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  "I don't understand." Frances was puzzled

  "It's quite obvious you don't," Felix cut in.

  "Or else you wouldn't have let Mark Lucas come anywhere near you while I'm around."

  "You know Mark?" she whispered incredulously.

  "I should. He's married to my sister, Jessica!" Felix looked down at her stunned face. "Quite a coincidence, isn't it? And for God's sake stop playing the innocent. I know all about you and Mark at Chichester."

  A wave of color swept over her face, and then went, leaving it ashen. "I. . . I can explain, Felix. Honestly it's not what you think."

  "No? Can you deny that Mark Lucas was willing to leave his wife because of you?"

  She could not deny it, of course, and her face told him so.

  Other titles by

  JACQUELINE GILBERT IN HARLEQUIN ROMANCES

  2102—EVERY WISE MAN

  2214—COUNTRY COUSIN

  Other titles by

  JACQUELINE GILBERT IN HARLEQUIN PRESENTS 160-CEAR VILLAIN

  Many of these titles are available at your local bookseller.

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  HARLEQUIN READER SERVICE,

  M.P.O. Box 707, Niagara Falls, N.Y 14302

  Canadian address: Stratford, Ontario, Canada N5A 6W2

  Original hardcover edition published in 1979

  by Mills & Boon Limited

  ISBN 0-373-02308-1

  Harlequin edition published January 1980

  For my sister Pamela Jean

  Copyright © 1979 by Jacqueline Gilbert.

  Philippine copyright 1979.Australian copyright 1979.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher. All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention. The Harlequin trademark, consisting of the word HARLEQUIN and the portrayal of a Harlequin, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in the Canada Trade Marks Office.

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in U.S.A.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  There was a sharp, biting wind blowing relentlessly down Regent Street, and the sun, appearing bravely for a few minutes, was very welcome, even though it was pale and weak, Snowdrops and crocuses were providing splashes of shy colour among the winter greenery, and daffodil yellow was promised in the bursting fat buds being buffeted to and fro in the public gardens.

  Frances Heron lifted her face to the feeble sunshine, and quickening her step, thought with pleasure of spring. At this moment in time she felt an affinity for the coming season, for spring's message of new life and hope was also her motto for the day. The excitement bubbling away inside her was bursting to grow, rather like those daffodil buds, and this was evidenced by the way she walked, upright and confident, and by the eager set of her head.

  The cause of this excitement was lying in her pocket now, a hastily written letter from her apartmentmate, Zoe Aleksander. Frances pushed her hand into her pocket and fingered the paper, which was fine-textured and expensive, the kind Zoe always used, and remembered the wording...

  'Frankie—have heard from an influential source that London South are auditioning today, two-thirty, at their Edgware Road studios! Actress with Cornish accent required. Ask for a Tom Deverell. Best of luck! Zoe.'

  Trust Zoe to have an influential source! thought Frances, with an inward grin, and as for luck—well, she was going to need it. Luck played an important role at auditions, she'd found that out very early on in her career. The thumbs down sign could be for any number of reasons, and none of them to do with ability. But she wouldn't think of failure . . . somehow the day felt promising. Because of Zoe's influential source she wasn't now doing the dreary rounds of the agencies looking for work, but was going after something definite . . . with a Cornish accent.

  A smile played on her lips as she thought back longingly to all those early years spent in that part of England, the extreme south-west corner. Travelling with her doctor father on his daily rounds in the school holidays, exploring the cliffs between Sharpnose and Hartland Point with her friends, or tramping Bodmin Moor with her mother, picnicking by Trethevy Quoit or searching Brown Willie Tor for wild flowers and fossils for her mother's botany class. No . . . a Cornish accent shouldn't give her much trouble!

  For a moment, a wave of sadness swept over her as she remembered the closeness and the sense of belonging that came from being part of a family. An orphan for ten years, Zoe's parents were the nearest she had to family now, and made her very welcome with a warmth that their daughter had inherited, but it wasn't the same as having a family of your own.

  Frances shrugged off these retrospective memories firmly. Today was for looking forward, not for looking back, and then she was most decidedly brought to the present, rudely and painfully, by a man thrusting his way through the crowded pavement.

  'Well, really! Some people! she expostulated, rubbing her bruised shoulder and turning to glare at the offending back of the man who was now rapidly disappearing from view.

  'Couldn't care tuppence about anybody else,' grumbled a fellow sufferer, busily rescuing the contents of her shopping bag from between people's legs. Frances bent to help her, reaching for an errant apple that had rolled further than the rest, and when all were retrieved the lady shopper thanked her and hurried on her way, still muttering her grievances.

  Frances was about to follow when something made her hesitate. The lone apple had rolled to the feet of someone looking in a nearby window, and although Frances had at first assumed that this someone was window-shopping, she now had second thoughts. The lady, who was elderly, had not moved and was leaning against the glass in a manner which caused Frances to walk over and say cautiously:

  'Excuse me, are you all right?' A closer look made her add urgently 'Here, lean on me. You're not well, are you? Shall I get help?'

  Although in distress, the woman said with great dignity.

  'My dear, if you could oblige me . . .' and she indicated a brown leather handbag on her arm. 'A pill box . . . in the zipper compartment.' The words, in a pleasant, cultured voice, were haltingly spoken.

  Frances quickly did as she was bidden, found the box and extracted a white tablet which she handed over. Her companion shakily placed it on her tongue and for a few moments they remained standing quietly, Frances still half supporting her.

  She ought to have medical attention. Frances thought uneasily, casting her eyes along Regent Street for a passing taxi. There were, as usual, plenty about, but to her exasperation all were taken.

  'Don't worry, my dear, I am quite used to this and shall be better in a moment when the tablet has had time to take effect,' her companion murmured, sensing her agitation.

  Frances thought otherwise and thankfully now caught sight of an empty cab cruising towards them. She waved an imperious arm and to her relief it pulled in to the kerb.

  'Here's a taxi now,' she said calmly. 'Come along . . . take your time and lean on me.'

  'It's very kind of...

  'Don't talk.
I'm sure it would be better not to,' Frances cut in swiftly. 'We'll soon have you safely home.'

  The driver had now left his seat to help and together they managed to maneuver the stricken woman into the back of the taxi.

  "She isn't going to pass out, is she?' he asked anxiously, looking at the ashen face of his passenger as she lay back against the upholstered seat, and Frances replied:

  "I don't know . . . you'd better get a move on,' and to her companion she added as she joined her: 'Where shall I say?'

  Indecision passed over the other's face. An independent lady, Frances thought with some sympathy, and solved the matter by announcing firmly: 'I shall come with you and make sure you reach home safely. Now, where shall I tell the driver to take us?

  An address was given and before closing once more, a pair of shrewd eyes made a probing appraisal.

  Frances remained silent, eyeing the woman with interest. From the top of her beautifully groomed white hair to the tips of her tiny grey buttoned boots, she bespoke gentility and prosperity, unobtrusive but unmistakably one of the aristocracy. Her age was hard to define—the rather autocratic face was drawn with lines of pain and suffering—but Frances ventured a guess at around the seventy mark. Not for her was there a falling of standards with the years, and Frances somehow knew that she would always be particular of how she looked and dressed. The double row of pearls and the fur coat she was wearing, even to Frances' inexperienced eye, looked real, and the stones in her rings certainly had not come out of a Christmas cracker!

  A movement of the hand bearing these rings, rigidly clutching the handle of her cane, caused Frances to look up to find her companion's eyes disconcertingly upon her.

  'How do you feel now?' she asked anxiously.

  'Very much better. Please, don't look so worried, my dear. You have been a tremendous help to me—not many would have been so kind to a stranger. I do hope I am not inconveniencing you in any way?' Her voice was almost pedantic in the way of speech, but had great charm.

  'Not at all," Frances hastily assured her, refusing to sneak a look at her watch, and mentally kissing the audition goodbye. 'Will there be someone in when we get you home?' she added, and relaxed when this was confirmed.

  The taxi swung round a corner and began to slow down, and looking out of the window Frances gave an inward smile, thinking how well her lady fitted into the respectable surroundings of the prosperous square they had just entered. The age of gracious living was rapidly disappearing—many of the fine old houses in London being converted into offices and flats—and so it was with a keen interest that she eyed the elegant Georgian architecture that met her eyes.

  When the cab stopped she opened her door and ran quickly up the four stone steps, pressing her finger on the bell and keeping it there, proclaiming urgency. When the door opened a manservant appeared, his questioning look altering as his eyes moved past her, taking in the scene. With an exclamation of alarm he hurried past her, Frances at his heels, relieved that the burden of responsibility was being taken from her.

  By this time the driver had once more alighted and between them the two men assisted the sick woman into the house. Frances hovered uncertainly on the pavement, giving a quick glance at her watch, and when the driver reappeared, she shot into the cab and waited with growing impatience until he slid back into his seat. Leaning forward, she said briskly:

  'Edgware Road, please—the television studios—and I'm late.'

  'Right you are, miss!' The driver swung the cab away and accelerated rapidly. 'A pleasure dealing with folks like that,' he announced, nodding in the direction of the house. 'They know how to treat you right.'

  Obviously well tipped, thought Frances with amusement, glancing out of the window for another look as they circled the well-kept grass that made the centrepiece of the Square. She wished she had had the chance to say goodbye. As the cab swung towards the exit of the Square Frances caught sight of the manservant emerging from the house, standing looking after them, and then the cab turned the corner and the scene was lost from view.

  She gave her watch another look, resignation finally setting in. Auditions and casting directors wait for no man, she thought philosophically, but what else could she have done, under the circumstances? Leave the poor woman to collapse in the middle of Regent Street? Zoe would naturally understand, and agree with the outcome, but she would also point out that these sort of things were always happening to Frances—that she attracted people in trouble and stray dogs like honey to the bee!

  'Here we are, miss.' The driver turned and looked at her with interest. 'Are you on the telly, then? Don't rightly know that I recognise you . . ." and he paused expectantly.

  'No, I don't suppose you do,' Frances told him, getting out her purse and gloomily doubting future prospects.

  The other party paid for the cab-fare,' he answered cheerfully.

  That's good news, she thought, watching him drive away before making towards the entrance to the studios. Running her eyes down the notice board displayed inside she found the name she wanted—Deverell, room four, eighth floor.

  Two girls and a lone man were already waiting for the lift, the girls talking in low tones, the man, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, staring intently down at his feet. With a hiss the lift doors opened and as its passengers emerged, the four stepped in to take their place. The girls left at the fourth floor and the man paused, finger poised, and Frances came out of her reverie and said quickly:

  'Oh! Sorry—eighth, please,' and he pressed the appropriate button without a word and the doors closed and the lift began to ascend again. Apart from giving her a cursory look, the man took no further interest in her, but remained staring down, arms folded across his chest, a frown on his face.

  Someone else with troubles, Frances thought with an inward sigh. How come on a day as important as today everything seemed to be against her? Even the floor number! Eight! Why couldn't it have been two, or even five ? she argued silently, and raised her eyes to the indicator light, impatiently watching it click from the fifth, sixth, and seventh floors. She again glanced at her watch and stifled a groan. What was she bothering to go for?

  The lift stopped and she waited for the doors to open, taking a step forward in anticipation. The man at her side also straightened and together they waited expectantly. Almost in unison their eyes moved upwards to the indicator light which had stopped ominously between number seven and eight.

  'Oh, no!' exclaimed Frances, thinking despairingly that this was the last straw! She looked across in consternation at her companion who was now contemplating the list of emergency instructions attached to the wall panel, a resigned look on his face. Frances glared back at the indicator light, willing it to move.

  'Are we stuck?' she asked, knowing it was a stupid question but needing something to say. He swung his head round and stared, his look of impatience changing slightly. Good, she thought, at least he's acknowledging my existence. She was beginning to think that perhaps she had become invisible!

  The stare bordered almost on rudeness and Frances would have been annoyed except that she could have been accused of the same bad manners. For she found herself gazing into the most amazing eyes she had ever encountered. Yellow-brown eyes, topaz eyes . . . cool, speculative cat's eyes.

  He broke the silence between them by saying laconically : 'We are,' reaching out to press the alarm bell, and then returning to his leaning position with a calmness that should have been reassuring but which, in fact, was rather irritating.

  'Does it do this very often?' she enquired, and jabbing at the alarm bell again, this time keeping his finger there for some seconds, he replied:

  'Not that I am aware of.'

  Silence once more and Frances eased her weight from one foot to the other, her annoyance growing. She didn't expect specialist treatment, but on the other hand it would be nice to share a joking camaraderie about their situation, which after all was not a particularly pleasant one. Instead of which her companion-in-m
isfortune looked as though he was afraid she was about to ask him for a loan! If she didn't get a job soon, she thought grimly, she might be reduced to doing just that, but not from toffee-nose over there! If he considered his aloof expression and controlled patience to her questions a way of snubbing her, then he was sadly mistaken. How did he know that she didn't suffer from galloping claustrophobia ? she asked herself indignantly. It would serve him right if she went into hysterics! She gave a heavy sigh, hoping to attract his attention, until another thought struck her. She slanted him a look. He seemed normal, but many a maniac was hidden behind an unremarkable exterior. Right on cue his dry voice cut into her rapidly growing imagination.

  'Don't look so worried. You'll have to take my word for it that I'm not an escaped rapist.'

  'That's nice to know,' she answered crossly, annoyed that her thoughts should have been read so accurately. She sighed audibly. 'They must be aware outside that we've stopped, surely?'

  He shrugged. 'I suggest you put all your faith in the alarm.'

  In other words, shut up.

  It would serve him right if she fainted at his feet, she thought, glumly coming to the conclusion that he would probably leave her right where she fell. Or she might even start to take all her clothes off in a panic, that would show him! and she stifled a giggle—it would, indeed! She cast her eyes round the walls of their small cell and finding nothing of interest to occupy her, decided it would be more interesting to study the other occupant.

  Had she called him normal ? That had been a mistake. There was nothing normal or unremarkable about this man. Middle thirties, she guessed, with a determined, rather haughty face—all sharp lines and angles—although there was indication that he smiled sometimes in the tiny wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and the deep clefts running from nose to jaw. The nose was straight and the jaw a no-nonsense one. His dark brown hair grew from a peak above a brooding forehead and that tan had never been achieved in England, certainly not on last summer's quota of sun! The sweater and slacks, although casual, had the aura of Knightsbridge all over them and though not overtly muscular, he looked as though he could be useful with a squash racquet in his hand or track shoes on his feet. He also had a very pleasing voice, what little she had heard of it, and this, coupled with the sight of a folded script peeping out from his back pocket, pointed to him being an actor.