Ruthless Tycoon, Innocent Wife. HELEN BROOKS
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of the night until it was quite dark, the leaves on the trees surrounding the grounds of Seacrest trembling slightly in the summer breeze. The moon had risen with silvery hauteur in the velvet-black sky, the stars twinkling in deference to their sovereign. It was a beautiful night. It was always a beautiful night at Seacrest, even in the midst of winter when harsh angry winds whistled over the vast cliffs, melancholy and haunting as they rattled the old windows and moaned down the chimneys.
Be it in the spring, when the swallows began to build their nests under the eaves; summer, when wild rabbits brought their babies onto the smooth lawns to eat grass that was sweeter than on the cliffs beyond Seacrest’s boundary; autumn, when the trees were a blaze of colour and squirrels darted here and there anxiously burying nuts; or winter, when the sound of the sea crashing on the rocks filtered through shut windows and flavoured dreams, Seacrest was possessed of her own magic. The house was more than a house; it always had been.
She had to do something, but what? Marianne held her aching head in her hands, bewildered at how quickly her calm, happy life had been turned upside down. She didn’t know which way to turn.
At midnight she walked back to the house, turning off the lights downstairs before retiring to her room. As she opened the door and looked at the room which had been hers as long as she could remember, desolation claimed her anew.
‘Sleep.’ She said the word out loud into the stillness. She needed to sleep and then she would be fresher to think of a way round this. This was the twenty-first century, an age of miracles when things were happening which would have been considered unthinkable a century before. It couldn’t be beyond the wit of man—or woman in this case—to think of a way to keep Seacrest. She’d work twenty-four hours a day if necessary.
Stripping off her charcoal-grey dress, she threw it into a corner of the room. She would never wear it again. Nor the black shoes and jacket she had bought specially for the funeral.
Without bothering to brush her teeth or shower, she crawled into bed in her slip, an exhaustion that rendered her limbs like lead taking over. In contrast to the last few nights after Crystal’s shocking telephone call, she was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
CHAPTER TWO
OVER the next couple of days Marianne and Crystal followed one fruitless idea after another, but by the end of that time Marianne was forced to concede the situation looked hopeless. If either of them had shedloads of cash they could afford to pour into the old house it might be different, but if they had then they wouldn’t be in the position they were anyway. Her father had gambled on the business reviving and he had lost. End of story, end of Seacrest. The debt was huge, colossal.
Marianne telephoned Tom Blackthorn on the third morning after the funeral. She and Crystal were sitting close together on one of the sofas in the drawing room, so they could both hear the conversation, their faces tight and strained. In a way it was even worse for Crystal than for her, Marianne silently reflected as she dialled Tom’s number. At least she had her flat in London and her job to take her mind off things. Crystal had built her life around Seacrest and the family.
When Tom’s secretary put her through, Marianne came straight to the point. ‘I need to speak to you, Uncle Tom. It’s no use burying my head in the sand and Crystal and I realise nothing can be done. How do things progress now? Am I allowed to keep any family belongings? Paintings and so on?’
There was a brief pause and then Tom said, ‘I was going to phone you this morning, Annie. There’s been a development we couldn’t have foreseen.’
‘What?’ She glanced at Crystal, who stared back at her, eyes wide.
‘I think it’s better if I come and explain it in person.’
‘Tell me.’ There was no way she could calmly sit and wait for him to call. ‘Please, Uncle Tom.’
‘Someone’s offered to pay the debts, lock, stock and barrel, so Seacrest doesn’t go on the open market. Your idea of turning the house into a hotel would be part of the deal and this person would effectively expect to be a sleeping partner and receive fifty per cent of any profit once the hotel was up and running.’
Marianne blinked and kept her eyes on Crystal, who was looking as confused as she was. ‘This person would buy Seacrest, then?’ she asked numbly. ‘It would belong to them?’
Again, there was a pause. ‘Well, normally, yes, that’s how it would be, but he’s saying he wants only a fifty per cent ownership.’
‘He’d own half and let me own half?’ Marianne found herself floundering. ‘I don’t understand, Uncle Tom. Why would anyone do that? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘It’s not unheard of for one partner to put up the capital for a venture and the other to take responsibility for all the hard work and the running of it, Annie. And it would all be legal and above board of course. I’d see to that.’
Her heart was beating so fast it was threatening to jump into her throat. She could tell Crystal was feeling the same. ‘Who is it?’
‘I was instructed to put the proposition to you and see if you agreed before I make the client known.’
‘Uncle Tom, it’s me, Annie. Surely you can tell me?’
‘I gave my word.’
Marianne sank back on the settee. Crystal looked as though she didn’t know what day it was and hadn’t said a word. Reaching out her hand, Marianne grasped the older woman’s. ‘What do you think?’
‘Oh, Annie.’ Crystal couldn’t say any more—she was crying too hard—but she nodded vigorously through her tears.
Marianne tried to compose herself before she said, ‘We’re for it, Crystal and I. It would be daft to look a gift horse in the mouth.’
‘I think so. This is the sort of break that comes only once in a lifetime.’
‘And this person realises Crystal would be part of any venture?’ Marianne asked. That was of vital importance.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then we’ll do it. Who’s the mysterious benefactor?’ She’d been racking her brain for the last minute or two. She knew her father had had lots of good friends but most of them would find it difficult to raise the capital for a new car, let alone pay off a mountain of debt. It had to be a businessman in the town, one who’d known her father and who Tom trusted enough to listen to. That thought prompted Marianne to say, ‘Did you approach this person or did they come to you?’
‘It wasn’t quite as straightforward as that.’ There was a pause and then Tom said, ‘You remember Andrew Steed’s son?’
Marianne’s heart missed a beat. Not him. Anyone but him. He hadn’t even tried to hide his dislike of her.
‘He came to dinner last night and he was asking about you and so on. I’m afraid Gillian spoke out of turn and told him about the current situation.’
Oh, dear. Marianne could imagine how that had gone down with the solicitor. Her father’s friend was one of the old school and he played everything absolutely by the book. A client’s confidentiality was of paramount importance. She could imagine Gillian had received a lecture once they were alone.
‘Anyway, it appears that Andrew owns a string of hotels in America which Rafe now manages. Over the last few years since Andrew’s wife died and he became ill, he’s been looking to return to the old country to end his days. Rafe’s been in this area several times over the last twelve months apparently, looking for the right sort of place for his father. It’s leukaemia,’ he added.
‘I’m sorry,’ Marianne said mechanically.
‘Anyway, apparently he has good patches and not so good, and it’s not so good at the moment. Rafe feels his father’s better when he is motivated. He always was something of an entrepreneur, was Andrew. He went to America with nothing and now it would seem he’s an extremely wealthy man indeed. But I digress.’