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  `Lady,' he said, looking down at her from his lofty height, his hand already on the handle, his eyes going disparagingly down over her, 'there's nothing you can offer that I'm likely to want.'

  The next thing Devon knew was that there was a closed door between them, and that she had very firmly been placed on one side—while he had stayed on the other.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE weekend that followed her fruitless visit to see Grant Harrington was, Devon thought when Monday finally arrived, the worst weekend she could remember.

  Her father had gone from merely looking terrible to looking haggard. The worst of it was that whenever he caught her looking at him, his face would assume a cheery expression as he tried to show that he didn't have one single thing worrying him now that she was back minus her limp.

  The postman dropping an electricity bill through the letter box had her shooting into the hall, small relief coming to her build-up of tension, that a bill was all that had been delivered. She had thought it might be a court summons—though since she had no real idea how one received notice that one was to be prosecuted, whether it be by a policeman calling at the door initially, or however—she was on thorns the whole time. The only thing she was certain of was that that disbelieving swine of a man Grant Harrington would be prosecuting.

  `Charge of the light brigade,' she told her father, the best she could do by way of humour as she handed over the brown envelope.

  The morning dragged on, neither of them referring to what was in the forefront of both their minds.

  It was May, but the weather had turned cold. I' ye made you your favourite streak and kidney pudding for lunch,' Devon said, having noted that her father had eaten as little at breakfast as she had.

  `Oh, good!' he replied. But she had seen through his

  forced enthusiasm, and didn't need the evidence of his only half cleared plate, although he had tried hard to get it down, to know that the poor love had little appetite for anything.

  During the afternoon he went outside to cut the front lawn. And watching him from the sitting room window, Devon could have howled that, since he did not realise he was observed, she should see him look so wretched.

  Unable to bear watching him and at the same time keep tears from falling, she turned away. And again her mind went searching and searching, as it had, done ever since Grant Harrington had forcibly ejected her from his office orr Friday. There must be something, some way, in which she could save her father from prison. There had to be a way!

  The ringing of the telephone cut short her darting up fresh and equally futile ,avenues. Seldom was it that anyone telephoned; more often than not, the only calls they received were people dialling wrong numbers.

  Picking up the phone, Devon answered with their number. Then, for one paralysed moment, she very nearly dropped the instrument. For the voice that greeted her, no more civil than the last time she had heard it, was oh, so clearly remembered, as was every word he had ever said to her.

  `Grant Harrington,' he announced himself And as her thoughts darted everywhere as she gripped onto the phone, he was saying shortly, 'I want to see you.'

  `Me?' she exclaimed, tension, surprise, making her voice husky. Then, with hope in her heart, whether it be foolish to have hope or not after the way he had been with her, 'Yes, of course,' she said hurriedly, terrified suddenly that if his call was on account of some softening in him, then she had to agree, agree to anything before he changed his mind. come straight away,' she rushed on, her

  mind already consumed with the idea of a taxi to get her to his office the quicker.

  `Not now,' he barked down the wires. 'I've wasted enough of my working time on you.'

  Knowing she'd take the next rocket to the moon if that was where he wanted her to meet him, her voice more controlled now she had got over her initial shock, Devon took time out only to take a grip on her nerves.

  `Where? When?' she asked, hoping she wasn't going to have to wait a week.

  `Come to my home. Tonight. Seven-thirty,' was briskly rapped at her.

  Supremely confident, he didn't wait for any objections, which wouldn't have been forthcoming anyway, but tersely he gave her his address. And as Devon recognised where he lived as being the select end of town, he still wasn't waiting—the next thing she heard, was the dialling tone in her ear.

  Only then, after he had hung up, did she have space to get her thinking into order. That she thought him bossy, arrogant and rude went without saying. And swine was too good a name for the man who knew he had her just where he wanted her. He knew, the arrogant devil, from the way she had been ready to go down on her knees to him, that she would eagerly jump to any tune he called.

  But what he thought, what she thought, was of no importance. The very fact that he was willing to see her must mean, mustn't it, that he too had gone over again every word that had been said? Perhaps—she gulped at the enormity of that 'perhaps'—perhaps having gone over again all she had told him, he now did believe her, did believe she had had an operation. Oh, wouldn't it be fantastic, too wonderful, if, in the light of that—if in the light of the knowledge he had of her father's previous unswerving integrity, he was prepared to believe that

  there had been very real extenuating circumstances for what he had done! That maybe—just maybe—he had changed his mind about prosecuting!

  The question then raised itself of why then hadn't Grant Harrington asked to speak to her father. Why then hadn't it been her father that he wanted to see at his home that night?

  The answer evaded her, unless of course it had something to do with her telling him of her past hang-up; about her father keeping the information about her needing an operation to himself. Perhaps he had guessed that her father had not known about her visit to him on Friday. Maybe he was more sensitive than she had seen, and had thought her father might be distressed to learn that not only had she been to see him, but that she had told him about her operation herself.

  Admitting she was growing confused, because that still did not explain why he wanted to see her and not her father, Devon gave it up. What did it matter? What was more important than anything, was that if Grant Harrington wasn't playing some diabolical game with her just for the pure hell of it, then there still had to be a chance to save her father. As far as she was concerned, she was ready to call at his house at any time, day or night, to grab at that chance with both hands.

  It was over tea, hoping her father wouldn't think her a hardhearted Hannah to leave him when a-spot of company might help prevent his thoughts from going around in the same tortuous circles she knew they were travelling, that she told him she was going to the cinema that night.

  Charles Johnston looked at her solemnly for a long moment, then showed that he thought her far from hardhearted. A genuine smile came her way, and quietly he said, 'You do that, love.' And Devon knew then that since she had never been to the cinema on her own in her life, he

  thought this was just another instance of her wanting to lay old bogeys.

  It was seven o'clock when she alighted from the bus that dropped her a fair distance from the house she had to present herself at. She admitted to feeling highly nervous about the outcome of the interview. But would not, could not, allow herself to think that Grant Harrington's sole purpose in telephoning was to lift her up and then drop her heavily down into despair again, as some sort of punishment for being the sponging type of female he had all too obviously seen her as.

  Her hip had started to ache by the time she reached the wide tree-lined avenue where she would find one house in particular—The Limes. But an aching hip, which a week ago would have had her panic-stricken that her operation had not after all been successful, was the least of her worries as she slowed her steps and checked her watch, as she stood by the stone pillar with its etched 'The Limes'.

  She was a little early, she saw, not realising she had been hurrying, her feet going along at the same nervous pace of her thoughts. Would she lose points by arrivi
ng early?

  Too stewed up to hang about now she had got there, Devon used up a few more minutes walking up a wide and seemingly endless drive. Then, approaching the steps, early or not, she was too strung up to wait any longer. Her heart and stomach vying with each other for the greater agitation, she stretched her hand forward and placed a forefinger on the porcelain bell button—and waited.

  himself Grant Harrington answered her ring at the door

  . And from the soles of her feet, Devon found what she could in some semblance of a smile for the big man, who looked relaxed where she was knotted up, and who appeared different, in casual trousers and a light sweater,

  from the other times she had seen him, when he had been more formally attired.

  `I'm a little early, I'm afraid,' nerves had her apologising when she saw his eyes going over her Swedish suit— decided upon after a great deal of thought, it being the smartest thing she had. Without saying a word he stood back, and Devon crossed his threshold.

  `I hardly expected you to be late,' he said smoothly, as he closed the door, making her heart sink as her smile departed. She hoped the rest of the interview wasn't going to be interspersed with sarcasm.

  Seeing she had no answer to make, he indicated that she should follow him as he strode over the hall and stood back to allow her to go before him into a huge, thickly carpeted sitting room, where a couple of easy chairs and a massive settee had been drawn up before a crackling log fire.

  `It's—er—cold for this time of the year, isn't it?' she managed for starters, her eyes fixed on the flames in the fire.

  `Take a seat,' he replied, and waited until she had perched herself on the edge of the settee before he took the easy chair to the left of her, his long legs pushed out before him.

  With him looking so relaxed, Devon tried to hide her nervousness by sitting father back in the settee. From the way he had not answered her remark about the weather, she knew he wasn't interested in pleasantries either. She was here for one thing only, and the sooner she discovered if her dearest wish was to come true, the sooner she would like it.

  `You asked me to call and see you,' she said, since he was at ease in his chair and was saying nothing, but seemed content with the study he was making of her clear features, from her smooth unlined forehead, her eyebrows

  that were naturally wing-shaped and a shade darker than her short wavy blonde hair, past her eyes to her dainty nose and shapely mouth, and on to her chin that was just this side of having a stubborn look to it.

  `I was right to think you beautiful,' he replied.

  Which, since it wasn't an answer at all, had her eyes going wide as the thought hit—had he been studying her just now to refresh his memory of what she looked like? Had he thought her beautiful as he. had said before, but - had wanted to see her again to check that his eyesight was all that it should be?

  She pulled herself together, realising that since it didn't look as though he was in any hurry to get on with the interview, then she must hurry him if she could. Because otherwise she would start getting crazy panicky thoughts, that the only reason he had ordered her there was so that he could again look at what he had decided was her beauty.

  'My father . . .' she began, and wondered, as the words came out huskily, if she was ever going to lose that choked note in her voice when speaking to this man.

  `Ah yes,' he said. But he still seemed in no hurry, as deliberately his eyes took in the beauty of her perfect mouth, its shape slightly emphasised by the touch of lipstick she had put on to help bolster what little confidence she had.

  `He—looks terrible,' she thought to mention—and knew it was the wrong thing to have said, when a hard light came to Grant Harrington's eyes, and he said:

  `The reverse can be said of you.'

  Obviously the sleepless nights she had spent were, by some miracle, not showing. But she didn't want the discussion to be about her.

  `He's very—upset,' she tried again to bring the conversation back.

  `That makes two of us,' he admitted harshly. `I'm—sorry.'

  `How sorry, I wonder?'

  Her eyes went to him. Truly she couldn't have said her sympathies were at all with how Grant Harrington was feeling, and perhaps that showed in her eyes as she looked at him. For suddenly his relaxed manner had left him, and the interview she had wanted to begin some minutes before was, all at once, under way.

  `You told me on Friday that you were prepared to do anything to save your father,' he reminded her, when she needed no reminding. She had said that, and she had meant it. 'Does that still hold?'

  Hope wouldn't be held down. 'Of course it does,' she replied quickly. And, with that hope in her spiralling, 'I'll do anything, Mr Harrington,' she said eagerly. 'Anything. Just name it.'

  She would have gone rattling on then about not having very much experience of anything but housework, but that at school she had been top of her year, and that she was more than willing to learn, when he said:

  `For a start, you can call me Grant.' And when that put everything out of her mind for a second, he was reminding her of why she was so anxious to agree to anything, by smiling a mocking smile, and adding, 'Your father does.'

  `Yes, of course,' she said, and managed a smile as she swallowed and reiterated, 'I'll do anything—Grant.'

  `Good,' he said. But that mocking smile was still there, and he took his time before slowly he drawled, 'How soon can you move in?'

  Her brow wrinkled. `Move—in?'

  Perhaps the authorities had been wrong to mark her top of her year; or her education finishing early had dulled her brain, she thought. His question had thrown her. That

  was until all sign of mockery left him, and he laid it concisely on the line.

  `I'm asking you to come and live with me,' he announced coolly.

  Devon did not mean to be deliberately obtuse. But because he had previously left her in no doubt as to the way in which he regarded her, there was not an atom of shock in her as what he had said somehow got mixed up with the memory of him answering his own front door.

  `As—your housekeeper, do you mean?' she asked, thinking that since she ran her father's home without too much trouble, given that Grant Harrington's home was vast by comparison, it shouldn't be too tough a task and

  that even if it wasn't a job she wanted—well, she was still prepared, as she said, eager too, to do anything.

  The slow shaking of that dark head from side to side showed her she had got it wrong. have a perfectly adequate daily from Monday to Friday,' he told her, keeping his eyes on her. She had not reacted at all to his asking her to come and live with him. 'Besides which,' he went on when she had gone on to think he must mean that he wanted her to clear up for him on Saturdays and Sundays, just don't see you as filling that particular sort of role.'

  Then what particular sort of a role did he mean? she had to wonder, as she refused to get annoyed at his barely veiled hint that she wouldn't know one end of a broom from the other. Then suddenly it clicked. She had been looking away from him, but as it registered—despite all the evidence to the contrary—what it was he could only mean, so her eyes shot to his. And the words were out before she could stop them, his reaction to her words even more appalled than her shocked:

  `You mean—you mean you want to marry me!' she cried, her exclamation revealing two things; that not only

  did the idea of marrying him leave her horror-struck, but that she would not consider marriage to anyone.

  Marry you?' he exclaimed in return, looking as appalled as she had sounded. 'Ye gods!' he said, and not bothering to dress it up, 'I'm paying through the nose now without lumbering myself with you permanently!'

  And while that unflattering remark went a long way to bring her out of her shock, with a shrewdness that said he had been watching and listening with closer attention than she had thought, he was asking:

  `Aside from marriage between the two of us being something neither of us could stomach—what have you got against the
wedded state?'

  `I've—nothing—against it,' Devon denied haltingly. `But . . .' She broke off.

  Before her operation she had known that she would never marry. But since her operation, during the long hospital hours when all manner of subjects had gone through her mind, she had come to the happy conclusion that if she did fall in love, and if someone did love her enough to want to marry her, then she would marry. But that had been qualified as having to wait until after she had had the final all-clear on her hip. For should she regress, then no way .. .

  `But?' Grant prompted, breaking into her thoughts, his brows drawing, together at the time she was taking in giving him his answer. 'Your powers of invention are usually quicker than this—don't tell me you're slipping!'

  `If you must know . . .' she began to come back snappily. Then all at once, like a bolt from the blue, it suddenly hit her what it was he had meant. Blaming her sheltered life that she had been so slow off the mark, she felt her face go a scalding red as she left what she had been saying— her thoughts staying with the incredible notion that by his swift rejection of any idea of marriage, then by saying,

  `I'm asking you to come and live with me,' he must mean . . . !

  `You don't usually go scarlet when you're inventing a whopper,' he sliced through her staggering thoughts. 'I can hardly wait to hear this one,' he continued hatefully. `Don't keep me in suspense. Spit it out, Devon, and tell me about the big "but" you have against marriage.'

  His reminding her of what they had been discussing had her trying to overcome her staggering thoughts. `I—er—that is—' she began again, but she was drowning. Surely she had got it wrong? 'F-for myself—I wouldn't dream of marrying until . . .' she said, her stomach churning as other subject matter stormed her brain.

  `Don't stop there. Until what?' he asked, mockery there again at the lie he was sure she was ready with.

  `Until I've received the . . .' He couldn't be meaning what she thought he was meaning! He didn't even like her!