Читать книгу In Bed With...Collection - Emma Darcy - Страница 47

CHAPTER FIVE

BEAU stood under the shower, willing the hard spray of water to beat out the sexual edginess Maggie Stowe had implanted. The woman was a witch. His grandfather had obviously been enchanted by her and she had Sedgewick curled around her little finger, too. Not to mention the rest of the household staff; Wallace singing her praises, Mr. Polly bringing her roses, Mrs. Featherfield star-struck by her stunning beauty.

No doubt about it, she cast a powerful spell.

Beau savagely promised himself he would not fall victim to it.

She’d had him captivated at the start but he wouldn’t go under like that again. He was wise to her now. Maggie Stowe was out for all she could get. If she thought she could turn him into another godfather, making beautiful things happen for her, she’d find herself frustrated at every turn.

It was bad enough that his grandfather had blindly doted on her. Beau was glad there’d been no physical intimacy between them. Not that he would have begrudged his grandfather the right to have his sexual needs satisfied. A man was a man, regardless of age. But taking a woman as young as Maggie Stowe was a bit much for Beau’s stomach. She could only be in her twenties.

Though she certainly knew how to use her assets! No grass growing under those expensively shod feet. The question was...how much hay had she made during the two sunshine years of prettily playing pet daughter to a besotted old man who had the means to indulge her every whim?

Making things more beautiful for him...huh! Making herself more beautiful with nice little items of jewellery would be her line. He’d bet his boots on it. Lucky his grandfather hadn’t adopted her legally. A fine old mess that would have made of the will. As it was, she didn’t have a leg to stand on in claiming anything apart from a year’s free housing and wages.

Though God knew what she’d picked up in gifts while his grandfather was alive. Well, he was about to look into that. She’d invited him to make discreet inquiries before leaping to unwarranted conclusions. Little mistake there. Beau was going to make exhaustive inquiries and he didn’t care whose feet he trod on in getting to the truth. If she expected him to be a gentleman of the old ilk, overlooking unpleasant little realities, she was in for a few nasty shocks!

He stepped out of the shower with all mental motors running. While he dressed he telephoned the family solicitor and the firm of accountants who handled his grandfather’s finances, giving fair warning of an imminent visit from him. He didn’t want condolences. He didn’t want any pussyfooting around the situation. He wanted answers, and woe betide anyone who didn’t have them ready for him.

The ride into the city from Vaucluse was accomplished in brooding silence. Wallace, possibly advised by Sedgewick to keep his mouth shut unless called upon to answer questions, offered no comment about anything, and Beau didn’t care to have any interruption to the plan of action fermenting in his brain.

The solicitor’s offices were in Philip Street. Once there, he told Wallace not to wait around. He’d catch taxis wherever else he wanted to go. Privately, he didn’t want Wallace reporting his every move to Nanny Stowe.

Beau was ushered straight into Lionel Armstrong’s executive suite, greeted warmly by the man himself, and offered refreshments which he declined. They sat in leather chairs across a magnificent mahogany desk and Beau tried to repress the feeling he was dealing with a self-satisfied man who needed stirring.

Lionel Armstrong was just a bit too sleekly well-fed for his liking. The man was in his fifties, handsome in a heavy-set way, vainly proud of his thick white hair which was carefully styled and groomed, and he made almost a fetish of the trappings of success.

“Well, Beau, I’m happy to say there are no tricky problems with your grandfather’s estate. Vivian made a straightforward will and the process towards probate is in hand.”

“I’m glad you consider it straightforward, Lionel. I consider it somewhat surprising. Firstly, I thought he would have made more provision for those who had been with him longest.”

“Ah, you mean the faithful four. No need for concern on their behalf. Sedgewick, Mrs. Featherfield, Wallace and Mr. Polly have been well taken care of. Your grandfather set up superannuation funds for them. John Neville, the head accountant can fill you in on those. I believe the settlement for each one after the stipulated year is up will be well into six figures.”

“And Margaret Stowe?”

“The nanny?” Lionel looked amused.

Beau was not amused. “Yes. The nanny who has a year’s grace along with the others.”

“Oh, that was one of Vivian’s little quirks. Wouldn’t be talked out of it. Said the others depended on her to do the right thing. And I must say she did a splendid job of organising the funeral. Splendid!”

“The cost of which was claimed against the estate?”

“Of course. Everything in order. All accounts checked. If you’re going to see John Neville, he’ll show you.”

“Fine. Does Nanny Stowe have a superannuation fund, too?”

“Every permanent employee on the estate has. It’s the law. However, since she’ll only be in service for three years altogether, it will not amount to much. Nothing there for you to worry about.”

“I’d like to see her file.”

Lionel frowned. “What file?”

“You know and I know my grandfather kept a file on all his employees. References, résumés, and any other information that seemed pertinent. It was your responsibility to run a check on them. For live-in staff taking up positions of trust, it was a mandatory precaution.”

“True.” His mouth twisted over the word. He leaned back in his chair, linked his hands across his stomach, and viewed Beau with a wry expression. “I have no answer to the mystery of Margaret Stowe.”

Beau’s sense of anticipation turned into unpleasant tension. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Ask me for a file on anyone else and I can supply it. All I can give you on Margaret Stowe is a copy of her birth certificate. It states she was a foundling. The informant is a doctor and apparently he gave an estimated date of birth. No parents. No witnesses.”

“Where did her name come from then?”

“Perhaps a note was pinned to the baby. Perhaps the doctor or a nurse gave it to her. Nobody knows. The doctor died eight years ago. He operated from a home surgery. The house burnt down and all his medical records were destroyed. That line of investigation came to a dead end. As did every other line.” He unlinked his hands to gesture helplessly. “It was as though Margaret Stowe lived in a vacuum until her meeting with your grandfather.”

“Oh, come on. You expect me to believe that?” It was looking like a straight case of dereliction of duty to Beau.

“It’s the truth,” came the hasty assurance.

“You must have put a private investigator onto her,” Beau pressed, not prepared to accept a whitewash.

“With zero results. Apart from her birth certificate, she had no official existence. She had never filed a tax return, never owned a credit card. No record of education or employment...”

“What about social security? She could have been raking in unemployment benefits.”

“She was not listed on any register. No passport. No driver’s licence. I assure you, every avenue of information was thoroughly checked. More than once. When the first investigator failed to uncover anything, I hired another. With no better outcome.”

Someone has always kept her, Beau thought. She’s probably had a string of godfathers since her teens.

Lionel Armstrong shrugged off the failure. “Her known life began the night Vivian met her and offered her the job as his nanny.”

“Well, she very conveniently sprang alive then,” Beau commented acidly. “How did he meet her?”

“He said she was selling roses.”

Beau barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Maggie Stowe had done her homework on Vivian Prescott. He’d been her mark and he’d fallen for her; hook, line, and sinker.

“What did my grandfather say when you put it to him that you could collect no background on her?”

“He laughed and dismissed it as of no importance.”

Lionel Armstrong’s laissez-faire attitude niggled Beau. “Didn’t you argue with him? Point out the dangers?” he accused more than asked.

“Naturally. But to no effect. Your grandfather did have a mind of his own, Beau, and there was no changing it on Margaret Stowe.”

Bewitched, Beau thought broodingly.

“In fact, he said something I’ve never forgotten,” the solicitor went on musingly. “And I must say, he did seem to have taken on a new lease of life.”

“What were the unforgettable words?’ Beau demanded tersely, unable to suppress his frustration over getting nothing tangible to hang on Maggie Stowe.

“I think Vivian revelled in her nonentity status. He said, “ ‘She’s going to be my creation, Lionel. And very possibly my salvation.“’ And his eyes were twinkling in that impish way he had.”

“Salvation?”

The solicitor shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe he thought he’d found an angel.”

“If she sprouts wings, I’ll start believing it,” Beau said caustically. He’d had enough talk of angels.

“Disturbs you, does she?” The solicitor eyed him with speculative interest.

“I don’t like mysteries,” Beau growled.

“Well, perhaps being such an experienced explorer, you’ll dig it out.”

Beau intended to, one way or another.

After he left the solicitor’s office, he stopped at a street café to grab some lunch and chew over what he’d learnt so far. Which wasn’t much. Maggie Stowe was twenty-eight years old and she was the only one who could tell him about herself. It would probably be a stack of lies he’d get from her but at least he could have the lies checked.

He’d blundered in being too direct this morning, putting her offside. He would have to smooth that over this evening, lull her into feeling he accepted her at face value. It would be stupid to give offence again. Better to charm the information out of her. Let her think she was winning.

He thought briefly of dropping in at the head office of the travel agency he’d established in Australia. It was hardly urgent. Helen Carter had been running the business efficiently for the past three years. It was a courtesy to tell her he was back home again, but it could wait another day. He was too obsessed with Maggie Stowe to give Helen or anything else his undivided attention.

The firm of accountants was housed in the MLC building, right in the city centre. With clients as wealthy as Vivian Prescott, they could well afford such premises. Beau thought of all the parking stations and lots his grandfather owned—he now owned—around Sydney. With traffic the way it was, and ownership of cars always on the up and up, the business of providing parking was probably the most solid investment of all in a fast-moving world.

Beau had no intention of interfering with it. John Neville and his associates had been handling the family finances for many years and were very proficient at it. They earned their fees. Beau had no doubt everything would be in order on the business side. It was his grandfather’s personal expenses over the past two years that interested him, particularly in regard to their connection with Maggie Stowe.

John Neville was happy to oblige him with this information. He was a small, neat, precise man, proud of his meticulous bookkeeping. For some reason. Beau found Neville’s bald head reassuring. His gold-rimmed spectacles also seemed to add an air of no-nonsense professionalism.

“Miss Stowe’s salary was generous.” He pointed out the figure from the wages book. “But, as you can see, not outrageously so, considering she was always on call. Never had days off.”

“Never?”

“Not even a vacation. Vivian took her everywhere with him and he paid for what he called her appearance clothes out of his own pocket. Naturally, he used credit cards. Everything he bought for Miss Stowe to wear has been itemised.”

He passed over a detailed printout for Beau to peruse. Dresses, suits, hats, shoes, handbags...practically all designer wear if the steep cost was anything to go by.

“As you know, your grandfather enjoyed a very full social calendar with his many charities and he liked Miss Stowe to shine at his side.”

“From the look of this, she certainly shone. What about jewellery?”

“Rented for any big occasion. Miss Stowe would not accept jewellery from your grandfather. In fact, she sold some of the evening gowns Vivian didn’t want her to wear again and returned the price she got to us. All properly docketed. The accounts for the funeral were scrupulously kept, as well.”

“No discrepancies?’ Beau queried. His ”feathering her nest” theory was being shot down and that didn’t make sense to him.

“None,” came the firm reply.

“Nothing missing?” Beau pressed.

John Neville looked uncomfortable. “There is and there isn’t. I find it very vexing. Nothing I could do about it but I strongly dislike not having everything accounted for.”

“Please explain,” Beau encouraged, his interest sparked again.

“Oh, it has nothing to do with Miss Stowe.” He beetled a frown over his glasses. “Vivian could be a very wilful man. When he didn’t want to take advice, he wouldn’t.”

Beau had more or less heard the same from Lionel Armstrong and the matter was very definitely connected to Maggie Stowe. He waited for John Neville to enlighten him further.

“He came in one day, about two months before his death, and asked me to get him a million dollars in cash.”

Two months before his grandfather’s death rang a bell in Beau’s brain. That was when his last will and testament had been made...including Margaret Stowe.

John Neville pursed his lips in disapproval. “Now that amount of money one simply does not carry around in cash. Legitimate transactions are all paperwork. Naturally I inquired the reason for such a request.”

“And the answer?’ Beau prompted.

“He said it was his money and he could do what he liked with it and it was none of my business.” The affront of that statement coloured John Neville’s voice. “I could not shake him into telling me what he wanted it for. He stubbornly insisted I get the cash for him. I had no other choice. It was his money.”

“Did you find out where it went?”

He dolefully shook his head. “I expected it to turn up. A purchase. A land deal. Something. I looked for it. I even asked around in certain circles. Very discreetly, of course. Not a trace, not a hint. I can show you the paperwork attached to the handing over of the million dollars to your grandfather. He took it. I have witnesses to his taking it. But what he did with it was, and still is, a complete mystery.”

Beau now had two mysteries.

The case of the woman from nowhere.

The case of the missing million.

He also had a very strong conviction...find out the background of Maggie Stowe and he’d find the missing million.