Miss Prim and the Billionaire. Lucy Gordon

assets.’

      Amos’s tone held a significance that made Marcel ask, ‘Any asset in particular?’

      ‘The Alton Hotel. It was bought with the idea of development but the money ran out and it’s ripe for takeover at a knock-down price.’

      He quoted a figure and Marcel’s eyebrows rose. ‘As little as that?’

      ‘It’s possible, if someone with a certain amount of influence twisted the screw on Daneworth so that the sale became more urgent.’

      ‘You don’t happen to know anyone with that kind of influence?’ Marcel asked satirically.

      ‘I might. How long will you be in England?’ ‘Long enough to look around.’

      ‘Excellent.’ Amos made a noise that sounded like ‘Hrmph!’ adding, ‘It’s good to know I have one son I can be proud of.’

      ‘Are you still mad at Darius because he gave his wife too generous a deal over the divorce? I thought you liked Mary. You’ve come to her wedding.’

      ‘I won’t quarrel with the mother of my only grandchildren. But sense is sense, and he hasn’t shown any. Do you know anything about the girl he’s bringing with him today?’

      ‘I saw them arrive. She looks attractive and pleasant. I’m going to visit them in a minute.’

      ‘While you’re there take a good look at her. See if Darius is falling into her trap.’

      ‘Thus spoiling your scheme to marry him to Freya?’ Marcel said ironically.

      ‘I’d like to have Freya as my daughter-in-law, I make no secret of it. And if Darius won’t come up to the mark—’

      ‘Forget it,’ Marcel interrupted him.

      ‘Why should I? It’s time you were putting down roots.’

      ‘There are plenty of others to do that.’

      Amos snorted. ‘Five sons! Five! You’d think more than one of you would have settled down by now.’

      But Amos himself was hardly an advertisement for domesticity, Marcel thought cynically. Of the five sons, only two had been born to the woman he’d been married to at the time. His own mother hadn’t married Amos until several years after his birth. Travis and Leonid were bastards and proud of it. But he didn’t want to quarrel with his father, so he merely shrugged and rose to go.

      ‘Tell Janine and Freya I’ll be up as soon as I’ve been to see Darius,’ he said.

      As he approached his brother’s room he was barely conscious of adjusting his mask. He donned it so often that it was second nature by now, even with a brother with whom he was on cordial terms. When he arrived his charming smile was firmly in place.

      The door was already open, giving him a clear view of a pretty young woman, done up in a glamorous style, and Darius regarding her with admiration, his hands on her shoulders.

      ‘Am I interrupting anything?’ he asked.

      ‘Marcel!’ Darius advanced to thump his brother with delight, after which he turned and introduced his companion as Harriet.

      ‘You’ve been keeping this lady a big secret,’ Marcel said, regarding her with admiration. ‘And I understand why. If she were mine I would also hide her away from the world.’

      His father was in for a shock, he reckoned. Harriet was definitely a threat to his plans for Darius’s next wife.

      He chatted with her for a few moments, flirting, but not beyond brotherly limits.

      ‘So Darius has warned you about the family,’ he said at last, ‘and you know we’re a load of oddities.’

      ‘I’ll bet you’re no odder than me,’ she teased.

      ‘I’ll take you up on that. Promise me a dance tonight.’

      ‘She declines,’ Darius said firmly.

      Marcel chuckled and murmured in Harriet’s ear, ‘We’ll meet again later.’

      After a little more sparring, he blew her a kiss and departed, heading for his father’s suite. He greeted his stepmother cordially but he couldn’t help looking over her shoulder at the window, through which he could see the building Amos had pointed out to him.

      Daneworth Estates. Assets ripe for an offer. Interesting.

      In an office on the tenth floor of a bleakly efficient building overlooking the River Thames, Mr Smith, the manager of Daneworth Estates, examined some papers and groaned before raising his voice to call, ‘Mrs Henshaw, can you bring the other files in, please?’

      He turned back to his client, a middle-aged man, saying, ‘She’ll have all the details. Don’t worry.’

      He glanced up as a young woman appeared in the doorway and advanced with the files.

      ‘I’ve made notes,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll find I’ve covered everything.’

      ‘I’m sure you have,’ he replied.

      The client regarded her with distaste. She was exactly the kind of woman he most disliked, the kind who could have looked better if she’d bothered to make the best of herself. She had the advantage of being tall and slim, with fair hair and regular features. But she scraped her hair back, dressed severely, and concealed her face behind a pair of large steel-rimmed spectacles.

      ‘It’s nearly six o’clock,’ she said.

      Mr Smith nodded. ‘Yes, you can go.’

      She gave the client a faint nod and left the office. He shivered. ‘She terrifies me,’ he admitted.

      ‘Me too, sometimes,’ Mr Smith agreed. ‘But if there’s one person whose efficiency I can rely on it’s Mrs Henshaw.’

      ‘It always sounds odd to me the way you call her “Mrs”. Why not just Jane?’

      ‘She prefers it. Familiarity is something she discourages.’

      ‘But you’re her boss.’

      ‘Sometimes I wonder which of us is the boss. I hesitate between valuing her skills and wanting to get rid of her.’ ‘She reminds me of a robot.’

      ‘She certainly doesn’t have any “come hither” about her,’ the manager agreed. ‘You’d never think she’d once been a fashion model.’

      ‘Get away!’

      ‘Really. She was called “Cassie” and for a couple of years she was headed for the very top. Then it all ended. I’m not sure why.’

      ‘She could still look good if she tried,’ the client observed. ‘Why scrape her hair back against her skull like a prison wardress? And when did you last see a woman who didn’t bother with make-up?’

      ‘Can’t think! Now, back to business. How do I avoid going bankrupt and taking your firm down with me?’

      ‘Can’t think!’ the client echoed gloomily.

      Neither of them gave a further thought to Mrs Henshaw on the far side of the door. She heard their disparaging comments and shrugged.

      ‘Blimey!’ said the other young woman in the room. ‘How do you stand them being so rude about you?’

      Her name was Bertha. She was nineteen, naïve, friendly and a reasonably good secretary.

      ‘I ignore it,’ Mrs Henshaw said firmly.

      ‘But who was that Cassie they keep on about? The gorgeous model.’

      ‘No idea. She was nothing to do with me, I know that.’ ‘But they said it was you.’

      ‘They were wrong.’ Mrs Henshaw turned to look at Bertha with a face that was blank and lifeless. ‘Frankly,’