambience and its reputation for naughty goings-on, discreetly handled. Their game had been ‘Guess what position the observed couple would end up in’, and it had been the simplest thing in the world to laugh with Tom.

Their meeting in Silvestros had been frantic, wild, all about the body, but now, even though he was almost certain they’d get together before the night was out, Brent felt no hurry. It was good just to hang out … like friends.

Until, in a sudden, sharp moment, their eyes met in the mirror behind the bar. Tom’s lips curved in a mysterious little smile, that hinted, suggested … enticed. And Brent couldn’t do anything else but answer, with his own grin.

‘Shall we stop dancing around this?’ suggested Tom, reaching out and running a finger over the back of Brent’s
hand. The thing is … I know I want to revisit what we had, that night, but I don’t want to pressure you. I’ve a feeling you might have been to hell and back since we last met, and … well … you might not be quite ready.’

How did he know? Well, not exactly know, but somehow, Tom had sensed something.

‘I won’t know until I try, though, will I?’ said Brent quietly. ‘I mean … if you’re prepared for me bottling out at a critical moment, I’d like to … I’d like to try.’

Tom’s face lit up; a glow of triumph, anticipation, maybe a bit of apprehension of his own? His fingers spread, and he covered Brent’s hand, then squeezed. ‘Good man … you won’t regret it. Even just trying can be fun, eh?’

His heart thudding, and his cock on sudden red alert, Brent grinned. There was something vaguely old-fashioned about that ‘Good man …’ – sort of county and aristocratic. He wondered for a moment about Tom’s background, then dismissed the curiosity. At least for now. There’d be time for finding out who they each really were later … he hoped.

‘I don’t live all that far away. We could get a taxi. I think both my house-mates are out this evening.’ At least he hoped so. He knew Shelley and Sholto were meeting, at their own neutral ground, a hotel in the city centre, but he wasn’t sure about Lizzie. If things had gone to plan, she’d be out somewhere with John Smith now. Maybe dinner and then back to Dalethwaite Manor. It was still hard to believe that Lizzie was likely to be living there before long. That her sudden, wonderful boyfriend had literally bought the finest house in the whole Borough area, just for her.

‘There’s no need. I’ve got a room here. When my brother suggested we meet at the Waverley Grange, it was too good a chance to miss.’ Tom looked around the bar, taking in the soft
lighting, and the general ambience of something simmering beneath the outwardly respectable surface. ‘This place has quite a reputation and I’ve never stayed here before.’

‘That’s great,’ said Brent, his nervousness ramping up. No taxi ride, then, no time to acclimatise himself to the idea of going to bed with this stranger who wasn’t a stranger.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll take it slow.’ Tom slid from his stool and tossed a couple of notes from his wallet on to the bar, nodding to the barman. ‘Come on … I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.’

Brent fell into step, just behind, as Tom wove through the tables towards the door to the lobby. God, the man had a great body. How could he have forgotten that? Long lean legs, and a gorgeous arse. It was like scoring a prince or something. Even Tom’s bearing and the way he walked had a regal quality to it, the grace of a warrior angel or a knight.

I can’t believe my luck. What are the odds of meeting him again? This is just the best coincidence ever.

They strolled through the lobby, and took the stairs to the first floor. Brent had done this any number of times, in any number of hotels, even in this one, when he’d been escorting, but this was so, so different. This time it was like he was the punter, and Tom the deluxe, high-class treat he’d bought for himself. Only he hadn’t had to buy him. The goodies were being given to him willingly.

For a fleeting second, he wished Shelley and Sholto
could
be a real relationship. She deserved that, and Kraft had endured enough bad luck in his life to deserve something good for a change.

Maybe it would happen? Who knew …?

‘You look thoughtful,’ said Tom as they reached his room, Number Eight. ‘Don’t have second thoughts. If things don’t
work out, we can watch the television in the room, and maybe have some room service. I’ve been told the food here is great.’

Brent’s heart swelled with gratitude. The other man was doing everything he could to make things no pressure. ‘No, it was something else I was thinking about. I was hoping for good things for my house-mates, seeing as my own evening is working out so great. They’ve both got newish men in their lives and I was hoping … well … that all would go smoothly for them.’

Tom pushed open the door, and laid a hand on Brent’s shoulder. ‘Well, I don’t know these friends of yours, but I hope life is good to them too.’ The pressure of his hand increased, urging Brent to cross the threshold … and a Rubicon of sorts.

Ah, the familiar Waverley chintz. He’d been here before, although not this particular room, and experienced the hotel’s distinctive kitsch décor. It was a combination of mildly luxurious, laughably twee … and yet, like the bar, there was the undercurrent of naughtiness, and a hint of kink. It reminded him of a room he’d read about, described in an erotic novel once, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember its name.