The English Lord's Secret Son

They were all seated around the boardroom table—big as any two ping-pong tables shoved together—when she entered the room.

“Good morning, everyone,” she greeted them pleasantly, and received suave nods that hid a variety of feelings. Downright lecherous on the part of Geoff Bartz, their resident environmentalist and a very unattractive man. The hierarchy was still men, though not as inflexible as it once had been. The richest person in Australia was in fact a woman, the late mining magnate Lang Hancock’s daughter, Gina Rinehart, worth around twenty billion and counting. All of the men were Italian suited, Ferragamo shod, the one woman at the table as impeccably turned out as ever, cream silk blouse, Armani power suit. No one reached a position near the top of the tree without being exceptionally well dressed. Lord knew they were paid enough to buy the best even if they rarely strayed from imported labels. Cate trusted her own instincts, giving Australian designers a go. They were so good she stuck to them.

“Ah, Cate,” Hugh Saunders, CEO and chairman of the board of Inter-Austral Resources, oil, minerals, chemicals, properties etc. sat at the head of the table. He was credited with almost single-handedly turning a small sleeping mining company into a multibillion-dollar corporation. On Cate’s entry he exhaled an audible sigh of pleasure. A lean, handsome, very stylish man turning sixty, he had personally recruited Cate Hamilton some three years previously. He considered himself her mentor. If he were only ten years younger he privately considered he would have qualified as a whole lot more, sublimely unaware Cate had never entertained such a thought. “Come take a seat. There’s one here by me.” He gestured towards the empty seat to his right.

Territorial display if there ever was one, Murphy Stiller thought with a tightening of her lips and a knitting of her jetblack brows of one. Murphy Stiller was brilliant, abrasive, ferociously competitive. Murphy’s sole aspiration was to move into Hugh Saunders’ padded chair while it was still warm. The great pity was he was such a stayer! Before Hamilton had arrived on the scene she had been Queen of the Heap, able to command attention and a seat at the CEO’s right hand without saying a word. Then the newcomer she had mentally labelled upstart had from the outset started producing results. Corporate politics, balance sheets, marketing plans, impromptu presentations, refinancing. It could have been familiar territory. Hamilton was up for the challenge. A compulsive over-achiever, of course. Murphy knew the type. A multitasker, always up to speed. Saunders seemed mesmerised by her. Certainly he had carefully mapped out her career. But that was what men spent a lot of time thinking about, wasn’t it? Sex. Whether they were getting it. Or more often missing out. When Murphy had entered the boardroom she had naturally made for the seat on the CEO’s right—she never jockeyed, jockeying was beneath her—only to be forestalled by Saunders’ upraised hand smoothly directing her to a seat on his left, as though oblivious to her chagrin. Time to hot up her nightly prayers her young rival would get her comeuppance. Flunk something. Take a fall. Get married. Go into politics. Fall under a bus. Anything.

Murphy forced herself to stop daydreaming. It wasn’t going to happen.

All were now seated. All faces were turned to the chairman, who had glanced at his watch to check what time they had. “What we do and say here before our prospective client arrives is extremely important,” he announced with great earnestness. “This is a man used to meeting people at the highest level. I believe he even talks to the Prince of Wales on a first-name basis.”

Cate pretended to be lost in envy. She had her own understanding of the English upper classes, though the Prince was said to be a genuine egalitarian.

“He’s already acquired a small empire in different parts of the world,” the CEO was saying. “He’s now looking at our mineral wealth. Overseas the news is Australia is being driven by mining and resource. Not surprising their top entrepreneurs want in. We’re going to prove extremely helpful.” He paused as another project came to mind. “He’s also interested in acquiring a property in the Whitsundays. Virgin territory as it were, far away from the usual haunts of jetsetters and the current hot spots, the Caribbean and such. You all know the late George Harrison bought up there. Had a holiday home on our far-flung shores, then a virtual outpost. George knew what he was about. I know we can help our prospective client. Perhaps you, Cate. You’re very good at dealing with people. You might even be able to persuade Lady McCready to finally sell Isla Bella. She trusts you. Aren’t many places left in the world as pristine as Isla Bella.”

“Sure our prospective client doesn’t want to turn it into a resort?” Cate asked. “Lady McCready is totally against any such project.”

“Goodness me, no!” Saunders vehemently shook his head as though he’d had it straight from the horse’s mouth. “This is a man who shuns glitz. He wants a private sanctuary for him, his family and close friends. He will want to visit, of course, if Lady McCready is agreeable. She must be a great age now. Only the other day someone told me she had passed away.”

“Still very much alive, sir,” Cate said, watching the CEO hold up a staying hand as the mobile on the table rang. He listened for a moment, said a few words, then put the receiver down. “Ah, he’s arrived.”

It was delivered with such reverence the prospective client could equally well have been Prince Charles or even President Obama. The Clintons had made the great escape to North Queensland and the Great Barrier Reef islands, pronouncing the whole area an idyllic destination. Perhaps it was Bill Clinton or some retired American senator, who just wanted to sit around all day without anyone taking cheap shots at him as political enemies tended to do.

Lara entered the boardroom cheeks glowing, her mouth curved up in a smile. After her came an extremely handsome man in a hawkish kind of way: aquiline nose—perfect to look down on people—finely chiselled aristocratic features, thick jet-black hair with a natural wave, extraordinary eyes, the colour of blue flame; immediate impact that would linger for a long time. He stood well over six feet, very elegantly dressed. Not Zenga; Savile Row made to measure. A tailor’s dream. Snow-white shirt, striped silk tie no doubt denoting something elitist, tied just so. So sophisticated was his appearance it held them all speechless for a while.

But none more transfixed than Cate.

Time collapsed. How vivid was memory; how powerful was the past!

For a fleeting moment she felt her breathing had stopped. Then as air came back into her lungs she knew such fright she thought she had actually fainted while still remaining conscious. Her whole body was shaking, her mind sliding out of kilter. Thank God she didn’t have a glass of mineral water in her trembling hand for everyone would have watched her drop it to the ground where it probably would have shattered.

This is it, she thought. The heavens had shifted. She knew he had taken her in at once.

Lord Julian Ashton Carlisle, Fifth Baron Wyndham.

The father of her child.

She had come to him a virgin, the man who had devastated her life. So this was the way Karma worked? Action, effect, fate. She was trapped in the same room as the man she had never succeeded in erasing from her mind or her heart and hated him for it. He was indelibly fixed there by lost love, sorrow and humiliation. She had tried with every atom of her being to put the past behind her, but the past had had its effect on all of her subsequent relationships. No other man measured up.

Now her brain was signalling warnings.

The Day of Reckoning is at hand.

Over the past years she had almost succeeded in convincing herself Jules was solely hers. A virgin birth as it were. She knew now she had lost all touch with reality. Jules at some point in his life was going to want to meet his father. Jules’ father might very well want to meet the son he had hitherto known nothing about. The only way she could avert such a thing happening was to keep them far apart. At least until Jules was of an age to undertake his own search for his biological father, who probably by now had children with his aristocratic wife. Impeccable breeding, of course. It was expected, after all. Someone had to inherit the baronetcy, keep up tradition. Social status was something to be cherished.

Cate made a massive effort to calm herself by focusing on how appalling things had been for her. Alicia, steely eyed, tall, rail-thin body vibrating as she told her to go away and not come back. All Alicia had ever been up to then had been no more than a bit on the snobbish side—a woman with a mindset stuck in the early twentieth century, very patronising to a young woman from the colonies, but pleasant enough. Then everything had abruptly changed. It had been crisis time, with Ashe away for a few days in London on family business. It had all been stunningly, shockingly sudden.

“There’s simply no place for you here, Catrina.” Alicia had spoken with a gleam of triumph in her slate-grey eyes. “My son has acknowledged that. I am sorry for you, my dear, but you allowed yourself false hopes. You made a terrible mistake, but then you’re so very young. So ignorant of the ways of the world. Frankly I did try to warn you. There are unwritten rules to our way of life. We all understand them. You don’t. You would never have fitted in. Marina was born for the role. Julian may have thought you special for a time, but now he knows he has to take a step back. Life is all about doing one’s duty, assuming one’s responsibilities.”

Cate hadn’t accepted that blindly. She had fought back claiming all were equal under the sun, her expression so combative any other woman but Alicia might have ducked for cover. She’d told Alicia she needed to hear it all from Ashe himself.

Ashe, please help me.

Only Ashe wasn’t there.

“That’s the thing, my dear. Julian is in London,” Alicia had countered, trying to sound pitying and only succeeding in sounding chilling. “He’s not there on business. I assumed you would guess that. He went away because he couldn’t bear to tell you himself. It was far from an easy decision but I helped him see it was the best way. Indeed the only way. You are both far too young. Julian simply didn’t realise you were taking him so utterly seriously. Holiday romances tend to fade pretty quickly, my dear. You’ll find that out when you get back to Australia. You have your own life. My son has his.”

And so she had vanished. It took her a couple of months more to come to the devastating realisation she was pregnant. Hello, pregnant? When they had practised safe sex. She had never trusted safe sex from there on. She was pregnant to a young man, to a family, who didn’t want her. Moreover would not be eager to know her child even if it had their blood. She wasn’t good enough. It was a grave situation and one of her own making. She had turned to the only mother she had ever known to help her.

Stella.

CHAPTER TWO

England, 2005

CATE HAD BEEN driving for miles through the picture-perfect English countryside, a patchwork of emerald-green fields bordered by woods, lovely towering trees and wondrously neat hedges. Miraculously it had stopped raining. She had only been in England a couple of weeks, and the rain had been falling without end. And, Lord, was it cold! The European winter was fast setting in. But for now the sun shone, however briefly, and what lay before her was a pastoral idyll, a symphony of soft misty colours. It made her feel good to be alive. On her own at last. Freedom! Was there anything so good? Freedom. She sang it aloud. No one to hear her anyway but the woolly white sheep that dotted the enchanting landscape. It was simply wonderful to be footloose and fancy free.

Her base for her gap year was the great historic city of London, squeezed into a teeny flat with two of her university-going pals. Not that they noticed the lack of life’s little luxuries to which all of them had long been accustomed. They were too busy enjoying themselves and exploring the cultural wonders the great city had to offer. This was to be a great year for them, their Grand Tour. Afterwards all three would embark on their chosen careers. Josh came from a long line of medical doctors, so it was Medicine for Josh. Sarah with her legal family would read Law. Cate had decided on the high-flying world of Big Business, maybe along the track of an MBA from Harvard? So that had meant an Economics degree. At school her brilliance at Maths had set her apart. That didn’t bother her. She had been something of an oddity all her life.

Why wouldn’t she have been, given her history? She had been raised not knowing who her biological parents were. That alone put a girl at a severe psychological disadvantage. But at least she had been adopted as a baby by a beautiful young Englishwoman who to her great sadness couldn’t carry a baby beyond a couple of months without suffering a miscarriage. She had come by all accounts as a gift from God, albeit a giveaway baby to the right couple. Stella and Arnold certainly were. She knew they loved her. She loved them. They were good people, kindness itself, encouraging her in every way. But she had never truly felt she belonged. Forever a step away. Despite all their efforts—and she had been a difficult child she had to admit—she was and remained, in her own mind at least, an outsider.

Stella had had no idea when Cate left Australia that her adopted daughter fully intended tracking down the Cotswold manor house where Stella and her sister, Annabel, had grown up. “Lady” Annabel, her ravishing adoptive aunt, had only visited her sister in Australia a mere handful of times in the last two decades. A true and loving sister. Annabel had remained in England where she married one Nigel Warren, knighted by the Queen for something or other and a seriously rich man many years her senior. Stella, on the other hand, had married someone her own age. The great mystery was Stella and her new husband had abandoned their gracious lives in England to migrate to the opposite end of the earth: Australia. An extraordinary move, one would have thought. They hadn’t arrived penniless, however. Quite the reverse, which surely had some significance? With private funds they had settled into a new life on the oldest continent on earth.

Surely though they had to be missing all this? Cate thought. Even the softly falling rain had its own enchantment. Home was Home, wasn’t it? This part of the world somewhat to her surprise—used as she was to a brilliant, eternally shining sun and vast open spaces—she found truly beautiful. Comforting. Oddly familiar. It was as though she had stepped into a wonderful English landscape painting by Constable. One with which she identified. That mystified her. Such a landscape couldn’t be further removed from where she had grown up. There the sun dominated. The rain when it came didn’t require one to keep a raincoat forever handy—often it required a boat.

For now she was intent on catching a glimpse of the manor house that had been in Stella’s family for many years. Yet Stella had chosen to abandon the country of her birth and what had to be a gracious heritage for the comparative wilderness. Cate had to think it was love. Arnold was as English as Stella. Both, even after twenty years, retained their upper-class English accents. A few of her schoolmates in the early days had dared to call her a “Pom”. They hadn’t done it twice. At least not to her face. But even she knew her accent was more English than English-Australian. Why wouldn’t it be the way she had grown up?

She had arrived in the village now, with no idea her life was poised for dramatic change. She pulled to the side of the street, then switched off the ignition of her little hire car, looking keenly around her. The village was so small but very pretty, dominated by what had to be original Tudor buildings with a handful of speciality shops. Glorious hanging baskets featured a spilling profusion of brightly coloured and scented flowers. She spotted a tea room, a picturesque old pub, The Four Swans, and a post office. There was a central park that had a lovely large pond. Over the green glassy surface glided the said four snow-white graceful swans. Her heart lifted. She stepped out of the car, rounding the bonnet, to enter the post office. Graceful in body and movement, she walked fast with a long confident stride.

A pleasant-faced woman carrying too much weight was behind the counter deep into a romance novel. A bodice ripper by the look of it. The woman glanced up with a welcoming smile as Cate entered. “Lost yourself, love?” She inserted a bookmark to mind her place.

Cate had to laugh. She had an excellent sense of direction. “Not really. I was enjoying this very beautiful part of the world.”

“So it is. So it is. I’m the postmistress among other things. Aussie, love?”

Cate’s smile widened. “At home more often than not I’m mistaken for a Pom.”

The woman nodded sagely. “Not the accent, love.” Upper-class English, but not quite, Joyce Bailey thought. “Something about your easy manner, the confident stride, the attitude.”

“Now that is flattery at its finest.” Cate gave a little mock bow.

The postmistress leant heavily on the counter. “I have family in Australia. Been out there a couple of times. Ah, life in the sun! The family, especially the kids, won’t come back now. They’re fair dinkum Aussies. So how can I help you?’

“Radclyffe Hall,” Cate said, moving closer. “Which way is it? I’m keen to take a glimpse.”

The postmistress abruptly sobered. “Great white elephant of a house. Lots of tragedy in that family. Sons that served in the army. Lost in all sorts of battles. Crimean, Balkan, First and Second World Wars, the Falklands. Enormous devastation, wars! The present Lord Wyndham who inherited when his older brother was killed doesn’t entertain much. Not like the old days. But the whole village has learned the historic gardens and the parklands are being restored. Be quite a challenge, I reckon. A famous landscape gardener has been working there for months. His aim is to bring the estate back to its former glory. Best of luck, we all say. We’ll have the tourists back in no time. The hall’s rose gardens used to be ever so famous. You won’t be able to get in, love. But you can enjoy the view. The manor house—it’s built out of our lovely honey-coloured Cotswold stone—stands on the top of the hill. Keep driving north out of town, no more than three miles on. Can’t miss it. All of them rolling acres belong to Lord Wyndham. Only had daughters. No surviving son. The estate is entailed so it will pass to another male member of the Radclyffe family once Lord Wyndham is gone.”

Cate absorbed all this information in utter silence. In truth she was poleaxed. Stella had rarely spoken of her former life. Stella had made secrecy an art form. Cate hadn’t even known the house where Stella and her younger sister, Annabel, had grown up was called Radclyffe Hall until fairly recently when she had overheard a conversation between Stella and Arnold. So this all came as a revelation. Lord Wyndham was Stella’s father. My God! Wasn’t Stella a woman for burying the past? Cate felt incensed but shook it off.

“What’s lunch like at the pub?” she asked, swiftly changing the subject. It would take time to absorb it all. Lots of time. Quietness to reflect.

“Second to none!” the postmistress declared stoutly.

“Think they can put me up for a few days?”

“I’d say so, love. Me and my hubby, Jack, run it. Shall I book you in?”

“If you would. My name is Cate Hamilton, by the way. I have ID in the car.” She half turned to go out and get it.

“Won’t be necessary, love,” the woman stayed her. “We’ll get the particulars when you return from your sightseeing jaunt. I’ll have your room prepared.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind, Mrs—”

“Bailey. Joyce Bailey.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Bailey.” Cate put out her hand. It was heart-lifting to be so warmly received.

Joyce Bailey took it. She just loved that radiant smile. Funny thing was the girl—she couldn’t have been more than eighteen—reminded her of someone. She tried to think who. No one who lived in the village. She was absolutely sure of that. She knew every last soul. But the smile, the girl’s beauty, struck some sort of chord. Maybe it would come to her some time. Never an oil painting, she suddenly remembered the beautiful Radclyffe girls, Stella and Annabel. Dark-haired both, with lovely melting dark eyes; Annabel had been considered the more beautiful of the two. The whole district had been stunned when Stella and her husband had taken off for Australia. Annabel had gone with them at the time. But Annabel had returned almost a year later to marry a baronet who carried her off to London.

It had taken little time for Lord and Lady Wyndham to adapt to losing their beautiful daughters. The loss of their son, the heir, in infancy was the big tragedy. Everything else rated far below the line. The death of the son had come as the great blow of their lives. Other losses could be sustained. It was well known in the village the Radclyffes were a dysfunctional family.

After Lady Wyndham died, her husband retreated from the world, seeing few visitors. The Australian girl had no chance of getting a glimpse inside the hall. She could get as far as the garden. Beautiful girls had a way of getting in where the ants couldn’t.

* * *

So her objective Radclyffe Hall was only a few miles away. Cate couldn’t help feeling a quickening excitement. She slipped back behind the wheel with a parting wave to Mrs Bailey who, intrigued, had come to the post office door to see her off. Cate was really looking forward to this excursion. Lunch too for that matter. She was hungry. Back on the road there was a continuation of the chequered green landscape, a tapestry with all its different textures. It had the most potent charm. She had the window wound down so she could feel the breeze against her cheek. This was a muted world of soft pastel shades, and a totally different quality of light. Even the underlying colour schemes were different. She was used to such a flamboyant palette.

Just when she thought it was all plain sailing, the engine of the little hire car gave a cough, then a splutter. She urged it onto the verge where it quietly died.

“Blast!” Cate hit the wheel with both hands. Clever she might be at maths, but a car mechanic she was not. She looked ahead, then back. Nothing coming. She could lock the car, then proceed on foot. She couldn’t be that far off her objective. But what about getting back again? She got out of the car, setting about lifting the bonnet to have a peer inside. Perhaps the car had overheated and she could restart it after a while. She heard a vehicle coming along the country road behind her. She didn’t turn around, trusting whoever it was would stop. Help out a young lady in distress. The English were mannerly helpful people. Or so she’d been told.

The resonant male voice when it came wasn’t in the least solicitous. It was unmistakably a young man’s voice, but it proclaimed the legendary public-school accent—Eton? Harrow? Maybe modernised a bit.

“Think you can handle it?”

She found herself bridling at the tone. It was shocking in its languidness. “Clear off,” she muttered, risking she would be overheard.

He pounced. “I did ask a question.”

“Really!” She spun around, shocked by the level of aggression that tone had provoked. “And I’m asking you one. What’s so funny? Do you want to help or are you just being bloody-minded?” Of course he was. She could spot it.

He gave her an extraordinarily beautiful if condescending smile. Humour the girl. Beautiful white teeth, perfectly even and straight. She felt all her nerve ends clench. “Exaggerating, aren’t you?” he asked ever so slowly, at the same time taking her in. “I only enquired if you can handle the problem.”