Wicked Caprice

‘Here?’ She frowned. ‘As in Horsham?’

‘I meant here in England,’ he replied. ‘But you didn’t answer my question: do you prefer the country life?’

‘I suppose I must.’ Isobel hesitated, and then went on reluctantly, ‘I lived in London for a time. After I’d got my degree. But it didn’t work out, and I came back here.’

She guessed he was curious about what she had done while she’d been living in London, but the return of the waitress with the wine forestalled any questions. ‘The lasagne is just coming,’ she said, removing their salad plates, and Patrick poured two glasses of the rich dark liquid and took a sip.

‘Mmm, that’s good,’ he said, pushing Isobel’s glass towards her, and she wondered if she was only imagining the condescension in his tone.

‘For a village pub, you mean?’ she suggested tartly, and he gave her a resigned look.

‘No. By any standards,’ he retorted, watching as she tasted hers. ‘Don’t be so defensive. I’m not an expert.’

‘Is that supposed to be a vindication?’ she exclaimed, though she couldn’t hide her enjoyment of the wine he’d chosen. ‘Are you one of those people who justify their—well, who say, “I know what I like”?’

‘Justify their ignorance?’ he countered at once, disconcerting her now. ‘Let’s stop insulting one another, shall we? Tell me where you worked in London.’

Isobel sighed. She had hoped not to have to discuss her job in London, or the reason why she had left. ‘As a matter of fact, I worked for Aychbourn’s,’ she admitted at last. ‘But I didn’t like it, so I left.’

‘Aychbourn’s? The auctioneers?’ He was impressed.

‘Mmm.’ Isobel wished they could get off the subject. ‘I’m not such a country bumpkin after all.’

‘I never thought you were!’ he exclaimed. ‘Aychbourn’s, eh?’ He frowned. ‘Did you ever meet a man called Charlie Ankrum?’

Isobel moistened her dry lips. ‘Mr Ankrum was my boss,’ she declared stiffly. She might have known Patrick Riker would know him. They were probably two of a kind.