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Ryan swung toward James. “No,” he said harshly, “not including mine—but it wasn’t for lack of effort. She made that clear enough.” His eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”
James smiled. “I was only seventy-nine when she married Gordon,” he said wryly. “A man in his prime can always read a woman like that.”
“Gordon couldn’t,” Ryan said, his expression still stony.
The old man sighed. “This isn’t about your brother’s inability to see the truth, it’s about responsibility.”
“Are you saying you feel sympathy for this woman?”
“I’m not talking about sympathy. I’m talking about responsibility. And family obligation. Those things are important, Ryan. Surely you know that.”
Ryan looked at James’s lined face, at the hand holding the cognac glass and its slight but perceptible tremor, and he forced himself to swallow his anger.
“You’re right, so if you’re about to tell me you’ve decided to deed Bettina that house in San Francisco or include her in your will, you needn’t worry. What you do with your estate is your business, sir. You don’t owe me any explanations.”
“But you wouldn’t approve.”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
James laughed. “Direct, as always.”
Ryan smiled back at the old man. “I wonder where I could possibly have picked up such a trait?”
“Believe me, my boy, I have no intention of giving Bettina anything. I’d never countermand Gordon’s desires.”
“Well, then, I don’t see—”
“Did I mention that her daughter was with her?”
“Yes.” Ryan crossed the room and poured himself some more cognac. “She must be...what? Seventeen? Eighteen? The last I saw her—the only time I saw her, come to think of it—was the evening before Gordon moved to the coast. He brought Bettina and the girl here for dinner.”
“Your memory is better than mine. I didn’t remember the girl at all.”
“That’s because there’s nothing to remember. The child sat like a lump. She was a gawky-looking thing, all bones and knees, decked out in frills that didn’t become her.”
James smiled. “You’ll be glad to hear she’s improved somewhat,” he said dryly.
“Well, I suppose she’s past the awkward age.”
“Indeed,” James said, holding out his empty glass and nodding toward the cognac bottle.
Ryan looked at the glass in the old man’s hand, hesitated, then gave a mental shrug. What did it matter now?
“Meaning,” he said as he poured the cognac, “she’s a chip off the old block?”
“Like her mother? No, not at all. They don’t even look alike. The girl must take after her father. She’s very fair.” James smiled. “Bettina was all got up in some purple thing like a pair of Doctor Denton’s, only two sizes too small and without attached feet.”
Ryan laughed. “A catsuit, I think it’s called.”
“But the girl was dressed as if she were going to have tea with the Queen. Demure little suit, white blouse with a bow at the throat, yellow hair skinned back in a bun.”
“Probably as much a costume as Bettina’s,” Ryan said with a
shrug. “Maybe they figured you’d be an easier touch if the girl looked sweet and innocent.”
“It’s possible, but somehow I don’t think so. The girl was very quiet. Bettina kept trying to involve her in the conversation but she just sat there, quiet as a mouse.”
“Still a lump, it would seem.”
