The Housekeeper's One-Night Baby
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Sharon Kendrick
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PROLOGUE
‘LEAVING?’ LIZZIE’S FINGERS tightened around the phone and a pebble of fear hit the pit of her stomach as she listened to her employer’s words. ‘I... I don’t understand.’
‘It’s quite simple, Lizzie.’ Sylvie’s cut-crystal accent slowed as if she were talking to someone very stupid. ‘The house is going to have to be sold. There’s someone coming to look at it next week, as it happens. That’s the beginning and the end of it, I’m afraid.’
‘But...’ Lizzie’s words tailed off as the fear inside her grew heavier.
There were things she wanted to say but she didn’t know how, because she wasn’t the sort of person who was confident about logical argument—especially with employers. She knew her boundaries. She was good at dusting and cleaning, and painting pictures of animals—dogs, preferably. She’d been brought up never to question the person who was paying your cheque, because security was all-important.
But Sylvie hadn’t paid her, had she? Lizzie had been subsisting on what remained of her savings for months. Meanwhile her boss had been vague in that charming way the upper classes had—of making you feel as if you should be grateful for what seemed like their friendship. Only it wasn’t really friendship. A friend would never leave you high and dry with barely any warning. A friend would never take advantage of you without a second thought. She sucked in a deep breath.
So tell her. Make her realise what this means to you.
‘But that means I won’t have anywhere to live,’ she objected quietly.
Sylvie injected a note of faux understanding into her plummy voice. ‘I realise that,’ she said consolingly. ‘But you’re a hard worker, Lizzie. You’re bound to find a job with accommodation, just like you did with me. And I’ll write you a glowing reference, you can be sure of that. There’s really nothing to worry about.’
Lizzie swallowed. This next bit was harder, because her mother had always taught her that talking about money was vulgar. But what price vulgarity if the cupboards were bare? ‘But you owe me money,’ she croaked, her cheeks flushing hotly. ‘I haven’t had anything for over three months now.’
‘Yes. Bit of a cashflow problem, I’m afraid. Look, I’m not going to promise something I can’t deliver, Lizzie—so how about you have a good hunt around the house and take anything you want, in lieu of payment? None of the antiques, obviously—but you’ll find plenty of last season’s clothes, which I won’t be wearing again. You could flog them on the Internet and make yourself a small fortune—isn’t that what people do these days? Listen, darling, I have to go—there’s a car waiting. I just want to say thanks for everything, and could you make sure the house is super-tidy for next Wednesday? Someone called Niccolò Macario is coming to buy it, hopefully. Some super-hot Italian billionaire, apparently.’ Sylvie gave a throaty laugh. ‘What a pity I won’t be there.’
