Burning Inheritance Page 12

  She had used the iron without thinking, never dreaming that its weight would make up for any lack of strength on her part. But when he let out that howl of pain and staggered back against the door, she had been almost frantic with horror, and if he had let her tend him then, it might have been quite a different story.

  Of course, she had gone ahead with the wedding. Pride was a strange bedfellow, and it was pride as much as anything that got her to the altar. She had no intention of letting Robert Seton think his disap­proval had discouraged her, and besides, she wanted to prove to Alex that she had chosen the better man.

  Isabel shook her head now. How stupid she had been! Just how stupid, she had learned on her wedding night. By the time she and Chris came back from honeymoon, she had been drawn and nervous, and miserably aware that she had locked herself into a marriage that was no marriage at all.

  She had tried to end it as soon as they were back in England. Unable to appeal to Chris, she had gone to his father and begged him to let her have the marriage annulled, but he had been incensed that she should dare to bring such a problem to him. She was lying, he said. Chris was perfectly normal; he was his son; and no two-bit stripper was going to make his son a laughing-stock.

  He had threatened her, too, telling her that if she tried to leave Nazeby, he would personally see to it that she never worked again. And she believed him. Robert Seton did not make empty threats. His competitors in business had learned that often enough.

  Chris used to delight in relating his father's exploits to her, but she had never dreamt that ruthless deter­mination would ever be turned against her. She had been shocked, and frightened. She had only been eighteen, after all, and without any money of her own, she was helpless.

  She considered calling his bluff and running away anyway, but somehow the opportunity never presented itself. Besides, the pride that had got her into this situation asserted itself sufficiently to enable her to try and make the marriage work. Chris was still Chris, after all, and in his way he still loved her. Or so she thought.

  She had been weak; she had realised that after­wards. She had let Robert Seton manipulate her, without making any real fight for her independence. She had let the freedom from money worries, the beauty of her surroundings and her affection for Chris seduce her into a state of near-inertia, and only when she saw Alex did she feel like the coward she really was.

  She had made excuses for herself, of course. Anyone who had been brought up in the austerity of a chil­dren's home could appreciate the luxury of having a room of her own, in what was undoubtedly one of the finest country houses in England. She had the chance to buy as many clothes as she liked, so long as she charged them to Chris's account, naturally; and the food that was served at Nazeby would make even a connoisseur's mouth water. Materially, she had every­thing she had ever wanted, and if the relationship between her and her father-in-law had never achieved its earlier tolerance, at least she had been able to put his threats to the furthest recesses of her mind.

  And Vinnie had been there to smooth her passage. For some reason, Lady Denby had taken her under her wing, and although Isabel had never made the mistake of confiding in her while she was married to Chris, somehow the old lady had guessed that all was not as it should be.

  Looking back, those two years at Nazeby had assumed a little of the substance of a dream. They had never seemed entirely real, even when she was living them, and she had learned exactly how unreal her marriage was when she found Chris with Jerrold Palmer.

  She shivered, rolling on to her stomach again and digging her nails into the bedspread. That, she supposed, had been the worst moment of those two years; worse even than the shock she had had when she was served with divorce papers citing Jerrold Palmer as her co-respondent.

  Her immediate thought had been, how had Robert Seton persuaded Palmer to participate in such a decep­tion? But, the answer had been equally as swiftly supplied. Evidently, Jerrold Palmer had as little desire as Chris to have his sexual aberrations aired in public, and their joint testimony against her was totally damning.

  Oh, she had been staggered that Chris's father should sink to such depths to protect his son, but she should have known that where his family's name was concerned, Robert Seton was implacable. If there's no defence, attack! she had read somewhere, and Robert Seton certainly used this as his motto. She was to be sacrificed, and from Robert Seton's point of view, he was accomplishing a dual achievement. Chris would emerge as an innocent bystander, while anything she said would be negated by her presumed bitterness at being found out. He had wanted rid of her long enough, goodness knows. Only the fear of what she might betray had forced him to keep her at Nazeby.

  Of course, she had appealed to Chris to change his mind, begging him to tell the truth and exonerate her.

  He could have a divorce, she said. The marriage could be annulled any time he wanted it. He had only to say the word.

  But Chris had refused to speak to her. She guessed his father had given him his instructions, and a week after the papers were served, he had taken himself off to the continent, leaving her no forwarding address, and effectively abandoning her to her fate. Even Vinnie wasn't there to help her. She was in Australia, visiting an old friend in Melbourne, whose address again Isabel did not know. Besides, events were moving so swiftly, by the time she got back to England, it would be much too late for her to do anything.

  Which left only one person she could turn to—Alex. He was the only person she knew with sufficient influence—and resources—to plead her case. She had little money of her own. She had never liked to ask Chris for any, and as most of her needs had been satisfied by a credit card, she had used her small savings to cover any personal expenses. Only now did she realise how advantageous her position was to Robert Seton. Without money she was helpless, and he must have known it.

  For days after the idea of approaching Alex had come into her mind, she had thought of little else. Pacing the empty rooms at Nazeby, she had persuaded herself that if he knew the truth, he would be sympa­thetic. She had always loved Nazeby, but during those long, anxious days, she had grown to hate it, realising Robert had left her there to appreciate how powerless she was against the might of the Seton organisation.

  Nevertheless, the notion to contact Alex took root, and with it, the realisation that a doctor's examination might disprove Chris's lies. Surely if she told Alex the truth, he would help her. Even after all that had happened between them, she trusted him. He was his uncle's protege, that was true, but he had always had a mind of his own.

  She went up to London the next day, driving the Audi estate car, which had always been at her disposal. No one tried to stop her. Robert Seton had given her six weeks to find somewhere else to live, and she guessed the staff at Nazeby imagined she was house ­hunting.

  She had never been to the apartment Alex occupied at that time, but she knew it was in a tower block near Hyde Park, which wasn't hard to find. She had chosen to come on a Saturday morning, in the hope that she might find him at home. The idea of approaching him at his office had seemed too formal. Besides, she had had no wish for any member of his staff to feel obliged to report her visit to his uncle.

  She had left Nazeby early, and it was barely nine-thirty when she pushed through the smoked-glass doors of Romsey Court. She knew, from what Chris had told her, that Alex's apartment was on the fifteenth floor, but what she had not bargained for was the fact that the building was patrolled by a highly efficient security staff.

  A man in a grey uniform vetted all visitors to the apartments from a steel and plate-glass desk, set to one side of the foyer, and Isabel felt like an intruder as his features took on an inquiring expression.

  'Um—I'd like to go up to Mr Seton's apartment,' she explained, approaching the desk as he rose to his feet to face her. 'Mr Alex Seton. At 1504.'

  The man studied her intently for a moment, and then inclined his head. 'Very well,' he said, indicating the lifts. 'Go ahead. I'll inform Mr
Seton's butler that a visitor is on her way up.'

  'Thank you.'

  Isabel supposed it could have been worse. The man could have asked her name, and she was not at all convinced that under those circumstances, Alex would have agreed to see her. Instead, the officer had appar­ently decided she was harmless. Either that, or Alex's butler was a force to be reckoned with.

  The diminutive Irishman who opened the door of Alex's apartment at her ring was neither huge nor intimidating. But he was evidently surprised to see her, and once again Isabel was obliged to state her business.

  'I—er—I'd like to see Alex,' she said, unquestion­ably daunted by another unfriendly face. If she'd known how difficult it was going to be to see him, she probably wouldn't have come.

  'And is Mr Seton expecting you, miss?' enquired the man, with the smug air of one who already knows the answer to his question, and Isabel sighed.

  'It's Mrs, actually,' she said. 'Mrs Seton! And no, he's not expecting me, but I think he'll see me all the same.'

  It was amusing to watch his dawning comprehen­sion, or it would have been if Isabel had felt less tense. As it was, she waited impatiently for some recognition, wishing deep inside her there had been some other way.

  'Would that be Mrs—Christopher Seton?' the Irishman appended, after a moment, his brogue thick­ening as his thoughts occupied themselves with this new development.

  'Just—Mrs Seton will do,' Isabel averred flatly, glancing beyond him into a living-room that seemed filled with light. 'May I come in? I gather Alex is at home.'

  Kerry O'Flynn, as she later learned his name to be, stepped back abruptly. 'Sure, why not?' he agreed, clearly too uncertain of her relationship with his employer to keep her standing there while he went to inform his master of her arrival. 'Come forward, won't you? I'll let Mr Seton know you're here. I think he's awake. I took him his breakfast quite a while ago.'

  'He's still in bed?' exclaimed Isabel, stepping inside on to a polished wood-blocked floor, and the Irishman nodded as he closed the door behind her.

  'Ah, the man was working half the night, wasn't he?' he declared, without really requiring a reply. 'Now, if you'll wait here, Mrs Seton, I'll see what's going on.'

  Isabel saw immediately why the huge living-room of the apartment seemed so bright. Because the apart­ment was on the corner of the building, two walls of plate-glass windows gave an uninterrupted view of the park nearby. Reinforced double glazing cut out all intrusive sounds from the street below, and the long, slanting blinds could be turned to take advantage of the light.

  The room itself was just as luxurious as she had expected, although the colour scheme was surprisingly subdued. A thick Oriental rug occupied most of the floor space, while two enormous sofas faced one another across the width of a lacquered coffee-table. A modern desk, with a tubular, cushioned chair beside it, was set beneath one of the windows, and the walls were hung with groups of etchings, mostly Oriental again in design. It was a comfortable, uncluttered room, with the minimum amount of ornamentation. Yet there were some attractive pieces adorning the stereo unit and the bookshelves, solid carvings of jade and crystal, that blended well with the other appoint­ments.

  Isabel was admiring a cut-glass figurine when she became aware that she was no longer alone. She turned, half expecting to find the butler, ready to make his apologies, and instead found Alex, dark and intensely disturbing, and evidently not pleased to see her. In a knee-length navy blue bathrobe and little else, he looked grim and unapproachable, and Isabel, who hadn't seen him in months, felt a treacherous surge of emotion.

  'Oh—Alex!' she said, moistening her lips and setting the figurine she was holding back on its shelf. 'Er—thank you for seeing me.'

  'I don't have much choice, as you're here!' he remarked, without expression. 'What do you want, Isabel? Chris is not here. And I don't have his address, if that's what you're thinking.'

  Isabel took a deep breath. 'I didn't come here to ask where Chris was.' She paused to control the tremor in her voice, and then went on, 'Believe it or not, I don't care where he is; or who he's with, for that matter. I—I came to see you. I should have done so long ago.'

  Alex's dark brows descended. 'Really?'

  'Yes, really.' Isabel took a step towards him. 'Oh, Alex, why did you let me marry Chris? Why didn't you stop me, when you had the chance?'

  'When I had the chance?' Alex's brows arched now in apparent disbelief. 'Isabel, your reasons for marrying my cousin were nothing to do with me. And I couldn't have stopped you. I wouldn't have wanted to.'

  'That's not true!' Isabel bit her lips frustratedly.

  'I assure you------'

  'Oh, for once in your life, be honest, can't you?' she cried. 'You could have stopped me. You know it, and I know it. But we both behaved stupidly, and now—and now I'm paying the price!'

  Alex gave her a scathing look. 'I understood it was Chris who was paying the price, as you put it,' he remarked bleakly. 'I hope you're not trying to blame me for this—affair you've been having with Jerrold Palmer——'

  'I haven't been having an affair with Jerrold Palmer!' Isabel interrupted him desperately. 'Alex—that was Chris! Not me! Your uncle devised the whole thing. To frame me, and to protect his precious son!'

  Alex stared at her scornfully. 'You mean, Chris made the whole thing up?' He shook his head. 'I don't believe it!'

  'No, that's not what I meant------'

  'So, he didn't make it up?'

  'No! That is—Alex, you don't understand!'

  'Well, that's the truest thing you've said since you got here,' he agreed harshly. 'I think you'd better go, Isabel. You and I have nothing to say to one another.'

  Isabel moved her head from side to side, unwilling and unable to believe that Alex wouldn't even listen to her. 'Please,' she begged. 'You've got to believe me. I haven't done anything!'

  'You're wasting your time, Isabel.' Alex's mouth had hardened. 'You forget—I know you! I know what an unscrupulous creature you are. Anyone who could behave as you did on the eve of her wedding------'

  'That wasn't my fault!'

  'Then whose fault was it?'

  'You came to where I lived, Alex!'

  'Because I'd found out what you were really like, and would have done anything to protect Chris------'

  'No!'

  'Yes.' He was inflexible. 'My God! And you had the audacity to come to me to get you out of this mess you've got yourself into. I don't know how you had the nerve------'

  'Alex------'

  '—Just because I didn't tell Chris what a randy little bitch you were first time around is no reason for you to believe I'd defend you now. Christ, I don't know how he's put up with you for so long. I saw through you, right from the start. And if one man wasn't enough for you you should have had the decency to get out, instead of making a fool of Chris with one of his own friends!'

  Isabel flung herself at him then. A combination of pain and anguish and bitter disappointment had balled in her stomach, and she needed to expunge at least a bit of it or go out of her mind.

  'You—you brute!' she sobbed, all thought of explaining how a doctor's testimony might clear her name going out of her head. All she could think was that Alex was her enemy, and that, far from supporting her innocence, he actually believed what Chris had told him.

  Alex was unprepared for her initial attack, and her nails raked his chest in the opened 'V of his bathrobe, and her knee almost made contact with that most vulnerable part of his anatomy before he was able to control her. But quick reflexes, and a superior strength, rapidly quelled the effectiveness of her assault, and Isabel was reduced to swearing at him as his hands imprisoned hers at her sides.

  'Bastard!' she mumbled impotently, as the fight went out of her and, as hot tears overspilled her eyes, Alex stifled an expletive and released her.

  'I think you'd better go.'

  Isabel turned away, drawing a hand across her eyes as she did so. She couldn't bear to look at him, not just
then, and the knowledge that he despised her, too, was the final humiliation.

  She never remembered how she got back to Nazeby. She must have driven there, because the Audi was back in the garage the next morning, when she loaded her few belongings into it. She took only those things she had brought to Nazeby. All the expensive suits and dresses she had bought since her marriage to Chris, she left hanging in the wardrobes.

  After making arrangements for the car's return with the housekeeper, she drove away from Nazeby for the last time. A week later, she found a room in a house in Bayswater, and an allowance from the social serv­ices tided her over until she found a job.

  And there she stayed until Lady Denby returned from Australia and discovered what had happened in her absence. Of course, the old lady had come to see her, and in spite of Isabel's reluctance to accept anything from the family, she had insisted on finding her a small flat. The two-roomed apartment in Earl's Court was not exactly what Lady Denby had wanted her to have, but Isabel had insisted it was all she was going to be able to afford, and Vinnie had respected her wishes.

  Isabel sighed now. Chris's grandmother had never asked any questions. She had never mentioned Chris's name in connection with the divorce, or queried Isabel's association with Jerrold Palmer. She had allowed Isabel to tell her, only if she wanted, and it was many months before Isabel had confessed that she had not been the guilty party.

  Even then, she remembered, she had been wary of making any claims against her ex-husband. After the way his father and his cousin had reacted, she had been half afraid his grandmother wouldn't believe her story either. But Vinnie had made no judgement either way, and when the whole truth was revealed, she had merely put her arms around Isabel and comforted her in the only way she knew how. It wasn't until Vinnie's solicitors had contacted her after her death that Isabel had appreciated the full extent of Lady Denby's faith in her, and the gift of the shares now seemed the final exculpation. Was that why she needed so desperately to hang on to them? Because they represented the fact that someone had believed in her?