Free Betrayal at Blackcrest by Jennifer Wilde Page A

say—”
    â€œAndy,” Derek Hawke said loudly, “Miss Lane is not a secretary.”
    Andrea Hawke stared at her nephew with reproach. “You don’t have to shout, dear, I’m sure. None of us are wearing hearing aids. What will the servants think if we don’t set a good example? Miss Lane,” she said firmly, turning to me, “ do you type?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I do,” I replied.
    â€œThere,” Andrea Hawke said, throwing her nephew a look of triumph. “The fact that you’re my nephew and heir does entitle you to certain liberties, Derek, but they hardly extend to calling me a liar in my own house. I won’t ask for an apology now. I haven’t the time. Miss Lane can begin her duties immediately.”
    Derek Hawke walked over to his aunt and placed his hands firmly on her shoulders. He bent down so that his face was level with hers. When he spoke, his voice was level and controlled, but it was filled with irritation nevertheless.
    â€œMiss Lane is an actress, Miss Lane came from London to see me on a personal matter. Miss Lane is not, repeat, not a secretary, and she was not sent from the employment agency.”
    Andrea Hawke looked stunned, then distressed.
    â€œWhy didn’t you say so in the first place, Derek? No wonder I can’t keep track of things around here. Did you send for a girl?”
    â€œYou never asked me to send for one.”
    â€œMiss Lane,” she said, “I must apologize. You must think I’m mad. Most people do, as a matter of fact. Not certifiably, of course, or Derek would have already carted me away to the bin and seized the money. As it is, he’ll have to wait. Well—” She sighed, holding her hands out in a gesture of resignation. “Now what shall we do? I suppose I’ll have to wait weeks for Derek to remember to send for a girl, and then she’ll probably have bumps again. You do type, Miss Lane?”
    â€œMiss Lane is not interested in a job,” Hawke said quickly.
    â€œLet her speak for herself, Derek.”
    Her voice was a charming lilt, but it carried unmistakable authority. She made an outrageous figure as she stood there with the tattered fur coat half-covering the violently colored smock. I had been stunned at first, but now the eccentric clothes did not seem to matter. She was fluttery and forgetful, and her conduct probably caused deep grievances in the household, but she was in command, and she knew it. Andrea Hawke had the money, therefore the power, and no one would push her around, not even her nephew.
    â€œI once worked as a secretary to a taxidermist,” I said, truthfully enough. I held the job for three weeks at the age of nineteen until the atmosphere of the place drove me away.
    â€œA taxidermist! I’m against them. Definitely. Dreadful, dreadful state when poor beasts—” She paused, looked at me with a twinkle in her blue eyes, then smiled. “It must have been stuffy work,” she said, her voice dry.
    â€œQuite,” I said, appreciative. Andrea Hawke wasn’t as slow on the uptake as I had first assumed.
    â€œYou don’t believe in it, do you?” she asked.
    â€œDefinitely not. Dreadful business.”
    â€œWould you like to work for a slightly befuddled old lady? I have quite a few cats, but they’re all alive and kicking—”
    â€œAunt Andrea,” Hawke protested, his voice menacing, “I must insist—”
    Andrea Hawke turned to me with a charming smile. “Derek is against the whole idea of my writing these memoirs,” she said, as though speaking of a naughty child. “He’s afraid I’ll tell all the family secrets. He’s so right! Scandal sells—look at those disgusting books my other nephew writes—and there are some delicious scandals to reveal. Did I ever tell you about the countess who stayed here in 1804 and left with a suitcase full of