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Authors: Margaret Way
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voice betrayed her conflict.
S HE WAS READY and waiting when the Bentley pulled into the drive. Its headlights washed over the circular fountain, gilding the shadows in the lapis lazuli night.
“Wait here a moment, Miss Guilford,” the hired security guard said. He ran down the short flight of marble stairs and approached the parked car.
“I like the way he checks everything out,” Tommy said with satisfaction. “I’m glad, we hired him.”
The man waved and Camille moved to kiss Tommy’s cheek. “Don’t wait up for me.”
“You know I will. I want to see you safely in. Ring before you leave. It pays to take extra precautions these days.”
“Beautiful evening, Miss Guilford,” Lombard’s chauffeur said as she settled in. “It’s a good thing I was carrying identification. That security man of yours is very thorough.”
“That’s his job.” Camille glanced around the interior of the car, inhaling the particular fragrance of fine leather. It made her feel sad. Sometimes her father was all around her—his power, his drive, but never his love and warmth. Many times she’d sat beside him in a car just like this while he talked business, business, business. They’d never even come close to a normal conversation, let alone any understanding.
The Bentley continued serenely on its journey across the brilliantly lit Sydney Harbour Bridge to the North Shore, where Nick Lombard had his muchadmired mansion. The Opera House was a blaze of lights as the audience started arriving for a Dame Kiri Te Kanawa concert. Camille knew that Linda and Stephen were going—she’d spoken to her friend late that afternoon. Linda told her she planned to attend tomorrow afternoon’s session, when the Sevres collection was being offered; she had her eye on a beautiful bleu celeste porcelain basket that had belonged to an English countess and was thought to be an inspirational element for an Imperial Russian service. Camille hoped Linda would get it, but there were a lot of committed Sevres and Meissen collectors who wouldn’t turn a hair at $10,000 for a basket.
I’m almost an expert on all this, Camille thought. I’ve grown up with collections, and I’ve had Claude for a mentor. It was possible she could start up her own business. She had the necessary skills in business and decorative arts, and had spent all her adult life in society circles. It shouldn’t be so difficult. But would any of the banks back her? Harry Guilford’s daughter?
“We’re here, miss,” the chauffeur announced some twenty minutes later. He brought the Bentley to a halt before massive wrought-iron gates and activated the remote control. The gates swung open and the big car glided through.
Nick Lombard was there to meet her, coming down the front steps to the car and opening her door. “Good evening, Camille.”
“Good evening.” She ignored his hand, though it seemed childish and gauche.
“That’ll be all for this evening, Max,” he said to the chauffeur. “I’ll drive Miss Guilford home.”
“Very good, sir.”
Camille noted that he was still wearing the suit she’d seen him in earlier, and she guessed he hadn’t been home long. It occurred to her that this evening must somehow be an important occasion for him; there couldn’t be many free nights for a man in his position.
“However did you secure Gracemere?” she asked, staring up at the romantic sandstone facade of one of Sydney’s best-known historic houses. “I think everyone in the country approached Lady Nicolson at some time. My father included.”
“Family connections,” he said.
“Ah. Why didn’t I guess? The Lombards could never be among the losers in life.” As soon as shesaid it, she thought again of his young wife. “Forgive me. You’ve had your tragedies.”
A curt inclination of his head was her only answer.
They moved into the entrance hall with its warm rich decor and the gleam of beautiful timbers.
“Would you care for a martini?” he
S HE WAS READY and waiting when the Bentley pulled into the drive. Its headlights washed over the circular fountain, gilding the shadows in the lapis lazuli night.
“Wait here a moment, Miss Guilford,” the hired security guard said. He ran down the short flight of marble stairs and approached the parked car.
“I like the way he checks everything out,” Tommy said with satisfaction. “I’m glad, we hired him.”
The man waved and Camille moved to kiss Tommy’s cheek. “Don’t wait up for me.”
“You know I will. I want to see you safely in. Ring before you leave. It pays to take extra precautions these days.”
“Beautiful evening, Miss Guilford,” Lombard’s chauffeur said as she settled in. “It’s a good thing I was carrying identification. That security man of yours is very thorough.”
“That’s his job.” Camille glanced around the interior of the car, inhaling the particular fragrance of fine leather. It made her feel sad. Sometimes her father was all around her—his power, his drive, but never his love and warmth. Many times she’d sat beside him in a car just like this while he talked business, business, business. They’d never even come close to a normal conversation, let alone any understanding.
The Bentley continued serenely on its journey across the brilliantly lit Sydney Harbour Bridge to the North Shore, where Nick Lombard had his muchadmired mansion. The Opera House was a blaze of lights as the audience started arriving for a Dame Kiri Te Kanawa concert. Camille knew that Linda and Stephen were going—she’d spoken to her friend late that afternoon. Linda told her she planned to attend tomorrow afternoon’s session, when the Sevres collection was being offered; she had her eye on a beautiful bleu celeste porcelain basket that had belonged to an English countess and was thought to be an inspirational element for an Imperial Russian service. Camille hoped Linda would get it, but there were a lot of committed Sevres and Meissen collectors who wouldn’t turn a hair at $10,000 for a basket.
I’m almost an expert on all this, Camille thought. I’ve grown up with collections, and I’ve had Claude for a mentor. It was possible she could start up her own business. She had the necessary skills in business and decorative arts, and had spent all her adult life in society circles. It shouldn’t be so difficult. But would any of the banks back her? Harry Guilford’s daughter?
“We’re here, miss,” the chauffeur announced some twenty minutes later. He brought the Bentley to a halt before massive wrought-iron gates and activated the remote control. The gates swung open and the big car glided through.
Nick Lombard was there to meet her, coming down the front steps to the car and opening her door. “Good evening, Camille.”
“Good evening.” She ignored his hand, though it seemed childish and gauche.
“That’ll be all for this evening, Max,” he said to the chauffeur. “I’ll drive Miss Guilford home.”
“Very good, sir.”
Camille noted that he was still wearing the suit she’d seen him in earlier, and she guessed he hadn’t been home long. It occurred to her that this evening must somehow be an important occasion for him; there couldn’t be many free nights for a man in his position.
“However did you secure Gracemere?” she asked, staring up at the romantic sandstone facade of one of Sydney’s best-known historic houses. “I think everyone in the country approached Lady Nicolson at some time. My father included.”
“Family connections,” he said.
“Ah. Why didn’t I guess? The Lombards could never be among the losers in life.” As soon as shesaid it, she thought again of his young wife. “Forgive me. You’ve had your tragedies.”
A curt inclination of his head was her only answer.
They moved into the entrance hall with its warm rich decor and the gleam of beautiful timbers.
“Would you care for a martini?” he
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