Read Online The Australian Heiress by Margaret Way - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Way
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her; she knew she would desperately miss all her “friends": the portraits of children and beautiful women, the seascapes, landscapes, the many flower paintings, the still lifes and the wonderful horses. The Young Equestrienne could have been herself at age twelve. Claude had found it and, delighted at the resemblance, bought it for her father.
The Young Equestrienne was sold to an unknown bidder for well above the reserve. So far things were going extremely well, although the major paintings would not be put on the block until midafternoon. Linda had wanted to join her for moral support, but Camille had insisted she stay home. Linda was not as robust as she claimed to be.
It was a glittering scene. Though it was broad daylight,the four massive Waterford chandeliers that lit the long room had been switched on, reflected over and over in the gilt-scrolled mirrored panels along the walls. Dozens of well-known faces sat in the crowd, deadly rivals some of them, the women smartly dressed, their expensive perfumes wafting around the room. As soon as a painting was marked down, there was a rumble of voices as people turned to one another with comments. Quite a few turned their heads constantly to the back of the room, clearly wanting to gauge Camille’s reactions.
She knew she looked good. She was wearing one of her little two-piece suits, this one lime green with matching shoes. Her hair, with its trademark riotous curls, was unrestrained, and large blister pearls mounted in gold adorned her ears. No use being poor and looking poor, Tommy had said.
Her straying thoughts came back at the sound of a distinctive voice.
“May I join you. Miss Guilford?”
It was Nick Lombard, with his usual cool confidence. She was forced to check her anger. “I can’t stop you, Mr. Lombard, but I’d much rather you didn’t.”
“All for a good cause.” A chair appeared like magic, brought by an attendant. “Do things seem to be going well?”
“Reasonably well. This is an important collection,” she said in a clipped tone. “Are you here to grab something?”
“I let my agents act for me.” His tone was mild by comparison.
“Of course.”
“Didn’t your father do the same?”
She refused to answer.
“The important thing is to keep the momentum going.” He paused. “I’ve only been here a few moments, and already heads are turning in our direction.”
“Yes, people are curious, aren’t they? They’re not all buyers, by any means. So many just want to mix with the rich and powerful.” She sighed. “I was told my father was driven to overcompensate for his early powerlessness. He had a dreadful childhood.”
Lombard’s expression turned grim. His own research into Harry Guilford’s early life had uncovered a history of physical and mental abuse by the father, George Guilford, who had died in strange circumstances. He’d bled to death after cutting himself pruning a tree in the garden. His wife and teenage son had been home at the time, but both claimed to have heard nothing, though the man must have shouted repeatedly for help. It was even on record that young Guilford had said he was glad his father was dead.
The mother had died a few years later, destroyed by drink. A destructive enough background and one likely to have serious repercussions on anybody. Only, Harry Guilford had inherited his father’s streak of brutality!
“Nothing to say to that?” Camille taunted him.
“It so happens I agree with you.”
Surprised, Camille looked down at her hands. “He never spoke of his early life. He might just as well have been an orphan. It was Claude who told me he’d had a miserable childhood. So much was kept from me. So many subjects that were taboo.”
“You never asked?”
“Of course I asked,” she replied a little heatedly,“but I was never answered. My father and I didn’t have that kind of relationship. But I intend to check your story about my mother and your uncle out.”
“You could ask
The Young Equestrienne was sold to an unknown bidder for well above the reserve. So far things were going extremely well, although the major paintings would not be put on the block until midafternoon. Linda had wanted to join her for moral support, but Camille had insisted she stay home. Linda was not as robust as she claimed to be.
It was a glittering scene. Though it was broad daylight,the four massive Waterford chandeliers that lit the long room had been switched on, reflected over and over in the gilt-scrolled mirrored panels along the walls. Dozens of well-known faces sat in the crowd, deadly rivals some of them, the women smartly dressed, their expensive perfumes wafting around the room. As soon as a painting was marked down, there was a rumble of voices as people turned to one another with comments. Quite a few turned their heads constantly to the back of the room, clearly wanting to gauge Camille’s reactions.
She knew she looked good. She was wearing one of her little two-piece suits, this one lime green with matching shoes. Her hair, with its trademark riotous curls, was unrestrained, and large blister pearls mounted in gold adorned her ears. No use being poor and looking poor, Tommy had said.
Her straying thoughts came back at the sound of a distinctive voice.
“May I join you. Miss Guilford?”
It was Nick Lombard, with his usual cool confidence. She was forced to check her anger. “I can’t stop you, Mr. Lombard, but I’d much rather you didn’t.”
“All for a good cause.” A chair appeared like magic, brought by an attendant. “Do things seem to be going well?”
“Reasonably well. This is an important collection,” she said in a clipped tone. “Are you here to grab something?”
“I let my agents act for me.” His tone was mild by comparison.
“Of course.”
“Didn’t your father do the same?”
She refused to answer.
“The important thing is to keep the momentum going.” He paused. “I’ve only been here a few moments, and already heads are turning in our direction.”
“Yes, people are curious, aren’t they? They’re not all buyers, by any means. So many just want to mix with the rich and powerful.” She sighed. “I was told my father was driven to overcompensate for his early powerlessness. He had a dreadful childhood.”
Lombard’s expression turned grim. His own research into Harry Guilford’s early life had uncovered a history of physical and mental abuse by the father, George Guilford, who had died in strange circumstances. He’d bled to death after cutting himself pruning a tree in the garden. His wife and teenage son had been home at the time, but both claimed to have heard nothing, though the man must have shouted repeatedly for help. It was even on record that young Guilford had said he was glad his father was dead.
The mother had died a few years later, destroyed by drink. A destructive enough background and one likely to have serious repercussions on anybody. Only, Harry Guilford had inherited his father’s streak of brutality!
“Nothing to say to that?” Camille taunted him.
“It so happens I agree with you.”
Surprised, Camille looked down at her hands. “He never spoke of his early life. He might just as well have been an orphan. It was Claude who told me he’d had a miserable childhood. So much was kept from me. So many subjects that were taboo.”
“You never asked?”
“Of course I asked,” she replied a little heatedly,“but I was never answered. My father and I didn’t have that kind of relationship. But I intend to check your story about my mother and your uncle out.”
“You could ask
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