Guardian to the Heiress

“What are you going to do today?” he asked. It was a Saturday. He knew her mother, Roxanne, wouldn’t bother taking her anywhere. The proverbial cat was a better mother than Roxanne, but he had employed an excellent nanny, a highly qualified, pleasant, middle-aged woman, experienced with looking after children. She and Carol got on famously.

“Can’t you and Daddy stay home and be with me, Poppy?” she implored.

“Not possible, sweetheart,” he said, brushing a hand over her springy curls. “Your father and I have business to attend to. Important business.”

“Can’t it wait?” She was impatient.

“Afraid not,” he said, casting around for something to appease her. “What about tomorrow? We could take a run out to Beaumont. How would that suit you?” He would have to make the time and effort, but his granddaughter was worth it.

She clapped her hands, looking up at him with sparkling cerulean-blue eyes. “That would be wonderful. You’re the best poppy in the whole wide world,” she announced, picking up his large hand and kissing it…

He couldn’t suppress a sob. Tears stung his eyes. It hadn’t been all that much longer before his little sweetheart had disappeared from his life along with his son Adam. His emotions had changed rapidly, savagely, from a reasonable contentment to a grief-stricken hatred. But he had kept his eye on his granddaughter, albeit from afar. Powerful as he then was, a mother had proved to be more powerful. But he had seen to it his little Carol was well provided for. The treacherous Roxanne had remarried a City identity, Jeff Emmett, a scant eighteen months after Adam’s death, but she had gone on sending him all the bills pertaining to Carol’s upkeep. Greed. As Adam’s widow, she had benefited greatly. He had paid up unquestioningly. Hadn’t he built up scrapbook after scrapbook of Carol’s young life and achievements over the years? He had watched her from a distance, locked away in the back seat of his Rolls. He’d had his best, most discreet private investigator keep an eye on her, her mother and stepfather.

A year before, when he had found out he had cancer—and not gall trouble, as he had supposed—he had called in a solicitor. Not steady-as-she-goes Marcus Bradfield, senior partner of Bradfield Douglass, but the new young fellow—the associate, Damon Hunter—the one who had come up with all the fresh ideas to save his companies’ money. It was Hunter who had drawn up his new will. Selwyn had urged him to get shot of Bradfield Douglass and go out on his own, though he was sure in time the young man would be offered a full partnership. It could be no more than his due.

He’d had plenty of experience picking the ones who would go to the top. Nevertheless he’d had Hunter thoroughly investigated. He had come up trumps in all departments. Hunter was chosen to guard Carol’s money and her interests until she turned twenty-one the following August. God knew, Hunter was young himself, but he had been when he’d started to make his mark. Hunter was his man.

Carol was family more than anyone else. Carol was Adam’s daughter, Adam’s only child. Adam had planned on more children, only life had cheated all three of them—most of all his sad, sweet Elaine. It was his turn now to cheat the gathering Vultures.

In his very last moments, Selwyn Chancellor was rewarded with another vision of his granddaughter, the last time he had seen her. Had she looked across the busy city street, she would have spotted the luxury car but she had been too busy chatting to one of her girlfriends, a fellow university student he had seen her with several times. She looked so beautiful, so vital, and beyond that so happy, a sense of peace had settled on him. He had always blamed himself—at least in part—for the way things had turned out, but now he felt a burden was lifted from his shoulders. He trusted Damon Hunter to look after Carol’s best interests and he wasn’t a man given to trust.

He had to be hallucinating—his poor head was so sick and muddled—but he fancied he saw his little Elaine come to stand at the end of his bed. His immediate reaction was to hold out his hand.

“Is that you, Elaine?” he whispered, straining upwards.

She didn’t speak, but she drew nearer, like the spirit appointed to take care of his soul.

His vision grew clearer. It was Elaine. She was shining, a silver haze surrounding her. He wasn’t afraid; he was eager to join her.

Selwyn Chancellor reached out to take his wife’s hand.

A farewell to arms.

CHAPTER ONE

DAMON HUNTER WAS placing some files into his briefcase when Marcus Bradfield walked through the open door of his office, an attempt at a solemn expression on his handsome, fleshy face. Oddly enough, the extra padding in his cheeks lent him the air of a middle-aged cherub. “Bit of news.”

Damon broke off what he was doing, directly meeting his boss’s gaze. “Don’t tell me—Selwyn Chancellor’s dead.”

“Exactly right.” Bradfield sank heavily into one of the armchairs in front of Damon’s desk. Bradfield was an affluent man, born of wealth, well-respected, a leading light of the city’s elite. His grandfather, Patrick Bradfield, had been one of the original partners who had founded Bradfield Douglass. “Maurice rang me.” A faint smile spread across Bradfield’s face. “He did his best, but he didn’t sound all that grief-stricken.”

“Difficult when you’re glad,” Damon commented briefly. He had no time for Maurice Chancellor. Ditto for Champagne Charlie, the son Troy. “Why didn’t he ring me, as well? I’m handling the will.”

“Maurice likes to deal with the top people, Damon,” Brad-field said with a smirk. “Selwyn Chancellor has employed this firm for many long years. I’m a full partner. You’re still an associate. Am I right?”

“And I’m quite sure there will be a full partnership on offer in the near future,” Damon countered, knowing it to be true. He had brought a lot of new business to the firm. In fact, he was gaining a reputation in the City as the can-do guy. “I still say he should have rung me, after he rang you.” He held firm. “That was the correct thing to do.”

“Poor man was in shock.” Bradfield gave way to a wry chuckle. “I said I’d tell you.”

“Not good enough! Did he tell you he’d contacted Carol Emmett, his niece? The family may have been estranged for years, but clearly she must be told.”

“Didn’t mention young Carol.” Bradfield waved that one away. “Why would he? He hasn’t acknowledged her since the big rift. Now there’s a beautiful girl. Met her a number of times. She darn nearly charmed the pants off me.”

“You wish.”

“Okay, so I’m getting on, as my dear wife never fails to remind me. Bit wild, young Carol, I hear.”

“Just young,” Damon clipped off, thinking Carol Emmett not only looked a handful she was bound to be one. “She has to know.”

“I dare say the old man remembered her?” Bradfield gave Damon one of his guileless stares.

“He did that.” Damon kept his face neutral. “She was his granddaughter.”

“He paid her no attention at all!” Condemnation was in Bradfield’s blue eyes. Marcus was a staunch family man with three daughters of marriageable age.

“As far as you know.”

Marcus gave him a long, searching look. “Damon, you know as well as I do, the family as good as abandoned her and her mother. Now, there’s a swinger, that Roxanne! A real glamour girl, though no one seems to like her. You should hear my wife! Another thing, my boy—”

“I’m not your boy, Marcus.”

“Another thing, my man, Maurice wants this kept quiet until morning when the press will be informed. Selwyn Chancellor was an important man. The premier could even want a state funeral.”

“Against Selwyn Chancellor’s wishes?” Damon shook his head. “He stipulated a quiet funeral, family and a few chosen friends only. He is to be buried in the garden of his country home, Beaumont, where I assume he died. Carol is to be invited.”

“Not Jeff and Roxanne?” Bradfield asked as though that violated some set of rules.

“No way. Jeff Emmett might be one of your ‘good ole boys,’ but he and Roxanne are specifically excluded.”

“So bygones won’t be bygones? We all know Selwyn and his wife—what was her name again?”

“Elaine,” Damon supplied.

“Blamed Roxanne for the death of their son Adam, the heir apparent. It was a bit suspicious you have to admit—all set to go through the Heads for a good day’s sailing, only Adam takes a wallop on the head from the boom on the mainsail before pitching into the harbour. Roxanne tries to chuck in a lifebuoy, finds it unfastened but still attached, so she throws in every cushion to hand, anything that would float. Meanwhile the boat is moving on at around eight knots.”

“She couldn’t swim. That much was true.”

“I’ve always said, men don’t teach their wives enough about boats and light aircraft. They rely on always being there.”

“I agree. Roxanne was believed.”

“Not by everybody.” Bradfield sighed. “Even to mention the case to my darling wife is to get into a heated argument. Old Selwyn didn’t believe her; the mother was the more vehement of the two. She never accepted the coroner’s finding. We’re both yachtsmen so we know what can happen. But Adam Chancellor’s parents continued to hold their daughter-in-law guilty of some crime.”

“Maybe she was,” Damon suggested. “She certainly acted strangely in the days that followed—not a sign of a tear, always dressed up to the nines. Not that that makes her guilty of anything. But the whole thing was a bit strange; I’ve read up on it all. The tragedy damn near split the city in two. But, whatever story Roxanne Chancellor told, it worked. As far as I’m concerned, more questions were asked than there were answers for.”

Bradfield stared down at his locked hands, as though they might hold the answer. “Speculation won’t get us anywhere. It was years ago. Just about everyone has forgotten.”

“Not true, Marcus.”