Accidental Engagement (2 page)

‘
I just don’t think it’s necessary, that’s all. If my memory hasn’t returned by next week then I’ll reconsider - if I was going to stay for a week?’

Emmy hesitated
and looked uncomfortable.

‘That is, if
I
was
going to stay
at all?
’ she said hesitantly.

‘As a matter of fact, you
weren’t.
But we’re still delighted to have you - and I mean that,’ she added, putting a gentle but firm hand on Anna’s shoulder as she tried to sit up. ‘You’re always welcome here. Always. With an invitation or without one. In fact, you have a kind of standing invitation.’

Anna sank back against the pillows with relief. She hadn’t realised how weak she still was. The effort to sit up had taken more out of her than she had anticipated.

‘But if I wasn’t invited, and we’ve never met before,’ she said thoughtfully, turning her head painfully towards Emmy, ‘how can you be so sure you know who I am?’

‘It was the luggage; the initials. A.C. Annabelle Chambers.’

‘A.C. c
ould stand for anything: A
lice Carstairs, Angela Collins —
’

‘True. But then there is the music. We brought your luggage into the house before calling the garage to tow your car away. One of the bags split open. It was full of music.’

So the car had been damaged in the crash. A write-off? wondered Anna. She didn’t know. And, just for the moment she didn’t want to know. She had enough to worry about without thinking of the car
,
at least until she was up and about again.

She turned her attention to the other part of Emmy’s information; the music. Music. Now that did feel familiar. ‘Was it - piano music?’

‘Yes, dear.’ Emmy’s manner became more decidedly sympathetic. ‘Don’t you remember? You’re a concert pianist.’

‘
I
am? But I’m now
here near good enough to . . . ’

Emmy laughed. ‘That’s not what Mark says. He says you play like an angel.’

Anna gave a twisted smile. An angel? That was not the way she . . . remembered it. Yes, she definitely did
remembe
r
something about music . . . She
shook her head. It was no good.
I
t had gone.

Returning to something else Emmy had said she asked, ‘And who is Mark?’

Emmy sat back. Her eyes narrowed in concern. ‘You don’t mean to tell me you’ve forgotten Mark as well?’

‘Shouldn’t I have done?’ It was Anna’s turn to be surprised.

‘No. You shouldn’t.’

‘Why not?’ she asked,
not understanding. ‘Who is he?’

‘My dear child,’ said Emmy, with a mixture of sympathy and distress in her eyes,
‘Mark is my nephew. And he’s also your fiancé.’

Anna felt her head spin. ‘My . . . fiancé?’

‘Yes, dear. Surely you must remember? You’ve just got engaged.’

‘
No. No I don’t. Although . . . ’
She shook her head, confused. She seemed to remember . . . something . . . about a fiancé.

She lifted a hand to her head.

‘Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure it will all come back to you. You just rest and take it easy. We’ll have you right as rain for tomorrow. You’ll find you’ll remember everything, I’m sure. It’s all t
oo confusing just at the moment:
a strange house and strange people, coming on top of the accident. Everything will be all right just as soon as Mark arrives.’

‘He’s coming here?’ asked Anna, her hand on her head. It was hurting her, and it was beginning to throb.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Emmy, standing up and preparing to leave her to rest. ‘He’ll be here tomorrow. And then everything will be fine.’

Will it?
thought Anna as the elderly woman left the room.
Will everything be fine tomorrow?

If only her head wasn't throbbing so . . . Somehow she had the vague feeling that everything might not be all right. Because she couldn’t for the life of her remember anything about Mark.

Mark stepped
out of the helicopter, crouching
low to avoid the still-spinning blades. One of the benefits of being Mark Raynor of Raynor Enterprises was having the use of a helicopter. It shortened business trips within the country, and although he was taking his first week in
Nottingham
as a holiday he would then have to work.

Despite his aunts’ efforts to push him into matrimony he was looking forward to seeing them again. They were his last remaining close relatives and – apart from their matchmaking habits – they were people he admired and respected. Now that he had “Annabelle” safely in the background he was looking forward to spending a peaceful week at Little Brook, and recovering from the strain of
London
life. He liked living on the edge, but there were times when he needed to wind down. And this, he thought, was one of them. He had been getting stressed lately. It was time for a break. And then, once his batteries were recharged, he could move out of Little Brook and into his
Nottingham
flat before kicking into gear again for the opening of the new branch.

Once clear of the helicopter he took charge of the sports car that was waiting for him and headed out towards Little Brook. It was early evening, and the smells of summer drifted in through the open window.

He rested his right elbow on the exposed window frame and felt himself beginning to relax. He always forgot how much he loved the country when he was in
London
, but once back it began to work its old, familiar magic. His shoulders untensed and his mood lightened.

Not far to go now. Once round the next bend . . .

And there it was. Little Brook. The beautiful country house in which his mother and her two sisters had lived as children, with the brook which gave the house its name burbling through the garden at the back.

He turned in at the gates and drove up to the front door. It was open in a sign of welcome.

Turning off the ignition he got out of the car, but before he could even lock it Emmy and Claire were there in the porch, smiles lighting up their faces. Already they were rushing to greet him, enquiring after his journey and each giving him a kiss before ushering him into the house.

But after their initial welcome the conversation began to take an unexpected turn. Between disjointed sentences he began to understand that there had been a car crash outside the house the evening before. There was nothing unusual in that. It was a bad corner, and cars had crashed there before. But there seemed to be more to their conversation than just the story of a wrecked car.

‘. .
. it was such a surprise . . . ’

‘.
. . couldn’t believe it . . . ’

‘
. . . such a nasty smash . . . ’

‘. . . told the coun
cil . . . ’

‘. . . such a dear girl . . . ’

That was the first snippet that told him something was going on.

A dear girl? And she had crashed just outside the gates of Little Brook? And she was still there? The smile went out of his eyes.

‘ . . . lost her memory . . .’

‘ . . .
didn’t know who she was . . . ’

‘ . . . where she was . . . ’

‘ . . .
even where she was going . . . ’

Between the disconnected sentences he began to make out the gist of their conversation. His initial expression of surprise gradually
gave way to a look of cynicism,
an expression that became more pronounced as the story progressed. He felt his earlier good humour evaporate and his mouth set into a grim line. If what he was hearing was true
,
and of course it was true, because neither Emmy nor Claire would invent such a tale
,
then someone had capitalised on his deception -
fast work
, he thought grimly - and decided to use it for their own ends. But who the hell, besides Roger, could have known about it?

‘Do you mean to tell me that “Annabelle” is here? At Little Brook?’ he demanded.

‘Yes, dear,’ said Emmy with a smile, ‘and she’s feeling much better today. She’s up and about again, and -’

He frowned, scarcely listening to the rest of the conversation. Instead he was thinking. He hadn’t told anyone else about the deception, had he? No. No one but Roger. And Roger would never - although, come to think of it, Roger, knowing Mark to be out of
London
for the summer, might have passed it on as a good story to one or two
London
friends. But who amongst them would tell someone who would be likely to take advantage of it? And take advantage so fast?

‘ - good journey? You made good time.’

Claire’s voice broke in on his thoughts. Realising that she had been asking him about his trip he replied mechanically, ‘Very good. The chopper was waiting for me and conditions were perfect. We made good time to
Nottingham
and once in the Porsche I enjoyed the drive. It makes a nice change to motor along quiet roads instead of having to wrestle with
London
traffic.’

‘Helicopters!’ shuddered Emmy. ‘I don’t know how you can abide those things. Somehow they never look the right shape to fly. I said to Claire only last . . . ’

The conversation flowed on as they went inside, but he didn’t really listen. Whilst Emmy and Claire argued happily over the merits - or otherwise - of helicopters, he thought over the problem of “Annabelle”.

Who can she be? he wondered as he turned over a list of likely candidates in his mind. She would have to be someone with a lot of nerve to fake the accident outside Little Brook and then fake an even more convenient “memory loss”, and he couldn’t think of anyone who would be capable of pulling it off. It would have to be someone with intelligence, too. From what his aunts had said there had been enough clues for them to guess that the crash victim was Annabelle Chambers, the fiancée of their nephew, Mark Raynor, without “Annabelle” ever once having to tell a lie. It was a bold idea and one which “Annabelle” must be fairly certain would work.

But then again, why shouldn’t she? She obviously thought she had him over a barrel. And in a way she did. If he declared her to be an impostor she would reveal that “Annabelle” didn’t exist - thus causing him a great deal of embarrassment. He could contradict her, of course, and repeat his story
about “Annabelle” being abroad.
B
ut the revelation would cast doubts into the minds of Emmy and Claire, and if they challenged him openly he would not be prepared to lie.

What was it Roger had said? Deception’s a dangerous game?

Yes. It was. Far more d
angerous than he had realised
.

But what could she hope to get out of it? Could she really believe she could manipulate him into marriage? Or an affair, perhaps? Or did she just think she could buy herself a week of the high life? There was no point in speculating. He wouldn’t know the answers until he saw what kind of woman she was.

‘ . . . must be dying to see her,’ beamed Emmy as they went into the living room; a large square room with tall windows open onto the gardens, filled with fresh flowers. ‘And here she is.’

A slender young woman rose from a chair at the far side of the room. She hesitated for a few seconds and then walked uncertainly towards him.

He stood stock still for a moment as all his half-formed expectations crumbled into dust.
She was not what he had expected.
W
hen his aunts had told him about “Annabelle” he had pictured a leggy blonde or an
immaculate, hard-faced brunette,
possibly one of the women who hovered on the outskirts of the
London
set. But not the shy creature who was walking towards him like an awkward
young foal. Dark brown hair, big brown eyes
. . .

His attraction gave
way to a hard cynicism
.
T
he apparent awkwardness, the almost imperceptible air of hesitancy, the look of being lost - whoever she was, she was quite an actress. And the way she was looking at him with those big brown eyes . . .

‘H . . Hi.’ The word came out with just the right mixture of sweetness and shyness. ‘M . . . Mark?’

Yes, he thought harshly, if he hadn’t known better she could have fooled
him
.

He had
one spilt second of indecision.
O
ne second in which he wondered how she would react if he exposed her there and then . . . but the thought of the pain it would cause Emmy and Claire meant he never had a choice. They idolised him, and if they knew that he had lied to them it would hurt them deeply. It was not something he was prepared to risk. There would be time enough for him to find out exactly what “Annabelle” was up to once they were alone . . .