Facade [antikvár]

CHAPTER ONE A poised, sophisticated woman stared back from her bedroom mirror. Sorrel was well pleased with her reflection; it had been hard won. Downstairs Roderick Drury had announced his arrival. She let him wait—sophisticated women, she had learned, did not rush to any man's bidding. She checked the perfection of her make-up, her hands smoothing the elegant skirt to the well cut suit she had on. But a warmth, that had no part in her new image, was to trip her up as she thought of the man who had made it possible for her to have the expensive apartment that went with her recently acquired expensive clothes. Dear old Mr Ollerenshaw, she thought, recalling that she had been the only one to fight back tears at his funeral. She, apparently, the old one to regret the passing of the worn old ex-scrap metal merchant who had been far more wealthy than she had ever realised. Warmth went from her as that thought was followed by the memory of the fuss his daughter had kicked up when she had learned the contents of his will. That Cynthia Armitage had inherited the greater part of his fortune had been neither here nor there when Cynthia had gone for her. Indeed, so livid had her employer been that she had screeched a whole volley of spiteful invective at her before she had pitched Sorrel out on her ear. Had it not been for Mr Ollerenshaw's specific wish