Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (22 page)

Jamie shrugged. “Trust me, it was the best thing that could’ve happened. He couldn’t beat our mam any longer.”

Her eyes widened. “Did he ever hit you or Rhys?”

“He had a go at Rhys once. Rhys knocked him down and pummeled him until mum and one of the neighbours dragged him off. That’s how his nose got broken.” He glanced at her. “Told you it was an old football injury, did he?”

Natalie nodded slowly. That was exactly what he’d said.

“Rhys lets off steam on the squash court. And he has a right temper. But there’s no one I’d rather have in my corner.”

“He said he left home at seventeen.”

“Yeah, after dad died, he got a job in Hoxton. He busted his ass to support us; dad was always skint. Mum and me wouldn’t have made it without the money Rhys sent home. He put me through culinary school.” Jamie drained his beer. “He’s an arsehole sometimes. But he’s always had my back.”

“He doesn’t talk much about himself.”

“He won’t. He doesn’t like to remember those days.” He leaned forward. “Rhys is no saint. But he’s not bad, as brothers go. You could do a lot worse.”

“I’m sure he’d say the same about you.”

“I doubt it,” Jamie said, and grinned as he stood up. “It’s getting late, you’d best head home. And Natalie?”

“Yes?”

“Whatever it is that’s on your mind, tell him,” he advised. “I know he’ll do whatever he can to help you.”

Natalie had her doubts, but she nodded. “I will. I just need to find the right time.”

“Don’t leave it too long.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “It was great to meet you.”

“You, too. Thanks for the drink and the advice.”

They said goodnight and Natalie returned to her car and drove home. As she inserted her key and swung the door open twenty minutes later, wondering if mum might loan her fifty quid, she froze. Wreaths of cigarette smoke drifted towards her from the sitting room, and the TV blared.

Her hand tightened on the doorknob. Ian smoked. She’d seen him before, having a quick, furtive cigarette standing at the back entrance to the store.

Oh, God – what if he’d got in her flat somehow?

No, that was ludicrous…

“Nat!” Dominic’s voice bellowed out from the lounge. “Is that you?”

Her relief quickly turned to fury as she dropped her handbag on a chair and rounded on him. “You scared the crap out of me, Dom! What are you doing here? And give me back your key!”

“All right, shit. Here.” He rummaged in his pockets and extracted the spare key from his wallet and handed it to her.

“I don’t suppose you could loan me fifty quid?” Nat asked him. “I’ll pay you back.”
Just as soon as I borrow it from mum, that is…

“Yeah, sure.” He pulled a wad of cash out and peeled off three fifty-pound notes.

Natalie stared at him. “Dom, that’s a hundred and fifty quid! I only need fifty.”

He shrugged and handed it to her. “Keep it. I’ve plenty of dosh. I just got my first cheque from Maison Laroche. By the way,” he added as he put his wallet away, “where’ve you been? I thought you’d never get back.”

“Thanks,” she said as she tucked the money in her pocket. “Never mind me, what are
you
doing here?” She narrowed her eyes. “That better not be a spliff—”

“It’s not.” Dominic squashed out the cigarette. “He knows, Nat,” he said in a rush as he perched at one end of the sofa. “Klaus knows who I am.”

Natalie blinked. “What? But…no one knows who you are but me! And your family,” she amended. “How did he find out?”

“He’s got someone on retainer to dig stuff up. Insurance, he calls it,” Dominic said bitterly. “He knows everything, Nat – my real name, where I was born, all of it. He says he’ll go to the tabs if I don’t cooperate.”

“For heaven’s sake, Dom, being the son of an earl is nothing to be ashamed of—”

“It is when your fans think you’re a working-class kid from a council estate in Swindon,” he said flatly.

“True,” she admitted. She sank down on the sofa next to him. “What about your father? Does he know?”

Dominic shook his head. “If this comes out, he’ll disown me. He has nothing but contempt for my music career.” He scowled. “Not that I give a toss about inheriting the title. I don’t. I just…” He looked at her, his expression subdued. “I just wish he approved of me, at least a bit. You know?”

“Oh, Dominic,” Natalie said softly, “I’m sure he does. You’re his son, after all! He’s just…disappointed you didn’t follow his example.”

“Right.” Dominic let out a mirthless laugh. “Can you see me as lord of the manor, a glass of sherry in one hand and a dead pheasant in the other? I can’t do it, Nat. That’s my father’s thing. And me? I’m his biggest disappointment.”

Natalie patted his knee. “I’m sure you’re wrong.”

“I’m not.” He leaned forward and took her hand. “God, I miss you, Nat. We were good together, weren’t we?”

“No! We were a disaster.” She yanked her hand away. “You treated me like crap, and you cheated on me—”

“I was a berk,” he admitted. He grinned. “But you have to admit, the make-up sex was pretty spectacular.”

“Tea,” Natalie said hastily, and stood. “We need tea.”

In the kitchen she plugged in the kettle and plunked tea bags into two cups – Dominic’s with two sugars, lemon, no milk — and returned to the lounge.

“Now,” Natalie said as she handed him a mug, “tell me exactly what Klaus wants.”

Dominic sipped his tea and grimaced. “This could do with a shot of whiskey… He wants to know about a clothing line some bloke named Phillip’s designing for D&J.”

“What?” Natalie sputtered, outraged. “Klaus wants you to
spy
on Phillip Pryce?”

“Yeah. He wants to see his sketches, hear about any problems he’s having, stuff like that.” He frowned. “What’ll I tell him, Nat? If I don’t give him something, he’ll go to the tabloids with my secret, and my career is over.”

“Well, that’s easy enough,” Natalie said slowly. “We’ll give Klaus the information he wants – we’ll just make sure it’s the
wrong
information.”

It was after midnight when Dominic left. Too keyed up to sleep, Natalie made another cup of tea – chamomile this time – and curled up on the sofa. She remembered her first year at boarding school, when an older girl had bullied her. Alison took her pencil case one day, a packet of HobNobs the next. Natalie said nothing; she was too afraid.

The third time it happened, a prefect saw Alison yank Natalie’s amethyst pendant, a present from her father, from her neck and shove her hard in the back. She fell on the gravel and skinned her knees. Between sobs, Natalie told her story to the head, who expelled Alison and called Natalie’s father to inform him of the incident.

“Always face up to a bully, Nat,” he’d told her quietly but firmly. “If you give in, you give them power, and they’ll never stop bullying you.” Was he thinking of his own situation, his blackmail at the hands of Ian’s stepfather?

She bit her lip. In the end, her father hadn’t taken his own advice. The threats and the pressure from Ian’s stepfather must have overwhelmed him, until, unable to cope, he’d taken his life with an overdose of sleeping tablets.

Natalie set her cup of tea, gone cold, aside. She pressed her lips together in sudden determination. She refused to let Ian call the shots. Unlike her father, she intended to fight back.

She grabbed her mobile and scrolled until she found Ian’s number.

Chapter 29

Alexa Clarkson was half asleep when Ian’s mobile buzzed late on Sunday night. She raised herself on one elbow and peered at the bedside clock. It was half past midnight. She listened, straining to hear, but there was nothing. Ian must’ve let the call go to voicemail.

Curious, she waited until she heard the shower come on. As soon as he shut the bathroom door, she got out of bed – made awkward by her last weeks of pregnancy – and crept into the sitting room. She rubbed the swell of her stomach and frowned.

When had she and Ian last made love? She couldn’t remember. Ages… She couldn’t blame him, really. Who’d want to make love to a woman as big around as Brixton?

Not for the first time, she wondered if he was having an affair.

His mobile lay on the hall table. She picked it up, one ear cocked to make sure the shower still ran, and scrolled down the list of recent calls to the last one.

Natalie Dashwood.

Alexa’s frown deepened. Why would Natalie call Ian so late on a Sunday night? Surely it could wait until morning, at work. And why hadn’t he answered?

The shower stopped. She tossed the mobile back on the table and returned to their bedroom, sliding under the covers just as the door opened. Light spilled into the room.

“Alexa? I thought you were asleep.” Ian, a towel wrapped round his hips, regarded her from the doorway.

“I was. Your mobile woke me, so I got up to take a wee. Who was it?” she asked, keeping her voice casual.

“Oh, it was just a message from Gordon.” He dropped the towel to the floor and rummaged in his dresser for a pair of boxers. “We’ve a meeting at four and he warned me it’ll most likely run long.”

What an accomplished liar he is
, Alexa realised suddenly.
What else has he lied about?
“Is it the website again?” she managed to ask, hoping her voice didn’t betray her thoughts.

He nodded. “Final review and then hopefully we’re done with the damned thing.”

“I hope so. You’ve worked late, a lot.” She stretched. “Well, bed for me. Maybe this time I’ll actually sleep.”

“Goodnight.” He turned away. “I’ll be in soon. I need to check my emails.”

“Goodnight.” Although she was tired, as she turned off the bedside lamp, Alexa couldn’t stop thinking about Natalie’s phone call. Why had she called Ian? Were they having an affair? How long had it been going on?

And just what, exactly,
was
going on?

There was no possible way that Nat and her husband were involved. The very idea was ludicrous. She and Natalie had known each other for yonks; they’d bonded over Enid Blyton and gobstoppers, and later over music and boys and clothes. Nat would never do something like this to her, or to their long-standing friendship.

Yet why else would she call Ian so late on a Sunday night?

Exhaustion finally caught up to her, and Alexa fell into a restless, troubled sleep.

Cherie found the photo albums in a basket on a bottom shelf of the sitting room bookcase. She knelt to pick one up and flipped idly through the pages.

She studied pictures of Hannah and Holly, their faces alight with excitement as they sat in front of the Christmas tree; Alastair, holding newborn Hannah with a look of equal parts adoration and terror on his face; Holly balancing unsteadily on her first two-wheeled bicycle.

She took an armful of albums and sat on the sofa, flipping the pages until she found photos of her wedding day. Her throat tightened. She and Alastair had been madly, crazily in love.

They had two lovely daughters and a pleasant, privileged life. Yet they’d become two strangers sharing the same house.

When had things gone so wrong between them?

“Hello, darling,” Alastair said as he arrived with two cups of tea. He handed her one and sat down beside her. “Looking at wedding photos?”

Cherie nodded. “You were so handsome in your morning suit. I couldn’t wait to get you out of it.”

Alastair lifted his brow. “And here I thought you were so innocent.”

“Oh, I was. But I wanted to sleep with you from the moment we met at that garden party at St. Anselm’s.”

“It seems I married quite a hussy,” he murmured, and leaned forward to kiss her.

The album slipped from her fingers as Cherie kissed him back, and a photo came loose and fell to the floor. She bent down to pick it up.

She studied the picture of an attractive young woman seated at a desk. One perfectly groomed brow was lifted, her lips curved in a slight, knowing smile. Her dark blonde hair was twisted into a chignon at the nape of her neck.

“Who is she?” Cherie asked, curious. “She looks familiar.”

Alastair took the photo and studied it. “Oh, yes, of course. That was Fiona, my secretary. You remember, darling — she quit just after you and I got married.”

Cherie cast him a curious glance. “Why? Were you two an item?”

“Yes…but not for long. I remember she quit on a Friday, left her notice on my desk while I was at lunch, and never came back. No idea why she left. Hard to believe it was almost thirty years ago.”

“You must’ve upset her when you married me.” Cherie smiled, only half joking. “She couldn’t bear it, so she flew the coop to nurse her broken heart.”

He stared at the half-forgotten face of his secretary. She’d had eyes of such a deep and penetrating blue.

Something about those eyes niggled at him. What, exactly, he couldn’t say. It lurked now at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t put a finger precisely on what ‘it’ was.

Whatever it was, Alastair decided, there was something about Fiona Walsh that gnawed at his memory.

“What’s wrong?” Cherie asked him. “You’ve got an odd look on your face.”

“Nothing.” Alastair put the photo aside. “Feeling my age, I suppose. It was a long time ago. Let’s look at some more of those wedding pictures.”

They spent a pleasant hour flipping the pages and passing the albums back and forth. As he enjoyed the rarity of relaxing at home with Cherie, Alastair’s glance strayed once again to the photo of his secretary, tossed aside on the coffee table.

Although he didn’t mention her again, Fiona Walsh remained in his thoughts for the rest of the evening.

Rhys arrived at work at eight a.m. on Monday morning. He’d slept restlessly – no thanks to Natalie’s abrupt departure after the phone call she’d got – but at least he knew how to handle Ian Clarkson.

“Natalie’s running late,” Gemma said as he stopped at her desk. “She’ll be in soon. Oh – and the breakfast has just been delivered for Sir Richard’s meeting with the buyers. Shall I pay the boy out of petty cash? I’m skint at the moment, or I’d take care of it myself and expense it later.”