The Australian Heiress

by Way, Margaret

  “Please allow this monster to walk you to the elevator.”

  “You amaze me.” Camille took a step backward, as if from the devil.

  “Well, you amaze me, too.”

  “It sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

  “You’re talking to a fellow survivor,” he replied. “I’ll just be a few moments, Hugh.”

  “No problem.” Hugh couldn’t conceal his relief. “Goodbye now, Camille,” he called. “I’ll ring within a week. Perhaps we can have lunch.”

  “Hugh, I’d rather starve first.”

  Somehow she and Nick Lombard were walking down the quiet corridor in a pretense of normal behavior. There was only one floor above Hugh’s—the penthouse, which had been her father’s exclusive domain. Suddenly she wanted very much to see it

  “You can go back now, Mr. Lombard. I can look after myself.”

  “I’m sure you can, and very well. It may not seem like it now, but you would be happier away from here. I can help you if you’d allow me.”

  “Help me?” Camille was unsure whether to laugh or to cry. “What kind of hypocrite are you?”

  “I had nothing whatsoever to do with Hugh’s decision,” he said with some asperity. “I can’t imagine how you think I did.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, you must think me a fool. You admitted you wanted to make my father pay, and now that he’s dead, you won’t rest until you take full vengeance on the Guilford name.”

  “That doesn’t include you.”

  “Oh, right! I’m Natalie’s daughter. But wait a minute—didn’t my mother strike her own blow at your family’s pride?”

  His face hardened. “She did, but it was in the nature of diminished responsibility. She was no match for Guilford. He went after her like a conqueror of old. Overwhelmed her with the force of his personality. By the time the spell had worn off and she started to put up a fight, she had a child to care for. Not that he’d have let her get away.”

  Lombard paused, then, “She made no secret of her desire to leave him. Nor of the fact she was afraid of him.”

  “Afraid? What are you saying?” Camille felt stripped of her skin.

  “Did you think there was no speculation about your mother’s death?”

  “I won’t listen to this!” she said angrily, her pulse rapid. “How despicable to speak so ill of a man who’s not here to defend himself! My father was out of his mind with grief after the accident, nearly deranged. The whole incident was thoroughly investigated. The coroner said—”

  “I know what the coroner said,” Nick Lombard countered harshly. “That your father risked his own life. But maybe that was after he pushed Natalie off the yacht.”

  “To hell with you.” Camille threw up her head. “Not content with destroying my father, you’ve now got him a murderer. You’re the one who should burn in hell!”

  SHE WAS ALONE on the top floor. The magnificent paintings that had adorned the walls had long since been removed, but the splendid Persian rugs still graced the floor; the Rodin sculptures were in place; the furniture remained the same. No hard-edged modern decor. Her father had been a great admirer of the traditional.

  Her body trembling, Camille sat down in the carved high-backed chair behind the regal antique desk. The desk was massive, perhaps eight feet long and half as much wide. It was still set with her father’s things— his pen and holder, his blotter, his crystal ashtray.

  She swallowed over the hard painful lump in her throat. It was a very disquieting experience being in her father’s chair. The blinds were pulled, allowing only sufficient light for her to see across the room.

  What was the truth about you, Harry, she asked silently. You did dreadful things. You had ruthless people in your employ. But never did I suspect you of harming my mother. She couldn’t deal with that

  Nick Lombard was trying to tear her apart. He had planted that ghastly notion in her head. Had the fact that his uncle had taken his own life poisoned him as an individual?

  Camille was so immersed in her reflections she almost jumped out of her skin when a woman’s voice cut through the muffled quiet.

  “What are you doing here, Miss Guilford?” It was Hugh’s secretary, staring at her with disapproval and suspicion.

  “I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Miss Maynard,” Camille answered quietly.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” was the woman’s grimly triumphant reply.

  “On the contrary, I intend to stay awhile longer. This was my father’s inner sanctum. I am still his daughter. You were never admitted here. Run back and report to Hugh. As a man of immense kindness he wouldn’t mind, I’m sure, if I say goodbye.”

  “Oh, do as you please.” Ruth Maynard looked around her and shuddered. “Personally I find the place quite scary.”

  “Then do us both a favor and go.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  CAMILLE’S PHONE was ringing as she entered her bedroom.

  “Only me,” came Linda’s welcome voice. “How did it go with Hugh?”

  Camille sank onto the bed, kicking off her shoes and pushing them away. “First of all, how are you? You weren’t terribly well last night.”

  “And I’ve thrown up this morning,” Linda said. “What we go through to have our darling babies!”

  “Things should settle down soon, Lindy,” Camille soothed.

  “I hope so, because I feel kind of exhausted and unlovable.”

  Camille laughed. “Hey, you’re married to a marvelous guy.”

  “Don’t I know it. He’s upset for me. Some women sail through this time. His sister did.”

  “We’re all different,” Camille said firmly, aware of Linda’s uneasy relationship with her in-laws. It’ll be easier with number two.”

  “It better be!” Linda muttered. “Stephen wants four. I just wish I was better at it. Anyway, enough of dreary old me, what about Hugh? I hope he didn’t give you a rough time.”

  “Actually he fired me.”

  “He what?”

  “Keep calm. I said, he gave me the sack.”

  “You’re joking!” Linda sounded stunned.

  “No. It appears everyone wants me out. Harry Guilford’s daughter is not an object of pity or concern. Maybe he thinks Harry salted away millions for me in a Swiss bank account, and I’m keeping it quiet It would be the sort of thing another father might have done, but let’s face it, Harry didn’t think I counted. As for the rest, I’m probably taking up a job someone else desperately needs. Besides, I didn’t make it on my own. It was nepotism and little else.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” Linda protested. “Hugh-gave you your start.”

  “Well, now he wants me out. I’m the golden girl no longer. Even Ruth Maynard tried to put me in my place.”

  “Detestable woman!” Linda exploded. “Look, why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? Just the three of us and maybe Jeffrey if he’s available. He’s good fun and he adores you.”

  “Don’t go matchmaking, Lindy,” Camille warned. “Besides, you’re not up to dinner parties at the moment”

  “No, it’s all right.” Linda’s voice brightened. “I’m better at night, and Hilda will be here to help me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s fine,” Linda insisted. “You need cheering up. So do I. It will be a nice quiet evening among friends.”

  And so it turned out. Jeffrey Prior was there, a humorous solid young man with irregular yet attractive features and thick untamed brows. He’d been in love with Camille for years, and still the depth of his affection took her by surprise. Jeffrey, like Linda’s husband, Stephen, was an associate in the prestigious law firm of Carghill Kempner Morris, founded by Stephen’s great-grandfather.

  “This is relaxing.” Camille tipped her head back, revealing her long swanlike neck. “I’m savoring the tranquillity.”

  “And I’m savoring you,” Jeffrey murmured in his deep pleasant drawl.

  “Boy, did that sound fervent!”
Stephen, a lean good-looking six-footer, glanced with wry amusement at his friend. Poor old Jeff, he thought It was obvious Camille never had and never would see him in a romantic light

  “Darn, and I thought it was my secret.” Jeffrey smiled.

  “You’re my good buddy, Jeff.” Camille patted his arm affectionately.

  Linda, looking very pretty and relaxed in turquoise silk culottes with a matching loose silk shirt, chose that moment to arrive with the first course. Stephen stood up to help her.

  “I hope you’re all hungry?” Linda’s single dimple flashed.

  “Are we ever!” Camille and Jeffrey made a comic business of shaking out their linen napkins.

  “Good.” Linda allowed her husband to seat her.

  The entrée was delicious. Parcels of smoked trout filled with spiced prawns and crabmeat. Because it was such a beautiful night, Linda had bypassed the dining room for the obvious attractions of the rear terrace. Floored in terrazzo, the large informal area ran the full length of the house and led down to the pool area and the luxuriant gardens beyond. The high Moroccan arches were emblazoned with a beautiful scarlet-blossoming vine, and huge ceramic pots filled with golden canes were set at intervals. Tonight the swimming pool was an aquamarine jewel, showing off dozens of huge floating hibiscus flowers Linda had gathered from her abundant shrubs.

  Linda took great care of her home and lovely garden, Camille thought. In fact, looking after her husband and her home seemed to have become Linda’s only interest. She had turned her back on her legal career, sacrificing everything on the altar of marriage.

  “This is superb, darling,” Stephen complimented her warmly. “I don’t know anyone who can do better.”

  “Certainly not me.” Camille laughed. “I spend precious little time in the kitchen.”

  “Your mother, Stephen?” Linda suggested dryly, looking at her husband. Linda’s mother-in-law, while treating Linda with scrupulous courtesy, was given to subtly denigrating Linda’s every achievement. It was a classic case of the possessive mother and her only son.

  “Listen, I’m not getting into that,” Stephen answered with a wry shake of his head. “All I know is, you have a rare talent as a homemaker, Lindy. You’ve made me a very happy man.”

  “Let’s drink to that!” Camille said, thinking that, for all her smiles, there was something a little lost and sad in Linda’s doe eyes.

  THE EVENING PAPER carried the first photographs of the gala showing; the largest and most prominent was a shot of Camille with Nick Lombard at her side.

  “Can you believe this?” Camille flapped the newspaper at Browning.

  “It’s a very good photograph, love,” Browning said. “You look absolutely beautiful and he’s a stunning-looking man.”

  “It’s shockingly inappropriate, Tommy. Anyone would think we were close friends.”

  “It does have a certain romantic focus,” Browning conceded.

  “People will think I’ve sold my soul to the devil.” Camille passed the newspaper to him to take a closer look. “I’m furious, Tommy.”

  “It’s just publicity, love. We all know the camera can play funny tricks.”

  The next day the phone rang all morning. To escape the calls Camille drove into town. She was sitting quietly over coffee at her favorite haunt when a woman stopped at her table.

  “Miss Guilford, isn’t it?”

  Camille looked up, hiding her dismay. “Why, hello, Mrs. Tennant.”

  “I thought it was you tucked away so quietly.” Clare Tennant took a seat uninvited. “One can’t miss the hair. If you want to go incognito, my dear, you really should wear a scarf. That magnificent mane is a dead giveaway.” She settled herself and looked up. “That was quite a night, the showing.”

  There was something corrosive about the young widow’s triangular smile. “Indeed it was,” Camille answered, wondering if stress was making her over-react

  “You bore up nobly.”

  “No problem.”

  “Surely it was very upsetting, your ex-fiancȳ and that Masterman woman turning up together. Word is they’re a serious item.”

  “I thought they looked good together.”

  “Do I detect a note of bitterness?” Clare Tennant asked.

  “On the contrary, I hope they’ll be happy as a couple.”

  “If you ask me, Robyn has taken all the initiative there. She’s a very determined sort.” Clare Tennant touched a hand to her hair. Today it was drawn back into a coil, a style that accentuated the fineness of her features. She looked stunning, no more than late twenties, when Camille knew she had to be in her late thirties. She had a slim body that looked well in clothes—on this occasion an elegant Chanel suit in navy and white. Camille thought she exuded experience and a taut sexuality. One could be either attracted or repelled.

  “I don’t think anyone missed your photograph in the paper.” The blue-gray eyes, large and thickly lashed, looked challengingly into Camille’s. “You and Nick. The man’s famous for the intensity of his gaze.”

  “I feel I should mention he’s famous for bringing down GNT.”

  Clare Tennant leaned across the small circular table and patted Camille’s hand. “That’s true, my dear, and I’m sorry for you. But Nick’s a great prize, as you know. I make no secret of the fact that he and I are close friends.”

  “You have my commiseration,” Camille said.

  Clare Tennant laughed. “I heard you were spunky but they’re only words of course. Seeing you and Nick together the other night, I had the feeling you two struck sparks off each other.”

  “I know I was angry enough to go up in flames. Nick Lombard isn’t among my favorite people.”

  “I can understand that when your whole world has gone sour.”

  “He certainly didn’t help.” Camille began to gather her things. “It’s been nice to see you, Mrs. Tennant, but I must rush. My time at the parking meter will be up.

  The older woman looked both surprised and offended. “Yes, I spotted your little BMW with the personalized license plate. How did you manage to hang on to that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought under the circumstances just about everything would have been repossessed.”

  “But my car belongs to me, Mrs. Tennant.” Camille took refuge from her anger in a cool courtesy. “I paid for it. Not my father or anyone else.”

  “There’s no need to get hostile,” Clare Tennant murmured in a conciliatory voice. “I’m one of the people who’s on your side. In fact, I was shocked when I heard Hugh Evans had sacked you.”

  For a moment Camille was stunned. “I’m very surprised you know.”

  Clare Tennant paused a moment, her brow furrowed in a little frown. “Nick must have told me.”

  “One wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in my fate.”

  The other woman shook her head. “Oh, but I am. I’m always interested in the women who take Nick’s attention.”

  Camille couldn’t ignore the glitter in the blue-gray eyes. “Is that some kind of message?”

  “How clever of you to recognize it.”

  “You’ve got it wrong if you think Nick Lombard has any interest in me beyond my accusing him of having my father’s blood on his hands.”

  The woman snorted. “Nonsense! Your father killed himself. We all know that. Personally I thought he was left with little option. No one feels particularly sorry about it. Harry Guilford drove a lot of good people to the wall—but you shouldn’t be blamed. It’s quite unfair.” She paused and smiled. “I’d like to be your friend, Camille. Perhaps we could see each other soon for lunch?”

  Camille found it an appalling idea, but she made an effort to conceal her revulsion. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Tennant, but I have to set about finding myself another job.”

  “Surely Nick offered to help you.” Clare Tennant spoke quickly, as though trying to throw Camille off balance. “I mean, you saw him at Hugh Evans’s office.”

&nb
sp; “He told you that, as well?” Incredibly Camille felt wounded. She took a deep calming breath. “As far as I’m concerned, Nick Lombard’s the last person I’d turn to for help.”

  Clare Tennant favored her with another smile, this one approving. “My dear, I applaud your pride. May you always keep it. Will you be attending the auction, or haven’t you the heart?”

  Camille lifted her chin. “I promised the organizers I’d be there. Apparently they see me as some sort of draw.”

  Claire Tennant nodded, with pity. “I know. People love to gloat. Call me if I can help you in any way. I’m in the book.”

  THERE WAS LIGHT RAIN the morning of the auction, but by ten o’clock the sun was shining brilliantly. The people from Christie’s had arrived at the Guilford mansion, and not long after them the first of the viewers. The sale of the paintings and antiques was to be held over two days, and a large marquee had been set up in the garden to offer refreshments.

  The morning session got under way promptly at eleven in the packed ballroom. Camille took a seat by herself at the rear of the room, trying to take an objective view of all that was happening. The art collection was immensely dear to her; she knew she would desperately miss all her “friends": the portraits of children and beautiful women, the seascapes, landscapes, the many flower paintings, the still lifes and the wonderful horses. The Young Equestrienne could have been herself at age twelve. Claude had found it and, delighted at the resemblance, bought it for her father.

  The Young Equestrienne was sold to an unknown bidder for well above the reserve. So far things were going extremely well, although the major paintings would not be put on the block until midafternoon. Linda had wanted to join her for moral support, but Camille had insisted she stay home. Linda was not as robust as she claimed to be.

  It was a glittering scene. Though it was broad daylight, the four massive Waterford chandeliers that lit the long room had been switched on, reflected over and over in the gilt-scrolled mirrored panels along the walls. Dozens of well-known faces sat in the crowd, deadly rivals some of them, the women smartly dressed, their expensive perfumes wafting around the room. As soon as a painting was marked down, there was a rumble of voices as people turned to one another with comments. Quite a few turned their heads constantly to the back of the room, clearly wanting to gauge Camille’s reactions.