"I've got to go, Paula," Vivienne said hurriedly, after a short pause. "Daddy needs me in the stables. So I'll say good-bye now."

"Tell Sally to get in touch with me if she needs anything. Good-bye, Vivienne dear."

Paula stared at the phone for a long moment, reflecting on their conversation. Well, Sally was not in Ireland. More than likely she was not in London either, since it was not her favorite place. Could she still be in Yorkshire? If so, where? A phrase Vivienne had used echoed in her mind. She had referred to her sister as a wounded bird. A figure of speech to describe Sally's state? Or had it perhaps been an unconscious a.s.sociation in the girl's mind? Wounded birds tried to get back to their nests . . . Heron's Nest? Of course. Sally loved Scarborough, and many of her paintings were of the spots where they had spent so much time as children. That's where / would go if I wanted to hide, Paula said to herself. It's accessible, comfortable, the larder is always fully stocked, and old Mrs. Bonnyface has a set of keys.

Lifting the receiver, Paula started to dial Heron's Nest and then changed her mind. It would be infinitely kinder to leave Sally alone for the time being. Whether she was in Scarborough or not was irrelevant, really. The important thing was that she was nowhere near Clonloughlin, and this knowledge now eased Paula's anxiety about Sally Harte, of whom she was extremely fond.

"Paula?"

"Yes, Gaye?" Paula asked, leaning closer to the intercom.

"Sarah's arrived."

"Have her come in, Gaye, please."

A moment later Sarah Lowther was walking across the floor, the expression on her pale freckled face as purposeful as her step. She wore a bottle-green gabardine suit so beautifully cut it did wonders for her somewhat plumpish figure. Also, the color was a flattering contrast to her russet-red hair, which framed her face in luxuriant waves and softened her broad but not unattractive features.

"h.e.l.lo, Paula," she said briskly, coming to a halt in the center of the room. "You're looking well. Thinner than ever. I don't know how you do it... it's a struggle for me to lose an ounce."

Paula half-smiled and, brushing aside the personal comment, said, "Welcome back, Sarah." She stepped around the desk, kissed her cousin on the cheek. "Let's sit over there by the fire," she went on. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No. Thanks anyway." Sarah turned smartly oh her high heels and moved in the direction of the sofa. Seating herself in the corner nearest the fireplace, she leaned back, crossed her legs, and smoothed her skirt. She let her eyes rove over Paula, admiring the simplicity and elegance of the deep-purple wool dress. It was a marvel, and as head of the fashion division of Harte Enterprises Sarah knew it was by Yves Saint Laurent. Biting back the compliment which had sprung to her lips, she said, "Jonathan tells me the Irish lot are killing each other off ... I'm surprised Grandmother hasn't hotfooted it back here."

"That's not a very nice thing to say about Anthony, Sarah," Paula gently reproved, seating herself in a chair, frowning. "Min's death was an accident, and why should Gran come back? The whole thing's going to be over and done with by tomorrow at this time."

Sarah gave Paula an odd look, raised an auburn brow. "Let's hope you're right."

"Tell me about the opening of the new hotel and our first boutique," Paula said, neatly changing the subject.

Sarah remained silent.

Paula insisted, "Come on, I'm longing to hear all about it."

"It went off well," Sarah said at last. "But then why wouldn't it? I've worked very hard for months to ensure that it would. To tell you the truth, the whole trip was a hard grind. I was on my feet twenty-four hours a day. Miranda was tied up with the hotel, so I had to really buckle down, supervise the unpacking and pressing of the dresses, get the windows dressed, create eye-catching interior displays," she grumbled. "But the merchandise I selected turned out to be 5erfect, even though I do say so myself. My Lady Hamilton resses and resort wear appealed to everyone. They said the colors were fantastic, the fabrics superior, the designs bang on. We were jammed the day we opened, so we should do record business right through the season."

"Oh I am pleased," Paula said with enthusiasm, deciding to ignore Sarah's remarks about her contribution to the boutique, which, in all truth, had been negligible. She asked, "How's Merry?"

"All right, I suppose. I didn't see much of her. The O'Neills invited a plane load of celebrities to the hotel's 'gala opening weekend, so naturally she was busy rubbing noses with the famous."

Paula's back went up at this remark, which she deemed b.i.t.c.hy and uncalled for, but she wisely let it pa.s.s. "Did Shane fly down from New York?"

"Yes." .

"And?"

"And what?" Sarah asked, her voice turning huffy all of a sudden. She gave Paula a challenging stareand her face settled in cold lines.

Instantly struck by the dislike in Sarah's expression, Paula recoiled in surprise. Thrown though she was, she managed to say, "Surely you saw something of Shane and Uncle Bryan? Merry may have been rushed off her feet as head of public relations, but I can't believe the O'Neills ignored you. After all, they're family, and they're not like that."

"Oh yes, I was invited to the gala evenings. But I was generally too exhausted to enjoy them. I didn't have much fun at all. That side of it was a complete bust."

Sarah glanced into the fire, remembering her mortifying weekend of embarra.s.sment, acute disappointment. Shane had been cruel, ignoring her much of the time. And when he had deigned to notice her he had been offhand, patently disinterested in her as a woman. He wouldn't have treated Paula in such a rotten way, she thought miserably, sinking back into herself. An image of his face leapt out at her from the flames, his expression one of immense pa.s.sion and love. She blinked, wanting to expunge this from her mind. That look had not been for her, but for Paula . . . that terrible day of the christening . . .

She would never forget that look or that occasion. It was only then she had realized, to her horror and distress, that Shane O'Neill loved Paula Fairley. That's the real reason he has no time for me, she said silently. d.a.m.n Paula. I detest her. Jealousy rose up in Sarah so unexpectedly and with such force she kept her face averted, willing the emotion to go away, feeling faint and sick inside.

"Well, I'm sorry you didn't have a good time," Paula murmured, attempting to be gracious, yet asking herself what she had done to engender such sudden dislike in Sarah. Paula sat back and her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She had no reason to think that Sarah was lying about the gala weekend, but somehow she did. She considered Sarah's self-congratulatory remarks, her pleased tone when she had spoken of her hard work. How she exaggerated.

Paula could not resist adding, "So the work was grueling- that's retailing, you know, Sarah. And, let's face it, you were the one who insisted oh going to Barbados. If I-"

"And it's a jolly good thing I did, isn't it?" Sarah interjected peremptorily, tearing her gaze from the fire, swinging her head to glare at Paula. "Somebody had to be there to organize things. We'd have been in a nice mess if we'd relied on Merry, in view of her abdication of her duties. Of if we'd left things to chance as you wanted us to do."

Paula was further astonished by this criticism and the belligerence underlying the comment. Unwilling to let Sarah get away with it, she said with some sharpness, "That's most unfair of you. I had no intention of leaving anything to chance. I had intended to fly out there myself, until you made such a song and dance about going. Anyway, you don't have to worry about the other boutiques. I've hired Melanie Redfern from Harvey Nichols. She starts next week. She will be in charge of the Harte shops in all the O'Neill hotels, and she'll be working closely with me. And Merry, of course."

"I see." Sarah shifted her position and cleared her throat. "Actually, the main reason I came to see you today is to make you an offer."

"An offer?" Paula stiffened, wondering what Sarah was about to spring on her.

"Yes. I'd like to buy the boutiques for my division. There won't be any problem about money. We have stacks of spare cash. You see, in view of my considerable involvement with the boutiques, I'd like to

have them under my aegis, make them part of Lady Hamilton Clothes. So just name your price-I'll meet it.'

Flabbergasted though she was at Sarah's ridiculous proposition, Paula retorted swiftly, "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do that, as you well know. The boutiques belong to the Harte department store chain."

Sarah stared Paula down. Her expression hardened. "So what. I'm offering you an easy way to make a fast profit. And a big one. That should please you, since your eyes are eternally glued to the bottom of a balance sheet."

"I'd like to remind you that the Harte chain is a public company," Paula exclaimed, thinking that her cousin had taken leave of her senses. "I do have shareholders and a board of directors to answer to, in case this has escaped your notice."

Sarah smiled narrowly. "Don't talk to me about the board at Harte's. We all know about the board, my dear. It consists of Grandmother, you, your parents, Alexander, and a handful of old codgers who'll do anything you say. If you wanted to, you could easily sell me the boutiques. It's your decision. Don't expect me to believe otherwise. That board will acquiesce to your wishes no matter what, as they always did what Grandmother wanted in the past. She had them in her pocket, and so do you."

Paula fixed a pair of immensely cold eyes on her cousin, and her voice was equally icy, as she said, "Harte's has invested a great deal of money in the new shops, and I have personally devoted an incredible amount of time and effort to the project for many months. I therefore have no intention of selling them to you or to anyone else, even if the board sanctioned such a sale, which, believe me, they wouldn't, not at this stage. You see, Sarah, I want the boutiques for Harte's. They're part of our growth and expansion program. Also, I-"

"Your effort!" Sarah cried, seizing on this particular point. "That's a laugh. I've worked much harder than you, and I selected all of the merchandise. Under the circ.u.mstances, it's only fair that-"

"Stop right there!" Paula warned, her face revealing her growing annoyance and impatience. "I'm not sitting still for this nonsense, Sarah. Why, you're b.l.o.o.d.y preposterous. You walk in here, commence to criticize me, then try to take credit for the success of the Barbados shop . . . and at the moment that's a moot point. Only time will tell us how successful it really is. But getting back to your efforts, I think you have a real nerve. It just so happens that Emily has done a lot more for us than you. She purchased every single accessory, which was no mean feat, and I recall that 1 picked out every bit of beachwear. Furthermore, Merry and I selected all of the clothing from your company-not you. I'll concede that you made the best lines available at Lady Hamilton, and designed the special evening wear, and perhaps you have worked conscientiously for the past ten days. However, your contribution to the first boutique was minor, very minor indeed."

Paula rose and walked over to her desk and sat down behind it. She finished quietly, "As for trying to buy the boutiques from Harte's-" She shook her head wonderingly. "I can only add that that's the most foolish thing 'I've ever heard, especially coming from you, when you of all people know how Grandy has structured things. Look, if you want to get involved in a new project, maybe we can put our heads together-" Paula stopped, immediately regretted her conciliatory gesture. Sarah's coldness was more p.r.o.nounced than ever.

Sarah stood up without saying a thing. She made a beeline for the desk, stood facing Paula.

In a soft and uncommonly steady tone, Sarah said, "Grandmother might have other ideas about the boutiques. She may well like the idea of selling them to me. Has that occurred to you?" Not giving Paula a chance to reply, she continued in her oddly calm way, "Grandy's not dead yet, and if I know her, I bet she hasn't signed over her seventy percent of the shares in Harte's to you. Oh no, she's hanging on to those, , I'm quite certain, being as wily as she is. And so, as far as I'm concerned, she's still the boss lady around here. I want you to understand one thing . . . I'm not letting the matter rest here, with you. Oh no, not by a long shot. I fully intend to telex Grandy. Today, Paula. I shall apprise her of our meeting, my offer and your rejection of it. We'll see who really runs Harte stores, won't we?"

Paula gave her a regretful look through saddened eyes. "Send a telex. Send ten if you wish. You won't accomplish anything-"

"You're not the only grandchild Emma Harte has," Sarah cut in, her voice biting. "Although anyone would think it, the way you behave."

"Sarah, don't let's quarrel like this. You're being childish, and you've always known Harte's is a public-" Paula's sentence was left dangling in midair. Sarah had walked out. The door closed softly behind her.

Paula stared after her, shaking her head again, not yet fully recovered from her astonishment at Sarah's preposterous proposition and irrational att.i.tude. She sighed under her breath. Only two weeks ago she had remarked to Emily that tranquility had reigned supreme since their grandmother's departure in May.

I spoke too soon, Paula now thought, and she discovered that the most disturbing part of the meeting had been Sarah's blatant dislike of her. As Paula continued to contemplate her cousin's unexpected hostility, she asked herself if it signaled the beginning of open warfare.

Chapter Twenty-six.

Emily was awed.

"Just .look at this evening gown. It's absolutely exquisite," she said in hushed tones, lifting the garment out of the large box lined with layers and layers of tissue paper.

Alexander, lolling on the bed in one of the guest rooms in Emma's Belgrave Square flat, nodded in agreement. "It also looks as if it's in perfect condition." A fond smile glanced across his serious face as Emily glided into the middle of the floor and held it against herself, carefully.

The gown was a long, slender sheath of turquoise silk, entirely encrusted with thousands of tiny bugle beads in shades of pale blue and emerald green. Emily moved slightly and the dress undulated, the beads instantly changing color as they caught and held the light. The effect was dazzling.

c.o.c.king his head to one side, continuing to regard his sister intently, Alexander said, "You know, it contains all the colors of a summer sea in the South of France, and it certainly matches your eyes, Emily. What a pity you can't keep it, have it for yourself. It's not a bit outdated."

"Oh I know, and I'd love it, but it's far too valuable, really. Anyway, I couldn't do that to Paula. She needs the dress for her fashion exhibition next January."

"Has she found a name for that yet?"

"She's considering calling it Fashion Fantasia, with the subheading Fifty Years of Elegance and Style. I rather like it, don't you?"

"Yes." He watched Emily as she expertly folded the gown into the box and covered it with the tissue, remarking, "Imagine Gran keeping the evening dress all these years. It's easily forty-five years old, and it really pongs of mothb.a.l.l.s." He curled his nose in distaste, then added, "But I bet our Gran looked smashing in it, with her red-gold hair and green eyes."

Emily lifted her blond head. 'To say the least. And you're right about its age. Just before Gran left she said we'd find It in one of her cedar closets on the top floor, along with the other clothes. Gran told us she'd first worn it at the supper dance she gave for Uncle Frank and Aunt Natalie when they got engaged." Emily put the lid on the box, patted it down, glanced at her brother. "Do you know, there's even a pair of emerald satin slippers from Pinet to go with it, and they're in mint condition, too. They look as if they've been worn once or twice and that's all."

"Yes, everything's been so carefully preserved," Alexander observed, thinking of his canny grandmother's sense of thrift which was legendary. Swinging his legs off the bed, he ambled over to the long metal clothes rack positioned near the window, ran his hand along it,- Peering at the labels on the suits, dresses, and evening gowns, he read out loud, "Chanel, Vionnet, Balenciaga, Molyneux . . . these are all as good as new, Emily, and they must date back to the twenties and thirties."

"They do, and that's why they're essential for the exhibition. Several other women who are noted for their elegance- Best-Dressed List ladies-are loaning similar designer clothes to Paula, and they've all accepted her invitation to come to the c.o.c.ktail party at the store the night she opens the exhibition to the public."

Emily now crossed to the dressing table, picked up a typed sheet, made a notation, slipped the sheet into its folder and said, "Thanks for keeping me company, Sandy, while I checked everything off. Well, let's go downstairs, that's all I have time to do tonight. I promised to help Paula organize the rest of the clothes this weekend, since she's snowed under at the moment."

"Where is she, by the way?" Alexander asked, following Emily out of the guest room onto the second-floor landing. "Don't tell me shes still at the store."

"Oh no, she's here," Emily said over her shoulder, tripping down the staircase. "After we'd unpacked the clothes and hung them up to be checked for any minor repairs, she went to change her dress. She's probably popped into the old nursery."

Alexander pushed open the drawing room door for Emily, stepped inside after her. "Are the babies here too?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes, and Nora. Paula brought them to town with her on Monday afternoon. Oh look, Sandy, good old Parker's put out a bottle of white wine for us. Shall we have a gla.s.s now?" She rushed over to the console.

"Why not? Thanks, Emily." He took a chair near the fireplace, crossed his long legs and lit a cigarette, studying his sister as she poured the wine. Although she was of average height he generally thought of her as being small, perhaps because she was so delicately made, so daintily proportioned. He nodded to himself. Emily had turned into a very pretty young woman in the last few years. How mean he and his male cousins had been to little Emily when they were children, teasing her about her enormous appet.i.te and her totally spherical body, calling her Apple Dumpling. She was no longer anything like a dumpling. Tonight she resembled a pert china doll in the flattering pink wool dress. Some china doll, he added under his breath, ruminating on her tremendous physical and mental energy, wondering, as he so often did, where it came from. Their grandmother? Certainly it was not something she had inherited from their parents. Their mother was an indolent, bored, spoiled socialite without a serious thought in her head. Their father was a has-been who had never really made it in the first place-forever the failure. Poor Dad, he thought, he's without doubt the nicest, kindest chap I know. Alexander reminded himself to ring his father tomorrow to make a date for lunch or dinner. They didn't really see enough of each other these days.

"Gosh, Sandy, I didn't notice your lovely tan when' we were upstairs," Emily remarked, bringing him the gla.s.s of wine, scrutinizing him closely. She flopped onto the chair opposite. "You really look super. You should sit in the sun more often."

"What? And let Harte Enterprises go to rack and ruin? Not on your life." He raised his gla.s.s. "Sante."

"Cheers," said Emily, and after taking a sip, she asked, "Where's old Mag?"

"She went to Scotland this morning to look at a shooting lodge that's going up for sale. The owner wants the real estate firm she works for to handle it, so Maggie's about to be given the grand tour. If she likes it, it'll go on their books. G.o.d knows who'll buy it, though. Who on earth wants a shooting lodge in this day and age, I ask you?"

"A rich American," Emily suggested. "Have you set a date for your wedding?"

"June . . . possibly."

"That's not fair!" Emily wailed, her eyes flashing. "You know Winston and I are getting married in June. You'd better make sure Maggie checks with me before you set a firm date."

"We could have a double wedding," he said, and burst out laughing at her expression. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"If you don't know, then I'm not going to tell you," she retorted huffily. "On the other hand, perhaps I should."

"Forget that I said it. Anyway, 1 wasn't really serious."

"Yes, you were, and I shall tell you," Emily announced. "There are three good reasons. One: Every bride wants to be the center of attraction on her special day and she certainly can't be if there's another bride loitering around. Two: Gran would have a fit because she'd consider it icky . . . bad form. Three: We can't disappoint our grandmother, who's looking * forward to giving two big super-duper extra-special weddings with all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs next summer."

"You've convinced me, Emily-a double wedding is out of the question," he replied in a teasing voice. He sobered almost at once, drew on his cigarette, quickly stubbed it out, his gestures unexpectedly nervous.

Emily, forever the acute observer, exclaimed, "Is something the matter?"

"Paula' might have managed to nip one scandal in the bud-over in Ireland-but I'm afraid we have another one about to explode. It's-"

"Scandal," Paula repeated quietly, entering the room. She closed the door behind her and stood staring at Alexander and Emily with a worried expression.

"Paula," Alexander said, rising and going to greet her affectionately. "Let me get you a gla.s.s of wine, and then we'll have a little powwow before we go to the White Elephant."

Paula sat down on the sofa and her gaze followed him across the room. With a scowl she asked him, "What kind of scandal, Sandy?"

He brought her the drink, returned to the chair. "It's Mother again. I'm sorry to have to tell you both." His concerned eyes swung from Paula to Emily. "She rang me this morning from Paris sounding quite hysterical. Apparently Gianni Ravioli-"