Guardian to the Heiress - By Margaret Way Page 0,1

powerful drug would be especially tempting. A soft pillow held down just long enough?

“Well, then, what are you waiting for?” he rasped.

“Doctor McDowell will be here around two.” She spoke in a reproachful way.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

A flash of hostility came into her eyes. “You’ll be requiring another injection well before that, sir.”

“Don’t get lippy with me, woman. Get out of here. If you allow any member of my family into this room, it means instant dismissal.”

A sweat had broken out on the nurse’s forehead. She was extremely well-paid, well-housed and well-fed. No one had wanted to look after the old man. “Is there anything I can do before I go?”

“Wh-a-t?” Selwyn Chancellor had all but forgotten her. “No. Just go.”

The nurse went, wearing an aggrieved face.

Alone, all alone, on a storm-tossed sea.

One was always alone when dying. He could hear his own laboured breathing. Maybe death was freedom? Nice to think so. Maybe he would meet up again with the people he had loved and lost. Maybe they would come for him? The thought made him smile. And as he smiled he was granted one last vision...

* * *

“These are for you, Poppy.” A beautiful little girl, five years old with a crown of ruby-red curls, put a posy of spring flowers into his hand.

“They’re lovely, sweetheart!” he exclaimed, burying his nose in the fragrant offering, knowing he was risking a barrage of sneezes. “Thank you so much.”

“I love you, Poppy,” she told him, dancing around happily. Carol was never still. Little Carol, the only person in the world to love him unreservedly.

“I love you, too, my darling,” he said with perfect sincerity. He was seated out on the rear terrace, finishing off a last cup of coffee before setting off for the city. Time to go. He stood up, a tall, vigorous man, taking her soft little hand.

“What are you going to do today?” he asked. It was a Saturday. He knew her mother, Roxanne, wouldn’t bother taking her anywhere. The proverbial cat was a better mother than Roxanne, but he had employed an excellent nanny, a highly qualified, pleasant, middle-aged woman, experienced with looking after children. She and Carol got on famously.

“Can’t you and Daddy stay home and be with me, Poppy?” she implored.

“Not possible, sweetheart,” he said, brushing a hand over her springy curls. “Your father and I have business to attend to. Important business.”

“Can’t it wait?” She was impatient.

“Afraid not,” he said, casting around for something to appease her. “What about tomorrow? We could take a run out to Beaumont. How would that suit you?” He would have to make the time and effort, but his granddaughter was worth it.

She clapped her hands, looking up at him with sparkling cerulean-blue eyes. “That would be wonderful. You’re the best poppy in the whole wide world,” she announced, picking up his large hand and kissing it...

* * *

He couldn’t suppress a sob. Tears stung his eyes. It hadn’t been all that much longer before his little sweetheart had disappeared from his life along with his son Adam. His emotions had changed rapidly, savagely, from a reasonable contentment to a grief-stricken hatred. But he had kept his eye on his granddaughter, albeit from afar. Powerful as he then was, a mother had proved to be more powerful. But he had seen to it his little Carol was well provided for. The treacherous Roxanne had remarried a City identity, Jeff Emmett, a scant eighteen months after Adam’s death, but she had gone on sending him all the bills pertaining to Carol’s upkeep. Greed. As Adam’s widow, she had benefited greatly. He had paid up unquestioningly. Hadn’t he built up scrapbook after scrapbook of Carol’s young life and achievements over the years? He had watched her from a distance, locked away in the back seat of his Rolls. He’d had his best, most discreet private investigator keep an eye on her, her mother and stepfather.

A year before, when he had found out he had cancer—and not gall trouble, as he had supposed—he had called in a solicitor. Not steady-as-she-goes Marcus Bradfield, senior partner of Bradfield Douglass, but the new young fellow—the associate, Damon Hunter—the one who had come up with all the fresh ideas to save his companies’ money. It was Hunter who had drawn up his new will. Selwyn had urged him to get shot of Bradfield Douglass and go out on his own, though he was sure in time the young man would be