CHAPTER ONE
‘GOOD God!’ Steve whispered irreverently. ‘Dane’s actually come.’
A perceptible flutter of interest spread through the gathered mourners at Adam Fletcher’s graveside. Several pairs of eyes wearing expressions ranging from curiosity to outright disapproval watched the approach of the prodigal as he strode across the cemetery. The lugubrious vicar cleared his throat and glanced enquiringly at the slender girl by his side.
‘I think we’d better wait,’ she agreed quietly.
On her other side Carter Fletcher’s thin face set into angry lines. ‘How did he find out?’ he muttered.
Claire’s cheekbones washed with pink, since she had been the one to see that Dane was informed. As his tall, carelessly dressed figure drew level she lowered her eyes.
When Dane’s mother, Adam’s only daughter, had married not only a foreigner but a man who had made his fortune in casinos, nightclubs and what were euphemistically termed girlie magazines, Adam Fletcher had struck her name from the family Bible. Shortly after her death, however, he had chosen to acknowledge Dane’s existence by inviting him up to Ranbury Hall for the weekend. Not that Dane, by then having reached twenty-one, had shown himself properly grateful for such belated attention. Already rich beyond avarice, Dane had come out of curiosity alone, and unlike the rest of Adam’s family, he had never toadied.
‘Man that is born of woman …’ The sepulchral voice intoned.
Claire swallowed hard. Not a single soul present truly mourned her grandfather’s death. An eccentric, miserly and reclusive old man, he had been no more polite or pleasant to his neighbours than he had been to his own immediate family.
Claire’s father had been Adam’s youngest and least successful son. Her parents had led a somewhat gipsyish existence because her father had rarely stuck in one job for long. She had been four when they had adopted her, and her memory of the six years she had had with them was a warm cocoon to retire inside whenever she was low. Money had been in short supply but there had been love. Their sudden death in a car crash had cut unimaginably deep, and her life at Ranbury Hall afterwards had been achingly familiar. Before her adoption she had been in a variety of foster homes and institutions. There, too, there had often been coldness and disinterest, a sense of not belonging to anything or anybody, and that buried insecurity had been fanned to a flame from the moment she arrived at Ranbury to make her home with Adam Fletcher.
‘The law may say you’re my granddaughter but we both know you’re not,’ he had growled resentfully. ‘You were adopted. You’re no kin of mine but I can’t have it said I let you go into an institution. I expect you’ll be able to make yourself useful about the house. You’re not a pretty child, either. I dare say you’ll still be here when I’m doddering and needing a nurse.’
In the chilly breeze gusting across the exposed graveyard, she shivered beneath her thin navy raincoat. Adam had been correct in his forecast. She was twenty-three now and, apart from a few years in a boarding school outside Leeds, she had been no further than Ranbury and its overgrown acres in the Yorkshire Dales. But a year ago, a year that was now etched into her soul as a timeless, agonising period of unhappiness, she could have gone to the man she loved, had not Adam’s illness made it impossible for her to leave.
In staying she had done what everyone estimated to be her duty, and four days ago Adam had passed away in his sleep. There was no longer any reason for her to remain at Ranbury. Max had waited patiently for over a year for her to join him in London. Soon she would have a new life, a new beginning with someone who wanted her for herself … someone who cared about her as a person with feelings and needs of her own. That had to be a first in Claire’s experience.
Her grandfather had found her an unwelcome responsibility until he saw how useful a quiet, hard-working girl could be around a large, understaffed house and what savings could be made through that same girl’s painstaking efforts to budget. And, of late, she’d been much cheaper than a private nurse. A nurse wouldn’t have stood Adam’s sharp, vindictive tongue, the barrage of constant, nagging complaints that had made Claire’s days unendurable. All the compassion in the world could prove insufficient when life became one long, unremitting toil ruled by the whims of a cold, tyrannical old man.
It’s over now, a little voice soothed inside her brain. Tiredly she lifted her auburn head again, ashamed of such unforgiving thoughts. After all, she was free now to make her own choices and her choice was quite naturally to be reunited with Max. Thankfully no one could prevent that now.
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …’ Carter’s arm curved firmly to her waist and she stiffened in taut rejection of his familiarity.
Opposite, her gaze collided unexpectedly with Dane’s chillingly beautiful, bright blue eyes and the tinge of amusement in the faint tilt of his mouth. Reddening, she looked away again. At least she could absolve Dane of paying his respects only out of a desire to see what his grandfather had left him. Dane was much wealthier than ever the Fletchers had been and he hailed from a very different world.
The depth of his tan emphasised the amount of time he spent abroad and the tight-fitting black cords and designer-cut leather jerkin he sported were not, she imagined, the mark of disrespect Carter’s face so clearly said they were, but more likely to be a sign that Dane had flown back in a hurry and probably from the States to attend the funeral. Even so, she had never seen him in a suit. Raised in California, even though he now based the headquarters of the Visconti business interests in London, Dane was a great deal less hidebound and conventional than his cousins.
‘Miss Fletcher.’ The vicar was shaking her hand first because she alone of the assembled group had lived with the departed.
‘Claire.’ Dane’s hand engulfed hers firmly. ‘My condolences. Was it sudden?’
Her witch-hazel eyes widened behind her tortoiseshell spectacles. ‘No, he was ill for a long time,’ she murmured. ‘It was a release for him to die.’
‘You shouldn’t have said that,’ Carter sniped, pressing her back on to the gravel path. ‘It sounded disrespectful.’ Then, ‘Dane had no business coming here.’
‘I’m glad he came,’ she countered. ‘I always thought Grandfather had a soft spot for him, even though he’d never have admitted it.’
‘Nonsense, Claire.’ Carter made a minute adjustment to his tie as they headed towards the cars waiting beyond the wall. ‘Far be it from me to boast, but I was always the favourite.’
Lord, what a petty little man he was! Arriving too late to make the funeral arrangements, he had none the less managed to question each and every one of them. When Steve, her other cousin, ignored his parents’ car and climbed in behind Carter, she smiled relief. Still a student, Steve had done little but regale her with descriptions of his fiancée and apologise for his few visits of recent. But then, who could say Ranbury Hall was inviting? she reflected wryly. Her grandfather had not expended a penny on the rambling property during the past fifty years. The amount of comfort available there was marginal.
‘Look at the car Dane’s travelling in!’ Steve nearly broke his neck peering out at the long, opulent limousine with its tinted windows, which was parked at the end of the church lane. ‘My mother must be going green with envy!’
Carter delivered him a scornful glance. ‘Did Celia inform Dane of Adam’s death?’ he demanded, Celia being Carter’s aunt and Steve’s mother.
Claire chewed her lip uneasily. ‘No, that was me, Carter.’
He looked at her in astonishment ‘You?’ he parroted.
‘He had a right to be told,’ she stated levelly, though her cheeks were pale. ‘I contacted his secretary in London. She didn’t tell me where he was. Actually, at the time I didn’t think she paid much heed to my message. I had enough trouble just getting to speak to her.’
Steve laughed, understanding. ‘I doubt if Dane ever felt the need to name-drop grandfather’s existence.’
Carter was still staring at her, flushed by angry incredulity. ‘You should have discussed it with me first. Dane hasn’t been up here in years.’
‘Three years,’ Claire inserted. ‘And you know Grandfather told him not to come again. He was very rude to him on that last visit.’
‘No ruder than he ever was to anyone else.’ Carter let down his sanctimonious front to stab, ‘To attend his funeral now is the height of bad taste and, if Dane’s expecting to find any profit for himself out of the reading of the will, he’ll soon find his mistake.’
Her distaste threatened to choke her. Aside of the last couple of months when it had been clear that Adam Fletcher was on his deathbed, Carter had been a very infrequent visitor here. Once he had reached that realisation he had visited regularly, showing a calculation Claire had despised. It had not been lost on her, either, that her grandfather had belatedly reached the conclusion that Carter would make her an excellent husband. Stolid and careful in his ways, and equally penny-pinching, Carter had managed to impress Adam deeply.
She was glad when the car glided through the tall, rusty gates and came to a halt on the weedy gravel fronting the granite bareness of the Hall. Hard winters had scarred the paintwork, neglect had done the rest and on a prematurely dark, wintry afternoon, the Hall proffered a gloomy welcome.
Seeing Mr Coverdale’s stately old Rover already parked, she hastened from the car. ‘I’ll see that some tea is served first. It’s bitterly cold.’
In her opinion the will would contain no surprises. The estate would be divided equally between all of them. For what reason other than that belief would Carter have asked her to marry him a mere week ago? As she passed the hall mirror her own colourless and drab exterior mocked her.