The Prince’s Outback Bride
Marion Lennox

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CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

PROLOGUE

‘WE HAVE no choice.’ Princess Charlotte de Gautier watched her son in concern from where she rested on her day-bed. Max was pacing the sitting room overlooking the Champs-Elysées. He’d been pacing for hours.

‘We must,’ Charlotte added bleakly. ‘It’s our responsibility.’

‘It’s not our responsibility. The royal family of Alp d’Estella has been rotten to the core for generations. We’re well rid of them.’

‘They’ve been corrupt,’ Charlotte agreed. ‘But now we have the chance to make amends.’

‘Amends? Until Crown Prince Bernard’s death I thought I had nothing to do with them. Our connection was finished. After all they’ve done to you…’

‘We’re not making amends to the royal family. We’re making amends to the people of Alp d’Estella.’

‘Alp d’Estella’s none of our business.’

‘That’s not true, Max. I’m telling you. It’s your birthright.’

‘It’s not my birthright,’ he snapped. ‘Regardless of what you say now. It should have been Thiérry’s birthright, but their corruption killed Thiérry as it came close to killing you. As far as anyone knows I’m the illegitimate son of the ex-wife of a dead prince. I can walk away. We both can.’

Charlotte flinched. She should have braced herself earlier for this. She’d hoped so much that Crown Prince Bernard would have a son, but now he’d died, leaving…Max.

Since he was fifteen Max had shouldered almost the entire burden of caring for her, and he’d done it brilliantly. But now…She’d tried her hardest to keep her second son out of the royal spot-light—out of the succession—but now it seemed there was no choice but to land at least the regency squarely on Max’s shoulders.

Max did a few more turns. Finally he paused and stared down into the bustling Paris street. How could his mother ask this of him—or of herself for that matter? He had no doubt as to what this would mean to their lives. To put Charlotte in the limelight again, as the mother of the Prince Regent…

‘I do have a responsibility,’ Max said heavily. ‘It’s to you. To no one else.’

‘You know that’s not true. You have the fate of a country in your hands.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘No,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘Life’s not.’

He turned then. ‘I’m sorry. Hell, Mama, I didn’t mean…’

‘I know you didn’t. But this has to be faced.’

‘But you’ve given up so much to keep me out of the succession, and to calmly give in now…’

‘I’m not giving in. I admit nothing. I’ll take the secret of your birth to the grave. I shouldn’t have told you, but it seems…so needful that you take on the regency. And it may yet not happen at all. If this child can’t become the new Crown Prince…’

‘Then what? Will you want to tell the truth then?’

‘No,’ she said bluntly. ‘I will not let you take the Crown.’

‘But you’d let an unknown child take it.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ she said, almost eagerly. ‘He’s an unknown. With no history of hatred weighing him down…maybe it’s the only chance for our country.’

‘Our country?’

‘I still think of it as ours,’ she said heavily. ‘I might have been a child bride, but I learned early to love it as my own. I love the people. I love the language. I love everything about it. Except its rulers. That’s why…That’s why I need you to accept the regency. You can help this little prince. I know the politicians. I know the dangers and through you we can protect him. Max, all I know is that we must help him. If you don’t take on the regency then the politicians will take over. Things will get worse rather than better, and that’s surely saying something.’ She hesitated, but it had to be said. ‘The way I see it we have two choices. You accept the regency and we do our best to protect this child and protect the people of Alp d’Estella. Or we walk away and let the country self-destruct.’

‘And the third alternative?’ he asked harshly. ‘The truth?’

‘No. After all I’ve been through…You don’t want it and I couldn’t bear it.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I’m sorry. Of course not.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘But what to do now? You tell me this boy’s an orphan? That doesn’t mean that he’s friendless. Who’s to say whoever’s caring for him will let him take it on?’

‘I’ve made initial enquiries. His registered guardian is a family friend—no relation at all. She’s twenty-eight and seems to have been landed with the boy when his parents were killed. This solution provides well for him. She may be delighted to get back to her own life.’

‘I guess it’s to provide well for him—to let him take on the Crown at such an age. With you beside him…’

‘In the background, Mama. From a distance. I can’t take anything else on, regardless of what you ask.’ Max shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his chinos and, turning, stared once more into the street. Accepting what he’d been thinking for the last hour. ‘Maybe he’ll be the first decent ruler the country’s had for centuries. He can hardly be worse than what’s come before. But you’re right. We can’t let him do it alone. I’ll remain caretaker ruler until this child turns twenty-one.’

‘You won’t live there?’

‘No. If there wasn’t this family connection stipulation to the regency then I’d never have been approached. But Charles Mevaille’s been here this morning—Charles must have been the last non-corrupt politician in the country before the Levouts made it impossible for him to stay. He’s shown me what desperately needs to be done to get the country working. The law’s convoluted but it seems, no matter who my father was, as half-brother to the last heir I can take on the regency. As Prince Regent I can put those steps into place from here.’

‘And the child…’

‘We’ll employ a great nanny. I’ll work hard on that, Mama. He’ll be brought up in the castle with everything he could wish for.’

‘But…’ Charlotte hugged Hannibal—her part poodle, part mongrel, all friend—as if she needed the comfort of Hannibal’s soft coat. As indeed she did. ‘This is dreadful,’ she whispered. ‘To put a child in this position…’

‘He’s an orphan, Mama,’ Max said heavily. ‘I have no idea what his circumstances are in Australia, but you’re right. Once Alp d’Estella’s run well then this may well be a glorious opportunity for him.’

‘To be wealthy?’ Charlotte whispered. ‘To be famous? Max, I thought I’d raised you better than that.’

He turned back to face her then, contrite. ‘Of course you did. But as far as I can see, this child has no family—only a woman who probably doesn’t want to be doing the caring anyway. If she wants to stay with him then we can make it worth her while to come. If she doesn’t, then we’ll scour the land for the world’s best nanny.’

‘But you will stay here?’

‘I can’t stay in Alp d’Estella. Neither of us can.’

‘Neither of us have the courage?’

‘Mama…’

‘You’re right,’ she said bleakly. ‘We don’t have the courage, or I surely don’t. Let’s hope this little one can be what we can’t be.’

‘We’ll care for him,’ Max assured her.

‘From a distance.’

‘It’ll be okay.’

‘But you will take on the role as Prince Regent?’ She sighed. ‘I’m so sorry, Max. That’s thirteen years of responsibility.’

‘As you say, we don’t have a choice. And it could have been much, much worse.’

‘If I hadn’t lied…But I won’t go back on it, Max. I won’t.’

‘No one’s asking you to,’ he told her, crossing to her day-bed and stooping to kiss her. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘As long as this woman lets the child come.’

‘Why wouldn’t she?’

‘Maybe she has more sense than I did forty years ago.’

‘You were young,’ he told her. ‘Far too young to marry.’

‘So how old is old enough to marry?’ she demanded, momentarily distracted.

‘Eighty maybe?’ He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Or never. Marriage has never seemed anything but a frightful risk. How the hell would you ever know you weren’t being married for your money or your title?’ He shrugged. ‘Enough. Let’s get things moving. We have three short weeks to get things finalised.’

‘You’ll go to Australia?’

‘I can do it from here.’

‘You’ll go to Australia.’ She was suddenly decisive. ‘This is a huge thing we’re asking.’

‘We’re relieving this woman of her responsibility.’

‘Maybe,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘But we might just find a woman of integrity. A woman who doesn’t think money or a title is an enticement, either for herself or for a child she loves. Now wouldn’t that be a problem?’

CHAPTER ONE

A TRUCK had sunk in front of his car.

Wasn’t Australia supposed to be a sunburned country? Maxsim de Gautier, Prince Regent of Alp d’Estella, had only been in Australia for six hours, but his overwhelming impression was that the country was fast turning into an inland sea.

But at least he’d found the farm, even though it wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d envisaged a wealthy property, but the surrounding land was rough and stony. The farm gate he’d turned into had a faded sign hanging from the top bar reading ‘Dreamtime’. In the pouring rain and in such surroundings the name sounded almost defiant.

And now he could drive no further. There was some sort of cattle-grid across the track leading from road to house. The grid had given way and a battered truck was stranded, halfway across.

That meant he’d have to walk the rest of the way. Or swim.

He could sit here until the rain stopped.

It might never stop. The Mercedes he’d hired was luxurious enough but he’d been driving for five hours and flying for twenty-four hours before that, and he didn’t intend to sit here any longer.

Was there a back entrance to the farm? There must be if this truck was perpetually blocking the entrance. He rechecked the map supplied by the private investigators he’d employed to locate the child, but the map supplied him with one entrance only.

He’d come too far to let rain come between him and his goal. He’d have to get wet. Dammit, he shouldn’t need to, he thought, his sense of humour reasserting itself. Wasn’t royalty supposed to have minions who’d lie prone in puddles to save their prince from wet feet?

Where was a good minion when you needed one?

Nowhere. And he wasn’t royalty, at least not royalty from the right side of the blanket.

Meanwhile it was a really dumb place to leave a truck. He pushed open the Mercedes door and was met with a deluge. The hire-car contained an umbrella but it was useless in such a torrent. He was soaked before the door was fully open, and the sleet almost blinded him. Nevertheless he turned purposefully towards the house. It was tricky stumbling over the cattle-grid, but he pushed on, glancing sideways into the truck as he passed.

And stopped. Stunned. It wasn’t empty. The truck was a twoby-two seater and the back windows were fogged. The back seat seemed to be filled but he couldn’t make out what was there. But he could see the front seat. There were six eyes looking out at him—eyes belonging to a woman and a child and a vast brown dog draped over the woman’s knee. He stared in at them and they stared back, seemingly as stunned as he was.

This must be the Phillippa the investigators had talked of. But she was…different? The photograph he’d seen, found in a hunt of university archives, had been taken ten years ago. He’d studied it before he’d come. She was attractive, he’d decided, but not in the classic sense. The photograph had showed a smattering of freckles. Her burnt-red curls had looked as if they refused to be tamed. She was curvy rather than svelte, and her grin was more infectious than it was classically lovely. She and Gianetta had been at a university ball. The dress she’d been wearing had been simple, but it had had class.

But now…He recognised the freckles and the dusky red curls, but the face that looked at him was that of a woman who’d left the girl behind. Her face was gaunt, with huge shadows under her eyes. She looked as if she needed to sleep for a long, long time.

And the boy beside her? He had to be Marc. He was a black-haired, brown-eyed kid, dressed in a too-big red and yellow football guernsey. He looked as if he’d just had a growth spurt, skinny and all arms and legs.

He looked like Thiérry, Max thought, stunned. He looked like a de Gautier.

Max dredged up the memory of the report presented to him by the private investigators he’d hired before he came. ‘The boy’s guardian is Phillippa Donohue. They live on the farm in South Western Victoria that was owned by the boy’s parents before they were killed in a car crash four years ago. We’ve done a preliminary check on the woman but there’s not much to report. She qualified as a nurse but she hasn’t practised for four years. Her university records state that her mother died when she was twelve. She went through university on a means-tested scholarship and you don’t get one of those in Australia if there’s any money. As to her circumstances now…We’d need to visit and find out, but it’s a tiny farming community and anyone asking questions is bound to be noticed.’

So he knew little except this woman, as Marc’s guardian, stood between him and what the people of Alp d’Estella needed.

He didn’t know where to start.

She started. She reached over and wound the window a scant inch down so she could talk to him. Any lower and the rain would blast through and make the occupants of the truck as wet as he was.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ she demanded. ‘You’ll drown.’

This was hardly a warm welcome. Maybe she could invite him into the truck, he thought, but only fleetingly for it wasn’t an option. Opening the door would mean they’d all be soaked.

‘Where are you headed?’ she asked. She obviously thought he’d stopped to ask directions. As she would. Visitors wouldn’t make it here unless they badly wanted to come, and even then they were likely to miss the place. All he’d seen so far were sodden cows, the cattle-grid in which this truck was stuck, and a battered milkcan that obviously served as a mail box, stuck onto a post beside the gate. Fading lettering painted on the side said ‘D & G Kettering’.

D & G Kettering. The G would be Gianetta.

It was four years since Gianetta and her husband had died. He’d have expected the sign to be down by now.

What was this woman doing here? Hell, the agency had given him so little information. ‘Frankly we can see no reason why Ms Donohue is there,’ they’d said. ‘We suspect the farm must be substantial, giving her financial incentive to stay. We assume, however, that eventually the farm will belong to the boy, so there’s no security in her position. Given her situation, we suspect any approach by you to take responsibility will be welcome.’

They weren’t right about the farm being substantial. This farm looked impoverished.

He needed to tread carefully while he found out what the agency hadn’t.

‘I was searching for the Kettering farm,’ he told her. ‘I’m assuming this is it? Are you Phillippa Donohue?’

‘I’m Pippa, yes.’ Her face clouded. ‘Are you from the dairy corporation? You’ve stopped buying our milk. You’ve stopped our payments. What else can you stop?’

‘I’m not from the dairy corporation.’

She stared. ‘Not?’

‘I came to see you.’

‘No one comes to see me.’

‘Well, the child,’ he told her. ‘I’m Marc’s cousin.’

She looked out at him, astonished. He wasn’t appearing to advantage, he thought, but then, maybe he didn’t need to. He just needed to say what had to be said, organise a plane ticket—or plane tickets if she wanted to come—and leave.

‘The children don’t have cousins,’ she said, breaking into his thoughts with a brusqueness that hinted of distrust. ‘Gina and Donald—their parents—were both only children. All the grandparents are dead. There’s a couple of remote relations on their father’s side, but I know them. There’s no one else.’

But he’d been caught by her first two words. The children, he thought, puzzled. Children? There was only Marc. Wasn’t there?

‘I’m a relation on Marc’s mother’s side,’ he said, buying time.

‘Gina was my best friend since childhood. Her mother, Alice, was kind to me and I spent lots of time with them. I’ve never met any relations.’

She sounded so suspicious that he smiled. ‘So you think I’m with the dairy corporation, trying to sneak into your farm with lies about my family background? You think I’d risk drowning to talk to an unknown woman about cows?’

She stared some more, and slowly the corners of her mouth curved into an answering smile. Suddenly the resemblance to the old photograph was stronger. He saw for the first time why his initial impression from the photograph had been beauty.

‘I guess that would be ridiculous,’ she conceded. ‘But you’re not their cousin.’

Their cousin. There it was again. Plural. He didn’t understand, so he ploughed on regardless. ‘I am a relation. Gianetta and I shared a grandfather—not that we knew him. I’ve come from half a world away to see Marc.’

‘You’re from the royal part of the family?’ she said, sounding as if she’d suddenly remembered something she’d been told long since.

He winced. ‘Um…maybe. I need to talk to you. I need to see Marc.’

‘You’re seeing him,’ she said unhelpfully.

He looked at Marc. Marc looked back, wary now because he wasn’t understanding the conversation. He’d edged slightly in front of Pippa in a gesture of protection.

He was so like the de Gautiers it unnerved Max.

‘Hi,’ he told Marc. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

‘We’re not in a situation where visits are possible,’ she said, and her arm came around Marc’s skinny chest. They were protecting each other. But she sounded intrigued now, and there was even a tinge of regret in her voice. ‘Do you need a bed for the night?’

This was hopeful. ‘I do.’

‘There’s a guesthouse in Tanbarook. Come back in the morning after milking. We’ll give you a cup of coffee and find the time to talk.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

Her smile broadened. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s the best I can do. We’re a bit…stuck at the moment. Now, you need to find Tanbarook. Head back to the end of this road and turn right. That’s a sealed road which will get you into town.’

‘Thanks,’ he said but he didn’t go. They were gazing at him, Marc with curiosity and slight defensiveness, Pippa with calm friendliness and the dog with the benign observance of a very old and very placid mutt. Pippa was reaching over to wind up the window. ‘Don’t,’ he told her.

‘Don’t?’

‘Why are you sitting in a truck in the middle of a cattle pit?’

‘We’re stuck.’

‘I can see that. How long do you intend to sit here?’

‘Until the rain stops.’

‘This rain,’ he said cautiously, ‘may never stop.’ He grimaced as a sudden squall sent a rush of cold water down the back of his neck. More and more he felt like a drowned rat. Heaven knew what Pippa would be thinking of him. Not much, he thought.

That alone wasn’t what he was used to. Women normally reacted strongly to Maxsim de Gautier. He was tall and strongly built, with the Mediterranean skin, deep black hair and dark features of his mother’s family. The tabloids described him as drop-dead gorgeous and seriously rich.

But Pippa could see little of this and guess less. She obviously didn’t have a clue who he was. Maybe she could approximate his age—thirty-five—but it’d be a wild guess. Mostly she’d be seeing water.

‘Forty days and forty nights is the rain record,’ he told her. ‘I think we’re heading for that now.’

She smiled. ‘So if I were you I’d get back in your car and head for dry land.’

‘Why didn’t you go back to the house instead of waiting here in the truck?’

Until now Marc had stayed silent, watching him with wariness. But now the little boy decided to join in.

‘We’re going to get fish and chips,’ he informed him. ‘But the cattle-grid broke so we’re stuck. We have to wait ’til it stops raining. Then we have to find Mr Henges and ask him to pull us out with his tractor. Pippa says we might as well sit here and whinge ’cos it’s warmer here than in the house. We’ve run out of wood.’

‘The gentleman doesn’t need to know why we’re sitting here,’ Pippa told him.

‘But we’ve been sitting here for ages and we’re hungry.’

‘Shh.’

Marc, however, was preparing to be sociable. ‘I’m Marc and this is our Pippa and this is our dog, Dolores. And over the back is Sophie and Claire. Sophie has red hair ribbons and Claire’s are blue.’

Sophie and Claire. Over the back. He peered through the tiny slot of wound-down window. Yes, there were two more children. He could make out two little faces, with similar colouring to Marc. Cute and pigtailed. Red and blue ribbons. Twins?

Sophie and Claire. He hadn’t heard of any Sophie and Claire.

Were they Pippa’s? But they looked like Marc. And Pippa had red hair.

No matter. It was only Marc he needed to focus on. ‘I’m pleased to meet you all,’ he said. This was a crazy place to have a conversation, but he had to start introductions some time. ‘I’m Max.’

‘Hi,’ Pippa said and put her hand on the window winder again. Dismissing him. ‘Good luck. We may see you tomorrow.’

‘Can’t I help you?’

‘We’re fine.’

‘I could tow you.’

‘Do you have a tow-bar on your car?’

‘Um…no.’ It was a hire-car—a luxury saloon. Of course he didn’t. ‘Can I find Mr Henges and his tractor for you?’

‘Bert won’t come ’til the rain stops.’

‘You’re planning on sitting in the truck until then?’

‘Or until it’s time for milking.’

The thought of milking cows in this weather didn’t bear considering. ‘You don’t think maybe you could run back to the house, peel off your wet things, have a hot shower and…oh, I don’t know, play Happy Families until milking?’

‘It’s warmer here,’ Marc said.

‘But we want fish and chips,’ one of the little girls piped up from the back seat.

‘There’s bread,’ Marc said, in severe, big-brother tones. ‘We’ll make toast before milking.’

‘We want fish and chips,’ the other little girl whimpered. ‘We’re hungry.’

‘Shh.’ Pippa turned back to Max. ‘Can you move away so I can wind up the window? We’re getting wet.’

‘Sure.’ But Max didn’t move. He thought of all he’d come to say to this woman and he winced. Back home it had seemed simple—to say what needed to be said and walk away. But now, suddenly, it seemed harder. ‘Isn’t there anything I can do for you first?’

What was he saying? The easiest thing to do right now would be to walk away from the whole mess, he thought. Someone else could tell these people what they had to know. But then, he’d have to remember that he’d walked away for a long time.

‘We don’t need anything,’ Pippa told him, oblivious to his train of thought, and he dragged his attention back to the matter at hand. Truck stuck. Fish and chips.

‘I’m thinking I should talk to Marc about this,’ he said, focusing on food. ‘This is, after all, men’s business. Hunting and gathering. You were heading to the shops when your truck got stuck. Looking for fish and chips.’

‘Yes,’ said Marc, pleased at his acuity, and Sophie and Claire beamed agreement, anticipating assistance. ‘We’ve run out of food,’ Marc told him. ‘All we have left is toast. We don’t even have any jam.’

Right. He could do this. Jam and fish and chips. But not drowned like this.

‘I have a car that’s not stuck in a cattle-grid,’ he told them. ‘But I’m soaking wet. You have a house where I can dry off, and I’ve come a long way to visit you. Let’s combine. You let me use your house to change and I’ll go into town and buy fish and chips.’

‘We can’t impose on you,’ Pippa said. But she looked desperate, and he wondered why.

First things first. He had to persuade her to let him help. ‘I’m not an axe murderer,’ he told her. ‘I promise. I really am a relation.’

‘But…’

‘I’m Maxsim de Gautier. Max.’ He watched to see if there was recognition of the name, but she was too preoccupied to think of anything but immediate need—and maybe she’d never heard the name anyway. ‘I’d really like to help.’

Desperation faded—just a little. ‘I shouldn’t let you.’

‘Yes, you should. You don’t have to like me, but I’m definitely family, so you need to sigh and open the door, the way most families ask rum-soaked Uncle Bertie or similar to Christmas lunch.’

She smiled in return at that, a wobbly sort of smile but it was a welcome change from the desperate. ‘Uncle Bertie or similar?’

‘I’m not even a soak,’ he said encouragingly and her smile wobbled a bit more.

‘You have a great accent,’ she said inconsequentially. ‘It sounds…familiar. Is it Italian or French?’

‘Mostly French.’

‘You’re very wet.’

‘The puddle around my ankles is starting to creep to my knees. If you leave this decision much longer I’ll need a snorkel.’

She stared out at him and chewed her lip. Then she seemed to make a decision. ‘Fine.’

‘Fine what?’

‘Fine I’ll trust you,’ she managed. ‘The kids and I will trust you, but I’m not sure about Dolores.’ She hugged the dog tighter. ‘She bites relations who turn out to be axe murderers.’

‘She’s welcome to try. How will we organise this?’

‘My truck’s blocking your way to the house.’

‘So it is,’ he said cordially. ‘Why didn’t I notice that?’

Her decision meant that she’d relaxed a little. The lines of strain around her eyes had eased. Now she even choked back a bubble of laughter. ‘We need to run to the house. We’ll all be soaked the minute we get out of the truck.’

‘I assume you have dry clothes back at the house?’

‘Yes but…’

‘I’m bored of sitting in the truck,’ Marc said.

‘Me too,’ said Sophie.

‘Me too,’ said Claire.

‘Right,’ Pippa said, coming to a decision. ‘On the count of three I want everybody out of the truck and we’ll run back to the house as fast as we can. Mr de Gautier, you’re welcome to follow.’

‘I’ll do backstroke,’ he told her. ‘What’s your stroke?’

‘Dog-paddle.’ She pushed open the driver’s side door and dived into the torrent. ‘Okay, kids,’ she said, hauling open the back door and starting to lift them out.

‘Let me,’ he told her.

‘I’ll take the kids. You take Dolores.’

‘Dolores?’

‘She hates getting her feet wet,’ Pippa explained. ‘She’s had pneumonia twice so she has an excuse. I’ll carry her if I must but I have a sore back and as you’re here I don’t see why you shouldn’t be useful. After all, you are family.’

‘Um…okay,’ he managed, but that was all he could say before a great brown dog of indiscriminate parentage was pushed out of the cab and into his arms.

‘Don’t drop her,’ Pippa ordered. ‘And run.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

The house was two hundred yards from the gate, and, even though they ran fast, by the time they reached it they were all sodden. Max’s first impression was that it was a rambling weather board house, a bit down at heel, but it was unfair to judge when he saw everything through sleeting rain. And over one dog who smelled like…wet dog.

There was a veranda. Marc led the way. Pippa ran up the steps behind him, holding a twin by each hand. Max and Dolores brought up the rear. He’d paused to grab his holdall from his car, so he was balancing dog and holdall. Where were those servile minions? he thought again. Maybe accepting the crown could have its uses.

He wasn’t going there, minions or not. He reached the top step, set Dolores down, tossed his holdall into the comparative dry at the back of the veranda, mourned his minions for another fleeting moment, and then turned his attention to the little family before him.

At eight, Marc was just doing the transformation from cute into kid. Maybe he was tall for his age, Max thought, but what did he know about kids? He had the same jet black curls all the members of the Alp d’Estella royal family had, and big brown eyes and a snub nose with a smattering of freckles.

Sophie and Claire were different but similar. They were still not much more than tots, with glossy black curls tied into pigtails and adorned with bright ribbons that now hung limply down their back. They were cute and well rounded and they had a whole lot more freckles than their brother did.

They had to be Marc’s sisters, Max thought, cursing his PI firm for their lack of information. But then, what had his brief been? Find Marc and report on where he was living and who was taking care of him. Nothing about sisters.

But surely the powers that be back in Alp d’Estella must know of these two? They’d certainly known of Marc.

Marc was drying himself, towelling his face with vigour. The twins were being towelled by Pippa. All three children were regarding him cautiously from under their towels.

They were bright, inquisitive kids, he thought. Pippa said something to them and they giggled.

Nice kids.

He shouldn’t stare.

Pippa was stripping off the girls’ outer clothes. She tossed him a towel from a pile by the door. He started to dry his face but was brought up short.

‘That’s for Dolores.’

‘Sorry?’ He looked blank and she sighed.

‘Dolores. Pneumonia. Prevention of same. Please can you rub?’

‘Um…sure.’ He knelt as she was kneeling but instead of undressing kids he was towelling dog. Dolores approved. She rubbed herself ecstatically against the towel, and when he turned her to do the front half she showed her appreciation by giving him a huge lick, from his chin to his forehead. She was big and all bone—a cross between a Labrador and something even bigger. A bloodhound? In dog years she looked about a hundred.

‘She’s kissing you,’ four-year-old Sophie said, and giggled. ‘That means she likes you.’

‘I’ve had better kisses in my day,’ he said darkly.

‘Let’s not go there, Cousin Max,’ Pippa muttered. ‘Otherwise I’ll think axe again.’

‘No kissing,’ Max agreed with alacrity and towelled Dolores harder. ‘You hear that, Dolores? Keep yourself respectable or the lady with the axe knows what to do.’

Pippa chuckled. It was a great chuckle, he thought. He towelled Dolores for a while longer but he was watching Pippa. She was wearing ancient jeans and a windcheater with a rip up one arm. Her close-cropped, coppery curls were plastered wetly to her head, and droplets of rainwater were running down her forehead. She wore no make-up. She’d been wearing huge black wellingtons and she’d kicked them off at the top of the stairs. Underneath she was wearing what looked like football socks. The toe was missing from one yellow and black sock, and her toe poked pinkly through.

Very sexy, he thought, smiling inwardly, but then he glanced at her again and thought actually he was right. She was sexy but she was a very different sort of sexy from the women he normally associated with.

Where was he going with this? Nowhere, he told himself, startled. He was here to organise the succession; nothing more.

The kids were undressed to their knickers now. ‘The quickest way to warm is to shower and we’ll do it in relays,’ Pippa was saying. She motioned to a door at the end of the veranda. ‘That’s the bathroom. The kids can shower first. Then me. I’m sorry, Mr de Gautier, but in this instance it needs to be visitors last. Stay here until I call. We’ll be as quick as we can.’

‘What about Dolores?’

‘She can go through to the kitchen if she wants,’ Pippa said, holding the door open for the dog. ‘Though if you really want I guess she could shower with you.’ She smiled again, a lovely, laughing smile that made these bleak surroundings seem suddenly brighter. ‘Bathing Dolores usually takes a small army, but thanks for offering. Good luck.’

He didn’t shower with the dog. Dolores disappeared as soon as the kids did, leaving Max to wait alone on the veranda. Maybe Dolores had a warm kennel somewhere, Max thought enviously as the wind blasted its way through his wet clothes. Wasn’t Australia supposed to be warm?

Luckily the kids and Pippa were faster than he expected. Pippa reappeared within five minutes, dressed in a pink bathrobe with her hair tied up in a tattered green towel. She tossed him a towel that wasn’t quite as frayed as the one he’d used for Dolores.

‘I assume you have dry clothes in your bag,’ she said and he nodded.

‘Lucky you,’ she said. ‘Everything here is wet. It’s been raining for days. Shower’s through there. Enjoy.’

Everything here was wet? Didn’t she have a dryer? He thought about that while standing under the vast rose shower hanging over the claw-foot bath in the ancient bathroom. Everything he’d seen so far spoke of poverty. Surely Marc—and the girls?—were well provided for?

Alice, Gianetta’s mother, had cut off all ties to her family back in Europe. ‘She married well,’ he’d been told. ‘Into the Australian squattocracy.’ But then, that had been his father speaking, and his father treated the truth with disdain.

Up until now Max hadn’t been interested to find the truth for himself, but if these children’s maternal grandmother had married into money there was nothing to show for it now.

There were questions everywhere. He showered long enough to warm up; he dried; he foraged in his holdall and dressed in chinos and an oversized sweater that he’d almost not packed because Australia was supposed to be warm. Then he set out to find them.

The bathroom led to what looked like a utility room. A door on the far side of the utility room led somewhere else, and he could hear children’s voices close by. He pushed it with caution and found himself in the farmhouse kitchen. Here they were, the children in dressing gowns and slippers and Pippa in jeans and another windcheater. The cuffs of her windcheater looked damp, he thought. What had she said? Everything was wet? Where the hell was a dryer? Or a fire of some sort?

The kitchen was freezing.

Pippa and the kids were seated at the table, with steaming mugs before them. Dolores was under the table, lying on a towel.

‘Get yourself warm on the inside as well as the outside before we send you off as hunter gatherer,’ Pippa said, and she smiled. It was a great smile, he thought, astonishing himself with the intensity of his reaction. In her ancient windcheater and jeans she looked barely older than the kids. The oversized windcheater made her look flat-chested and insignificant. But still it was a killer of a smile. Something inside him reacted when she smiled.

That was a crazy thing to think right now. He needed to figure things out. Too many kids for a start. And this place…Despite the shower and his thick sweater he felt himself starting to shiver. The temperature was as low as outside. Which was pretty low.

‘Hot chocolate?’ Pippa offered. She was using a small electric cooker top. Beside the cooker top was a much larger stove. AnAga.

They had an Aga and didn’t have it lit?

‘We don’t have wood,’ she said, seeing what he was looking at and guessing what he was thinking.

‘I know. Marc mentioned it earlier. Why not?’

‘Pippa hurt her back,’ Marc volunteered. ‘So she can’t chop wood. There’s a dead tree in the far paddock and Pippa cuts it up when we run out but she can’t cut any more until her back gets better.’

‘What happened to your back?’

‘She fell off the roof,’ Marc said, sounding severe for his eight years. ‘Trying to nail roofing iron back on. I told her she’d fall off and she did.’

‘I didn’t have much choice,’ Pippa said with a trace of defiance. She was talking to Marc as she’d talk to an adult. ‘If I hadn’t we’d be in water up to our necks right now.’

‘It was scary,’ Sophie—was Sophie the red ribbons?—informed Max. ‘It was really, really windy. Marc was yelling at her to come down.’

‘And then some roof came off and she fell,’ Claire added, relishing an exciting story. ‘Sophie screamed but I didn’t and Pippa grabbed the edge of the roof and hung on. And she cut her hand and it bled and we had to put a bandage onto it.’

‘I told her not to do it,’ Marc muttered darkly.

What was going on here? Guardian and kids, or four kids?

‘I won’t do it again,’ Pippa told Marc, reaching out to ruffle his dark hair. ‘It’s fixed.’ He looked over to Max. ‘How are you related to the kids?’

‘I believe Marc’s grandmother, Alice, was my aunt.’

‘I remember GrandmaAlice.’ Marc nodded. ‘She died just before Mama and Daddy were killed and we were really sad. She said we had royal cousins, but she said they were a bad lot.’ He thought about it and drank some of his chocolate. ‘I don’t know what a bad lot is.’

‘I hope I’m not a bad lot.’

‘But you’re royal. Like a king or something.’

‘I’m on the same side of the family as you.’

‘Not on the bad lot side?’

‘No.’

The girls—and Pippa—were listening to this interchange with various levels of interest. Now Sophie felt the need to interrupt.

‘I’m really very hungry,’ she said soulfully—martyr about to die a stoic death—and Pippa handed Max his hot chocolate, glanced at Claire who’d gone quiet and made a decision.

‘Um…can the family-tree thing wait? If you really are family…Actually we are in a bit of trouble,’ she confessed. ‘We don’t have anything to eat.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Toast. But no butter. And no jam.’

‘You believe in putting off shopping to the last minute.’

‘We tried to put it off ’ til the rain stopped. But it didn’t.’

‘I see.’ Though he didn’t see.

‘Could you really go into town and pick up a few supplies?’

‘Of course. You could come with me if you like.’

‘All of us?’ Pippa asked.

He did a quick head count. Maybe…

‘Including Dolores.’

He looked down at Dolores—a great brown dog, gently steaming and wafting wet dog smell through the kitchen.

‘Maybe I’m fine by myself,’ Max said.

She chuckled, a nice chuckle that might have had the capacity to warm the kitchen if it wasn’t so appallingly cold. Then she eyed him appraisingly. ‘You’ll get wet again, walking back to your car. That’s not exactly wet-weather gear.’

‘Lend him Daddy’s milking gear,’ Marc piped up. ‘He’s bigger than Daddy but he might fit.’

‘He can wear Daddy’s gumboots,’ Sophie offered.

‘Gumboots?’

‘That’s Australian for wellingtons,’ Pippa said.

‘He needs an umbrella,’ Claire added. Like all of them she’d been staring at Max with caution, but she’d obviously reached a decision. ‘He can use my doggy umbrella.’ She fetched it from near the back door, opened it and twirled it for inspection. Pale pink, it had a picture of an appealing puppy on every panel. ‘You’ll look after it,’ she said, as one conferring a huge level of trust.

Great, Max thought. Prince Regents wearing wellingtons and carrying umbrellas with dogs? Thankfully the paparazzi were half a world from here.

There was so much here that he hadn’t expected. Actually nothing was what he’d expected. Except Marc. Marc looked just like Max’s brother. Which was great. It made things almost perfect.

Except…It made his gut do this lurching kind of thing. A kid who looked like Thiérry…

He glanced at Marc again and Pippa intercepted the look. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Why were you looking at Marc?’

‘I was wondering why he was dark when you’re a redhead.’ He knew the relationship but it didn’t hurt to check.

‘Pippa’s not related to us,’ Marc told him. ‘She’s our friend.’

‘Pippa’s our aunty,’ Sophie volunteered, but Marc shook his head.

‘No, she’s not. She and Mummy were friends and Pippa promised she’ll look after us, just like a real aunty. But she’s not our real aunty.’

‘I wish she was,’ Claire whispered.

‘I’m just as good as an aunty,’ Pippa said stoutly. ‘Only bossier. More like a mother hen, really.’ She was staring across the table at him as she spoke, her voice…challenging? Max met her look head-on. Had she guessed why he was here?

He had to tell her, but let it come slowly, he thought. It’d be easy to get a blank no, with no room to manoeuvre. Surely the poverty he saw in this place meant he’d at least get a hearing.

Meanwhile…‘Where’s this wet-weather gear?’

‘I’ll show you.’ Pippa produced a battered purse and handed over two notes and a couple of coins. ‘Our budget for the rest of the week is thirty-two dollars, fifty cents,’ she told him. ‘Can you buy fish and chips and bread, jam, some dried pasta and a slab of cheap cheese? Spend the change on dog food. The cheapest there is.’

He stared down at the notes and coins in disbelief. ‘You’re kidding,’ he said finally, and she flushed.

‘We’re momentarily broke,’ she admitted. ‘Our vats were found to be contaminated. It’s only low level—we’re still drinking our milk—but it’s bad enough to stop sales. We need a week’s clear testing before the dairy corporation will buy our milk again.’

‘But we can’t afford new vats,’ Marc interjected. ‘Pippa says we’re up the creek without a paddle.’ He sounded almost cheerful but Max saw Pippa wince and realised there was real distress behind those words.

‘That’s not Mr de Gautier’s problem,’ Pippa said, gently reproving. ‘But we do have to pull in our belts. Mr de Gautier, I’d appreciate if you could do our buying for us, but that’s all we need. We’ll be fine.’

‘Will you be fine without fruit?’ he asked, staring at the list in disapproval. ‘What about scurvy?’

‘No one gets scurvy if they go without for only a week.’

‘No, but…’ He searched her face for a long moment, seeing quiet dignity masking a background of desperation. What on earth was she doing here? She seemed to be stuck on an almost derelict farm with three kids who weren’t hers and a dog who’d seen better days. The investigators said there was no blood tie. Why hadn’t she walked away?

Until now this had seemed easy. He’d expected to be back on a plane by the end of the week. With Marc. Maybe with Pippa as well. It could still happen, but that jutting chin prompted doubts. The little girls prompted more. Plus the way the dog was draped so she was touching everyone’s feet.

Enough. He squared his shoulders and accepted an umbrella. Doubts had to wait. He had to go shopping.

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