Читать книгу Satan's Contract - SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Страница 5

‘WELL, I think that all went off rather well,’ Sir Charles remarked with satisfaction as the sleek black limousine pulled away from the small country churchyard. ‘Quiet, but very tasteful. I think George would have wanted it that way.’

‘You mean you wanted it that way,’ cut in Pippa acidly. ‘At least you did when you thought everything was coming to you. I bet if you’d realised Shaun Morgan was going to get it you’d have splashed out on the biggest bash since the launching of the Queen Mary.’

‘Oh, dear...Philippa!’ her mother protested, desperate to avoid a clash. ‘Please—you can’t start arguing with your father—not on an occasion like this.’

‘He’s such a damned hypocrite!’ she muttered, sitting back in her corner and shaking off her mother’s restraining hand. ‘He’s not the least bit upset that Gramps is dead. The only thing he’s bothered about is finding some way of keeping Shaun from getting his hands on the money.’

‘And that I shall succeed in doing, I assure you,’ Sir Charles insisted with arrogant assurance.

‘Oh, yes? How? From what he said, he’s got all the proof he needs that he’s Gramps’s son—and you’ll have a hard time proving you need maintenance out of the estate.’

The car was passing the railings of the cemetery, and through the trees she could catch a glimpse of a tall figure still lingering at the graveside, fair head pensive but unbowed. He had stood like that all through the service, not looking at her or her parents—except for just once, towards the end, when she had stepped forward to toss a spray of lilac, clipped from one of Gramps’s favourite trees, into the grave. Then those level hazel-brown eyes had caught hers, just for a brief moment, before she had turned away.

He looked very different in that well-cut grey suit he was wearing. When she had seen him this morning she would have sworn that he never wore anything but those faded, well-worn jeans, but she had to admit he looked good in the more formal attire—though the tailored elegance of the cut did nothing to tame the ruggedness of that powerful masculine frame.

It had been inevitable that people would notice his striking resemblance to Gramps, and there had been a considerable amount of whispering and speculation during the service—not entirely in keeping with the solemnity of the occasion. Well, everyone would find out soon enough who he was, she reflected—though from what she had overheard, a good many people had already guessed.

What sort of life had he led in Canada? What line of business had he been in? Her father had told her that Gramps had paid his mother maintenance when he was a child, but she doubted that he had been able to give him much financial support beyond that—her grandmother would have seen to that.

In fact he had every reason for his bitterness towards her grandmother—she was more than ready to acknowledge that. Maybe it was little wonder that he should have assumed that she was tarred with the same brush.

* * *

Most of the people who had been at the church had come up to the house. There were only about twenty or so—representatives from the board of directors of Morgan & Co, and a few local people who had some claim to be called friends of the family.

As usual it fell to Pippa to act as hostess, circulating among the guests, accepting their conventional expressions of condolence—her mother had already resorted to the sherry bottle to sustain her through the ordeal, and was looking a little frayed.

A sudden hush in the conversation alerted her, and she glanced towards the door, catching her breath on a small shock as Shaun walked into the room. He had arrived with Mr Gibbons, the solicitor, who was looking rather less than happy at being involved in such an awkward situation.

Pippa glanced round swiftly to check how her father was reacting. Surely he wouldn’t be so crass as to make a scene in public? Unfortunately there was no guarantee of that—when Sir Charles Corbett lost his temper, he was inclined to forget all considerations of dignity and decency.

Shaun’s broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorway as he stood for a moment on the threshold, the slightly sardonic curve to his mouth suggesting that he was faintly amused by the stir he was creating. Pippa heard her father’s hissing intake of breath, and moved swiftly to intervene, crossing the room to greet the newcomer with a smile of easy welcome.

‘Good afternoon. Thank you for coming. Can I offer you some sherry? Or something stronger, perhaps?’

Those hazel-brown seemed to regard her with a hint of cool mockery. ‘Thank you—sherry will do, so long as it’s not too sweet.’

‘Oh, no—this one’s quite dry,’ she assured him. ‘My mother has the sweet one.’

He slanted a speculative glance in that direction. ‘So I see,’ he murmured, a flicker of quizzical amusement passing behind his eyes. ‘Is she planning to go through the whole bottle?’

Pippa flushed slightly. ‘I expect so,’ she acknowledged wryly. ‘I don’t know how she can stand the stuff myself—it tastes like syrup.’

‘Each to their own taste,’ he responded drily. ‘I trust you’ve fully recovered from your fall this morning?’

Her smile wavered slightly, but she managed to keep it in place. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she responded lightly. ‘It was such a stupid thing to do, riding like that in the lane. I was lucky it was no worse.’

Now there was no mistaking the mockery. ‘The luck was all mine,’ he taunted, letting his eyes slide deliberately down over the ripe swell of her breasts beneath the silk of her blouse.

She caught her breath, her cheeks flushing a deep pink—she hadn’t expected him to be so blunt as to remind her of that. She turned to the solicitor, struggling to maintain her composure. ‘Mr Gibbons—some sherry?’

A heavy tread warned of her father’s approach. ‘Couldn’t wait five minutes to get your feet under the table, could you, Morgan?’ he grated belligerently. ‘Come to take inventory, to see we don’t remove anything we’re not entitled to, have you?’

Shaun turned slowly, his level brows lifted in sardonic question. ‘I’m quite sure you wouldn’t do anything like that,’ he responded, those hazel-brown eyes—the living image of Gramps’s—glinting with mocking humour. ‘I imagine it would constitute theft.’ He slanted an enquiring glance at the solicitor. ‘Isn’t that right?’

‘Oh...quite,’ that embarrassed gentleman confirmed quickly.

‘You’d better not start counting your chickens,’ Sir Charles advised in a blustering tone. ‘The battle’s not over yet.’

‘On the contrary—Mr Gibbons advises me that there should be no difficulty in obtaining letters of administration. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks. And if you have any ideas of attempting to intervene,’ he added, his voice menacingly soft, ‘I really would advise you to think again.’

Sir Charles had turned an ominous shade of purple, ready to explode. Pippa was acutely conscious that everyone in the room was listening to the conversation with undisguised interest—everyone except her mother, whose attention was focused solely on the remaining sherry in her bottle. Her plaintive voice cut inconsequentially into the taut silence.

‘Charles, you really will have to bring up some more of this Oloroso,’ she declared, her careful diction not quite concealing the slur in her voice. ‘I really can’t think where it all goes.’

Someone tittered with embarrassed laughter, and Pippa closed her eyes for a brief moment, wishing devoutly that the ground could just open up and swallow her. With a snort of rage, Sir Charles turned on his heel, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door viciously behind him.

‘Oh...’ Lady Corbett blinked, startled. It had finally impinged on her blurred consciousness that something was amiss, but she wasn’t at all sure what it was. She glanced around rather anxiously, afraid that she might have committed some faux pas. ‘I...I didn’t necessarily mean right now...’ she protested vaguely.

Shaun’s eyes still held a faintly mocking smile. He handed his glass back to Pippa. ‘I guess I’ve already overstayed my welcome,’ he drawled, an inflexion of sardonic humour in his voice. ‘Mr Gibbons, if you happen to be going my way, I’d sure appreciate a lift.’

‘Of...of course.’ The solicitor looked as if his tie was too tight.

‘Thank you. Well, good afternoon, Miss Corbett.’ The smile was blandly polite. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. I look forward to meeting you again.’

For a moment Pippa could only stand rooted to the spot, staring after him as he left the room. But then suddenly it seemed as if she had been released from some strange spell, and, putting down the tray of sherry glasses on a convenient table, she ran out after him.

‘Shaun—wait!’

Halfway across the panelled hall he paused, glancing back, one eyebrow lifted in mocking enquiry.

She hesitated, awkwardly wondering how to follow up on her impulsive action. ‘I just...I wanted to apologise for what my father said to you this morning,’ she stammered. ‘It was quite abominable of him.’

The hard glint in his eyes as he subjected her to a lazy appraisal seemed to turn her blood to ice. ‘Well, Miss Corbett—this sudden change in your attitude towards me is very interesting,’ he taunted in that soft, laconic drawl. ‘What brought it on, I wonder? Trying to play your grandmother’s game?’

She stared up at him, bewildered. ‘I...I don’t know what you mean?’

‘Don’t you?’ His eyes hardened perceptibly. ‘The Corbetts never have had any time for anyone whose breeding didn’t match their own—unless they found themselves in need of funds. Your grandmother was more than willing to prostitute herself by marrying my father for his money—maybe it’s occurred to you to do the same.’

His words struck her like a slap in the face. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ she protested, furious. ‘I wouldn’t touch you with a barge-pole!’

He laughed softly, taking her chin between his fingers and turning her face up to study it from several angles, as if she were one of the chattels of the estate he had just inherited. ‘Not bad,’ he murmured with an air of cool detachment. ‘The pedigree is unmistakable, of course—every inch a Corbett. It could be quite interesting to break you to bridle.’

She slapped his hand away. ‘You won’t get the chance!’

‘No?’ Those hazel-brown eyes were regarding her in amused speculation. ‘We’ll see. It would be good to take a little revenge on your family.’ A hard edge had crept into his voice. ‘Your grandmother’s behaviour prevented my father from ever supporting my mother properly—she had to struggle by on a pittance until the day she died. That’s something I won’t ever forget or forgive. And I’ve never been allowed to get to know him, either—the last time I saw him was more than fifteen years ago, at my mother’s funeral.’

‘Well, whose fault was that?’ Pippa retorted, refusing to let herself be swayed. ‘You chose to go off to Canada—’

‘Because it was more than obvious that I was a constant thorn in the old witch’s side—for which she made my father pay with every breath he drew.’

‘My grandmother died six years ago,’ she pointed out, cool blue eyes regarding him with disdain. ‘You could have visited after that.’

His eyes glinted dangerously. ‘I tried,’ he said. ‘I came to England two years ago with just that intention, but Charles wouldn’t let me into the house.’

She laughed in scorn. ‘If you’re trying to tell me you couldn’t have got past my father...!’

He lifted his eyebrows in faint surprise. ‘What do you suggest I should have done? Knocked him down? I must admit I considered it, very seriously.’

Silently reserving that she would have enjoyed seeing it, she shrugged one slim shoulder in a gesture of unconcern. ‘Well, you couldn’t wait to get here as soon as he was dead,’ she tossed at him coldly.

‘Of course,’ he returned, immune to her poison darts. ‘Wouldn’t you have expected me to come to my own father’s funeral?’

‘And to throw us out of our home,’ she added hotly. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not gloating over that.’

‘I don’t suppose you’re likely to believe that I had no idea of the way things stood—I hadn’t even given it any thought. But I have to admit, the situation does have a certain pleasant irony.’

She glared at him in impotent fury. ‘Well, I shouldn’t get too excited about it,’ she advised him, gritting her teeth. ‘Half of it will probably go in inheritance tax.’ And turning him an aloof shoulder, she stalked away.

* * *

Inevitably there could be no other topic of conversation at the Corbett dinner table that evening—it wasn’t exactly an aid to digestion. ‘Walking in here like that, as if he already owned the place,’ fumed Sir Charles, spearing a lump of kidney with his fork as if it had been freshly cut from the body of his enemy. ‘Looking around in that sly way, pricing everything up. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was planning to sell off the lot!’

‘What I simply can’t understand,’ his wife remarked for the fortieth time, ‘is how the law can even recognise a...a natural child in that way, let alone favour them. I mean, it’s virtually condoning...that sort of thing. I wonder if the Government is aware of it? I think perhaps I shall write a letter to the local party agent, just to draw it to his attention.’

‘Well, he’s going to find out that it isn’t going to be as easy as he seems to think,’ Sir Charles rambled on, ignoring his wife’s contribution. ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law. That damned stupid old fool of a solicitor—I don’t trust a word he said. Good God, bringing the man here like that, quite openly—it’s easy to see whose side he’s on! Well, he’s burned his boats with me. We’ll see what a decent solicitor makes of the matter!’

Pippa ate in silence, the acrid taste on her tongue ruining her appetite. Shaun’s words were still bouncing around inside her head. How dared he interpret her simple gesture of friendliness as an attempt to make a play for him? As if she would lower herself even to consider marrying a man for his money! And least of all him! She had never met such an insufferably arrogant man in all her life, and if she did ever meet him again—which she sincerely hoped she wouldn’t—she would tell him exactly what she thought of him.

Although it would be disappointing if she never had the chance to respond to that...that outrageous insult he had handed her. At the time she had been too stunned to be able to think of a suitably cutting retort, but since then her mind had been occupied with nothing but honing and refining a few extremely choice words that would wither him into the ground.

‘He’ll know he’s got a fight on his hands,’ her father was still pontificating. ‘I’ll take it all the way to the House of Lords if I have to. You mark my words...’

‘Oh, can’t you leave it alone for five minutes?’ Pippa burst out irritably. ‘Even if you do manage to stop Shaun getting the money, that doesn’t automatically mean it’ll come to you. It’ll go to the Crown instead—so you won’t be any better off, and you’ll just have wasted a fortune on legal fees.’

They both stared at her, startled by her heated intervention. ‘And what would you know about it?’ her father demanded crossly. ‘You’d just better hope it does get sorted out right, my girl. It would have all come to you eventually, and if you’re telling me you’re happy to see a fortune whistled down the wind you’re a bigger fool than I ever took you for.’

Pippa rose to her feet. ‘I really couldn’t give a damn about a fortune,’ she snapped, her patience strained beyond endurance. ‘I’d just as soon be poor. And you’d better take that glass off her,’ she added with a wry nod towards her mother. ‘That’s her fourth brandy already this evening, on top of all that sherry this afternoon. She’ll be under the table by ten o’clock at this rate.’

‘Philippa! How dare you speak of your mother like that?’

‘Oh, come off it, Dad. You know she drinks, I know she drinks, everyone knows she drinks. Why don’t you try to get her to do something about it, instead of closing your eyes to it all the time?’

Sir Charles drew himself up in righteous indignation. ‘I won’t have that kind of talk at my dinner table,’ he pronounced pompously. ‘If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, you’d better leave the room.’

‘That’s exactly what I was planning to do,’ she retorted. ‘I couldn’t stand to sit here with the pair of you wittering on a moment longer! Neither of you ever listen to each other anyway. I’m going down to the stables—at least the company’s a little more civilised down there!’

Her temper was still simmering as she walked down to the stables. She knew she shouldn’t have been so rude to her father, but she felt as if she had been stretched on a rack all day—and his posturing had been just about the last straw.

Of course, she shouldn’t be the least bit surprised at the way he was behaving, trying to thwart poor old Gramps’s wishes even after his death. It wasn’t as if he needed the money—he seemed to have business interests all over the place; there were always companies who were eager to pay for the kudos of his aristocratic links and public-school education, though she had the impression that they generally saw through him pretty quickly, and kept him out of any serious areas of responsibility.

The stables were warm and quiet. Fury wickered softly in greeting, nuzzling into her shoulder, hopeful that she had brought him an apple. She had, of course, and one for Lady too, then she perched up on the partition of the stall as she watched them munching contentedly.

‘Maybe it’s time I started to look for a place of my own anyway,’ she mused, idly stroking the horse’s thick mane. ‘After all, I’m twenty-two. The only problem is, what am I going to do with you two? I’ll have to find a livery stable for you somewhere. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re comfortable. But it won’t be quite the same as having you at home.’

Fury regarded her with one liquid brown eye, completely understanding every word she said.

* * *

She had had the day off for Gramps’s funeral, but the next day found Pippa back at work behind the counter of the small flower-shop she owned, in partnership with her friend Marjorie. They had been in business for nearly eighteen months now, and the shop was proving so successful that they were thinking about opening another one.

Situated on the edge of Stratford-upon-Avon, close to the river, it was one of a row of medieval half-timbered houses that had been preserved and turned into shops—there was a tea-shop next door, and an antiques dealer, and a very smart dress shop at the end of the row. It was the kind of hidden corner that the tourists loved, stumbling across it unexpectedly and ever after convinced that they were one of an exclusive few who had found it.

It had been a busy afternoon. As closing time approached, Pippa was helping a customer select a bouquet for his wife’s birthday when she heard the door open. She didn’t bother to look up—Marjorie was already stepping forward with her polite, ‘Can I help you?’ on her lips.

‘Yes—I’d like some flowers to send to a young lady. Roses, I think.’

The sound of that familiar laconic drawl brought Pippa’s head round in astonishment. He must have seen her, though he was acting as if he hadn’t. But it was certainly no coincidence that he had chosen to come in here, out of all the florist shops in town, she reflected, her mind in turmoil—he must have done it deliberately, just to needle her.

But who on earth could he be sending flowers to? A girlfriend in Canada? He had hardly had time to get something going in this country—so far as she was aware, he had arrived only yesterday morning! Not that she cared, of course—it was none of her business...

‘Does that include VAT?’

‘Oh...’ She turned her attention quickly back to her own customer, annoyed with herself for allowing Shaun Morgan to distract her. ‘I beg your pardon.’ She smiled a swift apology. ‘Yes, that’s inclusive of VAT. And delivery within the local area is two pounds ninety-five. Tomorrow, you said?’

Shaun was chosing long-stemmed roses—a pretty expensive trifle, to be paid for out of his new-found wealth, Pippa noted acidly. At least he had chosen yellow instead of red—the significance of sending a dozen red roses would have been unmistakable, and she had no wish to see the girl he proposed to install as the new mistress of Claremont flying over here on the next 747.

Forcing herself to concentrate on what she was doing, she began to write down the address for delivery of the birthday bouquet. But she couldn’t stop herself listening to the conversation taking place at the other end of the counter.

‘What message would you like to put with them?’ Marjorie was asking, the way she was gazing up at Shaun betraying very clearly that that eminently sensible married lady had succumbed without a fight to his smooth masculine charm.

He smiled down at her, just a trace of sardonic humour in his eyes. ‘Let me see. I think just “Will you have dinner with me tonight?” will do,’ he said. ‘And you needn’t bother to put who they’re from—I think she’ll guess.’

Pippa had stiffened, her pen stilled. Marjorie was laughing. ‘Lucky girl,’ she sighed, comfortable enough to amuse him with a little meaningless flirtation. ‘You’d like them delivered this afternoon?’

‘If that’s possible?’

‘No problem,’ she assured him, smiling. ‘I’ll take them myself. Pippa, have you finished with the order pad?’

‘Oh... Yes.’ She pushed it casually across, far too busy with taking her customer’s payment to even notice whom Marjorie was serving—though her jaw was clenched with the effort of ignoring him as much as he was ignoring her.

‘Now...’ Marjorie held her pen poised expectantly. ‘Who are they for?’

‘Miss Philippa Corbett,’ Shaun dictated, only that slight smile betraying his amusement in the situation. ‘The address is Claremont...’

Pippa choked, her cheeks flaming a vivid scarlet as both Marjorie and the other customer stared at her in astonishment. Her eyes clashed with those deep-set hazel ones in a storm of anger—how dared he make a laughing-stock of her like this?

‘Don’t bother to take the order, Marjorie,’ she rapped, snatching back the pad and ripping off the sheet on which her friend had begun to write. ‘It’s just his stupid idea of a joke.’

Shaun put on an air of hurt surprise that wouldn’t have deceived a child. ‘Not at all,’ he protested. ‘Why shouldn’t I send you flowers?’

‘You can save your money,’ she fumed. ‘I’m not going to have dinner with you.’

His mocking laughter was a deliberate goad. ‘My, what a little hornet! You do change sides quickly—I can’t keep up with you. Yesterday afternoon you were batting those big baby-blues at me as if I were the answer to all your prayers!’

‘I was not!’ She caught herself up, furious with him for provoking her into such an undignified public argument. Tilting up her chin at a haughty angle, she responded with icy clarity, ‘Of course, if you chose to be conceited enough to interpret a simple apology for my father’s appalling rudeness as some kind of attempt to flirt with you, that’s up to you. All I can do is assure you that it was nothing of the sort.’

‘Ah, what a pity. And I thought I was beginning to make some headway.’ The regret in his tone was belied by the sardonic glint in his eyes. ‘I guess I’m out of luck.’

Pippa hesitated, lost for a sufficiently cutting response. She was all too uncomfortably aware of Marjorie’s burning curiosity, and the mild amusement of the other customer, who was still standing watching. With a snort of angry frustration, she flashed them all a glare that would have stripped paint, and, turning on her heel, marched out into the back room of the shop.

She was shaking with rage. No one, in all her life, had ever dared to treat her that way! Picking up the flower-scissors in a taut fist, she stabbed them into the wooden draining-board, wishing with all her heart it was Shaun Morgan’s damned handsome face.

Marjorie came in after her, laughing a little uncertainly. ‘Hey, careful,’ she protested. ‘Those are the best scissors. Here.’ She took the pair from Pippa’s hand with exaggerated caution, and substituted some old ones. ‘If you really must start stabbing things, use those. They’re blunt.’

Her friend’s gentle teasing made Pippa laugh at herself. She shook her head. ‘They wouldn’t be much good, then, would they?’ She put the scissors down. ‘I’m sorry, Marje. But I could just kill that man!’

‘Oh, surely not!’ Marjorie protested. ‘He’s gorgeous! What’s he done?’

‘His name’s Shaun Morgan,’ Pippa explained, a slight flush of pink colouring her cheeks. ‘He’s...Gramps’s son.’

Marjorie stared at her in amazement. ‘Well, I never! I never knew he had a son.’

‘Well, he did. Apparently his mother used to be Gramps’s secretary. I can’t say I blame him for going off and having an affair—my grandmother must have been hell to live with. Anyway, he came over for Gramps’s funeral. And according to the solicitor, because Gramps died without making a will, he’s going to inherit all his fortune.’

‘What—the house, and the company and everything?’ Marjorie queried, stunned. ‘But...what about your father?’

‘Oh, he’s hopping mad.’ Pippa confirmed with grim satisfaction. ‘But there’s not a thing he can do about it. The law says it’s a child of the blood who inherits, legitimate or not, and a stepchild gets nothing at all.’

‘Well, I never!’ Marjorie sat down heavily on a convenient stool. ‘No wonder you’re mad at him.’

‘Oh, it isn’t that.’ Pippa pulled a wry face. ‘I’m not bothered about the money at all—in fact it serves my father right that he’s not going to get a penny. But he’s so arrogant! Do you know, he had the nerve to suggest that I was trying to...to get him to marry me, just as my grandmother married Gramps for his money!’

Marjorie laughed, but there was a wise glint in her eyes. She had known Pippa from her babyhood—her own mother was one of Lady Corbett’s closest friends. And although she knew all about the notorious Corbett temper, she was shrewd enough to guess that her young friend would normally have been able to dismiss any such ridiculous suggestion with all her usual sense of humour. This could lead to all sorts of interesting developments!

But the sound of the doorbell prevented her from exploring the situation any further. ‘Damn—there’s a customer,’ she grumbled, rising reluctantly to her feet. ‘Tell me the rest later.’