Burning Inheritance

by Anne Mather

  BURNING INHERITANCE

  ANNE MATHER

  CHAPTER ONE

  'The old girl must have been senile!' declared Robert Seton angrily.

  'But she wasn't,' countered his nephew, from the depths of an Italian leather armchair. 'Vinnie made quite sure you couldn't level that charge at her. She was perfectly sane when she made her will. And there are three medical affidavits to prove it.'

  'I don't need reminding of that fact,' retorted Robert Seton irritably. 'I was merely voicing my opinion, that's all. An opinion which will be shared by a majority of the shareholders. For God's sake, Alex, leaving her interest in the company to Isabel Ashley! Is that really the behaviour of a rational human being?'

  'Vinnie evidently thought so,' remarked Alex, pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers and stretching his long legs out in front of him. 'She always did have a soft spot for Isabel. I suppose she saw this as a way of redressing the balance.'

  'What balance?' His uncle was impatient. 'Isabel left this family with no more and no less than she came into it.'

  Alex shrugged. 'Perhaps Vinnie didn't consider that was a particularly fair arrangement.'

  'What are you trying to say, Alex?' Robert Seton gazed incredulously at the younger man. 'Do you agree with her philanthropy? I wouldn't have thought------'

  'Someone has to play devil's advocate,' Alex over­rode him smoothly. But then, as if a little of his uncle's agitation was rubbing off on him, he rose abruptly to his feet. 'After all, if you are going to oppose Isabel's admission to the board------'

  'Which I am!'

  '—you should consider all the alternatives.'

  His uncle snorted. 'There are times, Alex, when that legalistic logic of yours infuriates me. The girl's an opportunist, for heaven's sake! Anyone can see that.' He pressed the balled fist of one hand into the opened palm of the other. 'I should have forbidden Vinnie to see her. I'll never forgive myself for allowing this to happen.'

  Alex raised one dark eyebrow, as if doubting his uncle's ability to have forbidden Vinnie to do anything, before leaving him and strolling lazily over to the long windows. With his back to the room, he allowed the tranquillity of the scene beyond the leaded panes to soothe him. His grandmother was dead, after all. And he refused to let his uncle's ugly mood destroy the grief that still lingered.

  Outside, the shadows were lengthening across gardens burgeoning with the growth of early summer. The lavish flower beds which Deacon, his uncle's gardener, tended so lovingly, provided a natural frame for lawns as green and well-kept as a bowling green, and the shrubs that marked their borders were as luxuriant as the rest. Deacon had green fingers. It was a well-known fact. And Alex could remember, when he was about six years old, being puzzled because the gardener's hands didn't look any different from anyone else's.

  Beyond the perimeter fence, the tree-strewn park­land of the Denby estate stretched towards Peale Bay, and the estuary of the River Naze, which marked the eastern boundary of Denby land. Seton land, Alex supposed it was now, with sudden irony. His grand­mother's death had marked the passing of the last surviving member of his mother's family. Virginia Denby had outlived both her daughters by some twenty years, but at the age of seventy-seven, she had finally lost the battle. He would miss her. Much more than he had perhaps realised. She had been such a dauntless old lady, and he had loved her very much. For twenty years, she had tried to fill the gap left by his parents' death, and throughout his teens and early manhood, she had been the recipient of all his confi­dences.

  A fold in the downs hid all but a triangle of the sea from view, but the rolling fields and pasture land more than made up for this omission. This was the place where he had been born, where he and his cousin Christopher had played as children, and even though he now had a place of his own in London, he still regarded Nazeby as his home.

  'You'll have to go and see her,' announced his uncle from behind him, and Alex turned disbelievingly to face his irate relative.

  'Me!' he exclaimed ungrammatically. 'Oh, no. You have to be joking! If you want to get in touch with Isabel Ashley, do it yourself.'

  'No, I can't.' Robert Seton made a sound of annoy­ance. And then, changing his tone, he added wheedlingly, 'You know she always blamed me for breaking up the marriage. If I were to go and see her, she'd probably laugh in my face. You know what kind of woman she is. If she thought that by holding on to those shares, she'd be dealing a blow to Denby Industries—at me!—she'd never agree to sell!'

  Alex had to acknowledge that there was some truth in what his uncle was saying. Not to put too fine a point upon it, Isabel had disliked Robert Seton intensely, and she had accused him of turning Chris against her. Nevertheless, Alex had no intention of getting involved in any vendetta against the woman.

  He had his own reasons for despising Isabel Ashley, and nothing his uncle could say would persuade him to act as his emissary. Let the company lawyers do it. There were enough of them, heaven knew.

  'Why don't you send Chris to see her?' he enquired now, his lean, intelligent face taking on a distinctly sardonic expression, and his uncle swore.

  'Are you mad?' The older man clenched his fists. 'Don't you know your cousin still harbours some kind of feeling for her? Haven't I been the unwilling recip­ient of his maudlin self-recriminations, when he's been in his cups? For pity's sake, Alex, the last thing I need is for that woman to get her claws into him again. He got out of a difficult situation once, but I wouldn't trust him to be so lucky a second time.'

  Alex felt a growing tension in his neck, and tilted his head to relieve it. 'You can't expect me to do your dirty work, Uncle,' he declared flatly. 'If you want to deal with this matter impersonally, get John Frazer or Malcolm Stansfield to handle it. That's what they're paid for. I'm not.'

  'You could be.' Robert Seton jumped at the possi­bility. 'Alex, you know it was your grandmother's dearest wish that you should be a part of the company. Do you think she'd have left those shares to Isabel if she'd thought she could have persuaded you to take a less than half-hearted interest in Denby Industries? Look, I'll make a deal with you. You persuade Isabel to sell, and you can have the shares. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than for you to take Vinnie's seat on the board.'

  'No.'

  Alex's refusal was polite but firm, and his uncle gazed at him frustratedly. For five years now, ever since Alex left bar school and latterly set up his own tax consultancy agency in London, Robert had been trying to persuade him to join Denbys, but all to no avail. So far as Alex was concerned, his cousin Chris­topher was his uncle's natural successor and, in spite of the close family relationship, Alex preferred to remain independent.

  'It doesn't occur to you that it's what your mother would have wanted you to do, does it?' his uncle persisted now. 'I know she was your grandmother's younger daughter, and I know your father wasn't interested in making money, but, dammit, Alex, he was my brother, and when he crashed the car that killed the three of them, my wife included, that changed the situation somewhat, didn't it?'

  Alex's jaw hardened. 'I'm not unmindful of the debt I owe to you and Vinnie,' he declared flatly. 'And if it's family loyalty you're calling in------'

  'I'm not.' As if realising he might have gone too far, Robert swiftly interrupted him. 'Alex, Alex, you must know that you're the son I always wished I had. No—don't interrupt. It's true. You're like me. We think alike. I sometimes think there's more of me in you than there is in Chris! He's his mother's son. A Denby through and through. That's how the family fell on hard times, for heaven's sake! Because they bred generation after generation of milk-and-water thoroughbreds, without a shred of honest muscle in them!'

  'Vinnie was a Denby,' pointed out Alex harshly, but his uncle
scarcely paused in his stride.

  'Only by marriage, Alex; only by marriage,' he retorted fiercely. 'And we'll never know what my wife and your mother might have made of the company because they're dead! But we're alive, Alex. You and I, we could make Denby's an international concern. We're already involved in the Brazilian mining oper­ation, but I've got my sights set on Canada and the United States. With you behind me, to run the oper­ation here, I'd be free to travel the world in pursuit of contracts. Denby Textiles is no longer the corner­stone of our operation. Denby Engineering and Denby Electronics outstripped it years ago. I want you with me, Alex, you know that. I dread to think what will happen to Denby's when Chris takes over. And he will do one day, Alex, unless you've got the guts to take it from him!'

  Alex's face was grim. 'Chris is your son, Uncle Robert!' he exclaimed angrily, but the older man was not dismayed.

  'So what?' he inquired indifferently. 'I'm not saying that I don't love him. I do. He's my only child, and I care for him deeply. But that doesn't mean I can't see his faults, and despair of them. Chris isn't cut out to be the next managing director of Denby's, Alex. You are. And you know it!'

  Alex drove back to London later that night. As the sleek grey Ferrari covered the miles between Nazeby and his own house in Eaton Mews, he had plenty of time to go over what his uncle had said and he eventually decided, with some irritation, that Robert Seton would go to any lengths to get his own way. Not that Alex entirely disagreed with what his uncle had said. Chris would find it hard to apply himself to a real job, when the time came. For the past eight years, he had done little more than spend some of the vast sums of money his father's companies were making, and although he played around a bit as trouble-shooter for the organisation, his main source of enjoyment came from gambling. Even so, Alex had never considered his Denby heritage as giving him any claim on the company. When Robert Seton married his mother's sister, the textile trade was failing and, without Robert's business expertise, Nazeby itself might have had to be put on the market to help pay the company's debts. It was Robert's skill which had turned a losing concern into a thriving industry, and it was only fair that his son should inherit its advan­tages. Besides which, Alex had always wanted to be independent. He had never been content to bask in the glow of his uncle's generosity, and while Chris was getting sent down from Oxford and wasting his time at clubs and race tracks, Alex had gained a first in law. He could have done almost anything. He was offered jobs by friends of his uncle, other members of the business and banking community, but he had chosen to go to bar school. Then, instead of going on and becoming a famous barrister, as everyone had expected, he had entered a firm of tax consultants and spent the next three years learning what there was to know about income tax, and company tax, and all the other vagaries of the British tax system. In conse­quence, when he was twenty-six, he was able to set up on his own, and now, at twenty-nine, he owned a very successful company, the rewards of which were quite sufficient to satisfy his needs. It was the knowledge of this that made it comparatively easy to reject his uncle's proposition. He had no burning desire to be the newest director of Denby Industries, and if it meant seeing Isabel Ashley again, nothing could persuade him. Or so he thought.

  Ten days later, he had reason to revise his opinion. A telex from New York was waiting for him at his office, when he arrived back from a late lunch, the gist of which sent him rapidly to the telephone.

  'What's going on?' he demanded of his uncle's secretary, who had accompanied Robert on his trip. 'I have a message here, which reads: See Ashley immediately, re sale of Denby shares. My uncle knows I refused to handle this commission days ago. What game is he playing now? Is he there? Let me speak to him.'

  'Mr Seton is in a meeting, and can't be disturbed,' said Joan Ferris at once, and Alex's mouth compressed at the age-old excuse. 'He thought you might ring, and he asked me to tell you, the situation's changed. Apparently, Miss Ashley does want to dispose of her shares, after all. And as your uncle is out of the country at the moment, he's hoping you'll act as family mediator in his absence.'

  'What's wrong with the solicitors handling it?' asked Alex flatly, his suspicions aroused. If Robert had thought he might ring, then why hadn't his uncle done the same? Sending a telex was so impersonal, and it gave Alex little room for manoeuvre.

  'Mr Seton was sure you would understand that in a matter as delicate as this, a member of the family should be involved------'

  'But not Chris,' Alex interrupted her harshly. 'OK, Joan, but I'll have something pretty strong to say to your boss when next I get hold of him. You can tell him from me, I don't appreciate his methods!'

  'But you'll do it?'

  'Do I have a choice?' Alex took a grudging breath. 'All right, Joan. You can leave it with me. But don't be surprised if I blow it. I'm not exactly in the mood to be tactful.'

  It was not until Alex got back to his own house that night that he allowed himself to give any thought to his uncle's request. His profession entailed seeing clients at all hours of the day and night, and his evening had already been planned before he received his uncle's telex. In consequence, he had been able to put any serious consideration of what he had committed himself to to the back of his mind, and it wasn't until he was undressing for bed that its full import struck him.

  It was annoying, because he had had quite a pleasant evening, dining with Howard Marsden and his wife. He had even succeeded in foiling Hilary Marsden's not-unsubtle efforts to attract him, and for once her rather obvious contempt for her husband's feelings had failed to arouse his impatience. Instead, he had concentrated his attention on the problem of Howard's particular tax liability, and he had not even been aware he had been avoiding thoughts of Isabel until the realisation came to him.

  Unbuttoning his shirt, and pulling it free of his trousers, he regarded his reflection without liking. It was infuriating that the thought of his cousin's ex-wife should still have the power to disturb him, and he felt a renewed sense of resentment towards his uncle for putting him in his present position. If it wasn't for the affection he genuinely had for Robert, he could even now wash his hands of the affair and let someone else do it. But he had given his word, and was loath to break it, particularly if it meant restoring his grandmother's shares to their rightful branch of the family.

  Nevertheless, he took a shower before getting into bed, letting the brittle spray pummel his body and run almost cold before turning it off. Then with a towel wrapped carelessly about his waist, he walked back into his bedroom, using a second towel to dry his hair before shedding them both on to the carpet.

  He was tying the belt of a cream silk dressing-gown when he heard a knock at his door. At his resigned summons, a middle-aged man with greying hair put his head into the room, smiling somewhat diffidently at Alex's look of enquiry.

  'I wondered if you'd be wanting a drink or a sandwich, perhaps,' he remarked ruefully, widening the door to reveal a small, wiry frame, dressed in a dark woollen dressing-gown over blue and white striped winceyette pyjamas. 'Sure, I was getting ready for bed, and I thought to myself, that's Mr Alex home already, if I'm not mistaken, and maybe feeling a bit peckish, if he's had an early dinner.'

  'No, thanks, Kerry.' Alex regarded the cheerful Irishman with reluctant humour. For the past six years, ever since he had had his own establishment, Kerry O'Flynn had looked after him, seconded from the staff at Nazeby at Robert Seton's insistence. 'I don't need anything,' he added wryly, aware of the butler's darting gaze. 'And before you ask, I don't intend to leave those towels to dampen the carpet. I'll put them in the basket in the bathroom before I go to bed. I promise.'

  'Now, would I be leaving you to clear your towels away?' demanded Kerry indignantly. Advancing into the room, he gathered up the two offending articles and tucked them under his arm. 'I'll be putting these in the wash tub, first thing in the morning. Like as not, before you're awake, unless you've an early call.'

  Alex forced a thin smile. 'Thank you.'


  'It's no trouble.' Kerry took his duties very seri­ously. 'Now, you're sure you've everything you need?'

  'Everything.'

  'Good enough.' Kerry backed out of the door. 'Then, I'll wish you a good night, sir. You take it easy. You're looking a little tired.'

  'Am I?'

  But Alex saved his comment until the inquisitive Irishman had closed the door behind him. Then, he walked into his dressing-room and examined his face more closely in the mirror above the hand-basin. It was true, he reflected sourly. The number of nights he had spent working recently were beginning to make their mark. And he'd had some trouble sleeping since his grandmother's will was published.

  Grimacing, he rubbed his hand along the darkening curve of his jaw-line. He needed a shave, but what the hell! That could wait. It wasn't as if Penny was here to complain about his designer stubble. She wasn't due back from Kuwait until the beginning of next week and by then the upcoming interview with Isabel, which was making him so irritable, would be behind him.

  He had his secretary ring her number, as soon as he arrived at his office the following morning. The sooner he dealt with the matter, the better, he had decided grimly, after spending another restless night. He had too much work on at the moment to prolong the aggravation.

  He went into his own office while his secretary made the call, refusing to speculate on the reasons why he could recite Isabel Ashley's phone number from memory. Absorbing the reassuringly familiar atmos­phere, he spent the next few minutes flicking through the mail on his desk, only pressing the intercom when it seemed the girl was taking an inordinately long time to make the connection.

  'I'm sorry, Alex,' Diana Laurence apologised, when she came on the line. 'But there's no reply from Miss Ashley's number. Do you want me to try somewhere else?'

  'Oh------' Alex swore somewhat colourfully, and then, quickly recovering himself, he added, 'I'm sorry. And no, I don't have another number for Miss Ashley.' He sighed. 'Leave it for now, will you, Diana? I'll get back to it later.'