The Threat of Love

ed pads of his fingers through them.

She watched him intently, absorbing his kindness to his grandmother's companion, his awareness of the work she had done, and the way he took care to thank Susan for it. Like his tenderness and affection for his grandmother, this was another aspect of his character that she was discovering. She was surprised by it—although why should she be? she asked herself. No man was one-dimensional, they were all layered, and Gil Martell was particularly complex, she was realising.

They were drinking their coffee when the doorbell rang violently. Susan shot to her feet, almost dropping her coffee-cup. Miranda stiffened in her chair, her blue eyes

wide. 'Colin!'

'What on earth makes you think it's your husband?' asked Lady Westbrook impatiently, and Gil slowly stood up, staring at Miranda.

'If you left word that you were at the Savoy, why would he come here?' he asked in sharp suspicion.

'I don't know.. .don't you start bullying me!' wailed Miranda, and Caro might have been sympathetic if she hadn't been convinced that that look of terror was too theatrical to be true. Miranda was enjoying herself too much to be genuinely afraid.

Gil did not seem impressed, either. 'What have you been up to, Miranda?' he asked. 'You told him you were coming here tonight, didn't you?'

She pushed out her lower lip in what she no doubt hoped would be a childishly appealing pout, and looked reproachfully at Gil. 'I didn't tell Colin anything. But if he rang the Savoy...' Her voice trailed off and Gil grimaced.

'You left a message with them that you would be here. I see.'

'My mother might have rung! She said she was going to!' Miranda defended herself.

The ringing came again, louder and more peremptory.

'Susan, answer the door,' Lady Westbrook ordered, and her companion with obvious reluctance crept away to obey.

'No, don't,' Miranda burst out, and Susan stopped in the doorway, looking back at her employer.

'Do as I say!' snapped Lady Westbrook, and Susan hurried off.

Miranda groaned. 'Oh, don't let him in, Lady Westbrook—you don't know how he can be in one of his jealous moods, especially if he's been drinking, and at this time of the evening he will have been drinking, he has probably spent hours at his club, in the bar.'

From the hall came loud voices—a man's deep, angry tones and Susan's high, anxious ones. Gil strode towards the door, frowning, but before he got there it was flung open and another man appeared, throwing a surly look around the drawing-room.

Caro vaguely remembered the face from that photograph which had appeared in the newspapers. The Earl of Jurby was a little older than Gil Martell, a man of around forty, with a long, rather plain face, darkly flushed at present and full of aggression, although his features were quite pleasant and in other moods he was possibly very likeable.

His eye lighted on Gil, and he glared at him, baring his teeth. 'Oh, there you are! That silly woman who opened the door kept trying to tell me you weren't here. I knew she was lying. Where's my wife, you swine?'

'Colin, you're drunk...' Gil began, but the other man caught sight of Miranda on the other side of the room and snarled triumphantly.

'So she is here! I knew it, I knew I'd find her with you! That message she left about dining with your grandmother didn't fool me for a minute!' He lurched towards Gil, his hands screwed into fists, a strange, dishevelled sight in the elegant drawing-room, his reddish hair windblown, his tie undone and his shirt-collar open at the throat. 'I'm going to kill you, Martell.'

Lady Westbrook's icy voice cracked like a whip. 'How dare you behave like this in my house? Where are your manners, sir? This is my drawing-room, not a bar-room!'

The Earl halted, stiffened, turning scarlet, and peered across the room at her, swaying unsteadily from side to side. 'Good lord! Gil, your grandmother is here. Thought it was all a lie, made a mistake... apologise, Lady W...' He ran a hand over his brow, thinking. 'Lady Westbrook,' he triumphantly remembered. 'I beg your pardon. Terrible manners. Absolutely. No excuse. One drink too many.' He bowed, almost fell over, and Gil grabbed his arm and hauled him upright again.

'Thanks, Gil,' he automatically said, beginning to make his slow, ponderous way to the door like a shortsighted elephant, then paused again, looked round helplessly. 'Wasn't my wife here? Oh, there she is...Miranda...you might give a fellow a helping hand,' he said pathetically.

'Oh, go home, Colin!' she snapped, her face angrily flushed.

'Well, I shall, but where's my car? Did I come here in my car?' He stopped to think, shook his head. 'No, took a taxi. Someone at the club said... no, policeman said... in no state to drive, took my keys away.'

'That's true enough, heaven knows,' Gil said tersely. 'I'll drive him home, shall I, Miranda?'

The Earl petulantly pushed him away. 'Don't want you to drive me, Gilham. My wife can drive.'

'Why should I?' Miranda crossly asked him. 'Just look at you! You've been drinking again and I'm sick of living with someone who sees the world through the bottom of a glass. Take a taxi home, Colin. Walk. Sleep on a park bench! I don't care what you do, but I'm not going back home with you.'

'Miranda, darling, don't be nasty to me!' he mumbled, trying to put an arm round her, and she pushed him away.