‘I’m afraid, madam, that won’t be possible.’
Rachel squared her chin; it was going to take more than a sneer from a professional flunky to put her off. ‘If you tell him I’m here he’ll see me.’
‘Is there a problem, David?’
Rachel automatically looked in the direction of the light musical voice. Tall and slim with dark red hair tied back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck, the figure on the curved staircase ran gracefully down the remaining steps. She was dressed for riding and the scarf at her neck was the same vivid green as her eyes.
‘This person wishes to see Sir Stuart.’
‘This person’, Rachel thought, her lip curling. How delightfully ‘Jeeves’.
‘I have told her he isn’t at home. I don’t know how she got past Security.’
Rachel held up the official-looking papers in her hand bearing the authentic letterhead of the chambers. ‘I said I was a messenger from the office.’ She didn’t want anyone to get into trouble on her account.
‘And aren’t you?’ the redhead asked with interest.
‘I work there.’
‘For my husband?’
Husband! Rachel blinked. ‘You can’t be!’ she repudiated hotly, feeling as if a fist had been jabbed into her solar plexus.
Aware that the lady of the house was regarding her with concern tinged by alarm—and who could blame her?—she tried to re-establish herself as a reasonably safe person to open the door to. When she paused to think, not react, her mistake was obvious. No, if Ben had had a wife, especially one as photogenic as this, it would hardly have escaped public notice.
‘You look too young to be Ben’s mother,’ she added impetuously when she had established the woman’s identity by means of elimination. ‘That is, I thought you’d be—’ Stop while you’ve only one foot in your mouth, Rachel, she told herself. Nothing so far was going according to her mental plan. She just hoped her words hadn’t been interpreted as an attempt to ingratiate herself. The thought made her cringe.
It was unsettling to have her mental image of a well-bred doormat replaced by the vibrant, confident woman before her.
‘I am Emily Arden. You work for Ben, do you? Is it him you’re looking for?’
‘No! I don’t want to see him!’ Horror-struck at the possibility that he might appear, she couldn’t prevent herself from glancing nervously over her shoulder.
‘Then you’ll be pleased to hear he’s not at home.’ If she felt surprise at her visitor’s obvious aversion to the notion of seeing her son her polite expression didn’t reveal it.
Rachel’s tension eased down a notch. ‘I really do need to see Sir Stuart. It’s personal.’
‘About a personal matter? Should I be worried?’
Rachel looked at her blankly for a moment before blushing vividly. ‘Not that sort of personal.’
‘I’m only teasing, my dear. My husband has many faults, but chasing young women is not one of them. One of them, however, is a habit of becoming invisible when it suits him,’ she added drily.
‘Are you saying he’s not at home?’ Rachel tried to keep her voice steady and failed. He had to be here. He had to explain to Benedict. She’d worked herself up to this confrontation and now the anticlimax was tremendous. She suddenly felt a feeble shadow of the strong positive, young woman who’d sailed in here on a cloud of determination.
‘Why don’t you come through and have a drink, my dear? You look as though you need it. Look after these, David.’ She took the file of papers from Rachel’s limp grasp and handed them to the butler. ‘Could you organise some coffee in the drawing room? Come along.’ Rachel found herself meekly falling in step with the lady of the house.
‘It’s a lovely room,’ Rachel said miserably on entering the drawing room.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ She noticed Rachel’s eyes were fixed on an aerial photograph set in an elaborate frame. ‘I was born there,’ she said with an affectionate smile.
‘Connor’s Creek?’ When Benedict had said it wasn’t a tin shack he hadn’t been joking. She could have lived there, she thought, gazing at the well laid out paddocks around the sprawling house. If she’d been willing to lie and cheat, that was.
‘That’s right. I’m afraid it isn’t so green just now.’ Emily Arden recovered her composure smoothly. The unhappy young woman’s instant recognition had surprised her. ‘Sit there; that’s right. Now, tell me why you need to see my husband.’
‘I need him to tell Ben the truth; he won’t believe me.’ If she’d been truly prepared she’d have had a cover story ready; as it was, the truth would have to do.