Outbid by the Boss (6 page)

His estate manager was getting older, still trying to do everything single-handedly, and not quite achieving it.

Yet another in a long list of issues Chas knew he must resolve.

He fought against the echoes in his head that plagued him every time he returned; the shouting, the recriminations, the furious arguments as his parents' marriage disintegrated into a slogging match of who did what to whom. Boarding school had been a sanctuary. And then there was peace, peace cloaked in desolation for him when his mother had left and started another family without him.

He had to tell Sam the truth and he had to tell her quickly, before the tide of bitter emotion washed over him. "Welcome to Porter Hall," he said softly.

Sam stiffened in the seat beside him.

"Porter Hall..." she whispered.

Chas could almost feel her turning it over in her mind. "I don't understand. You said we were going to catalogue an estate sale." Her eyes flashed her anger.

"We are,” snapped Chas, “And while we’re at it, you are going to work off your debt to Burton-Porter.”

"But Porter Hall is your home, isn't it?"

“It is.”

"And Mrs. Weekes?"
Sam demanded. "What about her?"

"My housekeeper."
Chas yanked on the hand brake. "But you needn't worry. We'll be well-chaperoned. The Weekes have a flat above the coach house."

But Sam was having none of it. "What kind of game are you playing at?" Her voice was steady but the accusation was loud and clear.

He was the worst kind of lowlife.

Just another in a long line of Burton-Porter males who manipulated everyone around them.

Sam reached for the door handle.

Chas grabbed her other arm. "Wait." His heart was hammering in his chest. "Let me explain."

"No. You wait," she hissed, spitting the words at him as though they left a bad taste in her mouth. "You used your position to take advantage of me. You purposely misled me. And now you're holding me against my will.”

She wrenched her arm from his grasp and kicked open the door with the heel of her boot. "And to think you were threatening me with fraud," she shouted back. “You will
not
get away with this.”

Chas felt the blood drain from his face. Just like his father and grandfather had done so often, he had tricked a woman into doing what he wanted. How on earth could he have been such a fool?

If Evelyn Weekes had been put out by their unexpected arrival, she hid it well. Taking one covert look at Sam’s flaming face and Chas’ set expression, she sidestepped what could have been an extremely awkward moment by herding them through the flagstone entrance way and into the grand hall, all with brisk murmurs of pleasure at seeing Chas back in his home.

"This is my colleague, Miss Redfern," said Chas stiffly. He lowered the larger of Sam's two cases to the floor. "She'll be staying a few days.
Helping me catalogue the antiques and silver."

Mrs. Weekes seemed to take it in stride. “Your room is ready for you. I'll see to Miss Redfern."

“Thank you, Mrs. Weekes,” Chas said. “If your husband is about, I’d like to have a quick word with him. Hopefully, he can recommend a good body shop in the area.” Ignoring Sam, Chas nodded to Mrs. Weekes, and then headed toward the back of his house.

"This way, please." The housekeeper picked up the suitcase Chas had carried in from the car and started up the broad staircase toward the galleried upper floor.

Sam sighed. What choice did she have? She could hardly run after Chas and demand to be taken to a hotel, even if there was one anywhere within miles. Resigned, she hefted her second bag and followed the sturdy figure up the stone stairs.

The landing was large and foreboding with dimly-lit corridors heading off in three directions. “Shades of Jane Eyre,” Sam muttered, but smiled brightly when Mrs. Weekes eyebrows arched.

“The main part of the house was built in the late eighteenth century by William Porter,” the housekeeper said. “He made a fortune as one of the new agriculturalists. But by the time, Reginald Porter, Chas’ grandfather came
along,
the estate had fallen on hard times. That’s when he married Eugenie Burton, Chas’ grandmother.”

“The Burtons were in the East India trade, weren’t they?” That was all Sam knew; the Burton-Porter website contained a very short and carefully-worded family history.

"The Burtons were always well-travelled," said Mrs. Weekes. "But the Porters had the lineage.
This way."
Her stiff manner relaxed as they walked the corridor. She pointed out a small study by Constable which begged for better lighting; there were several fine Victorian pastorals and a few mediocre portraits but it was the exquisite porcelain vase on a nearby table which caught Sam in its thrall. She gently touched its magnificent finish. It was as exciting as being in any of the New York showrooms. Speaking of which, she wondered what on earth was being said back at the London office.

“There were a great many treasures in this house,” continued Mrs. Weekes. “The family always appreciated beautiful things and enjoyed a large circle of friends. When I first came to work at Porter Hall," she went on, "the housekeeper, that would have been Mrs. Betts if memory serves, always said a grand house should keep a guest room ready at all times. One never knows when the family will arrive..."

"...or with whom," muttered Sam.

"Precisely.
And which are you, Miss Redfern?" A twinkle in the housekeeper's brown eyes softened the enquiry.
"Colleague, paramour, or third-cousin twice-removed?"

"Now that's a scary thought," laughed Sam. "Better put me down as an employee who, by rights, should have been halfway across the Atlantic by
now.
Our boss shanghaied me this morning to help catalogue the collections."

Mrs. Weekes stopped at the next doorway. "In that case, I suspect you've had a long day…You do seem a bit pale. Are you all right?"

Sam frowned. What should she say? That the day had been one long series of disasters and that she and Chas had sparred like children? Or should she mention that she had used company funds to buy herself a silver candlestick?

"I’m fine, thank you.
Just in need of a good cup of tea."

"Then why don’t you settle in while I nip downstairs and fetch you a pot of tea and something to tide you over." Mrs. Weekes reached for the door handle. The door swung inwards. Sam followed the housekeeper inside. "Will this suit you, then, Miss Redfern?" she asked placing Sam's bag at the foot of the bed.

"Oh, lovely," Sam breathed as her gaze swept over the elegant four-poster bed, the Edwardian dressing table and chair, and on to the armoire glowing richly in the soft light from the nightstand. There was even a window seat with a bevy of soft pillows all done up in dusty rose and sage to match the window's voluminous curtains.

"Compared to my flat in London, Mrs. Weekes, this is the height of luxury."

Pleased by the compliment, the housekeeper crossed over to the window and drew back the curtains. "I'll just let in a bit of air, shall I?" With a practised hand, she released the catch on the casement and nudged open the window. Give it a minute or two," she advised, "and you'll think the room was done up fresh."

Sam slipped her heavy purse off her shoulder and set her suitcase on the floor. "Um...the bathroom is?"

"Over there, dear."
The housekeeper pointed to a white panelled door on the far wall next to which sat an inviting chintz-covered wing chair in the same peony and
rose
pattern as the drapes.

She paused to worry a wrinkle out of the bed covers. "I often set out a plate of sandwiches in the dining room when we have late arrivals," she said massaging the small of her back as she straightened. "Down the stairs, turn right, second door on the left."

"Thank you, Mrs. Weekes. I'll be fine." said Sam.

As soon as the housekeeper was out the door, Sam headed for the sanctuary of the window seat. She tugged off her boots and dropped them to the floor. At least, her toes were happy. What a day. She was tempted to flop back against the cushions and just lie there but first...she had to call Mia. How had she been so stupid as to tell her friend anything at all in their earlier conversation? Discretion not being Mia's strong suit, the last thing Sam wanted was to have everyone in the office scratching their heads over an estate sale that didn't exist. Sooner or later, someone would link Mrs. Weekes to Porter Hall and the whole sordid story would be revealed.

But when Sam switched on her mobile, she had no reception. She held it up to the window and watched the little icon search the heavens in vain.

Porter Hall was in a dead zone.

No service. No contact.
And nowhere to go.

Chas swirled the aged single malt in his glass and uttered a soft string of curses. Life wasn't fair and, quite frankly, it was often ill-timed. Before today, his relationship with Samantha Redfern had been cool and professional and, he liked to think, based on mutual respect.

Not anymore.

During the course of a single day, he'd admired her moxie, lost his temper and been utterly intrigued by her. And now he couldn't decide whether he was totally enamoured with her or just plain furious.

Probably a bit of both.

In an effort to banish the picture of her flashing eyes and defiant chin, Chas began to mentally catalogue her crimes of the day.

She had stolen the candlestick using money from the firm he owned, created a potentially embarrassing furor at his company, and most heinous of all, caused the wreck of his car. Chas tried to whip himself into a satisfying rage at Ms. Redfern, but the image of her standing there, clutching the silver candlestick and fighting to the last ditch even though they both knew she was in the wrong, kept intruding into his mind. Giving up, he tried to focus on the damaged done to the side of his car, but there she was again with sunlight shimmering over her auburn hair as she insisted that being sideswiped by the Land Rover was
his
fault, not hers.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or go strangle her, which she so obviously deserved. Unfortunately, no matter what his initial intent, he knew that if his fingers touched the soft skin of her neck, the anger would turn into a caress. That would certainly put the cat among the pigeons.

A knock sounded at the study door. Chas’ heart leaped at the thought it might be Sam seeking him out to either apologize or maybe argue a little more. He would welcome either, he realized.

“Come.”

But instead of Sam, his estate manager, John Weekes, let himself into the room. Chas’ lips tightened a little at the smell of beer emanating from the man.

“John,” Chas forced heartiness into his voice that he didn’t feel, and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Maybe his day hadn’t been so good either.

“Evening,” John said. “We didn’t expect to see you here this week.” He launched into a somewhat rambling explanation of why certain matters hadn’t been seen to yet, and made a couple of suggestions for Chas’ approval.

Chas nodded, and said what was appropriate. John had been a good estate manager once, and his instincts were still strong. Unfortunately, the carryings on of Chas’ father, and to be honest, Chas’ own neglect of his inheritance had probably caused the man to become disheartened. With a twinge of guilt, Chas realized it was one thing to delegate; quite another to leave one’s employees to their own devices.

Of course with someone like Sam, oversight didn’t seem to matter. Even now, he would trust her to do her job.

Which brought him back to the man before him.
Chas sighed. Whatever plans he had for the estate, he was honour-bound to ensure that the house and the land were properly managed, and the employees, particularly the Weekes, were looked after.

Chas brought the conversation back to the beginning.

Once he’d determined that there was no body shop nearby capable of handling the repairs to an automobile like his, Chas said good night to John, and made a note to call London in the morning.

Alone again, Chas watched the play of light across his desk; the same desk used by his father, and his father before him. As a child, Chas had avoided this room; it held nothing for him but fear. A raging, demented grandfather who, in today’s world, would likely have been in a nursing home. And a father
whose
mocking ways only made him appear less of a man, not more. Giving up, his society mother had absconded for a new life in America twenty-five years ago, leaving her eleven-year-old son to cope on his own. School holidays had been spent with Lionel, as his father now wished to be called by his only child, and his endless string of unsuitable women.

What a legacy.

Determined to never act with such cruel arrogance and irresponsibility, Chas had moved to London, rebuilt Burton-Porter, and learned to keep a tight rein on his emotions. But the only real way to distance himself from the pain of his family’s past was to sell up, leaving Porter Hall and its history behind.

How naive to think that having Samantha Redfern at his side even if it was for only a few days would make his decision any easier.

So far, her presence seemed to have had the opposite effect. Her reaction to Burton Park, and then the hall, had given him a pride of place, something he had never experienced before.

That didn’t excuse his behaviour. He should have been upfront with Sam, told her at the outset where they were headed and why. Too many years spent keeping his personal and professional lives separate had obviously taken their toll.

He reached for his whiskey and took a long slow sip.

He had a sudden flash of Sam stamping her feet at the auction hall.
Full of fire when she was roused; cool and competent on the job.