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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