Inherited: One Nanny. Emma Darcy
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of his grandfather’s scale of grandness.
“Well, sir, we started with a splendid service in St. Andrew’s Cathedral. It was packed. People overflowing outside and on the streets. Couldn’t fit everyone in. Nanny Stowe got the notification list together and it included all the charity boards your grandfather sat on, all his friends from far and wide, politicians, everyone from the arts. It was a big, big turn-up.”
At least she got that much right, Beau brooded.
“You know how your grandfather loved handing out red roses...”
His trademark.
“You’ve never seen as many red roses as there were in that cathedral. I reckon Nanny Stowe must have cornered the market on them. They covered the casket, too. And everyone who came to the service was handed a red rose in remembrance.”
A nice touch, Beau grudgingly conceded.
They emerged from the hall into bright morning sunshine. A sparkling blue-sky day, Beau thought, his spirits lifting slightly. The chauffeur pointed to where the car was parked and they turned in that direction.
“Go on, Wallace,” Beau urged. “Describe the service to me.”
“Well, sir, the boys’ choir sang beautifully. They started off with ‘Prepare ye the way for The Lord’ from the musical, Godspell. It was one of his favourites, as you know. Loved the theatre, your grandfather did.”
“Yes. It gave him a lot of pleasure,” Beau agreed, beginning to have a bit more respect for Nanny Stowe. The woman did have some creative thought, though it probably stemmed from an ingrained attention to detail. A nitpicking fusspot came to mind, nothing escaping her eye or ear. Nevertheless, his grandfather would have relished the theatrical note at his funeral service so however it came about could not be overly criticised.
“Sir Roland from the Arts Council made a wonderful speech...”
His grandfather’s closest friend. The obvious choice.
“The bishop got a bit heavy with his words, I thought, but the readings from the bible were just right. Nanny Stowe chose them. All about generosity of spirit.”
“Mmmh...’ Beau wondered if Nanny Stowe was plotting to spark generosity of spirit in him, too.
The Rolls-Royce was parked, as usual, in a No Parking zone. Beau reminded himself to ask Wallace how he got away with that, but he had other things on his mind right now.
“The choir finished with a very stirring ‘Amazing Grace.’ Beautiful, it was,” Wallace went on, as he opened the trunk of the car to load in Beau’s luggage. “Then at the graveside, we had a lone piper playing tunes of glory. Sedgewick thought of that. Your grandfather was very partial to a pipe band when he was in his cups, if you’ll pardon the expression, sir.”
“Good for Sedgewick.” Beau warmly approved. Nanny Stowe hadn’t known everything! She’d probably be the type to follow the “early to bed, early to rise” maxim and had never witnessed his grandfather in his cups.
“What about the wake?” he asked, freeing himself of the duffel bag.
“Oh, we all knew what your grandfather would want there, sir. Oceans of French champagne, caviar, smoked salmon, pickled quails’ eggs...everything he liked best. Mrs. Featherfield and Sedgewick made the list and Nanny Stowe got it all in. She said the cost was not to be a consideration. I hope that was right, sir.”
“Quite right, Wallace.”
Though he’d certainly be checking the accounts. A blithe disregard for expenses was fine for his grandfather. For such an attitude to be adopted by the ubiquitous Nanny Stowe raised a few ugly suspicions about where the money went. Feathering her own nest before the grandson and heir arrived might be right down her stowaway alley.
As he dumped the duffel bag in the trunk, Beau was wondering if the family solicitor had been holding a watching brief on his grandfather’s estate while all this had been going on. Surely his legal responsibility didn’t begin and end with posting off a set of official documents to Buenos Aires.
Beau was champing at the bit by the time Wallace had ushered him into the back seat of the Roller. Home first to scout the nanny situation, then straight off to check the legal position. However, there was one burning question that couldn’t wait. As soon the car was in motion, he asked it.
“Why did my grandfather acquire a nanny, Wallace?”
“Well, you know how he liked to have his little jokes, sir. He said he needed to have a nanny on hand, ready to look after him when he slid into his second childhood since there was no telling when it might happen at his age.”
That seemed to be taking provident care a bit far. “Was there any sign of encroaching second childhood, Wallace? Please be frank with me.”
“Not at all, sir. Mr. Prescott was the same as he ever was, right up until the night he...um...passed over.”
At least he was saved the Angel of Death this time. “But he kept the nanny on regardless,” Beau probed for more information.
“Yes, sir. Said she was better for him than a gin and tonic.”
Beau frowned. “She didn’t stop him drinking, did she?”
“Oh, she wouldn’t have dreamed of doing that, sir.” Wallace sounded quite shocked at the idea. “Nanny Stowe is very sociable. Very sociable.”
And knew which side of her bread was buttered, Beau thought darkly, making sure she kept in good with everyone. There seemed no point in further questioning. Nanny Stowe had Wallace sucked right in. He wasn’t about to say a bad word about the woman, despite her staying on so long without any nanny duties to perform. Such dalliance smacked of very dubious integrity to Beau. He was glad the chance to make his own judgment on her was fast approaching.
“Do you mind if I use the car phone to call Sedgewick, sir? He particularly asked to let him know when we were on our way.”
Beau couldn’t resist one dry remark. “I’m surprised it isn’t Nanny Stowe who wants to know.”
“Sedgewick will inform her, sir.”
Of course. “Go right ahead, Wallace. I wouldn’t deprive anyone of the chance to put out the welcome mat for me.”
And he hoped Nanny Stowe would be standing right in the middle of it, shaking in her boots!
CHAPTER TWO
FEELING extremely nervous about meeting Beau Prescott, Maggie once more studied the photograph Vivian had insisted she keep.
“That’s my boy, Beau. The wild child.”
Her mouth curved whimsically at the epithet given to his grandson. The photograph was three years old, taken at Vivian’s eighty-second birthday party, and the handsome hunk filling out a formal dinner suit in devastating style could hardly be called a child. Though there was an air of boyish recklessness in his grin, and a wild devil dancing in his eyes.
Green eyes. They were certainly very attractive set in a deeply tanned face and framed with streaky blond hair so thick it hadn’t been fully tamed for the formality of the photograph. Nevertheless, its somewhat shaggy state was rather endearing, softening the hard, ruggedness of a strong-boned face and a squarish jaw. He had a nice mouth, the lips well-defined, neither too full nor too thin. He looked good, no doubt about it, but looks weren’t everything.
“Tame him long enough to get him to the marriage altar and father a child with you, and Rosecliff and all that goes with it will be yours, Maggie.”
How many times had Vivian put that proposition to her in the past two years? A challenging piece of mischief, Maggie had always thought, a running bit of fun between them. She’d never taken it seriously, usually making a joke of it—
“What would I want with him? You’ve spoilt me for younger