Jared was not unduly concerned, mounting the steps to the building with unhurried deliberation. A slat-roofed verandah, overgrown with creeper, gave into the single apartment, a typical beach-house room, with equal space for cooking and sleeping facilities. It was the kind of accommodation used for picnics or weekends, where one could ignore the sand on one's feet and disregard the salt stains on the worn furniture. In one respect it differed from thousands of others like it; the walls were stacked with canvases, one leaning against the other, and easels and painting equipment of all kinds littered what floor space was left. But for all that, Jared liked it, it suited his purpose very well on occasion, and provided an ideal bolthole when his stepmother filled the house with people. He could work here, and he always kept plenty of tinned food on the premises so that he need not be disturbed. If the sleeping facilities were not what he was used to, they at least were adequate.
Now, he dumped the surfboard beside several others in one corner of the room, and crossed to take a can of lager from a gas-cooled refrigerator near the sink. All cooking and lighting appliances were fed by a gas cylinder, but he had had water laid on when the beach house was first built ten years ago.
Standing by the window, looking out on the stretch of sand which tapered away towards the water's edge, he drank deeply from the can, savouring the ice-cold liquid. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he reflected without enthusiasm on the responsibility ahead of him. Having charge of a young woman already out of her teens seemed an unnecessary encumbrance, and while he appreciated the compliment Jack Fulton had paid him by putting his daughter into his care, he could have wished it were otherwise.
The one occasion he had previously encountered Catherine Fulton had not endeared her to him. At fourteen, she had been a spoilt and precocious adolescent, already aware of her potential, and not above trying her wiles on a man twice her age. Jared had taken an inordinate amount of pleasure in setting her down, and he doubted she had ever forgiven him for that. But her father had been a close friend, and no doubt, without that recurring heart trouble, would never have considered making these emergency arrangements which had come into operation when he died. As it was, Catherine could not touch a penny of the not inconsiderable sum her father had left her until she was twenty-one, which was still some six months away, and Jared had had little choice but to suggest that she came out to Barbados and stayed with him until she gained her inheritance.
He might not have done this—indeed, his inclinations were to allow her to go her own way, except for the letter which Jack had left for him. In it, her father had expressed his own anxieties about the company his daughter was keeping, and his fears that she might marry someone only after her money.
The idea of coming to Barbados had not met with a great deal of approval, he had gathered from her solicitors, via his own. Miss Fulton was apparently enjoying a full and satisfying life in London, and had little desire to spend six months vegetating on an island, Caribbean or otherwise. Besides, she had also let it be known, there was someone, some young man, she preferred not to leave at this time. Royal couldn't help but speculate whether this was the doubtful company her father had been so concerned about.
In the event, he determined that he would not advance her funds to remain in England. He could not possibly maintain any kind of control over her affairs there. So she had had to make the necessary arrangements to leave. That she was due at Seawell this afternoon was a matter of some aversion to him. Remembering the objectionable child she had been, he was not looking forward to his unaccustomed duties as unwilling guardian.
Finishing his lager, he dropped the can into the waste bin and let himself out of the beach house. He didn't lock the door. This beach was private, and besides, apart from the canvases, there was nothing of any value to steal.
He mounted the steps to the cliff top and found Sylvester dozing behind the wheel of a sleek cream Mercedes convertible. But some sixth sense seemed to warn the old man-servant of his approach, and he straightened up as Royal neared the car.
‘You can go now, Sylvester,’ his employer told him dryly. ‘I'll follow on.'
‘Miz Elizabeth sent me to tell you that it's after eleven, Mr Royal. She says that young lady is arriving at two.'
‘Two-thirty, actually,’ responded Jared, lightly touching the bonnet of the vehicle and feeling the red-hot heat of the metal send shafts of fire through his fingers. He thrust his hand into the pocket of his shorts and drew out a small case of cheroots. ‘Do you have a light?'
Sylvester handed him the automatic lighter from the dash, with unconcealed impatience. ‘You don't have time to stand here smoking cigars, Mr Royal,' he exclaimed reprovingly. ‘Miz Elizabeth sent me to find you thirty minutes ago!'
His employer ignored him, turning to regard the ocean from the clifftop. It was a magnificent sight and one of which Jared never grew tired. Beyond the reef, the Atlantic surged in all its restless splendour, the creaming line of surf like a bracelet of pearls edging infinity. There was a greeny-blue haze on the horizon and no one could clearly distinguish where the ocean ended and the sky began.
‘Well, I'm going now, Mr Royal.'
Sylvester started the Mercedes’ engine, and the other man swung round to regard him with a wry smile. ‘You do trust me to follow on, then?'
Sylvester sighed. He was not unused to coming down here looking for his employer. He had been doing so for years, since long before old Mr Royal died and his son became the master of the household. It had been a great disappointment to the old man when his only offspring had shown no interest in the business he had built up throughout his lifetime, and preferred painting to any other pursuit. The fact that his son had become extremely successful in his own field had softened the blow a little, but now that the old man was dead, his widow ran the stables quite efficiently with the help of a manager, deferring to her stepson only in the matter of finance.
‘I think you should use a car, Mr Royal,’ Sylvester said now, shaking his head at the motor-cycle thrown carelessly into the shade of the palms that grew in varying heights beside the track. ‘Those things—they're for roughnecks, not for a Royal of Amaryllis!'
His employer hid his amusement, as putting the cheroot between his teeth, he went to haul up the motor-cycle and straddle it comfortably. ‘What could be more enjoyable on a day like today than riding through the countryside with the wind cooling your body?'
‘You get plenty of wind blowing at you in this here vehicle!’ retorted Sylvester. ‘What for there's those three limousines up at the house never get used? You wouldn't go to meet that young lady this afternoon on that bicycle, would you?'
Jared Royal grinned, putting up a hand to tug at the thick black hair which was overly long, and which, together with his lack of attire, gave him a piratical appearance. ‘Now that's quite an idea, Sylvester—'
‘You wouldn't!’ Sylvester was horrified, and Royal hastened to reassure him.
‘No. I guess she might have some objections to her cases hanging over the side,’ he mocked, and Sylvester released the Mercedes’ brake.
‘Your father would turn in his grave if he knew the way you carried on!’ he said as his final expression of indignation, and Jared was still smiling as he started the motor-cycle and followed him.
The distance between Flintlock beach and the Royal house was some five miles by road, but on the motor-cycle he could halve that distance by cutting across the paddocks. The horses were used to the noise the motor-bike made, and only the older servants found their master's behaviour a subject for disapproval. But they forgave him, because young and old alike adored the man who since he was a boy had made no distinction between himself and his employees.
He arrived back at the house fully five minutes before Sylvester, and dumping the motor-cycle near the garages, he walked through the patio area at the back of the house, and in through french windows.
His bare feet made little sound against the tiled floor of the morning room, and he emerged into the hall without encountering anyone. But as he mounted the wide marble staircase to the first floor footsteps sounded in the hall below, and a woman's voice called: