Mark took the towel from her and hung it on the Aga rail to dry. "Yours, too."
She smiled. "Perhaps it goes with the job." He opened his mouth to say something, and she raised a finger to stop him. "Don't quote my genes at me again," she told him firmly. "My entire individuality is in danger of being swamped by your obsessive need to explain me. I am the complex product of my circumstances… not the predictable, linear result of an accidental coupling twenty-eight years ago."
They both knew they were too close. She saw it in the flash of awareness that sparked in his eyes. He saw it in the way her finger hovered within inches of his mouth. She dropped her hand. "Don't even think about it," she said, baring her teeth in a fox-like smile. "I've enough trouble with my bloody sergeant without adding the family lawyer to my list of difficulties. You weren't supposed to be here, Mr. Ankerton. I came to speak to James."
Mark raised his palms in a gesture of surrender, jealousy spent. "It's your fault, Smith. You shouldn't wear such provocative clothes."
She gave a splutter of laughter. "I specifically dressed butch."
"I know," he murmured, putting the mugs on a tray, "and my imagination's in overdrive. I keep wondering about all the softness that's underneath the armor plating."
Wolfie wondered why adults were so stupid. He tried to warn Bella that Fox would know they'd had visitors-Fox knew everything-but she hushed him and swore him to silence along with the rest. "Let's just keep it to ourselves," she said. "There's no point getting him worked up over nothing. We'll tell him about the reporter… that's fair enough… we all knew the press would stick their noses in sooner or later."
Wolfie shook his head at her naivety but didn't argue.
"It's not that I want you to lie to your dad," she told him, crouching down and giving him a hug, "just don't tell him, eh? He'll be mad as a hatter if he finds out we let strangers into the camp. Can't do that, see, not if we want to build houses here."
He touched a comforting hand to her cheek. "Okay." She was like his mother, always hoping for the best even though the best never happened. She must know she would never have a house here, but she needed to dream, he thought. Just as he needed to dream about running away. "Don't forget to tie the rope again," he reminded her.
Jesus Christ! She had forgotten. But what kind of life had this little boy led that made him mindful of every little detail? She searched his face, saw wisdom and intelligence well beyond his physical immaturity and wondered how she'd missed them before. "Is there anything else I should remember?"
"The door," he said solemnly.
"What door?"
"Lucky Fox's door. He said it was usually open." He shook his head at her baffled expression. "It means you have a hiding place," he told her.
The tremors came back into James's hand when Nancy told him she had to leave, but he made no attempt to dissuade her. The army was a hard taskmaster, was all he said, turning to stare out of the window. He didn't accompany her to the door, so she and Mark said their farewells alone on the doorstep.
"How long are you planning to stay?" she asked him, pulling on her hat and zipping up her fleece.
"Till tomorrow afternoon." He handed her a card. "If you're interested, that has my email, landline, and mobile on it. If you're not, I'll look forward to seeing you the next time."
She smiled. "You're one of the good guys, Mark. There aren't many lawyers who'd spend Christmas with their clients." She took a piece of paper from her pocket. "That's my mobile… but you don't have to be interested… think of it more as 'just in case.' "
He gave her a teasing smile. "Just in case of what?"
"Emergencies," she said soberly. "I'm sure he's not sitting on that terrace every night for fun… and I'm sure those travelers aren't there by accident. They were talking about a psycho when I was outside their bus, and, from the way the child behaved, they were referring to his father… this Fox character. It can't be a coincidence, Mark. With a name like that he has to be connected in some way. It would explain the scarves."
"Yes," he said slowly, thinking of Wolfie's blond hair and blue eyes. He folded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. "Much as I appreciate your offer," he said, "wouldn't it make more sense to phone the police in an emergency?"
She unlocked the Discovery door. "Whatever… the offer's there if you want to take it up." She hoisted herself behind the steering wheel. "I should be able to come back tomorrow evening," she said diffidently, bending forward to feed the key into the ignition so that he couldn't see her face. "Could you ask James if that's okay, and text me the answer?"
Mark was surprised both by the question and the tentative way she put it. "I don't need to. He's besotted with you."
"He didn't say anything about me coming back, though."
"You didn't either," he pointed out.
"No," she agreed, straightening. "I guess meeting a grandfather isn't as easy as I thought it was going to be." She gunned the engine to life and thrust the vehicle into gear.
"What made it difficult?" he asked, putting a hand on her arm to stop her closing the door.
She flashed him a wry smile. "Genes," she said. "I thought he'd be a stranger and I wouldn't care very much… but I discovered he isn't and I do. Pretty naive, eh?" She didn't wait for an answer, just let out the clutch and slowly accelerated, forcing Mark to drop his hand, before she pulled the door closed and headed up the drive toward the gate.
James was sitting hunched in his armchair by the time Mark returned to the drawing room. He looked a forlorn and diminished figure again, as if the energy that had possessed him during the afternoon had indeed been the result of a brief transfusion of blood. There was certainly no sign of the tough SCO who had opted for solitary confinement rather than barter his religion to Communist atheism.
Assuming the cause of his depression was Nancy's departure, Mark took up a position in front of the fireplace and announced cheerfully: "She's a bit of a star, isn't she? She'd like to come back tomorrow evening if that's all right with you."
James didn't answer.
"I said I'd let her know," Mark persisted.
The old man shook his head. "Tell her I'd rather she didn't, will you? Put it as kindly as you can, but make it clear that I don't want to see her again."
Mark felt as if his legs had been chopped out from underneath him. "Why on earth not?"
"Because your advice was right. It was a mistake to go looking for her. She's a Smith, not a Lockyer-Fox."
Mark's anger flared abruptly. "Half an hour ago you were treating her like royalty, now you want to ditch her like a cheap tart," he snapped. "Why didn't you tell her to her face instead of expecting me to do it?"
James closed his eyes. "It was you who warned Ailsa of the danger of resurrecting the past," he murmured. "A little belatedly, I'm agreeing with you."
"Yes, well, I've changed my mind," the younger man said curtly. "Sod's law predicted that your granddaughter should have been a clone of Elizabeth because that's exactly what you didn't want. Instead-and for God knows what reason-you get a clone of yourself. Life isn't supposed to be like that, James. Life's supposed to be a complete and utter bummer where every step forward takes you two back." He clenched his fists. "For Christ's bloody sake, I told her you were besotted. Are you going to make me a liar?"