Dearest Mary Jane by Betty Neels

Author:Betty Neels
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2011-06-10T04:00:00+00:00

Sir Thomas could have told her if he had been there; he had been waylaid—there was no other word for it—by Felicity, who had taken pains to find out where he lived and had just happened to be walking past his house as he returned from the hospital. That she had done this three evenings running without success was something she didn’t disclose but she evinced delighted surprise at seeing him again. ‘Perhaps we could have dinner together?’ she had suggested. ‘You must need cheering up after a hard day’s work.’

Sir Thomas had been tired, he had wanted his dinner and a peaceful evening with no one but Watson for company while he caught up with the medical journals, but his manners were too nice to have said so; instead he had suggested that they had a drink in a pleasant tittle bar not too far away, ‘For I have to go back to the hospital shortly and I have any amount of work to do this evening.’

She had pouted prettily and agreed and jumped into the car; she had great faith in her charm and good looks, and had no doubt that once they sat down she could persuade him to take her on to dinner—let the hospital wait, he was an important man and must surely do what he wanted to do; he wasn’t some junior doctor at everyone’s beck and call.

She was, of course, mistaken, and half an hour later she had found herself being put into a taxi with no more than a brisk handshake and regrets that he must cut short an enjoyable meeting. ‘I had hoped you could drive me to my flat,’ she had complained prettily, and turned her lovely face up to his. ‘I do hate going home alone.’

Sir Thomas had handed the cabby some money. ‘You must have many friends, Felicity; I’m sure you won’t be alone for long.’ He had lifted a hand in casual salute as the taxi drove off.

Tremble had come fussing into the hall as he opened the door of his house and Watson had come to meet him.

‘You’re late, Sir Thomas—a bad day, perhaps?’

‘No, no, Tremble, only the last hour or so. Give me ten minutes, will you, while I go through the post?’

He had gone into his study with the faithful Watson and leafed through his letters without paying much attention to them. He had had to waste part of an evening listening to Felicity’s siry chatter, and he had found her tedious. ‘A beautiful girl,’ he told Watson. ‘There’s no denying that, and charming too. Perhaps I am getting middle-aged...’

.It was much later that evening, standing by the French windows leading to the small garden behind the house, waiting for Watson to come in, that he had decided that he would drive down to see how Mary Jane was getting on. Her stiff little note of thanks had amused him, it had so obviously taken time and thought to compose, but she had given no hint as to how she was.

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