methods; even so, his latest projections indicated he would not be out of the red and into the black for almost another two years. Until then the cash flow would continue to be an excruciating problem, and what he sorely needed was a little ready cash to put everything on an even keel, but there was scant possibility of getting it. Unless … He could sell the two prize heifers to Giles Martin, a neighbouring farmer who had been pressing him to let them go for almost a year. He had been somewhat reluctant to resort to this measure, since he did not want to deplete the herd, and yet the sale would partially ease his current burdens. Perhaps it was the easiest solution, and one he should not be so ready to dismiss.
David made the decision he had been baulking at for the longest time. By God, he would sell the heifers, and the moment he returned to Yorkshire. In fact, he would telephone Giles later in the day and so inform him. David smiled to himself. And he had better make that call, before he changed his mind again.
He immediately felt a sense of relief, and the heavy constricting feeling in his chest, which he had been experiencing for several hours, now lifted. In general, the Earl was a relaxed, even-tempered man, who had a positive outlook on life, a rare good humour and was unaffected by his daily worries.
He flipped through the morning mail. Not very interesting, except for a letter from Doris Asternan, who was still in Monte Carlo. He read it eagerly. Doris had written to tell him that she was returning to London early next week, having finally found an appropriate, and apparently beautiful, villa on the promontory at Cap Martin. It was near Roquebrune, on the way to the Italian border, and according to the preponderance of adjectives she had used to describe it, the house was nothing short of a palace, set in spacious and exquisite grounds which she said were out of this world. It overlooked the Mediterranean, had its own private beach, a swimming pool and a tennis court. She had already signed the lease and was staying on to interview the present staff, who were available if she wished to engage them for the summer. Doris had rented the villa from a French industrialist for four months, from June through September, and she ended the letter with a reiteration of the generous invitation she had extended previously to himself and his children. They were welcome to spend as much of the summer at the villa as they wished.
David put the letter down and stood up, walking over to the fireplace in long, easy strides. Tall, ramrod straight and elegant, he was proud of his bearing and, at forty-seven, was amazingly youthful looking. His features, typically Anglo-Saxon, were sensitive and refined, his grey eyes eloquent, his complexion fair, as was his hair. He was a handsome man, and he held great appeal for women, who thought his appearance not only romantic but dashing as well. Consequently, he was in constant demand socially, and had he been less moral and discriminating he could easily have been a Lothario of no mean proportions. As it was, his fastidious nature prevented him from taking advantage of the opportunities which were for ever presenting themselves, and he never indulged in random love affairs.
He stood in front of the fireplace, absently staring at the wall of books opposite, thinking about Doris. She had wrought many changes in his life, all for the better, as he was the first to acknowledge. She had given him a rare type of companionship he had not experienced with any other woman since his wife’s death, and a great deal of understanding, devotion, love, and physical pleasure as well. He had come to rely on her constant presence. In fact, he had to admit Doris was now quite indispensable to him. He was not naïve enough to think this circumstance had developed by accident, knowing perfectly well that Doris had diligently set out to make herself wanted and needed. But he did not consider it devious. Every woman strove to weave a web around the man she loved, in an effort to bind him to her irrevocably.
David knew he should marry Doris. He would be a fool not to, and, in fact, he wanted to marry her. Yet he continued to procrastinate, and he was not exactly certain why he did so. She had all the right qualities, at least those he thought were important in a woman, and she would make a superb wife for him. His own feelings aside, his children approved and had a genuine fondness for her. And, of course, there was her money, which would solve his financial difficulties once and for all. Doris, the thirty-five-year-old widow of an American meat-packing tycoon, was childless, and she made it abundantly clear to him that her immense fortune would be at his disposal if they married. But David Cunningham was not the kind of man who could be influenced by money when it came to the serious business of marriage. In his lexicon this was the least of all considerations. Love and compatibility took precedence with him. Well, he did love Doris, and they were inordinately compatible. But …
The door of the book-lined library was open, and David heard Francesca’s quick light step in the hall. He hurried to the door and looked out. ‘Good morning, my dear.’ There was a lilt in his voice and his eyes instantly brightened.
‘Good morning, Daddy darling,’ she responded and, smiling, reached up to kiss his cheek.
The Earl hugged her to him, and then he stood back. ‘Feeling patriotic today, are you, Frankie?’
Francesca looked at her father nonplussed. He was regarding her with fondness, his eyes twinkling. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked with a slight frown.
‘The colour scheme you’ve adopted this morning.’ His glance swept over her again. ‘Borrowed from the Union Jack, wouldn’t you say?’
Francesca laughed, and swinging around she looked at herself in the mirror, her head on one side. She was wearing a new white cotton shirt, her best navy-blue Jaeger skirt and a navy-blue melton-cloth reefer jacket. ‘I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ she retorted mildly, but nevertheless she unfastened the red-white-and-blue silk scarf tied around her neck and pushed it into her jacket pocket. She turned back to her father. ‘Is that better?’ she asked. Her father’s taste in women’s clothes ran to the subdued, even the dowdy at times, and she knew it was the vivid scarf to which he objected. ‘I just thought the dash of colour would cheer up my outfit,’ she said.
‘You don’t need anything to cheer up your clothes. Your face inevitably does that.’ His smile was tender as he went on, ‘And where are you off to at this hour?’
‘The British Museum.’
‘Ah, yes indeed. Gordon beckons, I’ve no doubt.’ The Earl half turned and stepped into the library. He said, ‘I’d like to talk to you, Frankie, if you can spare me a few minutes.’
‘Why yes, of course I can, Daddy.’
‘Then come in and close the door behind you. I think a little privacy is in order.’
Francesca did as he asked, her gaze resting on him, her face sobering. The seriousness of his tone alarmed her, and she thought: Oh God, there’s trouble brewing. Being extremely close to her father and attuned to his moods, she invariably anticipated him, and she was positive he could only want to talk to her about one of two things: Kim or money. Probably the latter, she said to herself, eyeing the bills and the chequebook on the desk. Suddenly she felt selfish and guilty. Here she was, probably wasting her time researching a book that might never get written, when she could be earning money. Maybe she ought to get a job to help out. But deciding this was not the time to suggest it, she said, ‘You seem awfully worried, Daddy. Is there something wrong? Is it money?’
‘That’s always a problem, my dear. But somehow we always seem to manage, don’t we?’ He did not wait for her response. ‘However, I didn’t bring you in here to talk about the monthly accounts. Actually, I wanted to discuss this new development with you.’
Francesca tensed and her eyes were watchful. ‘New development?’ she echoed. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’
‘Come, come, Frankie, don’t hedge. You’re talking to me. You know perfectly well I’m referring to Kim and Katharine.’
She
