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messages on your machine without success, so I took a chance on finding you in.’ Cold gold eyes took in Jo’s dressing gown and bare feet, then lingered on Leo’s arm, which was still firmly round her waist. He held out a hand. ‘March Clement.’
    Leo dropped his arm to shake hands, smiling cheerfully. ‘Hi—Leo Carey.’ He kissed Jo’s cheek. ‘Must dash, love. By the way, birth weight and name, please. Mother’s hot on that kind of thing.’
    ‘Seven pounds,’ said Jo. ‘And he’s Thomas John. Enjoy the fatted calf, then, and come again soon.’
    ‘Will do.’ He nodded to March, who stood aside to hold the door for him. ‘Goodnight all.’
    March closed the door and stood with his back to it. He wore a leather jacket and jeans as well worn as young Dr Carey’s, and a look on his face she objected to. ‘I apologise for intruding,’ he said at last, breaking the hostile silence.
    ‘Why did you?’ she said stonily.
    ‘After my lack of success with the telephone it seemed the only option.’ His eyes held hers. ‘Did you get my messages?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘But you didn’t pick up. Why?’
    ‘Isn’t that obvious?’
    ‘Tell me anyway.’
    ‘I didn’t want to speak to you.’ She shrugged. ‘I still don’t, Lord Arnborough.’
    His mouth twisted. ‘It’s just a title, Joanna. I’m still the same man.’
    ‘Rubbish,’ she spat at him with sudden heat. ‘You’re the umpteenth Baron Arnborough. And I assume the “sort of flat” you live in is a suite of apartments roped off from the public at the Hall. No wonder you laughed when I said I’d like to marry the heir! But now you are here, put me straight.’
    He moved closer. ‘About what?’
    ‘Why did you lie?’
    ‘The same reason you did, Joanna. I wanted someone to like me for myself, not for my blasted title and my stately home.’ His eyes hardened. ‘Just as you kept your name secret in case I fancied your father’s money more than you.’
    Jo shivered, suddenly aware of bare feet and cold tiled floor.
    March startled her by picking her up. She stiffened like a board as he carried her into the parlour and put her down on the sofa. ‘Your feet must be freezing.’ He would have chafed them, but Jo had curled them up under the robe in knee-jerk rejection. ‘So how did you find out?’ he demanded, standing back.
    ‘On my first visit to—to your home,’ she began, ‘your Victorian forebears looked familiar. They reminded me of someone. So on Sunday I drove back to the Hall and went straight to the portrait gallery. I realised that the someone was your brother. Further on I saw the portrait of your mother, and then a photograph of the heir at eighteen—the Honourable March Aubrey Clement himself. You were a handsome lad,’ she added.
    He shrugged. ‘Hetty and I take after our mother, Rufus after the male line—though he’s the first to have artistic leanings, and he was delicate as a child. Father wanted Rufus to studyLand Management like me, so he could pitch in and do his share one day. But in the end Rufus had his own way and did his Fine Art course. By that time I was working for a Home Counties firm, looking after other people’s venerable buildings. But when my father died I returned home and buckled down to the full-time job of looking after my own.’
    ‘That must take some doing,’ she said stiffly.
    ‘It’s a full-time occupation,’ he agreed. ‘Like so many of my breed, my assets far exceed my cash flow. By the time my father inherited, the Hall was in a pretty bad way. But with various grants and the agricultural returns from the family acres he started up a restoration programme that’s still going on to some extent.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Father also had the great good fortune to marry a lady who not only possessed intelligence and beauty, but a wealthy father. So at times of crisis through the years my grandfather gave a helping hand.’ He raised an eyebrow as the doorbell rang. ‘Are you expecting