BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD

Heirs of Ravenscar

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

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This paperback edition 2008

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollinsPublishers 2007

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2008

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Ebook edition © September 2008 ISBN:9780007279524

Version: 2017-10-25

For Bob: for his loving support and generosity, and for always being in my corner.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PART ONE

The Deravenels

Dangerous Triangle

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

PART TWO

Ned

Truth & Love

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

PART THREE

Bess

Loyalty Binds Me

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

PART FOUR

The Turners

Harry’s Women

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

EPILOGUE

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BOOKS BY BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

Part One

The Deravenels

Dangerous Triangle

Edward was of a gentle nature and cheerful aspect: nevertheless should he assume an angry countenance he could appear very terrible to beholders. He was easy of access to his friends and to others, even the least notable.

Dominic Mancini

When the Plantagenets started to kill each other the downfall of the dynasty began.

London citizen: 15th century

Ah, me, I see the ruin of my House!

The tiger now hath seiz’d the gentle hind;

Insulting tyranny brings to jet

Upon the innocent and aweless throne:-

Welcome destruction, blood and massacre!

I see, as in a map, the end of all.

William Shakespeare:

Richard III,

Act II, Scene IV

ONE

Yorkshire 1918

It was a compulsion, the way he came down to this stretch of beach whenever he returned to Ravenscar.

A compulsion indeed, but also an overwhelming need to recapture, in his mind’s eye, their faces … their faces not yet cold and waxen in death, but still warm. Neville, his mentor, his partner in so many schemes and adventures; Johnny, the beloved companion of his youth. He had loved them well and true, these Watkins brothers, these cousins of his who had been his allies.

At least until a mixture of hurt feelings, overweening ambition, flaring emotions and dangerous elements had intervened and prised them apart. They had become sworn enemies, much to Edward’s chagrin, a pain which had never ceased to trouble him. And now Johnny and Neville were dead.

Edward raised his head, looked up at the clear blue sky, blameless, without cloud, a sky that appeared so summer-like and benign on this icy Saturday morning in December. Unexpectedly, his eyes felt moist; he blinked back sudden, incipient tears, shook his head in bemusement, still disbelieving their tragic end, here on this bit of shingled beach at the edge of the harsh North Sea.

How unexpected, how sudden and abrupt it had been. Their motorcar had shot off the dangerous, winding cliff road, had plunged six hundred feet, rolling down the face of the cliffs, crashing onto the rocks below.

Neville and Johnny had been thrown out of the car onto the shingle, and had died instantly.

It had been a terrible and unnecessary accident, one which Edward knew had been caused by Neville’s festering anger, frustration and bad temper. His cousin had been furious with him, and had been driving far too fast, spurred on by raging emotions he could not always control.

If only Neville had been handling the Daimler in a normal way, he and Johnny would be alive today, and perhaps they would have been able to reconcile their differences, end their quarrel, come to some sort of mutual rapprochement.

In a sudden flash of vivid memory, Edward saw Johnny standing before him … the serious Johnny, so sincere, so wise, full of the Watkins’s brilliance; then the happy-go-lucky Johnny, light-hearted and carefree, his handsome face full of laughter and the pure joy of simply being alive. Edward snapped his eyes shut, remembering so much from the past. Memories that haunted him rushed at him once more, overwhelming in their reality.

After a few minutes Edward opened his eyes, and placed his hand on his chest. He could not feel the medallion through the layers of heavy winter clothes, but it was there, lying against his skin … Johnny’s medallion.

Fourteen years ago, in 1904, Edward had presented a medallion of his own design to those men who had helped him in his fight to win back and take over the family business empire. The medallion was a badge of honour, in a sense, to mark their success. It was made of gold and bore the Deravenel family crest: an enamelled white rose on one side, the sun in splendour on the other, with the Deravenel motto Fidelity unto eternity embossed around the edge under the enamelled white rose.

Johnny apparently continued to wear his medallion despite the differences that had grown between them. This convinced Edward that Johnny Watkins had remained his faithful friend right to the very end, obviously a man torn between diverse family loyalties – torn between his influential older brother Neville, and Edward, his favourite first cousin.

It was his brother Richard who had discovered the medallion around Johnny’s neck after the car crash, when he had opened his cousin’s collar as he lay on the beach, the life seeping out of him.

Needing to determine Johnny’s true condition, Richard had loosened his tie, pulled open his shirt, and had instantly noticed the glint of gold on his neck.

On the night of the accident Richard had brought Johnny’s medallion to Edward, who had later removed his own identical medallion and fastened Johnny’s around his neck. And he had worn it ever since and would until the day he died.

The following morning Edward had given his own medallion to Richard, as a token of his love and regard for his youngest brother. Richard had been thrilled to accept it, understanding how meaningful it was.

Easter Saturday of 1914. That was the day they had died. So much had happened since then … the War had erupted a few months later, in August … friends and colleagues had been killed on the blood-sodden fields of France and Flanders … he and Elizabeth had had more children … the business had grown in importance … there had been deaths, births, marriages … Richard had been quietly married to Anne … the eternal cycle ever repeating itself.

Four years ago two men he had revered and loved had died on this beach where he now stood. Yet, to him it seemed as if it had happened only a mere few hours ago. He could not forget that fateful day, or expunge it from his mind.

The sound of a horse’s hooves thundering along the beach interrupted Edward’s melancholy reverie, and he turned his head, saw his youngest brother riding hell for leather down the beach.

Raising a gloved hand, Edward waved, stepped over to Hercules, his white stallion, and with lithe agility swung himself up into the saddle. Galloping forward, he rode to meet his brother.

As the two men drew closer and reined in their mounts, Edward knew at once that something was terribly wrong even before Richard uttered a word.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ he demanded, staring hard, his bright blue eyes sweeping over the younger man’s face.

Richard, his voice tight with concern, said, ‘It’s Young Edward. Something’s wrong with him, Ned, and –’

‘Wrong? Do you mean he’s ill?’ Edward cut in peremptorily, instantly worried about his little son.

Richard nodded. ‘Elizabeth thinks it’s the influenza and she sent me to fetch you. Mother has already telephoned Dr. Leighton. She spoke to his housekeeper. Seemingly, he and his wife are house guests of the Dunbars. He’s staying at The Lodge for the weekend, and he’s on his way already. He won’t be long.’ As he finished speaking Richard saw that his brother had gone extremely white.

‘My God, the Spanish flu,’ Edward muttered. ‘It’s lethal, you know that. Some of my chaps at Deravenels have been felled by it. It’s certainly fortunate that Leighton is nearby.’ Alarm filled his eyes, and he shook his head. ‘Come on!’ He rode off down the beach, galloping at breakneck speed, heading for Ravenscar.

Richard followed hard on his heels, catching up, riding alongside his brother, never very far from his adored Ned when he needed him.

TWO

Ravenscar stood high on the cliffs above the sea, which was glittering like polished steel in the brilliant light of mid-morning.

The house was built of mellowed, golden-hued stone, and was ancient, dated back to the sixteenth century and Tudor times. A pure Elizabethan house of fluid symmetry and perfect proportions, it had been home to the Deravenel family for centuries.

Built in 1578 by Edward’s ancestors to replace the ruined stronghold still perched on the promontory below, it was a house which Edward had loved since childhood. He genuinely appreciated its overall beauty, cherished it for the meaning it had held for those Deravenels who had gone before, and those who would follow, once he had departed this world.

Now as he rode around the circular courtyard at the front and went on towards the stable block, he paid no attention at all to the grandeur and elegance of this stately dwelling, did not even notice the many windows sparkling in the wintry sunshine or the façade of honey-coloured stone aglow in that dazzling light so peculiar to these northern climes. He held only one thought in his head: his son. His heir. Edward, his namesake, whom he loved with all his heart.

Edward needed to see him. The very thought that his son had contracted Spanish flu filled him with dread. It was a virulent killer, had gone from epidemic to pandemic since it had broken out in the summer. People in Europe, England, and America, in many other countries around the world, had been laid low, and thousands had died.

Finally trotting into the cobbled yard behind the house, Edward jumped off his stallion, glancing around as he did, looking for the stable lads. Not one of them was in sight. ‘Ernie! Jim!’ he called, ‘I’m back.’

Richard had followed him into the yard, and as he dismounted he said, ‘I’ll deal with the horses, Ned. Please go into the house, I know how anxious you are.’

Edward nodded and hurried off without another word.

Richard watched his brother stride towards the back door, anxiety ringing his face. People thought that Edward Deravenel held the world in his arms, and, in a sense, perhaps he did. Certainly he had everything any man of thirty-three could ever desire. Yet at this moment, Richard knew, his brother was truly vulnerable, filled with concern for his son. His great success, immense wealth and undeniable power could not buy the boy’s recovery. Only God, and a good doctor, could do that. Silently Richard prayed that his little nephew would be all right. He loved him like his own, just as he loved all of his brother’s children, most especially his niece Bess.

Taking the reins of the horses, he led them across the yard towards the stalls just as Ernie, one of the stable lads, suddenly appeared, looking worried.

‘I’ll tek ’em from yer, Mr Richard,’ the lad said, then added apologetically, ‘Sorry I weren’t out ’ere when yer got back. It was Minnie, Mr Richard, that there young filly. Right skittish, that she is.’

Richard nodded his understanding as he handed over the reins. ‘She has calmed down, has she?’

The lad said, ‘Yeah, but can yer ’ave a look at ’er, sir? Mebbe there’s summat really wrong. Yer knows wot, I think it’s ’er front foot.’ Orseshoe might be loose. Mebbe she’ll get real troublesome again.’

‘Yes, I’ll examine her foot, Ernie, but I must be rather quick about it.’

‘Nowt but a minute, Mr Richard, it’ll only tek a minute.’

When Edward had entered the house he had been struck by the overwhelming silence, and now, after throwing his outer jacket onto a bench in the gun room, he rushed down the corridor, frowning. Usually this part of the house was filled with constant sounds, familiar sounds … the clatter of pots and pans emanating from the kitchen, as well as cheerful laughter and the dominant tones of Cook giving orders to the kitchen maids. But unexpectedly there was not a single sound at this moment, and Edward was puzzled because it was not at all normal.

He paused when he reached the Long Hall, curious about the absence of Jessup. The butler was generally hovering around in this area, wanting to be of service, but he was nowhere in sight.

Edward shrugged, and had begun to walk towards the staircase when Jessup came hurrying out of the butler’s pantry, asking swiftly, ‘Do you need anything, Mr Deravenel?’

‘No, but thanks anyway, Jessup. I’m on my way upstairs to look in on Master Edward. Have you seen him this morning?’

‘Yes, I have, sir. A bit under the weather he is, poor little mite. But then he’s a strong young fellow, isn’t he, sir?’

‘Yes, indeed he is. Please bring the doctor up immediately when he arrives, Jessup, won’t you?’

‘Oh, yes, sir, right away.’

With a slight nod Edward was gone, taking the stairs two at a time, heading for the nursery floor where the children spent most of their time. Striding rapidly down the corridor, he realized he could already hear the sound of his five-year-old son coughing before he even reached the bedroom, and he felt his chest tighten. He stood outside the door for a moment, filled with sudden apprehension, and took a deep breath to steady himself before going inside.

Elizabeth was leaning over their son, and she glanced around as Ned hurried to the bedside. ‘He’s feverish,’ she murmured, smoothing the boy’s red-gold hair away from his damp forehead, ‘and exhausted from this frightful coughing.’

Edward moved closer and squeezed her shoulder, wanting to reassure her. When he leaned over the child himself, he was shocked, disturbed when he saw his son’s appearance. The child looked as though he was burning up with fever and his blue eyes were glazed. Beads of sweat stood out on his face and Edward was more alarmed than ever, realizing that his son did not even recognize him.

He turned to his wife, asked quietly, ‘Don’t we have any cough medicine in the house? Surely there’s something? Somewhere?’

‘We gave it to him already, Ned, but I was afraid of giving him too much, over-dosing him. It is rather a strong syrup. Your mother then remembered the raspberry vinegar concoction she used to make for you and your brothers. She went downstairs to explain to Cook how to prepare it. She said she gave it to you when you were a child.’

‘That’s true. It’s made of raspberry vinegar, butter and sugar, all boiled, and like a lot of those old remedies from the past it seems to work very well.’

‘I hope so.’

Looking over at the bed, Edward remarked in a low voice, ‘I think he’d feel better propped up against the pillows, rather than lying flat. It might help him, ease the congestion in his chest, if he were sitting up.’

Without waiting for her response, Edward gently brought their child closer to him, wrapping his arms around him, and said to his wife, ‘Please move the pillows, Elizabeth, lean them against the headboard.’

She did so without a word; he placed the boy against them, kissed his forehead and straightened the bedclothes.

Edward looked towards the door as it opened to admit his mother, who was carrying a tray. Cecily Deravenel exclaimed, ‘I’m relieved you’re here, Ned,’ and immediately put the tray down on a chest of drawers. ‘I’m going to try and get him to take this syrup of mine. I also found another medicine downstairs that might be helpful as well.

It’s that Creopin mixture, for inhaling. I bought it in London recently.’

‘Is Creopin better than Friar’s Balsam, do you think, Mother?’

‘I’m not sure, Ned, we’ll ask the doctor when he gets here,’ Cecily replied, and began to attend to her grandson, spooning the raspberry mixture into his mouth.

After a moment, Edward touched Elizabeth’s arm and whispered, ‘Let’s go outside for a moment, darling.’ Taking her arm, he guided her to the door. Once they were in the corridor alone, he pulled her into his arms and held her close, stroking her hair. Against her cheek, he said, ‘Do try not to worry. We’ll get him well, Elizabeth, I promise.’

‘Do you promise me that, Ned?’

‘Oh, I do, Elizabeth, I do promise you he’ll soon be as right as rain.’

Elizabeth let her body relax against his, comforted by his presence, his warmth and his love. When it came to his children’s welfare she trusted him implicitly. Also, Ned’s self-assurance, his confidence in himself, his belief that he could control everyone and everything had always made her feel safe. Some thought these characteristics reflected his arrogance. She knew otherwise; and no one knew him better than she did.

THREE

‘Mr Deravenel wishes me to take you upstairs straight away, sir,’ Jessup explained to the doctor, after putting his hat and coat in the hall cupboard. ‘If you’ll come this way, please.’

‘Thank you, Jessup,’ Peter Leighton answered, and followed swiftly on the heels of the butler, crossing the Long Hall to the grand staircase.

Before they had reached the nursery floor, Edward, who had heard their voices, was standing at the top of the stairs, impatiently waiting for them.

‘Good morning, Dr Leighton,’ he exclaimed at the sight of the doctor, and added, ‘Thank you, Jessup.’ With a brief nod Edward dismissed the butler, who hurried off down the stairs.

As the doctor stepped onto the landing, he thrust out his hand and shook Edward’s. ‘Good morning, Mr Deravenel. So, Young Edward’s poorly, is he?’

‘Yes. My wife thinks it’s Spanish flu. He’s got a fever, a hacking cough. Earlier, there were flecks of blood in his handkerchief, my wife tells me. As you can imagine, we’re extremely worried. I can only add that we are very glad you happen to be staying with the Dunbars this weekend, so close to us.’

‘Very fortuitous indeed,’ Dr Leighton answered, then asked, ‘How are the other children? Are they showing any signs of infection?’

‘No, they’re not, but I would like you to see them, once you’ve seen Young Edward.’

‘Of course, of course, that’s understood, Mr Deravenel.’ Dr Leighton gave Edward a smile of encouragement and continued, ‘I’m afraid Spanish flu is extremely virulent, as no doubt you know from the newspapers and the radio, but it hasn’t been striking down children or the elderly, as flu usually does. This new strain appears to infect young adults mainly. Mostly young men between twenty and thirty. As I parked my car in the stable yard just now, I noticed your brother, and I should point out that he could be a candidate for this particular virus. I think I ought to take a look at him also before I leave.’ Then the doctor finished, almost under his breath, ‘Unfortunately there seems to be no remedy for Spanish flu. No one knows how to treat it.’

Observing the look of apprehension crossing Edward’s face, the doctor took his arm and murmured, ‘Look here, there’s no point in my beating about the bush, Mr Deravenel, you have to know the facts. But let us hope your little son has not contracted this terrible illness and that he either has a very bad cold or bronchitis. They’re bad enough, I know, but at least they are treatable. And curable.’

‘I understand, and please don’t apologize for telling me the truth. However unpalatable the truth might be, I prefer to hear the worst, so that I know what I’m dealing with. I hate surprises. Let’s go to Young Edward’s room shall we? You can examine him and then check on the rest of the brood.’

When they entered the bedroom a moment later, Elizabeth and Cecily turned around, politely greeted the doctor and then stepped away from the bedside.

‘I shall go along and look in on the other children,’ Cecily announced. ‘Give you a little breathing space in here, Dr Leighton.’

The doctor nodded, offered her a grateful smile as Cecily slipped out; Elizabeth moved closer to her husband, who was standing near the door of the bedroom, took hold of his arm, leaned into him.

Elizabeth explained to the doctor, ‘The coughing seems to have abated, Dr Leighton, since my mother-in-law managed to spoon down a raspberry vinegar mixture.’

Peter Leighton glanced at her and nodded. ‘It’s often those old-fashioned remedies that work the best, you know.’ As he spoke he took a stethoscope out of his medical bag, bent over Young Edward, noting at once that the boy was feverish and had a glazed look. He listened to his chest, then put a thermometer in his mouth, held it there for a few seconds.

After reading the thermometer, he said, ‘His temperature is a bit high, but that’s to be expected. I’m going to turn him over, Mrs Deravenel. I want to check his lungs.’

‘Do you need my help, Doctor?’ she asked, her eyes pinned on the doctor, a worried expression on her face.

‘No, no, there’s no problem.’ Dr Leighton laid the little boy on his side, lifted his pyjama top and put the stethoscope on his back, listening acutely. A moment or two later he repositioned the child, and covered him with the bedclothes. After opening his mouth gently, the doctor used a wooden tongue depressor to look down Young Edward’s throat.

Finally straightening, and turning to Edward and Elizabeth, Dr Leighton said, with some relief, ‘He has bronchitis. It’s not Spanish flu.’

Elizabeth put a trembling hand to her mouth and swallowed back a sob. She looked up at Edward, sudden tears of relief glistening on her blonde lashes, and attempted to smile at him without much success.

‘You’re certain?’ Edward said softly.

‘I am, Mr Deravenel. He has all the symptoms. Let me explain. Bronchitis causes obstruction to the flow of air in and out of the lungs, and interferes with the exchange of oxygen between the lungs and the blood, hence the hacking cough. The airways are continuously inflamed and diseased, and are filled with mucus. And sometimes, after a fit of coughing, flecks of blood appear in the mucus, from the strain of coughing. I’m going to telephone the chemist in Scarborough and prescribe an excellent cough mixture, as well as an expectorant and a fever powder which will help bring down the fever. The chemist will send his son up to Ravenscar with the medications. In the meantime, you can continue to give him the raspberry vinegar mixture until you have the cough syrup.’

‘Thank you, Dr Leighton. Now, what else should we do for him?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘Keep him warm, but not hot. Aim for an even temperature, and let him rest quietly. Give him plenty of liquids, particularly beef tea and chicken broth – warm liquids are best,’ the doctor explained.

Edward cleared his throat, looked over at the doctor and said, ‘What about food? What should we feed him?’

‘I don’t think he’s going to feel very hungry, Mr Deravenel, but if he is, you should give him very light things … fruit jellies, rice pudding, sago pudding, blancmange, custard, calf’s foot jelly, soft boiled eggs, or scrambled eggs, things like that which are easily digested. And easily swallowed, obviously, since his throat is somewhat inflamed.’ After glancing again at Young Edward, the doctor picked up his medical bag and led the Deravenels out of the room.

‘I think someone should stay with the boy in order to tend to his needs,’ Dr Leighton now informed them. ‘I know you would prefer to be there yourself, Mrs Deravenel, but frankly you are extremely pale and appear over-tired to me. You need a rest, you know, we can’t be having you getting sick. What about Ada, the young woman who assists Nanny? She has always seemed rather efficient to me.’

‘Ada is good, but Nanny can manage on her own, I’m sure of that.’ Elizabeth smiled for the first time that day as she added, ‘And nine-year-old Bess has become quite the mother hen these days, so she can keep an eye on her little sisters. Also, the maternity nurse is still with us, looking after the new baby. We are well covered, Dr Leighton.’

‘Excellent. Now, why don’t we go along to the nursery, Mrs Deravenel? So that I can examine the other children.’

FOUR

Cecily Watkins Deravenel sat alone in the library. She had positioned herself on one of the large, comfortable, overstuffed sofas near the fireplace, and was enjoying a cup of coffee, thinking about her little grandson. Everyone called him Young Edward, in order to differentiate between him and his father, but in her mind he would forever be Neddie. That was how she had always thought of him since he was born. He was the spitting image of his father when Ned had been a little boy.

He was such a beautiful child, her little Neddie … a Botticelli angel, with his red-gold curls and blue eyes, so bright and sparkling and full of laughter. He was a happy little scamp, but he had been rather late in arriving, this heir to the Deravenel empire, the fourth child after his three sisters, Bess, Mary, and Cecily (who had been named for her).

He was only five years old, having celebrated his birthday in early November, but there were times when he expressed himself so well she often thought she was talking to a much older child.

Cecily was filled with relief that he was not suffering from the dreaded Spanish flu. Bronchitis was bad enough; on the other hand, she had never heard of anyone dying of that disease. Yet people were dropping like flies all over the world, once they became stricken with this new strain of the flu virus. The newspapers were now saying that more people were dying of the flu than had been killed in the War.

At this moment the doctor was upstairs examining the other children; but she was certain none of them was ill. She had just spent the last twenty minutes with them in the nursery playroom, and they were boisterous, happy, and laughing, as they played with their toys. Yes, they were all very well indeed, including Richard, who was two years old, and Anne, the baby, born a few months ago. The latest arrival.

Her son might not find his wife Elizabeth a true soulmate, or even a companionable woman to be with – God knows, he spent as little time as possible with her – but he was obviously still attracted to her physically. Elizabeth seemingly held a tremendous allure for him when it came to their marital bed. Six children already, and Cecily felt sure there would be more to come in the not-too-distant future.

Although Cecily Deravenel had never liked her daughter-in-law, she had always acknowledged her great beauty. Some said Elizabeth was the most beautiful woman in all of England, with her silver-gilt hair that fell half-way down her back to her waist, her crystal clear, sky-blue eyes and that incomparable pink-and-white complexion which was without blemish.

She was thirty-eight now, and yet Elizabeth did not show her age: there was no sagging chin; no wrinkles; no crow’s feet around her eyes. Furthermore, her figure was still perfect, had hardly changed in the eleven years she had been married to Edward. Everyone wondered how she did it, including Cecily herself.

The problem with Elizabeth Wyland Deravenel was her character. Right from the beginning Cecily had understood that her daughter-in-law was ambitious for herself and her family – and there were scores of them, as Cecily knew only too well. There was an arrogance inherent in her personality, and she was a snob. Cecily was well aware that her eldest son knew she had never believed Elizabeth Wyland was good enough for him. As Richard had once said, with great acerbity, ‘She’s not good enough to lick Ned’s boots, Mother.’ Richard was far too intelligent for the likes of Elizabeth. He had seen right through her from the start, and had detected her jealousy of him instantly. Richard knew she thoroughly resented his relationship with his eldest brother, was eaten up because he was Edward’s favourite and his most trusted ally.

It was true, her daughter-in-law did have an extraordinarily jealous nature, and was constantly confronting Edward with rather vile and vulgar gossip about him, announcing that she knew all about his affairs with other women.

Cecily sighed to herself. Being nobody’s fool, she had long ago acknowledged that her son adored women. At the same time, he was not the unmitigated womanizer his wife made him out to be. Not these days. In fact, as far as Cecily knew, and she was well-informed about everyone in the family, Edward only had one woman friend at the moment. This was Jane Shaw, a divorcee, who had been part of his life for a long time. Cecily understood that Edward was the kind of man who genuinely needed companionship from a woman, and Jane supplied this.

Will Hasling, Edward’s best friend and a particular favourite of hers, knew Jane well, and he had always spoken kindly about her to Cecily, had convinced her that Jane was not ambitious, nor angling for marriage with Edward, that she was perfectly content to be his friend. And friends they were, apparently, enjoying a shared love of music, the theatre and art.

If Elizabeth were smarter, she would keep her mouth shut and stop berating Edward about non-existent affairs, Cecily suddenly thought. Knowing men the way she did, being unjustly accused generally pushed an innocent man into the arms of the first available woman. She’s such a fool …

Letting her thoughts drift off, Cecily turned around at the sound of footsteps, and stood up when Peter Leighton came into the library, followed by Edward and Richard.

‘I’m assuming that all of my other grandchildren are perfectly all right,’ Cecily exclaimed, smiling at the young doctor.

‘Indeed they are, Mrs Deravenel. I would even go so far as to say they are in blooming health. And, I must add, they are the most beautiful children I’ve ever seen.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she responded.

Richard, moving forward, hurrying towards his mother, announced, ‘Dr Leighton says I’m very fit, in great health.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Cecily answered warmly.

Edward murmured, ‘Elizabeth won’t be coming down to lunch, Mother. She’s exhausted herself, mostly with worry, I think. Anyway, Dr Leighton insisted she went to bed.’

‘I quite understand, Ned.’ Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, Cecily addressed Peter Leighton. ‘I don’t suppose I can coax you into staying for lunch, since I know you’re house-guesting with the Dunbars. But perhaps you will partake of something – coffee or tea? Perhaps sherry?’

‘You’re so kind, Mrs Deravenel, but I won’t, thank you very much. I must be getting along. The roads were icy this morning, and what is normally a fifteen-minute run in my motorcar took me forty minutes. So I’m sure you do understand that I must be setting off if I’m to arrive at The Lodge in time for lunch.’

‘Yes, I do, Dr Leighton, and thank you so much for coming so promptly.’

‘I shall return tomorrow, to check on Young Edward. In the meantime, Thomas Sloane, the chemist in Scarborough, is preparing the medicines, and as I just told Mr Deravenel you should receive them soon. He’s sending his son Albert in the van. But do use the raspberry vinegar mixture if the boy is coughing excessively.’

‘I will, and thank you again, Dr Leighton.’

Cecily shook his hand, as did Richard, and then Edward escorted him out into the Long Hall.

Richard sat down opposite his mother, and explained, ‘Dr Leighton only gave me an examination because he was worried –’

‘You look very well to me, Richard,’ Cecily cut in with a frown.

‘Yes, I know, and I am perfectly well. Seemingly young men between the ages of twenty and thirty are those most likely to catch Spanish flu. He thought I could easily be a candidate because of my age, that’s all it was about.’

Cecily peered across at Richard. ‘You don’t have any symptoms, do you?’

‘No, I don’t. The doctor was merely being his usual efficient self.’

‘I understand. I really do like Peter Leighton, and I was delighted when he took over Dr Rayne’s practice. He’s young and intelligent and caring. His methods are very modern, and he’s most up-to-date with the latest advances. I approve of his approach.’

Edward walked in, a broad smile on his face. ‘I was so glad to hear the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen a moment ago. Earlier this morning, when I came back from my ride, the house was ghastly, so quiet, and the total silence rather eerie. In fact, Jessup just told me that Cook was most upset about Young Edward, hence the gloomy atmosphere in her domain. According to Jessup, none of the other staff were allowed to speak.’

‘I know she can be quite a tartar at times,’ Cecily murmured.

Walking across to the drinks tray which stood on a chest-of-drawers, Edward poured himself a glass of pale Amontillado sherry. Then went and stood in front of the French doors, staring out at the gardens and the sea beyond, lost in thought.

His mother said, ‘Ned?’

‘Yes, Mother, what is it?’ He swung around to face her, his blond brows arching.

‘It’s the fourteenth of December today. Only ten days left until Christmas. I do think we ought to consider cancelling the festivities we’ve planned. Bronchitis lasts several weeks, even longer –’

‘I’m not going to consider cancelling. I’ve already decided to cancel. Immediately. It must be done today. That will give the guests we were expecting some time to make other plans … well, hopefully. After lunch, I’ll telephone Will, also Vicky and Stephen. They’re like family and will understand. I’d better have a word with George, also.’

‘George!’ Richard exclaimed, gaping at his brother. He was thunderstruck. ‘You didn’t tell me you’d invited George, Ned. How could you?’

‘I didn’t. George invited himself and you know what our brother is like. And he also said that he was bringing Isabel and the children.’

‘Why didn’t you tell him he couldn’t come for Christmas?’ Richard cried irately, his pale face unexpectedly flushed.

Edward was totally silent.

‘You know how upset I’ve been with him, and so has Anne. The way he treated her and blocked our engagement was appalling!’ Richard shook his head. ‘I don’t want to see him. Or Isabel, for that matter. She plays along with him.’

‘She’s weak,’ Ned muttered. ‘She dare not oppose him in anything.’

‘It was my idea,’ Cecily interjected very softly, staring at Richard.

‘Why?’ Richard demanded, his voice rising. ‘In God’s name why? George has treated me most abominably these last few years.’

‘I hoped you would both make up this Christmas, be friends again, loving brothers, the way you used to be.’

Laughing hollowly, Richard snapped, ‘I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, Mother.’

‘He’s your brother,’ she answered.

‘Tell him that!’

When she remained quiet, Richard continued in an angry tone, ‘You always did stick up for him, even when he was a boy. And a mother’s boy at that! Always clinging pathetically to your skirts, throwing himself at you, and hiding behind your skirts when he had committed some nasty little prank. You protected him then, and I’ll never understand why.’

Cecily shook her head, and her voice broke slightly as she tried to explain. ‘There was something about him that made me feel he needed protection. In a peculiar way, I was always a bit afraid for him, he always seemed so vulnerable …’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Vulnerable. That’s a laugh.’ Richard now turned to Edward, stared at him. ‘George betrayed you, Ned. Not once, but many times. He went over to Neville’s side, after Neville and you quarrelled. He entangled himself in Neville’s plans to go along with Louis Charpentier and make a bid for Deravenels. And he fell for Neville’s idea of putting him in your place. George thought he could usurp you. His brother. And then he married Isabel when he knew you were against it. If those are not betrayals then I don’t know the meaning of that word.’

‘It’s all my fault, really it is, Richard,’ Cecily said slowly, wanting to placate. ‘Don’t be angry with Ned. I am the one who begged Ned to forgive George for his transgressions, because I wanted to heal the family, make it whole again. I wanted to show the world a united front. We are a famous family, Richard dear. We are the Deravenels. I did not want to expose us to ugly gossip, tittle-tattle on the streets.’

‘Didn’t I matter then?’ Richard asked, wonderingly, gazing at his mother. ‘My feelings weren’t to be considered?’ He looked from his mother to Ned. ‘You know he betrayed you, and that I have always stood by your side no matter what. My loyalty binds me. And yet you permitted George to block my marriage to Anne, which caused us great pain.’

Edward answered swiftly, adopting a cajoling tone. ‘Because you were both so young I believed I had time to work things out with George. He was creating numerous problems, more serious than you’ll ever know. Look, getting to the essence of it, he was demanding all of Neville’s fortune because Isabel was the eldest daughter. He didn’t want Anne to share in it, that’s why he tried to block the marriage – because he knew you would fight for Anne’s rights.’

‘It’s always about money or power with George, isn’t it, Ned?’

‘Too true. However, because you agreed to wait, I did manage to hammer out a deal with George, a deal you would accept. Let’s not forget, I did get Anne her fair share of Neville’s estate, Richard.’

‘It was an iron-clad will, if I remember correctly,’ Richard shot back. ‘Neville Watkins never left anything to chance. Never made mistakes like that! And I also happen to know that the entire estate was actually left to Nan Watkins. Neville wanted his wife to have everything, and only after her death were the girls to receive their share.’

‘I know that, Richard,’ Ned replied in the same conciliatory voice. ‘I had to enlist Nan’s help, although you perhaps don’t know this. I also had to give George a very handsome financial settlement, a huge amount, out of my own money, actually, in order to solve the problem finally.’

‘I see.’ Richard sat back, his expression still one of anger.

‘And you did marry Anne,’ Cecily pointed out in a quiet voice.

‘Practically in secret, here at Ravenscar. A tiny wedding ceremony, with no guests except the immediate family,’ Richard answered grimly, shaking his head. ‘I just don’t understand why it is that George has to be accommodated all the time. I really don’t. And personally I think he’s crazy. Let’s not forget our cousin Henry Grant, who spent a lot of time in lunatic asylums …’

Ned threw back his head and guffawed, looked amused. ‘Oh, Richard, that’s a beauty! Are you suggesting that the bad genes carried by Henry Deravenel Grant of Lancaster might well be inherent in the Deravenels of Yorkshire, the true heirs of Guy de Ravenel? The real Deravenels, as we say about ourselves.’

If Edward had hoped Richard would see the joke he was wrong. His youngest brother shook his head, the grim expression making his mouth taut. ‘I think George is crackers. Just consider the daft things he does at times … then you’ll see what I mean.’

‘Richard, really, I don’t believe that is a very nice thing to say about George. He can be very kind, and he does mean well,’ Cecily answered.

No, he doesn’t, Richard thought, but said, ‘If you say so, Mother. Let’s close the discussion about George, shall we?’

Ned said, ‘I am going to cancel the Christmas festivities, Dick, but if you and Anne wish to come for Christmas you know how much we’d love that, wouldn’t we, Mother?’

‘Of course. I haven’t seen my grandson for ages. Perhaps Nan Watkins would like to come as well, rather than staying alone in Ripon.’

‘I doubt that very much, Mother,’ Richard said softly. ‘She doesn’t like to come to Ravenscar anymore, so I am led to understand. It reminds her of her tragic loss. After all, her beloved husband and her favourite brother-in-law Johnny met their deaths here.’

FIVE

London

‘Why don’t you tell him about the house, Ned? He really ought to know the true story, the full story.’

Edward Deravenel sat back in his chair, and regarded Will Hasling, his best friend. He and Will had been boon companions for many years, and colleagues at Deravenels for fourteen, ever since Edward had become managing director. And he trusted Will as he trusted no other man, except for his brother Richard.

Loyaulté Me Lie, loyalty binds me: That was Richard’s adopted motto and he was ever faithful to it.

It was Richard they were talking about this morning, facing each other across Edward’s desk, in his office at Deravenels.

‘I never wanted to go into all the details,’ Edward explained, ‘about the house. Don’t you think it would look strange? What I mean is, don’t you think it could appear that I’m boasting about all the things I’ve done for him over the years? Signalling that he’s obligated to me, perhaps?’

‘He might think that, but frankly I rather doubt it,’ Will answered, shaking his head emphatically. ‘No, no, it won’t look that way at all. It’s ridiculous to even think that, Ned. And he should know. And once he understands everything, he won’t continue to harbour a grudge and think that you put George before him … that is, if he does think that.’

‘Actually, you’re quite right, Will. I’ll be frank with him.’

‘Would you like me to explain the way things are?’

Edward couldn’t help laughing. ‘You know, that had crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed the idea as being somewhat silly, since I haven’t done anything wrong, quite the contrary, in fact.’

Continuing to chuckle to himself, Edward Deravenel pushed himself to his feet, walked across the floor to one of the tall windows, glanced down at the Strand, thinking how congested with traffic it was today. But then it was the Wednesday before Christmas, and London was busier than ever. This was the first festive Christmas in four years, now that the War was finally over. People were determined to celebrate, to have a good time, to rejoice that peace had come at last.

Christmas for his family was going to be exceptionally quiet at Ravenscar, but he didn’t mind. He rather welcomed it, if the truth be known. He had cancelled all of the invitations which had been sent to friends, and everyone had understood his dilemma, understood that he was endeavouring to protect Young Edward. And them as well. Only George had been truculent, as usual. Quite vile, actually.

Turning around, Edward strolled back to the centre of the floor and stood there for a few seconds, a reflective expression settling on his handsome face.

Finally, glancing at Will, he said, very softly, ‘The upset this past weekend was really my mother’s fault, Will, in a sense. Her desire to unite the family does seem to cloud her normal good judgement. She simply can’t accept that Richard cannot stand George anymore, or that Elizabeth detests him because he and Neville Watkins were responsible for the ruination of her father and brother. She would rather see George burning in hell than entertain him at Ravenscar. Unfortunately, my mother appears to brush everything to one side, keeps harping on about forgiving and forgetting, letting bygones by bygones. Because we are a family.’ He shook his head sadly, and finished in a Cockney accent, ‘That ain’t the way it is, me old mate, now is it?’

‘No. And George has always been Elizabeth’s enemy since your marriage. He loathes her as much as she loathes him …’ Will’s voice trailed off. There was no point in reminding Edward that people disliked his wife. Very beautiful she might be, but she was not a very nice woman. Her ambition for her family knew no bounds. She had inveigled Edward into giving several of her brothers positions at Deravenels, and Anthony Wyland, her favourite, played a powerful role in the company these days. But this brother he liked, knew him to be a decent man, talented, and worthy of respect.

After a moment’s silence between them, Edward changed the subject, remarked in a more buoyant voice, ‘Jarvis Merson’s been in touch with me. Yesterday evening. He’s after us to start up again in Persia. Drilling for oil. In Southern Persia, to be exact. He wants us to buy another concession from the Shah. Because we’re doing so well in Louisiana, he thinks we should begin expanding, now that the war is over.’

Sitting down behind his desk, Edward continued, ‘It’s not the right time, I know that, Will. However, I have decided to create a company, so that we’re ready to go ahead when things are right in the world, once we have all recovered from this awful Spanish flu pandemic, and recouped from the War –’

‘I agree it’s too soon to think about oil in Persia,’ Will interjected, leaning forward intently. ‘There’s far too much turmoil everywhere. I’m convinced we have to sit it out for the whole of this coming year. First, let’s get through 1919, and then seriously consider drilling for oil in mid-1920. I believe that’s when we should take the plunge. Not before. I know you’ve always had an odd rather compelling belief in Jarvis, and so do I, actually. He’s proved himself a thousandfold with the creation of the Louisiana oil fields, so I don’t doubt that he’s probably right about Southern Persia. On the other hand, Ned, I’ve lately heard that some of the top brass at Standard Oil, and also Henri Deterding of Shell, don’t fancy Southern Persia at all, don’t believe there are any strikes to be made there. I do trust Deterding’s judgement – he’s a great oil man.’

‘I’ve heard the same stories. However, I do trust Jarvis’s nose for oil. He and his new partner, Herb Lipson, are an unbeatable team, in my opinion. Anyway, as I just said, I aim to start a new company. I want to be ready. I’m thinking of calling it Deravco. How does that sound to you?’

Will grinned. ‘Sounds like an oil company to me. And it’s short. And sweet, let’s hope.’

There was a sudden loud knock on the door; Edward glanced across the room and called, ‘Come in.’ He immediately jumped up, a wide smile flashing across his face when he saw his brother in the doorway.

‘There you are, Richard!’ he cried enthusiastically. Grabbing Richard by the shoulders, he smothered him in a bear hug. ‘Did you get my message about lunch?’

‘I did. That’s why I came down to your office, to find out what time you wish to leave,’ Richard answered.

‘Pick me up at twelve forty-five and we’ll walk across to the Savoy Hotel,’ Ned said.

When Richard and Will left his office, Edward sat for a few minutes, going through the papers on his desk. After perusing them conscientiously, and making notes on a pad, he sat back in the chair and stared out into the room.

His mind went to the oil business in Southern Persia, and he felt a little rush of genuine excitement. He had always believed that oil was the business of the future; he wanted Deravenels to own more than their stake in Louisiana, and Merson was just the man to make his dream come true. He had believed in Jarvis from the day he had met that bright if rather talkative young man. And he had been proven right in his assessment of him.

Yesterday, when he had been meeting with Alfredo Oliveri to talk about the marble quarries in Italy, Oliveri had suggested they look farther afield, perhaps investigate the quarries in Turkey.

Swivelling around in his chair, Edward gazed at the map which hung on the wall behind him. His father’s map of the world, with all its little numbers written in so neatly. There was Persia sitting right next to Turkey. Perhaps they could kill two birds with one stone. He and Oliveri could go to Turkey to see about marble and then move on to Persia to see about oil.

Not yet, of course. Alfredo had pointed that out most vociferously. Europe was still in upheaval and disarray, and it was not possible to pursue the idea of buying Turkish marble quarries until travelling became much easier. And, as he and Will had just agreed, the same reasoning applied to oil.

Just the prospect of these trips gave him a boost, helped to dispel some of the irritation he was feeling about his brother George.

Opening his engagement book, Edward looked at the notations he had made in them last week. Always methodical, he wrote in his lunch date with Richard, and then frowned. He had arranged to see Jane tonight. For dinner. And he still had to buy a gift for her.

Today was the eighteenth, exactly one week from Christmas Day, and on Friday afternoon he was taking the train back to York and then driving out to Ravenscar. Tomorrow he had the private luncheon for his close friends in the company, a lunch he always gave across the street at Rules. Tomorrow night he was dining with Vicky and Stephen Firth. He had already bought their Christmas gifts, and also one for Grace Rose.

His lovely Grace Rose, growing more like him than ever, and already almost eighteen. Eighteen, he muttered under his breath, and he wondered where all the years had gone.

Because of his plans for the rest of the week, he had no alternative but to find a present for Jane today. After his lunch with Richard he would go to one of the fine jewellers. She loved emeralds, and that was what he would get her … emerald earrings or an emerald brooch.

As he flipped through the pages of his engagement book, Edward suddenly realized with a sense of dismay that he would be in Yorkshire for almost ten days. Ten days. Rather a long time to be ensconced with Elizabeth. Perhaps there was a way he could rectify that. Just as he had managed to rectify the problem of George and the private luncheon tomorrow. He had not wanted him to come. Once he had cancelled the invitation for George and his family to visit Ravenscar for Christmas because of Young Edward’s illness, George had behaved in his usual spoilt way. He had thrown a tantrum. To quiet George down, placate him, he had suggested that his brother should go to Scotland to represent him at a business meeting.

Edward smiled to himself, a smile that also held a hint of smugness. The ploy had worked. George had jumped at the chance to wheel and deal with the Scottish tycoon, Ian MacDonald. Good riddance, he thought, rather pleased with himself, and then got up, went to the cupboard on the other side of the room. Opening the double doors, he stepped inside and began to turn the dial of his safe, until it finally clicked open. Taking out a slim folder of papers, he closed the safe door and locked it.

A clean slate next year, he reminded himself. I want a clean slate next year. I’ve a lot of changes to make.

Richard and Edward sat opposite each other in the handsomely decorated Grill Room of the Savoy Hotel. After toasting each other with their flutes of Krug champagne, they had looked at the menus and ordered.

They had both chosen Colchester oysters, to be followed by steak-and-kidney pie, having similar tastes in food, as well as in other things. They shared a love of fine clothing, although Richard was much more conservative than his brother.

They enjoyed talking about books, English politics, and the coverage given to world events by the daily newspapers. They saw eye-to-eye on almost everything, because Edward had raised Richard after their father had been murdered in Italy, and he had imbued in the younger boy a love of justice and fair play.

Like Edward, Richard was a compassionate man who understood the pain and suffering of others, and was empathetic to their plight. Ned had favoured Richard since his childhood, spoilt him, made him feel special, and he had protected him in every way. And so naturally he was Edward’s loyal ally, and defender, whenever that was necessary. Richard admired Ned, adored him.

The two brothers settled back in their chairs and sipped this finest and most expensive of all French champagnes. After a moment or two of silence, Edward leaned forward. ‘Look, Dick, there’s something I want to tell –’

Interrupting him swiftly, Richard exclaimed, ‘Before you say anything, I must apologize, Ned. I was wrong to quarrel with you about George, last Saturday. I’ve no excuse really, except to say that I let my hurt feelings get the better of me. I’m so very sorry.’

‘There’s nothing to apologize for, Little Fish,’ Edward murmured, affection ringing his face.

The use of this pet name from his childhood brought a smile to Richard’s mouth, and he suddenly began to laugh. ‘I’m a bit too old to be called Little Fish, don’t you think, Ned?’

His brother joined in his laughter, then answered, ‘No, because you’re only twenty-two, my boy. However, it was my fault, truly. I should have put my foot down when Mother asked me to permit him to come, after he had actually invited himself. I was indulging her need to bring harmony to the family.’

‘I know. And I promise I will be quite still tomorrow at the luncheon … I won’t say a word.’

‘George is not coming to the luncheon.’

‘Why not?’ Richard sounded and looked surprised.

‘He’s going away this afternoon. In fact, as we speak he’s boarding the train. He’s on his way to Scotland.’

‘Why?’

‘I asked him to represent me at the meeting in Edinburgh which I had set up for this coming Friday. With Ian MacDonald, regarding his liquor empire. As you know, Ian has no heirs, and he approached me about a takeover some time ago. I’d actually made a firm date with him but cancelled two days ago, on Monday. I used the excuse of Young Edward’s illness, not wanting to be away from him, etcetera, etcetera. I proposed George as my stand-in. Ian was a bit disappointed at first, but in the end he was all right with it. After all, George is a Deravenel.’

He doesn’t always behave like one, Richard thought, although he did not voice this, remained silent, listening carefully to Edward.

‘I then had a word with George –’ Edward went on.

‘And he agreed? Just like that?’ Richard interrupted snapping his fingers together, giving his brother a doubtful look.

‘He did,’ Edward answered. ‘Because I offered him an inducement that truly appealed to him. Actually, the offer was one George genuinely could not refuse.’

‘And what was it?’

‘Money. George’s favourite commodity. I said he would earn a large bonus from the company if he managed to make the deal with Ian MacDonald, a deal which has to favour Deravenels.’

‘And so you really want the MacDonald liquor business?’ Richard sat back.

Edward shrugged, and there was a moment’s pause before he replied, ‘Well, yes, I suppose I do.’

‘George could easily blow it, you know, if he mishandles the situation. He can be extremely volatile in negotiations.’

‘I know that, and if he does, he does. As far as I’m concerned, the deal can go either way and I won’t lose any sleep over it. Or the final outcome. The main thing is that I’ve got George out of my hair for the rest of this week, and also for Christmas.’

‘What do you mean by for Christmas?’ Richard asked, his voice puzzled.

‘Ian had invited me to stay on in Scotland for Christmas. He wanted me to take the family up to his country estate for the holidays. I’d refused politely, because I had invited a number of people to join us at Ravenscar. Then, when I spoke to Ian on Monday I asked him if he would invite George and his family, because I had had to cancel the Christmas festivities due to Young Edward’s illness.’

‘And MacDonald agreed?’

‘He did indeed. He is widowed, and his only child, his daughter, has three little girls … I think when he invited my lot he was hoping to create a happy holiday atmosphere at his house in the Lammermuir Hills. So yes, he welcomed the idea of George and his family. I can be very persuasive.’

‘We all know that, Ned.’ Richard hesitated, opened his mouth to say something, and then stopped abruptly.

Edward looked at him alertly, and asked, ‘What is it?’

‘I was going to say once again that you are putting the deal at risk.’

‘I’m fully aware of that.’ A smile spread across Edward’s face and he added, ‘The deal is not particularly crucial to Deravenels, Dick. I wouldn’t mind having Ian’s liquor company, because it flows beautifully into our wine business. However, the main consideration was to remove George for the moment.’

Richard nodded, and looked off into the distance for a split second before saying, sotto voce, ‘George has not gone off to Scotland so happily just because you’ve promised him a large bonus. He’s a glutton for power, and you’ve just given him a big dose of it … by making him your representative.’

‘Good point, Richard. But let’s move on, shall we? As I mentioned earlier, I’ve something to tell you – I’d like to be done with it before lunch is served, if you don’t mind.’

Richard merely nodded, wondering what was coming next.

‘Two years ago, after you and Anne were married, Nan Watkins gave you a gift. Am I not correct?’

‘You’re talking about the deeds to Neville’s house in Chelsea, aren’t you?’

‘It was never Neville’s house, Richard. It was always Nan’s house. Oh, he bought it right enough, and with his own money, but he actually bought it for Nan. He gifted it to her immediately, and the deeds are in her name, not his.’ When Richard didn’t speak, Ned asked, ‘Well, they are because I saw them myself. Nan showed them to me.’

Richard sighed. ‘Nan gave the deeds to Anne, and she merely glanced at them, and showed me Nan’s letter. Then she put the deeds away.’

‘So you never saw them?’

‘No. Why? Does it matter? After all, Nan gave us the house.’

‘No, she didn’t, Richard. I gave you the house.’

Startled, Richard exclaimed, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Just before you were married, actually quite a few months before, I went to see Nan Watkins. I told her I wanted to purchase the Chelsea house from her because I wanted to give it to you and Anne. At first she didn’t want to sell. She had actually had the same idea, and was going to give it to you both as a wedding present. However, I pointed out one thing to her, and it was this – that George, being the way he is, so dreadfully greedy, might object if she gave the house to you and Anne. I mentioned that he might actually try to get it away from you, by reminding her that Isabel and Anne are the joint heirs to Neville’s estate after her death. And, there-fore, Isabel was part owner of the house by rights.’

‘You’re correct, Ned! He could have done that! He’s certainly capable of it, devious enough. And avaricious, as you say. So how did you persuade her to sell it to you?’ Richard asked swiftly, filled with curiosity.

‘I managed to convince Nan. As I reminded her, my knowledge of George is far greater than anyone else’s in this entire world. I also explained that I would buy the house for you and Anne, so that George could never get his hands on it, and that she could still give it to you, as if it were her present to you both.’

‘That was a nice gesture, Ned, and obviously she accepted. But I wonder why? Why didn’t she tell us the truth at the time? That would have been more honest, wouldn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid I’m guilty again. I convinced her to say she was giving you the house, and to hand you the deeds Neville had presented to her years ago, so that everything would appear quite normal to you. And, of course, to George. In order to completely forestall George, in case he tried to make any trouble for you and Anne later, I had Nan’s solicitors and mine draw up additional documents – a bill of sale, new deeds in my name, and a third legal document which gifts the house to you outright.’

‘Do you mean you have given it to us, Anne and me, or actually to me?’

‘Only to you, Richard. I couldn’t take any chances. I didn’t want Anne’s name on any legal documents. In other words, I bought the house from Nan Watkins, and then, as the new legal owner, I gave it to a third party. All very legal. Essentially, what it did do was cut Anne and Isabel out, because I had bought it from their mother, who had every right to sell, because it was hers, not part of Neville’s estate.’

For a moment Richard sat there in silence, looking slightly stunned.

Smiling, Edward took the thin folder he had removed from the safe, and handed it to Richard. ‘Here are the deeds to your house. They would have always been secure with me, but I decided you ought to have them. After all, the house is yours.’

‘You didn’t give them to me before because you were protecting Nan, weren’t you?’

‘I suppose so … I didn’t want to take the credit away from her. In a sense, she was only the innocent bystander, and she had wanted to give you the house anyway.’

Richard had taken the folder and he held it tightly for a moment, looking at it. But he did not open it. He put it on the floor next to his chair and then sat gazing at his brother, at a loss for words. Finally, he said softly, ‘Thank you, Ned. You’re the best brother any man could have.’

‘And so are you, Little Fish: well trusted and well loved.’

SIX

Jane Shaw sat at her dressing table in the bedroom of her charming house in Hyde Park Gardens.

Leaning forward, she peered at herself in the antique Victorian mirror, brought a hand to her face, touching the fine wrinkles around her eyes with one finger. Crow’s feet they were called. What an ugly name, she thought and sighed. There were also tiny lines above her top lip, hardly visible, but they were there, much to her dismay. And the lip rouge ran into those lines sometimes, she had begun to notice. Her jaw was not as taut as it had once been either, and she knew her neck had begun to sag, only slightly, but, nonetheless, this was visible.

Sitting back in the chair, trying to relax, Jane looked at herself again in a more objective way, and at once she was reassured that she was still a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman who was, very simply, growing older.

Ten years.

Not many years … not really. In 1907 ten years had not seemed much at all. Even in 1910 they were still a mere nothing in her mind. But today, in December of 1918, those ten years had assumed enormous proportions all of a sudden.

She was now forty-three.

Edward Deravenel was thirty-three.

She was ten years older than he was, and whilst this had not seemed too big an age difference between them before, it did now … because it was beginning to show.

It seemed to Jane, now that she focused on their ages, that Edward had not changed at all. He looked exactly the same, as handsome as ever. His hair was still that wonderful red-gold colour, burnished and full of light even on the dullest of sunless wintry days. His eyes, of an unusual cornflower blue, were still sparkling and full of life, and at six foot four he was an imposing man who appeared much younger than his years. He had kept his lean figure, had not put on weight: in fact, there was not an ounce of extra fat on him.

Rising, Jane walked over to the cheval mirror that stood in a corner, and removed her peignoir, stood naked in front of the looking glass, examining her body appraisingly.

Her breasts were still high, taut, a young woman’s breasts, and her hips were slim, her stomach flat. She was pleased that her figure had not altered very much; because she was of medium height, she had always watched her diet carefully. As a consequence of this, her body was slender, and there was a youthfulness about her appearance. Nonetheless, the age difference between them was unexpectedly troubling her today.

Shaking her head, she turned away from the mirror, endeavouring to laugh at her own silliness. As she slipped into the white chiffon peignoir again, Jane reminded herself that no man could be more giving, loving and attentive than Edward.

The odd bits of gossip she heard about him from time to time actually pleased her, because the gossip was about them and their long friendship, and not about him and other women. The crux of the gossip was that, most miraculously, he was faithful to her.

Sitting down in the chair, she began to apply her usual evening cosmetics. A dusting of light face powder, a hint of pink rouge on her high cheekbones, and red lip rouge on her sensual mouth. She touched her blonde eyelashes with dark mascara, added the merest hint of brown pencil to her blonde eyebrows, and then picked up the comb, ran it through her wavy blonde hair. It was shorter than it had been for years, layers of waves that swept over her head and around her ears. This shorter cut was the latest style, and it suited her, added to her youthfulness.

After putting on silk stockings and underwear, Jane went to the wardrobe and took out a tailored, dark-blue silk dress. It had a V neckline and loose floating sleeves. As finishing touches she added several long ropes of pearls, pearl earrings, a sapphire ring and matching bracelet.

Now stepping into a pair of dark-blue suede court shoes, she hurried out of the bedroom and went down the stairs to the parlour.

A perfectionist at heart, Jane wanted to be certain that everything was in order before Ned arrived to spend the evening with her. She was worried about him because of Young Edward’s illness. Ned was concerned about his little son, who was his heir, and he tended to fuss about him rather a lot. But she fully understood why this was so. Jane knew what a genuinely good father Edward was, devoted to all of his children, who did seem to keep coming along on a regular basis.

Pushing open the mahogany door into the parlour, she smiled to herself. Several of her women friends were extremely curious, incurably nosey about their relationship. They had no compunction about asking her outrageous personal questions, especially about Edward’s wife. They said Elizabeth was mean and selfish, but Jane did not care.

She simply laughed in their faces and told them nothing. What did she care if he slept with Elizabeth from time to time? She was fully aware that most married men who had mistresses also had continuing sexual relationships with their wives. Usually because they had no option.

Being pragmatic by nature, Jane tried not to worry too much about things she could not change. It was a waste of her valuable time. And certainly she had no control over Edward Deravenel, or what he did when he was not with her. She knew he loved her, and he saw her several times a week, frequently even more when he was in London, and she knew how much he enjoyed her companionship. He took pleasure in her quick mind, her wit, and, of course, her knowledge of art.

It was to her that Ned owed his extraordinary collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings. She had spent years searching out the best for him, including Renoirs, Manets, Monets, Gauguins, and Van Goghs.

Her eyes flew around the blue room. She was pleased to see that everything was in its given place. The fire was burning brightly, the softly-shaded lamps were turned on, cushions had been plumped, and the hot-house flowers Ned had sent her earlier were filling the air with the heady scent of summer. Glancing across at the table in the far corner, she noted that the bottle of champagne was already in the silver bucket, with two crystal flutes on a tray next to it.

Well done, Vane, she said to herself, thinking of the former parlour maid, whom she had promoted to be the under-housekeeper. The young woman was doing extremely well and she was pleased about this.

Edward Deravenel always felt an enormous sense of relief when he arrived at Jane’s house. He knew that the moment he walked in the tensions of the day would instantly evaporate, and he would relax, become totally at ease with himself. It had been that way since he had first met her.

They were highly compatible in every way. She gave him pleasure and satisfaction in bed, and delighted him out of it. Intelligent, articulate and full of knowledge about many things, she also had a unique quality about her – a lovely tranquillity surrounded Jane. Not only that, the calm atmosphere and well-ordered household met with his approval. Edward loathed chaos, and insisted on his own homes in London, Kent and Yorkshire being run perfectly.

Even though he had a door key he always rang the bell before inserting the key in the lock and going inside. Usually it was Mrs Longden, the housekeeper, who greeted him, but she was nowhere in sight. It was Jane who hurried forward tonight, a happy smile on her face.

‘Ned, darling!’ she exclaimed, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Oh, goodness, your face is cold. It must have turned chilly.’

He laid his briefcase on a hall bench, brought her into his arms and held her close for a moment. ‘There’s an icy wind all of a sudden,’ he explained, releasing her, struggling out of his coat and scarf.

‘Didn’t Broadbent drive you here?’ she asked, looking up at him quizzically.

‘Yes, but there was an awful lot of traffic tonight, and I got out on the corner. It was easier to walk a few yards into the square, rather than having him struggle through that madness. I sent him off for his supper, and he’ll return in a few hours. By then the traffic will have lessened.’

As he spoke, Edward put his coat, scarf and briefcase in the hall cupboard, and together they crossed the hall, heading in the direction of the parlour.

‘Mrs Longden’s off tonight: it’s her sister’s fiftieth birthday, which I’d totally forgotten about.’

‘Oh, Jane, why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could have taken you out to dinner.’

‘That would’ve been nice, Ned, but I know how much you enjoy dining here, and to be frank, so do I. Vane can serve us, and Cook has made some of your favourites – roast chicken, a cottage pie, and she managed to get an excellent smoked salmon from Fortnum and Mason. How does that sound?’

‘You’re making my mouth water,’ he said, laughing, following her into the parlour.

It was Edward’s favourite room in the house, intimate and inviting, decorated in various shades of blue with touches of brilliant yellow throughout. Over the years Jane had collected exquisite decorative objects and all were well displayed, with flair, but it was the art which captivated. Jane had an excellent eye, and the paintings she had bought over the years, as well as those which Edward had given her, were superb. They enhanced the parlour, gave it even greater beauty.

Jane hurried across the floor to the circular table in the corner, and picked up the bottle of champagne. ‘Would you like a glass of your favourite Krug?’ she asked, turning, smiling at him. ‘I think I will.’

‘Grand idea,’ he responded, going to stand in front of the fire, warming himself, his eyes resting on her as she poured the champagne.

A moment later, as she approached, he suddenly thought of Lily. Almost from the first moment he had met Jane she had reminded him of Lily Overton, who had died so tragically. His darling Lily. For a split second a flicker of sadness clouded his brilliant blue eyes.

Jane, who was particularly observant when it came to Edward Deravenel, saw the sudden shadow on his face, and as she handed him the flute of sparkling wine she asked quietly, ‘Young Edward is all right, isn’t he, Ned?’

‘Oh yes, he’s getting better. Much better. I spoke to the doctor before I left the office, because the boy still has an awful cough, and Leighton told me that’s not unusual with bronchitis. Apparently it lingers. And Young Edward is eating better. Also, my mother tells me he’s finally lost that rather disturbing glazed look.’

‘I’m relieved for you, darling. He’s obviously on the mend, thank goodness.’ Jane retrieved her own glass of champagne and came back to the fireside. She and Edward touched glasses and took a sip, and then she sat down on the sofa close to the fireplace.

Lowering himself on a chair opposite her, Edward remarked, ‘I spoke to Vicky this evening, before I left Deravenels, and I was so pleased to hear that you finally accepted her invitation for tomorrow evening.’

‘I hesitated at first, because I didn’t want to intrude –’

‘How can you say such a thing?’ Edward interjected, sounding surprised. ‘Why would you think you’re intruding? You’re one of my oldest friends … we’ve known each other for ten years.’ He grinned at her. ‘Or had you forgotten how long it’s been?’

‘Of course not. It’s just that … well, you and Will and Vicky go back years –’ Jane broke off, shook her head. ‘I’ve always told you I never want to embarrass you, or be an embarrassment, and you know the reasons why.’

‘I do,’ he replied, an amused smile touching his mouth. ‘I’m a married man and you’re my mistress. However, you must remember, my darling, that Will and his sister are two of my best friends. They are not my wife’s friends. They never have been. They are part of my coterie, shall we call it, not hers. It is you they care about, Jane, not Elizabeth. But let’s not go into all those hatreds now. Let’s get back to the point – I’m happy we’ll be together tomorrow night.’

Jane nodded. ‘I am too. But –’

‘Why have you stopped? Say what you started to say.’

‘Vicky told me Grace Rose will be there.’

‘I know that.’ He burst out laughing when he saw the troubled expression in Jane’s eyes, and shook his head. ‘Darling, do you think she doesn’t know you’re my mistress? Good Lord, of course she does. She’s eighteen and very clever, and very much my daughter … quite sophisticated, not at all naive. You know, Vicky and Stephen have been wonderful parents to her, have brought her up to be a lady, and she’s had an extraordinary education. She’s just lapped up knowledge, and has also become quite the historian. I’m extremely proud of her. Don’t you have any concerns about Grace, my dear. She’s on my side, and she always has been.’

‘Yes, I am being rather silly, aren’t I?’ Jane drank her champagne and began to laugh. ‘It’s been one of those days for me. Being silly.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I suddenly looked at myself in the mirror tonight and decided I looked old. And then I started to think about the difference in our ages. I am ten years older than you, after all, Ned.’

‘You don’t look it! Anyway, you know I’ve always preferred older women. And everyone knows I like blondes best, especially blonde widows.’ He grinned at her. ‘Or divorcees. Ten years is not that much, you know.’

Jane realized it would be better to let this topic fade away, and she smiled and said, ‘I have a surprise for you.’ Putting down her glass of champagne, she went to her desk and returned to the fireside with an envelope, which she handed to Edward.

‘What is it?’ he asked curiously.

‘Something I found for you, if you want to buy it.’

‘Aha! a painting, my Jane! That’s what it is, isn’t it?’

She nodded and sat down, looking at him expectantly.

Edward took the photograph out of the envelope, and stared at it, caught his breath as he took in the unique beauty of the Renoir. It was marvellous, a painting of two young girls aged about sixteen or seventeen. They were wearing identical orange dresses with black fronts and trimming, sitting on a window ledge against a backdrop of blue sky. Both had hair of a burnished red-gold, swept up on top of their heads. Their gaze was directed at a book they were reading.

‘It’s absolutely marvellous!’ he exclaimed, looking across at Jane. ‘Glorious. And the girls remind me of Grace Rose and Bess. Except that these two young ladies look as if they are the same age.’

‘It’s called Les Deux Soeurs. Renoir painted it in 1889. And you’re quite right, they are the same age I think. Look at the skin tones, Ned, the beauty of their faces. It’s an incomparable painting. I fell in love with it when I saw it.’

‘Which gallery has it?’

‘It’s in private hands. It was brought here to London at the outset of the war. For safety, I suppose.’

‘And now the owner wants to sell it?’

‘Apparently. If you are interested I can take you to see it on Friday.’

Edward frowned. ‘I was going to go to Ravenscar that morning. But I’ll tell you what, Janey, I’ll take the late afternoon train instead. We can see the painting in the morning hopefully, and then we’ll have lunch. How does that sound?’

‘That’s perfectly fine. So you do want it, do you?’

‘Of course I do. It’s wonderful. How much is it?’

‘I don’t know. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist it,’ she said, nodding, smiling. ‘I was sure it would remind you of your own little redheads.’

‘It does, and as usual your instincts were right. You second-guessed me perfectly. Thank you, darling. And now I have a surprise for you.’ Rising, he hurried out of the parlour, got his briefcase, opened it and took out a package.

He held this behind his back as he returned, and handed it to her with a bit of a flourish once he stood in front of her.

‘What is it?’ she asked, staring down at the package covered in dark blue wrapping paper and then looking up at him.

‘Open it and see.’

Tearing off the paper, Jane found herself holding a dark blue cardboard box. Lifting off the lid, she saw that the box held a jewellery case made of very dark blue velvet. Once she was holding the case she glanced up at him again, shaking her head. ‘By the looks of this, you’ve been very extravagant again. Oh, Ned, you do spoil me so.’

‘No, I don’t. Open it.’

She did. Her light eyes widened when she saw the lacey bib composed of diamonds interwoven with aquamarines. For a moment she was stunned and gazed at him speechlessly. Finally she said softly, ‘Darling, it’s just … beautiful.’

‘As are you. I was going to get you an emerald brooch or emerald earrings, and then when I saw this I immediately thought of your eyes … they’re the same colour.’ He picked the necklace up, held it in front of her so that it caught and held the light. ‘Look, Jane, your eyes are this colour exactly.’

Edward slipped the necklace in his pocket, took hold of her hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘I want you to try it on. Immediately. Now. It won’t work with this dress, so come on, darling, let’s go upstairs. I want to see it on you.’

She made no protest. He hurried her out of the room, up the stairs, and into the bedroom, and he went on swiftly, ‘Take off your dress, Jane. I want you to put this on.’ As he spoke he took the necklace out of his pocket. ‘Hurry up, I can’t wait to see how it looks on you.’

Laughing, she did as he said, and in a second stood in front of him in her underwear.

Circling her, Edward went and stood behind her, put the necklace around her neck, fastened it, and guided her across to the dressing table, pressed her down into the chair. ‘Look at yourself, look how the stones reflect the colour of your eyes.’ She leaned forward, staring at herself in the mirror, and he leaned over her shoulders, regarding her reflection.

He murmured, ‘The necklace is perfection, and so are you.’

Turning her head, she gazed up at him, and her eyes filled. ‘Thank you, thank you for this lovely, lovely gift. I will treasure it forever, Ned.’

‘As I will always treasure you, Jane. Please remember that, especially when you start getting strange ideas, start thinking you’re too old for me.’

In a few long strides he had crossed the bedroom floor. He locked the door, took off his jacket, threw it on a chaise longue, and then as he turned around, walked back to her, he began to unbutton his shirt. ‘I’m now going to prove that you’re not too old, that I still desire you.’

Jane met him in the middle of the floor, her eyes on his. ‘Can you unfasten the necklace, please?’

‘No, I can’t,’ he whispered, and took her in his arms, pulled her closer, so that her cheek rested against his bare chest. ‘I want you to wear it tonight. All night. But I will unfasten this,’ he added; his hands fumbled for the hooks of her bra. ‘Let’s find that bed of ours,’ he said against her hair. ‘It’s a matter of some urgency.’

Jane now saw that he did indeed have a strong need for her, that he wanted her; she shed the rest of her clothes, followed him. He was undressing as quickly as she had. A moment later he took her in his arms, held her tightly. His mouth found hers and he kissed her deeply, passionately, his tongue on hers, his hands sliding down to her breasts. When they broke their long kiss he led her to the side of the bed.

They lay down together, catching their breath. Eventually Edward propped himself up on one elbow, looked down into her face. ‘Jane, my beautiful, beautiful Jane, you’re such a silly girl.’ He lowered his face to hers, added, ‘You’ll never be too old for me …’ Leaving the rest of his sentence unfinished, he kissed her once more.

Edward lay on top of her, pushed his hands under her buttocks and brought her close to him as he entered her. It was the same as it always was with them. Desire and an overwhelming need. Passion. Urgency. They swiftly found their familiar rhythm, clinging to each other as they soared together, filled with ecstasy, and the pure joy of being together, possessing each other so completely and with total abandon.

At one moment Edward stopped abruptly, raised himself up to gaze down at Jane.

She stared back, perplexity crossing her face.

He said with a small smug smile, ‘The aquamarines are indeed the colour of your eyes, especially at a moment like this.’

He lowered himself onto her once more, his face against her neck. ‘Oh, how I love you. Love you, Jane. I’m yours. Just as you are mine. Come now, come to me. Now.’ And she did, calling his name. He echoed her, cried out, sank against her breasts, sighing, ‘Oh Jane, oh Jane.’

They remained joined together for a few minutes. It was Edward who moved first. He took a pillow and placed it against Jane’s chest. ‘The necklace is a little sharp against my skin,’ he told her, his voice low. ‘There, that’s better … with the pillow between us.’

‘I can take it off, darling.’

‘No. I want you to wear it tonight. I know you’ll find a dress that has the right neckline.’

‘I will.’

There was a long silence, a lovely quietness between them that lasted for a while. It was Jane who broke it finally when she suddenly said, ‘What did you do about the dog?’

‘Dog?’ Edward asked, puzzled.

‘Don’t you remember, I suggested you buy a dog for Young Edward. He’s always wanted one, or so you once said, ever since he was very small boy. I told you I thought it would be a lovely Christmas present.’

‘Oh, my God! The dog! I’d forgotten about it. I was going to buy it in Scotland for him … a West Highland terrier, he loves that breed. Damnation!’

‘You can still get one, Ned. At Harrods. They sell dogs.’

‘I’d have to take it with me to Yorkshire. That’s a bit of a nuisance.’

‘I’m sure they’ll send it up for you. In a van.’

‘What a good idea. What on earth would I do without you? I’ll go over there tomorrow morning, and pick one out, arrange for it to be taken up to Ravenscar. Well done, Janey, well done. You’ve saved my bacon again.’ Pushing himself up, he leaned over her, kissed the tip of her nose. ‘This necklace is a bit dangerous,’ he murmured, touching it with one finger, and starting to laugh. ‘I’m surprised I don’t have a raw chest.’

‘I did volunteer to take it off.’

‘I know, but I didn’t want you to … You know … I like to make love to women wearing only jewels and nothing else.’

‘Women!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now what other women wearing only jewels do you make love to, Edward Deravenel? Tell me that.’

‘Only you my sweet, only you,’ he answered swiftly, telling her the absolute truth.

Jane was wise enough to make no further comment, even though she did believe him. She was well aware he was faithful to her. The whole world knew that, including his wife. She wondered if this troubled Elizabeth. Didn’t one other woman in a married man’s life pose a threat? Whereas many women in a married man’s life could be so easily dismissed. She let these thoughts slide away from her, and instead asked, ‘By the way, why did you send George off to Scotland? You never did say.’

‘I wanted to get him out of my hair. He’d invited himself for Christmas at Ravenscar, and to please my mother I’d acquiesced. And then when I cancelled our Christmas festivities, told the guests they could not come, he became very obstreperous. Because Young Edward was ill I’d decided to cancel my trip to Scotland. It then occurred to me that I could get rid of George by sending him up to Edinburgh to negotiate the deal with Ian MacDonald. The deal for his liquor business. Killing two birds with one stone, really.’

‘Isn’t that a bit dangerous?’ she asked, pushing herself up on the pillows. ‘Allowing him to be the voice of Deravenels?’

Edward looked at her intently. ‘He can be a bit volatile, I know that, even in business discussions. But I promised him a large bonus if he pulls it off to my satisfaction. He’ll be careful how he handles himself because of the prospect of money.’

‘I hope he doesn’t make a mess of it,’ she murmured, thinking out loud.

‘Funny thing is, Jane, Richard said the same thing to me earlier today,’ Ned said. ‘If it doesn’t work, I won’t care too much, you know. George is strange at times, but more of a nuisance I’d say than anything else.’

‘No, he’s not a nuisance, Ned. He’s a threat.’

‘Why do you say that?’ he asked, frowning to himself. Will Hasling had made the same comment several times in the last few weeks.

Jane answered in a thoughtful voice, ‘I think he’s in competition with you. I’ve always believed that George sort of … well, fancies himself, thinks he can be you, thinks he’s as good as you, as clever as you, and he’s not. Everyone knows how brilliant you are.’

‘It was Neville who put those ideas in his head, a long time ago. Obviously they’ve taken hold. Now that the War is over perhaps I can ship George off somewhere. To America, perhaps.’

Jane laughed. ‘On a permanent basis, of course. Don’t you think that would be a good idea?’

‘Yes. And I’ve got an even better idea,’ he murmured, leaning towards her, kissing her fully on the mouth, and moving even closer. ‘I want to make love to you again, before we go down to dinner.’

‘What about the necklace –’

‘To hell with the bloody necklace,’ he interrupted, smiling at her. ‘I don’t care if I do get a few scratches as long as I can have you in my arms. You, Jane, my one true love.’

‘Oh Ned –’

He cut off the rest of the sentence by placing his mouth firmly on hers.

SEVEN

Amos Finnister sat in his office at Deravenels on the Strand, giving Will Hasling his entire attention. There was an expression of concern on his face as he listened to the other man.

‘And so,’ Will continued, ‘I would appreciate it if you could do a bit of digging, Amos. In your usual discreet fashion.’

Nodding, Amos asked, ‘Do you think Mr George has fallen in with a bad lot? Is that it, Mr Hasling?’

‘Yes. And a dangerous lot, at that. The drinking, the whoring are bad enough, well that’s George’s nature, I’m afraid: he’s always been a bit of a libertine. It’s the drugs that worry me, and the gambling. He’s losing a lot of money on a regular basis, a great deal, in fact. Very troublesome.’

‘If I might ask, how did you find this out?’ Amos gazed at Will steadily.

‘Someone came to me, warned me.’ Will nodded, and murmured, ‘Thank God.’

‘I’m assuming it’s someone you can trust, Mr H?’

‘It is, actually, Amos, and there’s no good reason why you shouldn’t know. It came from one of my brothers – Howard. When he was at Eton he became extremely close to a boy called Kim Rowe-Leggett, and, in the way of old Etonians, they’ve stayed close friends over the years. Rowe-Leggett is a stockbroker in the City these days, quite well-known, and very successful. Anyway, he likes the occasional flutter on the ponies, and he sometimes gambles, on a small scale, at one of the newer London gambling clubs. He’s a member of Starks, Julian Stark’s place, another old Etonian. To get to the point, my brother told me that according to Kim Rowe-Leggett the gossip about George is rampant. Naturally I’m perturbed. Not only about his gambling losses, but the drugs.’

‘I don’t blame you.’ Amos shook his head. ‘Mr George is a great worry to Mr Deravenel, as you well know. And more than once in the last few weeks he’s asked me to keep an eye on him. You know what I mean … he wants me to keep track of what his brother does in his spare time, but in a … casual way, unobtrusively, shall we say?’

Will rubbed his mouth with his hand, frowning. ‘I wonder if Mr Edward has heard any of the gossip about Mr George? Has he said anything to you?’

‘Not really. When he does express concern it’s in a … well, a mild way. He doesn’t get excited, or anything like that. And he’s said nothing about gambling or drugs.’

‘It’s bound to get back to him sooner rather than later, especially if there is a demand for payment of the gambling debts. Julian Stark might come to Mr Deravenel if he doesn’t get satisfaction from George.’ Will sighed. ‘I have to tell him, Amos. I really do. He and I have never had any secrets from each other in all the years we’ve worked together here at Deravenels, and even before that, when we were at Oxford.’

Amos sat back in his desk chair and stared off into the distance, an odd look settling on his face.

Will Hasling noticed this immediately, and asked, ‘What is it, Amos? You’re looking peculiar.’

‘Can it wait until after Christmas? What I mean is, Mr Edward is a bit worried at the moment, as you well know, about his little boy. And it is the holiday season … the annual lunch tomorrow and then the dinner at your sister’s tomorrow evening.’

‘I see what you mean.’ Will became reflective for a moment or two, weighing the odds before remarking, ‘I understand exactly what you’re saying, but we all know that he detests surprises. If the gossip comes to him from someone else, he’s going to be furious with me for not telling him, preparing him in advance.’

Sitting up straighter in the chair, Amos agreed, exclaiming, ‘A point well taken. I reckon you will have to have a word with him. To quote my late father, forewarned is forearmed.’ Leaning forward across the desk, Amos added quietly, ‘Mr Richard said to me only last week that he believed his brother George was not suitable for Deravenels and shouldn’t be given any power in the company. That he had very poor judgement.’

Will was not at all surprised by this confidence. He had long been aware that there was bad blood between the two brothers. Richard was devoted and loyal to Ned, and would lay down his life for him, but he loathed George.

Will had known Richard since his childhood, and he loved him, admired him. He was of good character; a stickler for discipline and a bit straightlaced. He was also very hard working, talented in business, and Edward was especially pleased that he had settled in so well at Deravenels. Will knew that.

Of late Richard had become unusually critical of George. Will recognized that Richard had suffered because of George who had tried to block his marriage to Anne Watkins in the meanest way. Will stifled a sigh. He had never quite understood why Ned had not intervened sooner, rectified the situation, not allowed it to drag on.

Rousing himself from his thoughts, realizing Amos was waiting, Will continued. ‘Do you think Richard knows any bad gossip about George? Has he mentioned anything to you?’

‘No, he hasn’t. However, he might have heard something. Last week, out of the blue, he did make a remark – he said his brother was venal.’

‘He certainly hit the nail on the head.’

‘In my opinion George Deravenel is a dyed-in-the-wool trouble maker.’

Will gave Amos a long look, murmured, ‘He’s also … dangerous.’

‘Oh, I know that. Ever since he became entangled with Neville Watkins, and his machinations all those years ago, I’ve been suspicious of him. To tell you the truth, I’ve not trusted him since then.’

‘And neither have I.’ Will Hasling rose, walked towards the door, explaining, ‘I must get off, Amos, my wife is waiting for me at the Savoy Hotel. We’re going to the Savoy Theatre tonight.’

‘I understand. Have a pleasant evening, Mr H.’

Will swung around when he reached the door, and stared hard at Amos. ‘I will have to speak to Mr Edward as soon as possible. I must inform him about everything, prepare him. And please do a bit of digging, won’t you? Who knows what you’ll turn up.’

‘You can depend on me. If there’s anything to find, I’ll find it.’

There was going to be trouble. He could smell it in the air already. And he knew it in his bones for sure. For as long as he could remember, Amos had relied on his intuition, coupled with his insight into people. He also had a knack of knowing what made people tick, understood why they did the things they did, recognized their motivation. All of these gifts, because that’s how Amos thought of them, had helped him when he was a copper on the beat, policing the streets of Whitechapel, Limehouse, and other areas of London’s East End.

And they had continued to work for him during his years with Neville Watkins; nor had they disappeared when he had joined Deravenels, to head up the Security Division. A wry smile touched his mouth. No such thing as a Security Division until he had been hired to ‘watch my back’, as Edward Deravenel had so succinctly put it at the time.

These days this was no longer necessary. Most of Edward’s enemies were dead; some were living abroad but had been rendered powerless by Edward Deravenel’s success as head of the company. Deravenels had always been a huge global corporation; he had turned it into an operation which was bigger than ever and made more money than it had in its entire history.

His was a household name, not only in England but around the world, and he was considered to be one of the most influential tycoons in the City. Some said he was even more important than his late cousin Neville Watkins, who had been the greatest magnate at one time.

Amos now remembered that once he had told Mr Edward he wanted to retire. Edward had thrown a fit. Or something tantamount to one. He had gone berserk. That was the only word for it.

‘I want you here by my side for the rest of your life, and mine!’ Edward had declared heatedly. ‘I will not countenance talk of your retirement, and that’s that. Don’t bring it up again, Amos. And besides, always remember that men who retire invariably fall apart and die.’

Amos had been a little stunned by these words at the time, words so emphatically uttered, and yet he had also been immensely flattered. He realized then that he had a most special place in Edward Deravenel’s life and in his heart, just as his boss did in his.

Loyal, devoted, discreet and protective, Amos Finnister was also calm and cool under any circumstances. And he was so extraordinarily trustworthy that Edward Deravenel had never bothered to hide any aspects of his extremely complicated life from the former private investigator, who was usually at his side.

It was quite common knowledge at Deravenels that Amos Finnister was very close to the managing director, but no one knew just how close. Except for Will Hasling, who was even closer to Ned, being his longest and dearest friend.

These three men worked in harmony together, and had for years. They trusted each other implicitly, and were totally discreet about each other, revealing nothing to colleagues or family. Once, rather laughingly, Edward had said that they were like The Three Musketeers, and in a certain sense that was true.

The relationship between them worked for a number of reasons. Edward and Will, though aristocrats, were not snobs; they were affable, accessible, natural, and democratic in their attitudes. Amos Finnister knew he must never overstep the line. He was well aware of his place in the order of things. And he was never over-familiar. He knew how wrong that would be.

These three had been hand-in-glove for a long time. They thought alike, after years in each other’s company, and acted in a similar manner when confronted by problems. And they could usually second-guess each other.

Amos rose, walked up and down the office for a few seconds, stretching his long legs. And thinking hard.

Will Hasling was a lot more troubled that he was letting on, Amos was convinced of that. And he also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Will would tell Edward everything tomorrow morning. And Edward would want him on it immediately.

Amos stepped over to the window and looked out. It seemed like a nice night, with a clear, dark sky, no clouds at all, and a galaxy of stars.

After locking his desk and taking his overcoat from the cupboard, Amos left his office and went down the stairs. He crossed the imposing, soaring marble lobby of Deravenels, as usual admiring its grandeur, and stepped out onto the Strand.

The thoroughfare was busier than he had seen it in a long time. Taxis, motorcars and omnibuses crowded the road, and the pavement was congested with pedestrians, mostly moving swiftly, hurrying about their business. It struck him immediately that he must walk. He had no alternative since it would be hard to find a cab in this mess.

Anyway, he did enjoy walking; it reminded him of his days on the beat, he supposed, and he usually did his best thinking when his feet were moving. Buttoning his topcoat, he set off at a brisk pace.

Tonight he was heading to the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly. His old friend Charlie Morran was staying there, and they were to dine in the elegant Ritz Restaurant, which was one of the best in London. He had sometimes eaten there with Edward Deravenel, and he knew it quite well.

The hotel itself was palatial, with marble floors, rich carpets, crystal chandeliers, handsome dark-wood furniture, potted palms and huge arrangements of flowers. It was a particular favourite of the rich and famous, a rendezvous for the most well-known people in London … the aristocracy, socialites, famous actors, actresses, and writers, members of Parliament, politicians and heads of state … the crême-de-la-crême of the world.

Amos’s thoughts remained focused on Charlie as he strode out towards Trafalgar Square. He had not seen him for over two years; the young man had been at the front in France, fighting for King and Country.

When war had broken out in August of 1914, Charlie had immediately booked passage on a ship from New York to Southampton, and had come home to England to be a soldier. ‘I’m determined to do my bit,’ was the way he had put it to Amos when he had first arrived in London, adding, ‘I want to stand up and be counted, fight for what’s right and just. So here I am, and I’m going to enlist in the British Army this week.’ And he had.

Charlie had come back to London alone; his sister Maisie had already left America the year before. In 1913 she had gone to live in Ireland with the man she had just married.

Amos had grown very proud of Charlie and Maisie, and of the success they had achieved over the years. Within a few months of arriving in New York, where Charlie had constantly insisted the streets were paved with gold, the two Cockney kids from Whitechapel had found work in the theatre. And eventually they had become stars on Broadway, as they had always wanted. And why not?

They could sing, dance, and act, and both were clever mimics, quite aside from being exceptionally good looking. Talent and looks. The best combination. It was really no surprise to Amos when Charlie’s letters kept arriving very promptly with news of their continuing triumphs.

They had sailed away from Liverpool in 1904; then their love of London lured them back. They made many visits home over the ensuing years, and Amos had been delighted to see them whenever they arrived on his doorstep.

It was a happy day for Amos when the famous letter came, announcing Maisie’s marriage to her young Irishman, who, as it turned out, was the eldest son of Lord Dunleith, an Anglo-Irish landowner with a splendid Georgian mansion called Dunleith and vast acres surrounding his county seat.

All of these thoughts were swirling around in his head as Amos tramped towards Trafalgar Square. There were a good many people circulating in the area, and especially around the statue of England’s greatest hero, Horatio Nelson. Revellers were singing and waving the Union Jack and dancing. Some were shouting, ‘We beat the Hun!’ Obviously they were celebrating because it was the end of the war, not because it was Christmas, which was still a week away.

At the other side of Trafalgar Square somebody let off a Catherine wheel, and bursts of sparkling lights rushed up into the night air. More and more fireworks began to explode for a wonderful display of colour and brilliance, and there was applause and laughter and more songs.

Unexpectedly, a clear soprano voice rang out above the din. The woman began to sing Land of Hope and Glory, and after the first verse other people joined in, and soon everyone was singing. Including Amos, who discovered he had a funny lump in his throat. He felt an enormous swell of pride, and realized he was as sentimental and patriotic as the rest of them were.

Eventually, he moved on, walking through the square, heading West to Piccadilly and the Ritz Hotel.

Thank God the fighting has ended, he thought. For the first time in history, a war had exploded and engulfed the entire world, destroying the old order of things. He understood that nothing would ever be the same again. But thankfully the world was at peace tonight, after four years of hell and millions of young men dead, mowed down before they had had a chance to live.

EIGHT

When he reached Arlington Street, just off Piccadilly, Amos crossed over to the other side where the entrance to the Ritz Hotel was located.

Nodding to the doorman, attired in a uniform of dark blue and black top hat, he pushed through the swing doors and entered the lobby.

Glancing at the large clock on the wall, Amos was gratified to see that he was not late. It was exactly seven o’clock. After depositing his overcoat in the gentlemen’s cloakroom, he went into the promenade area where English afternoon tea was served without fail every day of the week.

He stood glancing around, and a split-second later he spotted Charlie coming towards him. Slowly. He had an extremely bad limp and was using a walking stick, leaning on it heavily. A captain in the British Army now, having received many promotions, he looked very smart in his officer’s uniform and Sam Brown belt.

Amos lifted his hand in a wave, and Charlie waved back. Hurrying forward to meet him, Amos’s step faltered slightly as he drew closer to his old friend. But he quickly recouped, took a deep breath, and continued down the plush carpet, hoping Charlie hadn’t noticed.

Pushing a smile onto his face, Amos thrust out his hand when they came to a standstill opposite each other, and Charlie grasped it tightly, held on to it for a moment.

Amos felt his heart clench and he had to swallow hard. The young actor would never act again, not with that ruined face. One side was badly scarred by burns, the skin bright red, puckered, and stretched tightly over the facial bones. The scars ran from his hairline to his jaw, and looked raw.

As if he had read Amos’s thoughts, Charlie said evenly, ‘I’ll have to find a new profession, I’m afraid, Amos. But at least I got out alive, and you know what, the doctors thought they’d have to amputate my leg, but they didn’t. Somehow they managed to save it for me.’ His voice wavered slightly as he added, ‘I’ve been one of the lucky ones.’

Amos was choked up, but swiftly took control of himself, impressed by Charlie’s courageous attitude. ‘I know you’ve been to hell and back, but you’re home now. And you’re safe.’

Charlie smiled faintly. ‘Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, old friend. Come on then, let’s go to the restaurant, shall we? Have a drink, toast each other, and reminisce about old times.’

‘Best idea yet. And how’s your sister Maisie?’

‘She’s tip-top, very cheerful, feeling better because Liam is steadily improving, and every day. He was so shell-shocked he was like a zombie for a long time. Then he started weeping a great deal, and constantly woke up screaming in the night. And I know why … it’s the memories … they don’t go away.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘Too many walking wounded who probably won’t ever get better. The walking dead, I call ’em. Might as well be dead, the kind of lives they’re going to have. Well, I shouldn’t say that, should I?’ He endeavoured to adopt a more cheerful tone, and finished, ‘Maisie’s a wonder, and she’s convinced that Liam will make a full recovery. She sends you her love, by the way.’

‘I received a Christmas card from her the other day, and she told me she hopes I’ll go and visit them at Dunleith. In fact, she suggested we go together.’

‘We’ll do it!’ Charlie announced, and nodded to the maître d’ who had come to greet them, and was waiting to usher them into the restaurant.

‘Good evening, Captain Morran, very nice to see you tonight.’ The man glanced at Amos, and smiled, ‘Good evening, Mr Finnister.’

Amos inclined his head. ‘Good evening,’ he replied, feeling certain that the maître d’ remembered him from the times he had come here for lunch with Edward Deravenel and Will Hasling.

They followed the head waiter across the room. When he showed them to a table near the window overlooking Green Park.

‘I’m glad I was able to get a room here,’ Charlie volunteered, looking across the dinner table at Amos. ‘The hotel seems to be very busy, no doubt because of the Armistice, and Christmas, of course. But I’m an old client and they were most obliging. I’m sure you remember that once we could afford it, Maisie and I stayed here whenever we came to London. Mostly to see you, Amos, you know.’ Without waiting for a comment, he rushed on, ‘Believe me, this place is a helluva lot better than the trenches. Take my word for it.’

‘I do. I can’t imagine what you boys went through over there. Nobody can. Hell on earth, I’m certain, and I’ve no doubt that it was bloody horrific –’ Amos cut himself off as a waiter appeared at the table.

Charlie looked at Amos and asked, ‘Would you like champagne? Or something stronger?’

‘I’ll have whatever you’re having, Charlie, thanks very much.’

‘Then it’s champagne.’ Charlie said to the waiter, ‘I’d like a bottle of pink champagne, the best in the house.’

‘That would be Krug, sir. I’ll bring it right away.’

When they were once more alone, Charlie leaned closer to Amos and said in a low voice, ‘The constant shelling, the mustard gas, the hand-to-hand fighting, it was bleedin’ awful. But it was the bloody mud that got to us. Sometimes we sank knee-deep in it, and it slowed us down, I can tell you. One of my lads suddenly hit on the idea of using our rations to make a solid floor in the trenches.’

‘Rations?’ Amos’s eyebrows shot up questioningly.

‘That’s right … tins of Fray Bentos corned beef, our daily rations. Hundreds of tins went under our boots, helped to keep our feet dry, and at eye level, so we could see over the top of the trenches. Spot the Germans as they came at us. It was horrible, like glue, that mud, and then there was the incessant rain, the bombs exploding, the men dying all around us …’ Charlie let his voice fall away. He pressed his lips together, struggling to keep his emotions in check, but it was a struggle for him.

Amos, regarding him worriedly, noticed that Charlie’s dark eyes were suddenly moist, and he reached out, touched the younger man’s arm quietly, lovingly. ‘There, there, lad, take it easy. Perhaps we shouldn’t be talking about this –’

‘It’s all right, honest,’ Charlie cut in with swiftness. ‘It’s better to talk about it really, especially with an old friend like you. I know you understand how I feel, you always have.’

Amos said nothing, but thought that Charlie had never been through anything like this before, but then who had? It had been a war of such magnitude, horror and brutality that it defied description.

Charlie suddenly coughed behind his hand, and swallowed. Then before he could stop himself he went on talking. ‘I saw my men die around me, all of them. I lost the whole battalion. I’m the only survivor.’ His voice broke on these words, and he pulled out a handkerchief, blew his nose, sat back quietly, pushing the memories of his men away.

Amos, aware that Charlie was trying to control his distress, motioned to a waiter, and when he came to the table, Amos said, ‘Could we have some water, please? And the menus … we’ve been waiting for those. We’d like to order.’

Nodding, the waiter hurried off.

After a moment or two, Charlie turned to Amos and made a face. ‘Sorry, old mate, very sorry. Usually I’m fine, quite all right most of the time, and then suddenly I get upset, sort of overcome. My apologies. I didn’t intend to inflict this on you.’

‘You’re doing no such thing, don’t be daft,’ Amos answered, and then seeing a bevy of waiters descending on them, exclaimed, ‘Everything’s coming all at once.’

Within minutes they were alone again, and lifting their flutes of champagne; they clinked glasses. ‘Here’s to the future!’ Charlie said.

‘The future!’ Amos echoed, and took a sip.

A silence fell between them as they both scrutinized the menu, and then Charlie looked over the top of his, and said, with a smile, ‘Lots of delicious things to choose from, and I must confess, they all tempt me. A lot better than the grub I was getting in the army hospital at Hull. Bloody foul it was.’

Amos laughed, relieved to see that the old Cockney cheerfulness was surfacing in Charlie. ‘I must say it does read like a repast for a king. Well … I fancy the Colchester oysters, or perhaps the Morecambe Bay potted shrimps, and then saddle of mutton with redcurrant jelly, or roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.’

‘D’yer think they knows ’ow to mek Yorkshire pud ’ere? Me old muvver used ter say only the folks from up the Dales could do it proper, and that’s right, innit? No, this ain’t the place fer it.’

Amos burst out laughing. ‘I thought you’d forgotten all your Cockney, Charlie, seeing as how you’re speaking like an officer and a gentleman tonight.’

Charlie laughed with him and took a long swallow of his pink champagne, enjoying it. ‘Not only tonight, but all the time really. Didn’t you ever notice on our trips home before the war that Maisie and I were speaking differently, like this, not falling into Cockney slang at all?’

‘Come to think of it, yes, I did. But occasionally you sort of, well, lapsed, shall we say?’

‘Not often. However, there was a really good reason why we decided to speak properly, after we’d arrived in New York. And it’s this … they didn’t understand Cockney there. I mean, what Yank would know that apples and pears means stairs, and rosy lea is a cup of tea?’

‘That’s understandable. But let’s face it, a lot of the English don’t understand it either,’ Amos pointed out.

‘That’s because you’ve got to be born within the sound of Bow Bells to understand Cockney and speak it proper-like. And that’s St Mary-le-Bow Church where the bells are, but I know you know that. And listen, Mum once told me another fing, that rhyming Cockney slang was invented so that nobody else could understand it. Only Cockneys. It was a way to outwit the rozzers, coppers like you, Amos, and anybody else trying to listen in to a private conversation.’

‘A secret language! I’ll be buggered.’ Amos grinned.

So did Charlie, who announced, ‘You do manage to cheer me up, you really do. It’s the first time I’ve had a laugh in months and months.’

Before Amos could answer, the maître d’ came over to the table to take their order, and once he had left them alone, Amos leaned closer to his old friend. ‘I just wanted to say something, and it’s this. I’m here to help you, in whatever way you might need me. If I can help you in any way, you know I am ready, willing and able to do so. I don’t suppose you need money, because you were a successful actor, a star, but –’

‘No, no, I don’t need money!’ Charlie interrupted. ‘I have a good business manager in New York, and he’s done very well for me, taken my money and quadrupled it over the years. And Maisie’s money, too. A’ course, she doesn’t need money. After her father-in-law died last year, Liam inherited the title and quite a fortune. He was the only son, you see. I’m proud of her, Amos, because she’s been running that estate ever since she married Liam. Lord Dunleith was sick, and a bit decrepit, and she took over because Liam was at the front, and Lady Dunleith was dead. She’s quite remarkable, I think, our Maisie.’

‘I agree with you,’ Amos murmured, and pushed away thoughts of the past and things he had no wish to remember. Changing the subject, he asked, ‘What do you think you’ll do, now that the war’s over? Or are you just going to be a gentleman of leisure.’

‘That’s not for me, doing nothing!’ Charlie shook his head vehemently. ‘I can’t act anymore, not with this ruined face. But I could direct or produce, and perhaps I might even write for the theatre. Something will turn up.’

‘I know it will, you’ve always been very enterprising. But isn’t there anything you can do about the scarring? I mean once your face has properly healed?’

‘Maybe. One of the doctors at the hospital in Hull told me that skin can be grafted, and that there are certain new methods, special treatments being developed. I shall just have to wait until I’ve healed. Perhaps then I can see someone.’

At this point two waiters arrived with trays of food. There were Colchester oysters for Amos and paté for Charlie, which they promptly served, and then brought plates of toast and brown bread.

‘I’m glad we’re having dinner together tonight,’ Charlie remarked at one moment. ‘I couldn’t wait to see you. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve always made me feel tons better. It’s comforting to have a really close friend, someone you can trust.’

‘Yes, it is. And I can say the same for you, Charlie.’

It was after they had finished the main course of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and were sipping their glasses of St Emilion and relaxing, that Charlie suddenly sat up straighter in the chair.

‘What is it?’ Amos asked, following the direction of his gaze.

‘A friend’s just coming into the restaurant. That officer over there in the entrance. The one on crutches, with those two women and another man. Do you see him?’

Amos nodded.

‘He lost a leg, after he was severely wounded in the third battle of Ypres.’

‘Were you in the trenches with him?’ Amos asked.

‘No, I wasn’t. I didn’t know him then. We first met at the military hospital in Hull, and then again at Chapel Allerton Hospital in Leeds, when I had a problem with my leg. As you can see, they took his, amputated above the knee. I was much luckier, they saved mine. Do you mind if I go and say hello to him?’

‘Yes, go and speak to him, Charlie. I’ll just sit here and enjoy the very good claret you ordered.’

‘Cedric’s a nice chap, and he was very helpful to me.’

Amos frowned. ‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Cedric.’

‘And his last name?’

‘I didn’t say, but it’s Crawford. He’s Major Cedric Crawford. Why do you ask?’

‘I just wondered, that’s all.’

Excusing himself, Charlie walked across the restaurant, intent on speaking to the man with whom he had become good friends in the two hospitals in Yorkshire.

Amos stared after him. He felt as though he had just been hit in the stomach with a brick. Could the major on crutches be none other than the same Cedric Crawford who had lived with Grace Rose’s mother, Tabitha James? And who had abandoned Grace Rose? Who had turned her out into the streets to fend for herself?

He didn’t know. But he certainly aimed to find out.

NINE

As he waited for Charlie to return to the table, Amos glanced around the restaurant. It had filled up as the evening had progressed and there was quite a din … voices, laughter, the clatter of dishes and bottles, the clink of ice … all the sounds of a busy place, in fact.

There was a wonderful festive feeling here tonight and an air of celebration about the other people present who were dining at the Ritz. He noticed many officers with their wives, parents and families; some of them were wounded and his heart went out to those men. His eyes swept around the room once more, and he thought how truly fortunate they were. They were alive, safely home, and Christmas would be a good one for them this year. The world was at peace. But so many had died. Millions. The flower of English youth was gone, a generation wiped out.

Several times he sneaked a glance at Major Cedric Crawford, who was talking animatedly to Charlie. They both looked pleased to see each other.

Amos realized he would have to handle the situation with care and delicacy. He knew full well that men who had lived through similar experiences during a war, and became friends, always bonded, were blood brothers under the skin. And Charlie and Crawford had suffered horrific wounds in the Great War, had been in two hospitals together. There was bound to be an enormous closeness between them; in fact it was quite apparent that indeed there was, from the manner in which they greeted each other with such enthusiasm.

Amos averted his face, glanced towards the window and the view of Green Park, and then spotted Charlie hobbling back to the table.

‘Your friend appears delighted to see you, Charlie,’ Amos remarked as the other man sat down.

‘He was, and I was happy to see him, too. He’s a nice chap, Cedric, and he was always kind to me, very helpful.’

‘I’m glad he was. Tell me, is one of those good-looking women his wife?’

‘No, they’re both his sisters. Rowena, that’s the dark-haired one, is actually Cedric’s twin, and she’s not married. The blonde is the eldest sister. Her name is Daphne. The other man at the table is her husband, Sir Malcolm Holmes, who’s some sort of industrialist.’

‘I’ve heard of him. So Cedric is from a prestigious family, then?’

‘Very much so, Amos.’ Leaning forward Charlie confided, with a huge smile, ‘Cedric is going to be awarded the Victoria Cross. Just imagine that. What an honour … his sister Rowena just told me. She’s very proud.’

‘Well, that’s very impressive indeed. The Victoria Cross is the highest recognition for valour in the face of the enemy that anyone can get. Did you know that?’

Charlie shook his head. ‘I didn’t, but he bloody well deserves it, from what I’ve heard about his actions in the Battle of the Somme, just after Verdun. Saved a lot of his men, took great risks to do so.’

‘So he told you about his feats of bravery, did he?’ Amos’s eyes searched Charlie’s face. He was also wondering if there were two Cedric Crawfords in the world … but it was such an unusual name, wasn’t it? Hardly likely that there would be two of them, although you never knew. Could be there was. No, he thought. Cedric Crawford who had been a guards officer and a gambler before the war surely had to be this man.

Charlie exclaimed, ‘No, no, he wouldn’t boast about his courage, he’s not that sort. No, no. It was a surgeon at the hospital in Hull who mentioned his bravery to me one day. Apparently Cedric arrived at the hospital with quite a reputation as a hero … he got seven of his men out of a trench under heavy bombardment from the Germans, shepherded them to safety, then went back and carried out first one wounded Tommy, and then a second. That was in 1916 … the summer when General Haig sent in British troops to help the French. That first day the British troops were just mowed down … 20,000 dead, Amos, 20,000. And another 40,000 wounded or lost. It was on the second day that Cedric came to the rescue of his men.’

Amos nodded, said nothing, stunned by the size of the losses. It was almost impossible to conceive … 60,000 men either dead or wounded. He sat up straighter and looked at Charlie, who was still talking about Cedric.

‘After that violent summer, he went on to fight at Ypres. Funny thing was, I was at Passchendaele, and so was he, but we didn’t know each other. That was in 1917 … bloody wholesale slaughter it was. Those of us that got out alive, well, we sure as hell must’ve had a guardian angel watching over us.’

Amos could only nod, wondering how on earth he could broach the subject of Cedric Crawford, suggest that he was the man involved with Tabitha James. There were no two ways about it, they certainly sounded like two different men to him. But, in actuality, what did he really know about Cedric Crawford? Not much. He only had a bit of disjointed information from Grace Rose, a little girl who had been four at the time, plus a few comments from a woman who supposedly had been Tabitha’s friend, but was not all that well-informed. Nor had she been worried enough to rescue Tabitha.

‘You’re lost in thought, Amos. You look troubled. What’s wrong?’

Amos stared at the young man for whom he had always had great affection, and wondered where to begin. Clearing his throat, he asked in a casual tone, ‘Is your friend a professional soldier?’

‘I don’t believe so, but he was in the guards at one time. Then he got out, he didn’t say why. He lived in Paris for a bit and then he went to America. You know what, he actually saw me in a show on Broadway, and he remembered me and Maisie, believe it or not. It was a Billy Rose show, a wonderful revue.’

‘Does he like a flutter?’

‘You mean on the ponies? Or in a gambling club?’

‘The latter. Does he?’

‘I think so, but listen here, what’s all this about? Why all the questions about Cedric, Amos?’

I know I can trust him, Amos thought, and said, ‘I’d like to speak to you in confidence.’

‘You know you can. Go on then, what’s in your noggin?’

‘I think your friend Cedric Crawford probably might have known, actually been a friend of, Tabitha James, the real mother of Grace Rose.’

‘Get on with you, Amos, you can’t be serious!’

‘I am. I know it sounds a bit far-fetched, fantastical even, but certainly Tabitha knew a man by that name. Do you think there are two Cedric Crawfords in London?’

‘I don’t know, but I very much doubt it.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘After all, it’s not a name like John Smith, is it?’ He drew closer to Amos. ‘Refresh my memory a bit … I know you found Grace Rose in Whitechapel, in terrible circumstances.’

‘She was living in a cart, I think it might have been a discarded costermonger’s cart, in a cul-de-sac, and she was dressed as a boy.’

‘That’s right! Now I remember, you told me all about it when I came back for the first time with Maisie. You took him to Lady Fenella’s, to Haddon House, and when they washed all the dirt off of him he turned out not to be a him, but a her. How’s she doing?’

‘You’ve got a good memory, Charlie, and she’s doing wonderfully well. But going back to her childhood, when I found her she told me her mother was dead, and then later her mother’s old friend, a woman called Sophie Fox-Lannigan, explained to Lady Fenella that Tabitha James had been living with a man called Cedric Crawford, a guard’s officer and a gambler. And that when she went to see Tabitha one day, she’d disappeared. They all had. It seemed a bit of a mystery to her.’

Charlie frowned, looked suddenly worried. ‘And you want to ask him if it was him, is that it?’

‘Well, yes. You see we just don’t know where Tabitha is buried, and it’s always troubled me, and Lady Fenella. You see, when Grace Rose was four she said her mother was buried in Potters Field, but nobody’s ever believed that, it didn’t sound right. And she isn’t, we checked. It would be nice to know the truth, especially for Grace Rose … that’s all there is to it, I promise you, Charlie.’

‘Do you think he knows?’

‘He might. Then he might not. It’s just possible he moved out, moved on, left Tabitha James before she died.’

Charlie took a deep breath, then blew out air. ‘I wouldn’t want you to upset him, Amos, he’s been through such a bloody lot.’

‘I understand that, and I would never create any problems. But I would like to talk to him, yes. Can you arrange it?’

‘I could, I suppose,’ Charlie answered, sounding reluctant.

‘But will you?’

Charlie nodded. ‘As long as you handle him with kid gloves.’

‘I will, word of honour. And don’t tell him why I want to see him, let’s not alarm the man, make him think I want to blame him about Tabitha. Because I really don’t, I assure you of that.’

‘I can ask him as we’re leaving if he can dine with us tomorrow –’

‘I can’t tomorrow, Charlie,’ Amos interrupted. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m having supper with the Forths, you know, the couple who brought Grace Rose up. But apart from that, I’ve no other commitments, I’m free.’

‘Shall I suggest Friday?’

‘That suits me fine.’

‘And where should we go? Come back here? Or do you have a particular preference?’

‘We can go wherever you want, Charlie, pick any place you like, just so long as you understand I’m doing the inviting and I’m doing the paying.’

Charlie grinned. ‘Let’s have dinner here. It’s nice and convenient for me, and also for Cedric. He lives in Queen Street. With his sister, Rowena.’

‘I’ll book the table when we leave tonight. And remember, let’s keep this nice and easy, Charlie. He mustn’t know why.’

‘Mum’s the word.’

TEN

‘I always know when it’s going to rain,’ Will Hasling said to Alfredo Oliveri. ‘My shoulder gives me hell.’

‘It’s the same for me, my arm feels as if it’s in a vice. Never mind – better to have aching wounds than be kicking up daisies in a foreign cemetery,’ Alfredo pointed out.

Will grinned. ‘Very true.’

The two of them had both suffered minor wounds in the Somme in 1917, and had been shipped home on a hospital ship, then treated at a military hospital in London. As soon as they could, both men had returned to work at Deravenels, and were extremely relieved to be safely back in their old jobs. They had worked with Edward since he had taken over the company in 1904, and were his key executives.

Alfredo paused just before they reached Edward’s office, and put his hand on Will’s arm, stared at him intently. ‘He’s not going to like what you’re about to reveal to him.’

‘You don’t have to tell me, I know that, and I’m going to suggest he deals with everything after Christmas, when George is back in London. Giving his brother a rollicking on the telephone won’t be effective. He’s got to dress George down face to face, don’t you think?’

‘I do,’ Alfredo replied, and sighed. ‘He hasn’t discussed the MacDonald situation at great length with me, but I’m making the assumption he’s a trifle indifferent to the deal.’

‘You’re right, as usual. For him it’s a take it or leave it deal. He’d like to own the liquor company, but if he doesn’t get it he won’t cry.’

‘It struck me earlier that he might have set a trap for his difficult little brother. If George blows the liquor business out of the water he’s in trouble, and most certainly can then be demoted. What say you?’

Will began to laugh. The Italian part of you is certainly quite Machiavellian, Oliveri. I mustn’t forget that.’

Alfredo merely smiled, and walked on down the corridor. He stopped at Edward’s office, knocked, then walked in, followed by Will Hasling.

Edward was hanging up the phone. ‘Morning, you chaps!’ he exclaimed cheerfully when he saw them, an affectionate look crossing his face. He had worried about these two men so much during the war, filled with fear for their safety, and had vowed to cherish them for the rest of their lives when they came back.

‘I know you’ve got to go and see a man about a dog,’ Will began, ‘but I’ve something I need to talk with you about.’

Edward chuckled. ‘I am indeed going to see a man about a dog. Or I was. However, because of my work here today I’ve asked Mrs Shaw to go to Harrods to pick out a Westie for Young Edward, and she agreed to do it.’

Alfredo began to laugh, suddenly realizing the play on an old and very familiar saying. ‘Will you take the dog with you to Yorkshire tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘You can ship it, you know, that’s no problem.’

‘So Mrs Shaw told me, and that is how it will travel … in a van, by road, special delivery for Master Edward Deravenel from Harrods. He’ll love it because he’ll feel very important.’ Leaning forward, he now asked, ‘So, Will, why are you here?’ He glanced at Alfredo. ‘And you, Oliveri? You’re both standing there with such glum faces I’m assuming that you’re about to deliver bad news.’ Edward, looking very handsome in a dark blue Savile Row suit and cornflower-blue tie, sat back in his chair, his eyes focused on his executives. ‘And for God’s sake sit down, the two of you. You might as well be comfortable when you give me the dire news.’

‘You assume correctly,’ Will said. ‘It’s about George. He’s in trouble.’

‘How unusual,’ Edward said in a sardonic voice. ‘What’s he done now? I know he can’t have killed my deal with Ian MacDonald because that meeting is not until tomorrow.’

‘That’s so,’ Will agreed, and went on, ‘You’re about to get hit with his gambling debts, and Amos can fill you in better than I can about those. But the gossip is rampant, all over town, so Howard tells me.’

‘Gambling debts! Why am I going to get hit with them, for God’s sake? He can bloody well pay his own gambling debts,’ Edward exclaimed, his voice rising angrily.

‘Let me start at the beginning,’ Will said. ‘A few days ago my brother told me there was gossip out on the street about George’s gambling, whoring, and drug-taking –’

‘He’s taking drugs?’ Edward shouted, his face turning red as the fury erupted. Although he was blessed with an affable nature and was calm most of the time, Edward did have a famous temper that struck terror in everyone. ‘I’ll have his guts for garters!’ he shrilled, jumping up, his temper getting the better of him. ‘And why does he have debts in the first place? I’ll skin him alive, the little sod! Bringing dishonour to our name. A gentleman takes care of his obligations, and he’s well aware of that.’

‘You know what George is,’ Oliveri murmured softly. ‘And I have a suggestion to make …’ Oliveri paused, staring hard at Edward.

‘Go on, then, tell me,’ Edward snapped, and immediately shook his head. ‘I’m very sorry, Oliveri, I’m not angry with you. Do excuse me.’ He sat down.

‘Don’t have to explain, I understand. Getting back to the bad lad, I think we should send him off on a few trips, get him out of London, and away from all the temptations of the flesh, etcetera.’ Alfredo sat back, eyeing Edward, his expression serious.

‘Where can we send him?’ Will asked, glancing at Alfredo swiftly, frowning.

‘First of all, if the deal with Ian MacDonald proceeds, he can take charge of it, and he’ll be back and forth to Edinburgh for quite a while. Otherwise, he can go to Spain, which was neutral during the war: travel is still relatively easy. He could look into the Jimenez situation. They do want to sell their sherry business, remember.’ His gaze still fixed on Will, Alfredo finished, ‘They make the best sherry in the world, let’s not forget that.’

‘George certainly won’t,’ Edward interjected. ‘I should think he’ll jump at a job like that. But it’s a good idea, keeping him travelling, I mean. But what’s this about drugs, Will? And what is he taking?’

‘Howard didn’t know, but he’s promised to find out for me. I suspect it’s either cocaine, or possibly he visits those opium dens in Chinatown, down Limehouse way.’

‘Bloody fool!’ Edward shook his head, stood up again, paced for a moment, and then he addressed Will. ‘You said Amos has investigated all this, knows more.’

‘He does. I spoke to him earlier. I’d asked him to do a bit of digging for me yesterday, and he did find out a few things last night. I told him to come in around ten thirty –’ Will stopped at the sound of a loud knock on the door. ‘I’m sure this is him.’

‘No doubt,’ Edward agreed, and called out, ‘Come in!’

‘Good morning,’ Amos said to the room at large; they greeted him in return. Hurrying over to the desk, he waited until Edward was seated behind it before taking the empty chair at the other side.

‘What did you find out?’ Edward asked.

‘The promissory notes are held by three clubs. Starks, The Rosemont, and the Gentleman’s Club. Starks is owed the most money, and Julian Stark is personally holding the notes. I heard last night from one of my contacts that he is going to come and see you himself, to demand payment.’

‘Is he now? Well, we must forestall him. He’s a big gossip. Do you know how much my brother owes Stark?’

Amos nodded. ‘I do. Thirty thousand pounds.’

Edward was flabbergasted, and his face paled. ‘What an idiot he is!’ he cried, his rage surfacing.

‘Don’t lose your temper again,’ Will murmured in soothing tones. ‘He ain’t worth it, Ned, and it’s only money.’

Endeavouring to calm himself, Edward muttered, ‘It’s the principle.’ Then he addressed Alfredo. ‘I’m going to write a personal cheque for that amount, a cashier’s cheque, and I’d like you and Finnister to take it to Julian Stark after lunch. I know you won’t mind doing that, will you? And get those promissory notes.’

‘That’s not a problem, we can handle this bit of business in a few minutes.’ Oliveri glanced at Finnister. ‘Isn’t that so?’

Amos nodded, then looked over at Edward. ‘The other two gambling clubs are each holding notes for five thousand pounds.’

‘I see.’ Edward was livid, and his anger showed on his face which had now lost all of its colour completely, was paler than ever. ‘I’ll write those two cheques as well, and you can drop them off, can’t you, Amos? Oliveri?’

‘Yes, and I’ll get the promissory notes,’ Amos replied and Oliveri nodded.

There was a sudden silence in the office. Will thought a pin dropping would be like a bomb going off, and he held himself perfectly still, waiting for a further explosion from Ned. But he said nothing. Nor did anyone else speak.

Forty thousand pounds was a fortune, Will thought, turning over the amount in his mind. How had George Deravenel managed to lose so much? Drink? Drugs? Total stupidity? Well he was stupid. Will had always known that. A pretty boy, spoiled by his mother and sister Meg before she had married and gone to live in France. George. All that silky blond hair, those unusual turquoise blue eyes. But dumb yes … beautiful and dumb. Poor eyesight, couldn’t pass the test to join the army. He thought he was Ned, or, more correctly, thought he could be his big brother. That was not possible. Edward was brilliant; he couldn’t hold a candle to him. George was his own worst enemy, Will understood this. He was always heading for trouble of his own making.

Will looked at Amos, as Edward was saying, ‘So tell me, what did you find out about the drugs, Amos?’

‘I went to a lot of clubs late last night, and I think the drug-taking has been exaggerated,’ Amos explained. ‘He might have tried reefers at times, also cocaine, but I don’t believe it’s a problem. Liquor is. He drinks a lot. He’s on the road to becoming an alcoholic.’

‘Just as I thought.’ Edward nodded. ‘Thank you, Amos, for sniffing around. I’m going to have to decide what to do with Master George, when he returns to London.’ He gave the three men a warm smile. ‘But I’m not going to let him spoil Christmas. Lunch at Rules at one o’clock, and please, gentlemen, I don’t want any discussion about this matter in front of Richard.’

ELEVEN

Grace Rose finished wrapping the last of her Christmas presents in gold paper, tying the gauzy gold ribbon into a lavish bow. After adding a small spray of gold-painted holly and a bunch of tiny gold bells, she put it to one side on the table. Then, very neatly, she wrote on the small gift card: To dearest Bess, with much love from Grace Rose. Once she had tied the card onto the ribbon she sat back, regarding her handiwork.

There were nine presents all beautifully wrapped and ready to be sent off to Ravenscar. Six of them were for her half sisters and brothers, and three were for her adult relatives, Aunt Cecily, Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Ned.

Uncle Ned. Her father. She loved him the most except for her parents, Vicky and Stephen Forth. They had adopted her, brought her up since she was four years old … fourteen years of love and devotion they had given her, and they had given her a life, one that was truly wonderful, and which she wouldn’t have had without them.

In her mind Grace Rose associated Vicky and Stephen with love, for that is what she had received from them, and continued to receive unstintingly. They had never demanded anything in return but she had responded to them with utter devotion, love and obedience.

Within the first few weeks of her arrival in this house the three of them had become as close as any parents and a child could be. And right from the beginning she had fallen into their ways, had adapted easily to their lifestyle, been comfortable in their world of courtesy, good manners, cosseted comfort, and undeniable wealth and privilege.

There were moments, like right now, when she thought about the courage they had shown … they had been so very brave to take her in, make her their daughter.

She, the urchin child, existing on the streets of Whitechapel, living in an old cart, alone, scared witless and forever hungry. An urchin child dressed in ragged boys’ clothes, which were far too big, and covered in grime and dirt. A little girl who had been thrown away without a second thought, until Amos Finnister had found her and taken her to Lady Fenella and Vicky Forth at Haddon House. The three of them, and Stephen as well, had saved her life. She shuddered to think about what would have happened to her if Amos had not gone into that cul-de-sac on that particular night to eat his meat pies. And found her. She might not have lived to see the year out.

Rising, Grace Rose stood up and went over to the looking glass which hung above the fireplace in the parlour, staring at her reflection. What she saw quite pleased her, even though she didn’t think of herself as being beautiful; she now decided that she looked attractive. She especially liked her red gold hair, which she thought of as her best asset. It fell to her shoulders in curls and waves, and was constantly admired by everyone. Her eyes were unusual, very, very blue, and she knew – everyone knew – that she looked exactly like Edward Deravenel. Even her slender nose, rounded chin and broad forehead were inherited from him.

Grace Rose had first met him fourteen years ago, in this house, when he had rushed into the library looking for Amos and Neville Watkins. The minute she set eyes on him her heart had done a little leap inside her, and she felt a lovely surge of happiness. It was him. Her father, looking just the way her mother had described him to her. Tabitha had told her he was strong and tall like a tree in the forest, with eyes as blue as the sky above, and hair the colour of the autumn leaves. She had recognized him.

She had smiled at him and he had smiled back, and she knew deep down inside herself that she was his, and he was hers, and there would always be something special and unique between them. And it had been so.

Her thoughts swung to Tabitha … her first mother. A little sigh escaped her. She was still perplexed about her mother’s fate; Tabitha had gone away one day and never come back, and she had gone out into the streets, running as fast as her little legs would carry her. Her need to escape that hovel of a house had propelled her as far away as possible.

Now she knew as much as Vicky and the others knew about Tabitha James. Her first mother had been born Lady Tabitha Brockhaven, the daughter of an Earl; she had fallen in love with her music teacher, Toby James, and had eloped with him. But they had never had any children together. She had come along later, fathered by Uncle Ned when he was only a boy, then her mother had moved and had lost touch with Edward Deravenel.

Vicky, her adoptive mother, had told her about her background, given her all the facts that were available when she was fourteen, at which time Vicky had believed she was old enough to know everything. But even Vicky had admitted rather sadly that it was not very much.

‘It’s all right, Mother,’ Grace Rose had responded at the time. ‘I’m glad to know who Tabitha really was, but you and Stephen are my parents and that’s more than enough for me. And Uncle Ned has always acknowledged that he’s my biological father.’

Grace Rose turned her back to the fireplace and stood warming herself for a few minutes, thinking about Edward Deravenel. He had always been honest and straight forward with her. He had taught her so many things over the years, imbued in her a sense of honour and fair play, told her about justice, and taught her to have integrity in all things. ‘And here is something else,’ he had said quite recently. ‘Follow your own dreams. Don’t put them aside for anyone or anything. Because sometimes people and events will … betray you. Be your own person, Grace Rose, go your own way, and always be true to yourself.’ That day last summer she had promised him she would do as he said.

He was coming to the dinner party tonight, and she was excited that he would be one of the guests. He was bringing Mrs Shaw. She liked Jane Shaw, who was a beautiful, gracious, gentle person. And she fully understood why this woman was Uncle Ned’s mistress. He needed a woman to be nice to him. She had often noticed, when she was at Ravenscar for holidays in the summer, that Aunt Elizabeth could be mean to him, unkind really. And she shouted at him, which frightened the younger children. Another thing she had noticed was that Aunt Elizabeth paid more attention to the two boys than the little girls. Bess, her very dear friend, had confided that her mother was really only interested in the two boys because they were ‘the heir and the spare’. There were times when Grace thought that Bess was not particularly attached to her mother, and this saddened her. Having a loving mother was the most wonderful thing.

It seemed to her, all of a sudden, that Elizabeth Deravenel was not well liked in the family; certainly Aunt Cecily disliked her, she had picked up on that ages ago, when she was much younger. Grace Rose loved Cecily Deravenel her grandmother, if unacknowledged as such.

‘Well, there you are, Grace Rose,’ Vicky exclaimed, pushing open the door of the parlour. Glancing over at the table she then nodded approvingly. ‘I see you’ve wrapped a lot of presents, darling. Good girl.’

Grace Rose beamed at Vicky. ‘I have, Mother, all of those which you are sending off to Ravenscar. Is Fuller going to take them to the post office tomorrow?’

‘Actually, he isn’t, after all. Uncle Ned just telephoned me about something, and in passing I asked him if he would mind taking them, if we packed them up in a small case, of course, and he said he would be happy to do so. We can do that job after lunch. In the meantime, I have some very good news for you.’ Vicky waved the letter she was holding, and continued, ‘My friend Millicent Hanson has written back to say she will be delighted to have you to stay with her next spring and summer. Therefore you will be able to attend some of the courses at Oxford.’

‘Oh, how wonderful! Thank you, Mother, for writing to her. I’m so happy.’

Edward was in a foul mood, and he knew exactly why. He was blazing mad with George, and for some reason he was finding it hard to rid himself of the anger. Usually he managed to toss things off, especially things which had to do with George’s bad behaviour. This mess with the gambling debts was another matter entirely.

In the first place, there was the question of honour. George had been brought up properly, as a gentleman, and ought to know better than to leave debts of this nature unpaid. It was a disaster for his reputation, and also damaging to the family name.

Leaning back in the chair, closing his eyes, he asked himself why George hadn’t paid the clubs immediately. Was he short of money? Edward doubted that. He earned a good salary here at Deravenels, received quarterly director’s fees, and his wife Isabel had a huge allowance from her mother. Nan Watkins was a millionairess many times over, and had been extremely generous to Isabel and George. Actually, in his opinion, they had money to burn. On the other hand, thirty thousand pounds owed to one club and five thousand each owed to two other clubs were hefty sums. Forty thousand pounds.

Then there was the matter of the drinking. It had startled Edward to hear that George was considered an alcoholic. He hadn’t realized it had gone that far. As for the drugs, he wasn’t certain about that at all. But who knows, he now thought. Perhaps he is on something addictive, other than the drink.

Edward accepted that George would have to be dealt with very sternly when he returned from Scotland, and he also decided that George was going to pay back the forty thousand pounds he had just laid out. He had no intention of funding his brother’s bad gambling habits; quite suddenly he wondered if he could have George’s memberships to the clubs cancelled. Or perhaps he could have George banned. How he wasn’t sure, but it might be worth a try. And he would put the fear of God into George after Christmas. Yes, he was going to deal with a lot of things in the new year, he had made that decision days ago.

Now he must throw off this foul mood. Immediately. He had to push a smile onto his face and go across the street to Rules. He didn’t want to put a damper on the lunch he was giving for his special colleagues at Deravenels. It was almost Christmas, the first Christmas they would be able to celebrate properly, because finally they were at peace. There would be a few faces missing at the lunch: Rob Aspen and Christopher Green, who had died in France fighting for their country. They would be remembered fondly by everyone, himself most especially.

Rising, Edward went over to the cupboard where the safe was housed, and opened it. He stood there for a moment, and then he made a decision. He took out two large envelopes, locked the safe, went back to his desk and placed the envelopes in a drawer. This he locked. Pocketing the key, he went to get his overcoat and scarf. It was almost one o’clock. Time to go.

TWELVE

Vicky Forth was an optimist. She had been all her life; even as a child her attitude had been positive. Her glass was always half full, never half empty; tomorrow would be a much better day than today; the future was full of promise and success. Her nature induced her to forge ahead with her projects, undaunted and full of bravery. If any adversity occurred she looked it straight in the eye, and moved right through it, as if it didn’t exist.

Her husband Stephen, who loved, adored and encouraged her in her work, said she was a woman warrior out to conquer the world by doing good deeds. And this was true. Vicky had touched many lives. She loved helping others, most especially damaged women down on their luck, in need of care, counselling and encouragement. She wanted to help them have better lives.

Her optimism had served her well over the years, and she suddenly thought of this now as she looked at some of the dresses in her wardrobe, wondering which one to wear tonight.

How right she had been to encourage Grace Rose to be optimistic, to set her sights on Oxford University. Women were not yet admitted to membership of the University, but they could attend lectures and take courses.

Grace Rose would be able to do all of the above, and would be safe, well looked after by her old friend Millicent Hanson, now widowed, who had a lovely old house in Oxford. It had been an inspired idea to write to her.

In the letter Vicky had received today, Millicent had said she would be delighted to have Grace Rose living with her whilst she pursued her studies; Vicky was relieved, happy for her daughter, who was a wonderful student. She hoped to be a historian one day.

Finally, Vicky selected a stylish, dark-rose coloured silk dress with three-quarter length sleeves and a narrow skirt which fell to the ankles. It had a V-shaped insertion of beige lace at the front, and this made for a unique neckline. She had only worn it once before, and she decided it would be perfect for the dinner party tonight. It had style, but it was not overly dressy for a dinner at home, especially since the men were not wearing black tie.

After putting on the dress and stepping into matching rose-coloured silk pumps, Vicky went back to her dressing table, selected a pair of pearl-and-diamond earrings, and a matching brooch in the design of a flower. After adding the jewellery, she moved across the floor with her usual willowy grace, stood staring at herself in the cheval looking-glass in one corner of the bedroom. Nodding to herself, she decided she liked her appearance. Yes, she would do.

Now in her mid-forties, Vicky Forth looked like a much younger woman; her dark chestnut hair was glossy and thick, with only a hint of silver threads here and there. The few wrinkles she had around her eyes and mouth were hardly visible, and because she was full of joie de vivre there was an amazing sense of youthfulness about her. Her energy and enthusiasm added to her attractiveness. Both men and women were drawn to her, found her to be a warm, kind and compassionate woman. Edward Deravenel had always said hers was the best shoulder to cry on because she had so much sympathy to give.

Turning around, Vicky hurried towards the door, just as it flew open to admit her husband Stephen.

A smile struck his face when he saw her. ‘How beautiful you look, Vicky!’ he exclaimed, coming into the room, closing the door. He paused to kiss her, held her away from him, smiling broadly, nodding his approval.

‘Hello, darling,’ she said, smiling back at him.

‘You’re dressed rather early, aren’t you, my dear?’

Vicky shook her head. ‘Not really, I do have a few things to check with Cook, and Fuller. Also, a short while ago Ned telephoned. He asked to come a bit earlier, before everyone else. He wants to talk to us, so I said it would be all right.’

‘What does he want to talk to us about?’ Stephen asked curiously.

‘Grace Rose.’

‘What about her?’

‘Apparently some years ago, after he had taken over as head of Deravenels and was making money, he set up a trust for her. It will not be hers until she is twenty-one, but he wishes to bring the relevant documents tonight. He thinks we should now hold them for her until she comes of age.’

‘How odd. Why?’

‘He didn’t actually explain everything, Stephen darling, but he did mention that he was putting many of his affairs in order between now and the end of the year.’

‘I see. Well, then, I’d better get a move on, darling, change my shirt and suit, dandy myself up for your dinner party.’

‘Our dinner party, Stephen,’ she corrected. ‘Ned said it would only take fifteen minutes or so. He suggested Grace Rose could entertain Jane whilst we have our discussion in the library.’

‘I know Grace Rose will enjoy that, but will Jane?’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ Vicky frowned in puzzlement, staring at her husband questioningly.

‘Grace Rose has become amazingly forthright lately. Whilst she is not in any way rude, in fact she’s extremely polite and well-mannered, I do find she really does speak her mind these days. Or hadn’t you noticed?’

‘Yes, of course I have,’ Vicky responded. ‘On the other hand, she makes her somewhat startling comments so casually and with such panache, such good humour, I’m quite certain no one takes offence.’ Hurrying to the door, she added over her shoulder, ‘But I must go down. I have to make sure everything is in order. Don’t be too long, will you?’ She glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and pointed out, ‘It’s already ten past six, and Ned and Jane will be arriving at six-thirty. The other guests are due at seven.’

‘Who else is coming, by the way?’ he asked swiftly. ‘Just refresh my memory again. You never did give me a final list, as you normally do.’

‘Oh sorry, so sorry, Stephen. Yes, well, it’s only family, really. There’s Ned and Jane, and us, that makes five, plus Fenella, Amos, and my brother.’

‘Isn’t Kathleen coming with Will?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. He telephoned me this morning. She’s fighting an awful cold apparently, and he said they both thought she ought to stay at home. She doesn’t want to spread germs. So I agreed. What else could I do? Anyway, a lovely flower arrangement and a note of apology arrived this afternoon from Kathleen. She’s a sweet woman, very thoughtful.’

‘Yes, she is. It’s all this blasted rain we’re having, if you want my opinion,’ Stephen grumbled. ‘It’s been raining cats and dogs for days. No wonder people are catching colds, becoming ill.’

Vicky burst out laughing. ‘Let’s not complain about the English weather, my sweet! The war is OVER. That’s quite something to be happy about, isn’t it? To hell with the weather, I say.’

He chuckled, and headed over to his dressing room. ‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll be down,’ he muttered as he disappeared through the doorway.

Smiling to herself, thinking how awful her life would have been without him, Vicky closed the bedroom door behind her and went downstairs. She wanted to check on Fuller, to make sure he had taken the champagne to the library; she had selected Krug, knowing it was Ned’s preferred brand these days.

Dear Ned. He had always been her favourite and one of her dearest friends. They had known each other for donkey’s years, and had become very close as time had passed. He was her brother Will’s best friend, and she fully understood why these two had bonded years before.

She had helped Ned to get through his grief and despair after his mistress Lily had been killed in that horrendous accident. Well, she added to herself, that was no accident, it was cold-blooded murder. Margot Grant, Edward’s bitter enemy, in his fight for control of Deravenels all those years ago. She had had Lily Overton murdered. And she had gone scot-free, had never been made to pay for it. No, she had been made to pay, actually. In the worst way. The Frenchwoman had lost everyone and everything. God’s will, no doubt.

A shiver ran through Vicky and goose flesh sprang up on her arms and the back of her neck. She had been in the landau with Lily that fateful day in Hyde Park, had been thrown out with her and could have easily been killed herself.

Lily … her best friend, so beautiful, and far too young to die. And the unborn baby killed, too, Ned’s child which she was carrying. Vicky knew she would never forget the sight of Lily laying there on the grass, the pale blue silk of her dress covered in bright red blood. That image was indelibly printed on her mind; it never faded.

Pausing on the staircase, Vicky took a deep breath and endeavoured to throw off these dire memories of that most miserable day, and then she went on down slowly, calming her thoughts before their guests began to arrive.

Almost at once she bumped into Fuller in the downstairs hall. ‘Good evening, Madam,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘I’m just about to put the grog in the library.’

‘Thank you,’ she answered, noting that he was holding a silver bucket full of ice. ‘Everything else is in hand, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘All the fires going?’

‘Oh yes, Madam, all shipshape. We’re ready to set sail.’

‘Thank you, Fuller,’ she murmured and walked along the corridor towards the kitchen, shaking her head. Before joining them last year Fuller had been head butler in the house of a former admiral in the Royal Navy, now deceased, and he tended to speak in somewhat nautical terms. She and Grace Rose found it amusing, but at times it irritated Stephen: only the other day he had complained that he felt as if he were living on a damned battleship!

Her answer had been to quickly point out that Fuller just happened to be an excellent butler, the best they had had in years.

Opening the kitchen door, Vicky put her head around it and asked, ‘Do you need me for anything, Mrs Johnson?’

The cook turned swiftly, holding a ladle in her hand and it hovered in mid-air for a moment. Putting it down, she said, ‘Evening, mum. No, there’re no problems. All’s well ’ere, we’re shipshape, and on time. Dinner will be ready at eight bells, as you requested.’ Cook compressed her mouth hard, swallowing her sudden laughter. She steadied herself and blurted out, ‘Seems I’m pickin’ up Fuller’s jargon, mum, sorry, ever so sorry, mum.’

Trying to keep a straight face herself, Vicky answered, ‘Just make sure the mulligatawny soup is very hot. You know Mr Forth likes the soup to be scalding.’

‘Yes, mum, and everything else! I knows he prefers his ’ot food ’ot, and so he should, mum.’

Laughing, Vicky made her way to the drawing room and went in. It was her favourite room in the house, and she glanced around, admiring it for a moment. The walls were covered in pale-yellow silk, and yellow-and-cream striped taffeta draperies hung at the windows, billowed out like ball-gowns, the way she liked them to be.

Against the pale-yellow backdrop there was a mélange of bright colours, mainly clear blues and reds in the upholstery fabrics on the various antique French chairs and large comfortable sofas. The fire was blazing, the porcelain lamps shaded in cream silk offered a welcoming glow, and there were bowls of fresh flowers everywhere. Perfect, she thought. The room looks just perfect.

The ringing of the doorbell made Vicky start, and as she hurried across the antique Aubusson carpet she heard Fuller’s footsteps echoing in the marble hall. She hoped he wouldn’t say welcome aboard, as he had been known to do sometimes. On the other hand, if he did, she knew that Edward would simply chuckle.

THIRTEEN

Grace Rose had been given the task of entertaining Mrs Shaw while her parents and Uncle Ned had some sort of business meeting in the library.

She was glad they had asked her to keep Jane Shaw company because she really liked her. There was something about her that was intriguing and special; also, Grace Rose knew that Jane Shaw liked her in return, and there was a certain ease between them.

That this woman was truly lovely to look at was obvious; that she was charming, kind and extremely intelligent a bonus, Grace Rose thought, impressed by her knowledge of art and sculpture, her willingness to answer questions whenever Grace Rose asked. Jane knew a great deal about certain artists and their work, most especially the French Impressionists and Post-Impressionists, and she was happy to share.

The two of them were seated in the yellow drawing room, chatting generalities. At one moment, Grace Rose couldn’t help thinking that Jane Shaw looked perfect in this perfect room tonight. She was wearing a most elegant and fashionable sapphire-blue velvet dress, and sapphire earrings which exactly echoed the particular blue in some of the fabrics her mother had chosen for the room. She ought to be painted in here, Grace Rose thought, and it should be called Portrait in Blue.

After another brief discussion about a recent art exhibition at a well-known gallery in Chelsea, with Jane doing most of the talking, they fell silent. But it was a compatible silence, not awkward at all; the two of them were comfortable with each other and had been since they had first met some years before.

Looking across at Grace Rose, Jane took the lead again, and murmured, ‘I hear you love your studies, and your uncle told me you are extremely dedicated and disciplined. He thinks that’s admirable, and so do I.’ Settling back in the French bergère, Jane took a sip of champagne and then smiled warmly at the younger woman.

Grace Rose nodded, her face full of eagerness. ‘I’ve always loved school, Mrs Shaw, and I’m really happy today because it will soon be possible for me to live at Oxford with a friend of Mother’s, and attend courses at the University.’

‘That’s wonderful! Congratulations! History is your subject, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. At this moment I’m particularly interested in France, and in French kings.’

‘What an extraordinary coincidence. I’ve always been partial to French history, and although the English are not supposed to like Napoleon Bonaparte, I must confess I’ve always had a sneaking admiration for him. In many ways he was a genius.’

‘And probably the greatest general the world has ever known,’ Grace Rose remarked.

‘Except when he invaded Russia,’ Jane pointed out, eyeing her young companion acutely.

‘That’s true … but it was mostly the weather that scuttled him,’ Grace Rose replied. ‘I was thinking in terms of strategy when I said he was the greatest.’

‘I understand, and many agree with you. But tell me, which particular king intrigues you the most?’

‘To be honest, I’m more taken with the mistresses of kings. You see, that’s what I’m studying at the moment. Mistresses. I find them fascinating –’ Grace Rose broke off, remembering that Jane Shaw was Uncle Ned’s mistress. She chastised herself silently for having embarked on such a controversial subject. ‘Oh, dear, I’m so … s-s-sorry,’ she stammered, looking chagrined, and then flushed in embarrassment.

Jane couldn’t help laughing when she saw the woebegone expression on her face, and reaching out she patted her arm, said very softly, ‘Don’t apologize, my dear, I know you know that I am Uncle Ned’s mistress.’

‘Yes,’ Grace Rose replied, nodding. ‘The whole world knows –’ She broke off again, looking even more flustered than ever, and cleared her throat.

‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Shaw, I keep saying the wrong thing. I don’t mean to give offence.’

‘And you haven’t, I promise. Tell me why you love mistresses so much that you want to study them?’

Suddenly feeling undeterred, realizing Jane was obviously interested to hear her opinion, she rushed on. ‘Those I’ve been reading about are all extraordinary women. They played such enormous roles in history. Most were influential in politics and government, whilst caring about their kings, and what they did says so much about the times they lived in. We learn from them. Their relationships were usually about power. In most instances, I think.’

‘Absolutely!’ Jane exclaimed. ‘And money. And position. As well as social ascendency, and, in another sense, social acceptance and supremacy.’

‘I love mistresses, I mean as a subject,’ Grace Rose continued. ‘They’re much more interesting to read about than most of the queens. Frequently, the king cared more for his mistress than his wife.’

Struck by the girl’s openness, and an unusual honesty that was quite breathtaking, Jane began to chuckle, her expression amused. After a moment, she asked, ‘And which mistress are you concentrating on at the moment, Grace Rose?’

‘Diane de Poitiers, the mistress of Henri II of France. She met him when he was a little boy, only twelve. This was just after he had come back to France, after being held in captivity by the Spaniards. He was a hostage, along with his brother, while his father went free. He was depressed and shy at the time, and she befriended him. Actually, she became his protectress, and was very kind to him, a steady influence. She mothered him quite a lot, too. I believe that she made him feel safe and secure. That was important to him, I think.’

‘Yes, you’re right, it probably was.’

‘Diane seduced him when he was seventeen,’ Grace Rose announced. ‘She was twenty years older than he was, but he never left her. She was his mistress for his entire life. He died before she did, but when he was alive he doted on her, much more than on his queen.’

‘Ah yes, the famous Catherine de Medici. A woman scorned at the outset of her marriage. Henri II was too preoccupied with Diane, I do believe, to be bothered with his wife.’

‘You seem to know quite a lot about Diane, Mrs Shaw.’

‘Yes, I do,’ Jane answered and a small smile flickered at the corners of her mouth, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

Grace Rose felt her own mouth twitch and she began to laugh softly. And Jane Shaw laughed with her. And it was at that moment that these two women bonded forever. The mistress and the illegitimate daughter. Outsiders, in a certain sense, and yet so close to this most dominant man in their lives, closer than most others whom he knew and cared about.

Grace Rose shifted slightly on the sofa, and remarked, ‘Then you must know that Henri II gave Diane the crown jewels. Just imagine that. And also that most palatial of châteaux, Chenonceaux.’

‘I did know that, yes. And I’m also aware that she held her power for almost thirty years. Yet she was wonderfully kind to the king’s whole family, to the queen when she was desperately ill, and Diane virtually brought up the royal children.’

‘And those children happened only because Diane persuaded the king to visit his wife’s bed, pointing out that he needed an heir.’

‘My goodness, Grace Rose, you’ve done your research well. Diane is your favourite, is she?’

‘Yes, but there’s one other mistress whom I admire, and would have liked to have known.’

‘And who may I ask is that?’

‘Agnès Sorel,’ Grace Rose told her. ‘She was the mistress of Charles VII in 1444. He was so smitten with Agnès that he made her his official mistress. By that I mean he created an actual official position, and for the first time in French history. Maîtresse en titre –’

‘And who is the maîtresse en titre?’ Edward asked from the doorway, striding into the room, a look of considerable amusement on his face. Although the two women did not know it, he had been standing there listening to them for several minutes.

Grace swung her hand, and exclaimed, ‘Oh, goodness! Uncle Ned! I was just explaining to Mrs Shaw that I am currently studying mistresses.’ Once again she instantly became flustered, and hurried on, ‘What I mean is – er – er French mistresses, I mean the mistresses of kings –’

‘But only French kings apparently. Are you not interested in English kings and their mistresses?’ He chuckled. ‘Too dull, I suspect, the English, eh?’

‘Oh, no, not at all. I know a lot about English kings. There was Charles II and Nell Gwynne, and –’

‘Yes, my dear, I know, I was just teasing you.’ He walked over to the sofa, stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders affectionately, whilst looking across at Jane quizzically.

Jane smiled at him. ‘I was thoroughly enjoying our discussion,’ she murmured with warmth and genuine sincerity. ‘Grace Rose is going to be a marvellous historian, Ned. She has all the right instincts. She’s obviously not afraid of research, and she has a nose for sniffing out the truth, I think. None of us were around to witness events hundreds of years ago, so historians have to weigh the written evidence, go with their instincts.’

‘I have always been impressed,’ he murmured, obviously pleased by Jane’s comments. He remained standing where he was, for a moment lost in his thoughts.

Jane caught her breath; seeing them together like that in such close and intimate proximity was tremendously revealing. There was no doubt whose daughter she was – that red-gold hair and the brilliant blue eyes. And they both had the same pink and cream complexion. Yes, Grace Rose was Ned’s spitting image and the vividness, the vibrancy of their looks was startling.

I want to make her my friend, Jane thought all of a sudden. And I will be her friend, protective of her if that is necessary. And that way, no matter what happens, I will always have a little bit of Ned.

Vicky said, from the doorway, ‘Everyone seems to be arriving at once! Come along, Grace Rose, I hear Fenella and Amos in the foyer.’

‘Go along,’ Edward said, standing away from Grace Rose. ‘Go and greet your old friends.’

‘Oh yes, I will!’ she cried and jumped up.

Edward watched her go, and then he turned to Jane. He walked over to her, pulled her to her feet, kissed her on the cheek, led her to the fireplace. ‘She takes one’s breath away with her bluntness, I’m afraid. I hope she didn’t say the wrong thing, or embarrass you?’

‘Of course not. Frankly, I found her refreshing.’ Jane hesitated, and then murmured in a low voice, ‘I would like to get to know her better, Ned.’

‘Then you shall,’ he promised.

‘There isn’t anything wrong, is there? I mean you’re not ill are you, Ned?’ Vicky asked sotto voce, looking at him intently.

He was seated on her right at the circular dinner table, and he glanced at her swiftly. ‘Of course not. I’m in perfect health. Why do you ask?’

‘Because you decided to give us those documents tonight. It was so unexpected, Ned, out of the blue. I can’t help, well … worrying, wondering if things are all right with you.’

He leaned to her and said quietly, ‘I suppose the war and the flu pandemic have affected me a little, in the sense that they’ve made me realize I’m mortal like everyone else. When one is very young, one thinks that life is endless, that we’ll all live forever. But, sadly, that’s not true. We’re all vulnerable.’

Now Ned flashed her his most brilliant smile. ‘I’m truly not ill, Vicky, dear. I don’t intend to keel over for donkey’s years, and I promise you there’s only one reason I’ve given you and Stephen the documents. And that’s because you should have them in your possession as her parents. That’s all there is to it. Also, I’ve been rather efficient lately, and these last few weeks I’ve been putting a lot of my other personal business in order.’

Vicky nodded, leaned back in her chair, filled with relief. She gave him a warm and loving smile. ‘You’ve been so good about her all these years, and good to her. Just as you’ve been good to everyone you care about.’

‘I just try to do my bit, the best way I can, that’s all,’ he answered with a light shrug of his broad shoulders, and then he turned to speak to Fenella who had asked him a question about Young Edward and his health.

With the worry about Ned now totally erased from her mind, Vicky relaxed completely, and glanced around the table. She saw that everyone was having a good time, enjoying being together. Fuller had just served the Sole Colbert a few moments before, and there were several comments about how delicious it was, and she was pleased they liked Cook’s food.

After a moment, she realized Jane Shaw was trying to get her attention, and she asked, ‘Is everything all right, Jane? You are enjoying the fish, aren’t you?’

Jane smiled. ‘It’s delicious, and I just wanted to say how special your table looks tonight, Vicky, with all your beautiful china and silver. You know how much I love your little red box, as you call it.’

‘Thank you. Everybody does – I suppose it’s cosy, intimate, rather a nice place to be on a wintry night.’

Smiling, Jane nodded, and went back to her food.

Vicky eyed the room which she had decorated about five years ago, just before the war, flattered by Jane’s comments. It was a little red box, with crimson silk brocade covering the walls and hanging at the windows, the Victorian chairs around the table covered in a deeper red velvet, the Turkish carpet underfoot a mélange of reds, pinks and navy blue. The fire burning brightly and the many candles in their tall silver candlesticks added to the warmth, intimacy and elegance of the room on this cold December night.

Vicky usually gave this dinner party every year, just before Christmas. And even during the war she had kept up the tradition. It was always the same people who came, old friends and relatives. It struck her suddenly how clannish they all were, but then the Deravenel family in particular had always been somewhat addicted to their family and oldest friends. All of their lives they had been intertwined with other branches of the family, and most especially the Watkins clan, who were their first cousins. She supposed it was because of shared beliefs and ideals, a particular philosophy, a way of life that drew them into each other’s orbit. And loyalty and friendship and constant support were essential elements in their relationship.

She thought of her sister-in-law Kathleen, not present tonight because she had a cold. She was Ned’s cousin, sister of the late Neville and Johnny Watkins, both killed in that awful car crash at Ravenscar four years ago. She missed her presence. When he had arrived tonight Will had told her that Kathleen was really quite sick. ‘But not Spanish flu,’ he had added swiftly, observing the look of apprehension crossing her face, ‘Just a heavy cold.’ Will loved and adored Kathleen, and it had always been a very solid marriage, much to Vicky’s gratification.

Fenella’s voice brought her out of her reverie, and she looked across at her old friend, who was saying, ‘How is Charlie feeling, Amos?’

‘He’s relieved he’s safely home, happy that the war’s over, Lady Fenella, and he sends his best to you, to everyone. But he has been wounded, has a really bad leg injury and he limps, uses a cane. But at least they saved his leg. Also, one side of his face is scarred. I’m afraid it was burned.’ Amos shook his head, looking suddenly worried. ‘However, he is very cheerful, I must admit, and looking forward to doing something else in the theatre, perhaps producing or writing.’

‘Is he that badly scarred?’ Fenella asked, frowning, all of her attention on Amos.

‘As I said, it’s only one side of his face that was burned. And the scars are still healing. He told me he might be able to do something about it later, once he’s really better. There are apparently new methods for treating burns.’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ Grace Rose interjected. ‘Actually, skin-grafting and that kind of special surgery goes back to ancient times.’

‘I didn’t know that!’ Vicky exclaimed. ‘You’re a fountain of knowledge, darling.’

Fenella had a thoughtful expression on her face when she looked across the table, said to Vicky, ‘Jeanette Ridgely made a remark to me the other day when she came to help out at Haddon House. Her son was an officer at the front, and he’s home now, also wounded. She said he wished there was somewhere wounded soldiers could go, to have some sort of relaxation and recreation, talk to other Tommies. He said that was what his men needed. A place more like Haddon House than a public house, where inevitably many of the men just got drunk.’

‘That’s an interesting idea.’ Vicky glanced at the others, raising a brow. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Stephen answered, always ready to back his wife in her projects.

Fenella nodded. ‘We could talk to her next week, if you like, Vicky, I know she’s volunteered to do two days at Haddon House. I think such a place would be quite marvellous for the wounded men who are now coming home.’

‘Like a club,’ Stephen suggested, sounding enthusiastic. ‘Not the many working men’s clubs that have sprung up all over, more like a recreation centre, don’t you think?’

Will nodded. ‘A place where they could meet up with other solders, have refreshments, play cards, read … somewhere to go, to get them out of the house, from under the feet of their wives or mothers.’

‘It’s an excellent idea, in my opinion.’ Edward addressed Fenella and continued. ‘If you decided to do it, Fenella, I’ll certainly write a cheque, give you a donation to such a cause.’

‘Why thank you so much, Ned, but I hadn’t really thought of doing it, not until this moment anyway. But we’ll see.’

‘I’ll match Ned,’ Will promised.

‘Count me in,’ Stephen announced. ‘We must show appreciation to our wounded, they risked their lives for us, and you know damned well the government won’t do much to help the returning wounded.’

‘Well, how lovely of you all,’ Fenella murmured, thinking of the way she and her aunt had started Haddon House years ago. They created a safe haven for abused women and much to their satisfaction it had done wonders in the East End, saved many helpless women from terrible fates.

Vicky glanced at the door. ‘Ah, here is Fuller with the main course.’

Fuller and two parlour maids came into the dining room, carrying large tureens of lamb stew. Once everyone was served they departed, although Fuller returned within seconds to pour the red claret into the fine crystal goblets.

‘Your dinners are always the best,’ Edward said at one moment, turning to Vicky. ‘I’ve loved this stew of yours for years.’

Vicky inclined her head, pleased. ‘Thank you,’ she said with a smile. After a moment she added, ‘If we did open such a place for wounded soldiers, shouldn’t we have a canteen? To serve a good lunch to them every day.’

‘I can see this project, which was only just suggested a minute ago, is growing in magnitude,’ Will murmured, staring at his sister. ‘The first thing you must do, Fenella, and you too Vicky, is sit down and figure out what such a place is going to cost. Certainly before you do anything else.’

‘Of course you’re right, Will,’ Fenella agreed. ‘In fact, I must do quite a lot of thinking first, before we get to that stage. We’re very busy at Haddon House. We’d need quite a few helpers for such a project …’ Her voice trailed off.

‘I know we’d soon have lots of volunteers,’ Vicky said in a confident voice.

Edward laughed. ‘Always the optimist, my dear Vicky.’

After dinner, when everyone was drinking coffee and liqueurs in the drawing room, Amos edged towards Edward.

Edward, attuned to Amos after all these years, gave him a quick glance and inclined his head. Excusing himself to Stephen, he took several steps in Amos’s direction.

‘What is it, Amos? You look as if you need to speak to me, and quite urgently.’

‘I do need to have a word, sir, but it’s not urgent. I can speak with you tomorrow morning, if you’d prefer.’

‘I can’t tomorrow morning, I’m afraid,’ Edward answered, remembering the appointment Jane had made for them to view the Renoir painting. ‘How about now? Shall we step outside into the hall?’

‘Yes, Mr Edward, if that’s all right.’

‘It’s fine.’ He went over to Stephen, who now stood near the window, and muttered, ‘Finnister needs a word with me. Excuse me for a moment, will you?’

‘Of course.’

Following Amos out, Edward said, ‘Too much staff clearing up out here. Let’s step into the library.’

‘Good idea, sir.’

Once they were ensconced in the library overlooking the garden, Edward asked, ‘What’s on your mind? You look worried.’

‘No, I’m not worried. It’s like this, sir. Last night I had dinner with Charlie at the Ritz, and he went to say hello to another officer, who’d just come into the restaurant. A major he’d been in two different hospitals with. When he returned to the table I asked him who the man was, and he said he was a friend by the name of Cedric Crawford.’

Edward was so startled to hear this name from the past he simply gaped at Amos for a moment, genuinely dumbfounded. Finally, he said, ‘The Cedric Crawford who lived with Tabitha James? Is that who you mean? Well, I suppose you do: after all it’s quite an unusual name.’

‘That’s right, sir, and I don’t think there are two of them.’

‘So you’re obviously planning to do something about this, knowing you as well as I do, Amos.’

‘I’m taking them both to dinner tomorrow. I hope to establish his identity at least.’

‘And then what?’

‘I thought I would ask him about Tabitha James.’

‘Will he tell you the truth? We both agreed she wasn’t murdered, because if she had been the police would have been involved at the time, whatever Grace Rose said when you found her. After all, she was only four.’

‘I’m hoping he can tell me what Tabitha’s fate really was, and also where she’s buried. I think that would be a good thing for Grace Rose to know, Mr Edward. Set her mind at rest.’

‘She’s talked about this to you, hasn’t she?’ Edward murmured, as perceptive as always, and understanding Grace Rose as well as he did.

‘Yes, she has. I’ve even taken her down to Whitechapel at different times, with Mrs Vicky’s permission of course. And naturally she’s been to Haddon House over the years. Nothing’s ever been hidden from her. Mrs Vicky has always believed in telling her the truth.’

‘And rightly so. It would’ve been silly to keep things a secret.’ A reflective look settled in Edward’s eyes for a moment, and he stood holding the brandy balloon, staring into its amber depths. At last he said, ‘Find out what you can, Amos. It will be quite interesting to hear what he has to say. But don’t expect too much, because perhaps he doesn’t know much of anything. After all, he could have left her. Or she could have left him … it’s all something of a mystery … and one we might never fathom.’

FOURTEEN

In all his years as a policeman and then a private investigator, Amos Finnister had learned about people and knew how to read them. He had a psychological insight into most, and usually understood the motivations of others. This aside, he had acquired a certain charm. He was at ease with people from all walks of life, and they were at ease with him. Certainly he had a way with them, handled them with expertise and finesse.

And this was most apparent on Friday evening, when Charlie and Major Cedric Crawford dined with him at the Ritz Restaurant. As it turned out, he discovered that the major was the perfect English gentleman, well mannered and genial, and from a distinguished family. And Charlie was being himself tonight, playing the perfect English gentleman as he had done so often on the stage in London and New York.

Amos knew how to make people relax, and by the time they were halfway through dinner he had the major laughing, and sharing stories, some of which were hilarious. And as Amos joined in the general hilarity, told stories himself, and chatted mostly about inconsequential things, he listened and watched, trying to observe the major surreptitiously in order to properly weigh him up.

By the time they had eaten the main course, Amos felt comfortable enough to broach the subject of Tabitha James. At a given moment he glanced at Charlie, a quizzical expression on his face, and Charlie gave him a quick nod.

After taking another sip of the good French wine he had ordered, a Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Amos put down his glass and leaned back in the chair, not wanting to appear intrusive or in any way threatening.

Speaking in his ordinary, neutral tone, Amos said, ‘I wonder if you’d mind my asking you something, Major?’

‘No, not at all. What is it you’d like to know, Finnister?’

Having worked out a simple story before dinner, one based on truth, Amos had it ready and on the tip of his tongue. ‘Before I begin I’d just like to explain something … I’m wondering if you happen to know a friend of mine.’

The major’s eyes were glued on Amos. ‘Who would that be?’

‘Lady Fenella Fayne. Have you ever come across her?’

‘No, I haven’t, I’m afraid. But I do know who she is, I think everyone does. Great philanthropist, so I’ve read, and a woman who has devoted her time, energy and money to helping women … women at risk, shall we say? I believe she’s the widow of Lord Jeremy Fayne.’

‘That’s correct, and her father is the Earl of Tanfield. Some years ago Lady Fenella tried to find a friend of hers from Yorkshire, where she herself comes from originally – a lady friend who had disappeared in London. She did manage to find out, through another acquaintance, that her friend had ended up living in the East End, in Whitechapel or thereabouts, and that her friend had been acquainted with a gentleman by the name of Cedric Crawford. That wasn’t by any chance your good self, was it Major?’

Cedric Crawford nodded at once, showing no signs of embarrassment or reluctance to admit to knowing the woman Amos was referring to. ‘I did know a lady who lived in Whitechapel by the name of Tabitha James. I knew her quite well, actually. You see, she was an extremely close friend of a fellow guards officer, Sebastian Lawford. At one moment I did believe they were going to marry – they were very much in love. But unfortunately that did not come to pass.’

‘And why was that, Major, do you know?’

‘Oh yes, I’m afraid I do. Tabitha James became very ill. Actually, she had contracted consumption, and then she was felled by double pneumonia. Before I knew it, she was dead and gone.’

‘I see. So you went to their home in Whitechapel, did you?’

‘It was Tabitha’s home, in point of fact. She wouldn’t move to a better place for some reason – though, with all due respect, Seb had tried to install her in a cottage that was more than comfortable. I have no idea why she was so obdurate.’ He shook his head, and finished, ‘It was all very sad because she was obviously a genuine lady: what I mean is, a woman of breeding.’

‘She was indeed. She was Lady Tabitha Brockhaven, and her late father was the Earl of Brockhaven,’ Amos informed him.

It was obvious that the major was surprised; Amos thought he looked thunderstruck, even a little disbelieving. He waited, wanting this information to sink in.

Cedric Crawford frowned, and he sounded dubious when he eventually asked, ‘Are you sure of that, Finnister? I mean … a title? Goodness me.’

‘Yes, I am sure. Absolutely. Anyway, a moment ago I mentioned Tabitha’s home. You did go there then?’

‘Oh yes, quite a few times. It was in 1904, the spring I think. Yes, that’s correct. You see, I was about to travel to Europe with my father and my two sisters. We were going to the family villa in the South of France, and then I was moving to Paris. Permanently. I wanted to be a painter and my father had agreed I could attend the Beaux Arts. In fact, he was footing the bill.’

‘But you were a guards officer, weren’t you?’ Amos probed.

‘Oh yes, but the old man, well, he was a good sort, my pater, he let me do what I wanted, more or less. So he put up no resistance when I resigned my commission. His father had been rather a bully, so I was led to understand, and Father sort of –’ Cedric paused, shrugged, ‘tended to go the other way. Indulged me. Spoiled me rotten, I expect. Anyway, he agreed with me that I wasn’t cut out to be a soldier.’

‘But you rejoined the army when war broke out, and you were both wrong as it turned out, weren’t you, Major? Since you must have been a very dedicated soldier from what Charlie tells me. You performed great acts of courage, so much so you are about to be awarded the greatest honour in the land, the most prestigious medal a soldier can receive for valour in the face of the enemy … the Victoria Cross.’

The major looked suddenly bashful, and he merely nodded, turning pink. He took a sip of his red wine.

Amos now leaned across the table, and asked the question he’d been holding back. ‘In the spring of 1904 did you come across a little girl living with Tabitha?’

‘Good Lord, yes, I’d forgotten about her for a moment. Tabitha did have a daughter. A toddler. Yes, yes, of course. Now what was her name … I’ve got it! She was called Grace.’

‘You don’t happen to know what happened to Grace, do you?’

‘Not really.’ The major rubbed his hand over his forehead, frowning slightly. ‘You know, now that I think about it, the last time I saw the child was the last time I saw Tabitha.’

‘Can you remember what happened that day?’ Amos sat back, sipping his water, and waiting, a sense of excitement growing inside him. His eyes rested on the major reflectively. He was very intent on arriving at the truth.

‘I remember it was quite a nice day,’ Major Crawford began. ‘Sunny, if a little cool. I went to Whitechapel with Seb Lawford because he wanted to persuade Tabitha to move to a better place, a decent cottage which he had found in Hampstead, near the Heath. He asked me to help him move her things, and we arrived in a hansom cab. Tabitha was there, but she wouldn’t agree to move or leave that … hovel. She was stubborn. We both noticed how dreadfully ill she looked, and she was coughing … coughing her heart out. Seb sent me to talk to the woman who lived several doors away, down the street. She had a teenage daughter who apparently sometimes looked after Grace. He wanted her to come to the house and watch Grace whilst we took Tabitha to the hospital. I can’t remember the girl’s name, but she agreed, and she came back with me. As I recall, I gave her a guinea to wait until we returned. Then Seb and the girl helped to get Tabitha into some of her clothes, and he and I carried her out to the hansom, and we took her to the hospital.’

‘Which hospital was that, Major Crawford?’

‘The one on Whitechapel Road, it’s called Royal London Hospital. Very old place. Naturally, they kept her in the hospital, she was so very ill.’

‘And what happened after that?’ Amos asked quietly.

‘Seb returned to Tabitha’s place in Whitechapel, and I took a hansom cab back to my father’s house in Queen Street in Mayfair. We left for France about five days later.’

‘But you said Tabitha died. You must have seen your friend Sebastian Lawford before you left, didn’t you?’

‘He came to see me only two days after we had taken Tabitha to the hospital. And yes, she had died, she had a virulent case of pneumonia, not to mention consumption. It was her lungs, I think, they were horribly congested, she had trouble breathing.’

‘At that time, did he mention the little girl Grace?’

‘No, he didn’t say anything, and I didn’t think to ask. We, that is the family, were going abroad for three months, and I was packing for a much longer stay in Paris. It was somewhat chaotic, I’m afraid –’ Cedric Crawford broke off as if suddenly something had occurred to him. ‘What happened to the little girl, Mr Finnister? I hope nothing bad.’

‘No, not really, thank God.’ Amos cleared his throat, went on, ‘When Lady Fenella was looking for Tabitha, I know she checked all of the hospitals in the area, because I helped her. But she didn’t find Tabitha registered. Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?’

‘Yes. But then again, no, I don’t. You see, she was using the name Mrs Lawford … Mrs Sebastian Lawford … Seb thought using his full name would offer her protection in that rather rough area of London. Anyway, he had a pet name for her, as well. He always called her Lucy. I’ve no idea why, but what I do know for a certainty is that he registered her as Mrs Sebastian Lawford, Christian name Lucy. I was standing right next to her when he spoke to the nurse.’

‘I understand, and so will Lady Fenella. Everything has become clear. Tell me, Major, did Sebastian Lawford invite you to the funeral? Or tell you where she was buried?’

‘No, he didn’t say, but I couldn’t have gone because of the problems of the family leaving, and, as I said, my father’s house was chaotic until the day we left.’

‘I think I would like to meet Sebastian Lawford, if you would help me to locate him. Do you know where he is, Major?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘And where is that, if I might ask?’

‘In a grave in France. He was killed at the battle of Ypres, the third battle. He died in my arms, Mr Finnister. So you see, I can’t help you with that. So sorry.’

‘You have helped me. You’ve given me the name of the hospital, and hopefully they will be able to tell me where Tabitha James, or rather Mrs Sebastian “Lucy” Lawford, is buried. I’m certain they will have that on record.’

‘Is it important, knowing that?’ the major asked curiously.

‘Oh yes, very much so,’ Amos murmured, and added, ‘thank you again, Major, thank you.’

It wasn’t unusual for Amos to go to Deravenels on Saturday, even though the offices were closed over the weekend. He often went in to tidy up his paperwork, and do other small jobs, which he couldn’t attend to during the week.

But on this Saturday morning he had a specific purpose when he arrived at the grand old building on the Strand. The uniformed commissionaire touched his cap, said ‘Good morning, Mr Finnister. Weather for ducks, ain’t it, sir?’

Amos grinned at the older man. ‘Good morning, Albert. And indeed it is the right kind of weather for our fine feathered friends.’ As he spoke he closed his umbrella, then hurried across the grandiose marble entrance foyer and up the staircase.

The reason he had come to the office was to list the names of cemeteries in the vicinity of Whitechapel, and make a few telephone calls.

His first call was to the Royal London Hospital, Whitechapel, where he quickly discovered the records office was not open on weekends; this was an answer he had fully expected. He then dialled Ravenscar, and when Jessup, the butler, answered, he announced himself, spoke to the butler for a moment or two, and then was put through to Edward Deravenel.

‘Good morning, Amos,’ Edward said. ‘I’m assuming you have some sort of news for me.’

‘Good morning, sir, and yes, I do. It was the right Cedric Crawford, as we had thought on Thursday, but he was not the man involved with Tabitha James.’

‘How strange!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘That friend of Tabitha’s, Sophie whatever her name was, seemed so certain about Cedric Crawford.’

‘According to Lady Fenella, yes, she did. But according to the major it was his fellow guards officer, Sebastian Lawford, who was the man in question. And I do believe Major Crawford.’

‘And an easy mistake, I suppose, to muddle Crawford and Lawford,’ Edward commented.

‘That’s right, Mr Edward, and the major kept referring to him as Seb last night. Seb Lawford or Ced Crawford, what’s the difference when you don’t actually care about the facts?’

‘And Sophie didn’t, is that what you’re saying?’ Edward asked.

‘Yes, I am, sir. And let me tell you everything I learned.’ He then proceeded to relay all of the information he had garnered from the major the night before.

‘Well done, Amos!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘Now you’ve got something to follow up.’

‘I do, but it will have to be on Monday. I telephoned the hospital and I can’t get into Records until Monday, and I know Somerset House is closed at the weekend. They have a registry of all births, marriages and deaths in Great Britain, so I’ll be able to track her death certificate now that we have the correct name. Well, the name she was using.’

‘Thank you for going to all this trouble, Amos, you’ve done a splendid job.’

‘There is something else, sir. Er, er, Mr Deravenel?’

‘Yes, Amos, what is it?’

‘Once I have all the information would it be all right for me to tell Mrs Forth?’

‘Absolutely! She’ll be happy as I am to know everything, it’s been such a troubling mystery all these years. And I’m sure she will agree that Grace Rose should be told … it’s an ending for her, Amos, and it will finally put her mind at rest, knowing what happened to her mother.’

‘I agree, sir. I will telephone you on Monday as soon as I have been in touch with the various organizations involved, and then I’ll talk to Mrs Vicky.’

‘That’s a good plan, and thank you again, Amos –’ Edward paused for a split second, then finished, ‘And how strange life is, really. All of this came about by coincidence, because Charlie met another soldier in hospital. Truly amazing, Amos.’

FIFTEEN

Ravenscar

She was in charge. Her grandmother had told her so, and this pleased Bess Deravenel. But she should be in charge, shouldn’t she? After all, she was nine years old, the eldest, the first born. Everyone was aware that the heir was more important because he was a boy. But this did not trouble her. She had always known that she was her father’s favourite, and therefore she was very special. He had said that to her when she was small.

Her father had recently bought her a cheval mirror, and had it placed in the corner of her bedroom, so that she could view herself full length. Now she went over to it, stood staring at her reflection, her head on one side.

Bess decided that she looked very nice, and was most appropriately dressed for the Christmas Day lunch. She had chosen the dress herself, because Nanny was fussing about the other children, and had told her to use her own judgement. She liked doing that, it made her feel very grown up. And so she had picked out a dress made of royal blue velvet with a gathered skirt almost to her ankles, long sleeves and a beautiful white lace collar and cuffs. Her white stockings and black shoes were an excellent choice, Nanny had said a few moments ago.

Returning to the dressing table in the bay window, Bess took the small brooch out of its black velvet box. Earlier that morning they had all opened their Christmas presents in the library, where the huge Christmas tree stood, and this brooch had been a gift to her from her father. It was a small bow made of diamonds. Her mother had seemed annoyed, and Bess had heard her say to her father that it was much too expensive for a child, and he had retorted, ‘Not for a child of mine, Elizabeth,’ and walked away looking even more annoyed than her mother. She was used to them. They often quarrelled; she had grown up with their quarrels and often wondered why her mother said the things she did when she knew he would be instantly angry.

Carefully, Bess pinned the brooch at the neckline of the dress, saw that it fitted in neatly between the two sides of the collar. She touched her hair, arranged the curls away from her face, and nodded to herself. Her hair was the same red gold as her father’s and her eyes the same bright blue. She looked like him, just as Grace Rose did. She was very disappointed Grace Rose wasn’t coming for Christmas. It was all because of Young Edward’s bronchitis. None of the guests were coming; her father had cancelled the festivities. ‘God help us,’ Nanny had said to Madge, the nursemaid, the other afternoon. ‘I don’t know what we’ll do without family and friends here, they usually act as a buffer between them.’ She had shrunk back from the door, hoping Nanny hadn’t seen her. And she knew exactly what Nanny had meant, and agreed with her, although she could never say so. Nanny would think she had been eavesdropping.

Jumping up off the stool, Bess ran across the bedroom floor and opened the door to the corridor. In the distance she could hear Nanny’s voice coming from the direction of Mary’s bedroom, which she shared with little Cecily, because Cecily was afraid of the dark. Wondering if there was some sort of problem, she flew down the corridor and pushed open the door of Mary’s room.

Nanny turned around swiftly and exclaimed, ‘Now, now, Bess! Please don’t run down the corridors. It’s simply not ladylike. And how many times have I told you that?’

‘Every day, Nanny. Sorry. But I thought you might be in need of me. To help you.’

Nanny, a trifle spherical in shape, with apple-rosy cheeks and twinkling brown eyes, compressed her mouth to hide her smile of amusement. ‘I think I can manage,’ she answered and turned her attention to Cecily. The six-year-old looked on the verge of tears.

‘Why are you crying, Cecily?’ Bess asked, going closer to her younger sister, staring at her. ‘It’s Christmas Day and we’re going to have a wonderful lunch.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ Cecily answered, her lip quivering. ‘I don’t like this fwock.’

‘Let’s not have baby talk, missy, it isn’t suitable,’ Nanny murmured, and finished tying the pale blue taffeta bow on top of Cecily’s blonde head.

‘Your dress is beautiful, and it’s the same colour as mine,’ Bess said. ‘Look at me.’

Cecily did as she was asked, and nodded. ‘It’s the same colour. But I don’t like this fwock.’

‘Yes, you do, Cecily. And say frock. Just look at Mary, she’s wearing blue too and not complaining. We match. Now isn’t that nice. And we are sisters, you know. I think Nanny’s been very clever, choosing blue dresses for the two of you. We blend.’

Mary said, ‘But you chose your own, 'cos Nanny told us.’

‘Now, now, Mary, speak correctly. Say because, not ’cos. Rather common, that way of speaking,’ Nanny pronounced, frowning.

‘Not suitable,’ Bess added, using one of Nanny’s favourite expressions.

Nanny turned to look at her, peering over the top of her glasses. ‘We’re not being cheeky are we, Bess?’

‘Oh no, Nanny, I’m never cheeky to you.’

‘That’s all right then. At least I’ve taught you something.’

‘What’s suitable and what’s not suitable,’ Mary cried, and began to laugh. The eight-year-old had a very happy nature, and she began to prance around, singing, ‘The Blue sisters. We’re the Blue sisters. Look at us. Blue like Boadicea. Blue, blue, blue!’

Bess said, ‘Now stop this, Mary, we must hurry, and we must help Nanny.’

‘Everything is in hand, missy.’ Glancing around, Nanny realized suddenly that Richard was missing. ‘Oh my Heavens, where’s little Ritchie? Oh dear, where has that child gone?’

‘I’m here,’ a small voice said, and Nanny was more horrified than ever when she saw a blond head peeping out from under the bed.

‘Ritchie, please come out at once!’

He did so and scrambled to his feet. Nanny looked him over, her eyes seeking out the merest speck of dust. But there was nothing on him. Straightening his black velvet jacket, Nanny muttered, ‘Well, at least we know the maids here are thorough.’

Cecily said, ‘I want my red fwock.’

‘Stop saying fwock!’ Mary cried, echoing Bess.

‘Nanny,’ Bess said, ‘what about Young Edward? Is he coming down for Christmas lunch? Or is he too ill?’

Nanny beamed. Young Edward was undoubtedly special to her, and she exclaimed, ‘Oh yes, indeed, your father helped him to get dressed and he took him downstairs a short while ago.’

‘Then we’d better go at once,’ Bess announced. ‘Father must be waiting for me.’

‘He’s waiting for all of you,’ Nanny replied, giving her a pointed look.

‘I want the baby,’ Cecily muttered. ‘Where’s Anne?’

‘The nursemaid has her, she’ll be taking her downstairs in a moment.’

‘Is she wearing blue velvet too?’ Mary asked, eyeing Nanny solemnly.

‘Don’t be silly, child. Of course the baby’s not wearing blue velvet. She’s wrapped in a bundle of frothy white lace right now.’

Bess said, ‘Where’s Grandmother?’

‘Mrs Deravenel is downstairs also.’

‘You like her, don’t you, Nanny?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘But not Mother. You don’t like her.’

‘What a dreadful thing to say, Bess,’ Nanny said reprovingly. ‘Of course I like your mother. She’s a beautiful lady, and very kind and considerate to me.’

‘But not to my father,’ Bess mumbled.

Nanny threw her a cautionary look. ‘This conversation is not suitable, not suitable at all, and I won’t have it,’ Nanny said. There was a warning note in her voice.

Picking up on this, Bess said softly, ‘I’m sorry, Nanny. I won’t do it again.’ Edging closer to the nanny she whispered, ‘The little ones, they don’t understand.’

‘You’d be surprised what they understand,’ Nanny shot back pithily. ‘Very well, let us go downstairs to join your parents and your grandmother. Stand up straight, Ritchie, you’re looking like a rag doll.’

Richard looked up at her, and yawned. Then he said, ‘I’m hungry, Nanny.’

‘I am too,’ Mary announced. ‘I could eat a horse.’

‘That’s a vulgar expression, Mary. Please refrain from using it.’

‘A pony then … I could eat a pony.’

Richard laughed with Mary and Cecily, and they giggled all the way down the corridor.

Bess threw Nanny a sympathetic look as they followed behind. ‘What can you do with them?’ Shaking her head, Bess added, ‘But then they’re so young.’

Nanny averted her face so that Bess wouldn’t notice the mirth bubbling to the surface. They were priceless, these children, far too grown-up for their own good. And they had seen far too much, witnessed too many quarrels that had verged on the violent. But then the mother was to blame. Poor Mr Deravenel. She couldn’t help sympathizing with him. Fancy being married to that cold, nasty woman, and he so good and kind and handsome. Poor man. Oh, that poor man.

Bess made everyone stop at the top of the stairs, and looking at Nanny and then at her siblings, she said, ‘Grandmother put me in charge of you, so you must do as I say. We will walk downstairs sedately. And then when we get to the library you will stand in line. Like I put you yesterday. And we will sing the Christmas carol.’

‘I’m hungry,’ Richard wailed.

‘No food for you, Ritchie,’ Bess warned, ‘not ’til after the carol has been sung.’

‘Be careful, Ritchie,’ Nanny warned. ‘Come, let me take your hand, and we’ll go down together.’ The two-year-old, who was as blond as his brother, clung to Nanny’s hand tightly.

The three girls followed behind.

Once they reached the Long Hall Bess saw Jessup waiting. ‘We are going to sing our carol first, Jessup,’ Bess explained.

‘Yes, Miss Bess. Mrs Deravenel, that is your grandmother, told me that lunch could not be served until after you had done your rendition. And she herself will play the piano for you.’

‘Thank you.’ Bess gave him the benefit of one of her radiant smiles just as her father so often did.

‘Don’t forget to stand in a proper line,’ Bess hissed as they arrived at the doorway leading into the library. Ushering her siblings forward, she said, ‘Here we are, Father! We are going to sing a carol for you, and Mother.’

Bess turned and smiled at Cecily Deravenel, and added, ‘And Grandmama is being very kind. She is going to play the piano for us.’

‘How nice, Bess!’ Edward smiled at her. ‘I hadn’t realized we were going to be treated to a Christmas concert before lunch.’

‘Oh but Father, it’s only one carol,’ Bess exclaimed swiftly, suddenly looking worried. ‘Because, well, I had to teach the others the words … they had to know it by heart.’

‘How very clever of you, Bess, clever of you all, actually.’ His eyes swept over his four children standing in a row in the doorway near the small piano, which Jessup had moved in from the music room yesterday afternoon, as he always did at Christmas. How beautiful they were, his children, with their bright blond and red gold hair. Four pairs of eyes of varying shades of blue stared back at him.

He turned his head, looked at Elizabeth and smiled warmly.

She was momentarily taken aback, since she had so irritated him earlier with her comments about the diamond bow. Wanting peace on this very special day of the year, she smiled back at him, then leaned closer, touched his hand, showing her affection. She felt a movement next to her and turned to Young Edward, who had drawn closer to her on the sofa. ‘Are you all right? Are you warm enough?’

‘Oh yes, Mama. I just wish I could sing the carol too.’ ‘I know. You don’t like being left out of anything, I realize that. Next year. You can sing next year, darling.’

Cecily rose from the chair and walked across the room to the piano, stopping for a moment to let one hand rest on Ritchie’s head for a moment.

He loved his grandmother, and turned his eyes to her face, gave her a huge smile. ‘I’m hungry, Granny.’

‘So am I, sweetheart.’ She bent down to him. ‘And we shall have turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes in a few minutes. After the carol. Very soon, I promise.’

Bess looked at her siblings, and murmured. ‘Cecily, you must stand next to me, because you’re taller than Mary. Come along all of you, make the straight line like yesterday.’

Ritchie asked, ‘Am I here?’ ‘Yes, you’re the last.’ Bess took her place at the head of the line and said to her grandmother. ‘We are ready.’ ‘I will play a few bars and then I will start the carol,’ Cecily said and promptly did so.

A split second later four young voices rang out:

‘Hark, the herald-angels sing

Glory to the new-born King,

Peace on earth, and mercy mild

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