Geraint Trevelyan was Bret Trevelyan’s grandfather.
Genevieve’s father, who had torn strips off Mark and Carrie-Anne, had given his approval of her new assignment, thinking it would hasten the healing process and that the Trevelyans were a splendid pioneering dynasty. He had no idea of Genevieve’s true motivation. The Grenville side of the family had never learned Nan’s secret. But Genevieve, given such an unforeseen opportunity, was determined on learning the truth about the final days of Catherine’s life. She’d had a burning curiosity since the age of twelve—both because she was family and, it had to be said, due to her nature as a budding writer—to solve this mystery. Mysteries cried out to be solved.
Had Catherine’s death simply been a disastrous accident? Or was there more to it? Had the Trevelyan family buried the truth, as Catherine’s family had had to bury her broken body? The “accident” might well have revolved around the eternal triangle. People did terrible things for love.
Old faded photographs of the two young women revealed they had been physical opposites. Catherine tallish, very slender, with strawberry blonde hair, deep blue eyes and porcelain skin; Patricia petite, a little on the stocky side, with fine dark eyes and an abundance of dark hair. The photographs, all of them taken between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two, showed two young and untested girls.
Derryl Trevelyan, the younger son, was picking her up at her front door. They were to drive to the commercial airfield when the Trevelyan King Air was on standby to fly them to Djangala.
It was almost time to leave. She took one last look in the pier mirror.
Portrait of a serious-minded, bookish young woman, capable of taking on a challenge with no thought whatsoever of being on the lookout for an Outback millionaire.
Maggie had allowed her to read Miss Trevelyan’s curt letter.
Please don’t send me some glamorous young woman. Someone imagining she’s going to have a good time along the way. Such young women annoy me. I want someone dedicated, serious about their work. I will possibly keep odd hours, depending on my health. There will be free time, but this is first and foremost a job. Not an Outback holiday. I don’t need anyone, either, who will run off home when she realises just how isolated we are. A plain young woman would suit, as long as she’s not dull and she knows what she’s about.
Given such parameters, Genevieve had deliberately played down her looks. Her Titian mane was drawn back tightly from her face and pinned into a thick coil at her nape. She wore the lightest make-up. She wore a silk shirt, but the colour was a subdued chocolate, and not her usual skinny jeans, but comfortable tan trousers and tan boots. To further enhance the scholarly look she’d had clear glass put into bookish frames.
She would have laughed at herself, only she felt anything but lighthearted. She was going into the Trevelyan desert stronghold where Catherine had been trapped.
A young man struck a languid pose against the passenger side of a late model hire-car. He was wearing casual clothes, but managed to look the very picture of sartorial elegance.
“Ms Grenville?” He looked her over. No smile. Clearly she was a big disappointment.
“That’s right,” she responded pleasantly. “Would you mind giving me a hand with my luggage?”
A slight hesitation, as though he was above such things. “Certainly.”
She was grateful for that small mercy. Taking charge of the smaller suitcase herself, she pushed the large suitcase through the front gate.
“That the lot?” he asked, as though his back had seized up.
“It’s not exactly a lot.” For the first time she looked directly into his face. He was handsome. Thick dark hair, clear tanned skin, eyes neither brown nor green but a mix of the two. “If I need anything else it can be sent on.”
“Nice place you’ve got there.” He was looking back at her contemporary single-storey home. It had great street appeal. She had lived in it, furnished to her tastes, for the past three years. Her father had given her the substantial deposit. He would have bought the house for her but she had insisted she pay it off. “Is it yours?” he asked, as though she were renting.
“It will be when I pay it off,” she answered dryly.
During the drive to the airport he made little attempt at conversation. He did, however, deign to ask what she did.
“I’m a schoolteacher.”
“Schoolteacher, eh?” He made it sound jaw-crackingly dreary.
“Well, up until fairly recently. I enjoyed teaching, but now I want to concentrate on my writing.”
“That won’t bring you in much,” he commented, with droll disdain.
“Perhaps not.” She was struck by his young-man arrogance. “And what about you? You’re a cattleman?” He didn’t look it. He might have been a male model. He didn’t look tough either, in the way she imagined a man of the land would look.
“Bret’s the cattle baron,” he offered, all sarcasm now. “I’m the second son—the off-sider.”
He made it sound like a drop-out. “Does that bother you?”
He shot her a sharp sideways glance, as if reassessing her. “I wouldn’t change my life. Bret is the boss. I lag a long way behind. I wouldn’t want the job anyway.”
Most probably he couldn’t handle it.
“Too much hard work, too much responsibility. No downtime. We all know all work and no play makes for a dull guy. I wouldn’t want to handle the business side of things either. Bret is the brain.”
Which let him off the hook. His brother Bret wasn’t a dull guy, Genevieve was prepared to bet. Despite Derryl’s claim he didn’t want the job, and his feigned nonchalance, she had an intuitive grasp on the nature of the brothers’ relationship. Bret Trevelyan would be the strong one—Master of Djangala.
“And you have a sister? Romayne?” She got off what she recognised as a touchy subject. “Such a beautiful name. One doesn’t hear it often.”
“Ah, I see you’ve read up on us.”
“A little. I am coming to live on the station for some months.”
“Working for dear Aunt Hester.” Sardonic emphasis on the dear. “She’s got it into her head she wants a history of the Trevelyan family. Only problem is she’s not a writer. That’s where you come in. She used to be a very good pianist. Studied here and in London. Can’t play now, which I count as a blessing. She used to go on and on for hours. Mercifully she has arthritis in her hands.”
“That’s a shame,” Genevieve said with genuine sympathy. “Her playing would have given her great pleasure and comfort. Music has such power to soothe. You’re fond of your great-aunt?”
He gave a theatrical sigh. “Impossible! Aunt Hester is a real old tartar. I’m not surprised no one wanted to marry her, for all the dowry she could have brought to a match. You’d think she was the Grand Duchess Anastasia, the way she acts. The only one she loves and listens to is Bret. He’ll get her
