‘A single gentleman, so I understand,’ elaborated Mrs Tillet.
‘The Blue Room it is, then, Mrs T. Do you want a hand getting it ready?’
The housekeeper shook her head. ‘I’ve got Betty Wilkins and Marjorie Sanders coming up this afternoon and all day tomorrow. We’ll see to everything. Would you care to choose the menu for tomorrow night?’
Portia shook her head. ‘You can do menus blindfolded, Mrs T. I’ll stick to the flowers—I’ll have to go and raid the glasshouses and risk wrecking Fred’s wrath upon me for taking his prime specimens!’
Later, as she sat curled up on the leather sofa in the library, in front of a crackling wood fire, she wondered who Tom was bringing down. Salton was often used for bu
siness entertaining, and Portia was no stranger to acting as hostess when she was here. She wondered whether she should phone Felicity, suggest she come over as well, to make it four for dinner, but decided it might be a bit too pushy on her part. She had not forgotten Tom snapping at her when she’d gone on at him to propose to the girl he was so obviously in love with.
She frowned. Was it just overwork that was making him so short-tempered? Or a persistent bug that made him look so haggard all the time? Or were things tricky at the bank? Trickier, that was, than they normally were, with Uncle Martin wanting to have all the privileges of his position and do none of the work.
Words uttered in a deep, accented drawl echoed in her memory. Adverse circumstances. She pressed her mouth tightly. Diego Saez was being absurd. There were no ‘adverse circumstances’ surrounding Salton. Salton had belonged to the Lanchesters for hundreds of years, through thick and thin. The bank, Loring Lanchester, provided a hefty boost to the family wealth, but Tom was not dependent on it. If necessary Salton could be self-sufficient—there were the farms, and, like so many other stately home owners, he could always go into the heritage business. Besides, both she and her brother had investment portfolios which yielded generous private incomes.
So why, deep in her bones, did she feel a frisson of fear go through her, and that dark, deep voice echo again in her head, laconically enquiring whether Salton was for sale?
More words echoed in her mind.
Everything is for sale, Portia.
A scornful look lit her eye. Yes, in Diego Saez’s world everything had a price! A man as rich as he was, with a spoilt, pampered background as he had—a prince of the pampas, or whatever part of South America he came from!—would think like that, she thought condemningly.
Into her mind’s eye came the image of his face—those hooded, knowing eyes, that cynical, sensual twist of his mouth.
That mouth, moving on hers…
Out of nowhere, like a wolf at her throat, memory gripped her. So vivid it could be happening now, again. Diego Saez helping himself to her mouth.
Shudderingly she pushed the memory away. She would not remember. She must not!
Diego Saez was gone from her life. She had got rid of him. Disposed of him. Made it very, very clear to him that his attentions were repugnant to her, his generous invitation to add her to his charming collection of temporary bed-warmers unwelcome.
She did not want Diego Saez.
And she had told him so. Spelt it out to him loud and clear, voicing all her contempt, her revulsion, for the life he lived.
He had got the message, all right. Walked away from her. Taken his dismissal and walked off.
A shiver went through her.
I got off lightly…
The words formed in her brain, and even as they formed she felt a shimmer of unease go through her.
Did men like Diego Saez walk away from what they wanted?
Tight-jawed, she reached forward for the teapot. Well, this time he would just have to accept defeat.
Portia slid the black jersey silk dress over her head, and smoothed it down over her body. It was a particular favourite for dinner parties here, whether large or small, social or business. Its graceful boat neck flattered her shoulders, and the elbow-length sleeves made her forearms slender and graceful, as did the on-the-knee hemline She slipped her feet into a pair of modest high heels, clipped a necklace around her throat, put on matching drop earrings, strapped her evening watch around her wrist, then applied her lipstick, checked her hair was still immaculate in its chignon, and headed downstairs.
Tom and his business guest would be here any moment. Even though it was unnecessary she did a quick walk around the twelve-foot mahogany table, glittering with crystal and silver, and with one of her floral arrangements centred on its length, flanked by silver candelabra. In the grate a wood fire added to the background warmth of the central heating, and on the walls an array of family portraits, landscapes and still-lifes complemented the long dark blue velvet curtains, the blue and gold patterned carpet and the mahogany sideboards and console tables. The scent of beeswax polish mingled with the freshness of the flowers and the fragrance of the burning wood.
It was a familiar and beloved scene, and Portia found herself wondering, with a smile, just how many dinner parties this room must have seen in its time, presided over by whoever was head of the house at the time.
And how many more it still would see.
She moved on to check the drawing room where, as in the dining room, everything was in perfect order. She paused in front of the fireplace, shielded from the blaze by a firescreen, and gazed at her own reflection momentarily in the glass over the mantel.