Evil Intent by Kate Charles Page A

knew – or knew all too well – to be the least bit appealing.
    Marigold rinsed the mask from her face, climbed out of the tub, towelled herself dry with a fluffy bath sheet, and regarded herself dispassionately in the steamy full-length mirror.
    For her age, she wasn’t bad at all. She took care of herself, and it showed. Even in the glare of the bathroom light, the little lines on her face were not too noticeable. Her body was good: slender still, with taut muscles and abottom free of droop. Her breasts had never been large, and at this point she was glad of it; they didn’t sag as so many of her friends’ now did, unless they resorted to surgery.
    And there was her hair, which had always been her crowning glory. It was, in fact, the source of her name: when she was but a few hours old, her mother had held her and remarked that the aureole of gilt hair with which she’d been born made her look just like a tiny marigold. A few days later her mother was dead of septicaemia, and her light-hearted remark was forever enshrined in her daughter’s name.
    That hair had been truly golden, and thick as well – the envy of her friends. She had worn it long for years, sometimes loose over her shoulders and sometimes swept up in an elegant chignon. In time, though, its brightness had faded. Marigold’s hairdresser, who was very good at his job, had convinced her that rather than trying to retain the colour through artificial means, she should accept the inevitable and go progressively lighter. The process had been gradual if no less artificial, and Marigold’s hair was now a light ash blond, cut flatteringly and stylishly short, and as becoming to her at her stage of life as the luxuriant mane had been in her youth.
    Marigold went through to her bedroom, dressed in a new outfit, and carefully applied her make-up. She checked her watch: she’d lingered overlong in the bath, and Beatrice would be waiting when she arrived at the restaurant.
    At the bottom of the stairs, though, her progress was blocked by her husband, who was just showing his curate to the door.
    ‘The speaker should be very good,’ Vincent was saying. ‘I think it will be worth going.’ Vincent’s voice, which Marigold had once thought beautifully sonorous, now possessed an unattractive hooty quality, though he continued to regard it as a fine instrument.
    ‘Very well, then,’ said Father Jonah. ‘I will meet you there.’
    As Marigold descended towards them, Father Jonah turned and looked at her, his eyes deep black pools. He inclined his head respectfully. ‘Good morning, Mrs Underwood,’ he said with grave courtesy.
    She had to brush past them in the narrow hallway to get to the door. ‘Good morning, Father.’ Her tone was as cool as his.
    But she was suddenly hot – burning as if with one of the hot flushes she’d experienced a few years ago. She slipped out of the door, closed it and stood with her back against it for a moment while she tried to remember to breathe. Unconsciously her hand cupped the arm where his sleeve had brushed against hers.
    In all of her married life, no man had ever had this sort of effect on her.
    Her friends talked about this kind of thing casually. ‘Oh, he just melts me,’ they would say about a new lover.
    She’d never known what they meant until now. Now she knew. At the sight of her husband’s curate, her insides liquified.
    And she didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if he had ever given her any encouragement, or telegraphed availability or interest.
    Quite the opposite, in fact. He was untouchable, reserved, austere. It was, she realised, the same sort of remoteness which had originally drawn her to Vincent – the detachment of one whose character had led him to choose a life of celibacy.
    Whenever they met, he was coolly polite. Nothing more.
    Why, then, did she dream of him at night? Why did she think of him a hundred times during each day?
    When she’d first known Vincent he had been handsome, though his