His Australian Heiress (18 page)

“Surely you haven't left anything out?” Charlotte didn't bother to hide the sarcasm.

“I'd be obliged.” Conrad's green eyes revealed a glimmer of anxiety.

“Okay, then. Come up. I hope it won't take long. Brendon and I are going out again, so many people to see, however briefly. There are parties going on all over Sydney.”

Once inside Charlotte's beautiful, art-filled apartment, Patricia renewed her attack as though she didn't know any other way. “I suppose you know you broke up Simon's romance with Carol Sutton?” She shot a glance at Charlotte, her breathing fast and shallow.

“Did he tell you about it?” Brendon asked.

“He said nothing about it,” Conrad broke in. “I expect it was all his fault. In my opinion, the girl has had a lucky break.”

“By the time I arrived at Carol's flat, your splendid son, Aunt Patricia, had already given poor Carol a vicious backhander.” Charlotte tackled the issue head-on. “She wanted to end the relationship, you see. Simon wasn't having that.”

Patricia Mansfield stared in stunned indignation. “I
do ... not . . .
believe you. Simon wouldn't dream of hitting a woman. It's unthinkable!”

“Actually, it happens in all sections of society,” Charlotte said. “If Simon so much as gets within a few feet of Carol again, an AVO will be taken out against him.”

Patricia was so genuinely shocked that she slumped into a plush armchair. “I cannot believe my son capable of such a cowardly act.”

“Men are capable of anything,” Charlotte said, dispassionately. “What is it you want to talk to me about, Uncle Conrad? It has to be important if you've spent some time waiting for us.”

“You're always with her, aren't you, Brendon?” Patricia Mansfield gave a bitter laugh. “It's almost incestuous.”

Brendon turned a little pale under his golden summer tan. “I deeply resent that, Mrs. Mansfield. I demand you retract it.”

Conrad Mansfield looked at his wife reprovingly. “You're such a damned fool, Patricia. I knew I should have come on my own.”

“I'm waiting,” Brendon said, keeping his light-filled eyes on Patricia Mansfield.

Patricia shifted nervously under his brilliant regard. “I apologize, Brendon. I didn't mean anything by it. It's just you're always
there
.” As she spoke, she was winding her magnificent diamond engagement ring 'round and 'round on her finger.

“Just as well, with people like your son hanging about,” Brendon shot back tersely.

As they exchanged verbal blows, Conrad Mansfield began roaming the large, beautifully proportioned living room. Its great double doors of glass and steel Charlotte had had dressed up with archways, painted white like the walls. The colour scheme reflected the beautiful harbour environment, with blue, white, turquoise, and green around the room. On the broad terrace looking directly out at the glittering harbour, he could see masses of flowers cascading out of pots. There was a sitting area as well, outfitted with white wicker furniture. At one end of the room stood a very beautiful French boulle-work desk that had belonged to Lady Julia, his mother. His mother, too, had had style. Charlotte had inherited it, as well as the Old Man's steel. He moved down to the desk, appraising it before running his hand over the marquetry of engraved brass and tortoiseshell. He had coveted this desk, although it was a bit on the feminine side.

Charlotte stood watching her uncle. She was unconsciously holding her breath, like a woman suppressing some need to cry out. Shivers were running up and down her spine like icy fingers. The downlights were full on one side of her uncle's face, the other side was in shadow. His face wore an expression she had seen before, an avid, madly desirous expression. She had seen that exact expression a long time before. Her throat was dry. She found she couldn't swallow. Images began to emerge from the sunken depths of her memory. She was only twelve years old . . .

Nine years later Charlotte found herself falling right back into the moment when she thought her own uncle would attack her.

Brendon gave her a quick, concerned look. “Charlie, what is it?” She had lost colour. He watched her fall into an armchair, as if she felt faint.

“Charlie?” Brendon swiftly crossed the space that divided them, going down on his knees. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“I expect you've been drinking,” Patricia Mansfield said by way of explanation, though she too had a startled expression in her eyes. “Buck up, Charlotte. Can I get you anything?”

Charlotte lifted her head. “Once the villain, always the villain, isn't that right, Uncle Conrad?” Her green eyes were locked on her uncle.

“Make sense, girl,” he answered sharply, his features drawn so tight she could almost see the skeleton skull beneath.

“Everything has come together,” she said, tapping her forehead. “That day in the study years ago. It wasn't all that long after the accident. Do you remember? I do
now.
You were pouring over a thick pile of papers you'd found in my father's study. You were racing through the pages, devouring them as you were being devoured. You were so intent on what you were reading—what you couldn't
believe
you were reading—that you didn't see me at first. Remember?”

“I have no recollection of that whatever,” was Conrad Mansfield's curt reply.

“Allow me to help you out. I went into the study for some comfort. My father loved my company. I wanted his, even though he had been taken from me. You shouted at me to get out. You had never shouted at me before. Your face had turned into a terrible mask. It was bewildering, frightening. I didn't know who you were. I believed you meant to harm me.”

Patricia Mansfield was squirming in her armchair. “I've never heard such fanciful nonsense in all my life.” She was staring at Charlotte as though she had taken leave of her senses. “Your uncle would never hurt you, Charlotte. It would never even cross his mind. You were a traumatized child. I suspect you're describing a nightmare you had, that's all. I've had living nightmares myself.”

“You want proof?” Charlotte asked quietly. “You haven't read the new manuscript as you claimed, Aunt Patricia. I think you were trying to reassure yourself as much as I was. There may be a new manuscript, but the opening page is drivel.”

Conrad Mansfield's skin flushed with hot blood. “You think so?”

“I know so. Maybe it's the best you can do,” Charlotte said. “You're not a real writer, Uncle Conrad. My father was the writer. He never said anything to anyone about it, but he had finished a novel he called
Cries of the Heart.
He had put it aside for the time being while he dealt with other problems, not the least of them the lies that were being spread about Brendon's father and my mother, but at some point he would have looked for a publisher. Only he was killed. You had no idea about the book, did you, Uncle Conrad? When you found it tucked away in the study, you knew you had uncovered a masterpiece. It was good enough to get short-listed for the Booker, which indeed it was. You were always looking for something to gain Grandfather's attention. I do understand how upsetting it must have been for you, living in your older brother's shadow. You thought about it and thought about it and concluded you were safe. I was always a risk, but you waited long enough to realize I had buried my memory of that day. That's what grief and fear can do.”

Patricia Mansfield went to stand up, her legs so weak she had to fall down again. “I don't believe a word of this,” she said, her whole body visibly shaking.

“It's like smashing a mirror only to find a devil on the other side,” Brendon suggested. “You haven't read the new manuscript, have you?”

Patricia owned up. “Maybe I haven't, but I deplore Charlotte's accusation that her uncle, my husband, Simon's father, stole some work supposedly written by Christopher, just to crown himself with glory?”

“He played a very dangerous game,” Brendon put forth his ominous opinion.

Patricia stared at him with glassy eyes. “I
know
my husband, Brendon. He is
not
a common thief. What would Simon say? He would be enormously upset by this accusation. He worships his father.”

Charlotte was moved to contradict. “The only person Simon worships is himself. A mother should always protect her child, but a mother also has a duty to raise her child right. You weren't doing Simon any favours giving in to him at every turn. You turned him into a tyrant.”

Patricia pulled a shocked face. “You're going too far, Charlotte.”

“Do shut up, woman!” Conrad snarled, turning away from his wife to address Charlotte. “I've got a problem then?”

“You didn't write
Cries of the Heart,
did you?” Charlotte asked with sad disdain.

Her uncle's eyes bore into hers as though he could read her mind. He gave a terrible smile that was more a grimace of pain and humiliation. “You can see now why there has been no follow-up. I didn't write that book. Christopher did, though God knows how he found the time. I discovered it. I read it. I realized how very good it was. I bided my time, and then, when I deemed myself safe, I sent it on to my publishing house. They loved it. The rest is history. I can see what's left to me, Charlotte. You let it be known your father wrote
Cries of the Heart
, leaving me with no option but to end my life. The public humiliation, the uproar, the disgust of my publishers, it would be too much to endure. You may have noticed I'm far from a happy man. There are plenty of places for me to simply slip on the grassy verge and go over the cliff when out walking.”

Charlotte left that threat aside for the moment. Her uncle was pretty good at emotional blackmail. She looked to her aunt, a woman seemingly turned to stone. “I want the truth now, Aunt Patricia. Lie and this could end more badly than it will already. Did you spread the vile rumours about my mother and Julian Macmillan?”

Patricia Mansfield looked as though she was about to be sick. She shook her head, one hand to her throat. “If I had done that, Charlotte, I would never have had a moment's peace. I admit I was very jealous of your mother. She was everything I'm not. But I wasn't the only one jealous of her, mind you. Brendon's mother, Olivia, the Ice Queen, positively
hated
her. I swear to you, I was as shocked by the rumours as everyone else. I confess I thought, well, that there's no smoke without fire. Not my finest hour. I never saw one instance when either Alyssa or Julian behaved improperly or even suspiciously. What am I anyway, a traitor? I might have been jealous of Alyssa, but Christopher was always charming to me. He treated me with respect.”

“Perhaps it was your sainted mother, Brendon?” Conrad suggested unpleasantly. “I wouldn't dismiss the possibility. We all know Olivia has an obsessive nature.”

For a moment Brendon felt despair. He responded carefully, “Did you come forward with your suspicions?”

“Good heavens no!” Conrad glowered. “As far as I was concerned, the two of them could live in hell for a while, but I never wished tragedy upon them. So, what's the verdict, Charlotte? You're going to throw me to the wolves, thinking I'll do the decent thing and throw myself off the mountain?”