Burning Inheritance

by Anne Mather

  But it was not the chairman of Denby Industries who held Isabel's attention. Even as she steeled herself to face his cold antagonism, another man came into the room behind him. Tall and dark, dressed in a lightweight business suit that complemented his tanned complexion, he moved easily to stand beside his uncle, and seeing them together, Isabel thought how similar they were.

  'You don't mind if Alex joins the meeting, do you, Isabel?' Robert Seton inquired, coming towards her, his hand outstretched. His initial hostility at rinding his son and his son's ex-wife together had melted in the heat of his success in confusing her, and now his palm closed about her cold hand with unconcealed satisfaction.

  Isabel withdrew her ringers immediately however, clasping the hand he had touched inside the other, as if his touch had burned her. He was totally unscru­pulous, she thought angrily, annoyed with herself for allowing him any advantage. The only way she could hurt Robert Seton was through his company. All other avenues had been closed to her.

  Alex made no attempt to greet her, other than a faint raising of his eyebrows. Instead, he went and helped himself to some coffee, surveying the other occupants of the room with mild insouciance. Like Robert Seton, he was completely in control of his actions, and Isabel wondered if he had told his uncle about their confrontation at her flat. It she had believed that by relating that particular incident to Robert Seton she could gain some advantage, she would have done so. But she was very much afraid she would only make a fool of herself, and in spite of her antipathy towards Alex, she was not prepared to take that risk.

  'So—isn't this nice?' Robert remarked, giving his son an encouraging pat on the back. 'Together again after all this time. I hope Vinnie can see us. She's certainly got what she wanted.'

  Isabel took a deep breath, and then, ignoring the faintly anxious look on Chris's face, she said, 'I wonder if she'd be so happy if she knew how you'd tried to thwart her wishes, Mr Seton.' And, encour­aged by the calmness of her tone, she added, 'I'm so sorry I had to refuse your generous offer for the shares she left me. But I felt I owed it to Lady Denby to abide by her decision.'

  Robert's face darkened. 'Don't try to fool me!' he snapped. 'We all know how you were able to twist the old lady round your finger! You care nothing for Denby Industries. You're only interested in yourself. And whatever her doctors say, no one will ever convince me Vinnie knew what she was doing when she left her shares to you. My God, she must have had a brainstorm! You're not even family!'

  Isabel's face was burning now, and before she could find words to repudiate his accusation, Chris chimed in. 'Don't upset yourself, Father!' he exclaimed, moving closer to his parent, as if to demonstrate his support. 'Isabel isn't going to change her mind and sell you the shares if you persist in railing at her. You should try a little psychology. That's what I'd try to do.'

  Isabel's lips curled. 'Is that why you've been so nice to me, Chris?' she enquired, stung by the way he had apparently changed sides. 'I should have known you had a motive. You always hedged your bets.'

  'I don't think any of us is going to achieve anything by indulging in pointless argument,' inserted Alex abruptly, setting his coffee cup aside and pushing his hands into his pockets. 'Whatever our individual feel­ings might be, my grandmother did choose to leave the shares to Isabel, and instead of wasting time debating the point, we should be trying to convince her that the Mattley deal would be providential to all concerned.'

  CHAPTER SIX

  'Well—we did it!' declared Robert Seton triumphantly, entering his office some time later, and flinging himself delightedly into his chair. 'Alex, my boy, you're a genius! I've said it before and I'll say it again, and I insist that you let me buy you dinner this evening.'

  'Yes, Alex, you did awfully well,' echoed his cousin, following them into the office. 'You really had her tied up in knots. By the time it came to the vote, she hadn't a leg to stand on!'

  'I merely explained what it would mean to the staff of Mattley Pharmaceuticals if the merger folded,' said Alex flatly, not enjoying his sudden notoriety, but his uncle wouldn't let it rest there.

  'It was how you told her, Alex,' he said, reaching for a cigar and rolling it experimentally beside his ear. 'Chris is right. She was all tied up in knots. She knew if she'd opposed it then, she'd have had the share­holders to contend with.'

  'Well, perhaps if you'd taken the time to explain the situation to her, you'd never have reached an impasse,' retorted Alex, flexing his shoulder muscles wearily. 'It seems to me there's been a lack of communication on both sides. When it came to the crunch, she saw reason.'

  'And do you think she'd have listened to me?' demanded Robert Seton forcefully, abandoning his relaxed position and swinging himself forward in his chair. 'Dammit, man, we both—that is, the three of us,' in deference to his son, he included Chris, 'know it was your eloquence that swung it. Don't belittle your achievement, Alex. You saw what had to be done, and you did it. And, if you caused her some bad moments in the process, so much the better.'

  Alex pushed his hands into the waistline pockets of his trousers. 'What is that supposed to mean, exactly?'

  'Dad's only pointing out that Isabel started this fight, not us,' exclaimed Chris, defending his parent, and Alex's mouth compressed.

  'As I understand it, we set the wheels in motion when we tried to buy back the shares,' he returned, with abrasive logic. 'Perhaps if we hadn't shown our hand so openly, the question of whether or not the Mattley deal should go through wouldn't have become an item.'

  'You don't believe that!' Chris gave a scornful gasp. 'My God, you were as peeved as any of us when Grandmother's will was announced! And after what she tried to do to you-----'

  'Just stop there, will you?' said Alex quietly, the moderation of his tone in no way detracting from its menace. 'You weren't exactly showing total disinterest when your father and I interrupted you earlier. What were you saying to her then, I wonder? She seemed to think she might have had your support.'

  'That's not true!' Chris was looking hot under the collar now, and he moved about the room restlessly, searching for a suitable rejoinder. 'She—Isabel, that is—she was trying to enlist my help. Of course, I explained where my obligations lay; that naturally I supported Father's stand on the shares, and so on. But that didn't stop her making up to me. In fact, if you and Dad hadn't come in as you did, who knows what might have-----'

  'That's a lie!'

  Before he could finish what he was saying, Alex's hand shot out and grasped a rough handful of his cousin's shirt front. Chris's neatly tied cravat was pulled out of his collar, and his face suffused with colour at the sudden constriction in his breathing. Alex's grip was lethal, and in seconds Chris was gasping for air.

  'For pity's sake, Alex!' Robert left his seat to circle the desk and prise the two men apart. 'Why are you so touchy about what Chris says about that woman? Dammit, she's caused nothing but trouble ever since she became involved with this family! You can't expect Chris to be tactful. Not after what she did to him!'

  Alex's jaw was hard. 'I'm sorry,' he muttered, smoothing a hand through his hair and turning away. 'I guess I'm just sick of this whole damn business!'

  'Aren't we all?' sniffed his cousin, his hands shaking as he struggled to put his clothes to rights. 'There's no need to take your frustration out on me! Just because you're stung that Vinnie didn't leave those shares to you!'

  Alex turned then, but his uncle was between them. 'That will do!' he exclaimed angrily. 'Chris, you'll take back that remark or you'll pay your own bills in future. Alex, we're all in something of a state at the moment. Let's cool it, shall we? And I still haven't had your answer about dinner this evening.'

  Alex took a deep breath. 'I'm afraid I can't make it, Uncle,' he said, forcing a note of regret into his voice. 'I've—er—I've got a client to see at eight-thirty. I'm sorry, we'll have to make it some other time.'

  'Then how about coming down to Nazeby at the weekend?' suggested Robert eagerly. 'You didn't make i
t last weekend, so how about this week instead? I'm not expecting any visitors. There'll just be ourselves. It would give us a chance to play a round of golf.

  Maybe even take the boat out, if the weather's good.'

  Alex sighed. 'I don't know . . .'

  'What about me?' Chris demanded peevishly. 'Am I invited, too? Or is this just a tete-a-tete?'

  'Don't be such an ass!' His father rounded on him impatiently. 'Nazeby is your home, isn't it? When have you ever not been welcome there?' He breathed heavily. 'But, as I recall it, you told me you were going to Newcastle; to the races. Or have you changed your mind about that, too?'

  'What do you mean—too?' Chris blustered. 'Am I to understand you believe Alex's version of my conversation with Isabel, not mine?'

  Robert shook his head. 'I didn't say that.'

  'Not likely.'

  'Look, I've got to go,' said Alex abruptly, not prepared to get involved in any more argument. 'I'll ring you later about this weekend, Uncle. If I can get away, I'll let you know.'

  He felt a definite sense of relief when he came out of the Denby building. The clouds which had hung around earlier that morning had all cleared away and, like his mood, the sky was considerably lighter. It was warm, too, the first really seasonable warmth of the summer, and he decided to walk to his office instead of taking a taxi, as usual.

  Half-way there, however, he was beginning to regret his enthusiasm. Walking gave him far too much time to think, and the avenue his thoughts were taking was not one he preferred. He didn't want to think about the morning's meeting; he didn't want to think about his feelings, when he had seen Chris and Isabel together; but most of all, he didn't want to think about Isabel herself, and how defeated she had appeared at the end of his cross-examination. She herself had said, just recently, that his skills as a barrister were being wasted. Well, perhaps they were. But that was no reason to feel guilty because he had used his courtroom logic to make her look a fool.

  He sighed, looking bleakly about him, trying to find something to divert his troubled intellect. But the young women in their summer dresses, and the older ones, pushing toddlers in their chairs, only reminded him of what might have been, and how devastated he had been when he had first met Isabel. How many years was it now since he first saw her at Nazeby? Five? Six, maybe? Long enough, certainly, for him to have forgotten that first meeting; long enough to throw off the shackles of the past and put what had happened behind him.

  The fact that that first glimpse of his cousin's future wife was still as sharply etched in his mind as ever caused him no small sense of irritation. He wanted to forget it—and her—but circumstances just kept getting in the way. Of course, until Vinnie died, it had been just a rather annoying memory, which raised its head from time to time, but which mostly he could keep under control. Since the divorce, it had become progressively easier to keep such thoughts at bay, and although he had kept himself informed of Isabel's whereabouts, and what she was doing, if ever he felt himself softening he had had only to think of Chris.

  Vinnie's contact with her had made this easier, although his grandmother had never discussed Isabel with him, except in the most impersonal terms. Never­theless, he was aware of their regular meetings, and if ever he felt the urge to update his mental dossier, it had been a simple matter to ask a perfectly innocent question.

  His grandmother's death had changed many things, not least Isabel's status within the family. By leaving her the shares, Vinnie had successfully involved her grandson's ex-wife in Denby—and Seton—affairs, for years to come. She had made a mockery of Alex's determination never to see Isabel again, and locked the door, once and for all, on those halcyon days when he hadn't thought about her at all.

  Now, he was uncomfortably aware that he was thinking about her far too much. If he hadn't felt the need to see her again after that disturbing scene at the flat, he would never have allowed his uncle to persuade him to attend the meeting that morning. He was quite capable of refusing his uncles's requests, and he had known at the time that by giving in to Robert, he was actually giving in to himself. But he had wanted to see her again. He had had an uncontrollable urge to go there and convince himself that what had happened between them couldn't happen again. And then, Robert had opened the door into the boardroom. Alex's blood still pounded in his temples when he remembered the scene they had interrupted. Isabel and Chris, standing closely together, deep in conversation, their nearness so reminiscent of that day at Nazeby, when Alex had come upon them in the library . . .

  It had been a summer day then, too, only there had been a storm earlier in the day, and the air was still damp and thundery when Alex drove down from London. He had been in a good mood, he remem­bered. His interview with Storey and Heathcliffe had gone well, and he'd had every expectation of being appointed to their staff. An expectation which had later proved conclusive, when Arnold Heathcliffe had called him with the news that he had got the job.

  He had walked into the house, which he had always regarded as his home, looking for either his uncle or his grandmother, with whom to share the news of his appointment. But instead of finding Robert, or his grandmother, in the library, he had found Chris and his new girlfriend, the importunate young woman his uncle had spent the last six weeks complaining about.

  Alex had convinced himself that it had been because of his uncle's professed dislike of the girl that he himself had felt such an immediate aversion to the scene that confronted him. Seeing her there, with his cousin, should not have affected him at all; but it had. He had known a sudden, and totally unfamiliar, surge of animosity towards both of them, and the feeling was so powerful, he had found it difficult to be polite.

  Looking back, he doubted Chris had noticed anything amiss. His cousin had never been particularly perceptive, and he had been so eager to introduce Isabel to Alex, he had apparently overlooked his reluctance.

  To be honest, Alex had to admit that Isabel was nothing like what he had expected. After hearing his uncle's derogatory remarks about her success as a fashion model, he had been prepared to meet either a busty blonde or a hard-faced brunette. That Isabel was neither was immediately obvious. She was tall, and slim, and the colour of her hair defied description. It was a tumbling mass of dark red curls, shorter than she wore it now, but decidedly feminine. Her skin was flawless, a combination of apricot cream and smooth alabaster. Her mouth was wide, her nose prominent, but attractive none the less; and her eyes were a hazy, smoky-grey, with long, curling lashes tipped with gold. And when she spoke, her voice was soft and musical, and just a little husky. Chris was evidently infatuated with her, and Alex couldn't exactly blame him.

  His own reactions were less easy to diagnose, but, in the days and weeks that followed, when it became apparent that Chris was determined to marry the girl, he found himself taking Robert's side in any argument. For some reason, the idea of his cousin being married to Isabel disturbed him more than he cared to admit, and if he had been able to change Chris's mind, he would have done so without hesitation.

  But for once, Chris was digging in his heels and refusing to listen to either his father or Alex. He was in love, or so he said, and if his father chose to cut him off without a penny, he still intended to make Isabel his wife.

  Vinnie, Alex's grandmother, was less unequivocal in her views. She like Isabel. She liked her very much. But, surprisingly, she did not actively encourage the marriage, even though, when it happened, she did give them her blessing.

  Eventually, Robert Seton had given in. For all his faults, he did care deeply for his only offspring, and the wedding date was set for the autumn. Alex thought his uncle had become resigned to the prospect of becoming a grandfather in the fullness of time, and only Alex was left to accept the inevitable.

  Then, one morning at the beginning of October, Alex received a telephone call from Chris. Could he do him a favour? he asked. He had arranged to come up to London that afternoon and pick Isabel up from the studio, but something had come up. An old
schoolfriend had arrived unexpectedly at Nazeby, and Chris didn't like to turn him away without a meal. As it was Friday, and Alex was coming down for the weekend anyway, could he collect Isabel from the studio and give her a lift to Nazeby? He'd be eternally grateful, and it would save him an embarrassing scene.

  Alex had no choice but to agree. What excuse could he have given, after all? He had arranged to spend the weekend at Nazeby, primarily so that the local vicar could arrange a rehearsal of the wedding. As Alex was to be best man, he had to attend, so there was no way he could invent a prior engagement. Isabel was waiting outside the studio when he arrived. Evidently, she had been prepared for his arrival, for she showed no surprise when the black Porsche he had then been driving rolled to a halt beside her. Without allowing him the courtesy of getting out and assisting her into the car, she opened the door herself and slipped into the seat beside him. The overnight bag she was carrying was wedged between her knees and, reaching for the seat-belt, she gave him a polite smile.

  'Thank you,' she said, straightening her shoulders against the back of the seat. 'I hope you don't mind this imposition.'

  Alex was tempted to say that it would be all the same if he did; but he didn't. It was a good two-hour drive to Nazeby, and for all his antipathy towards her, he disliked the notion of starting the journey with a row.

  Instead, he dismissed her gratitude with casual indif­ference, making some innocuous remark about the state of the traffic, to set their relationship on an even footing.

  Yet, for all his apparent negligence, Alex was aware of the young woman sitting beside him with every fibre of his being. Although his impression of her by the roadside and getting into his car had been neces­sarily brief, he knew how she looked and what she was wearing. Surprisingly enough, she had not dressed formally for the journey. Alex guessed the thigh-length, collarless T-shirt dress and mauve tights, were her usual attire to and from the studios. Even her face was scrubbed clean of make-up so that the pearly radiance of her skin was unblemished. Only her hair appeared a contradiction. Someone, the hairdresser at the studio possibly, had threaded the fiery strands into dozens of small braids. Each braid was fastened with tiny ceramic beads, and when she moved her head too quickly, the beads chinked together. It was not an unpleasant sound, but it was unusual, and the first couple of times it happened, Alex found his eyes drawn to its source.