Heaven Sent by Alice Duncan Page A

lurking under furniture and
hiding behind corners and leaping on him unawares. The cat seemed
to consider attacking Aubrey’s feet one of the great pleasures in
life. Aubrey disagreed, although he hadn’t gone so far as to kick
the beast yet.
    He made it to his office
after fending off the cat, removed his coat and threw it on the
sofa, and seated himself behind his desk. As he did so, he growled,
“ Mister Monster,
my hind foot. The animal ought to be dispatched as a menace to
society. It’s a menace to my society, however much Miss Prophet
likes to say he’s a benevolent creature.”
    He didn’t mean it. If Monster were to
go away, Becky would be grief stricken. Aubrey didn’t think he
could bear to see her unhappy again, although he wasn’t altogether
sure he approved of the renewal of her spirits having been
accomplished by Miss Callida Prophet and an insane cat. He, as
Becky’s father, ought to have been the one who’d comforted her and
soothed her grief.
    With a sigh, Aubrey burdened his
conscience with the same reproach that had bothered him for months
and months: He’d failed his daughter. He, who should have showered
her with tenderness and understanding during her time of great
loss, had withdrawn into his own selfish melancholy and ignored
her.
    The unfortunate truth was, though,
that he hadn’t a clue bow to deal with children. Not even Becky,
whom he loved beyond anything.
    However, Miss Prophet, for all her
faults—and she had hundreds of them—had eased his mind, if not his
conscience, a good deal when it came to Becky. He applauded himself
for having had the forethought to hire a nanny. Miss Prophet might
be the bane of his own existence, but she’d been Becky’s salvation.
In truth, when he didn’t want to kill her with his bare hands, he
appreciated her.
    For several days now, it had been
difficult for Aubrey to remove his thoughts from Miss Prophet and
Becky and concentrate on his Oriental imports business, but he
always managed to do it. He might know nothing about children, but
he knew his business inside and out, and he aimed to do that right,
if nothing else. Therefore, this morning, as every morning, he
cleared his mind of irrelevancies—if his child could be considered
an irrelevancy—and concentrated on Chinese vases, Persian rugs,
Siamese wall hangings, and Indian teas.
    He’d been working at his desk for an
hour or two when Figgins knocked at the door and entered. Aubrey
expected the butler would announce the arrival of Mark Henderson,
his secretary from the San Francisco office, who made the trip to
Santa Angelica every week in order to go over business
affairs.
    Aubrey was surprised, therefore, to
see that Figgins was alone. He also bore a silver tray with a
single white calling card in its center.
    With a sigh—Aubrey didn’t really go in
for all this formality, but he didn’t have the heart to tell
Figgins to forgo it since he took such obvious pleasure in these
traditions, he took the card and lifted it to his line of
vision.
    He goggled. “Good God!”
    “ Sir?”
    Aubrey realized he’d uttered an
improper exclamation, and that Figgins undoubtedly deplored such a
lapse. “I beg your pardon, Figgins. But . . . well . . . this card.
Is she here? Now? Right this minute?”
    “ Yes, sir. She’s awaiting
your pleasure in the drawing room.” Not a flicker of emotion showed
on Figgins’s face.
    The same, Aubrey was sure, could not
be said of his own face. “Mrs. Bridgewater? Herself? Here?”
Pleasure, be damned. She could await that forever and her wait
would be for naught. Aubrey, pleasure, and Mrs. Bridgewater would
never occupy the same room at the same time.
    “ Yes, sir.”
    Oh, God. There could be no doubt about
it. Figgins never lied. Nor could he be mistaken, having known Mrs.
Bridgewater far longer than he’d known Aubrey, since she was Anne’s
father’s sister.
    Aubrey allowed his head to bow for a
moment before he straightened and told Figgins,