Burning Inheritance

by Anne Mather

  Lauren frowned. 'How long were you married?'

  'Two years.'

  Isabel was offhand now, but Lauren was intrigued. 'So what happened? Was there someone else?'

  Isabel straightened. It was to avoid questions like these that she had kept herself aloof. 'Someone else?' she asked, in her most distant voice, and Lauren sighed.

  'There was a divorce,' she reminded her ruefully. 'OK,' she could see Isabel didn't want to talk about it, 'forget I asked. For a moment there, I forgot who I was talking to.' She turned away. 'I guess I'd better get changed.'

  Isabel picked up her shoulder-bag and then regarded the other girl's back with some misgivings. The temp­tation to confide in Lauren was appealing, but the habit of keeping her own counsel was hard to break. In any case, much as she liked Lauren, the other girl was not known for her discretion, and Isabel had no desire for her private affairs to become common knowledge throughout the agency. So, with a casual 'Have a good trip!' she left the studio, deliberately using the back entrance to avoid another confronta­tion with Jason.

  She was free now—for a week anyway, she reflected gratefully. On Wednesday, Jason, Lauren, Helen Rogers and two of the other girls were flying to Madrid on the photographic assignment Isabel had had to refuse. They would be away for five days at least, and it was an important break for Helen, the youngest member of the party. It was Isabel's turning down of this opportunity which had been the cause of her quarrel with Jason that afternoon. But Isabel had refused to be intimidated by his threats. If she lost her prime rating with the agency, then so be it. She was determined to attend the meeting of the board of Denby Industries, and she had warned Jason of that fact ten days ago.

  Even so, she didn't like quarrelling with him. Two years after the divorce, she had been grateful for his faith in her ability. A period of withdrawal, followed by eighteen months of working at dead-end jobs, had almost convinced her she would never be lucky enough to work as a model again, but an interview with Jason had set her fears at rest. He had seen the potential, which had barely flourished at the time of her marriage, and with his skill and guidance, she had overtaken her youthful promise. That was why it was so hard to disappoint him. That was why she hoped their rela­tionship was not going to become a problem.

  Thinking now about Thursday's board meeting, Isabel realised she had less than two days to read all the literature she could find about both Denby Indus­tries and Mattley Pharmaceuticals. So far, her knowledge of both was sadly limited, but she intended to remedy that without delay. She had to admit, her decision to thwart Robert Seton's proposal to take over the smaller company had been made without much thought, and only recently had she realised she might have to face questions about her opposition. In all honesty, all she had really intended was to show Robert Seton that she was determined to make life difficult for him. Until Alex brought the subject up, she hadn't even considered what might happen to the employees. All the same, she couldn't believe that blocking the take-over would make any critical differ­ence to Mattley Pharmaceuticals. From what she'd read in the Press, large conglomerates often put in bids for small companies, much against those compa­nies' wishes. Perhaps she was doing the board of Mattley Pharmaceuticals a favour. Considering the alternatives, she certainly hoped so.

  Nevertheless, thinking about Alex certainly rekin­dled her faith in what she was doing. Since he had walked out of her apartment, she had suffered agonies of self-reproach, berating herself time and again for allowing what had happened to happen. She had been so sure she could handle him, so sure she could keep herself aloof from the insidious pleasure of his love-making. Maybe if she hadn't made him so angry he would not have attacked her so savagely. If she had only contented herself with the success she had had, instead of taunting him so recklessly, until he had completely lost his head.

  And he had lost his head, she reflected smugly, with some satisfaction, as she drove her second-hand Mini from the studio in Greek Street to her apartment in Dorset Place. Even he could not deny that. And not for the first time, she remembered, as the unwilling memories refused to be dismissed. If it hadn't been for Alex, she probably would never have married Chris. But pride was an uneasy bedfellow, and she had had her share, the same as anybody else.

  And she had been flattered when Chris Seton showed such interest in her. They had met at a media party. She had been there representing the agency for which she had then worked, while Chris had come along with a model from a rival agency. It had been quite exciting to find herself the object of his attentions, particularly when one of the Press photographers advised her who he was. Even in those days, the heir to Denby Industries was considered one of the most eligible bachelors around, and Isabel was too young to be anything but impressed.

  Even so, Chris had proved to be an entertaining companion, and, in spite of warnings from friends, she had begun accepting his invitations. She hadn't been afraid of falling in love with him. Her years in the children's home had taught her not to give her affections too freely, and although she had liked Chris, she hadn't meant to take him seriously. But that was before she met his father—and his cousin, Alex—and from that moment on, she had been running for her life . . .

  The library did not yield much information about Mattley Pharmaceuticals. There was plenty of litera­ture about Denby Industries, and its parent company, Denby Textiles, but the smaller concern warranted only a brief resume in business directories, with no details at all about the number of employees or their plans for development. The directors' names were given, and she did contemplate contacting one of them and asking their opinion. But she could hardly ask a complete stranger to give her details of his company's policy, particularly as the merger might well be to his advantage.

  What she was grateful for was the fact that the board meeting would take place in Denby Industries' London office. The company's headquarters were just off the Strand in a tall, skyscraper building with its name carved above the smoked-glass doors. Robert Seton, she knew, had his suite of offices on the penthouse floor, and the boardroom opened from them, with deliberate precision.

  By Thursday morning, Isabel was half wishing she had decided to sell the shares. She could have saved herself so much soul-searching, she thought impa­tiently, pouring herself a glass of orange juice in lieu of breakfast. What was she going to gain by putting herself through this ordeal? Perhaps Vinnie had expected her to sell the shares. Maybe it had been her way of ensuring she was given some compensation at last.

  But, somehow, Isabel knew the old lady had expected more than that. If she had wanted her to inherit a substantial sum of money, she would have arranged her will that way. No, for some reason best known to herself, Vinnie had wanted her to maintain her connection with the company. And if there was an ulterior motive, no doubt it would expose itself in time.

  Isabel dressed with especial care for the meeting. She did have a momentary aberration, when she considered wearing something so outrageously provocative that the other board members would be too shocked to concentrate on what they were doing, but the inclination passed. Behaving outrageously would simply prove to Robert Seton that she was incapable of making a rational judgement, and give him the ideal opportunity to belittle her to the board. To succeed in the task she had set herself, she must first convince her peers of her sincerity. And to do that, she must not give her adversary any reason to undermine her efforts.

  With this in mind, she chose a slim-fitting skirt suit in fine, beige-flecked wool, with only a rather modest slit at the back. She teamed it with an amber-coloured silk shirt and a matching tie. The severe cut of the suit was exactly what she was aiming for, and if it served to accentuate her femininity, so much the better. High-heeled bronze pumps completed the outfit, and with her hair strictly confined in a tapering knot, she was pleased with the image she had created. All the same, her hand shook a little as she followed the downward sweep of her cheekbones with a beige blusher. She still had to face Chns and his father and, for all he
r brave pronouncements, she was definitely apprehensive.

  She took a taxi to the meeting, deciding she could not face the harassment of driving in the city this morning. A uniformed doorman opened the swing-door at her approach, and then she was inside the Denby Building, facing a bank of steel-clad lifts, like a prisoner about to serve a sentence. Stop panicking, she told herself fiercely, stepping into the first lift that opened. What have you got to lose? None of them can hurt you now.

  The lift remained empty until the tenth floor when two young secretaries joined her. But they paid her scant attention, evidently absorbed with some gossip of their own making, and not until Alex's name was mentioned did Isabel feel a sense of unease.

  'Well, I've heard he divorced her because she was having an affair with his cousin,' one of the girls was saying as they entered the cubicle. Then, observing Isabel's presence, she lowered her voice accordingly. 'You know who I mean, Tracy. You've seen him. Alex Seton!'

  'Really!' The other girl's eyes widened, as Isabel absorbed what they were saying with hastily concealed disbelief. 'Do you think it's true?'

  'I don't know.' Her companion grimaced expres­sively. 'But I wouldn't mind having an affair with him myself. It's a pity he's not Mr Seton's son. Imagine looking like that, and owning all this!'

  'Well . . . Mr Chris isn't so bad,' murmured Tracy, hugging the pile of files she was clutching to her. 'And he does say hello, if you meet him in the building. He's not stand-offish or anything. He's really rather sweet.'

  'But he's no Mel Gibson, is he?' exclaimed the first girl drily, and then, realising she had allowed her voice to rise again, she added, barely audibly, 'Besides, I've heard-------'

  But what she had heard, Isabel was doomed not to hear. The lift doors had opened at the fifteenth floor, and the two girls stepped out. Which was just as well, she thought tensely, catching sight of her own slightly flushed features in the mirrored panel opposite. She had had little difficulty in identifying herself as the guilty divorcee they were discussing, and while it was easy to dismiss their words as gossip, it was disturbing to realise that she was once again the target for careless talk.

  The lift reached the eighteenth floor only seconds later, and Isabel wished she had had the sense to stop it at the floor below. She could have done with a few more minutes to compose herself. As it was, someone was waiting to get in, and she was obliged to step out into the reception area bordering Robert Seton's pent­house suite of offices.

  Any possible excuse she might have made to give herself time to recover had to be rejected when she was recognised. The plump little receptionist who vetted all visitors to Mr Seton's office identified Isabel at once, and coming round her desk, she gave her a friendly smile.

  'Mrs Seton!' she exclaimed, ignoring the fact that Isabel and her ex-husband had been divorced for almost two years. 'It's lovely to see you again. How are you? You're looking well.'

  Isabel took a deep breath and went to meet her. 'It's Miss Ashley,' she corrected her lightly, not wanting to be reminded of her reasons for being here. 'And it's good to see you, too, Susan. Still working hard, I see.'

  'As ever,' agreed Susan Lightfoot, giving a rueful shrug. 'We can't all lead exciting lives like you, Mrs—Miss Ashley. I see your picture in newspapers and magazines all the time. It must be lovely to be famous. But, I'm afraid, that's not for me.'

  Isabel smiled, aware that Mrs Lightfoot was not as ingenuous as she appeared. She had been with Robert Seton too long to harbour any love for his ex-daughter-in-law, and although her comments seemed innocuous enough, there was an underlying note of disapproval running through them.

  'Can I get you some coffee?' the woman asked now, inviting Isabel to take a seat while she informed her employer of her arrival, but Isabel demurred.

  'Wouldn't it be easier if I went straight through to the boardroom?' she suggested, her fingers uncon­sciously tightening about her handbag. 'I am expected.'

  'Oh, yes, I know.' Susan Lightfoot was not dismayed. 'But the other members of the board haven't arrived yet, and Mr Seton is busy just now.'

  Isabel expelled her breath evenly. 'I think I'd prefer to wait in the boardroom,' she insisted, refusing to be kept waiting here like some interviewee. She wondered what Lady Denby would have done in such a circum­stance, and then sighed. Vinnie had not been the kind of person you kept waiting. No doubt if she was here, her son-in-law would have rushed to meet her.

  Susan looked taken aback but, short of interrupting her employer while he was dictating, there was little she could do. Besides, Isabel could see her arguing with herself, what possible harm could there be in allowing the newest member of the board to fami­liarise herself with her surroundings? It wasn't as if there were any confidential papers lying around.

  'Very well,' she said at last, and indicating that Isabel should follow her, she led the way along the thickly carpeted corridor. Isabel knew the way for herself, but she allowed Mrs Lightfoot this particular indulgence, stiffening automatically when they passed the door to Robert Seton's office. His voice, as he dictated to his secretary, penetrated even those solid walls, and she mentally steeled herself for the confron­tation to come.

  The boardroom was large, but not excessively so. The long rectangular table was set about with fourteen ladder-backed chairs, and at each place there was a spotless white blotter, with a jotting pad and a ball­point pen for making notes.

  'I'll let Mr Seton know you're here,' Susan declared as she departed, her voice decidedly frosty now. How not to make friends and influence people, thought Isabel wryly; as the door closed behind her. But if she let someone like Susan intimidate her, what chance would she have with Robert Seton himself?

  Putting down her handbag on the table, Isabel controlled the stirrings of panic that gripped her by strolling the length of the room. It was quite a pleasant room, and with a watery sun streaming through the windows, it was not too formidable. The walls were mostly bare, though there was a portrait of Robert Seton at one end of the room. Isabel guessed it was situated above the chairman's position, so that even if he wasn't present at a meeting, his presence could still be felt.

  Apart from the portrait, which Isabel considered to be a rather flattering likeness, there was a cabinet displaying the various awards for industry Denby's had accumulated over the past thirty years. Since Robert Seton became chairman of Denby Industries, thought Isabel contemptuously. There was no evidence here that the company had existed at all before the 1950s, and without that earlier nucleus, there would have been no company for the Setons to manage.

  To one side of the room, a polished cabinet supported a coffee-maker and a dozen or more porce­lain cups and saucers. Cream and sugar resided in matching porcelain containers, and a huge jug of Cona coffee simmered on its stand. Evidently, this was for the use of the board members, Isabel decided and suddenly feeling the need for sustenance, she poured herself a cup.

  She was sipping the hot black liquid when the door behind her opened again, and turning with the cup in her hand, she saw her ex-husband standing in the aperture. She didn't know who was the most surprised, herself or Chris. But evidently Mrs Lightfoot had not been around to warn him that their unwelcome visitor had arrived.

  And yet, surprisingly enough, Isabel was not as disconcerted by his appearance as she had expected. Somehow, he had never seemed as much to blame as his father and Alex, and although she had once despised him, she could not say she hated him.

  'Didn't Susan tell you I was here?' she asked now, as he hovered in the doorway, clearly undecided on his course of action, and Chris shook his head.

  'She wasn't at her desk,' he said, making a decision and advancing into the room. 'I—er—see you're having coffee. I could do with some of that myself.'

  'White? With two spoons of sugar?' suggested Isabel, picking up the coffee-pot as he closed the door behind him, and Chris nodded.

  'You remembered!' he exclaimed, and then his fair skin suffused with colour. 'I mean—well, it's g
ood to see you again, Isabel. I've often wondered how you were doing, but I guessed from what Vinnie told us that you wouldn't welcome my asking.'

  Isabel shrugged. It was difficult to sustain any animosity towards him. 'It's all water under the bridge, Chris,' she said, adding sugar to his cup. 'We each have our own lives to lead. Isn't that what Vinnie would have said?'

  Chris took the cup she offered him with a rueful laugh. 'Well, anyway,' he added, 'you look jolly fantastic! The pictures I've seen of you don't do you justice. If you don't mind me saying so, of course.'

  Isabel's expression was ironic. 'Why should I mind?' She smiled. 'You've gained a little weight yourself.'

  'Haven't I just!' Chris grimaced. 'You don't have to tell me. It's the bane of my life!'

  'Not so much a cherub; more a satyr!' remarked

  Isabel lightly, reminding him of a joke they had once shared, and Chris groaned.

  'I guess what I need is a good woman to keep me on the straight and narrow,' he joked, without thinking, but Isabel's smile disappeared.

  'Do you?' she countered, meeting his eyes directly, and then, seeing the uncertainty there, she quickly looked away.

  'I say—let's not get into all that,' Chris protested following her over to the windows, and standing beside her as she looked down on the panorama of the city far below. 'Dammit, Isabel, you know I'm not my own master. Never have been. God------' he swore

  '—I wish I were more like Alex! At least he knows what he wants out of life!'

  'Don't say that.' Isabel looked up at him unwill­ingly, and then shook her head. 'Don't ever compare yourself unfavourably to Alex! At least you can't be blamed for what you are. Alex is completely without conscience!'

  'But I thought you admired Alex.'

  'I know what you thought, and I let you go on thinking it.' Isabel sighed. 'But I wanted out of this family, Chris. I had to get out or lose whatever self-respect I had left.'

  'Bravo!'

  The mocking salute and the smattering of applause that went with it brought Isabel round with a start. She had been so wrapped up in what she was saying, she had half forgotten where she was. And, in those few moments, Robert Seton had come through the connecting door from his office, and was now standing watching them with narrow-eyed malevolence.