Читать книгу Guardian to the Heiress - Margaret Way - Страница 7

IT WASN’T THE BEST of times for Selwyn Chancellor. Lying in his massive carved mahogany bed, he was moving in and out of consciousness, lost in a darkening sea of foreboding. Wave upon wave of memories tossed him about. Figures came and went. All the while his fragmented dreams were attended by excruciating pain that morphine was barely touching.

He was dying; he knew that. He welcomed death. It would come as a relief—that from a man who had lived his life refusing to face the fact one day he would die like everybody else. Only, he wasn’t everyone else, was he? He was Selwyn Chancellor, billionaire several times over, a man of power and wide-reaching influence, rich beyond even his own dreams. He had lived and would die a rich man, president of the Chancellor Group, a conglomeration of trading companies, real-estate companies, manufacturing enterprises, transport services and insurance, with investments in many countries around the globe.

The father he had worshipped, Sir Edwin Chancellor, knighted by the Queen for his services to industry, had always urged him to excellence. His father at the end of his days had prophesised his brilliant future: I know I can count on you, Selwyn, to build on my achievements. I leave the Chancellor Group in safe hands.

His father, a legendary hard-nosed pragmatist, had been proud of him. His father’s approval had meant everything in the world to him; but none of that counted now. At the end of his extraordinary life he had been forced to concede the moments of true happiness in his life had been few and far between. He’d known some would genuinely mourn him just as he’d known the minute their family doctor, Harry McDowell, declared him dead “the Vultures” would move in.

“The Vultures” was his private name for his family. Not very nice, but justified. There was his son Maurice, by his deeply reserved wife, Elaine. His son’s wife, Dallas, who had started out so attractive but had quickly gone to seed. At least Elaine had never done that, but Elaine had been unfitted by temperament to be the wife of an increasingly powerful man. To bring her lifestyle traumas to a head, had come the premature death of their beloved son Adam, their first born. Not all that long after, Elaine had ended her own life, though the coronial finding had labelled it an accident.

He knew better. He knew it all. Tragedy had clung to him. Maybe he had brought it on, however unwittingly.

It was Adam who was to have succeeded him; Adam who had all the necessary skills and strength of character to step into his shoes. Maurice, his younger son, had always lived in Adam’s shadow, never effective enough in any of the family businesses, too indolent and too greedy to strike out on his own. The same could be said of Maurice’s son—his playboy grandson Troy—who, of all of them, had taken the most pleasure in watching him die. Oh, the boy had covered it well, even feigning sorrow, but Selwyn could read his grandson like a book. Troy was and always would be hungry for money. Not that all three of them wouldn’t have their hands out for their share. He knew there would be plenty of in-fighting. Blood was thinner than water when it came to money.

In a moment of blessed clarity he saw the stocky white-clad nurse move away from the window, checking her watch. Time for another injection. The woman had an obsession with punctuality. He saw her place her tray on the bedside table then pick up a syringe, flicking it to expel air, preparatory to injecting the powerful drug into his near-useless arm. She was about to jab him when he summoned up all his remaining strength, startling her so badly she let out a shriek. A fruit bat couldn’t have done it any better.

“Leave it, woman. Leave me be. Go away.”

Her mouth opened and closed like a beached fish, but whatever she wanted to say she thought better of it. No words emerged. He supposed, with bitter humour, she could understand his family’s wishing to be rid of the old tyrant. She wasn’t such a fool that she wouldn’t have cottoned on to the fact his family was a seething cauldron of emotions. Over the past week of his serious decline he had witnessed those emotions coming to a rolling boil. One of them could even take it into their head to finish him off; an overdose of a powerful drug would be especially tempting. A soft pillow held down just long enough?

“Well, then, what are you waiting for?” he rasped.

“Doctor McDowell will be here around two.” She spoke in a reproachful way.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

A flash of hostility came into her eyes. “You’ll be requiring another injection well before that, sir.”

“Don’t get lippy with me, woman. Get out of here. If you allow any member of my family into this room, it means instant dismissal.”

A sweat had broken out on the nurse’s forehead. She was extremely well-paid, well-housed and well-fed. No one had wanted to look after the old man. “Is there anything I can do before I go?”

“Wh-a-t?” Selwyn Chancellor had all but forgotten her. “No. Just go.”

The nurse went, wearing an aggrieved face.

Alone, all alone, on a storm-tossed sea.

One was always alone when dying. He could hear his own laboured breathing. Maybe death was freedom? Nice to think so. Maybe he would meet up again with the people he had loved and lost. Maybe they would come for him? The thought made him smile. And as he smiled he was granted one last vision…

“These are for you, Poppy.” A beautiful little girl, five years old with a crown of ruby-red curls, put a posy of spring flowers into his hand.

“They’re lovely, sweetheart!” he exclaimed, burying his nose in the fragrant offering, knowing he was risking a barrage of sneezes. “Thank you so much.”

“I love you, Poppy,” she told him, dancing around happily. Carol was never still. Little Carol, the only person in the world to love him unreservedly.

“I love you, too, my darling,” he said with perfect sincerity. He was seated out on the rear terrace, finishing off a last cup of coffee before setting off for the city. Time to go. He stood up, a tall, vigorous man, taking her soft little hand.

“What are you going to do today?” he asked. It was a Saturday. He knew her mother, Roxanne, wouldn’t bother taking her anywhere. The proverbial cat was a better mother than Roxanne, but he had employed an excellent nanny, a highly qualified, pleasant, middle-aged woman, experienced with looking after children. She and Carol got on famously.

“Can’t you and Daddy stay home and be with me, Poppy?” she implored.

“Not possible, sweetheart,” he said, brushing a hand over her springy curls. “Your father and I have business to attend to. Important business.”

“Can’t it wait?” She was impatient.

“Afraid not,” he said, casting around for something to appease her. “What about tomorrow? We could take a run out to Beaumont. How would that suit you?” He would have to make the time and effort, but his granddaughter was worth it.

She clapped her hands, looking up at him with sparkling cerulean-blue eyes. “That would be wonderful. You’re the best poppy in the whole wide world,” she announced, picking up his large hand and kissing it…

He couldn’t suppress a sob. Tears stung his eyes. It hadn’t been all that much longer before his little sweetheart had disappeared from his life along with his son Adam. His emotions had changed rapidly, savagely, from a reasonable contentment to a grief-stricken hatred. But he had kept his eye on his granddaughter, albeit from afar. Powerful as he then was, a mother had proved to be more powerful. But he had seen to it his little Carol was well provided for. The treacherous Roxanne had remarried a City identity, Jeff Emmett, a scant eighteen months after Adam’s death, but she had gone on sending him all the bills pertaining to Carol’s upkeep. Greed. As Adam’s widow, she had benefited greatly. He had paid up unquestioningly. Hadn’t he built up scrapbook after scrapbook of Carol’s young life and achievements over the years? He had watched her from a distance, locked away in the back seat of his Rolls. He’d had his best, most discreet private investigator keep an eye on her, her mother and stepfather.

A year before, when he had found out he had cancer—and not gall trouble, as he had supposed—he had called in a solicitor. Not steady-as-she-goes Marcus Bradfield, senior partner of Bradfield Douglass, but the new young fellow—the associate, Damon Hunter—the one who had come up with all the fresh ideas to save his companies’ money. It was Hunter who had drawn up his new will. Selwyn had urged him to get shot of Bradfield Douglass and go out on his own, though he was sure in time the young man would be offered a full partnership. It could be no more than his due.

He’d had plenty of experience picking the ones who would go to the top. Nevertheless he’d had Hunter thoroughly investigated. He had come up trumps in all departments. Hunter was chosen to guard Carol’s money and her interests until she turned twenty-one the following August. God knew, Hunter was young himself, but he had been when he’d started to make his mark. Hunter was his man.

Carol was family more than anyone else. Carol was Adam’s daughter, Adam’s only child. Adam had planned on more children, only life had cheated all three of them—most of all his sad, sweet Elaine. It was his turn now to cheat the gathering Vultures.

In his very last moments, Selwyn Chancellor was rewarded with another vision of his granddaughter, the last time he had seen her. Had she looked across the busy city street, she would have spotted the luxury car but she had been too busy chatting to one of her girlfriends, a fellow university student he had seen her with several times. She looked so beautiful, so vital, and beyond that so happy, a sense of peace had settled on him. He had always blamed himself—at least in part—for the way things had turned out, but now he felt a burden was lifted from his shoulders. He trusted Damon Hunter to look after Carol’s best interests and he wasn’t a man given to trust.

He had to be hallucinating—his poor head was so sick and muddled—but he fancied he saw his little Elaine come to stand at the end of his bed. His immediate reaction was to hold out his hand.

“Is that you, Elaine?” he whispered, straining upwards.

She didn’t speak, but she drew nearer, like the spirit appointed to take care of his soul.

His vision grew clearer. It was Elaine. She was shining, a silver haze surrounding her. He wasn’t afraid; he was eager to join her.

Selwyn Chancellor reached out to take his wife’s hand.

A farewell to arms.