Blackmailing the Society Bride. Penny Jordan
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kind of nature and did not need to be told what people felt. She had sensed her parents’ disappointment—just as in later years she had recognised Marcus’s impatient irritation with her.
Not that anyone ever needed to guess what Marcus thought or felt. She had never known anyone more capable of or uncompromising about saying exactly what he thought and felt. And he had made it plain from the first moment he had confronted Lucy across the large desk in his London office that he did not approve of the fact that her late great-uncle had left her such a large sum of money.
‘I suppose that’s why you agreed to be my trustee, is it?’ Lucy had accused him. ‘Because you don’t approve of me having the money and you want to make life as difficult for me as possible!’
‘That kind of remark merely confirms my concern about your late great-uncle’s mental state when he made his will,’ had been Marcus’s caustic response.
‘I suppose you were hoping he would leave his money to you?’ Lucy had shot back.
In response, Marcus had given her a look that had made her face burn, and made her feel as though she wanted to crawl into a corner.
‘Don’t be so bloody infantile,’ he had told her coldly.
Of course she hadn’t realised then that Marcus had millions, if not billions of his own, tucked away in the vaults of his family’s merchant bank, of which he was the CEO.
Mr McVicar watched her sympathetically. He knew perfectly well of the tension and ill feeling that existed between his client and the formidably wealthy banker her late great-uncle had appointed as trustee for the money he had left her.
That money had nearly all gone now—swallowed up by the greed and fraudulent actions of Lucy’s ex-husband and the failure of her once-successful small business.
But in his view there was still no one better placed to help her in her present difficult situation than Marcus, whose business savvy was both awesome and legendary. Mr McVicar himself had urged her not to agree to her bank’s request that she secure Prêt a Party’s finances by pledging her inheritance, but she had refused to listen to him. Morally Lucy was beyond reproach, but unfortunately she had been too gullible for her own good, and she was paying the price for that now.
He returned to the problem at hand. ‘If you could attract a wealthy business partner who would be prepared to put money into the business, then—’
‘Actually, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.’
As soon as the words had left her mouth Lucy wondered what on earth she was doing. Was it Mr McVicar’s reference to Marcus that had prompted her into lying to him and creating a fictional potential backer? Lucy closed her eyes in helpless acknowledgement of her own vulnerability. Somehow just hearing Marcus’s name was enough to goad her into a fury of defensiveness.
Mr McVicar looked both relieved and surprised.
‘Well, that is really excellent news, Lucy. It puts a different complexion on matters entirely,’ he told her enthusiastically, looking so pleased that her guilt increased uncomfortably. ‘The very best outcome one could have hoped for, in fact. But obviously it is something we shall need to discuss. I think we should set up a meeting with your proposed partner and his or her legal advisers just as soon as we can. Oh, and of course we must let your bank know what is in the wind. I am sure that they will be inclined to be far more flexible once they know that fresh capital will be injected into Prêt a Party. I also think it would be a good idea to go public, even perhaps take a half-page announcement in those papers most frequently read by your clients stating once again that your ex-husband now has no access to or involvement with any aspect of Prêt a Party’s business, and that moreover you now have a new partner. That should do a tremendous amount to offset the upsetting effect Nick’s fraudulent behaviour has had on the business.’
Lucy felt as though she were trapped in ever-deepening mud of a particularly sticky and clinging consistency. Why on earth had she let the thought of Marcus’s disapproval propel her into such stupidity? What on earth had she done? How could she admit now to Mr McVicar that she had lied—and why?
‘Er, I can’t tell you who he is at the moment, Mr McVicar,’ Lucy began uncomfortably. ‘It’s all very much a secret. Negotiations are…um…well, you know how it is…’
‘Of course. But I must urge you to remember, Lucy, that time is very much of the essence here.’
Nodding her head, Lucy made her escape as quickly as she could. How could she have lied like that? It went against everything she believed in. Now she felt sickeningly guilty and ashamed of herself, and she had to blink away her self-pitying tears as she stood outside her solicitor’s Mayfair office in the bright autumn sunshine.
What on earth was she going to do? It would take a miracle to save her now. Automatically, she turned the corner and hurried into Bond Street, not bothering to glance into the windows of the expensive shops lining the street. Designer label clothes were not really her thing. She liked vintage clothes, salvaged from street markets and family attics. Their fabrics were so lush, the feel of them against her skin something she treasured and loved: real silk and satin cashmere; sturdy wool; cool cotton and linen. Man-made fibres might be more practical for modern-day city living, but in many ways she was an old-fashioned girl who craved a return to a quieter, more gentle way of life.
The truth was that secretly she would have loved nothing more than to marry and produce a large brood of much-loved children whom she and her husband would raise in an equally large and loved country house. She envied her two best friends their happy marriages and new young families more than they or anyone else knew—after all, she had her pride, just like anyone else. It was that pride that had led her into setting up Prêt a Party in the first place. The very same pride that had just led her into telling that stupid, stupid lie, she reminded herself miserably.
The magazines on a nearby newsstand caught her eye, and she stopped to study them. To the forefront, as always, was A-List Life. Lucy started to smile.
Its eccentric owner and editor Dorland Chesterfield had been such a good friend to her, using Prêt a Party to organise several of the events he had hosted—events attended by the world’s top celebrities. She might even have considered turning to him for help to get her out of the mess Nick had left her in were it not for the fact that she knew if there was anything guaranteed to overwhelm his genuine kind-heartedness it was his love of passing on gossip. The last thing she needed right now was to have the story of her downfall spread over the pages of A-List Life.
Of course both her friends—now ex-partners in Prêt a Party—had extremely wealthy husbands, and both of them had in turn come to see her and gently offered financial help, but Lucy could not accept it. For one thing there was that wretched pride of hers, and for another it was not just money she needed, but someone to work in the business with her. Being given money to clear Prêt a Party’s debts was a kind gesture, but she wanted—needed, in fact—to prove that she was not the silly fool everyone obviously thought her, and that she could make a success of her business.
Yes, marrying Nick had been a mistake, and, yes, she had—as Marcus had unmercifully pointed out to her—rushed into the marriage, but she’d had her own reasons for doing that. Reasons she could never, ever allow Marcus to discover.
She picked up a copy of A-List Life and handed over some coins, giving a reciprocal smile to the newsstand vendor before turning to cross the road. The sunlight glinting on her shoulder-length naturally blonde hair caused the driver of a large, highly polished, diplomat-plated Mercedes to slow down and study her appreciatively.
As she regained the pavement Lucy flipped open the magazine and quickly checked the contents—more out of habit than anything else. It was over three months now since Prêt a Party had managed a large event of any kind, never mind one glitzy enough to merit page-space in Dorland’s magazine, but to her astonishment she suddenly saw Prêt a Party’s name beneath the words: A-List Life’s Favourite Party of All Time.’
Bemused, she turned the pages, her eyes widening as she recognised the photographs