‘The Excelsior,’ she replied.
There was all the time in the world as Ginny made her way back through the bustling, lively streets for her to reconsider and regret so much lying and deceit. How much wiser to have avoided the folly of further contact with the son when her whole concern was with the father, and the very fact of that connection wholly precluded the possibility of more than friendship between her and Jake Vanbrugh. A shudder ran through her. It was a most melancholy thought—possibly the lowest point in the whole wretched business.
When she reached the hotel foyer she was achingly weary. Having misjudged the distance, she had been walking for more than an hour, so in the bedroom, she leaned her head against the door for a few moments before going to her as yet unpacked suitcase.
After rummaging for a few minutes her fingers came up against a hard square package which she stared at, filled with regret that it hadn’t been disposed of years ago. And she wished with a quite desperate longing, for her days of lost innocence, before the shock of her mother’s death in that car crash. That had been more than enough for anyone to cope with. And then to find that her entire existence was based on a lie...
It had been such a bitter, ghastly time. Looking back now, it took on the quality of a nightmare—there were days when she was certain it had happened to someone else, when she was sure she would wake and find all was well, that she wasn’t involved in this cruel history which was turning her life upside down. But in her hands she held the evidence—undeniable, absolute.
It had been weeks after the accident before she could bring herself to start the task of clearing out the family home, but at length, refusing the offers of help from various friends, she’d steeled herself and had begun to make some headway.
She had been sitting in the small room which her mother had designated the sewing room, the beauty of the spring day with the sun streaming through high arched windows and all the daffodils planted by her parents stirring gently in the breeze adding a poignant touch. Then she’d reached down for the wrapped and taped package at the bottom of the now almost empty blanket chest. And in that instant her life had fallen apart.
Even now she found it difficult to believe that Tom Browne, who had died two years previously, the man who had been such a tender and devoted father to her, was in fact unrelated by blood. Her own existence was due to a brief and very passionate affair her mother had had in Hong Kong.
The whole story was contained in the diary, in the few letters which had been hidden away for so many years and which, for all Ginny knew, would never have been revealed but for the car crash. But for the devastating suddenness of that event her mother would, in all likelihood, have destroyed the package.
Desolated by the loss of both her parents within such a short time, Ginny had found her anguish compounded by the new disclosures. Any doubts she might have clung to had been blown away by the letter her mother had written to Colonel Hugo Vanbrugh, addressed to the Military Division of the American Embassy in Saigon.
It was a passionate letter, but also touching and rather frightened, telling him that as a result of their affair she was pregnant. But the letter had never been posted, possibly because—and this was made much clearer in the diaries—they had already decided to part.
Reading the fevered soul-searching, the intensely private baring of feelings, Ginny had felt intrusive but, because of her own deep involvement, the story had been irresistible. Even various things which had vaguely puzzled her over the years were, in part, explained. Those times when her mother had seemed withdrawn, when it had seemed all her thoughts and emotions were elsewhere. It was easy now to understand.
Just once in a while there had been glimpses of a more passionate woman than the one who had kept her feelings under such strict control, while her father... Ah, well, not really that, it seemed, but the man who would always be regarded as such. Tom Browne had been placid, calm, even-tempered—a good man, a kind husband and father—but not, one might have thought, the kind of man who would have attracted Jane...
Often Ginny had mused on the apparent disparity, but then what child hadn’t pondered the improbability of sexual attraction between its parents? But what was true in this case was that Jane Browne had been an extremely striking woman, beautiful even in middle age, while Tom had been simply an average Englishman, neither good-looking nor particularly plain. But perhaps when they were both young—at least Jane had been young when they’d met and married—things might have been different.
It was so difficult to judge these things when the experience of her own generation was so very different. Intelligent women nowadays did not see marriage as any kind of goal—in fact, the very idea of any woman committing herself for life at nineteen was difficult to understand...
Tom had been an army dentist when they’d met in Germany, where Jane’s father, also an army man, had been serving, and... Oh...it was impossible to judge these things—a youngish major, a pretty girl; they could even have fallen madly in love.
The one thing that was abundantly clear was that when Jane had been on her own in Hong Kong for a few weeks—Tom back in London on some kind of military course—she had met Hugo Vanbrugh and there had been instant attraction. Neither had been willing or able to control their feelings, that much was obvious in the one letter from him—several thin, yellowing pages folded inside the back cover of the journal, pages in which Hugo bared his soul, and damned fate that they hadn’t met before committing themselves to others.
The diaries reflected some of the anguish Jane had suffered in trying to cast aside the religious scruples which forbade divorce—she had so longed to be free of them, but in the end she’d admitted that abandoning them could possibly poison any happiness she and Hugo could have together.
As it is, I know I have betrayed Tom and my marriage, and I shall suffer lifelong remorse, but, Hugo, I shall always give thanks that you were sent to me. And I shall love you for the rest of my life.
The farewell letter she had written to him twenty-seven years ago, after their decision to part, was touching in its intensity, even though it began with the caveat that she did not know if she would ever send it, but it was sealed and stamped—and wept over, if Ginny’s interpretation of the blotches was correct.
I’m torn, because I feel it is your right to know I am going to have your child. And yet what good can it do? More anguish for everyone will result—for you and your family, too, perhaps. You know I’m very fond of Tom and don’t want to hurt him any more than I have already done, but you know, too, that when we married I had no idea what real love was about. Even afterwards I wondered what all the fuss was for. Then, Hugo, I met you and I knew.
I think I conceived two weeks ago, on that last fraught night we spent together. Such joy and such despair. But Tom returns tomorrow, and if, as we planned, our lives return to normal, then he will never know the child is not his. What possible good would it do to tell him and break his heart? You see, he loves me.
The letter continued for several pages of intimate reminiscences, with a postscript saying that she had decided against further contact and then a last note with Ginny’s name and date of birth.
In the months between her discovery and her journey to New York thoughts of her mother and Hugo Vanbrugh had dominated Ginny’s mind. Had Jane intended one day that her daughter should find out the truth about her birth? Or had she meant eventually to destroy the evidence? It was something she would never know and, in a way, that very uncertainty had brought her to the United States.
By seven-fifteen Ginny had got herself entirely under control. All the foolish reactions to the man she had met earlier in the day were totally unbalanced—the result of too many emotional upheavals and an overactive imagination. Recent events had left her in a vulnerable state; add to that her sudden black-out and it was little wonder that Jake Vanbrugh had come over as a cross between Sir Galahad and Richard Gere.
In any event she had never been particularly susceptible to
handsome men, and now was most definitely not the time to start. She gave her reflection a sardonic grin.
On the other hand it was good to be able to take a certain amount of complacent assurance from her appearance. The calf-length skirt swaying above shiny black boots was smart and sophisticated enough for wherever he planned to take her. The green silky material clung lovingly to her slender figure, picking up all kinds of subtle shades where the light caught it. The white lawn blouse was full-sleeved and billowy, elaborately tucked and with a prim high collar which made her hold her head proudly. She wore earrings, too, antique silver set with brilliants, which glittered against her dark hair.
Generally, she could see the rest had done her good. A sparkle had returned to the luminous brown eyes, a faint blush to the creamy cheeks—and if the whole was enhanced by a skilled hand with make-up, so what? Her pleased smile was entrancing; the new lipstick in a silky shade of plum suited her wide mouth and exaggerated the white teeth.
‘How convenient, Tom,’ she remembered a friend remarking, ‘that your daughter should be such a wonderful advertisement for your craft.’
And all the time...
A familiar ache returned to her chest, but at that very instant the telephone rang. Her escort, she was told, was waiting, and her heart gave a tiny plop. She forced herself to sit calmly for half a minute before picking up her bag, pulling the door behind her and walking to the lift as sedately as if she had an appointment with her bank manager.
But he was as disturbingly good-looking as she had imagined. Her fainting fit, her empty stomach, the stress—all had nothing to do with it. The realisation was seriously unwelcome. Watching him turn when he heard the lift doors, she held her breath, then, with a determined attempt to distract, found herself taking mental notes.
The hair—which she had thought as dark as sable—had, with the glow of a lamp behind his head, a suggestion of chestnut in it, but that disappeared when he came forward, hand extended.
‘Ah...’ His mouth curved upwards in appreciation, those splendid violet eyes gleaming as they absorbed each detail of her appearance from the sheen of silky hair to the full mouth—his interest in which she found more than a little disturbing.
She could not say what banal greetings were exchanged before, a moment later, they were being driven off in his limousine. The vehicle purred effortlessly, edging its way through heavy traffic, finally pulling into the parking area of a small, unobtrusive restaurant just off the main thoroughfare.
‘Thanks, Steve. Give us about two—two and a half hours.’
The uniformed chauffeur helped her from the car and then she was being guided inside. And if the outside was unobtrusive, the inside was subdued luxury. This was instantly obvious.
They soon ordered and were sipping a chilled Catawba which Ginny found deliciously reviving. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the glossy white cloth, perceptive eyes ranging over her features in a way she could only describe as seductive, ‘Now tell me, what exactly is it you would like to speak with my father about?’
With meticulous care she put down her glass, eyes lowered protectively as she considered how to deal with any sudden surge of nerviness. Now she was in control, all wide-eyed innocence as she switched her attention abruptly to his face. ‘Has he—has he asked you to filter any message to me?’
‘No.’ A dark eyebrow was raised in surprise—she wondered if her words had roused some momentary suspicion. ‘No. Unfortunately I was unable to contact him, but I shall be seeing him at the weekend and... No, the question was on my own account and merely because I am curious.’
‘Ah.’ A touch of colour warmed her cheeks, brought an added gleam to her eyes. Above all she must seem sincere. ‘There isn’t a great deal to tell. Among my parents’ things...’
‘Are they both dead, your parents?’
‘Yes, my father died two years ago and my mother... she was in a car crash earlier this year.’ It was dismaying to hear her voice shake. She had been convinced that she had passed through the grievously wounded stage. Now she bit fiercely at her lower lip. ‘They were both too young. Dad sixty, Mum not quite fifty.’
‘That is sad.’ There was a pause before he went on. ‘And you were left alone?’
‘Yes. No brothers or sisters.’ The idea of being alone, the one she had been trying to ignore, made her draw in a deep breath. Quickly she tried to force her thoughts along a different path, but he was not going to allow that.
‘And you were saying...?’ He was gently persuasive. ‘Among your parents’ things...?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Her fingers played with the stem of her wineglass. ‘Among their things were some letters, one or two mementoes, and a tiny picture with a note attached with detailed plans about how, at some time in the not too distant future, they meant to contact Hugo. They were planning a long tour of the States when Dad retired.’
That, at least, was true, although the reason for it was not what she was implying. She was certain that the two men had never met—certainly nothing she had read suggested that such a meeting had ever taken place.
With a tremendous effort she was able to control her feelings, was able, even, to produce a wan smile and a shrug—which, to her companion, seemed hopeless—vulnerable rather than philosophical. ‘It simply goes to show one should do things when one can, not plan for a future which can so easily... elude one.’
‘We should all remember that.’ He touched her hand sympathetically, removing his almost at once, just as she became aware of a powerful and affecting reaction. Fortunately there was a diversion as plates were placed in front of them, napkins shaken out...
‘And this company you work for...’ He handed her the pepper mill, watched as she ground the spice over broiled lobster, his mouth curving in amusement as it was handed back. ‘This Brockway and Laffan—it does exist, I suppose?’
‘Of course.’ Her eyes widened in mock reproof. ‘How can you doubt it? They are one of the oldest chambers in the City.’
‘And your position with them?’
‘Is a very junior one. I’ve been there since I qualified, three years ago, and if I work hard I have hopes of a partnership—a junior partnership—in, oh, in about twenty years’ time.’
‘As soon as that, eh?’ One elbow on the table, a finger moving against the almost smiling mouth, he leaned forward.
The compelling gaze, more violet than blue, held her in an intense, very nearly intimate scrutiny—so intimate that her whole body came alive with the joy of it—pulses throbbing, blood singing, heart pounding, eyes glowing.
‘But I shall be surprised, Miss Ginny Browne, to find you still with Brockway and Laffan in two years, let alone twenty.’
‘Really?’ Silly to sound so breathless, so naive, when she most certainly was not, when all she was doing was enjoying herself with an intelligent, attractive man and with absolutely no strings. That was what made it such a special attraction. ‘And where do you imagine I’ll be in...yes, let’s say in two years’ time?’
‘Not, I suggest, among the dusty files of one of the oldest firms in the City of London.’
‘The oldest firm does not necessarily imply fusty Dickensian premises.’
‘Ah, so you’re in modern offices?’
‘Not exactly.’ Later she might explain that they occupied a pair of terraced houses built originally for well-to-do city merchants. Elegant staircases led to the partners’ chambers, with masses of highly polished mahogany and brass, and there were walled gardens to the rear, which were fragrant in summer with old-fashioned roses and honeysuckle, pinks and peonies. It was light years from his prestigious penthouse, but there was little doubt as to which she preferred.
‘You are being so provoking and evasive, Miss Browne.’ He frowned, emphasising the degree of his disapproval by covering her hand with his. The thumb stroked her gently and, though it was difficult to admit, excitingly. His expression continued to show amusement. ‘Do they teach that at law school these days?’
>
‘They teach us to be accurate and questioning!’ Her manner was tart, a little defensive, and all because of that disturbing touch. If she could extract her hand casually, or... A tiny shudder was repressed. What if she were to obey her instincts, if she were to turn her hand over so their palms were in contact, with the possibility of fingers lacing? Her eyes grew dreamy with longing and there was a powerful but unfamiliar sensation in the pit of her stomach...
And then he moved, severing the moment, the indulgence. She sighed relief and...and she would not think of frustration. Hurriedly she tried to backtrack. ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’
‘And that was?’
Now she must keep the conversation light, with no opportunity for emotional complications. ‘Where do you imagine I shall be in two years’ time?’ Oh, heavens! Was she being deliberately provocative? Inviting speculation which she hoped would flatter or at least please her?
‘Married, I should say was the most likely scenario.’
‘Married?’ Her tone suggested he’d mentioned a synonym with slavery and bondage. ‘But even if I were to marry...’ she continued with the pretence that such a circumstance had never entered her mind, longing to grin at herself but managing to keep a straight face. ‘...and that would be if the worst should happen—that does not mean I would leave the company.’
‘It might.’ He pursed his lips, his amused expression lingering. ‘But, then again, it might not. I concede to that extent.’
The best defence was attack, and at that moment she felt much in need of defence—from her own feelings if from nothing else. ‘Now, Mr Vanbrugh, first of all, you don’t even know me. I might be already married.’
‘No ring.’ He caught her left hand, smiling in triumph, and took it to his mouth.
A Reckless Affair Page 2