uncomfortable as Greg had yet seen him. For a moment he thought it was the illness. But the old man’s mind was flush with an emotion verging on guilt. Walshaw had turned away, Uninterested. Diplomatic.
“The second...” Philip Evans nodded vaguely at the window. “That lad out there.. Adrian, I think his name is. Julia seems quite taken with him. Leastways, she doesn’t talk of hardly anything else. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t object to him, not if he makes her happy. Nothing I want more than to see her smiling, she’s my world. It’s just that I don’t want her hurt. Now, I know you can’t expect eternal commitment, not at that age, and he seems pleasant enough. But make sure she’s not just another tick in his stud diary. Life’s going to be tough enough for her, being my heir, she surely doesn’t deserve bad-news boyfriends as well.”
CHAPTER 4
There was a dinner jacket waiting for Greg in the guest suite after he’d finished bathing. It fitted perfectly. He put it on, feeling foolish, then went out to find his host. At least he had remembered how to do up his bow tie.
The lights throughout the majority of Wilholm’s rooms were old-fashioned electric bulbs, drawing their power from solar panels clipped over the splendid Collyweston slates. He had to admit that biolums’ pink-white glow wouldn’t have done the classical decor justice. Evans had obviously gone to a lot of trouble recreating the old building’s original glory.
The ageing billionaire chortled at the sight of Greg as he waited for his powerchair on the east wing’s landing, flushed and fingering his starched collar. “Almost respectable looking, boy.” The powerchair stopped in front of him. Evans cocked his head, taking stock. “I hope you know which knives to use. I can hardly pass you off as my aide if you start savaging your avocado with a soup spoon, now can I?”
Greg wasn’t sure if the old man was mocking him or the marvellously doltish niceties of table etiquette, so religiously adhered to by England’s upper-middle classes—what was left of them. Probably both.
“I was an officer,” Greg countered. Not that he’d graduated from Sandhurst, nothing so formal. It was what the Army had called a necessity promotion, all the Mindstar candidates were captains—some obscure intelligence division commission. A week of learning how to accept salutes, and three months’ solid slog of data interpretation and correlation exercises.
“Course you were, m’boy; and a gentleman too, no doubt.”
“Well, I always took my socks off before, if that’s what you mean,” Greg said.
Evans laughed approvingly. “Wish I had you on my permanent staff. So many bloody woofter yes-men—”
The chair took off towards the main stairs at a fast walking pace. The old man looked much improved since the afternoon. Greg wondered how he’d pay for that later.
The three teenagers were heading for the stairs from the manor’s west wing. Evans waited at the top for them. The taller girl bent over and gave his cheek a soft kiss, studying his face carefully. There was genuine concern written on her features.
“Now, you’re not going to stay up late,” she said primly. It wasn’t a question.
“No.” Evans was trying hard to make it come out grumpy, but fell miserably short. Her presence resembled a fission reaction, kindling a fierce glow of pride in his mind. “Greg, this is Julia, that wayward grandchild I’ve been telling you about.”
Julia Evans nodded politely, but didn’t offer her hand. Apparently her grandfather’s employees didn’t rate anything more than fleeting acknowledgement. In silent retaliation Greg tagged her as a standard-issue spoilt brat.
Actually, he acknowledged she was quite a nice-looking girl. Tall and slender, with a modest bust, and her fine, unfashionably long hair arranged in an attractive wavy style that complemented a pleasant oval face. She wore a slim plain silver tiara on her brow, and a
“The second...” Philip Evans nodded vaguely at the window. “That lad out there.. Adrian, I think his name is. Julia seems quite taken with him. Leastways, she doesn’t talk of hardly anything else. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t object to him, not if he makes her happy. Nothing I want more than to see her smiling, she’s my world. It’s just that I don’t want her hurt. Now, I know you can’t expect eternal commitment, not at that age, and he seems pleasant enough. But make sure she’s not just another tick in his stud diary. Life’s going to be tough enough for her, being my heir, she surely doesn’t deserve bad-news boyfriends as well.”
CHAPTER 4
There was a dinner jacket waiting for Greg in the guest suite after he’d finished bathing. It fitted perfectly. He put it on, feeling foolish, then went out to find his host. At least he had remembered how to do up his bow tie.
The lights throughout the majority of Wilholm’s rooms were old-fashioned electric bulbs, drawing their power from solar panels clipped over the splendid Collyweston slates. He had to admit that biolums’ pink-white glow wouldn’t have done the classical decor justice. Evans had obviously gone to a lot of trouble recreating the old building’s original glory.
The ageing billionaire chortled at the sight of Greg as he waited for his powerchair on the east wing’s landing, flushed and fingering his starched collar. “Almost respectable looking, boy.” The powerchair stopped in front of him. Evans cocked his head, taking stock. “I hope you know which knives to use. I can hardly pass you off as my aide if you start savaging your avocado with a soup spoon, now can I?”
Greg wasn’t sure if the old man was mocking him or the marvellously doltish niceties of table etiquette, so religiously adhered to by England’s upper-middle classes—what was left of them. Probably both.
“I was an officer,” Greg countered. Not that he’d graduated from Sandhurst, nothing so formal. It was what the Army had called a necessity promotion, all the Mindstar candidates were captains—some obscure intelligence division commission. A week of learning how to accept salutes, and three months’ solid slog of data interpretation and correlation exercises.
“Course you were, m’boy; and a gentleman too, no doubt.”
“Well, I always took my socks off before, if that’s what you mean,” Greg said.
Evans laughed approvingly. “Wish I had you on my permanent staff. So many bloody woofter yes-men—”
The chair took off towards the main stairs at a fast walking pace. The old man looked much improved since the afternoon. Greg wondered how he’d pay for that later.
The three teenagers were heading for the stairs from the manor’s west wing. Evans waited at the top for them. The taller girl bent over and gave his cheek a soft kiss, studying his face carefully. There was genuine concern written on her features.
“Now, you’re not going to stay up late,” she said primly. It wasn’t a question.
“No.” Evans was trying hard to make it come out grumpy, but fell miserably short. Her presence resembled a fission reaction, kindling a fierce glow of pride in his mind. “Greg, this is Julia, that wayward grandchild I’ve been telling you about.”
Julia Evans nodded politely, but didn’t offer her hand. Apparently her grandfather’s employees didn’t rate anything more than fleeting acknowledgement. In silent retaliation Greg tagged her as a standard-issue spoilt brat.
Actually, he acknowledged she was quite a nice-looking girl. Tall and slender, with a modest bust, and her fine, unfashionably long hair arranged in an attractive wavy style that complemented a pleasant oval face. She wore a slim plain silver tiara on her brow, and a
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