done. His heart should have been grand enough to last a lot longer.
Vivian...now there was a name that would make most men cringe. The Prescott family had a history of bestowing eccentric names. Beau had often winced over his, but his grandfather...never! He’d rejoiced in having one he considered uniquely his. “It means life, my boy. And joie de vivre is what I’m about.”
He’d carried it with such panache, he’d made it perfectly acceptable, a natural extension of his highly individual personality, a positive expression of artistic flair and style, a provocative emphasis to the wickedly teasing twinkle in his ever-young eyes. It was almost impossible to believe he was actually gone and it hurt like hell not to have been there with him before he died.
A spurt of anger overlaid the grief. Damn it all! His grandfather had no business dying at eighty-six. He’d always boasted he’d live to a hundred, smoking his favourite cigars, drinking the best French champagne, a pretty woman hanging on each arm as he swanned through all the glittering charity events on his social calendar. He’d loved life too much to ever let go of it.
Beau heaved a sigh to relieve the tightness in his chest and told himself it was futile foolishness to feel cheated of more time with his grandfather. The fault was in his own complacency for letting almost three years go by without a visit home. It was all very well to excuse himself on the grounds of finding South America an explorer’s paradise. A trip home now and then wouldn’t have been a hardship. It simply had never occurred to him that the old man’s long run of good health might be failing.
There’d been no hint of it in his letters. But then there’d been no mention of a nanny, either. Beau frowned again over the vexing puzzle. If his grandfather had been sick, surely he would have hired a nurse, not a nanny. Unless...no, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe his grandfather had gone the least bit senile. There had to be some other answer.
The plane landed. The moment it stopped, Beau was out of his seat and opening the overhead locker for his flight bag, wanting to be off with as little delay as possible.
“May I help you, Mr. Prescott?”
It was the cute air hostess who’d been so eager and willing to look after his every need on the trip. Beau flashed her a smile. “No, I’m fine, thank you.” She was a honey but he wasn’t interested in taking up the invitation in her eyes. His mind was on serious business, no room for play.
Nevertheless, he was aware of her lustful once-over as he moved past her to the exit tunnel and felt a slight twinge of regret. He’d been womanless for a while, busy mapping out a new trek up the Amazon. Still, he’d never had a problem attracting a woman when he was ready for one. Being over six feet tall and having a body packed with muscles seemed to be a turn-on to most of them, even when he looked scruffy from being too long in uncivilised areas.
His mouth twitched as he remembered his grandfather calling it his curse. “It’s too easy for you, my boy, and if you keep taking the pickings, you’ll never know the fruits of settling down with a good woman.”
“I have no interest in settling down, Grandpa,” he’d answered.
It was still true three years later, yet his grandfather’s reply plucked at his conscience now.
“Beau, you’re thirty years old. It’s time you thought of having children. As it stands, you’re the last of our family line, and I for one, don’t like the thought of our gene pool coming to an end. It’s our only claim to immortality, having a line that goes on after we die.”
Had the old man been feeling his mortality then?
“Grandpa, there’s no time limit on a man to have children,” he’d argued. “Didn’t Charlie Chaplin have them into his nineties? I bet you could still have one yourself.”
“You need to stick around to bring them up right. Think about it, Beau. Your parents weren’t much older than you are now when their plane crashed in Antarctica. No second chances for them. If you don’t take time out from your travelling to get married and start a family, it may be too late before you know it.”
Too late...misery dragged at Beau’s heart. Too late to say goodbye to the wonderful old man who’d given him so much. Too late to say one last thank-you. Too late to even attend the funeral, held while Beau was still deep in the Amazon valley, out of range of any modern form of communication.
All he could do now was carry out his grandfather’s will as it had been set out for him, even to keeping a useless nanny in his employ for another year. And making Rosecliff—the Prescott palace—his residence for the same period of time.
Maybe the latter was his grandfather’s solution to making his footloose grandson stay still for a while, long enough to marry and start a family. Beau shook his head in wry dismissal of the idea. He wasn’t ready for it. He felt no need for it. Making it happen would be wrong for everybody concerned. Scouting Europe was next on his agenda. He wasn’t about to set that aside, and it was plain irresponsible to establish a nest he knew he’d be flying out of.
His long-legged stride beat all the other passengers to the immigration counter. He was through that bit of officialdom in no time and luckily his duffel bag was amongst the first pieces of luggage on the carousel. Having hefted it onto his back, and with nothing to declare, Beau headed straight for the arrival hall.
As he came down the ramp he spotted Wallace, his grandfather’s chauffeur, smartly attired in the uniform he was so proud of—convinced it added a dignified stature to his shortness—and clearly determined on maintaining the correct standard of service.
The sense of emptiness that had been eating at Beau was suddenly flooded with warmth. Wallace had taught him everything he knew about cars. Wallace had acted as father-confessor through troubled times. Wallace was much more than a chauffeur. He was family and had been since Beau was eight years old.
“It is so good to see you, sir,” Wallace greeted in heartfelt welcome, his eyes moistening.
Beau hugged him, moved by affection and a rush of protectiveness, patting him on the back as though the wiry little man was now the child in need of comfort. He had to be feeling the loss of Vivian Prescott as much, if not more than Beau. Wallace was in his late fifties and though spry for his age and certainly competent at his job, probably too old to start over with a new employer. His future was undoubtedly feeling very uncertain. Beau silently vowed to fix that, one way or another.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Wallace,” he said, drawing back to re-establish appropriate dignity.
“Nothing you could have done for him, sir,” came the quick assurance. “No warning. He just went in his sleep, like he always said he wanted to, right after a bang-up party. As Nanny Stowe says, the Angel of Death took him kindly.”
The unctious Angel of Death declaration instantly conjured up a complacently righteous woman stuffed full of sweet homilies. Beau barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He had to bite his tongue, as well. Nanny Stowe clearly had Wallace’s respect. Giving voice to a stomach-felt, “Yuk!” was definitely out of place.
He managed a smile. “Well, a bang-up party was certainly Grandpa’s style.”
“That it was, sir. Always had marvellous parties.”
Beau’s smile turned into a rueful grimace. “I should have at least been here to organise a fitting funeral for him.”
“Not to worry,
