by Penny Jordan
She had spent the last six weeks sitting for the portraitist Silas had commissioned to paint her wearing the Maharajah’s jewels, with baby Harry lying on her lap, holding one of the priceless bracelets.
The portrait was to be unveiled for its first public viewing on the night of her fundraiser, along with the jewels themselves, and Julia felt that the jewels alone should guarantee her event was in a class of its own.
Her charity of choice was one for orphaned and homeless children, and she had deliberately chosen to have displayed, alongside her own portrait and some beautifully done photographs of the jewels, a set of hauntingly painful photographs of children living in the most desolate of circumstances—obscene riches portrayed alongside equally obscene poverty. Her aim was to raise for the charity a sum that equalled the ten million dollar value of the Maharajah’s jewels—for surely no material possession should ever be held to be of more value than the life of a child?
‘Thank you,’ Silas murmured as he leaned forward to kiss her.
‘What for?’
‘For everything. I was right all those years ago. You are the perfect wife for me—perfect in every single way there is. And I love you more than I can ever find the words to say.’
* * * * *
Blackmailing the Society Bride
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
‘SO WHAT you’re saying is that my ex-husband has damaged my business so badly that it and I are both virtually bankrupt?’
Lucy stared at her solicitor. A deepening sense of sickening shock and fear was gripping her, a feeling that the situation she was involved in was so frightening and unbearable that it could not possibly be real.
But it was real. She was here, seated in front of Mr McVicar, while he told her that her ex-husband had so badly damaged the reputation and financial status of the event organisation company she had set up with such enthusiasm and delight prior to their marriage that it was no longer viable.
Nick had cheated her sexually and financially all through their brief marriage...but then, hadn’t she done some cheating herself? A guilty conscience wasn’t going to help her now, Lucy warned herself, as she struggled with the massive weight of the problems she now faced.
‘I’ve got some commissions for events for the rest of this year,’ she told the solicitor, crossing her fingers behind her back and hoping that he wouldn’t ask her how many, since in reality there were so few. ‘Perhaps, in view of that, the bank...?’
Her solicitor shook his head. He liked his pretty young client, and felt very sorry for her, but in his opinion her nature was too gentle for the unforgiving world of business.
‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ he told her. ‘As you’ve already said yourself, several potential clients have cancelled their events and asked for their deposits back already, and I’m afraid... Well, let’s just say we live in a harsh world, where confidence is something no one can put a price on.’
‘And because of what Nick has done no one will have any confidence in Prêt a Party any more—is that what you mean?’ Lucy asked him bitterly. ‘Even though Nick is no longer a part of the business, or my life, and I was the one who started it up in the first place?’
The solicitor’s sympathetic look was all the answer she needed.
‘I dare say I shouldn’t blame clients for backing out. After all, I suppose in their eyes if I was stupid enough to marry Nick then I can’t have much credibility,’ Lucy said with bitter humour. That was certainly what Marcus believed. She knew that well enough.
Marcus. If there was one person she would like to somehow magically remove from her life and her memories for ever, that person wasn’t Nick, but Marcus.
‘Is there nothing I can do to save the business?’ She appealed to her solicitor.
‘If you could find a new partner—someone of probity and known financial stature, whom people respect and trust, and who is willing to inject enough capital to settle all Prêt a Party’s outstanding obligations...’
‘But I intend to pay those off myself. I still have money in my trust fund,’ Lucy interrupted fiercely.
‘Yes, of course. I realise that. But I’m afraid that clearing Prêt a Party’s debts, whilst a very honourable thing to do, will not revive client confidence in you, Lucy. Regrettably, the actions of your ex-husband have damaged the reputation of the business virtually beyond repair, and the fact that both your partners have left Prêt a Party—’
‘But that’s because they both got married and have other responsibilities now, that’s all. Not because of anything else! Carly’s pregnant and has her son to look after, as well as working alongside Ricardo with the orphanages he has set up, and Julia has a new baby to look after—plus she’s involved in the Foundation—’
‘Of course.’ Her solicitor soothed her sympathetically. ‘I know all this, Lucy, but unfortunately the eyes of the outer and greater world—the world from which you hope to attract new business—do not see it. I really am sorry, my dear.’ He paused. ‘Have you thought of approaching Marcus? He—’
‘No! Never! And I absolutely and totally forbid you to say anything about any of this to him, Mr McVicar.’ Lucy spoke fiercely, standing up so abruptly that she almost knocked over her chair. Panic and misery gripped her by the throat as powerfully as though it were Marcus himself closing his fingers around it. How he would love this. How he would love telling her that he had warned her all along that this would happen. How he would look down that aristocratic nose of his with those ice-cold eyes while he ticked off a list of all that she had done wrong, all the ways in which she had failed.
Sometimes, in the eyes of her family and Marcus, Lucy felt as though she had spent the whole of her life failing. For a start she had been a girl and not a boy, a daughter and not a son—a daughter to be married off and not a son to be an heir. And, even though her parents had gone on to have a son, Lucy had somehow always felt she had let them down by being born first, and the wrong sex. Not that her parents had ever said that she was a disappointment to them, but Lucy had been born with a sensitive kind of nature and did not need to be told what people felt. She had sensed her parents’ disappointment—just as in later years she had recognised Marcus’s impatient irritation with her.
Not that anyone ever needed to guess what Marcus thought or felt. She had never known anyone more capable of or uncompromising about saying exactly what he thought and felt. And he had made it plain from the first moment he had confronted Lucy across the large desk in his London office that he did not approve of the fact that her late great-uncle had left her such a large sum of money.
‘I suppose that’s why you agreed to be my trustee, is it?’ Lucy had accused him. ‘Because you don’t approve of me having the money and you want to make life as difficult for me as possible!’
‘That kind of remark merely confirms my concern about your late great-uncle’s mental state when he made his will,’ had been Marcus’s caustic response.
‘I suppose you were hoping he would leave his money to you?’ Lucy had shot back.
In response, Marcus had given her a look that had made her face burn, and made her feel as though she wanted to crawl into a cor
ner.
‘Don’t be so bloody infantile,’ he had told her coldly.
Of course, she hadn’t realised then that Marcus had millions, if not billions of his own, tucked away in the vaults of his family’s merchant bank, of which he was the CEO.
Mr McVicar watched her sympathetically. He knew perfectly well of the tension and ill feeling that existed between his client and the formidably wealthy banker her late great-uncle had appointed as trustee for the money he had left her.
That money had nearly all gone now—swallowed up by the greed and fraudulent actions of Lucy’s ex-husband and the failure of her once-successful small business.
But in his view there was still no one better placed to help her in her present difficult situation than Marcus, whose business savvy was both awesome and legendary. Mr McVicar himself had urged her not to agree to her bank’s request that she secure Prêt a Party’s finances by pledging her inheritance, but she had refused to listen to him. Morally Lucy was beyond reproach, but unfortunately she had been too gullible for her own good, and she was paying the price for that now.
He returned to the problem at hand. ‘If you could attract a wealthy business partner who would be prepared to put money into the business, then—’
‘Actually, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.’
As soon as the words had left her mouth Lucy wondered what on earth she was doing. Was it Mr McVicar’s reference to Marcus that had prompted her into lying to him and creating a fictional potential backer? Lucy closed her eyes in helpless acknowledgement of her own vulnerability. Somehow just hearing Marcus’s name was enough to goad her into a fury of defensiveness.
Mr McVicar looked both relieved and surprised.
‘Well, that is really excellent news, Lucy. It puts a different complexion on matters entirely,’ he told her enthusiastically, looking so pleased that her guilt increased uncomfortably. ‘The very best outcome one could have hoped for, in fact. But obviously it is something we shall need to discuss. I think we should set up a meeting with your proposed partner and his or her legal advisers just as soon as we can. Oh, and of course we must let your bank know what is in the wind. I am sure that they will be inclined to be far more flexible once they know that fresh capital will be injected into Prêt a Party. I also think it would be a good idea to go public, even perhaps take a half-page announcement in those papers most frequently read by your clients stating once again that your ex-husband now has no access to or involvement with any aspect of Prêt a Party’s business, and that moreover you now have a new partner. That should do a tremendous amount to offset the upsetting effect Nick’s fraudulent behaviour has had on the business.’
Lucy felt as though she were trapped in ever-deepening mud of a particularly sticky and clinging consistency. Why on earth had she let the thought of Marcus’s disapproval propel her into such stupidity? What on earth had she done? How could she admit now to Mr McVicar that she had lied—and why?
‘Er, I can’t tell you who he is at the moment, Mr McVicar,’ Lucy began uncomfortably. ‘It’s all very much a secret. Negotiations are...um...well, you know how it is...’
‘Of course. But I must urge you to remember, Lucy, that time is very much of the essence here.’
Nodding her head, Lucy made her escape as quickly as she could. How could she have lied like that? It went against everything she believed in. Now she felt sickeningly guilty and ashamed of herself, and she had to blink away her self-pitying tears as she stood outside her solicitor’s Mayfair office in the bright autumn sunshine.
What on earth was she going to do? It would take a miracle to save her now. Automatically, she turned the corner and hurried into Bond Street, not bothering to glance into the windows of the expensive shops lining the street. Designer label clothes were not really her thing. She liked vintage clothes, salvaged from street markets and family attics. Their fabrics were so lush, the feel of them against her skin something she treasured and loved: real silk and satin cashmere; sturdy wool; cool cotton and linen. Man-made fibres might be more practical for modern-day city living, but in many ways she was an old-fashioned girl who craved a return to a quieter, more gentle way of life.
The truth was that secretly she would have loved nothing more than to marry and produce a large brood of much-loved children whom she and her husband would raise in an equally large and loved country house. She envied her two best friends their happy marriages and new young families more than they or anyone else knew—after all, she had her pride, just like anyone else. It was that pride that had led her into setting up Prêt a Party in the first place. The very same pride that had just led her into telling that stupid, stupid lie, she reminded herself miserably.
The magazines on a nearby newsstand caught her eye, and she stopped to study them. To the forefront, as always, was A-List Life. Lucy started to smile.
Its eccentric owner and editor Dorland Chesterfield had been such a good friend to her, using Prêt a Party to organise several of the events he had hosted—events attended by the world’s top celebrities. She might even have considered turning to him for help to get her out of the mess Nick had left her in were it not for the fact that she knew if there was anything guaranteed to overwhelm his genuine kind-heartedness it was his love of passing on gossip. The last thing she needed right now was to have the story of her downfall spread over the pages of A-List Life.
Of course both her friends—now ex-partners in Prêt a Party—had extremely wealthy husbands, and both of them had in turn come to see her and gently offered financial help, but Lucy could not accept it. For one thing there was that wretched pride of hers, and for another it was not just money she needed, but someone to work in the business with her. Being given money to clear Prêt a Party’s debts was a kind gesture, but she wanted—needed, in fact—to prove that she was not the silly fool everyone obviously thought her, and that she could make a success of her business.
Yes, marrying Nick had been a mistake, and, yes, she had—as Marcus had unmercifully pointed out to her—rushed into the marriage, but she’d had her own reasons for doing that. Reasons she could never, ever allow Marcus to discover.
She picked up a copy of A-List Life and handed over some coins, giving a reciprocal smile to the newsstand vendor before turning to cross the road. The sunlight glinting on her shoulder-length naturally blonde hair caused the driver of a large, highly polished, diplomat-plated Mercedes to slow down and study her appreciatively.
As she regained the pavement Lucy flipped open the magazine and quickly checked the contents—more out of habit than anything else. It was over three months now since Prêt a Party had managed a large event of any kind, never mind one glitzy enough to merit page-space in Dorland’s magazine, but to her astonishment she suddenly saw Prêt a Party’s name beneath the words: ‘A-List Life’s Favourite Party of All Time.’
Bemused, she turned the pages, her eyes widening as she recognised the photographs covering the entire mid-section of the magazine. They were from the huge summer party Prêt a Party had organised for A-List Life the previous year.
Tears stung her eyes. It was so typical of Dorland to do something so generous—and it was generous of him to republish those photographs, even if at the same time it was also a way of blowing his own trumpet.
Although at the time she had refused to admit it to anyone, she had known then that her marriage had been a mistake, and she had known, too, that Nick was being unfaithful. She had known that Nick was cheating on her,
yes, but she had not known that he was also defrauding her business and her customers—even if her two best friends Carly and Julia had suspected what was happening.
Out of concern for her they had kept their suspicions to themselves. Not so Marcus. Lucy knew that she would never be able to forget the searing humiliation of having to stand in front of Marcus whilst he listed with cold fury the fraudulent activities Nick had been engaged in whilst in charge of finances in Prêt a Party.
‘Why the hell did you marry him in the first place?’ he had demanded savagely, before adding, ‘No, don’t bother to tell me. I already know the answer. Did it never occur to you that you could have sex with him without marrying him?’
Lucy’s face burned hotly now, just remembering how Marcus had looked at her.
‘Perhaps I wanted more than sex,’ she had countered. She had wanted more, certainly, but she had not received it. But then, neither had she given Nick more. And as for the sex... Her face burned again, but for a different reason.
The Nick who had spoken so urgently and flatteringly of his desire for her before their marriage had very quickly turned into a Nick who derided and taunted her for her lack of sexual expertise and desirability after it. And who could blame him? The effort of maintaining the fantasy of hot, urgent longing for him with which she had thrown herself into their relationship had proved too much for her to sustain once they were married. Nick had taunted her for her sexual inexperience, claiming that she was frigid and she turned him off, and she had been in too much torment, compounded by her guilt and self-loathing, to protest.
‘More than sex? Really? And you actually thought you would get more from someone like him?’ he had demanded sarcastically.
