Beaumont Brides Collection (Wild Justice, Wild Lady, Wild Fire)

by Liz Fielding

  It wasn’t that she was short. Five feet, seven inches was a respectable enough height. But Claudia had obeyed nanny, eaten her crusts to be sure that her hair would curl, her cabbage for a perfect complexion and she had drunk up her milk to grow straight and tall so that one day she would be a beautiful and famous actress like their mother.

  Two years younger, Fizz clearly hadn’t tried anywhere near as hard. Not that there was anything wrong with her appearance. Her complexion was clear, apart from a few faint freckles that never disappeared even in the dead of winter and although she’d somehow missed out on the curls, she was perfectly happy with the thick, chestnut hair that she had twisted into a neat, businesslike chignon.

  But although she would never have worn the skirt as short as Claudia did, Fizz was human enough to envy her sister those extra three inches.

  *****

  Just before twelve, she parked in front of the impressive head office of Harries Industries, running through, in her head, the convincing little speech that she had been preparing since she had received that bombshell of a letter.

  It was reasonable, thoughtful, understanding.

  She would invite Mr Devlin to come and visit the station, see for himself the impressive scheduling, the ties with community projects, the fact that their local sports coverage had won an award that had reflected handsomely on Harries Industries.

  If he would just give her the chance to say it, she thought, uneasily aware of a distinct feeling that Mr Devlin might not be in the mood to listen to her well rehearsed arguments.

  She took a deep breath and headed for the main entrance.

  There was a glossy new receptionist in the entrance hall. It hadn’t taken long for the new brooms to get to work.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the girl enquired, with a professional smile.

  Fizz smiled back equally professionally. She was playing a part and she was glad of a dummy run. ‘Felicity Beaumont, Mr Devlin’s expecting me.’ She signed the visitors book and while she clipped on a little label that identified herself a such she smiled at the new girl and asked, ‘What happened to Edith?’

  ‘Edith?’

  ‘She was the receptionist here for ten years.’

  ‘Oh?’ The girl wasn’t interested. ‘Maybe she took early retirement.’

  A secretary looked up from her desk as she entered the chairman’s suite of offices. Another new face, older this time. Michael’s secretary had probably taken the same fast track to retirement as Edith.

  ‘Felicity Beaumont,’ she said, announcing herself once again. ‘I have an appointment -’

  ‘Oh yes, Miss Beaumont. Please take a seat.’ The telephone rang and the woman answered it, listening briefly, then without further acknowledgement of Fizz, she gathered her notebook and swept out of the suite.

  Fizz waited. Ten minutes passed while her nerves frayed, began to unravel, disintegrate. She began to silently rehearse her presentation to keep her mind occupied. Fifteen minutes. When her watch informed her that it was twenty minutes after twelve o’clock, she knew that it was deliberate.

  The man was nothing but a petty little tyrant, she decided, taking pleasure in demonstrating his power. His manner on the telephone had already betrayed his negative attitude towards her and her father.

  It was almost as if he felt some personal animosity towards them. But that was patently ridiculous.

  He was just a thoroughly unpleasant man.

  Fizz got up and began to walk around the office, taking deep calming breaths, concentrating on the paintings that decorated the wall, refusing to let the man wind her up with such an obvious tactic. But it took a serious effort of will to uncurl her fingers from the tight little fists that she had unconsciously made of her hands. She was staring at a painting of the pier, constructed in 1835 by the first Michael Harries for the shipment of their goods to the continent, when the door behind her opened.

  She turned quickly to face the man who held all their destinies in the palm of his hand but there was nothing in his appearance to reassure her. His thin, humourless face had the pallor of a man who spent his time hunched over columns of figures under artificial light.

  He looked as if he had a calculator for a brain and probably hadn’t listened to a radio since the transistor had been invented. But it was her job to convince him of the importance of his support.

  Fizz advanced swiftly over the thick carpet before she quite lost her nerve and extended her hand. ‘Felicity Beaumont,’ she said, introducing herself confidently with her warmest smile.

  ‘Yes?’ He clutched a pile of folders in both his hands and made no move to respond to her gesture.

  And he managed in that one dismissive word to make her feel both foolish and angry all at once. Letting her hand fall to her side, she continued to smile even though she thought her face would crack with the effort.

  ‘You said to be here at twelve,’ she reminded him. ‘I realise you must be very busy.’ She resisted the temptation to check her watch, to remind him that it was now nearly half past the hour. That would not be a good start.

  But he wasn’t listening. ‘Where is Mrs Meynell?’ he asked, irritated.

  ‘Your secretary?’ Fizz asked, trying hard to remain cool in the face of such rudeness. ‘She went out a few minutes ago.’ He began to retreat into the office. ‘Mr Devlin,’ she said, quickly, before he could disappear again.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ She hadn’t known quite what to expect from this man who gobbled up companies for breakfast, but she had thought someone, well, larger in body and spirit. Maybe she was just hoping for that.

  ‘I’m sorry my father can’t be here to talk to you in person, but I did explain the reason. And you did ask me come and see you. She indicated the portfolio lying on the chair beside her. ‘Please let me show you what we are doing at Pavilion Radio before you make up your mind to stop sponsoring the -’

  ‘Miss Beaumont, I’m afraid that you are labouring under some misapprehension. I cannot help you.’ And he turned away, heading back towards his office.

  That was it? No chance to put her case, just a few words exchanged in a secretary’s office? Oh, no. Not good enough. Not nearly good enough.

  ‘Won’t you at least listen to me?’

  The man stopped with a sigh, clearly out of patience with her as he regarded her slightly flushed cheeks, the way her breast rose and fell a little too rapidly beneath the smooth navy cloth of her suit.

  ‘I suggest you save your appeals for those foolish enough to listen, Miss Beaumont. I really haven’t the time to waste on such nonsense.’ With that he retreated into the office and for a single shocked moment Fizz remained where she was.

  It was a long time since she had come so perilously close to losing her temper. Really losing it and demonstrating the aptness of her pet name that had started as her sister’s lisping attempt at Felicity, and stuck because of her habit of going off like a rocket when her emotions were inflamed.

  It was a long time since she had lost her temper. The bubble of outrage that now rose to her throat warned her that she was still quite capable of exploding.

  What on earth did the man think he was playing at? He had invited her to his office, kept her waiting interminably and then dismissed her without even the pretence of listening, the courtesy of a hearing. And he had the nerve to criticise her family’s manners!

  She didn’t stop to consider the wisdom of her actions. She had nothing to lose and she certainly wasn’t leaving without giving this man the benefit of his character. Snatching up her portfolio, she followed him through the pair of tall, ornately carved doors that guarded his sanctum and closed them behind her with a sharp click.

  Half way across the vast room he turned, clearly startled by her presumption, but she gave him no time to protest before she launched her attack.

  ‘I realise that a gentleman’s agreement means very little these days, Mr Devlin. But you asked me to come here and the very least you can do is listen to what I have to
say,’ Fizz launched herself into an ardent plea as she warmed to her theme. ‘Pavilion Radio has given this town real local radio. News, documentary reports, sport, natural history programmes about the local ecology, good investigative reporting. It’s given the people a voice and no other independent station has a wider range of programmes. No other station of its size has its own local soap opera, or children’s programmes -’

  ‘I have no children,’ he replied, indignantly. ‘And if you’re so successful I don’t see why you need sponsorship at all. If you can’t pay your own way...’ He made a dismissive gesture, clearly considering the matter beneath his lofty attention.

  Fizz snapped. She had spent three miserable days pouring over her figures trying to cut everything to the bone. But the truth of the matter was that there was only bone left.

  ‘You might be a brilliant businessman, Mr Devlin,’ she said, ‘very plump in the pocket. But I have to tell you that you’re very thin in the heart.’ The man’s eyes did not even flicker, but in any case she was beyond stopping. ‘Well, I hope you’re happy counting your money. That it will keep you company when the Scrooge mentality has won, local radio is reduced to endless pop music and the pier has crumbled into the sea. Because it will be your fault. And I’ll make sure everyone in this town knows it.’

  For a moment after she had finished speaking there was utter silence. Then a slow hand clap from the door made her spin around and for a fraction of a second, it seemed, her heart stopped.

  Then it happened. Light the blue touch paper and stand back. Fizz. Woosh. Rockets. Catherine wheels. Roman candles. Her insides lit up like a firework display.

  The man whose square shoulders appeared to fill the opening was somewhat taller than average, six foot two, or three maybe and although still some way short of his fortieth year, there was no doubting the air of authority that sat on his shoulders as easily as the smooth cloth of his elegantly cut grey tweed suit.

  His hair, thick, straight, almost black, was brushed back from his face to expose a wide forehead, dark brows that jutted over a pair of slate grey eyes. His mouth, when it smiled, would be wide and the lines etched into his cheeks would deepen in a way that would warm the coldest heart.

  But he wasn’t smiling now. Although a certain sardonic glint in those eyes suggested that he might have gained just a little amusement from her indignant outburst.

  ‘Don’t call us and we promise we’ll never call you,’ he said, as he moved away from the door and walked towards her.

  Rooted to the spot, Fizz remained seemingly bereft of the power of speech while he walked slowly around her, apparently fascinated by the severity of her business suit.

  ‘You’ve dressed for the part, I grant you,’ he said. ‘But it takes more than a costume to play a part. And someone should have warned you that there’s no room for emotion in business. Tell me, Miss Beaumont, what production was that thrilling speech adapted from? Little Nell? Maria Marten and the Red Barn? It certainly had all the elements of melodrama.’ He paused and finally looked straight down into her eyes. ‘Or do I mean farce?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘LUKE. Thank goodness. Will you explain to this young woman that I am not interested in her radio station. I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Phillip. If you’ll give us a few minutes, I’m sure I can persuade her to listen to me.’

  Luke? This was Luke Devlin? Fizz paled, shivering despite the warmth from a more than adequate heating system. She had no idea who the small, grey man letting himself quietly out of the office might be, only that he was not Luke Devlin. And that she had just made an exceptionally large fool of herself, a fact the disturbing man at her side immediately confirmed.

  ‘I’m sorry that the bulk of your performance was wasted on the wrong person but Phillip is using my office while we decide the future of Harries Industries.’ He didn’t look sorry. ‘I have been told that your father occasionally broadcasts drama on Pavilion Radio. If that was a demonstration of the standard he aspires to, Miss Beaumont, then perhaps the sooner the franchise moves into more professional hands, the better.’

  Professional hands? What the hell did that mean? She made a supreme effort to close her mouth. Devlin was not the kind of man to be won over by her impression of a gold-fish out of water. But the fact that he had managed to deprive her of the power of speech twice in as many minutes was a bonus. She loathed rudeness and this man had studied under experts.

  Rudeness made it so much easier to quell her treacherous body’s leaping response to that first elemental power charge.

  ‘I’m not an actress,’ she protested. ‘I’m-’

  ‘On that, at least, we are in total agreement,’ he agreed, cutting smoothly across her. ‘Although the possibility that you were just being yourself is, if anything, even more appalling.’

  Fizz opened her mouth to protest that every word she had spoken came from the heart. But having paused at the sight of him, that same heart was now galloping in a wild and furious attempt to make up for lost time. The man had simply taken her breath away. Not with his words, although they were bad enough. But there was a rock hard, unyielding quality about the man. And she felt as if she had just run into him at ninety miles an hour.

  ‘You are Luke Devlin?’ It wasn’t a question. Merely a gambit, an attempt to gain a moment to catch her breath. She had immediately sensed the man’s power and now it was clear that he was a two-fold threat. She buried her fear in attack. ‘Then why on earth didn’t he say who he was, instead of letting me blather along -’

  ‘Did you give him the opportunity?’

  Fizz felt her cheeks tingle slightly as they responded to this challenge with a blush. This was getting serious. Furious with herself for betraying her discomfort, for letting the situation run away from her and giving him control of the conversation, she attempted to justify her mistake.

  ‘When I called him Mr Devlin he responded.’

  ‘That is because we share the same name. Phillip is my cousin. Like the Beaumonts, we Devlins value family ties.’ But the twist to his lips suggested that any similarity between his family and hers was purely coincidental. He glanced at the desk piled high with files and littered with spreadsheets, then gestured to a sofa near the window, indicating that she should sit down. ‘You are Felicity Beaumont?’ he continued, when she didn’t move. ‘Fizz,’ he added, thoughtfully.

  ‘Two cases of mistaken identity in one afternoon would be pushing coincidence a little far, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, definitely a Beaumont,’ he murmured. ‘Your manners betray your origins.’

  ‘And keeping someone waiting for the best part of half an hour is the height of politeness?’ she snapped back.

  His sharp look warned her that she was pushing her luck. ‘A deputation from the staff asked to speak to me. I took the view that their concerns were more important than yours. Perhaps you disagree with my judgement?’

  Fizz positively cringed with embarrassment. The situation had been bad enough to start with and she had already made it considerably worse by berating some anonymous accountant. No, not anonymous. Another Devlin, as if one wasn’t enough. And trying to score a cheap point had only made her look stupid.

  ‘No,’ she said, quickly. ‘Of course they were far more important.’

  ‘I’m glad you realise that. Understanding what requires urgent attention and what can be dealt with at leisure is a skill that anyone in business neglects at their peril, Miss Beaumont. Perhaps you should remind your father of that fact.’

  Beneath the professional smile she cursed her father. Why on earth did he have to choose this particular moment to throw her into the deep end? If he’d come to the meeting he would have distracted Luke Devlin, given her a moment to study the man. Work out what made him tick.

  ‘As I explained, he is very busy -’

  ‘Too busy to lift a telephone? Spare an hour of his time?’

  ‘He’s directing a joint s
chools production of Much Ado About Nothing,’ she offered. It was a lame excuse. She knew it. Devlin’s expression suggested that he was of the same opinion.

  ‘A school production? And that takes the great Edward Beaumont every minute of his day? Or am I supposed to be impressed with his altruism? The Harries and the Beaumonts. Public benefactors incorporated, with the town stitched up between them.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ she said, indignant on her father’s behalf and Michael’s. ‘I just meant -’ But he wasn’t listening to excuses.

  ‘That’s just as well. I know very little about the theatre, but I do know that it isn’t a twenty-four hour a day job. He would impress me far more by spending his time managing his business.’ His hostility had an astringent quality that stung her, clearing her head like a blast from a bottle of smelling salts.

  ‘He’s an actor, Mr Devlin. That is his business. The radio station is mine.’

  His eyes flickered over her, missing nothing. ‘I’m afraid it will take more than padded shoulders to convince me that you know what you’re talking about.’

  She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. She hadn’t come here to argue with the man, but to impress him with her business acumen. So far she had made a lousy job of it. As if to confirm this, Luke Devlin continued irritably.

  ‘For goodness sake sit down, Miss Beaumont. Now you’re here, you might as well say your piece. I’m sure you’ve been rehearsing for days, but I won’t be performed at.’

  Despite the lack of warmth with which it was offered, this wasn’t an invitation Fizz was about to refuse. Presented with a second chance to state her case there was no point dwelling on the bad start she had made. Instead she made herself smile. It wasn’t as hard as she had expected.

  ‘If I had thought you wanted a performance, Mr Devlin, I would have sent my sister. She’s the actress.’