The Threat of Love

CHAPTER ONE

Several daily newspapers carried it on their front pages. It was hardly world news, but when two famous men had a fight in a nightclub Fleet Street was fascinated, especially if one of them was an earl.

Gil scowled down at the photograph while he ate his breakfast. Unfortunately, dim though the light had been in the nightclub, you could still recognise the faces, all of them well-known. Some of his friends had been laughing, but he hadn't. Black hair, black eyes, angular features taut with rage stared back at him. He was wearing evening dress, but under the smooth jacket his muscles showed. I look like a thug! he thought, throwing the paper across the table. Why, oh, why did a photographer have to be there?

He heard the telephone begin to ring—the Press again, no doubt. They had been trying to talk to him since early this morning. His staff knew how to respond to such calls: 'No comment,' was always the answer when the Press tried to speak to him. He had a public relations department who talked to the Press. Gil never did.

There was a tap on the door, and he glanced up, frowning. 'Yes?'

'Lady Westbrook on the telephone for you, sir.'

Gil had been expecting this call some time during the day, but not yet, because his grandmother usually got up quite late, and he was startled into betraying his surprise, his voice sharp. 'Already?'

Mrs Greybury was too discreet to let a flicker of expression cross her bland face. A woman of nearly fifty, with neat, greying fair hair and pale blue eyes, she and her husband had worked in foreign embassies for years before coming to work for Gilham Martell, and ever since their arrival his home had been run like clockwork. He had learnt to trust them both implicitly, and to rely on their discretion.

'I just left for the office, Mrs Greybury,' he decided, avoiding her eyes because he didn't like anyone knowing how much his grandmother overawed him. Most people who knew him would have insisted that Gilham Martell was nervous of nothing and nobody. They didn't know his grandmother.

'Should Lady Westbrook transfer the call to the car phone, sir?'

Gil got to his feet with an impatient lunge. 'No, tell her to ring the office.' He couldn't face one of her lectures—it was too early in the day, and especially after last night. He had a dull headache behind his temples; he hadn't had enough sleep. If he told his grandmother so, she would merely say it served him right, and perhaps it did, but he was in no mood to be told so.

It had hardly been his fault Colin had got drunk. It had been Miranda's birthday; she had given a dinner party at one of London's top restaurants, and then they had all gone on to a nightclub, around a dozen of them, all old friends. She had drunk too much, everyone had; they had all been in a reckless, excitable mood. That wouldn't have mattered if Miranda's husband hadn't decided to take offence at the way they had been dancing, cheek to cheek, body to warm, languid body, Miranda's arms tight around Gil's neck.

Typical of Colin! He was normally a mild, easy-going man, but when he drank he got macho and aggressive, chucking his weight around and remembering that his ancestors had been earls for three hundred years. It was always happening at parties; Colin was famous for it, and always deeply apologetic next morning, as, no doubt, he would be today.

If only that photographer hadn't been there, snapped them, and sold the picture to the gutter Press!

'Has John brought the car round?' he asked curtly.

'It's outside now, sir.' Mrs Greybury waited until she had heard the front door slam before she returned to the telephone. 'I'm sorry, my lady,' she said, glancing through the hall window to watch the black Rolls-Royce glide past. 'I'm afraid Mr Martell has already left for the office, if you would like to try there.' It was the truth now, after all!

Lady Westbrook made a seething noise. 'I suppose he just bolted out of the front door? I'll talk to him if I have to go down to the office to do it!' She hung up and Mrs Greybury slowly replaced her receiver, amusement in her eyes. She would love to be a fly on the wall at that confrontation! Gilham Martell and his grandmother were so alike, in looks and character; each knew precisely how to infuriate the other.

Tall, sparely built, they had the same bone-structure, the same eyes. Time had turned the old woman's hair white and withered her skin, but she still had an impact on those she met; always totally assured, her mouth could curve into a smile of charm and enchantment, and although she was in her eighties she still moved with grace. Plenty of people found Gilham Martell a tough man to deal with, but his grandmother ordered him about as if he were still a boy. If she had been asked to bet on the outcome of a clash between them, Freda Greybury's money would be on the old woman. For one thing, she had been alive for a long, long time, and because of that was tougher and even more used to getting her own way; and for another she had less time ahead of her than her grandson did. She was in a hurry to get what she wanted, and couldn't bear to be crossed. There was another reason—Gil Martell loved his grandmother dearly, and was in awe of her, which meant that she had him at a disadvantage whenever they quarrelled. He could never bear to upset her.

Irena, Lady Westbrook, sat upright in her stiff Victorian armchair, staring straight ahead, her mouth set. 'This time I am not going to let him talk his way out of it! Disgraceful behaviour; fighting in public—what did he think he was doing? Spare the rod and spoil the child, my father always said, and he was right. I should have been stricter with Gil when he was a child. I've let him twist me round his little finger, that's the trouble. He has always got away with far too much, and look what it has led to! Getting the family into cheap newspapers! All my friends will be reading about it this morning!' An angry flush crept up her face, and her gnarled hand sought the beautifully carved head of a walking-stick which had once belonged to her father. The feel of its familiar shape comforted her and she sighed. 'Oh, but to lose his mother when he was only seven, poor little mite. How could I be stern with him? He cried himself to sleep every night for weeks.'

Memories flooded her mind and she stared fixedly into space for a few minutes, her eyes wide and melancholy, then her chin came up in that characteristic, defiant, determined gesture.

'All the same, he's thirty-four, too old to be brawling in nightclubs over women, having affairs, getting himself into the gossip columns, embarrassing the family. He still acts as though he were twenty. He must get married—he may think he has plenty of time, but what about me? I don't want to die without seeing Gil's children. If only I'd had more children myself. I loved my daughter deeply, but I wish I had had others, if only... Oh, what's the point of saying if only? You can't change the

past by wishing. Gil must get married soon, he's put it off long enough. What's wrong with the men in this family? They all marry late, they seem afraid of marriage—or afraid of loving enough to want to marry? I've never quite known which! His grandfather waited to get married until he was nearly fifty, and then he proposed a week after I met him. I was so taken aback, but I didn't hesitate. We both knew, and we were so happy, but we hardly had a life together before he was killed in that stupid accident. If we had had a few more years, I might have managed to have other children. Jumping fences at his age! Sheer arrogant folly! I couldn't have borne to live with any other man, any more than George ever married again after my poor little Christina died. Everyone said he married her for the Westbrook money, but it wasn't true. He loved her, it broke his heart when she died, and it will break my heart if Gil doesn't get married before I die. I am going to have to take drastic measures, I can see that. I must scare him into getting married.'

She lifted the walking-stick and banged on the floor with it in a peremptory way. A moment later the door opened and a woman hurried into the room, flustered and pink after climbing the narrow stairs in the high Victorian house.

'Susan, my coat,' Lady Westbrook said. 'I am going out.'

'Oh, goodness,' gasped her companion, a woman of fifty or so with wiry gingery hair and hazel eyes. 'Where are we going?'

'I am going to the store, to see my grandson, and shut your mouth, Susan. You look like a fish.'

Spring was late that year. The weather had been wet and chilly for weeks; people made their hurried, frowning way to work in London's crowded streets hunched under umbrellas in the drizzling rain, or gloomily contemplated the weather from indoors, wishing they did not have to go out.

Most people were still wearing winter clothes. That morning, Caroline was wearing a full-skirted apricot wool dress which gave a little warmth to her very ordinary brown hair and grey eyes, and gave a glow to her olive skin. She was not a pretty girl; her features were unmemorable, although not ugly, but she had a certain style of her own; she knew what suited her and what didn't, her figure was quite good, slim and long-legged, with firm, rounded breasts, and she had learnt to look confident, which helped to hide the scars of uncertainty left on her when she was younger by some bad experiences of men on the make.

The trouble was, her father was a very wealthy man; he had inherited a chain of department stores in the north of England and had built on that foundation until today he was even buying stores across Europe and in America. He was a man of enormous energy—he had to keep moving, never satisfied, constantly adding to his empire, growing richer every day. Caroline was his only child; one day she would inherit everything he owned, and that made her a target for every man who thought marrying money was the easy way to get rich.

When she joined her father at the breakfast table he eyed her with fond pride. 'You look very pretty—new dress? It suits you.'

Caro smiled at him without saying that she had had the dress for a year. Fred Ramsgate never remembered her clothes, although he was always complimenting her on them. His love for her made him blind to how plain she was, and it was comforting to know he thought she was pretty, but it could be embarrassing when he talked to other people as if she were one of the seven wonders of the world. It always made her want to fall through the floor. She hated to see the hidden smiles, the secret amusement in men's eyes, as they listened and pretended to agree. Ever since she was a girl she had found it humiliating, but she loved her father too much to tell him frankly how she felt. He wouldn't understand; he would be baffled and hurt.

'Going somewhere special?' Fred asked her as she poured herself coffee, and she wished he wouldn't give her that hopeful look. Ever since she'd left school he had been waiting for her to get married, and questioning her eagerly about any men she met.

That wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't been over-eager to find her a husband, constantly inviting eligible bachelors to dinner and spending the evening telling them what a wonderful wife Caroline would make while she squirmed in her chair, and glared blackly at the unfortunate male getting her father's sales talk. Even if she did like one of the men she had to freeze him off, and it was much worse when the man pretended to be enthralled, because while her father could not see through such pretences, she could—but how could she say anything when it was his love for her that made him act that way?

'Have you got a date?' he asked, and she drily told him,

'I'm having lunch with Amy.'

'Amy, eh?' Fred Ramsgate repeated, smiling broadly. He had a soft spot for Caroline's old schoolfriend, who was breathlessly feminine when in the presence of any member of the opposite sex. A pocket Venus, under five feet high, Amy had a pretty, rounded figure, blonde hair, big blue eyes, dimples in her chin, and a soft, sweet voice. One look at her and most men wanted to protect her. In fact, Amy was acting; she was no leftover from the Victorian era, she was a saleswoman, a good one, with a tough, commercial mind, and she earned an excellent salary in a London fashion house. Men couldn't see past her looks, though; they fell over themselves to make dates with her.

Maybe I should try acting weak and helpless? Caro had often thought wryly. It was a great technique, but it was not one she had ever managed to acquire. She had always been too angry to pretend to be sweet.

'Where are you eating?' asked Fred, shaking out his morning paper and glancing at the front page.

'Westbrooks,' said Caro, spreading marmalade on her wholemeal toast.

Her father gave a yelp, his eyes riveted on the newspaper. 'What?'

'Westbrooks,' Caro said, puzzled by his expression. 'You're still targeting it, aren't you? You haven't given up since Lady Westbrook turned your last offer down?'

'You know I never give up when I really want something,' Fred said complacently, proud of his own obstinacy.

'You're a bulldog,' Caro agreed, perfectly understanding his smug satisfaction, and affectionately amused by it. Making a target of yet another store and working out ways and means of acquiring it, often in the face of furious opposition, kept Fred's adrenalin going, made him happy, and she approved of that, approved of anything that made her father happy. Secretly, though, she couldn't understand why he felt the need to add yet more possessions to the ones he already owned but then she had not been poor as a child. Fred had; his father had begun as a poorly paid shop assistant and it was not until Fred had been in his late teens that the Ramsgate family fortunes had begun to rise. The scars of that early poverty remained and were undoubtedly the mainspring of his drive to success.

Fred had a look in his eye that she recognised, a dreamy, yet determined look. 'Westbrooks is special, Caro. You're too young, you wouldn't know what Westbrooks meant, years ago, when I was a lad. It had glamour and style, like a Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers film. Life was pretty grey on the whole, and when you walked into Westbrooks you were in another world. Anyone who was anybody shopped there, all the bright young things of the twenties and thirties. I can remember seeing it all lit up for Christmas on my first trip to London. Pure magic. I never dreamt of owning it then, of course. Might as well have dreamt of owning the moon.'

'Isn't that still true?' Caro asked gently. 'That family will never sell, surely? They're financially sound, aren't they?'

'Unfortunately,' Fred said wryly, grimacing. 'And Gilham Martell is doing a good job running the place, you told me.'

Fred nodded. 'He's modernised it since he took over— a pity I didn't move my operation south before his father died. The store was very undervalued then; no changes had been made for years and it was way behind the times. The shares were well below their real value. But since Martell took over the store has begun to make a handsome profit, and shares have shot up. They're in such a great position—a marvellous site, right there in Oxford Street. I've been looking for somewhere in that part of London ever since we made the move down here.'

'That's why Amy and I eat there every so often. I know you're still interested in the