The Australian Heiress Read online

  She knew she looked good. She was wearing one of her little two-piece suits, this one lime green with matching shoes. Her hair, with its trademark riotous curls, was unrestrained, and large blister pearls mounted in gold adorned her ears. No use being poor and looking poor, Tommy had said.

  Her straying thoughts came back at the sound of a distinctive voice.

  “May I join you. Miss Guilford?”

  It was Nick Lombard, with his usual cool confidence. She was forced to check her anger. “I can’t stop you, Mr. Lombard, but I’d much rather you didn’t.”

  “All for a good cause.” A chair appeared like magic, brought by an attendant. “Do things seem to be going well?”

  “Reasonably well. This is an important collection,” she said in a clipped tone. “Are you here to grab something?”

  “I let my agents act for me.” His tone was mild by comparison.

  “Of course.”

  “Didn’t your father do the same?”

  She refused to answer.

  “The important thing is to keep the momentum going.” He paused. “I’ve only been here a few moments, and already heads are turning in our direction.”

  “Yes, people are curious, aren’t they? They’re not all buyers, by any means. So many just want to mix with the rich and powerful.” She sighed. “I was told my father was driven to overcompensate for his early powerlessness. He had a dreadful childhood.”

  Lombard’s expression turned grim. His own research into Harry Guilford’s early life had uncovered a history of physical and mental abuse by the father, George Guilford, who had died in strange circumstances. He’d bled to death after cutting himself pruning a tree in the garden. His wife and teenage son had been home at the time, but both claimed to have heard nothing, though the man must have shouted repeatedly for help. It was even on record that young Guilford had said he was glad his father was dead.

  The mother had died a few years later, destroyed by drink. A destructive enough background and one likely to have serious repercussions on anybody. Only, Harry Guilford had inherited his father’s streak of brutality!

  “Nothing to say to that?” Camille taunted him.

  “It so happens I agree with you.”

  Surprised, Camille looked down at her hands. “He never spoke of his early life. He might just as well have been an orphan. It was Claude who told me he’d had a miserable childhood. So much was kept from me. So many subjects that were taboo.”

  “You never asked?”

  “Of course I asked,” she replied a little heatedly, “but I was never answered. My father and I didn’t have that kind of relationship. But I intend to check your story about my mother and your uncle out.”

  “You could ask your friend, Claude.”

  “I’m sure Claude knows nothing about any relationship between my mother and your uncle. He’d have told me.”

  “And risk word getting back to your father? Look, the Heysen watercolour just went for $35,000.” He noted it in the margin of his catalog.

  “Are you saying Claude did know?” Camille felt shaken.

  “Why don’t you ask him? Your father’s death changed many things.”

  “As did your uncle’s. It poisoned you.”

  “It certainly prejudiced me against your father.” He fell silent for a while. When he spoke again, his tone was quiet, contemplative. “Once when I was home from boarding school, my uncle brought your mother to our house. Young as I was, I understood completely why he was so in love with her. Not only was she as ravishing as a Renoir, she had a bewitching way about her. Nothing deliberate, but rather a bred-in-the-bone allure. She was full of charm and sweetness, but one could see she was fragile. She didn’t, for instance, have your fighting spirit—for all your porcelain beauty you don’t look as though you would break easily. I believe, as do my family, that your father broke Natalie in the end.”

  Camille’s hands gripped the sides of her chair. “I’ve told you my parents were incredibly happy together. I remember the way my father used to hold her, touch her, kiss her. The way his eyes used to follow her around a room. My parents were expecting another child. Does that mean they were unhappy?”

  Whatever his thoughts, Lombard didn’t voice them. He changed the subject. “I have an interest in the Rodin silvered bronze.”

  “It’s Rodin’s wife.”

  “I know. A beautiful piece.” His eyes moved over Camille’s profile: the small straight nose, the shape of her soft full mouth, the pure line of jaw and throat.

  “I very much dislike being stared at,” Camille told him in a low tense voice.

  “You sound a little panicky.”

  “I expect anyone would in the company of the devil.”

  “Then perhaps you could sup with me tonight…”

  She was so astonished she turned fully in her chair to stare at him. He was dressed in an impeccably cut dark gray suit, the jacket accentuating his broad shoulders. The pristine white of the collar of his fine-striped blue shirt heightened the dark gold of his skin, and his flowing silk tie was a particularly felicitous dark red. He had an entirely natural elegance, perhaps the result of his privileged origins. He was a marvelous-looking man, but he was as dangerous and destructive as a leopard, and like the leopard he would never change his spots.

  “Your effrontery takes my breath away,” she said.

  “You’re a seeker of the truth, aren’t you?” he returned. “On your own admission your father kept much from you. Could it be he feared what you might learn if you and I ever met?”

  “I fear you,” she said simply, knowing it was true. Just then there was a small commotion behind them, and she turned her head. “The Mastermans have arrived.”

  “She’s probably after the Streeton. It may help you to know she’s not going to get it.”

  “Who is?”

  “Don’t frown—it’s not me. To get back to dinner, I’ve asked you for a special reason. I have an old photo album I think you’d like to see.”

  Her heart rocked. “Blackmail,” she said scornfully.

  “Yes. I make no bones about it.”

  “Who are these photographs of?” she demanded.

  He leaned back in his chair. “Not here. Not now. We can go through them later.”

  “No, thank you.” She declined, even though she was desperate to learn more. “I detest the manipulation.”

  “Then both of us are caught in the same vortex. I’ll send my chauffeur for you at seven-thirty. We’ll have dinner at my home, where, I assure you, you’ll be a lot safer than you ever were with Garner. You have every right to see the album. Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. So shall I expect you?”

  “I—I’ll think about it.” Her voice betrayed her conflict.

  SHE WAS READY and waiting when the Bentley pulled into the drive. Its headlights washed over the circular fountain, gilding the shadows in the lapis lazuli night.

  “Wait here a moment, Miss Guilford,” the hired security guard said. He ran down the short flight of marble stairs and approached the parked car.

  “I like the way he checks everything out,” Tommy said with satisfaction. “I’m glad, we hired him.”

  The man waved and Camille moved to kiss Tommy’s cheek. “Don’t wait up for me.”

  “You know I will. I want to see you safely in. Ring before you leave. It pays to take extra precautions these days.”

  “Beautiful evening, Miss Guilford,” Lombard’s chauffeur said as she settled in. “It’s a good thing I was carrying identification. That security man of yours is very thorough.”

  “That’s his job.” Camille glanced around the interior of the car, inhaling the particular fragrance of fine leather. It made her feel sad. Sometimes her father was all around her—his power, his drive, but never his love and warmth. Many times she’d sat beside him in a car just like this while he talked business, business, business. They’d never even come close to a normal conversation, let alone any understanding.

/>   The Bentley continued serenely on its journey across the brilliantly lit Sydney Harbour Bridge to the North Shore, where Nick Lombard had his muchadmired mansion. The Opera House was a blaze of lights as the audience started arriving for a Dame Kiri Te Kanawa concert. Camille knew that Linda and Stephen were going—she’d spoken to her friend late that afternoon. Linda told her she planned to attend tomorrow afternoon’s session, when the Sevres collection was being offered; she had her eye on a beautiful bleu celeste porcelain basket that had belonged to an English countess and was thought to be an inspirational element for an Imperial Russian service. Camille hoped Linda would get it, but there were a lot of committed Sevres and Meissen collectors who wouldn’t turn a hair at $10,000 for a basket.

  I’m almost an expert on all this, Camille thought. I’ve grown up with collections, and I’ve had Claude for a mentor. It was possible she could start up her own business. She had the necessary skills in business and decorative arts, and had spent all her adult life in society circles. It shouldn’t be so difficult. But would any of the banks back her? Harry Guilford’s daughter?

  “We’re here, miss,” the chauffeur announced some twenty minutes later. He brought the Bentley to a halt before massive wrought-iron gates and activated the remote control. The gates swung open and the big car glided through.

  Nick Lombard was there to meet her, coming down the front steps to the car and opening her door. “Good evening, Camille.”

  “Good evening.” She ignored his hand, though it seemed childish and gauche.

  “That’ll be all for this evening, Max,” he said to the chauffeur. “I’ll drive Miss Guilford home.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Camille noted that he was still wearing the suit she’d seen him in earlier, and she guessed he hadn’t been home long. It occurred to her that this evening must somehow be an important occasion for him; there couldn’t be many free nights for a man in his position.

  “However did you secure Gracemere?” she asked, staring up at the romantic sandstone facade of one of Sydney’s best-known historic houses. “I think everyone in the country approached Lady Nicolson at some time. My father included.”

  “Family connections,” he said.

  “Ah. Why didn’t I guess? The Lombards could never be among the losers in life.” As soon as she said it, she thought again of his young wife. “Forgive me. You’ve had your tragedies.”

  A curt inclination of his head was her only answer.

  They moved into the entrance hall with its warm rich decor and the gleam of beautiful timbers.

  “Would you care for a martini?” he asked. “I need a drink. I’ve been talking nonstop for three hours.”

  “That can’t be good for somebody.”

  He turned to look at her. Tonight she was wearing a silk shirt and matching skirt in a beautiful shade of violet. The outfit was quite plain except for the intricate bead-and-sequin work along the shoulder line of the shirt and the wide belt that accentuated the narrowness of her waist. “You look ravishing.”

  It couldn’t be desire in his eyes, surely? Whatever it was set off shock waves.

  “I assure you it wasn’t done on purpose.” She looked away. “I see you have a passion for Oriental porcelain.” On either side of the staircase were two blue-and-white fish bowls on carved stands filled with great sprays of velvety red cymbidium.

  “I inherited a collection that belonged to my maternal grandmother. A lot of famille noire, if you’re interested.”

  “How fortunate you are.” Camille didn’t hide her sarcasm.

  “Welcome to my home, Camille Guilford,” he said, surprising her.

  “That sounds like ‘Come into my parlour.’”

  “A little of that, too.”

  “Exactly. My opinion of you hasn’t undergone any dramatic change.” She looked upward at the cantilevered staircase with its impressive Gothic balusters. “But I have to say this is a beautiful house.”

  “I like it.”

  “I think I could get used to it, too.” Her gaze touched on a Flemish tapestry depicting a court wedding. It was so entrancing she smiled.

  “Could you do that again?” he said.

  “Do what?”

  “Smile.”

  “It wasn’t for you. I was enjoying the tapestry. It looks like a court wedding.”

  “It is. Seventeenth-century Flemish. Notice the bride. She’s very much like you. She has your features and the glorious hair.” He gestured at the entry to what was clearly the drawing room. “Let’s go in here. You’ll be more comfortable. Would you prefer something other than a martini?”

  “Actually, yes. A clear head.”

  “A martini won’t hurt you. Very dry. A twist of lemon.”

  “All right. Do you mind if I wander around?”

  “As long as you don’t disappear.” He walked to a circular table where drinks and hors d’oeuvres had been set up.

  “I heard you’d bought that.” Camille stopped in front of a magnificent light-drenched open-air painting above the mantel.

  “Please don’t mention it to anyone else,” he said dryly.

  “You don’t light the fire with the painting above, do you?” She accepted the chilled glass from his hand. The electric current she felt almost caused her to drop it.

  “Of course not,” he answered casually as though unaware of her reaction. “We keep the fireplace filled with ferns or orchids, as it is now. You might like to sit in that chair.” He indicated a baroque walnut armchair upholstered in a splendid fabric. “All those rich colors will look lovely with your hair.”

  “I don’t care to be posed.”

  “You ought to be used to it,” he said.

  He hadn’t moved, yet she had the weird sensation he had touched her. “I’d like to take a look at the album, if I may,” she said in a determined voice.

  “All in good time. I must go and change. Wander where you want. There are many things of interest in the library. Rare books. I won’t be long.”

  “If you let me have the album, you could take hours.”

  “I’m afraid not.” There was a sardonic twist to his mouth. “And by the way, if you should choose to leave, you won’t be able to.”

  “Why not?” She felt a tiny frisson of fear.

  “Security,” he replied. “The Dobermans are out.”

  After he’d gone, she began to move restlessly around the room. So many lovely things! Along with her apprehension, she was aware of a perverse excitement. She shrank from it. Nick Lombard, of all men. It wasn’t what she wanted at all. In fact, it could be a trap.

  The library was behind the tall double doors. She opened them quietly and walked into an enormous two-story-high book-filled room, with a delicate timber-and-wrought-iron staircase leading up to the gallery.

  Some little movement, a scurrying sound, startled her. Camille glanced around quickly, her pupils dilating.

  A little girl in a long nightgown was crouched like a small animal on the bottom step of the staircase. Her thin arms were folded tightly across her chest. Her head was lowered defensively, but thrust forward, giving an impression of high tension. A single thick braid hung over one slight shoulder, and her eyes were huge and watchful.

  “Why, hello!” Camille’s heart swelled with relief. “I hope I didn’t frighten you. I’m Camille.”

  “I know who you are,” the child replied with a mixture of curiosity and aggression.

  “Good, then won’t you tell me your name?” Camille didn’t move.

  “No, I won’t!” The little girl’s face was very pale, the skin sallow. She wasn’t a particularly pretty child except for the extraordinary eyes. They were brilliant, black, familiar.

  “Then I’ll try to guess,” Camille said matter-of-factly. She began moving toward the staircase, careful to act unthreateningly. “Let’s see. You look like a Zara, an Adriana or an India. Something different and dramatic. Something to go with your eyes.”

  The child loo
ked surprised, even pleased. “Ah, I’ve made you smile,” Camille said.

  The girl’s mouth immediately thinned into a straight line. “I never smile.”

  “I think I saw a little quirk.”

  “No, you didn’t.” This, very decisively. “I want to know what you’re doing here.”

  “I’ve come, to see some photographs—of my mother, I believe.” Even as she spoke, Camille was afraid it was the wrong thing to say. This poor little girl had lost her mother.

  “No, you haven’t,” the child contradicted angrily. “You want to marry my father.”

  Camille couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Not me, little one. Such a thought never entered my mind.”

  “You’re not in love with him?”

  “No.”

  The child watched her very closely. “You have beautiful hair,” she said after a long pause. “Are they your own curls, or is it a perm?”

  “My curls are natural. Do you want to feel them?”

  “Yes,” the child replied without hesitation.

  “May I come and sit beside you?”

  “Of course.” The little girl moved, making a place. “This is…this is…” She reached out slowly and began to twirl a length of Camille’s hair, examining it critically.

  “All different colors?”

  “It’s like the flush on an apricot.”

  “That’s nice.” Camille was surprised.

  “I read it about a princess in one of my storybooks. I’m ugly.”

  “Hardly.” Camille couldn’t possibly agree. “Whyever would you say that?”

  The child tossed the lock of Camille’s hair away. “I am. That’s why.”

  ”I don’t think so and I’m entitled to my opinion. You have magnificent eyes.”

  “I’m an ugly duck,” the child answered, shooting a penetrating ages-old look into Camille’s eyes.

  Camille leaned closer. “Don’t you like ducks? I do. Where is an ugly duck? You tell me.”