The Australian Heiress Read online

  Claude was holding court in the drawing room. He caught sight of Camille and beckoned her over. She shook her head. Claude could be extremely funny, but she was feeling more somber by the minute. She considered having Tommy Browning, the Guilford mansion’s long-time majordomo, blow the whistle, but that would be rude and counterproductive.

  Linda and Stephen had gone home. Despite the bright smiling face she’d shown tonight, Linda had confessed she wasn’t feeling well. Nearing three months in her pregnancy, Linda was still battling morning sickness, or “morning, noon and night” sickness, as she called it. Camille loved her for the special effort she’d made to come tonight

  Camille decided to seek the quiet of the library. She’d just reached the door and opened it when the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the quarter hour—almost smothering the sound of someone calling her name. She turned, and seeing who it was, felt almost angry enough to throw something.

  “Philip, go away, for God’s sake. The library is offlimits to guests.”

  “So I’m a guest now.” He moved toward her, his expression taut. “Can’t I speak to you for a moment?”

  “No!” she responded fiercely. “There’s nothing to say.”

  “You never used to hurt people.”

  Camille shut her eyes briefly. “Philip, do yourself a favor and go back to Robyn. She’s just spoiling for a fight.”

  “Darling, she’s never fully under control.” Philip gave a humorless laugh. “Life’s nowhere near as carefree as it used to be.”

  “I’ll bet. Please go away. We have absolutely nothing to discuss.”

  Philip took another tentative step closer, as though trying to gauge her possible reactions. “Camille, you miss me, don’t you? God knows I miss you.”

  She pressed her fingers to her aching temples. “What kind of fool are you?” she asked not unkindly. “Double-cross Robyn’s father and you might find yourself washed up on Bondi Beach.”

  Philip looked unconcerned. “I can handle the Bert Mastermans of this world. This is between you and me. Robyn’s talking to her psychiatrist, anyway.”

  “Her psychiatrist’s here?” Camille opened her eyes wide. “How much is he charging?”

  “That’s my girl!” Philip gave an appreciative chuckle. “She’s been seeing him for years. A real kook is Robyn.”

  “A lot of people seem to think so, but we can’t overlook the fact that she’s rich.”

  “Well, it does make life easier, doesn’t it?” Philip ran his fingers through his thick blond hair. A familiar gesture. He even gave one of his little comic winces Camille used to find so attractive. But no longer.

  “Philip, I’m tired,” she said. “I want you out of here.”

  He reached out suddenly and grasped her wrist. “You can sell that to anyone else but me.”

  Despite her effort to remain calm, Camille’s voice rose. “What is it you want?”

  “A minute. That’s all I ask.”

  “And Robyn?”

  “Forget Robyn. It’s you I really want.” Using his superior strength, he propelled her into the library, shutting the door and standing with his back against it. “You didn’t think I was going to let you out of my life just like that, did you?”

  “I don’t believe this!” Camille was at her wit’s end. “Philip, I shall never have anything to do with you again. Can you seriously doubt it?”

  “When no one had what we had?” He pulled her toward him. “Darling, I’m so sorry. I miss you terribly.” His narrow features were taut with passion.

  Camille struggled to free herself. “You’re contemptible. You ditched me. It’s over.”

  “Don’t you understand?” He shook her as if to bring her to her senses. “I can’t go back to being no one. The rich are the only people who know how to live. So what if I marry Robyn? I don’t love her. I don’t believe she loves me, either. She just likes the idea of us. Plenty of people get married for mutual gain.”

  “Whatever did I see in you, Philip?” Camille asked in a wondering tone. “I feel ashamed of myself now.”

  He caught her shoulders roughly. “So what if I sell myself to the highest bidder? I’m far from being on my own. It doesn’t have to affect us.”

  Camille was finding it increasingly difficult to hold on to her self-control. “Philip, in two minutes I’m going to open my mouth and scream. I don’t care what happens. Enough’s enough.”

  “Isn’t that the truth!”

  She watched in dismay as Nick Lombard rose from the depths of a wing chair in a far corner of the room. He turned to face them with chilling world-weary eyes.

  Camille was so mortified it took her a moment to gather herself to speak. “What is this?” she demanded, looking at Philip as though he were a coconspirator.

  ”I didn’t ask him here.” Philip flushed darkly.

  “Of course he didn’t.” Nick Lombard continued to stare at them, his black eyes full of contempt. “I was directed here by your butler, Miss Guilford. An urgent phone call. I’d intended to make my presence known, but Garner was too swiftly under way.”

  “I hope you’re leaving now,” Philip said, then inexplicably laughed.

  “I suggest we leave together,” Lombard replied with steely menace.

  “Yes, do that!” Camille felt humiliated beyond words. “And while you’re looking like the Grand Inquisitor, Mr. Lombard, might I remind you that what I do is none of your business.”

  “Forgive me.” He sketched a sardonic little bow. “As I said, I would have declared myself immediately, but I couldn’t see a way to interrupt your conversation. It would have been distinctly embarrassing.”

  “I hope you’re going to keep that conversation to yourself,” Philip suggested. “It would do no good at all if the story got around.”

  “I’m not sure it would matter, Garner,” Nick Lombard rasped. “Your deplorable behavior is already well-known.”

  “Is it now?” Philip obviously decided to take offense.

  Camille heard what sounded like a woman’s high heels clicking down the hall. “There’s someone coming,” she said, her teeth clenched.

  Only Nick Lombard moved—with pantherlike grace. “My guess would be Miss Masterman coming in search of her…What word would best describe you, Garner?”

  Philip looked about wildly. “God, don’t let her in here!”

  “Charming!” Nick Lombard took Camille’s arm, drawing her to his side. “Act natural. We’ll get through it.”

  The doorknob turned and Robyn Masterman walked in, staring very aggressively at the tableau. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

  “That must be why you didn’t knock,” Camille said sweetly.

  “Actually I was looking for Philip.” Robyn spoke in a tight reedy voice. She fixed Philip with a bayonet glance. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

  “My fault, I’m afraid,” Nick Lombard intervened smoothly. “Garner was kind enough to show me where the library was. I had a phone call, you see. I’m plagued with calls wherever I go.”

  Philip took to this explanation with enthusiasm. “And I’m only too pleased to be of help.” He gave his attractive lopsided smile. “We’ll be off now, however. Thank you for a delightful evening, Camille. Robyn and I hope the auction will be a great success.”

  “Quite! You’ll need it.” Robyn was still eyeing the three of them suspiciously. “Why don’t we see more of you, Mr. Lombard?”

  “I have a small daughter waiting for me when my long days are over,” he answered unsmilingly.

  “Of course. She must be five or six now?”

  “Six.” His air of reserve was almost a tangible thing.

  “Well, we won’t keep you.” Philip spoke as though Lombard and Camille were desperate to be alone together.

  “Interesting chap that!” Nick Lombard said after they’d gone.

  “But not a man of honor,” she returned. “It’s been a strange night altogether.”

  “And you�
�re exhausted.”

  “Well, I didn’t start on a high note.”

  She sounded calm, but everything about this man agitated her. His appearance, his manner, his easy assumption of authority. She looked past him, trying to concentrate on something. Anything. Her gaze fixed on the mahogany bookcases that lined the walls. Her father, no reader, had nevertheless amassed an important collection of books and manuscripts on a good number of subjects: literature, medicine, astronomy, philosophy, history and travel. There were hundreds of volumes, their splendid bindings enchanting the eye.

  “A magnificent collection,” he observed, recognizing her disengagement.

  “Yes.” Her voice was quiet. “It will be auctioned separately if you’re interested.”

  “Your father had a real genius for collecting things.”

  There was a nuance in his voice Camille found disturbing. “Why does that sound so odd?”

  His black eyes swept over her. “Perhaps we can discuss it at another time.”

  “There won’t be another time, Mr. Lombard.” Camille felt herself stiffen. “We have nothing whatsoever in common.”

  “I think we have. Do you suppose my family didn’t suffer at your father’s hand?”

  His words stunned her. “How? Our families never came into contact. Yours is based in Melbourne. It’s only since you became chairman of Orion that you’ve shifted to Sydney.”

  He was silent, staring down at her. “You’re the image of your mother,” he said finally.

  The comment was so totally unexpected Camille visibly braced herself as if warding off a blow. “You’re not going to tell me you knew my mother, are you?” She eyed him in disbelief. “She’s been dead for twenty years. You would have been a boy.”

  He nodded. “Nevertheless I remember her quite vividly. She was an enchanting creature. Does it bother you I knew her?”

  Bother her? Quite simply, it staggered her. “My father never once mentioned you in that connection.”

  “He wouldn’t.” Nick paused. “There was nothing admirable in Harry’s behavior. Thanks to him, less than a month before your mother was to have wed my uncle Hugo, she broke off the engagement.”

  Camille saw with astonishment the pain in his eyes. “I don’t believe this,” she murmured. “There’s not a shred of evidence to support what you’re saying.”

  “A lot of people knew.”

  “Then why didn’t I?” she demanded. “I suggest you’re making it up.”

  His brows drew together. “People trod very cautiously around your father. He had certain connections he used to…intimidate people. My uncle wasn’t a Lombard. He was a Vandenberg. My mother’s only brother.”

  Camille sought a leather armchair and sank into it “You say was. Is he…?”

  Nick Lombard turned to look at the portrait of the late Harry Guilford. It emanated real power, with more than a hint of brutality.

  “Like your mother, my uncle is dead,” he said starkly. “He took his own life the day your mother was buried. He was a brilliant young man with a promising legal career. It was a tragedy and a terrible waste. My uncle never hurt anyone. Your father hurt a great many people, you and your mother included. Harry waged a war in pursuit of her. My uncle made the mistake of thinking your mother would see through him. By the time she did, it was too late for all of them.”

  Camille put her head in her hands, feeling weak and indecisive. “I can’t listen to any more.” There seemed to be an eerie haze in front of her eyes.

  Somehow he was in front of her, his fingers warm and firm on the nape of her neck. “I’m sorry. I meant for all of this to keep.”

  She was aware he was half kneeling, and now his hand was sweeping the hair from her face. He swore softly, taking her cold hands and slapping her wrists gently.

  If she had fainted, it was only a momentary thing.

  “Here, drink this.” He was holding out a crystal goblet containing a measure of brandy, or was it whiskey? She didn’t know or care.

  “I can’t make any sense of anything.” She felt dreadfully shaken.

  “This will make you feel better.”

  “Nothing will make me feel better.” Nevertheless she took a sip, recoiling at the taste, but it went down like liquid fire and lent a quick fix to her scattered senses.

  “Sit quietly,” he said. “No one will bother you.”

  “Your house already, Mr. Lombard?” she rallied. “I’ve never had such a reaction—even when I was told about my father.”

  “Perhaps you subconsciously knew,” he suggested quietly.

  “I knew I couldn’t help. I never could.”

  “That was part of your father’s paranoia. No blame could be attached to you.” He shook his head. “Don’t let’s talk of it anymore.”

  Against the whiteness of her skin, her eyes blazed a deep green. “It was you who introduced our shared history,” she reminded him, realizing with something akin to horror that she was sexually attracted to him.

  “The truth matters, Camille. Of that I’m very certain.”

  She had not given him permission to use her Christian name, yet it sounded exquisite on his lips. Like a memory of lost delight. “Are you saying the truth was deliberately buried?”

  “I’m saying it would be better to discuss it at another time. You almost fainted just now.”

  “You’re not listening, Mr. Lombard. I repeat— there won’t be another time. If what you say is true and not another fiction in an avalanche of lies, then I guess Harry did wage a sort of war against your uncle for my mother’s affections.”

  He stared down at her where she sat, an extraordinarily beautiful young woman whose appearance resurrected the tragic past

  “I admit to a deep hatred of your father,” he said in a grim tone. “It has consumed me for more than half my life. My uncle Hugo was greatly loved and greatly mourned. No comfort for any of us anywhere. Death is irrevocable.

  “Natalie’s incredible beauty, it seems, drove my uncle just as it did your father. But there was a black secret at the heart of your father’s drive for power, one that I couldn’t fathom at the time—I was just a boy and my grief almost paralyzed me. But even then I was determined one day to track him down, make him pay for what he’d done. In time I was able to begin my own investigation, the final consequences of which you know.”

  He remained motionless for a moment, his extraordinary eyes black as night. “Now Harry Guilford knows what it’s like to be dead.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  WHEN CAMILLE finally awoke, it was to bright sunlight. She lay for a moment staring at the ornate plaster rose in the ceiling before her mind began to relive the events of the night before.

  All that talk Lombard had done about her mother and his uncle! If it was true, it would explain a lot The man was obsessed. Obsessed with bringing her father down. God only knew what he had in mind for her. Did he see himself as some instrument of revenge?

  She recognized the name Vandenberg. It was famous. Julian Vandenberg was a concert pianist, Sir Charles Vandenberg an industrialist. She knew they were somehow related, but she didn’t know if they had any connection to Nick Lombard. The Lombards, merchant bankers, historically had their power base in Melbourne. It was only recently that Nick Lombard had made the move to Sydney. Different cities. Different states. Different business and social circles. Yet these circles, it seemed, were interlinked.

  Well, Claude could tell her surely; he had a prodigious memory. He knew everyone who was anyone in the entire country.

  When she went down to breakfast, she found Tommy Browning sitting at the table, reading the morning newspaper. “Anything in it about us, Tommy?”

  “Just a little piece, love.” He stood up immediately, folding the paper, a refined, civilized man in his late fifties. “Brilliant day!” he observed, glancing through the huge picture windows at the beautiful gardens and the swimming pool, which seemed to merge with the sparkling blue harbor.

  “The vultures are ou
t early,” he went on. “They’ve been driving past the house since six o’clock. Not a one of them could come within a tenth of the asking price.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Camille allowed him to seat her. “This is prime real estate. Some big developer will move in, pull down the house, put two up. Maybe a third on the tennis court. Profit’s the name of the game.”

  “It certainly is!” Browning shook his well-barbered head. “Dot will be here in a moment with your breakfast. Both of us suggest you eat it.”

  “Yes, Tommy,” Camille said dutifully, taking a quick glance at the front page. There was a small piece close to the bottom. Harry would have hated that. “You spoil me, you and Dot.”

  “It’s our pleasure.” Indeed, trying to make Camille Guilford’s life a little happier had been the Brownings’ goal since they’d gone into service for Harry Guilford almost eighteen years earlier. They had profoundly disliked their late employer, but they had loved his sad lonely child, as intelligent, sweet-natured and beautiful as any parent could ever wish for. Yet she had not been loved by her father. In fact, he’d seen very little of her, and it had been Tommy and Dot who’d looked after the child, and Camille had come to rely on them for support and affection. They were her unofficial godparents, albeit majordomo and chef, and they’d reveled in their role, finding in it a measure of comfort and consolation. For they had lost their own beloved child, Mary, at age six. Measles, they’d been told. Nothing to worry about. They’d been told wrong. Measles had turned to meningitis.

  Browning broke out of his old sad reverie to ask, “What’s on the agenda today?”

  Camille looked up from the paper. “A trip into town. I have an appointment with Hugh Evans.”

  “Would you like me to drive you?”

  Camille shook her head. “I need you to be on hand here, Tommy.”

  He nodded. “As it happens, I want to run a check around the house. Not that it’s ours anymore.”

  “It was never ours, Tommy. It was my father’s. As soon as the paintings and antiques go, we move out I never wanted to stay in the first place, but Bruce Barnard seemed to think it a good idea. As trustee he has all the say. He’s been very kind to me.”