His Australian Heiress (3 page)

“No wonder they didn't try again after Simon,” Brendon said acidly. The Simon Mansfield he had known had lived life as an incredible snob. The exalted son of an exalted family. Simon had come home for his grandfather's funeral. He had attended reading of the will with his parents, clearly expecting to be a major benefactor. In no way had he been comforted by a couple of million to help him on his career path, with maybe a top American venture capital firm. He had thrown down the gauntlet, standing up astonished, to shout at Charlotte that no way was she going to be allowed to control the Mansfield fortune. His outrage had been matched by that of his doting mother. Conrad Mansfield had kept his outrage on a relatively tight leash.

“Perhaps he's been reborn?” Charlotte suggested. “According to Aunt Patricia, he's doing wonderfully well.”

“I'd take that with a grain of salt,” Brendon said dryly. “I for one don't believe it for a second. As for your aunt and uncle, everyone has expected them to split for years now.”

“Not darling Aunt Pat,” Charlotte said. “She'd lose access to wads and wads of money.”

Brendon glanced down at the pile of documents on his desk. “So what time do you want to leave?” he asked. Truth was, he felt in need of Charlie's bracing company. She was like a gust of fresh air sweeping through a stuffy room.

“Around eight o'clock Saturday morning,” she said. “Suit you? I'll drive.”

His silver-grey eyes glittered. “I'm going to refuse your offer right there, babe.”

“Spoilsport! I'm every bit as good a driver as you,” she claimed.

“Sorry, you're not,” he answered emphatically. “You took ages to learn Reverse Park.”

“Hey, it wasn't that bad. You used to make me nervous. It's not as though we're going to reverse up the mountain. Okay, then,
you
drive. Not that I've ever had the pleasure of driving your beloved Aston Martin.” The iconic car had been a twenty-first birthday present to Brendon from his father, another vintage car enthusiast.

“I'll let you when I think you can treat it with respect,” he said, his glittery gaze on her.

“When will that be?”

Brendon stood up. “Let's keep it this way for now, shall we? What about a bite of lunch? I'm starving.”

Charlotte, too, stood up, hoisting her mustard-coloured bag onto her shoulder. “I thought you'd never ask.”

* * *

The Mansfield country house, Clouds, was a ninety-minute drive from Sydney. It was situated in the beautiful Blue Mountains, a mountainous region of the state of New South Wales, renowned for its spectacular scenery and its forests of oil-bearing eucalyptus trees. It had been thought for years that the blue haze that gave the region its name was caused by the droplets of eucalyptus oil in the atmosphere, but science had identified the magical blue haze as a phenomena common to mountainous regions in other parts of the world. Whatever the answer, and many still held to the eucalyptus oil droplets, thousands of tourists took a trip there each year. All without exception wanted to see and photograph the famous rock formations, the Three Sisters: Meehni, Wimiah, and Gunneddoo. According to aboriginal legend, all three sisters had unwisely fallen in love with men of a different tribe. To protect them from certain death as a tribal war began, a powerful witch doctor had turned them into stone for eternity. It was a good story and a brilliant sight. All three sisters stood three thousand feet tall, towering over the lush green valley below with its stands of the only recently discovered Wollemi pines, living fossils dating back to the age of the dinosaurs.

They arrived at their destination in well under ninety minutes, all the while keeping to the varying speed limits. The time had passed quickly as it always did when two like-minded people found themselves together. Growing up together, despite Brendon's seven-year seniority, the two of them had a great deal in common, not the least of it a passion for the Law. It was in their blood. Both had ambitions to become QCs. Brendon would take silk first. Brendon found he could talk to Charlotte as he couldn't talk to any of his girlfriends. The very attractive young women in his life were into fun, having a good time. Not that he was against that by any means, but any discussion coming around to criminal cases, however fascinating, wasn't high on the agenda. Charlie, on the other hand, liked nothing more than involving herself in such discussions.

The scrolled-iron gates were wide open. Charlotte as a courtesy had rung ahead.

“Well, we're here now,” Brendon said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm. He didn't want to drive in. He thoroughly disliked Charlotte's uncle, and he was wary of Aunt Patricia with her flirtatious air, which he didn't find in the least bit appropriate or intriguing as she seemed to think.

The tall sandstone pillars on either side of the entrance were topped by handsome recumbent lions. They were supposed to be at rest, yet he always got the impression the lions were ready to spring, which was exactly what the late Sir Reginald would have wanted to think.

“What are
your
thoughts?” he asked as they cruised up the long, scenic drive. The Mansfield mountain retreat had been built on two secluded acres with wide expanses of lawn, beautiful trees, native and exotic and just about every flowering temperate shrub one could think of, azaleas, rhododendrons, camellias, and always a superb display of roses.

Charlotte darted him a faintly anxious look. “The same as yours, Bren. I've never felt welcome here since I lost my parents.”

“Well, it's yours now,” he said. “Aren't you tempted to kick your uncle out?”

“What, when he's working on another major novel?”

“Has anyone actually seen the working opus?” There was an acid edge to Brendon's voice.

“No one. I believe it's ‘very closely guarded.' I think that's the right term.”

“You realise it could all be untrue?” he said. “There
is
no follow-up bestseller.”

Charlotte gave vent to a sigh. “I'd accept that without too much trouble. On the other hand, we could both be wrong. Major novels don't come overnight.”

“His did. It wasn't all that long after the tragedy.”

“Perhaps tragedy called it forth? I don't know. Perhaps writing a novel had always been his dream?” She shrugged. “I should start a book of my own. I can write, you know. I was too young at the time, but my father always had stacks of journals he kept in his study. What happened to them? They should have come to me. I would have treasured them.”

“I've no idea what became of them, Charlie,” Brendon said. He had gone looking for them as soon as he was able. “Everyone was in such shock at the time. Your father's papers, journals, and such like could have been cleared out. Someone could well have built a bonfire in the garden when Sir Reginald wasn't around. I do know all
relevant
documents were located and kept on file. They're all filed away at the office.”

“I know. I've had a good look through them.”

“Of course you have,” he said dryly. “You're a sorter-outer.”

“I have a need to know what's going on.” Charlotte turned her head to study his clean-cut profile. “Aunt Patricia sounded delighted on the phone. Or she did when she realised I was bringing you. You're a great favourite with the ladies, Bren.”

“Pretty easy where there's money,” he said cynically.

“I dunno.” Charlotte laughed. “Not in your case. You don't want to do this, do you?”

“You know I don't, Charlie. By the same token, you knew I wasn't going to let you to do it on your own.”

Charlotte winced. “Your girlfriends must hate me,” she said.

“What, you yell for help and I come?” he asked.

“Something like that. One of your girlfriends had the cheek to tell me I wasn't a sister who could expect devotion. I was no relation whatever. In short, I was taking up too much of your time.”

He laughed. “I'm sure you jumped on her.”

“I did respond rather sharply as it happens. I won't be inviting her to the party.”

Brendon turned his head. “Who
was
that?”

“No one you'll miss terribly.”

“Camilla?” he guessed correctly. Camilla had deeply resented his affection for Charlie.

“I've said all I'm saying.” Then after a moment, “Had you no idea how jealous she was?” she asked with droll disdain.

“Most women are jealous creatures, aren't they?”

“Women don't go around killing their partners,” she shot back.

Charlie took violence against women very seriously. “I know, Charlie,” he said, gravely. A few months back, she had been asked her views on domestic violence by an enterprising reporter. As expected, she had given male violence a fine hammering.

The architect-designed sandstone house sat at the end of the long, gravelled drive. Clouds was a gabled, two-story residence that had all the charm one expects of a country house. A series of French glass doors opened onto a deeply shaded porch that allowed easy access to the lovely landscaped grounds. The breathtaking views of the mountains and the valley could be seen from every room at the
rear
of the house. Clouds was a splendid country residence that had only known one owner, Sir Reginald Mansfield. On his death he had bequeathed it to his granddaughter and heiress, the soon-to-turn-twenty-one Charlotte Mansfield.

The multiple garages were off to the left. They were joined to the house by a glorious wisteria-wreathed walkway. Brendon chose to park close to the short flight of front steps. “Let me get that,” he said as Charlotte was having a struggle with her single piece of luggage.

“Okay, it's a bit heavy.”

“A
bit
?” he growled as he pulled the suitcase out of the boot.

“I thought we'd have dinner in the village,” Charlotte said. Bren was wonderful company. “You know. Touch glasses. Drink deep. Turn a few heads.” Charlotte had become used to turning heads and hearing lots of gossip. It went with the territory.

“Fine by me.” Brendon broke off as Patricia Mansfield, a vision in a multicoloured caftan, silver baubles swinging around her neck, emerged from the cool of the house. She tripped lightly down the steps, her attractive, cared-for face lit with welcome.

“Charlotte. Brendon. How lovely to see you!” she cried, like a woman enraptured by their arrival.

“Don't answer that,” Charlotte whispered.

Patricia was upon them, reaching out to hug Charlotte—a first—before presenting her cheek, presumably for Brendon to kiss.

It was all so bizarre! Brendon wanted to step back, but that would have been too churlish. He bent his head, lightly grazing Patricia Mansfield's smooth, perfumed cheek.

Turning back to face Charlotte, Patricia enthused, “I've got a lovely surprise waiting for you, my dear. Simon is home.”

Of all the dumb luck! “Simon is home?” Charlotte couldn't pretend she was thrilled. “And here I was thinking I had an extra sense,” she said. “You can't have forgotten the last time I saw Simon, he was acting like he wanted to punch my face in. Now I'm supposed to be happy he's here?”

Simon's mother, as self-complacent a woman as one could find, pulled a little face. “Charlotte, dear, do let bygones be bygones. I'm willing. You do realize, I'm sure, that it was a devastating blow to us all. One has to make allowances. Simon adores his father. If he unfortunately showed too much anger that day, it was because he felt so deeply for his father.”

“Are you telling us, Mrs. Mansfield, he's now over it?” Brendon asked, his tolerance for Patricia Mansfield wearing too thin, too soon.

Some expression flitted across Patricia Mansfield's face that was not easy to define. Was it disappointment? Wasn't Brendon's manner what she expected? “Goodness me, Brendon,” she said. “I should think you'd be able to call me Patricia by now.”

“
Why
exactly is Simon here?” Charlotte cut in bluntly. Was her aunt serious? Bren had to call her “Patricia” all of a sudden? She fought a flash of anger. Aunt Patricia should have told her about Simon on the phone.

Patricia gave a lighthearted laugh. Charlotte's disapproval was running off her like water off a duck's back. “Now, what do you think? Your twenty-first birthday, of course, dear girl. You will be having a big party, one assumes?”

“Why don't we go inside?” Brendon said, catching the fiery light in Charlotte's green eyes.

“Of course. Of course.” Patricia, her complacence unruffled, turned to lead the way. “I've arranged for morning tea. You'll want to settle in. Why don't we all meet up in the living room in, say, half an hour?”

Charlotte had a ready answer, but she bit her tongue instead. Clearly Aunt Patricia had gotten into the habit of thinking the country house was hers. She hadn't really minded her uncle and aunt staying on at Clouds, but now she was beginning to think it was a huge mistake. Aunt Patricia obviously thought possession was nine-tenths of the law.

“Which bedrooms have been opened up for us?” Charlotte asked as her aunt started to move off.

Patricia turned to give her a brilliant smile. “The most beautiful one for you naturally, dear.”

“You've moved out, then?” Charlotte couldn't resist the dig.

Her aunt stared back at her, startled. “Well, Conrad and I have been using the master suite for years now, dear, if that's what you mean.”

“Why not?” said Charlotte. “The view is unequalled.”

“The Blue Room and the Green Room have been prepared,” Patricia informed them as they moved into the spacious stair hall with its polished floor partially covered by a beautiful contemporary turquoise rug. The rug, new to Charlotte's eyes, complemented the palette used throughout the rest of the house. White, blues, varying shades of green, all inspired by the mountain setting.