Lucy Ellis – Redemption Of A Ruthless Billionaire (страница 2)
Nik was well aware he could remind the old man he had a chef on the payroll, cleaning staff for all four of his international residences and no children to speak of. Moreover, no woman in the twenty-first century would view cooking, cleaning and raising children her sole responsibility.
But he’d be wasting his breath and it wasn’t the point.
Tactfully he rolled out the line he’d been using since his grandfather became actively interested in his personal life, which had—not mysteriously—coincided with the loss of his own wife, Nik’s adored grandmother.
‘When and if I do meet the right woman, you’ll be the first to know, Deda.’
His grandfather harrumphed. ‘I’ve seen you on the Internet with that model.’
The Internet? The last time they’d spoken the old man was using the tablet he’d got him as a tea tray.
But he knew who his grandfather was referring to.
Voroncor’s sister company Voroncor Holdings had bought out a retail corporation and Nik found himself in possession of some premium retail brands, including the fashion house Spanish model/actress and ‘it’ girl Marla Mendez was currently spruiking for.
The lady had pursued him around the world seeking his investment in her personal project, a lingerie line, not exactly his field but he had a personal reason for stumping up the funds that had nothing to do with Ms Mendez herself. A few photographs of them together at events had been enough for the tabloids to seize on the idea they were personally involved. He saw no reason to set his grandfather straight.
‘That woman is not right for you, Nikolka. There is something hard about her. She would not be good with little children.’
Nik considered reminding his grandfather he had no children, but he suspected that was Deda’s point.
‘Sybella works with children,’ his grandfather added helpfully.
No surprises there.
‘I think you should come and see her at work. I think you would be impressed, moy mal’chik.’
There was a long pause as Nik shouldered his way down the corridor and into his office, signalling for a coffee as he passed one of his admin assistants.
‘Did you hear me, Nikolka?’
‘I’m here, Deda. How did you meet her?’
Nik began pulling off his gloves, idly glancing at the information he’d asked for on the screen of a laptop another assistant silently opened in front of him.
‘She lives down the lane from the Hall, in the village. She’s a tenant. I believe she pays you rent.’
Vaguely Nik remembered some old English custom of the squire having first rights to local virgins. He held fire on mentioning it to his grandfather.
When he’d bought Edbury Hall a year ago he’d flown over in a helicopter. The village below had been merely a small sea of roofs swallowed up by the encroaching forest. His attention had been on the magnificent Elizabethan ‘E’, its outbuildings and the undulating pastureland around it.
His lawyer had done the groundwork and put everything in place. The purchase was a good investment, and it currently housed his grandfather while he was in the UK undergoing tests and treatment for a variety of complaints set off by his diabetes.
Nik hadn’t paid much attention to a lane, or the village, or the fact he had tenants. His admin dealt with that.
‘What are you doing consorting with the tenants? That’s not your problem, Deda. You’re supposed to be relaxing.’
‘Sybella comes to the house to keep me company and help me out with a few secretarial things.’
‘You have staff for that.’
‘I prefer Sybella. She is genuine.’
‘She sounds great,’ Nik said mildly enough, making a mental note to ask a few questions of the house staff. He didn’t want his grandfather’s kindly nature being taken advantage of.
‘We have a busload of children from all over the county once a month, up to thirty at a time, and Sybella is unflappable.’
‘Unflappable, good to know.’ Nik indicated he had what he needed. Then his head shot up. ‘Busloads of—what? Hang on, Deda, where is this?’
‘At the Hall. The children who come to see the house.’
Nik stopped finding this amusing. ‘Why are busloads of children coming to the house?’ But he already knew.
‘The Heritage Trust show them around,’ Deda said cheerfully.
The Heritage Trust. The local historic buildings preservation group, who had kept the Hall open to the public since the nineteen seventies.
His purchase a year ago had shut all commercial activities at the Hall down. There had been a picket at the end of the drive for a week in protest until he’d called in the police.
‘This is not what we agreed, Deda.’
‘I know what you’re about to say,’ his grandfather blustered, ‘but I changed my mind. Besides, no final decision was made.’
‘No, we talked about it when you moved in and we decided to leave the matter in my hands.’
‘And now it’s in Sybella’s,’ his grandfather said smugly.
Sybella.
Nik couldn’t help picturing one of the matronly women who had picketed the drive, in her husband’s oversized hunting jacket and wellington boots, face like the back of a shovel, shouting about British heritage and marching a troop of equally appalling kids through his grandfather’s home. When she wasn’t going through Deda’s papers and possibly siphoning his bank account.
This was not what he wanted to hear. He had a new pipe starting up in Archangelsk, which would keep him in the north for much of this year. Business was expanding and he needed to be on site.
But now he had a new problem: a white elephant of a property sitting up in the English Cotswolds he’d been ignoring for too long, currently housing his grandfather and apparently the local historical group.
Nik didn’t have time for this, but he knew he was going to have to make time.
‘And what does this Sybella have to do with the Heritage Trust when she’s not cooking and cleaning and herding children?’ he asked tightly.
His grandfather chuckled and delivered the coup de grâce. ‘She runs it.’
THE PRESIDENT OF the local branch of the Heritage Trust stood up, removed her glasses and announced somewhat dolefully to the committee members assembled that a legal document had been lodged this morning at the trust’s London office suspending any further activity of the trust in the Hall.
‘Does that mean we can’t use the empty gatehouse as a visitors’ centre?’ Mrs Merrywether wanted to know. ‘Because Sybella said we could.’
A dozen grey heads turned and Sybella found herself sinking a little lower in her chair, because she had indeed waved a letter around last month claiming they had the right.
But dodging responsibility wasn’t her way.
‘I can’t understand why this has happened,’ she told the meeting, feeling very guilty and responsible for the confusion that had gripped the room. ‘I’ll look into it and sort it out. I promise.’
Seated beside her Mr Williams, the retired local accountant, patted her arm. ‘We know you will, Sybella, we trust your judgement. You haven’t led us wrong once.’
There was a hum of agreement, which only made Sybella feel worse as she packed up her notes and made her usual early departure.
She had worked hard for twelve months to make Edbury Hall a place of life and activity for its new incumbent, Mr Voronov, and continue to earn its keep for the village. While this house might personally remind her of some grim stage set for a horror film starring Christopher Lee, the Hall also brought in its share of the tourist trade and kept the local shops turning over.
If this all collapsed it would affect everybody. And she would be responsible.
Rugging herself up in the boot room for her dash home, Sybella fished her phone out of her jeans back pocket and rang her sister-in-law.
Meg lived in a jaunty little semi-detached house on a busy road in Oxford, where she taught art to people with no real aptitude for painting and belly danced at a local Egyptian restaurant. She took off and travelled at the drop of a hat. Her life was possibly the one Sybella would have gravitated towards if life in all its infinite twists of fate hadn’t set her on another course, with much more responsibility and less room to move. Sybella considered Meg her best friend.
‘It’s the letters. I should have known,’ she groaned after a brief rundown on tonight’s meeting. ‘Nobody writes letters any more.’
‘Unless you’re a lonely seventy-nine-year-old man rattling around in a big empty house, trying to fill it with people,’ said Meg.
Sybella sighed. Every time something new occurred at the Hall Mr Voronov gave the same advice.
‘Just write to my grandson and let him know. I’m sure there will be no problems.’
So she had. She’d written just as she’d been writing every month for the past year detailing events at Edbury Hall.
Because she’d been too damn timid to face him on the phone.
She’d let her native shyness trip her up—again—and this was the tip, Sybella suspected, of a huge iceberg that was going to take her little ship out. She said as much, leaving out the bit about being a timid mouse. Meg didn’t cut you slack for being a mouse.