LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      ‘Dear God, did she understand what she was doing? Did she know, as you must have, the risks you were taking? A man of twenty years old, seducing an innocent girl of sixteen and not even willing to give the resulting child your name—it is disgusting!’

      ‘You must understand...’

      ‘Oh, I understand perfectly. Both you and my mother’s aristocratic family abused their wealth and privilege. In life, and even in death, my mother’s fate was determined by others. Status confers the freedom to act in an utterly selfish and completely arrogant manner. I have no desire to hear your mealy-mouthed justifications.’

      ‘Christopher—Mr Fordyce,’ Lord Armstrong amended hastily, ‘your sudden arrival here has come as a great shock to my system. I have not had time to assimilate—you do understand, don’t you, that it is no more possible for me to acknowledge your existence now, than it was then? If it became known that you—dear God, it would ruin me, even more completely than it would have then. My position at the Foreign Office—I have a hard-won reputation for integrity, honesty...’

      ‘And are even more renowned for your naked self-interest and burning ambition, from what I have been able to establish since discovering the evidence of my unwanted lineage.’

      ‘So you admit you have enquired about me?’

      ‘Suffice to know that I want nothing whatsoever to do with you.’

      ‘You are angry,’ Lord Armstrong said. ‘That is perfectly understandable, in the circumstances.’

      Christopher’s toes curled tight inside his boots. There was a rushing in his ears. More than anything, what he wanted to do was to slam his fist into that self-centred, self-satisfied, aristocratic countenance. To blacken both of those eyes, so damned distinctive and undeniably identical to his own. To destroy the evidence, obliterate the memory, and start afresh.

      But that would have to wait. The document could not be unread. Violence and destruction were not the solution. ‘I am not angry,’ he said, with a pleasing calm in which only an edge of contempt was audible. ‘And as to the notion that I might wish to be part of your life...’ Now he did let his contempt show fully, in a bitter little laugh. ‘I have my own life, my lord, and I am very content with it. There is absolutely no place in it for you.’

      ‘Then why did you seek me out? What do you want of me, if not my name?’

      The man looked puzzled rather than relieved. His arrogance knew no bounds. ‘Your name!’ Christopher exclaimed contemptuously. ‘The very last thing I would wish to own. As is this.’ Christopher laid the amulet on to the blotter. ‘I take it to be the item of jewellery referred to in the document. The payment for services rendered, though blood money might be a more accurate description.’

      Lord Armstrong’s thin brows rose so high that they almost reached his receding hairline. ‘They didn’t sell it? How odd that they kept it all these years. That piece of jewellery was intended to help pay for your education, to provide the Fordyces with the means to raise you as a gentleman.’

      ‘I am eternally grateful they did not, if being a gentleman is defined as someone who is prepared to sell their own child to avoid social embarrassment. This amulet was payment for their co-operation and silence.’

      ‘It belonged to your mother. I was a man of modest means back in those days. Her family gave it to me along with some funds to facilitate the arrangements when she died. Don’t you even wish to know her name?’

      ‘To what end? Even had she lived, her identity would have been kept from me. It is ironic that it was her premature death which ultimately allowed me to be privy to yours.’

      ‘I did my best by you, as I continue to do for all my children. I have five daughters, sir, who consider me a most dutiful father, acting always with their best interests at heart.’

      Provided their best interests coincide with your own, Christopher thought cynically, before the import of the words hit him. Five daughters. Which meant he had five half-sisters, blissfully oblivious to his existence. And who would, if he had anything to do with it, remain so.

      ‘I hope,’ Lord Armstrong amended fearfully, ‘that my mention of the girls—I would not have them dragged into this.’

      ‘My illusions have been shattered, do you think I would wish that fate on five innocent girls?’

      ‘I confess, I am heartily relieved to hear you say that.’

      Christopher wanted nothing more than this sordid interview to be over. ‘This,’ he said, indicating the amulet, ‘is Arabic in origin, if I’m not mistaken, and judging from the quality of the stones in it, almost certainly made for the ruling family of an ancient people. Do you know how my—how the woman who gave birth do me came to own it?’

      ‘I know nothing of its prior provenance. But since it was given to the Fordyces in a legally binding agreement, it is now yours to sell.’

      ‘Would it ease your conscience if I did so?’ Christopher laughed bitterly. ‘No, for you do not possess one. I, however, do and have no desire to benefit from blood money. I came here to return it to its rightful owner.’

      ‘Well, that ain’t me,’ Lord Armstrong said, looking quite appalled. ‘And I doubt very much that your mother’s family will wish to be reminded of what they have lost, so there’s no point in asking me to give it back to them. If you won’t sell it, put it in a museum, if what you say about it being an ancient artefact is true.’

      And have the amulet, a potent symbol of the lie his life had been based on, on permanent public display! Christopher shuddered. Unthinkable. ‘No. That would not be appropriate. I have no choice but to return it the original owner.’

      ‘Original owner? What on earth do you mean by that?’

      He had spoken on the spur of the moment, but as Christopher returned the amulet to its leather pouch, a plan began to take shape in his head, and he knew instinctively that this was the only possible course of action. ‘The descendants of the original owner,’ he said. ‘The quality of the diamonds, the colour of the turquoise, and the purity of the gold are all highly distinctive.’

      ‘How do you—ah, yes, of course.’ Lord Armstrong picked up the business card again. ‘You specialise in minerals and ores. You have then surveyed in Arabia?’

      ‘I have never been to Arabia. Locating the precise area, matching it with the source of gold and turquoise—as you say, that is my area of expertise. But in order to do so I will require assistance from you, in your own field of expertise.’

      His lordship stilled. ‘How so?’

      ‘I will require papers to allow me freedom of movement,’ Christopher said, thinking rapidly. ‘Contacts who will be able to assist me with local information, and the means to extricate myself from—let’s say any tricky situations which may arise due to my incognito activities being viewed as suspicious or even hostile.’

      His lordship looked aghast. ‘I can’t help you with any of that. The identities of our agents in Arabia are a carefully guarded secret. Not, mind, that I’m admitting such people exist.’ Lord Armstrong drummed his fingers on the blotter. ‘Even if I could put you in touch with such contacts, you’re asking me to obtain official papers...’

      ‘Secured through unofficial channels. And I’m paying you the compliment of assuming that you know exactly which strings to pull in order to facilitate that.’

      More finger drumming set Christopher’s teeth on edge. ‘You deride my having abused my position for my own ends,’ Lord Armstrong said, ‘and yet isn’t that exactly what you’re asking me to do for you?’

      Was it? The notion disgusted him. But, no, the man was twisting the situation to his own advantage, as he always did, trying to make him beholden, which was the last thing he ought to be feeling. ‘A different matter entirely,’ Christopher said. ‘You acted to cover up a wrong, to protect yourself.

Скачать книгу