Australia: In Bed with Her Groom. Emma Darcy

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      ‘My sense of duty doesn’t stretch that far,’ Harry said dryly. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me the fruits of your investigation. Were there any fruits?’

      At least he had sparked some interest, George observed with satisfaction. Hope burgeoned in his heart. Master Harry must surely begin to appreciate what had to be done.

      ‘As I recall the story,’ Harry mused, ‘our Black Sheep was a shameless rake. It was his scandalous affair with the Duchess of Buckingham that led to his being disinherited and exiled.’

      ‘Quite right, sir.’ To George’s mind, the unworthiness of this branch of the family had to be glaringly evident. ‘He was a cad and a bounder. He kissed and told. A disgrace to the escutcheon, sir.’

      The point didn’t seem to have the desired effect. Master Harry appeared enthused. ‘There must be a veritable host of heirs we could call upon Down Under. A hundred years of going forth and multiplying should have produced…’ He grinned. ‘How many, George?’

      ‘The 1917 influenza epidemic wiped most of them out, sir. One could say we are as much at the end of the line in Australia as we are in Britain. There is a boy, sir. A nine-year-old schoolboy. Such a young child is hardly a safeguard against the ultimate calamity. It will be many years before he can father a child himself, whereas you…’

      ‘But consider, George!’ There was a teasing twinkle in Harry’s eyes, brightening their blue to a lively hue. ‘He’s young enough for you to train him up to your standards. You could mould yourself a splendid master who would be everything you wanted him to be.’

      George sighed. He had hoped to stir some pride in Master Harry’s direct blood line by using the Australian boy as a spur. There was no doubt in George’s mind that Master Harry could have his pick of any number of suitable young ladies whom he had entertained at Springfield Manor in latter years.

      ‘You are not dead yet, sir,’ he stated flatly.

      ‘We know not the hour nor the day, George,’ Harry replied flippantly. ‘Clearly the most provident course is to fetch the boy over here so he’ll become acquainted with his inheritance.’

      ‘It is not quite so straightforward as that, sir,’ George demurred, deeply vexed at the turn his attempt at subtle pressure had taken. ‘The boy has a widowed mother. His father, who was the last direct heir, drowned some years ago. The woman has her own home, runs a modestly successful business and is certainly attractive enough to have formed another attachment. Should she marry again…Well, it will be very messy getting the boy over here.’

      ‘I’ll bet you a bottle of 1860 Madeira that I can fetch them here, George.’

      Such levity grated deeply on George’s sense of propriety. The wine cellar at Springfield Manor was of particular pride to him. One of the finest, if not the finest, private cellars in England. Master Harry had to be joking about giving everything up to what had to be an unworthy strain of the family.

      ‘It really would be much simpler, sir, were you to marry and have a decent number of children to ensure a succession of the family.’

      Harry grinned. ‘Did you get photographs of the boy and his mother, George?’

      ‘There is no family likeness, sir. None at all.’

      ‘The photographs, George.’ Harry’s curiosity was piqued. ‘I want to see them.’

      George had a very nasty premonition. He recognised the light of mischief in Master Harry’s eyes. He had been witness to it on many an occasion. What followed was invariably mayhem of one kind or another. He had been a venturesome boy and he had become even more dangerously venturesome once the benevolent influence of Miss Penelope’s lovely nature had passed away with her.

      It had been a mistake to confess to the Australian investigation. It had been a mistake to present Master Harry with any kind of challenge. George knew it was all his own fault when his premonition proved right several hours later.

      ‘Make inquiries about flights to Australia, will you, George? It’s summer over there, isn’t it? I rather fancy a bit of summer. As soon as I can get this cast off my leg I’ll be on my way.’

      Master Harry’s earlier gloom had completely dissipated. He was in fine fettle. ‘Might get in a few days’ cricket, as well. Make a note of the dates for the test matches between England and Australia, please, George. If there’s one in Sydney, I could take young William with me to watch the game. A nine-year-old should take a lively interest in cricket.’ He grinned at George. ‘Fine name, William.’

      Mischief! That was what he was up to. Mischief instead of marriage. And where would it all end if Master Harry’s meddling caused mayhem?

       CHAPTER TWO

      ASHLEY HARCOURT DIDN’T know that today was to mark the beginning of a completely different phase in her life. her desk calendar looked the same as usual. It bore no big red letters to give warning of something momentous about to happen. There was no sense of premonition hovering in her mind.

      She was faced with a particularly nasty piece of work in the person of Gordon Payne, who was sitting in her home office, filling the chair on the other side of her desk and voicing a string of complaints. But she was ready to deal with that. More than ready.

      Giving satisfaction was a high professional priority to Ashley. She prided herself on running her employment agency effectively, fitting the right people into the right jobs. But there was a limit, a very definite limit, to how much satisfaction any one person could demand from another.

      Ashley had precisely formed opinions on this point. She was twenty-nine years old, had worked hard to build up her own business after being widowed and had dealt with a great many people in a wide variety of situations. Satisfaction in any relationship was a two-way street, a compatible, complementary give-and-take situation.

      As she listened to Gordon Payne revealing himself in his true colours, she silently berated herself for a bad mistake in judgement. The affable manner that had fooled her into misplacing a top quality client with him smacked of the same polished charm that had fooled her into a miserable marriage ten years ago. She should have recognised it, been suspicious of it. Warning signals should have crawled down her spine.

      ‘When I dictate a letter, I expect my secretary to type it word for word, each word spelled correctly,’ Gordon Payne ranted on. ‘I do not want her assuming she knows the English language better than me. If there is corrections to be made, I make them.’

      Ashley held her tongue, mentally noting the two grammatical errors in that little speech. Here was another king-size ego who knew everything and could do no wrong! Ashley had been married to one for long enough to have experienced the God complex at close quarters. She had learnt there was no reasoning with it, no appeal that would pierce it, no way to get around it.

      In her youthful naivety, Ashley had fallen blindly in love with Roger Harcourt. He had been handsome, always well-dressed, sophisticated in his tastes and strongly athletic, excelling in all competitive sports. Self-assurance had oozed from him, and during their early days together, Ashley had thought him utterly perfect.

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