A Wife on Paper. Liz Fielding

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      ‘Toby gave it to you because he wants you to come back,’ she said.

      ‘His mother doesn’t feel the same way.’

      ‘Possibly not, but I don’t see anyone else crossing continents and oceans to be at her side—’

      ‘Steve was my brother,’ he said.

      ‘—or leaping to her rescue when she was being hounded by men anxious about their invoices,’ she continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. Her face, thin, plainly marked with everything she’d suffered, was bright with intelligence and he sensed an ally.

      ‘Have they reason to be?’ he asked. ‘Anxious?’

      ‘Steven didn’t confide in me but he hasn’t been in any state to run the business himself for the last six months.’

      ‘I wish she’d let me know.’

      ‘He wouldn’t let her. At the end she called your office anyway, but it was too late. All you can do now, Mr Knight Errant, is stick around and help her pick up the pieces.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      FRANCESCA was shaking so badly that she had to sit down before her legs gave way. Toby struggled to free himself, but she clutched at him as if he was the only thing standing between her and some dark chasm that yawned in front of her.

      She’d been so sure that Guy wouldn’t come today. It had been pure relief when his secretary rang to tell her that although she’d finally managed to get the news to him he was unlikely to make it home in time, even for the funeral. Easy enough to assure the woman that she understood, decline all offers of assistance.

      She should have known he would move heaven and earth. Steven had once told her that his brother was a man who simply refused to contemplate the impossible, that only once had he backed down, retreated from the challenge to get what he wanted. Guy Dymoke was a dark, unseen shadow that had seemed to haunt Steven. She should have, could have, done something to change that, she thought guiltily. Made an effort to bridge the gulf that had opened up between them, but an uneasy sense of self-preservation had warned her to leave well alone.

      ‘Why don’t you go and put your feet up, Fran? You look done in.’

      Grateful to Matty for distracting her, she finally allowed Toby to escape. The one thing she mustn’t become was a clinging mother, weeping over her child. ‘I’m fine, really. Where’s Connie?’

      ‘She’s tidying up the drawing room.’

      ‘You’ve both been wonderful. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

      ‘I wish I could say that the worst is over.’

      ‘It is. I just have to see the solicitor tomorrow. Sort out the will.’ She didn’t anticipate any difficulty. Steven had told her that he’d made sure she and Toby were taken care of; he must have known he was dying then, despite the fact that neither of them had ever acknowledged it and she had to believe he meant it.

      Her real problem was his business. What was going to happen to that?

      ‘Just remember that you’re not alone,’ Matty continued, distracting her. ‘I’m here, and Connie will hold the fort with Toby—’

      ‘It’s not necessary, really.’ She’d been forcing her mouth into a smile, her voice into soothing tones of reassurance for so long that it did it on automatic. But she was determined not to worry Matty. She’d made an amazing recovery but she was still far from strong.

      ‘She wants to help, Fran. To be honest I think she’s terrified you’ll move away and won’t take her with you.’

      ‘No! I couldn’t… I wouldn’t…’ Even as she said it she realised that Matty was appealing for reassurance too. ‘She’s family,’ she said.

      ‘Of course she is. That’s what I told her. And Guy Dymoke looks like the kind of man a woman in trouble could lean on.’ Then, while she was still trying to get her head around the idea of leaning on Guy, ‘Is there going to be trouble?’

      Francesca was drained, exhausted, tired to the bone, but it wasn’t over yet and she forced the smile into a grin. ‘Are you kidding? I’ve got a company to run and the most challenging thing I’ve had to think about for the last three years is the menu for the next dinner party. That sounds like enough trouble for anyone.’

      ‘Don’t undersell yourself, Fran.’ Matty reached out, took her hand, held it for a moment. Then, ‘I need to know. Is there going to be trouble?’

      She wanted to say no. Absolutely not. The way she had to Guy. But she’d encouraged her cousin to come and share the house after her accident. Steven hadn’t been wildly keen, but the house was huge, far too big for the three of them. Matty had needed to be in London for treatment, needed to have someone close she could call on in an emergency, and there was no one else. Nowhere else. And it wasn’t a one way bargain. She was company during Steven’s absences abroad seeking out the merchandise he imported.

      The truth was, she just didn’t know. Steven had never talked about the business. Had always brushed aside her interest, her questions, as something she needn’t bother her head about, until she’d stopped bothering to ask. She wished she hadn’t allowed herself to be so easily distracted, but he obviously hadn’t wanted her involved, and she had Toby and Matty…

      ‘I don’t want to think about it,’ she said. ‘Not today. Let’s have that Scotch.’

      ‘But what about the house?’

      She heard the fear and knew it was a fair question. Matty had an investment in the house. She’d spent her own money on the conversion of the lower ground floor into a self-contained flat suitable for her wheelchair. A talented illustrator, she’d extended it to make a studio so that she could work there.

      ‘He always promised me that the house was safe.’ Always promised that he would never use their home to raise finance. She wanted to believe that he had meant that, but if the company was in any kind of trouble—and what company wasn’t these days?—and the bank wanted its pound of flesh…

      She and Toby could live anywhere, but Matty would never be able to find another home in London. Not like the one she had with them, especially converted to her needs. With the space. Room for her drawing board…

      ‘I’m sorry. Of course he did. It was your palace—he said so often enough, and you were his princess.’ Matty looked around. ‘I wonder how he raised enough cash to buy it at the top of the property boom?’

      ‘He didn’t have to. His father left him some money. Nothing like the fortune Guy had in trust from his mother, of course—especially after some City fraud put a major dent in the family finances—but there was enough for this house. He just wanted everything to be perfect for me.’

      As if he had something to prove. There had only ever been one person he needed to prove himself to—and, torn between relief and fury that Guy had never bothered to show up and be impressed by his success, she declared, ‘And it was. Perfect.’

      But she couldn’t quite meet Matty’s eye as she said it.

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