The English Lord's Secret Son Read online

  Your paternal grandmother, with her silk knickers in a twist. Alicia, the patrician-faced hatchet woman who expected Cate to do the right thing and go home.

  “Didn’t she like you?” Jules sounded incredulous. His mother was perfect in his eyes.

  Cate had to acknowledge she still bore the scars of that last confrontation with Alicia, the icy determination of the woman, the breathtaking arrogance of the English upper class. “Well, she did at first,” she managed after a moment. It was true enough. Alicia had been supremely confident this young woman was going back to Australia. It was no more than a holiday flirtation, a passing fancy for a pretty girl. But there were strict limits to the friendship. The question of succession had finally been settled. “Later I was made very aware there was no question of a marriage between us.”

  “None at all, my dear. How could you think otherwise? My son will marry one of us.” Alicia had been adamant. Here was a woman with a deep understanding of noblesse oblige.

  She must have muttered aloud, because Jules asked with a flash to his beautiful eyes, “Who’s us?”

  “Oh, I soon discovered that!” She gave a brief laugh. “People of the same background. The English aristocracy and the like. It’s still a class system no matter what they say.”

  “Class system?” Jules was getting het up.

  That wouldn’t do. “It’s different from here, Jules,” she said soothingly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain it to you this evening.”

  “So he married someone else, the us?” Anger simmered in Jules’ clear voice. Another stage in his development.

  “I expect so. I never followed through. I left him and England behind, my darling. My life is here, Jules. With you and Nan. You’re happy, aren’t you?”

  Jules rallied. He wasn’t going to upset his mother any further. “Sure I’m happy, Mum,” he declared, though it was obvious to Cate he was grappling with this fresh information. He leant over to give her a kiss. “I can take care of the boys at school. What’s his name, my father’s name?”

  “Ashton.” She suddenly realised she had not spoken his name aloud for years. Ashe. Julian Ashton Carlisle, Fifth Baron Wyndham.

  “That’s a funny name,” Jules said. “Bit like Julian. I expect he named me. English, you see. I’m glad everyone calls me Jules. Better go, Mum. See you tonight.”

  “Take care, my darling.”

  “I will.” Jules gave her a quick hug. Mercifully Jules wasn’t one of those kids who were embarrassed by public displays of affection. Noah, on the other hand, had forbidden his mother to kiss him when any of the other kids were about. Jules made short work of heaving up his satchel then hopping out of the car. Noah was racing towards him both arms outstretched, one up, one down, dipping and rising mimicking a plane’s wings. He was calling out in delight, “Jules...Jules...”

  Cate watched a moment longer, her heart torn. May joy fill your days. Both boys turned back to wave to her. She responded, putting a big carefree smile on her face.

  This is only the start of it all, my girl. Her inner voice broke up the moment, weighing in with a warning.

  At twenty-six she was well on the way to becoming a high flyer in the corporate world. She knew she appeared to others to have it all. Only one person, Stella, the person closest to her, knew the whole story. She could never have managed without Stella’s selfless support. It was Stella who had taken charge of her baby when she was at university. She needed a career. They had both agreed on that. She had a son to rear.

  Stella was the guardian angel for her and her son. Stella, her adoptive mother.

  It had taken well over twenty years for her to find out who her biological mother was. And that only came about because her biological mother had thought it prudent to make a deathbed confession before she met her Maker.

  A sad way to clean the slate; devastating for an unacknowledged daughter to find out the truth. Sometimes she thought she would never forgive Stella for not having told her. Over the years she had met “Aunty Annabel” perhaps a half dozen times when she visited Stella, her older sister in Australia. Cate realised then, as never before, one should not keep secrets from a child. Inevitably at some stage it would all come out causing confusion and conflict and often estrangement. She’d had her own experience as an adult. She couldn’t delay all that much longer discussing her past with her child. What choice did she have? Questions would be repeated over and over if the issue wasn’t addressed. She couldn’t allow her old emotions to get in the way.

  * * *

  “Good morning, Cate.” It was the attractive young brunette behind the reception desk.

  “Morning, Lara.”

  Lara was busy appraising Cate’s smart appearance. “Mr Saunders and the others are waiting for you in the boardroom. Some bigwig is coming in.”

  “Have you got a name for me?” Cate paused to enquire.

  “Actually, no.” Lara sent her a look of mild surprise. “The appointment is for nine-fifteen. Love your outfit.” Lara had learned a great deal about grooming, hair, make-up, clothes accessories, simply from studying Cate Hamilton. Cate had such style. She was wonderfully approachable too. No unbearable airs of superiority, unlike Cate’s female colleague, the terrifying Murphy Stiller, who held herself aloof from everyone not on the command chain. Stiller was supremely indifferent to office perceptions of her. Cate Hamilton appeared to know instinctively office alliances were important.

  “Thanks, Lara.” Cate moved off. In her own spacious office she swiftly divested herself of her classic, quilted lambskin black handbag, and then checked her appearance in the long mirror she’d had fixed inside the door of one of the tall cabinets. She always dressed with great care. It was important to look good. It was expected of her. It went with the job. She was wearing a recent buy, a designer two-piece outfit with a slim black pencil skirt and a white jacket banded in black. Her long blonde hair—the definitive Leo’s mane—she always wore pulled back into various updated arrangements for work. Looking good was mandatory. All-out glamour wasn’t on the agenda. Too distracting to the clients. Even so she’d been told she was considered pretty hot stuff.

  * * *

  They were all seated around the boardroom table—big as any two ping-pong tables shoved together—when she entered the room.

  “Good morning, everyone,” she greeted them pleasantly, and received suave nods that hid a variety of feelings. Downright lecherous on the part of Geoff Bartz, their resident environmentalist and a very unattractive man. The hierarchy was still men, though not as inflexible as it once had been. The richest person in Australia was in fact a woman, the late mining magnate Lang Hancock’s daughter, Gina Rinehart, worth around twenty billion and counting. All of the men were Italian suited, Ferragamo shod, the one woman at the table as impeccably turned out as ever, cream silk blouse, Armani power suit. No one reached a position near the top of the tree without being exceptionally well dressed. Lord knew they were paid enough to buy the best even if they rarely strayed from imported labels. Cate trusted her own instincts, giving Australian designers a go. They were so good she stuck to them.

  “Ah, Cate,” Hugh Saunders, CEO and chairman of the board of Inter-Austral Resources, oil, minerals, chemicals, properties etc. sat at the head of the table. He was credited with almost single-handedly turning a small sleeping mining company into a multibillion-dollar corporation. On Cate’s entry he exhaled an audible sigh of pleasure. A lean, handsome, very stylish man turning sixty, he had personally recruited Cate Hamilton some three years previously. He considered himself her mentor. If he were only ten years younger he privately considered he would have qualified as a whole lot more, sublimely unaware Cate had never entertained such a thought. “Come take a seat. There’s one here by me.” He gestured towards the empty seat to his right.

  Territorial display if there ever was one, Murphy Stiller thought with a tightening of her lips and a knitting of her jet-black brows of one. Murphy Stiller was brilliant, abrasive, ferociou
sly competitive. Murphy’s sole aspiration was to move into Hugh Saunders’ padded chair while it was still warm. The great pity was he was such a stayer! Before Hamilton had arrived on the scene she had been Queen of the Heap, able to command attention and a seat at the CEO’s right hand without saying a word. Then the newcomer she had mentally labelled upstart had from the outset started producing results. Corporate politics, balance sheets, marketing plans, impromptu presentations, refinancing. It could have been familiar territory. Hamilton was up for the challenge. A compulsive over-achiever, of course. Murphy knew the type. A multitasker, always up to speed. Saunders seemed mesmerised by her. Certainly he had carefully mapped out her career. But that was what men spent a lot of time thinking about, wasn’t it? Sex. Whether they were getting it. Or more often missing out. When Murphy had entered the boardroom she had naturally made for the seat on the CEO’s right—she never jockeyed, jockeying was beneath her—only to be forestalled by Saunders’ upraised hand smoothly directing her to a seat on his left, as though oblivious to her chagrin. Time to hot up her nightly prayers her young rival would get her comeuppance. Flunk something. Take a fall. Get married. Go into politics. Fall under a bus. Anything.

  Murphy forced herself to stop daydreaming. It wasn’t going to happen.

  All were now seated. All faces were turned to the chairman, who had glanced at his watch to check what time they had. “What we do and say here before our prospective client arrives is extremely important,” he announced with great earnestness. “This is a man used to meeting people at the highest level. I believe he even talks to the Prince of Wales on a first-name basis.”

  Cate pretended to be lost in envy. She had her own understanding of the English upper classes, though the Prince was said to be a genuine egalitarian.

  “He’s already acquired a small empire in different parts of the world,” the CEO was saying. “He’s now looking at our mineral wealth. Overseas the news is Australia is being driven by mining and resource. Not surprising their top entrepreneurs want in. We’re going to prove extremely helpful.” He paused as another project came to mind. “He’s also interested in acquiring a property in the Whitsundays. Virgin territory as it were, far away from the usual haunts of jetsetters and the current hot spots, the Caribbean and such. You all know the late George Harrison bought up there. Had a holiday home on our far-flung shores, then a virtual outpost. George knew what he was about. I know we can help our prospective client. Perhaps you, Cate. You’re very good at dealing with people. You might even be able to persuade Lady McCready to finally sell Isla Bella. She trusts you. Aren’t many places left in the world as pristine as Isla Bella.”

  “Sure our prospective client doesn’t want to turn it into a resort?” Cate asked. “Lady McCready is totally against any such project.”

  “Goodness me, no!” Saunders vehemently shook his head as though he’d had it straight from the horse’s mouth. “This is a man who shuns glitz. He wants a private sanctuary for him, his family and close friends. He will want to visit, of course, if Lady McCready is agreeable. She must be a great age now. Only the other day someone told me she had passed away.”

  “Still very much alive, sir,” Cate said, watching the CEO hold up a staying hand as the mobile on the table rang. He listened for a moment, said a few words, then put the receiver down. “Ah, he’s arrived.”

  It was delivered with such reverence the prospective client could equally well have been Prince Charles or even President Obama. The Clintons had made the great escape to North Queensland and the Great Barrier Reef islands, pronouncing the whole area an idyllic destination. Perhaps it was Bill Clinton or some retired American senator, who just wanted to sit around all day without anyone taking cheap shots at him as political enemies tended to do.

  Lara entered the boardroom cheeks glowing, her mouth curved up in a smile. After her came an extremely handsome man in a hawkish kind of way: aquiline nose—perfect to look down on people—finely chiselled aristocratic features, thick jet-black hair with a natural wave, extraordinary eyes, the colour of blue flame; immediate impact that would linger for a long time. He stood well over six feet, very elegantly dressed. Not Zenga; Savile Row made to measure. A tailor’s dream. Snow-white shirt, striped silk tie no doubt denoting something elitist, tied just so. So sophisticated was his appearance it held them all speechless for a while.

  But none more transfixed than Cate.

  Time collapsed. How vivid was memory; how powerful was the past!

  For a fleeting moment she felt her breathing had stopped. Then as air came back into her lungs she knew such fright she thought she had actually fainted while still remaining conscious. Her whole body was shaking, her mind sliding out of kilter. Thank God she didn’t have a glass of mineral water in her trembling hand for everyone would have watched her drop it to the ground where it probably would have shattered.

  This is it, she thought. The heavens had shifted. She knew he had taken her in at once.

  Lord Julian Ashton Carlisle, Fifth Baron Wyndham.

  The father of her child.

  * * *

  She had come to him a virgin, the man who had devastated her life. So this was the way Karma worked? Action, effect, fate. She was trapped in the same room as the man she had never succeeded in erasing from her mind or her heart and hated him for it. He was indelibly fixed there by lost love, sorrow and humiliation. She had tried with every atom of her being to put the past behind her, but the past had had its effect on all of her subsequent relationships. No other man measured up.

  Now her brain was signalling warnings.

  The Day of Reckoning is at hand.

  Over the past years she had almost succeeded in convincing herself Jules was solely hers. A virgin birth as it were. She knew now she had lost all touch with reality. Jules at some point in his life was going to want to meet his father. Jules’ father might very well want to meet the son he had hitherto known nothing about. The only way she could avert such a thing happening was to keep them far apart. At least until Jules was of an age to undertake his own search for his biological father, who probably by now had children with his aristocratic wife. Impeccable breeding, of course. It was expected, after all. Someone had to inherit the baronetcy, keep up tradition. Social status was something to be cherished.

  Cate made a massive effort to calm herself by focusing on how appalling things had been for her. Alicia, steely eyed, tall, rail-thin body vibrating as she told her to go away and not come back. All Alicia had ever been up to then had been no more than a bit on the snobbish side—a woman with a mindset stuck in the early twentieth century, very patronising to a young woman from the colonies, but pleasant enough. Then everything had abruptly changed. It had been crisis time, with Ashe away for a few days in London on family business. It had all been stunningly, shockingly sudden.

  “There’s simply no place for you here, Catrina.” Alicia had spoken with a gleam of triumph in her slate-grey eyes. “My son has acknowledged that. I am sorry for you, my dear, but you allowed yourself false hopes. You made a terrible mistake, but then you’re so very young. So ignorant of the ways of the world. Frankly I did try to warn you. There are unwritten rules to our way of life. We all understand them. You don’t. You would never have fitted in. Marina was born for the role. Julian may have thought you special for a time, but now he knows he has to take a step back. Life is all about doing one’s duty, assuming one’s responsibilities.”

  Cate hadn’t accepted that blindly. She had fought back claiming all were equal under the sun, her expression so combative any other woman but Alicia might have ducked for cover. She’d told Alicia she needed to hear it all from Ashe himself.

  Ashe, please help me.

  Only Ashe wasn’t there.

  “That’s the thing, my dear. Julian is in London,” Alicia had countered, trying to sound pitying and only succeeding in sounding chilling. “He’s not there on business. I assumed you would guess that. He went away because he couldn’t bear to
tell you himself. It was far from an easy decision but I helped him see it was the best way. Indeed the only way. You are both far too young. Julian simply didn’t realise you were taking him so utterly seriously. Holiday romances tend to fade pretty quickly, my dear. You’ll find that out when you get back to Australia. You have your own life. My son has his.”

  And so she had vanished. It took her a couple of months more to come to the devastating realisation she was pregnant. Hello, pregnant? When they had practised safe sex. She had never trusted safe sex from there on. She was pregnant to a young man, to a family, who didn’t want her. Moreover would not be eager to know her child even if it had their blood. She wasn’t good enough. It was a grave situation and one of her own making. She had turned to the only mother she had ever known to help her.

  Stella.

  CHAPTER TWO

  England, 2005

  CATE HAD BEEN driving for miles through the picture-perfect English countryside, a patchwork of emerald-green fields bordered by woods, lovely towering trees and wondrously neat hedges. Miraculously it had stopped raining. She had only been in England a couple of weeks, and the rain had been falling without end. And, Lord, was it cold! The European winter was fast setting in. But for now the sun shone, however briefly, and what lay before her was a pastoral idyll, a symphony of soft misty colours. It made her feel good to be alive. On her own at last. Freedom! Was there anything so good? Freedom. She sang it aloud. No one to hear her anyway but the woolly white sheep that dotted the enchanting landscape. It was simply wonderful to be footloose and fancy free.

  Her base for her gap year was the great historic city of London, squeezed into a teeny flat with two of her university-going pals. Not that they noticed the lack of life’s little luxuries to which all of them had long been accustomed. They were too busy enjoying themselves and exploring the cultural wonders the great city had to offer. This was to be a great year for them, their Grand Tour. Afterwards all three would embark on their chosen careers. Josh came from a long line of medical doctors, so it was Medicine for Josh. Sarah with her legal family would read Law. Cate had decided on the high-flying world of Big Business, maybe along the track of an MBA from Harvard? So that had meant an Economics degree. At school her brilliance at Maths had set her apart. That didn’t bother her. She had been something of an oddity all her life.