people, and they don’t like the kind of adverse publicity you’ve been attracting.’
He shook his head. ‘The customers want to know that there’s someone solid and reliable at the top, whom they can trust. Not a playboy.’ He paused. ‘You’re a high-flyer, Alex, but you’re getting perilously close to the sun. Take care you don’t come crashing down.’
‘Thank you,’ Alex said with dangerous politeness. ‘Have you been asked to pass on these words of wisdom, or was it all your own work?’
George Fabian sighed wearily. ‘Don’t be so damned prickly, boy. I’m your father, so I think I have the right to be concerned. I don’t want to see you throw away the potential for a brilliant career.’
‘If the worst happens, there are other banks besides Perrins,’ Alex said tautly.
‘Indeed there are,’ his father agreed. He gave the younger man a long, steady look. ‘Unless, of course, you become too hot for any of them to handle.’
There was a silence, then Alex said quietly, ‘Maybe I will have that drink after all.’ He went over to the side-table, where decanters and glasses were set out, pouring himself a single malt whisky. ‘So.’ He turned back, glass in hand, his expression challenging. ‘What’s the rumour on the piazza?’
‘This and that.’ Mr Fabian paused. ‘I gather Peter Crosby is going to be promoted in the next government reshuffle,’ he added almost inconsequentially.
Alex stiffened. ‘And?’
‘And that means he’ll become of increasing interest to the tabloids.’
George Fabian drank some of his own whisky. ‘I gather the Daily Mercury is already on red alert. And that a news team has been detailed to keep a close eye on his wife.’
There was another, longer silence. Then, ‘I see,’ said Alex, his voice expressionless.
‘In addition,’ Mr Fabian went on, ‘there’s an unconfirmed report that Crosby has consulted a lawyer, and is considering hiring a private detective to follow Mrs Crosby, and monitor her calls.
‘There are no children, of course, and he may be preparing to dump the beautiful Lucinda before she jeopardises his triumphant march to power by some further indiscretion. You’re not the first, you know.’
‘I am aware of that.’ Alex’s look and tone were icy.
‘And it’s by no means certain he would go for a simple, no-fault divorce. He has the reputation of being a vindictive bastard.’ He gave his son another steady look. ‘He could decide to name and shame.’
‘It’s a pity the bloody gossip-mongers haven’t something better to do.’ Alex threw the whisky down his throat with a jerky movement.
‘They have their uses,’ his father returned placidly. ‘Perhaps you should be grateful to them. Featuring in a messy, high-profile divorce is something that the Perrins board would never stand for in their chairman.’
Alex’s smile glittered. ‘Gratitude is not my overriding emotion at the moment.’
George Fabian looked concerned. ‘I hope you’re not going to tell me that Lucinda Crosby is the love of your life.’
‘Certainly not.’ His son gave a cynical shrug. ‘I doubt if such a creature exists.’ He’d been thoroughly enjoying his liaison with Cindy Crosby who was not only beautiful but also sexually voracious, he thought with an inward grimace. But he’d been planning to end it anyway, married women not being entirely to his taste.
He gave his father a stony look. ‘I hope that reassures you.’
‘Don’t congratulate yourself too soon,’ Mr Fabian cautioned. ‘You’re not out of the woods yet.’ He paused. ‘Have you ever heard your grandmother talk about a cousin of hers who went off to South Africa just before the war—Archie Maidstone?’
Alex frowned. ‘Yes, she’s mentioned him. I got the impression she’d been very fond of him at one time, and then he got himself into some kind of trouble, and had to be shunted out of the country.’
‘That’s the one.’ George Fabian nodded. ‘He had a job with Perrins, and embezzled some money. The family closed ranks and made good the loss, apparently, but he was warned never to come back to England.’
‘And has he?’ Alex gave a faint whistle. ‘He must be a hell of an age.’
‘Actually, he’s dead,’ said Mr Fabian. ‘But his grandson isn’t, and he’s been over here visiting. Building bridges. Seems to have made an excellent impression on your grandmother, too.’ He paused. ‘He even got her to invite him down to Rosshampton for the weekend.’
Alex’s attention was suddenly, sharply focused. ‘Go on.’
‘He’s married,’ said George Fabian. ‘And she’s asked him to come back for her birthday, and bring his wife so that he can show her Rosshampton too.’
Alex went on staring at him. ‘Meaning?’
‘Just that your inheritance may not be as secure as you thought,’ his father said bluntly. ‘There’s an alternative claimant.’
‘I’m her only grandson,’ Alex said. ‘What is this guy —a second…third cousin? And she’s always said that Rosshampton will ultimately come to me. You really think that’s in doubt?’
‘I don’t know,’ George Fabian admitted. ‘But she’s very taken with him—and the fact that he’s married…stable. She likes that—and she may have been drawing a few unfavourable comparisons.’
Alex’s mouth had firmed into a steely straight line. ‘I see.’ He glanced up at the picture on the wall above him, a water-colour that he had commissioned for Lady Perrin’s eightieth birthday. He saw the elegant grey stone house sheltering among the ancient trees; the sunlight falling in swathes across the sweeping lawns, and, in the distance, the gleam of water.
He thought, with a pang, of how many of the happiest weeks of his childhood had been spent there. How, over the years, it unerringly drew him back to its rock-like security. How it had always seemed enshrined in his heart, timeless and unchanging, waiting for him to become its master.
And his grandmother had encouraged that, he thought with a pang of disquiet. Had deliberately fostered his love for the house, and let him think that it would one day be his.
And now, for the first time, there was a doubt in his mind. A shadow in the sunlight that disturbed him perhaps more than any of the other unpalatable things that had been said to him tonight.
This unknown South African, he thought, his hand tightening round his empty glass. This grandson of a man who’d been sent away in disgrace, but for whom Selina Perrin might cherish tender memories. This man was going to steal Rosshampton from him? Over his dead body!
Then the door opened, and Lady Perrin came in. She was wearing one of the elegant long black dresses she favoured for the evening, and her snowy hair was piled on top of her head in an imperious knot.
Alex saw that she was using the silver-topped cane she usually despised as a sign of weakness,
