Satan's Contract. SUSANNE MCCARTHY
have been what he intended? Why, we’ve cared for him all these years—and heaven knows it hasn’t always been easy. Many were the times I’ve wondered if he might perhaps be better off in a home.’ She had turned her soft, appealing eyes on the solicitor. ‘But he was as close as our own flesh and blood. I never begrudged a moment of it.’
Pippa rolled her eyes heavenwards. Sometimes her mother’s capacity to alter the truth amazed her—and the incredible thing was that she really seemed to believe her own version. She had already surmised that both her parents had known the identity of their unexpected visitor; she had long suspected the existence of a skeleton in the family cupboard, something alluded to but never referred to openly. Well, he had certainly picked his moment to pop out!
Her father was still fuming. ‘You can bet your life that was exactly what the old fool did intend,’ he declared belligerently. ‘The ingratitude! But of course, it’s just what I might have expected of him. I’m only glad that my poor dear mother isn’t here to see it. God knows, she suffered enough, the way he used to flaunt that...that woman and her bastard brat right under her nose...!’
‘Hah!’ Pippa was betrayed into a snort of derision. ‘I wish I could have seen it! He would never have dared do any such thing.’
Her parents looked up in surprise, neither of them having been aware of her presence until now. ‘I thought you were out riding,’ her father grunted irritably.
‘I got back a while ago.’ She strolled in through the french windows, not troubling to pretend any trace of filial affection. It had been a long time since she had got on with either of her parents—sometimes it seemed that the only thing she had in common with either of them was that she had the same temper as her father; she was as unlike her mother as it was possible to be. ‘So, who is he, anyway?’ she enquired. ‘I’d never even heard of him before.’
Her mother looked embarrassed, but her father was blunt. ‘If you were listening, you know who he is. His mother was the old man’s secretary. How long their affair was going on, I don’t know. He was fifty when the boy was born—disgusting.’
‘What happened to the woman?’ Pippa asked, curious.
‘Oh, he took care of her well enough, while she was alive,’ Sir Charles responded dismissively. ‘She died about fifteen years ago, and Shaun went off to Canada. Thought we’d seen the last of him—I might have known he’d be back, like a bad penny.’
Shaun, mused Pippa. So that was his name—Shaun Morgan. If Gramps had been fifty when he was born, that would make him...about thirty-five now. And he had inherited everything—the house, the land, the company...
She smiled softly to herself. Good old Gramps! He’d contrived to do what he must have wanted to do all along—leave everything to his son, and nothing at all to his stepson. She could almost hear that secret chuckle of his, whenever he’d managed to get one over on his dictatorial wife—‘the Witch’, he’d used to call her behind her back.
Of course, she would be sorry to leave Claremont, the house where she had grown up. Set in the wide green countryside of the Heart of England, it was a lovely old house, with its ivy-clad walls and mullioned windows, and its spacious wooded parkland.
But it would almost be worth it, just to see her father’s nose put out of joint! He didn’t deserve a penny of Gramps’s money, not after the shabby way he had treated him. It was a shame her first meeting with Shaun had set them off on the wrong foot with each other, but it wasn’t too late to remedy that. The next time she saw him, she would go out of her way to be friendly, she decided grimly—just to spite her father!
CHAPTER TWO
‘WELL, I think that all went off rather well,’ Sir Charles remarked with satisfaction as the sleek black limousine pulled away from the small country churchyard. ‘Quiet, but very tasteful. I think George would have wanted it that way.’
‘You mean you wanted it that way,’ cut in Pippa acidly. ‘At least you did when you thought everything was coming to you. I bet if you’d realised Shaun Morgan was going to get it you’d have splashed out on the biggest bash since the launching of the Queen Mary.’
‘Oh, dear...Philippa!’ her mother protested, desperate to avoid a clash. ‘Please—you can’t start arguing with your father—not on an occasion like this.’
‘He’s such a damned hypocrite!’ she muttered, sitting back in her corner and shaking off her mother’s restraining hand. ‘He’s not the least bit upset that Gramps is dead. The only thing he’s bothered about is finding some way of keeping Shaun from getting his hands on the money.’
‘And that I shall succeed in doing, I assure you,’ Sir Charles insisted with arrogant assurance.
‘Oh, yes? How? From what he said, he’s got all the proof he needs that he’s Gramps’s son—and you’ll have a hard time proving you need maintenance out of the estate.’
The car was passing the railings of the cemetery, and through the trees she could catch a glimpse of a tall figure still lingering at the graveside, fair head pensive but unbowed. He had stood like that all through the service, not looking at her or her parents—except for just once, towards the end, when she had stepped forward to toss a spray of lilac, clipped from one of Gramps’s favourite trees, into the grave. Then those level hazel-brown eyes had caught hers, just for a brief moment, before she had turned away.
He looked very different in that well-cut grey suit he was wearing. When she had seen him this morning she would have sworn that he never wore anything but those faded, well-worn jeans, but she had to admit he looked good in the more formal attire—though the tailored elegance of the cut did nothing to tame the ruggedness of that powerful masculine frame.
It had been inevitable that people would notice his striking resemblance to Gramps, and there had been a considerable amount of whispering and speculation during the service—not entirely in keeping with the solemnity of the occasion. Well, everyone would find out soon enough who he was, she reflected—though from what she had overheard, a good many people had already guessed.
What sort of life had he led in Canada? What line of business had he been in? Her father had told her that Gramps had paid his mother maintenance when he was a child, but she doubted that he had been able to give him much financial support beyond that—her grandmother would have seen to that.
In fact he had every reason for his bitterness towards her grandmother—she was more than ready to acknowledge that. Maybe it was little wonder that he should have assumed that she was tarred with the same brush.
* * *
Most of the people who had been at the church had come up to the house. There were only about twenty or so—representatives from the board of directors of Morgan & Co, and a few local people who had some claim to be called friends of the family.
As usual it fell to Pippa to act as hostess, circulating among the guests, accepting their conventional expressions of condolence—her mother had already resorted to the sherry bottle to sustain her through the ordeal, and was looking a little frayed.
A sudden hush in the conversation alerted her, and she glanced towards the door, catching her breath on a small shock as Shaun walked into the room. He had arrived with Mr Gibbons, the solicitor, who was looking rather less than happy at being involved in such an awkward situation.
Pippa glanced round swiftly to check how her father was reacting. Surely he wouldn’t be so crass as to make a scene in public? Unfortunately there was no guarantee of that—when Sir Charles Corbett lost his temper, he was inclined to forget all considerations of dignity and decency.
Shaun’s broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorway as he stood for a moment on the threshold, the slightly sardonic curve to his mouth suggesting that he was faintly amused by the stir he was creating. Pippa heard her father’s hissing intake of breath, and moved swiftly to intervene, crossing the room to greet the newcomer with a