Truth to Tell

By Deborah Sutton

Joanne Lawson tricks her way into a secretarial job with widowed flautist Mark Jenson, little realising the tangle of intrigue she’s walking into. She has her reasons for being less than honest, but Mark has a few dark secrets of his own.

When a fan letter apparently from Mark's dead wife targets Joanne, she realises there is more at stake than being caught in a lie.

Amidst romantic flute music and stormy Cotswold weather, Joanne sets out to uncover the truth. Who is sending the letters from beyond the grave? How can she win Mark’s trust when she lied her way into his life and home?

And is she really falling in love with him, after promising herself she was done with men?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deborah Sutton
• Release date: Aug 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301551170

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Truth to Tell

by

Deborah Sutton

Copyright © 2013 Deborah Sutton

Smashwords Edition

Deborah Sutton has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Chapter One

It was madness.

Joanne Lawson couldn’t imagine what had possessed her.

She peered through rain-spattered spectacles at the hastily scrawled address on the scrap of paper taken from her pocket, then at the faded name-plate to the left of fancy, wrought iron gates.

This was the place, all right.

Adam House: home of Mark Jenson, widower, flautist of some renown, apparently in need of a secretary.

Crumpling the paper into a well-worn ball she thrust it back into her pocket and cowered under her umbrella.

Supposing he found out?

Desperation had brought her this far, and as she quickly thought back over recent events she convinced herself there was no way he could find out.

And it was too good a chance to miss.

It was six months since Clive, the man she’d believed she would marry, had walked out on her. Then two months ago she had lost her job.

Fate, it seemed, was determined to rob her of everything that mattered in her life. Bills were piling up, her typing getting rusty, and her boredom was growing as quickly as her self esteem was shrinking.

In a last ditch attempt to find employment she had been almost at the end of yet another round of the local employment agencies.

Left alone in the office to complete a questionnaire of relevant experience, the sudden ringing of the phone had made her jump. She glanced around and waited, expecting someone to come in and take the call.

No-one did, and the phone kept ringing. Joanne let her hand hover over the receiver. In her last job, before redundancy struck, she had been a receptionist, and it was a denial of rigorous training to allow a phone to ring unanswered.

Eventually, unable to stand it a moment longer, she lifted the receiver. Quickstart Agency, she said, her best sing-song receptionist's voice automatically locking in.

At last, said a male voice. Look, I’m in a bit of a hurry so just take this down would you?

Yes, but-

Good. This is Mark Jenson. I need another secretary. I had to let the last girl go. I’ll be away for a few days so if you can manage it, just send someone round to Adam House next Monday. I know it’s short notice but you’ve always come up trumps before so I’ll leave it in your hands. Tell Alex about it would you?

Mr. Jenson, you don’t understand-

I’m sorry, I really must fly, I’m late already. See what you can do will you? Be in touch.

It was habit that had her reaching for a pen to jot down the address he rattled off, and then guilt that had her stuffing it in her pocket before anyone saw.

Later on she began to see the possibilities for herself. No-one but she knew of the vacancy. That had to increase her chances.

So here she was, on a cold and drizzly Monday morning outside Adam House. Her conscience wagged a disapproving finger as she debated the rights and wrongs of snatching the agency fee from under its nose.

All’s fair in love and work, she declared to the gates, and resolutely rang the bell.

Jenson residence, came an electronic voice. How can we help?

Joanne cleared her throat. Here we go, she thought, crossing her fingers. My name is Joanne Lawson, she said into the metal grill below the bell. I’m here to see Mr. Jenson about a job.

Come through then, the voice told her. Just follow the drive to the house.

There was a loud click as the gates unlocked and Joanne waited as they swung open, then watched, fascinated, as they swung closed behind her.

Trapped. She couldn’t go back now even if she wanted to. Striding with a confidence she didn’t feel, she set off up the winding, tree-lined avenue the voice had called a drive. It was a world away from the modest terraced house she rented her rooms in. True, her bedroom did overlook Pitville Park and she could walk beside the lake whenever she chose, but Mark Jenson seemed to live in his own private park.

On the outskirts of Cheltenham, the house certainly lived up to the promises made by the drive. Covered in a shiny red creeper, it looked like a small manor house, its grey-slate roof glossy from the rain. Mullioned windows reflected autumn-hued trees and Joanne couldn’t help thinking that the bottle-green Jaguar parked in front of the door looked out of place. It really should have been a horse-drawn carriage.

A man stood in the doorway and waved to her as she crunched across the gravel. Hi, he called, welcome.

Thank you. Joanne shook out her umbrella and offered her hand. I’m Joanne-

Lawson. he finished for her, Yes, you said a moment ago. And you’re here about the job. I’m Mark Jenson. He shook her hand and smiled.

His photographs didn’t do him justice. He was younger than her hasty research had led her to believe. His hair was a shiny black with just a hint of grey at the temples and his eyes danced with merry intelligence when he smiled.

She was suddenly very aware that her damp auburn hair was spiralling out of control around her shoulders, that her glasses were steaming up from the heat coming through the open door and that her face was probably flushed. Not the best first impression.

Come on in, he said, there’s just the two of us, I’m afraid. Did the agency tell you what happened?

Err, not exactly.

He nodded as he led the way into a music room. Good. That’s what I like about them. Very discreet. Take your coat off and sit down, then we can talk.

Settling herself beside the log fire, Joanne wiped the mist from her metal-rimmed spectacles and tried to relax. He was not at all what she had imagined.

Dressed casually in black jeans, with a black waistcoat over a blue denim shirt, he wandered over to the bay window and plucked a flute from an upright stand.

At first she thought he was going to play, but instead he waved it in front of him as he paced up and down, like an instrument of punctuation rather than music.

What I need, he said, is some-one who can be discreet. Discretion is very important to me. A sharp jab with the flute indicated just how important this was.

He grinned suddenly as he noticed her eyes, wide with concern behind their lenses, following the movements of the delicate-looking instrument. Don’t worry, they’re tougher than they look, and this one’s not a particularly fine example. Don’t mind me waving it about, it helps me concentrate and it’s better than smoking, or, he added with a pointed look, biting ones nails.

He laughed as Joanne hastily removed her hand from her mouth.

Where was I? he went on, serious again, Oh yes. Discretion. I need someone to sift through the mountain of letters that arrives here every day; sort them out, answer fan-mail, that sort of thing. Not bookings, you understand, my agent does that. It’s the other stuff that needs fielding.

She nodded. So far so good. Is that all, Mr. Jenson?

Oh, Mark, please! We’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other so there’s no point being formal, is there?

Joanne smiled. No, I guess not.

Her research on him had led her to believe he could be somewhat temperamental, difficult to work for and moody. But if he possessed these traits they were, for the moment, well hidden.

The only other thing, he sat opposite her by the fire and leaned forward, is really just general housekeeping. If you keep the place dusted and, well, lived in. You know what I mean.

He flashed his endearing smile again and she nodded. Have you no other staff?

With a shake of his head he pointed the flute in the general direction of the town. Mrs. Welby comes in to cook when I’m home and feeling lazy, and of course there’s my agent who takes care of matters professional, otherwise no.

So you’re wanting a sort of secretary come housekeeper?

Got it in one. I would prefer not to have anyone, but needs must. The only thing I would stress is that this is my home. As I said before, discretion is important to me.

Of course. Joanne agreed.

That means, he suddenly pointed the flute at her, making her flinch. I don’t want you prying into my private quarters.

Her cheeks grew warm as she said indignantly, I can’t imagine why you think I’d want to go in your private quarters.

Really? He seemed surprised. You obviously don’t have your eye on the main chance. And there was I thinking one secretary was pretty much like another.

She sat up straight in her chair, her shoulders square with indignation as she began to revise her opinion of him. The easy agreement of moments ago evaporated, leaving in its wake a very prickly atmosphere. I really don’t know what you mean.

He glanced down at the silver flute resting across his knees and tapped one of the keys with his finger. In the silence of the room it made a tympanic, hollow popping sound. Then he looked up and smiled. Maybe not. If you could just remember to let my private life stay private I’m sure we’ll get along perfectly.

Joanne was not so sure, but felt it best for the moment to let the matter drop. She needed a job, and no-one had said this had to be a life-long contract. I think you’ll find I know how to be discreet, Mr. Jenson, she said stiffly.

With his head on one side he looked rueful. I’ve offended you. I am sorry. But this is very important to me, so I wanted to be direct. The last girl- , he broke off, apparently having second thoughts about telling her. With an apologetic smile he added, I could do with some help, though. Truce?

Joanne stilled her hand midway to her mouth when she caught the twinkle in his eye as he watched her. Folding her hands firmly in her lap she looked straight at him and made her decision.

As if there was any decision to make, she thought, hating the fact that she needed to be agreeable to him. When would you like me to start?

He smiled broadly and gave a triumphant clap with his hands. Excellent. I thought for I minute I’d scared you off. As soon as possible. How about now? The morning mail hasn’t been touched yet and there’s always a stack on Mondays.

Joanne shrugged her shoulders and smiled resignedly. He was wearing his happy face again and despite herself she felt pleased that she had put it there. That’s fine, she said. I’ve no other plans for today.

I was hoping you’d say that. He returned the flute to its stand by the window. "You’ve