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past, I would have avoided the hardship and turmoil. By the time we arrived at Farthy, the throng of
mourners were gathered at the front of the house.
Besides Miles and Curtis and Rye Whiskey, there
were dozens of Tony's business associates, as well as
many people who worked for Tatterton Toys. Most
were fol nially dressed in black and gathered in small
cliques, greeting one another, shaking hands, kissing
cheeks and talking softly.
It was a warm, but overcast fall .day, a perfect
funeral day, I thought. Everything looked grayer than
ever, and the bleakness emphasized how rundown
Farthinggale Manor was. I couldn't help but remember
the proud way Tony had described it when we had
first driven out here . . his ancestral home, improved
and expanded by every succeeding Tatterton heir.
How ironic it was that he had an heir who would truly
follow in his footsteps but who had no relationship to
him at all, for Drake was Luke Casteel's son, the man
from whom Tony had bought his own daughter. And now, in every sense of the word, he had bought Drake,
bought himself an heir.
And Drake had indeed taken charge. He stood
up front by the hearse, dressed in an ebony-black
tuxedo. His face was as somber and dark as an
undertaker's. The people he hired to conduct the
funeral were quietly checking with him for
instructions. There were people directing cars and
handing out small prayer and hymn cards.
Luke pulled his car into line and I gazed up at
the main house again, the mystery and excitement of
the big, old gray-stone building gone, replaced with
