BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD

The Ravenscar Dynasty

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

www.harpercollins.co.uk

FIRST EDITION

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2006

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2006

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

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins eBooks.

Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2006 ISBN: 9780007279593

Version: 2017-10-25

For my husband Robert Bradford, who has lived with these characters for over twenty-six years, and has never lost patience with them or with me. With my love.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One

Powerful Allies

Edward & Neville

Chapter One: Yorkshire—1904

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five: London

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine: Florence

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven: Carrara

Chapter Twelve: Kent

Chapter Thirteen: London

Chapter Fourteen: Ravenscar

Part Two

Golden Boy

Edward & Lily

Chapter Fifteen: Kent

Chapter Sixteen: London

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

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two: Ravenscar

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Ravenscar

Chapter Thirty-Eight: London

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty: Ravenscar

Chapter Forty-One: Ripon

Chapter Forty-Two: London

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Part Three

Glittering Temptations

Edward & Elizabeth

Chapter Forty-Five: London—1907

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight:Yorkshire

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two: London

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five: Paris—1908

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven: London—1912

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Ravenscar—1914

Chapter Sixty: London

Bibliography

Author’s Note

About The Author

Also by Barbara Taylor Bradford

About The Publisher

PART ONE

Powerful Allies

Edward & Neville

‘Princely to behold, of body mighty, strong and clean made.’

Sir Thomas More

‘Yet there was magnanimity in him, and if he is not quite a tragic protagonist, he is a memorable human being. He refused to admit that there were disadvantages he could not overcome and defeats from which he could not recover, and he had the courage, and vanity, to press his game to the end.’

Paul Murray Kendall

‘Their relationship, like their division of authority, was amiable and undefined.’

Paul Murray Kendall

ONE

Yorkshire—1904

Edward Deravenel galloped ahead at great speed, leaving his brothers behind, rapidly gaining the advantage. He urged his white stallion forward, oblivious to the icy weather, the lash of the wind on his face.

At one moment, half turning in the saddle, glancing behind him, Edward laughed out loud, his hilarity filling the air as he waved to his brothers: George, trying to catch up, his face grim in its determination…Richard, struggling even farther behind, yet laughing and waving back. But then he was the youngest, and much less competitive, the baby of the family and Edward’s particular favourite.

For a split second Edward considered slowing down and allowing Richard to win this race, which had come about so spontaneously a short while before, then instantly changed his mind.

George would inevitably contrive to finish first, by pushing Richard out of the way in his overriding desire to be the winner. Somehow he always managed to do this, whenever he had the opportunity, no matter what the circumstances. And this Edward could not permit. Not ever. He strived to make certain Richard was never humiliated, never diminished by George, who was older than Richard by three years.

Edward continued at a gentler pace along the narrow path, glancing down to his left as he did. The plunging cliffs fell steeply to the rocks and the beach; six hundred feet below him the North Sea roared under the gusting wind, like polished steel in the winter sunlight.

The surging waves frothed and churned against the jagged rock formations, while above him kittiwakes, graceful and buoyant in flight, squawked stridently as they wheeled and turned against the pale sky. Hundreds of these beautiful white gulls with black-tipped wings made their homes on projecting ledges of rock on the cliff faces; as a child he had watched them nesting through his binoculars.

He shivered involuntarily as the sudden remembrance of a tragedy of long ago hit him. A man in his father’s employment, who had been bird-watching, had plunged to his death from this very spot. Now, instinctively, Edward veered away from the precarious cliffs, headed in the direction of the dirt road which led across the moors and was much safer terrain.

This morning the moorland was dun-coloured and patched with slabs of frozen snow, and there was no question in Edward’s mind that he much preferred riding up here in the warmer months.

He mentally chastised himself for taking his brothers out on this January day. He had realized, rather late, that it was far too bitter, especially for Richard, who tended to catch cold so easily. He dare not contemplate his mother’s ire if the boy fell sick because of this ill-conceived outing on the cliffs.

Swinging his head, he saw that the boys had again slowed and were lagging behind, were obviously even more fatigued by the long ride. He must spur them on, encourage them to move forward, get them home without delay and into the warmth of the house.

Beckoning to them, he shouted, ‘Come on, chaps! Let’s get a move on!’ And he set off at a brisk canter, hoping they would follow suit.

Once or twice he glanced behind him, pleased that they had heeded his words and were hard on his heels. Within minutes, much to his profound relief, their ancestral home was in his direct line of vision and he couldn’t wait to arrive there.

Ravenscar, the beautiful old manor house where the Deravenels had lived for centuries, stood on high ground, was set back from the sea, and dominated the surrounding landscape. Dark-green trees, ancient, tall and stately, formed a semicircle around it on three sides, and these in turn were backed by high stone walls; the fourth wall was a natural one—the North Sea. This stretched into infinity below the tiered gardens and sloping lawns that ended at the edge of the precipitous cliffs.

As Edward drew closer he could easily make out the crenellation along the line of the roof, smoke curling up from the chimneys, and the many mullioned windows glittering in the sunlight. Within seconds he was bringing his horse to a slow trot, riding through the black iron gates and up the long, tree-lined drive. This ended with some abruptness in a small, circular courtyard covered with gravel and with a sundial in its centre.

The house was built of local, pale-coloured stone that had mellowed to a soft-golden beige with the passing of the centuries. An Elizabethan house, it typified Tudor architecture with its recesses and bays, gables and battlements and many windows of differing sizes. Ravenscar was one of those grand houses from the past, utterly unique, with a lovely symmetry and a charm all of its own. To Edward there was a sense of timelessness about it, a quality of serenity and peace dwelling in its gently flowing façade, and he understood why his forebears had always cherished and cared for this treasure.

The Deravenels had lived in their house by the sea since 1578, the year it was finished. Before then, for many centuries, the family had occupied the fortified castle that had stood at the bottom of the gardens on the edge of the cliffs; a ruin now, it was nonetheless a well-maintained ruin. This stronghold had been built in 1070 by the founding father of the dynasty, one Guy de Ravenel, a young knight from Falaise, liegeman of William, Duke of Normandy.

Duke William had invaded England in 1066, claiming his right to the English throne through his cousin, the deceased monarch Edward the Confessor, who had promised him that the throne would be his one day. But for political convenience, Edward the Confessor had reneged on that promise and passed over William in favour of his wife’s brother, Harold, bequeathing the throne to the man who became, briefly, Harold III.

Believing his claim to be absolutely legitimate, William had crossed the English Channel with the six knights who were his trusted childhood friends, and a large army. He defeated Harold III at the Battle of Hastings, was proclaimed William the Conqueror and crowned on Christmas Day of 1066.

Some time later, William had despatched Guy de Ravenel to the north to act as his marshal. Based in Yorkshire, Guy had followed William’s orders, had kept the peace, by force when necessary, built defences and forts, and ensured the north’s loyalty to his friend the Norman king. And Guy had been enriched by William because of his staunch loyalty and unparalleled success.

Ever since that time, some eight hundred and thirty-five years ago, descendants of Guy de Ravenel had lived on this long stretch of coastline high above the North Sea. Nearby was the ancient seaport and spa of Scarborough; a little farther along the expansive stretch of coast was a picturesque fishing village with the quaint name of Robin Hood’s Bay. Both dated back to Roman times.

Moving forward, Edward rode out of the courtyard and around to the back of the house, heading for the stable block. He clattered into the cobbled stable yard, his brothers following behind him, and jumped off his horse with his usual vitality and energy. As he hurried over to his youngest brother, he greeted the stable lads cheerfully; a moment later he was reaching up for the eight-year-old Richard, exclaiming, ‘Let me help you down, Dick!’

Richard shook his head vehemently. ‘I can manage, Ned. I truly can,’ the boy protested, stealing a surreptitious look at George through the corner of his eye. He knew only too well that George would tease him unmercifully if Ned helped him to dismount.

But Ned paid not the slightest attention to Richard; he put his strong arms around him, obviously determined to lift him out of the saddle. Richard sighed, swallowing another protest that had sprung to his lips. Accepting that he now had no other choice, he slipped his riding boots out of the stirrups and reluctantly slid into his brother’s enfolding arms.

For a split second, Edward held Richard close to his chest, hugging him tightly, and then he put him down on the cobblestones, noting, as he did, that the youngster’s narrow face was pinched with cold and drained of all colour. My fault, he chided himself, regretting even more than ever his thoughtlessness of earlier that morning.

‘Thank you, Ned,’ Richard murmured, staring up into Edward’s face through his steady, slate-grey eyes. His eldest brother was six feet four, broad of chest, very strong and athletic. His brilliant eyes were as blue as the speedwells that grew in the summer meadows, and his thick hair was a stunning burnished red-gold. To Richard, and every woman who met him, Edward Deravenel was the handsomest man alive, with a warm, outgoing and endearing personality. He was affable, inordinately friendly, and blessed with a beguiling natural charm that captivated everyone. Richard loved him more than anyone else in the family, was completely devoted to him, and he would be all of Edward’s life.

‘Inside the house as fast as you can,’ Edward cried, giving Richard an affectionate push towards the side door, which led to the mud room. ‘And you, too, George, my lad. No dawdling around this morning.’

The two boys did his bidding, and as Edward followed them at a quick pace he called out to one of the stable lads, ‘The horses have been ridden hard this morning, Ernie. They need your very best rub-down, and put the heavy wool blankets on them before you give them water and feed.’

‘Aye, Master Edward,’ Ernie shouted back, glancing at him. He and the other stable lad took the reins of the three horses and led them across the yard in the direction of the stables and the sheltered stalls where the tack room was also located.

Once Edward and his brothers entered the mud room they felt the warmth of the house surrounding them. Shedding their black-and-white checked caps and thick woollen Inverness capes and hanging them up, they scraped their riding boots free of dirt. A moment later they all went down the corridor at the back of the house, heading toward the Long Hall at its centre.

‘I shall ask Cook to make us a small snack and hot tea,’ Edward informed them, an arm on each of their shoulders. ‘Perhaps she’ll be able to rustle up some of those delicious Cornish pasties of hers.’

‘Oooh, I hope so,’ George exclaimed, and added, ‘And sausage rolls as well. I’m very hungry.’

‘And what about you?’ Edward asked, glancing down at Richard. ‘Aren’t you ravenous?’

‘I will enjoy the hot tea,’ Richard answered, smiling up at his brother. ‘But I’m not really very hungry, Ned.’

‘We’ll see about that when you smell some of Cook’s tidbits. You know how they make your mouth water,’ Edward said and shepherded his brothers into the Morning Room.

The boys raced over to the huge fire roaring in the grate, stood warming their hands, glad at last to be thawing out. After doing exactly the same thing, Edward swung around and went back to the door. ‘I’m going to have a word with Cook. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’ Closing the door behind him, he left them to their own devices.

Mrs Latham, the cook at Ravenscar, glanced up expectantly when the door to her kitchen opened. Instantly her mouth broke into smiles. ‘Why, good mornin’, Master Edward!’ Her surprise and pleasure were evident.

‘Hello, Mrs Latham,’ he responded in his usual polite manner, giving her one of his most beguiling smiles. ‘I’ve come to beg a small favour. I know how busy you are on Tuesdays, but would it be possible for you to make a large pot of tea and something to eat for us? The boys are famished after their ride on the cliffs.’

‘By gum, I bet they are!’ She wiped her big, capable hands on a tea towel and strode across to the long oak table standing in the middle of the huge kitchen. ‘I’ve just been baking a few things—’ She broke off, waved a hand in front of her morning’s work and added, ‘Pork pies, fishcakes, Cornish pasties, sausage rolls and savoury tarts. Take a look, and take your pick, Master Edward.’

‘How splendid,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘A veritable feast, Cook. But then you’re the best in the world. No one has your remarkable skill in the kitchen, no one.’

‘Oh, get along with yer, sir. It’s a real flatterer yer are.’ This was said with a hint of pride at his compliment. Straightening her back, she added, ‘I knows yer all like the Cornish pasties, and Master George is ever so fond of my sausage rolls. I’ll get a tray ready for yer, sir, and send young Polly with it in a tick, once I’ve made the pot of tea. Does that suit, Master Edward?’

‘It does indeed, Cook. I can’t wait to sample some of this fare, it smells delicious. Thank you so much, I do appreciate it.’

‘My pleasure,’ she called after him, watching him walk over to the door.

Swinging his head, he grinned at her, waved and was gone.

Mrs Latham stared at the door for a moment, her eyes filled with admiration for him. Edward Deravenel was blessed with the most pleasant nature as well as those staggering good looks. She couldn’t help wondering how many hearts he would break in his lifetime. Scores, no doubt. At eighteen he already had women falling at his feet. Spoil him, that they will, she thought, clucking to herself, turning to the ovens. Aye, they’ll all spoil him rotten, give him whatever he wants, and that’s not always a good thing for a man. No, it’s not. I’ve seen many a toff like him ruined by women, more’s the pity.

She swung around as the door opened again and muttered, ‘There yer are, young Polly. I was just wondering where yer’d got to—’ Cook broke off and clucked again. ‘Bump in ter Master Edward, did yer, lass?’

The parlour maid nodded and blushed. ‘He’s ever so nice ter me, Cook.’

Mrs Latham shook her head and sighed, but made no further reference to Edward. Instead she continued, ‘Set a large tray, please Polly. I’m preparing a mornin’ snack for Master Edward and his brothers. When it’s ready yer can take it ter the Morning Room.’

‘Yes, Cook.’

After crossing the Long Hall, Edward made his way back to the Morning Room where he had left his brothers. He was lost in thought, contemplating his return to university. Today was Tuesday, January the fifth; in two days he would travel to London and go up to Oxford that weekend. He was looking forward to returning and especially pleased that he would be reunited with his best friend and boon companion of many years, Will Hasling, who was also an undergraduate.

His attention suddenly became focused on the end of the corridor. He had just caught a fleeting glimpse of a dark skirt and jacket, a froth of white at the neck, a well-coiffed blonde head. And then there had been the click of a door closing.

He hurried forward, passing the Morning Room, not stopping until he reached the last room at the end of the corridor. Pausing at the door which had just closed, he listened intently. There were no voices, only the sound of someone moving around, the rustle of papers. Tapping lightly on the door, he did not wait to be summoned inside. He simply walked in.

The woman in the room stared at him, obviously startled.

Edward closed the door, leaned against it. ‘Hello, Alice.’

The woman took a deep breath, then exhaled. After a moment she inclined her head, stared at him, but said not one word.

Stepping forward he took hold of her arm just as she started to move around the desk, wanting to put it between them.

Holding her arm, pulling her closer, he leaned forward and murmured, ‘Alice, my dear, you didn’t come to see me last night. I was devastated…’

‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘let go of me. Your mother might walk in at any moment. Please, Master Edward.’

‘Not Master Edward. Surely you mean Ned…that’s what you whispered to me in the dark last week.’

She looked up into the handsome face, was momentarily blinded by the vivid blue eyes, and closed her own.

Edward was instantly alarmed. ‘What is it, Alice?’ he asked in concern. ‘Are you ill?’

She opened her eyes, shook her head. ‘No, no, I am not ill. But I can’t see you anymore. I’m afraid of…what might happen to me if we were to continue our…intimacy.’

‘Oh, Alice, darling, don’t be frightened—’

‘And then there’s your mother to consider,’ she cut in peremptorily, her eyes darting to the door. ‘She would be furious if she found out about our liaison. You know she would dismiss me at once. And I do need this position…’ Her voice trailed off and she swallowed hard.

Looking down into her pretty face, Edward saw the tears glistening in her hazel eyes, and he noticed the fear and anxiety gripping her. He nodded. ‘Yes, I’m afraid you’re correct, Alice.’ He studied her for a moment. If she had been from the working class, or even a woman of his own class, he would have pressed his suit, certain that there would be no serious repercussions. But Alice Morgan was from the middle class, and also very vulnerable, and because of that he knew he must show consideration to her. She was the widow of a local doctor with a small child to support, and she did indeed need this position as his mother’s secretary. And so because he was a compassionate young man and had a kind heart, he let go of her arm and stepped back.

A rueful smile touched his lips and he let out a small sigh. ‘I won’t trouble you any further, Alice,’ he said in a very low voice. ‘You are perfectly right, everything you have said is true. And I don’t wish to be a nuisance to you or cause you any difficulties.’

Leaning forward, she touched his cheek with one finger, and then she swiftly edged around the end of the desk, where she stood looking at him.

‘Thank you,’ she said in a voice as low as his had been. ‘Thank you for being such a gentleman.’

He left without glancing at her again, and as he closed the door behind him he did not hear her say, ‘It’s not because I don’t want you…I do. But I know you’re the kind of man who can’t help but break a woman’s heart.’

TWO

Cecily Deravenel, matriarch of the family, was aware that Edward had followed Alice into the office. She had been walking along the minstrel’s gallery above the Long Hall when she had seen first one and then the other enter the room.

Neither Alice nor Edward had noticed her, and she had continued on her way, heading for the wide, curving staircase which led to the ground floor. As she was descending Edward had suddenly come out into the corridor in a great hurry and rushed into the Morning Room, closing the door sharply behind him.

Once again, Cecily’s presence had gone unnoticed, and this pleased her. She had no wish to confront her eldest son about his interest in the young widow whom she employed.

Cecily Deravenel had always been a good judge of character and she knew Alice Morgan very well. She trusted her to handle the situation with practicality, decorum and the utmost discretion, since she was well brought up, a proper young woman. Fully understanding that it was a passing fancy on Edward’s part, if it was anything at all, Cecily was nonetheless relieved that he would be going to London on Thursday, and then back to Oxford at the weekend. She knew how much Edward loved university life, and his studies would absorb him completely, as they always had. Also, his absence would bring the matter of Alice to a close, if it had not already died a natural death, or been terminated by one of them a few minutes before. Even if it had been non-existent, she was glad he was going. At Oxford he was safe.

She sighed under her breath. He could be wild, even reckless at times, acting impulsively, without considered thought. And, women of all ages found him utterly irresistible.

It had long ago occurred to Cecily that temptation was always under his feet and in his way; in fact, poor Edward was forever stumbling over temptation, more so than the average man.

It would take a saint to resist everything thrown in his face, she muttered to herself, as she stepped into the Long Hall, still thinking about her son.

Cecily was a tall and regal woman in her mid-forties, handsome, graceful and elegant. She was usually dressed in fashionable clothes even when she was here at Ravenscar, the family’s country seat.

This morning she was wearing a navy-blue wool day suit with a long skirt slightly flared from the calf, and a matching tailored jacket over a white cambric blouse with a high neck and frilled jabot. The jacket was short, ended at her narrow waist; it was cut in the style of the moment, with puffed sleeves which became narrow and tight from elbow to wrist.

Cecily’s hair was one of her loveliest features, a glossy chestnut which she wore upswept on top of her head; arranged in a mass of curls, these moved forward to the front, just above her smooth, wide brow. This was the latest and most fashionable style, as every woman in England, from every station in life, was copying Queen Alexandra. Ever since Queen Victoria’s son, Albert Edward, had ascended to the throne as Edward VII, his queen had become the arbiter of fashion, style and taste. Edward’s wife, a Danish princess by birth, was much admired by the public as well as those in the top echelons of society.

When Cecily was living at Ravenscar she wore little or no jewellery, unless there were house guests in residence or she and her husband were entertaining members of the local gentry. Today was no exception. Her choices were simple: small pearl earrings, her gold wedding ring and a fob watch on the lapel of her jacket.

Now Cecily looked at the watch and smiled. The small hand was just moving onto eleven. Her husband forever teased her, insisted that he could set his pocket watch by her, and in this assertion he was absolutely correct. She was the most punctual of women, and every morning at precisely this hour she set out on her tour of the downstairs rooms at Ravenscar.

What had begun when she was a young bride had, over the years, turned into a daily ritual when she was in residence here. She needed to be certain that all the rooms in this grand old house were warm and comfortable, that everything was in order with not one thing out of place. She was fastidious about this, as in most things.

Over twenty-six years ago, when she had come to Ravenscar as Richard Deravenel’s wife and the new mistress of the manor, she had at first been startled, then terribly saddened to find this Tudor jewel, glorious in its overall architecture and design, to be so utterly unwelcoming, so uninviting. The sight of it had filled her with dismay and she had baulked, momentarily.

The rooms themselves were of fine proportions, with many windows that flooded the interiors with that lovely crystalline Northern light. But unfortunately these rooms were icy cold and impossible to occupy for long without freezing to death. Even in summer the cold penetrated the thick stone walls, and because of the nearness of the North Sea there was a feeling of dampness, especially in the wet weather.

Richard had explained to her that the house was basically only suffering from neglect, that its bones were good, as was its structure. In effect, his widowed mother had grown parsimonious in her old age. She had closed off most of the house, since her children lived in London, and had occupied a suite of rooms which were easy and cheap to keep heated. The remainder of the house had been ignored, and for some years.

When walking through it, that day long ago, Cecily had quickly discovered that the warmest place to be was the huge kitchen, along with the small rooms which adjoined. It was in these rooms that the cook and staff lived, because of the warmth that emanated from the kitchen fire and ovens. All the other rooms were covered in dustsheets, closed off to the world.

Richard, trusting Cecily’s judgement, had told his young wife to do what she wanted. Within a week of her arrival she made sweeping changes. Every room was thoroughly cleaned as was every window; the walls were repainted, the wood floors polished. Fires were soon blazing in every hearth, and great quantities of wood were chopped, the logs stored in the cellars, so that fires could burn throughout the year if necessary.

In London, Cecily purchased beautiful Turkey carpets and the finest Persian and Oriental rugs from the most reputable importers, as well as beautiful velvets, brocades and other luxuriant fabrics in rich jewel colours. The rugs went down on the hardwood floors, the fabrics were cut and sewn into handsome draperies for the many windows, furniture was polished and reupholstered if necessary. Because she had fine taste, a sense of style and a good eye, within a few months Ravenscar had been transformed, brought back to vibrant life through Cecily’s tireless and loving ministrations.

In a certain sense, none of this happened by accident. Cecily Watkins Deravenel was accustomed to homes of great splendour, as the daughter of a titan of industry who had made an immense fortune in the industrial revolution of the Victorian age. She had grown up in a world of stunning beauty, amidst priceless objects of art, sculpture, great paintings, and fine furniture, as well as tremendous, almost overwhelming, luxury. And so it was these particular elements which Cecily sought to introduce at Ravenscar, because she herself loved them and was comfortable with them. She succeeded, although only in part in the beginning, because it took a great deal of effort and time to collect unique and beautiful artifacts. Only now, after twenty-five years of painstaking work, had she finally accomplished what she had set out to do so long ago.

One of Cecily’s latest innovations had been the introduction of electric light throughout Ravenscar, which she had installed several years earlier. Gone were the gas lamps at long last, finally abandoned and replaced with shimmering crystal chandeliers and bronze wall sconces which bathed the rooms in a refulgent glow during the day as well as at night.

Today, as she walked down the Long Hall, glancing around as she did, Cecily noticed damp patches near a line of windows facing the sea. She made a mental note to point them out to the handyman, so that they could be dealt with promptly.

Entering the corridor off the hall she opened doors to different rooms, looking inside, checking the fires, the state of the furniture, and the general appearance of everything. Sometimes she went inside, straightened a floor-length cloth, or corrected the way a curtain fell. And her eye, always keen, sought the slightest imperfections.

Half an hour later Cecily found herself standing outside the Morning Room, hesitating, debating whether to go in or not. Finally making up her mind, she turned the knob.

Three heads swung to face the door as she stepped inside…three of her four sons…three of her seven children. She had borne twelve babies but only seven had lived and grown up.

George, at eleven, was more irrepressible than ever, and failed to hide his feelings. He was grinning at her now, his face open and revealing. He came to see her constantly…to confide, even to admit his misdeeds and mistakes, but also to carry tales, and frequently she had thought he had a touch of envy in his nature, and perhaps even treachery as well. But this morning he looked positively angelic; with hair the colour of wheat, he was the blondest of all her children.

There was such a contrast between him and his brother Richard it was quite startling. There he was, sitting next to his adored Ned, his face so very grave, and now he offered her a solemn sort of smile, a sad smile for a little boy of eight. How steady his slate-grey eyes were; such a serious child, so dedicated in everything he did, her Richard. For a split second she wanted to ruffle his black hair, but she knew he would not appreciate that, because he would think she was babying him. He was the darkest in colouring of all her children, dark like her, and he had inherited some of her traits, her stoicism, her stubbornness particularly.

Finally, Cecily’s eyes came to rest on her eldest son. Edward, too, was smiling at her, a loving smile. His eyes were so vividly blue they startled her, but then they had since his childhood. His red-gold hair, inherited from his Normandy forebears, resembled a polished helmet above his face, and as his smile grew wider and his white teeth flashed she thought of those women who fell all over him—yet he was so young, still only a boy…not even nineteen…

For a long time she had believed that his inherent wildness did not negate his other qualities, especially his natural ability in so many areas. And he was very able. She never underestimated him, although his father occasionally did. Even so, her husband was fully aware, just as she was, that with Ned family loyalty was deeply ingrained in him, bred in the bone. Family came first; she knew it always would. She relied on it.

As Cecily stood there for a moment longer, she stopped ruminating about the three boys present, thought for a moment of her second son, Edmund, gone to Italy with his father several days ago. Edmund, who was seventeen, seemed the most responsible of her sons, and he had begged to accompany his father on this business trip. He was practical, had his feet firmly planted on the ground, and was very much his own man. It was his two elder sisters whom Edmund most resembled, at least in his colouring…They had light brown hair, hair which her fourteen-year-old daughter Meg characterized disparagingly as mousey. Meg was blonde, but not quite as blond as George.

Edward said, ‘Please come and join us, Mother, won’t you? We’ve been having a snack. Would you like to partake of something…a cup of tea perhaps? Should I ring for Polly?’

‘No, no, but thank you, Ned,’ she replied, walking across the floor to the sofa. As she seated herself on it, George jumped up and rushed across the room, fell onto the sofa next to her, leaned against his mother possessively. Automatically, she put her arm around him protectively. Years later she would remember this gesture from his childhood, and wonder why she had done this so often then. Had she somehow had a premonition that he would one day need protecting?

Ned ventured, ‘I wonder, Mother, if you know when you plan to return to town?’

‘In a week. I told your father we would all be waiting at the Mayfair house when he returned from Italy. Of course, you yourself will be at Oxford by then.’ She glanced down at George, lolling against her, and then across at Richard, before adding to Edward, ‘Mr Pennington will be joining us at the end of the month. He will tutor the boys as he did last year when we were in London. And Perdita Willis has been engaged as governess to tutor Meg. Where is she by the way? Have any of you seen your sister since breakfast?’

Ned and Richard shook their heads, but George spoke up, murmured, ‘I saw her going up to the attics.’

‘When was that?’ Cecily asked swiftly.

‘I can’t really remember the exact time, Mother.’

‘Force yourself,’ she said a little sharply for her.

‘Oh, about an hour ago,’ he muttered.

‘I wonder why she was going up there?’ Cecily frowned, looked puzzled.

‘Oh, heavens, Mother! I think I know why,’ Edward announced. ‘I’ve suddenly remembered. She told me her friend Lillian Jameson is being given a spring ball for her sixteenth birthday. Meg said she was going to look in those trunks up there—’ Edward broke off, glanced at the door which had opened to admit his sister.

‘There you are, darling!’ Cecily exclaimed, rising, moving towards her daughter Margaret. ‘I was just wondering where you were and Ned said you’d probably gone to look in those old trunks.’

‘Yes, I did, Mama,’ Meg answered, gliding into the room; she was as graceful as her mother, and she looked pretty this morning in a red wool dress, black stockings and black shoes.

Cecily knew Meg was blossoming into a very pretty girl indeed, and smiling at her youngest daughter, she murmured, ‘You didn’t mention that Lady Jameson is giving a spring ball for Lillian’s birthday.’

‘It’s not actually definite yet, Mother. The invitations haven’t gone out. And they won’t for weeks and weeks. If it happens at all. Well, you see…Lillian is hoping, and so am I. It might be rather fun, don’t you think? However, her mother hasn’t actually said yes.’

‘Are boys going to be invited?’ George asked, sitting up straighter, staring at her intently.

Meg laughed. ‘You’re incorrigible, George, truly incorrigible. Imagine you thinking you could be invited.’

‘Why not? I’m a Deravenel. We’re invited everywhere.’

‘The likes of Papa, not you,’ Meg said with cool authority. ‘You’re too young to go to cotillions, dances, that sort of thing.’

‘No, I’m not, am I, Mother?’ He gave her an appealing look.

‘Well, George, perhaps…at this moment, let’s say. By the spring you’ll certainly be a little older,’ Cecily replied quietly, wanting to mollify him.

‘There, you see, Margaret! Our mother says because I’ll be older by spring I could go. I’ll think about it, and maybe I will come after all…I shall give it considered thought, as Papa always says.’

Edward chuckled. ‘I hope you’ll ensure I get an invitation, Meg,’ he teased, winking at his sister, wanting to make light of all this, since George looked sulky.

She laughed and nodded. ‘Of course I will. And if you come you’ll be the envy of every other man there.’

He looked surprised. ‘Why?’

‘Because all the young women will be falling at your feet,’ George announced. ‘Everybody says you’re a ladykiller.’

‘That’s enough, George,’ Cecily cut in, although she spoke mildly. ‘None of that type of vulgarity here, if you please.’ Turning to Meg, she asked, ‘Well, did you find anything interesting in the trunks?’

‘Oh, yes, Mama, I did: some wonderful frocks, all beautifully packed away in cotton bags. They’re like new. Will you come and look?’

‘I’ll be happy to,’ Cecily answered, taking her daughter’s arm. Laughing, the two of them went out together.

The attics at Ravenscar were large, and ran the entire length of the house, under the eaves. Since she was such a stickler for cleanliness and perfect order, Cecily had them cleaned and dusted once a month. Because of this, it was easy to find everything, and her neatness and talent for organization meant easy access to the chests, boxes and trunks which were stacked there.

Earlier, Meg had taken out several gowns, and laid them across a sofa which had been covered in a dustcloth. The gowns were made of silk, a light featherweight silk, since they had been designed to wear over bouffant underskirts, or hoop skirts, which had been so prevalent in the middle of the Victorian era.

Meg ran over to the sofa and picked up one made of pale green silk and held it against her. ‘I thought this colour would suit me. What do you think, Mama?’

Cecily stood facing her daughter, studying her for a moment. Then she nodded her head. ‘I must agree with you, it’s a pretty colour and perfect for you. I am sure we can have several of them remodelled to fit you. Madame Henrietta is such a good dressmaker, and innovative, she’ll create more up-to-date designs.’ Reaching for another gown, Cecily handed it to Margaret. ‘Let me see how this shade looks: it’s such a lovely blue, it reminds me of cornflowers.’

‘And Ned’s eyes,’ Meg murmured as she took the dress, held it in front of her.

‘Ah, yes, that is true,’ Cecily acknowledged, Ned’s eyes indeed. They were close, Edward and Margaret, with only a few years difference in their ages. Meg, like Richard, adored her eldest brother. He could do no wrong as far as she was concerned, and for his part Ned was protective of her, had kept a watchful eye on her since childhood. In turn, it was Meg who took charge of her younger brothers when necessary, mothering them when Cecily was away, guiding them in so many different things.

‘The blue is enchanting,’ Cecily now exclaimed, liking the way the colour enhanced Meg’s grey eyes. ‘We shall take the green and blue to London with us next week, and before we leave do go through the other trunks. Perhaps you’ll find several more which can be remade.’

‘Oh, how kind, Mama, thank you so much.’ Margaret stepped closer to her mother and hugged her in a sudden show of affection, the silk frock crushed between them.

Cecily, who was not a particularly demonstrative person, began to laugh. ‘It’s my pleasure, but Margaret, my dear, you’re ruining the dress.’

Meg let go of her mother at once, and shook the frock out. ‘I don’t think any real harm has been done,’ she murmured, scrutinizing it with some intensity.

With her head slightly tilted to one side, Cecily studied Margaret for a split second, realizing once again how pretty she had become, with her flowing fair hair and those large grey eyes, which were so beguiling. Instantly Cecily’s thoughts turned to the girl’s future, her marriage prospects. Meg would grow into a lovely young woman, that was clear. And she would definitely make just as good a marriage as Cecily’s two eldest daughters Anne and Eliza had done.

‘I shall speak to Lady Jameson next week when we return to town, Meg, in an effort to ascertain what her plans actually are. It has suddenly occurred to me that perhaps your father and I should consider giving you a small afternoon tea dance later this year, to celebrate your fifteenth birthday.’

‘Oh, Mama, that would be wonderful!’ Meg was startled by this suggestion, which was so unexpected, but the happy smile on her face revealed her genuine pleasure at the idea.

Cecily had also startled herself. She was not usually so spontaneous or impulsive, and normally spent days in deliberation about important things such as this. She wondered if she had made an error in bringing up the idea of a party for Meg, but immediately decided she could not backtrack now without upsetting her daughter. She would talk to Richard next week, but she was perfectly certain he would make no objection. He had always been quite content to leave such matters to her…the raising of their children…the running of their homes.

Richard. Such a good man. So devoted to his family, a wonderful father. The best husband any woman could ever have. She could not wait for him to come home. Her life was empty without him by her side, and lonely.

She hadn’t really wanted him to go to Italy but he had felt obliged to do so. There was some sort of problem at the marble quarries they owned in Carrara, and as the assistant managing director of Deravenel and Company, he agreed with Henry Deravenel Grant, the chairman, that he was the best person to investigate the situation. And so off he had gone with Edmund, who had never been to Italy before and was genuinely excited about making the trip.

Her brother Rick and her nephew Thomas went along to keep her husband and son company; Richard and Rick had been extremely close friends for many years, enjoyed each other’s company and travelling together. Also, Rick hoped to buy some paintings and sculpture in Florence; he was in the process of remodelling his town house in London and only the very best in art and artifacts would do. He was something of a connoisseur and had a great eye, and he had said to her only two weeks ago that the thought of Florence made his mouth water.

Rick and she had been close since childhood, and after their father’s death it was Rick who had taken over the family business. If her father had been one of the greatest magnates in industry, then Rick had surpassed him a thousandfold; today he was one of the richest men in the country, and because of his flair and genius in business her own inheritance had increased. This was a great relief to Cecily. Her husband was always at odds with Deravenels when it came to money, and it was a company that really belonged to him at that. At least he should have been running it, not Harry Grant. Like all the Lancashire Deravenel Grants, he was incompetent when it came to finance. As for Harry’s French wife, Margot, she was a woman who was riddled with overriding ambition and greed who managed Harry like a puppet master and sought to run the company herself. She probably is running Deravenels, Cecily now thought, and more’s the pity.

‘Shall we take the frocks downstairs, Mama?’ Meg asked, interrupting her thoughts.

‘Oh, yes, of course, let us do that, my dear.’ Cecily looked at her fob watch and exclaimed, ‘Good heavens, it’s almost time for lunch.’ But as they went downstairs her mind went back to the Grants; they were never far from her thoughts. Henry Grant’s father had always cut her husband out, cheated him, and the hatred had escalated over the years. Now, Margot Grant was making things even more intolerable. There was going to be another battle between Richard and Henry, of that she was convinced.

THREE

‘There’s a sea fret coming up,’ Richard said, swivelling around on the window seat in Edward’s bedroom, and looking across at his brother. ‘I can’t see any of the fishing cobles out there, Ned, it’s thick like a fog.’

‘Well, it really is a fog in a sense,’ Edward responded. ‘A fret usually comes up when cold winds blow in from the sea over the warmer land, in summer too, sometimes, as well as winter,’ Edward explained, glancing up from the box of books he was packing. ‘And there wouldn’t be any fishermen out this afternoon, you know. Tonight perhaps, if the fog lifts, Little Fish.’

Richard grinned. He loved this name Edward had given him years ago; sometimes Ned called him Tiddler, which also meant little fish, and this pleased him. Having nicknames bestowed by Edward made him feel very special indeed. ‘I’ll be glad to go to London next week,’ Richard said, introducing another subject. ‘Even though I have to work hard because Mr Pennington is coming back to be our tutor.’

Edward caught something odd in his voice, and asked, ‘Don’t you like it here at Ravenscar?’ As he spoke he frowned and then gave Richard a piercing look. ‘Perhaps it’s too cold for you here in winter, I realize that. On the other hand, I enjoyed winters at Ravenscar, when I was young. There’s always so much to do.’

‘Yes. I love it here, Ned, but I like London because you’re not so far away…I mean you’re at Oxford and I get to see you more when I’m in London.’

Touched by his brother’s expression of his love and his need, and pleased that he could articulate it so well, Edward put down the leather-bound book he was holding and walked across the bedroom, sat on the window seat next to the younger boy. Placing an arm around his narrow shoulders, giving him a quick hug, he said softly, ‘I’ll miss you, too, old chap, very much. And you’re quite correct, Oxford is much closer to London than it is to Yorkshire. And listen, I’ll come to town often, so that we can spend some time together. Would you like that?’

Richard’s young face filled with pleasure and his slate-grey eyes shone. ‘Do you promise me, Ned?’

‘I do, Dick, I do promise you.’

The eight-year-old visibly relaxed, his tense body growing slack as he leaned against Edward in a companionable way, fully at ease with him, as he had been since his toddler days. ‘Things are not the same when you’re not at home…I do miss you so.’

‘I know how you feel, I miss you too, Tiddler, but I’m not all that far away. Perhaps I could write to you occasionally.’

‘Oh, Ned, would you? How wonderful to have a real letter from you every week.’

Edward began to chuckle. ‘I didn’t say every week. But look here, Dick, it’s not as if you’re a boy alone when I’m at university. Meg is around, and you have George. Also, Edmund will be at home with you.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Richard answered in an uncertain voice. ‘I love Edmund, but he’s so busy, and sometimes he seems a bit…impatient.’

‘I know he’s a very busy fellow indeed.’ Edward laughed, added, ‘Doing what I don’t know. But George is all right with you, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes.’

Glancing at him swiftly, Edward asked, ‘Does George bully you too much? Tell me the truth, I don’t want you to lie to me.’

Richard stared at his brother askance, and exclaimed, ‘I never lie, and I wouldn’t fib to you. George doesn’t bully me.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, but I do recognize that at times he can become over-zealous, shall we say, about certain things.’

‘I can defend myself.’ There was a sudden flash of pride, a defiant tilt to Richard’s dark head.

‘I know you can. After all, I taught you.’ Edward gave him a light punch on the arm and stood up. He glanced out of the window, noticed how the sea mist was now obscuring everything; even the battlements at the bottom of the garden far below had been obliterated this afternoon.

Turning, Ned strode across the floor, went back to the table where the large box stood. He put in another volume and then checked it off on his list.

Richard, watching him from the distance of the window seat, asked, ‘Will Edmund go to Oxford one day?’

‘I expect so, and George, too, and you yourself, Dickie boy. When you’re old enough. That’s what Papa wants, that we all should be Oxford-educated. Does that suit? Would you like to go? To be an undergraduate?’

‘Oh, yes, I really would. Why does everyone call it the city of dreaming spires?’

‘Because there are so many churches and buildings with spires and they look beautiful in the light.’

‘It’s very old, isn’t it? Meg told me it was.’

‘It is indeed. Twelfth century.’

‘Can I come and visit you one day, Ned? Please. I would like to see everything at Oxford. Will you take me to see everything?’

‘Of course, old chap, and especially the Bodleian, that’s my favourite.’

‘What is it, Ned, the Bodleian?’

‘A library, a very lovely and very ancient library.’

‘Oh, I’d love to see it! Meg told me that in the Civil War Oxford was the Royalist capital, and that it was besieged by Cromwell’s parliamentarians, but it wasn’t hurt by them.’

‘That’s correct.’ There was a knock on the door and Edward called, ‘Come in.’

The door opened and Jessup, the butler, entered, inclining his head. ‘Master Edward, please excuse me.’

‘Yes, Jessup?’

‘Your mother wishes to speak with you. She’s awaiting you in the library.’

‘Thank you, Jessup. You may tell her I shall be down in a few minutes.’

‘Mrs Deravenel did ask me to say that it was a matter of some urgency, Master Edward.’

‘Very well. Then I shall come right away.’

The room wasn’t quite right. There was something curiously wrong about it.

Edward stood in the doorway of the library, hesitating, not wishing to enter.

It was far too dark, darker than usual, and this was not normal. It wasn’t like his mother not to have the electric lights blazing; she loved sunshine and brightness, which was why she had had the electricity installed in the first place.

Only two small lamps were turned on in the vast room, even though it was late afternoon and gloomy as dusk descended outside. The shadow-filled room seemed decidedly odd to him, off-kilter. Unexpectedly, he was filled with sudden unease, felt a sense of desolation, and even of foreboding enveloping him.

Opening the door wider, he finally went inside, peering ahead in the dim light. He could make out his mother standing next to a high-backed wingchair at the far end; behind her, wrapped in shadow, a figure lurked, stood staring out of the window, his back to the room. Edward couldn’t discern who it was.

Slowly he approached his mother, his mind racing, every one of his senses alerted to trouble. Fear, he decided, fear is present here, and the hackles rose on the back of his neck at this unexpected and irrational thought.

Taking a deep breath, he murmured, ‘You wanted to see me, Mother.’

She said nothing.

Stepping over to the fireplace, Edward switched on a lamp standing on a small occasional table, turned to his mother. He noticed how dark her eyes were and huge in her face, and how they were filled with apprehension.

Alarmed, he stared at her more intently, waiting. Now he realized her face was without expression, wiped blank, or so it seemed to him, and it looked as if it had been carved from stone. She was very pale, all the colour had drained away.

‘What has happened? What is it?’ he pressed, his voice sharp, rising and filling with urgency.

A shudder rippled through her and Cecily reached out, gripped the back of the chair as if to steady herself, her knuckles gleaming whitely in the faint glow from the lamp.

Edward felt that fear spreading out from her, touching him, and he asked again, ‘What’s wrong?’

In a rush of words she said in a low, tense voice, ‘It’s your father…there’s been an accident. A fire. Your father…and Edmund.’ She stopped, choked up, finished bleakly, ‘They’re both dead, Edward.’ Her voice broke, but she somehow managed to keep a strong hold on her emotions. In a wavering voice, she managed to say, ‘My brother and your cousin Thomas…they, too, were killed in the fire.’

Stupefied, disbelieving, Edward gaped at her. He found it hard to take it in, couldn’t quite comprehend what she was saying. He was frozen to the spot where he stood, unable to move or speak.

The figure near the window turned around and walked forward. Immediately Edward realized it was his cousin Neville Watkins, eldest son of Rick and brother of young Thomas.

‘I brought the bad news, Ned,’ Neville announced, his voice thick with emotion. The cousins clasped hands for a moment, and Neville exclaimed, ‘It was I who brought death and sorrow here!’

Edward shook his head vehemently. ‘No! It’s just not possible,’ he cried. ‘Not my father. Not Edmund. Not Uncle Rick and Tom. It simply can’t be, not our family gone like that in the blink of an eye.’

Cecily’s heart clenched at the sight of Edward’s pale and stricken face, the tears welling in his eyes; his devastation was palpable to her. Although she shared his overwhelming pain and sorrow, his utter disbelief that this tragedy had occurred, at this moment she thought only of her son. ‘How can I comfort you?’ she asked, shaking her head helplessly. Tears began to seep out of her eyes, slid down her cheeks unchecked.

Edward did not respond. He was rendered speechless by the news. She knew he was in shock just as she was herself.

It was then that Cecily Deravenel uttered the words Edward would never forget for the rest of his life. ‘Oh, Ned, Ned, has no one ever told you that life is catastrophic?’

For a long moment he was transfixed, staring at her, and then he swung around and rushed out of the library without saying a word. All he knew was that he had to get away, escape this death-laden room. He had the desperate need to be alone in his terrible grief.

Edward half stumbled across the Long Hall, making for the double doors that led to the garden. Once he was outside he fled down the paved path, through the tiered gardens, past the lawns until he at last arrived at the ruined battlements of the old stronghold on the promontory at the edge of the cliffs.

The sea fret had lifted. It had begun to snow and the tiny crystalline flakes stuck to his face, his burnished hair. He barely noticed. He was oblivious to the weather in his anguish.

Ned stood in the small, round enclosure which had once been a watchtower looking out over the North Sea. He pressed his face against the cold stones, his mind in a turmoil. How could they be dead? His father, his brother, his uncle and his cousin. It didn’t seem possible. And it certainly didn’t make sense…how had they all died together? Where had they been? When had it happened? Tragedy had struck not once but four times.

Papa is dead. And Edmund. Only seventeen…my lovely brother, so special, so full of promise for the future. And Tom, cousin Tom, with whom he had grown up. And Uncle Rick, the only other senior member of their closely-knit families, whom everyone depended on. They had all been constant, loyal to each other.

Papa and Edmund. Oh, God, no. His throat closed and tears flooded his eyes as grief finally engulfed him.

A bit later he heard a step on the cold stones, felt a warm cloak go over him, a comforting arm slip around his shoulders.

‘Weep, grieve, let it come out, Ned,’ Neville Watkins murmured against his ear. ‘As I did last night.’

Within moments the two cousins went inside and stood conferring in the Long Hall. ‘When did you receive the news?’ Edward asked. ‘And who was it that contacted you?’

‘Aubrey Masters from Deravenels,’ Neville answered. ‘He telephoned me last night as soon as he heard what happened in Carrara. He thought it better that Aunt Cecily and you and the children were told in person by me, rather than receiving a telephone call from him or a telegram. Much too impersonal, he said. I told him he had done the right thing.’ Neville’s face was deathly white and taut as he continued, ‘However, I had to come to grips with my own grief and my mother’s distress before coming over to Ravenscar. I left Ripon as soon as I was up to it today, and came by carriage this afternoon. I hope you don’t think I delayed too long.’

‘Neville, of course I don’t! You’re as grief-stricken about your father and brother as I am about mine.’

‘We must go to Florence,’ Neville now said. ‘And then to Carrara, Ned. We have to arrange for their bodies to be brought home for proper burial here in Yorkshire. And we must do some detective work whilst we are there.’

Edward did not respond for a split second and then he murmured quietly, ‘You obviously don’t think it was an accident, do you?’ His voice trailed off, and his eyes locked with Neville’s.

‘No, I don’t think it was an accident. I am relatively certain it was somehow planned, not sure how.’

‘You’re suggesting foul play, perhaps?’

‘I am, Cousin.’

‘My father was a target, is that what you are intimating?’

‘Yes, I am, Ned.’

For a moment or two Edward did not speak, as he sifted this information. Finally he asked, ‘Where was the fire?’

‘At a hotel our fathers and brothers were lodging in. Other people were killed, too, by the way.’

‘Oh, my God, how terrible. Do you believe Henry Grant is behind it?’

‘Not Grant personally,’ Neville answered, looking reflective. ‘In my opinion he’s a doddering fool. However, I consider that French wife of his to be a clever woman in certain ways, and capable of double dealing. And so are his subordinates. They’re a dangerous lot, capable of anything.’

‘What did you mean by foul play, Neville?’

‘Just that. If so, we must avenge the deaths of your father and mine and our brothers. I think your father may have been silenced because he has been making too much of a fuss lately about his role at Deravenels. He’s been persistently reminding the current management that he is the one who really should be chairman, and that the Lancashire Deravenel Grants stole the company, grabbed the top jobs and took control of the overall management. It happens to be the truth but none of them like to hear it. And so they targeted your father to shut him up and retain control. That’s the long and short of it, in my opinion. I think you must do something about this, Ned, and I am here to help you. I shall back you all the way, and I shall protect your back at all times.’

Edward nodded. ‘Thank you, Neville, thank you. We shall make our plans later, but now I feel I have to go to my mother, to comfort her, and then we must give the other children this tragic news.’

FOUR

Cecily Deravenel was known for her stoicism and iron-willed self-control, but both had vanished. Edward became acutely aware of this when he found his mother in her private suite of rooms upstairs.

After knocking on the door, he had walked straight in without waiting for her assent, knowing instinctively that she needed him, needed his comforting presence.

His mother was seated on a love seat close to the fire, in the small parlour which adjoined her bedroom, staring into the flames. When she turned her head, gave him a direct look, he saw at once her ravaged face, the bloodshot eyes, the despair surrounding her, totally enveloping her like a caul. Her grief was so apparent, so acute, he forgot his own for a moment, and hurried to her, alarm touching his face.

Sitting down next to her on the love seat he put his arms around her and drew her close to him.

Cecily resisted, out of habit really, but only for a split second, and then she collapsed against him, holding onto him, weeping as if her heart was breaking. And it was, he was certain of that.

Edward had never had trouble understanding this elegant and regal woman who appeared so aloof and oddly remote to many people. He had been privy to her true self since his childhood, and he knew how gentle and loving her heart was, how deeply she loved his father, and he himself and her other children. She had never been anything but an understanding wife and mother and was sympathetic, sensitive to everyone’s needs, a constant and loyal ally to her family. And she was a compassionate woman, ready to help anyone in need, and especially those who worked on the estate who adored her, called her an angel.

His mother cherished her relationship with her brother, and depended on him. Aside from their strong filial relationship as siblings, Rick handled her financial affairs and managed the fortune which had been left to her by their father, Philip Watkins, the late industrialist.

Now the two most important mature men in her life—her husband and her brother—had been ripped away from her in an instant, and with a terrible and frightening suddenness. Her life had changed so abruptly, so unexpectedly it took one’s breath away; all of their lives had changed, in fact, and nothing would ever be the same again. Not for his mother, not for him and his siblings.

Neville Watkins had become head of the Watkins family; and he himself was suddenly head of the Deravenel clan, the Yorkshire branch. What this actually meant troubled him enormously…Total responsibility for the family, for everything their father had taken care of all his life, plus their stake in the Deravenel Company. Ned was not quite sure how he would manage to juggle all of this, being at university, and also unfamiliar with the workings of the company.

On the other hand, Neville was thirty-two, married, with two small daughters, a seasoned man-of-the-world, a brilliant businessman held in very high regard by his peers, whilst he himself was not yet nineteen, considered a boy by most. Nor was he as experienced as his cousin and certainly he did not have his wisdom. At least not yet.

Nonetheless, he and Neville Watkins would have to pick up the pieces carefully and take charge of their families, endeavour to bring all of their lives back to normal as soon as possible. Ned was fully aware that this would take a certain amount of time. There was a mourning period to get through, and many adjustments to be made. He also accepted that he had a lot to learn, and very rapidly, if he was to handle things properly and for the good of everyone. A balancing act, he thought. It will be a balancing act on a tightrope.

And he must keep a cool head at all times. That was implicit. He was aware that there was now only one person he could trust, apart from his mother, and that was Neville Watkins. His cousin and he were bound together as never before, and Ned knew he needed him, needed his guidance and support if he was going to succeed…

His mother’s voice broke into his thoughts when she said, ‘I’m so sorry, Ned, for giving into my grief. However, I’m afraid I really can’t help it. Do forgive me.’

‘Mother, there’s nothing at all to forgive!’ he exclaimed swiftly, looking into her tear-stained face, taking out a handkerchief and gently dabbing her wet cheeks. ‘It’s vital to let your grief come out. Bottling it up doesn’t help. It’s a natural thing to grieve, you know. And it’s very necessary if one is to come to terms with it. People who push grief inside become ill.’

‘Yes, you’re correct,’ she responded. ‘We have difficult times ahead, but we must find a way to keep going, lead normal lives if we can. I have the children to think about, their welfare to consider. They are going to need me, Ned, and they will certainly need you, too, although I think you are truly going to have your hands full with other things.’

Nodding, Edward stood up. ‘We ought to go and speak to them, if you’re feeling a little better. We don’t want one of the servants to accidentally blurt out the news—’

‘They know, Ned. I’ve already spoken to them,’ Cecily cut in, looking up into his blue eyes. ‘Naturally they have taken it extremely badly. As I knew they would. I came in here a few moments ago in an effort to pull myself together. I was trying to calm myself when you walked in. And yes, we had better go and comfort them, reassure them that everything will be all right.’

‘Are you sure you’re up to it now?’ he asked, eyeing her.

Cecily’s voice quavered slightly as she answered, ‘I believe so, yes, Ned. I must come with you, it is vitally important for their wellbeing.’

He gave her his hand; she took it and rose. Together they left the room. Slowly they climbed the stairs leading up to the nursery floor which the younger children still used.

The moment he saw his mother George leapt up from the chair where he was seated and rushed to her, flinging himself against her body so hard she staggered slightly. He wrapped his arms around her, needing her protection, approbation and love. ‘Oh, Mama, why did it happen? Why? Why?’ he wailed, tears filling his smokey-green eyes. ‘WHY?’ he demanded in a louder voice, his young face full of grief and anger intermingled. ‘I want to know why Papa and Edmund are not coming back. Please tell me, Mama.’

‘If I knew I would of course tell you, George,’ Cecily softly responded, holding the boy closer, glancing down at him, her heart full. She smoothed her hand over his blond hair and went on, ‘None of us quite understand yet what happened, George. Ned is going to find out if he can, and then he will tell us.’

Turning to face his brother, George asked a little plaintively, ‘You will, won’t you, Ned?’

‘I will indeed…As soon as I know, you’ll be the next.’ Edward drew closer to his mother and brother and put his arms around them both protectively, holding them close to him for a few moments. Suddenly he became aware of Meg standing near the window sobbing; George’s volubility and Meg’s weeping only served to make him conscious of Richard’s absolute quietness, the pool of stillness surrounding him. The youngest of his siblings was huddled in a chair at the far end of the room, his face the colour of bleached bone, the light grey eyes almost black in the dimming light of late afternoon. The boy looked so sorrowing Edward felt heartsick.

Moving away from his mother, who was still holding George, Edward hurried across to Richard. He stared down at the youngest member of the family, and noticed at once that the pinched, drained look of earlier had settled on the child’s face yet again.

‘Don’t be afraid, Dick,’ Edward murmured softly, leaning down to the boy. ‘I’ll look after you.’

Richard nodded and struggled to his feet. Gazing up at his adored Ned, he whispered, ‘I want to know everything, like George. I want to know about Papa and Edmund.’ Tears came into his eyes and he said in a trembling voice that was almost inaudible, ‘I said Edmund could be impatient…I wish I hadn’t said that.’

‘I understand, but it’s all right, Dick, really it is.’ Reaching out, he pulled the youngster into his arms and held him tightly, stroking his dark head. ‘I will keep you safe. Always.’

‘You do promise?’ the boy whispered.

‘I do promise. And you must try to be brave and help Mama.’

‘I will, Ned. I promise, too.’ He hesitated and then asked, ‘Are you going to Italy?’

‘Yes, I have to, and Cousin Neville is coming with me. We’ll find out everything, and then I’ll tell you.’

‘You will come back, won’t you, Ned?’ Richard asked, his voice tremulous, his eyes suddenly awash with tears.

‘Of course I’ll come back…Ravenscar is my home, and you’re here, aren’t you? I shall always come back to you, Little Fish.’

Richard nodded, and glanced at Meg. ‘She’s been crying a long time.’

‘I shall go to her at once, perhaps I can console her.’

A moment later Edward was holding his sister in his arms, trying to calm her, soothe her, give her comfort.

Meg wept against his shoulder for a while, and then finally, taking deep breaths, she managed to gain control of herself. Slowly her shoulders stopped heaving and the sobs lessened. When she lifted her hands to her face and wiped away the tears with her fingertips, Edward saw at once the anguish in her eyes. The whole family had been totally bludgeoned by the tragic news Neville had brought earlier in the afternoon. They would be a long time recovering, if they ever did.

Edward said quietly to Meg, tilting her face to his, ‘Our Mother needs you at this terrible time, Meggie darling. You must endeavour to be strong for her, help her with George, and especially with Richard, who suffers in silence, as you well know.’

Meg could only nod, not trusting herself to say a word. She had been extremely close to her father and Edmund, and the pain she had suffered since hearing of their deaths had seared through her like a hot iron. She was well aware that she would never be that carefree young girl again and would mourn them for the rest of her life. She felt she had grown old in a few minutes.

After a while, taking more deep breaths she said, ‘How long will you be gone?’

Edward shook his head, his eyes suddenly bleak. ‘I don’t honestly know. A week, perhaps two, I just don’t know how long it will take to—’ He broke off abruptly. He had been about to wonder aloud how long it would take to bring the bodies back to Ravenscar. And then he had realized he simply could not mouth those words.

Edward could not sleep. All manner of troubling thoughts jostled for prominence in his mind, each one of them more dire than the other, and yet he did not seem able to focus on any problem in particular.

When he had come up to bed, an hour or two ago, he had believed that in the quiet and peacefulness of his bedroom he would be able to quickly sort everything out in his head, but this had not happened. And sleep had remained elusive as his busy mind had raced and raced.

Sighing, he tossed back the bedclothes in exasperation and got up. After putting on his thick woollen dressing gown, he padded over to the fireplace and threw two more logs into the grate. Instantly, sparks flew up the chimney, the fresh logs began to crackle, and in the sudden burst of bright firelight he saw that the carriage clock on the mantel read one-thirty. He was surprised how late it was.

After stepping into his slippers, Edward pulled a wing chair closer to the fire and sat down, his mind still churning. This day had been the worst of his life, one he would never forget. Sorrowful and grieving, his mother and the other children had sat at the dining table with him and Neville, not touching their food. None of them had eaten, and not much conversation had taken place either. Each and every one of them was too stunned and shattered by the news of the tragedy that had so diminished their family, and Neville’s as well.

Eventually his mother had shepherded the children up to their rooms; she had returned a short while later, had invited Neville and himself to join her in her sitting room just off the Long Hall. They had dutifully followed her, glancing at each other questioningly as they hurried behind her.

Within minutes, Jessup, the butler, had brought them a tray of brandy balloons and a decanter of cognac, placed it on a side table and departed. Ned and Neville had been the only ones to pour a drink for themselves; his mother had declined as she usually did.

Once the three of them were settled in front of the fire, Cecily had seemed reflective for a short while, and then she had looked at Ned intently. ‘I know you and Neville must go to Italy,’ she had begun, and then hesitated before continuing. ‘I just want to caution you to be scrupulously careful. And you also, Neville. Pay attention, and don’t leave anything to chance.’

They had both immediately promised her they would be on their guard at all times, and would look after each other.

Nodding her understanding, Cecily had then told them in a low, subdued voice, ‘There are powers at work here we know nothing about. We must all be alert and very, very cautious.’

‘What do you mean, Mother?’ Edward had swiftly asked, frowning.

‘I can’t give you a proper explanation, I simply know that I have this instinctive feeling of…danger.’

‘I never ignore a woman’s intuition,’ Neville had murmured. ‘It is usually infallible.’

Cecily had gone on: ‘And you, Ned, will have to go to work at Deravenels, and as soon as possible when you return.’

Startled, he had literally gaped at her for a split second. ‘Am I not to return to Oxford then?’ he had asked.

‘No, you cannot. Your father is dead. You are, by the rules of primogeniture, his heir. So you must now go to work at Deravenels. That is the family rule…when the heir of a Deravenel is over sixteen or reaches sixteen, he must take his deceased father’s place. Obviously, not in the same capacity, in this instance as the assistant managing director, but somewhere a little way down the ladder. But the heir must go into the company, he has no choice. It has always been that way.’

‘I understand. Now that you’ve mentioned it, I do recall Father explaining about this old family rule several years ago.’

Neville had then volunteered, ‘And remember what I said earlier, Ned, I will help you any way I can.’

All he could do was nod. His mother had turned to face Neville. ‘When do you plan to leave Ravenscar?’ she had asked somewhat abruptly.

‘Tomorrow morning. My carriage will take us to York, and we will then proceed to London on the afternoon train.’ His cousin had paused for a moment, taken a swallow of the brandy, and finished, ‘Once in London I shall make plans for us to leave for the Continent on Friday or Saturday.’

‘I would appreciate it, Neville, if you would kindly stay in touch with me, and you, too, Edward.’

They had both promised they would.

At this juncture his mother had pushed herself to her feet, and they had also jumped up. At the doorway she had swung her hand and said, very quietly, ‘This has been the most horrendous day for everyone, and I must go and make certain that the children are resting quietly…there have been far too many tears today, and so much heartbreak.’

Left alone he and his cousin had talked for a while longer, mostly about their imminent travel plans, and then they had gone upstairs to retire for the night. Now Edward stared into the flames, thinking about his father’s death.

Revenge. Edward turned the word over and over in his mind. Neville truly believed that deadly factions within the Deravenel Company had hired someone to get rid of his father. However, Edward knew that Neville had nothing concrete to go on, no hard evidence; it was pure supposition on his part, a supposition tied to what Neville called his gut instinct.

Edward was well aware that his father had been complaining and grumbling about the way the company was run for a number of years, and of late his voice had become louder, more strident and insistent. His father’s chief target was Henry Deravenel Grant, who had descended down the Lancashire line of the House of Deravenel. Henry was chairman of the board, and his father’s cousin. ‘An absentee landlord,’ his father had called him disparagingly, along with a number of other choice names.

But would Henry’s colleagues resort to foul play? Edward wondered. They could have quite easily rendered Richard Deravenel useless by restricting his power in the company. Or they could have forced him into retirement.

Sitting back in the chair, closing his eyes, Edward pondered on these matters for a long time, but he did not have any answers for himself. None at all. What’s more, additional questions flew into his head, and again all of them were unanswerable. One question, in particular, stood out…why had his father gone to Italy to look into problems at the marble quarries in Carrara? Surely that was a job for Aubrey Masters, head of the Mining Division. And why had Edmund, Uncle Rick and Thomas been killed if his father was the target? He was truly baffled, and it suddenly struck him that he would remain in a state of bafflement until he arrived at Carrara and started asking pertinent questions of the local authorities, as well as the manager of their quarries. Only then perhaps would he have a better understanding of the fire, the cause of it, and the manner in which his family had died.

As he continued to gaze into the roaring flames, Edward remembered that he had not looked in his father’s desk. He had meant to do so earlier, but he had become so distracted by the children’s plight, their sorrow and their need for him, it had slipped his mind. Rising, he hurried out of his bedroom and along the corridor, quickly went down the wide staircase into the Long Hall.

Within seconds he was turning on the lights in his father’s spacious study and striding over to the desk positioned near the window. He knew exactly where the key was hidden; some time ago his father had shown him the hiding place. ‘Just in case you ever need to get into my desk when I’m not here,’ his father had explained.

Kneeling down in front of the mahogany Georgian partner’s desk, Edward pushed his head and shoulders into the space between the sets of drawers and reached his hand towards the back for the key. It hung on a hook on the section of the desk just beyond the knee space.

Slowly, carefully, Edward searched each drawer. His father had been meticulous, and everything was neatly placed. But he came up with nothing of any importance. There were no notes, no records, no diaries, and no files on anything to do with his father’s work or the Deravenel Company. Everything in the desk was innocuous, personal, and of very little consequence.

Sitting back in the chair, feeling frustrated, Edward let his eyes roam around the study, thinking of his father, and how much he had loved this particular room at Ravenscar. Every piece of furniture in it he had chosen himself and placed; he noted his father’s collection of ancient coins, the many photographs of the family in silver frames, and his treasured books. The Moroccan-bound volumes were carefully arranged in low shelves placed against one of the long walls.

And then there were the portraits…the paintings of so many Deravenels, from long ago to the present. Guy de Ravenel, the founder of their dynasty, his likeness somewhat faded now in the extremely old painting. And, on the other wall, there was the recently-completed portrait of his father, commissioned by his mother and hung there by her only a few weeks ago. As he stared at his father’s image a lump came into Edward’s throat. He swallowed hard, pushing back the incipient tears. How he would miss him.

His eyes continued to another wall, and he spotted a couple of Deravenel Turners from Wales, along with portraits of the Deravenel Grants from Lancashire. The Grants might spell trouble, but certainly the Turners were relatively docile, and there were not many of them left, only two or so he believed. That line had dribbled down to nothing. Well, that was how his father had put it…

A rustling sound, followed by a faint cough, brought Edward’s eyes to the door. He was startled to see his brother Richard standing there, bundled up in his woollen dressing gown, staring at him.

‘What on earth are you doing up at this hour, Little Fish? It’s the middle of the night!’ In a flash Edward was on his feet, hurrying across the room to his small brother, concerned for him. Leading him over to the fireplace, Edward went on, ‘It’s very late for you to be up, old chap.’ He sat down, brought Richard close to him.

‘I couldn’t sleep. I went to your bedroom, Ned, but you weren’t there.’ Looking into his face intently, Richard frowned, and asked, ‘You will come back, won’t you?’

‘I certainly will, I promised, didn’t I?’

‘Yes. But you see, well, Ned, I don’t think George and I are old enough to look after Mama and Meg…but you are. So you have to come home.’

‘I understand what you’re saying, and I’ll be home in a flash, don’t you worry. Once I’ve done my business in Italy I’ll be back. But you know, Dick, I have a feeling that the two of you could keep an eye on things for me, couldn’t you? Or should I say four eyes?’

Richard forced a smile, but his slate-grey eyes were sad. ‘I suppose so.’

Funny how his eyes look more blue at times, Edward thought. Then they become the colour of wet slate, and sometimes they even turn black. They reflect his moods, I suppose. ‘Come along, old chap, let’s go upstairs,’ he suggested. ‘It’s time we both went to sleep, don’t you think?’

Richard simply nodded. Taking hold of Ned’s hand, he allowed himself to be led out of the study, across the Long Hall and up the wide staircase. It was only when they came to the first-floor landing that Richard tugged on Edward’s hand. ‘Could I sleep with you tonight, Ned? Like I did when I was really, really little and afraid of the dark?’

‘It will be my very great pleasure to share my bed with you,’ Ned exclaimed, smiling down at the eight-year-old boy, understanding that Richard needed to feel protected, safe and secure tonight. There had been so much pain and hurt and sorrow today.

Edward found himself the recipient of a wide and happy smile from his youngest brother, a smile that touched his heart profoundly.

FIVE

London

Will Hasling stood waiting at the barrier at King’s Cross Station, stamping his feet to keep warm, and huddling himself deeper into his long winter overcoat. This was made of grey merino wool and had a raccoon fur collar; the coat was slender and elegant, made him look taller than his five feet nine, and added to the twenty-two year-old’s air of prosperity.

A pleasant looking young man, with a warm, expansive smile and light-brown hair, Will hailed from a prominent family of landed gentry in Leicestershire. His father was a landowner of considerable importance, with a stately home on hundreds of acres; the local squire and justice of the peace as well, he was something of a bon vivant. His son took after him in that he, too, enjoyed good food and drink but, unlike his father, rural life did not appeal to Will. Hunting, shooting and fishing held no interest for him.

After graduating from Oxford, he fully intended to live in London where he hoped to work in the City, possibly as a broker with a firm on the London Stock Exchange. He loved London, and especially the way it was these days. He found it glittering, glamorous and exciting, the place to be.

In the three years that he had been king, Edward VII had become even more popular than he was as Prince of Wales; everyone in the country adored him, from the aristocracy to the working classes and those in between.

Will, like the entire nation, mourned Queen Victoria’s passing, but he also felt that same sense of relief, and expectation, now that Edward was on the throne.

People were happy that the king had moved the monarchy back to London. He had lit the lights, thrown open the doors of Buckingham Palace, welcomed his friends inside, and the dancing had begun. It seemed to Will and his friends that after the constraints and repression of Victorian England a new era had begun—a time of jollity, gaiety, freedom and expressiveness. And he for one couldn’t wait to sample all of these excitements and pleasures when he left university.

Stamping his feet again, he moved around trying to combat the icy weather. There was a fog on this Wednesday evening, a fog Will hoped would not turn into one of those dreadful pea-soupers. There had been quite a few of those of late, and they blighted London, made the streets difficult to manoeuvre, whether on foot or in a hansom cab.

Will glanced around as he waited, amazed to see the railway station so busy; but then the majority of L.N.E.R. trains from the north and the northeast came into this particular station, most of them arriving during the early evening. So it was understandable that the place was teeming with folk meeting trains at this hour.

It was a normal mix of people waiting here tonight. There were a number of women, either accompanied by a woman friend or a man, hovering close to him at the barrier. Plain-looking women in long dark coats and cloche hats, obviously from the middle class. As his eyes roamed he spotted a lot of bowlers and a few Homburg hats, but no flat caps…funny how one could distinguish a class by its headgear. Not many toffs or working class men amongst the bustle, he realized, mostly chaps from the middle class, just like the women.

Adjusting the silk scarf wrapped around his neck, Will began to walk up and down, his thoughts turning to Edward Deravenel. His closest friend, indeed the man he considered to be his very best friend. He was deeply concerned about him, and had been since he had visited the Deravenel town house in Charles Street in Mayfair earlier that day.

His intention had been to ascertain when exactly Edward was arriving from Yorkshire, wishing to plan their journey to Oxford together, already set for the end of the week.

Mr Swinton, the butler, had answered the door, and he had known at once, as Swinton had invited him to come inside, that there was something horribly wrong. A dour expression had ringed the butler’s face and a mournful feeling permeated the house. After greeting him, Swinton had confided the terrible and tragic news.

Will had been shocked and stunned, so much so that Swinton had asked him if he would care to partake of a glass of brandy. He had declined, and had then asked for a few more details. Unfortunately, Swinton had not known very much, and had merely added that Mr Edward had telephoned that morning to announce his arrival at the Mayfair house in the early evening. He was travelling up to town with his cousin, and they would be on the afternoon train from York. And then Mr Edward had broken the sorrowful news.

When Will had inquired how Mr Deravenel senior and Mr Edmund had died, the butler had explained, ‘It was in a fire in Italy. Mr Watkins senior and his son Thomas were travelling with them, and they were also killed. A great tragedy for the two families, sir,’ the butler had finished in a shaken voice, looking on the verge of tears.

Further shocked and appalled, Will had offered his condolences to the butler, who had been in the family’s employ since boyhood, he being the son of an old family retainer. Swinton had thanked him, and the two had talked for a short while longer.

Will had eventually taken his leave, and had placed his calling card on the silver salver on the hall table as he went out. Feeling upset and worried, he had walked back to his rooms at the Albany, his senses positively reeling as he had strode down past Shepherd’s Market, through Berkeley Square and into Piccadilly where the Albany was located.

During his walk he had made up his mind to go to King’s Cross to meet the York train, to be there in case Edward needed him. And of course he would. To lose a father, brother, uncle and cousin in one fell swoop was something incomprehensible, and certainly Will knew that if such a catastrophe had happened to him he would need his best friend, and all the help he could get.

For Will the rest of the day had been miserable. He had paced his rooms, left his food untouched, and discovered that his concentration had totally fled. He had sat staring into the fire for hours, filled with sadness for his friend, and wondering how to console him in his loss.

Now, in the distance, Will heard a train hooting and he wondered if it was the one he was waiting for. He hoped so. Moving closer to the barrier, he peered ahead and was somewhat relieved when he overheard a man standing nearby tell his companion, ‘That’s the York train pulling in now.’

Train whistles blowing. Smoke, steam, fog mingling. Doors slamming. Hustle and bustle. Busy porters pushing luggage carts. Crowds hurrying along the platform.

So much activity, so many people, Will thought, moving his head, craning his neck, scanning the crowd, seeking Edward Deravenel and Neville Watkins. Within a few minutes the crowds were dissipating, thinning out, and suddenly he spotted them walking together along the platform, followed by a porter with their luggage. He made the decision to stay put. He was standing just behind the barrier, the best place of all, he knew that, and certainly Edward would spot him immediately.

Naturally, it was hard to miss Edward Deravenel. He was so handsome, so tall he towered over everyone and stood out most markedly in any crowd. And there was no mistaking Edward’s cousin.

Neville had always had a taste for fine clothes and was beautifully attired in the latest and most stylish fashions on all occasions. His reputation for being a bit of a dandy had preceded him for years; there were even those who referred to him as the Edwardian Beau Brummell.

Tonight Neville wore a black Homburg hat, in the jaunty style favoured by King Edward, and a black overcoat with an astrakhan collar. It was stylish, elegant and obviously it had been impeccably tailored in one of Savile Row’s best establishments.

Although he was not as tall as his cousin, Neville was, nonetheless, a striking, good-looking man, and he held himself regally, walked as if he owned the world.

In a sense, he probably did, now that his father was dead. He would inherit the many companies which his grandfather had left to Rick Watkins, and which Rick had run most successfully for some years. But this aside, Neville was a prosperous man in his own right; his vast fortune came from his own efforts, and there was too the fortune his heiress wife Anne had brought to the marriage as her dowry. Will knew that he was considered to be one of the most important magnates in England.

People standing in front of Will hurried off to greet those travellers they were meeting, and he found himself looking straight down the emptying platform. Edward caught sight of him, and a quick flash of a smile glanced across his handsome face.

Will waved, and went to the gate, clasped Edward’s hand as he came through.

Neville nodded, thrust out his own hand, and then when the greetings were over the three men moved towards the entrance to the railway station which also led out to the street.

‘Good of you to come, Will. I suppose you’ve spoken to Swinton?’ Edward spoke quickly, raised an eyebrow.

Will nodded. ‘I went to the Mayfair house today, to find out when you were returning from Yorkshire. Swinton told me the horrendous news. Ned, I’m so very, very sorry. This is such a terrible tragedy…’

‘Yes,’ Ned said laconically.

Turning to Neville, Will went on, ‘Please accept my condolences, Neville. I know you’re as heartsick as Ned.’

‘Thank you, Will,’ Neville responded a little brusquely, and cleared his throat. ‘Did you come in a hansom?’

‘Yes, I did. The driver’s waiting for me.’

‘My carriage will be outside. Would you care to ride with us, or do you prefer to make use of the cab which brought you?’

‘I’d like to come with you and Ned, naturally,’ Will answered. ‘I’ll pay the driver off, he’ll be happy to pick up another fare here at the station.’

By this time they had reached the exit where several private carriages were waiting, along with a number of hansom cabs. Will glanced around until he found the one he had come in; he hurried over to pay the driver while Neville and Edward showed the porter where to put the luggage.

Within a very short while the three men were seated comfortably in Neville’s elegant carriage, being driven across London, heading for Mayfair and the town house in Charles Street where the Deravenels lived.

After making desultory conversation for a few minutes, all three men fell silent, and Will, who was sitting opposite Edward and Neville in the carriage, soon began to realize that both had drifted into their own thoughts.

And with good reason, Will decided: they both have a great deal to think about and to deal with. Several times he was on the verge of saying something and then instantly bit back the words. He was reluctant to intrude on the privacy they appeared to need, and on their grief. Their expressions were sorrowful, and Edward, who was usually filled with vivacity, was positively sombre; Neville’s face was closed, bore no expression at all, except for his eyes. And they were cold, pale blue ice.

Will leaned back against the padded seat of the carriage, lost in his own mental meanderings for a short while. He noticed through the window that the light fog had deepened but was not yet so thick that the driver couldn’t make his way. He closed his eyes, drifting, the only sound the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the road.

A little later Will opened his eyes and saw at once that Edward was studying him intently. Edward said, ‘I hope, Will, that you will join me for a light supper, and you, too, Neville?’

Before Will could say a word, Neville shook his head. ‘I do believe I should get back to Chelsea. I must attend to our travel plans, but thank you, Edward.’

Edward glanced at Will. ‘And what about you, my friend?’

‘Of course I’ll dine with you, Ned, and I’ll help you in any way I can.’

SIX

Edward and Will sat in front of the fire in the small parlour of the Mayfair townhouse, each of them nursing a cognac. Edward was recounting everything he knew about the fire, and the tragic deaths of his family, and when he finally finished, he added, ‘However, Neville believes they were deliberately removed. He’s suggesting foul play.’

Will, who had been listening attentively to everything Edward had to say, sat bolt upright in the chair. Momentarily stunned, he gaped at Edward, and then exclaimed, ‘Ned, that’s preposterous—’ Will cut himself off abruptly. Leaning forward, he fixed his eyes on Edward intently, and in a quieter voice, added, ‘Perhaps it’s not so preposterous, after all. There has been bad blood between your father and his cousin Henry Grant for years. Is that what Neville is suggesting? That Henry Grant got rid of your father because he feared him, feared that he would endeavour to take over Deravenels?’

Edward nodded. ‘That’s the gist of it. But of course Neville doesn’t mean Henry, but his subordinates, and he doesn’t have anything pertinent or concrete to go on, as of this moment. It’s what he calls a gut feeling, an instinct. And you know very well that Neville is a masterful businessman of no mean talent, and he has great psychological insight into people.’ Edward sighed. ‘He’s convinced he is right in this assumption, and I can’t argue with him. It seems to me he’s correct. And so we are going to Italy to investigate what actually happened. Really happened. Maybe we will find something, maybe we won’t. And once we’ve finished checking the facts, we will bring the bodies back for burial. We plan to leave for Florence on Friday, actually, by way of Paris.’

‘Where was the fire in Florence?’ Will asked, wondering why he had not read about it in The Times. After all, Florence was the greatest Renaissance city in the world, and a fire anywhere there would be bound to make news.

‘It wasn’t in Florence, Will. The fire was in Carrara, in the hotel where they were staying. My father had gone to Carrara to look into a problem with our marble quarries. Edmund had begged to go with Father, because he’d never been to Italy, and Uncle Rick and Thomas asked if they might accompany them, because my uncle was eager to buy sculpture and art for his house. Naturally Florence was a very tempting place to visit.’

‘I understand,’ Will answered, and then hesitated for a moment, looking down into the amber liquid in his glass, his expression thoughtful. After a second, he asked, ‘Could I come with you and Neville, Ned? I think I might be of some help, useful to you, and if you don’t think I can do anything special for you, do remember I can give you moral support. I’m very good at that, don’t you know.’

A smile flitted briefly across Edward’s mouth, and was instantly gone. He glanced across at Will, his expression suddenly quizzical. ‘What about Oxford? Your studies? We were supposed to go back there this coming weekend, you and I.’

‘That’s absolutely true. But isn’t this an emergency?’ Not waiting for an answer, Will continued, ‘We could return together in a few weeks, when this problem has been resolved.’

‘I won’t be going back to university, Will. This is it for me, I’m afraid. My mother informed me yesterday that I must take my father’s place at Deravenels. That’s the family rule.’

Will looked crestfallen. ‘So you won’t be coming back? Not ever? Is that what you mean, Ned?’

‘I do. And of course I do regret that. On the other hand, there is nothing I can do about it, since that rule has been in existence for several hundred years. Don’t forget, the Deravenel Company was originally founded by my ancestor, Guy de Ravenel, once he’d settled in Yorkshire after the Norman Conquest. At that time, he started importing wines, and exporting raw wool, spun wool and woollen goods.’

‘It’s amazing, when you think about it, Ned. Eight hundred years of trading.’ Will shook his head. ‘Few companies are that old.’

‘Yes, you’re right. But it didn’t really come into its own as a proper company until the fifteenth century, when Deravenels began trading all over the world, importing and exporting goods…everything under the sun, in fact. And we still do. I suppose we are the largest trading company in existence today, and I know my father felt he had entitlement to it.’

‘I’ve never really understood the bad blood between members of your family. What is it all about?’

‘It’s actually fairly simple, Will. Sixty years ago, Henry Grant’s grandfather deposed one of our cousins, who was running Deravenels. He did this by slurring the man’s reputation, putting out bad stories about his private life, along with harmful allegations about his abilities. In fact, he made our cousin look incompetent and reckless. Because our cousin had no children, his direct heir was a second cousin, Roger Morton Deravenel. However, this man died, and so it was Roger’s son Edmund who was next in line. But he was a child, only seven and obviously he couldn’t run the company.’

‘Henry Grant’s grandfather just grabbed the top position because one man was weak, another had just died and the next in line was too young to run Deravenels,’ Will interjected. ‘What an opportunity that was. Irresistible.’

‘That’s true, and very suddenly the Lancashire Deravenel Grants were in control, having pushed the Yorkshire Deravenels out. In other words, us. Not long after this, our cousin, who had been shoved out, died in mysterious circumstances, and so there was no opposition left. Henry Grant’s grandfather was tough, strong, and ruthless, and that’s the reason our side of the family has been in second position at Deravenels all these years. But it truly should be ours.’

‘Cousins fighting cousins,’ Will muttered.

‘A family feud of long standing. But we do try to be civil with each other…at least my father did. I don’t know that I can be.’

Will half smiled, then asked, ‘Well, what do you say, old chap? May I join you on this trip to Florence?’

‘If you are inclined to do so, then why not? I am quite certain that Neville will appreciate your presence, as indeed I will.’

After Will Hasling had gone home, Edward hurried up to his father’s study on the next floor. He went in, snapped on the electric light, and recoiled slightly. The room had a faint lingering odour of the cigars his father had enjoyed, mingled with the scent of the bay rum aftershave lotion he had always favoured.

In his mind’s eye, Edward saw his father sitting behind the large Georgian desk at the far end of the room, smiling across at him, and a lump came into his throat as a sudden rush of intense emotion swamped him. He had loved his father, admired him, and he would miss him inordinately, as would his brothers and sisters.

For a moment he thought of walking out, going up to his bedroom, and then changed his mind. He would have to become accustomed to these flashes of overwhelming feeling, the vivid memories, and face them squarely, not run from them. His father was dead, just as Edmund was, and nothing would bring them back. However, the remembered past and their lives existed inside him, were deep in his heart, and so there was really no death in his lexicon. These two men lived on in his heart, and for as long as he was alive then they would be alive, too, and part of him forever.

He walked over to the desk, went around its bulk and sat down in the comfortable black leather chair. He knew at once that he would find nothing of any importance here because all of the drawers had keys in the locks.

Nothing to hide, nothing to find, Edward thought, as he opened the top middle drawer. It contained only a few items, none of any importance, and as he went through each drawer, he discovered the same thing. Basically there was nothing of interest to him, and certainly nothing alluding to the Grants.

Closing the last drawer, Edward sat back in the chair, sighing to himself. He wondered what he had been looking for…he had no idea really, but he had thought that perhaps somewhere there might be a piece of damning or revealing evidence about Henry Grant and his cohorts, the men who surrounded him, or his French wife.

Glancing around the room, Ned suddenly saw it more objectively than ever before. He had always liked its warmth and handsome overtones; the deep red-flocked wallpaper, the large, comfortable sofa covered in a matching red velvet fabric, the worn black leather armchairs near the fireplace, the wall of leather-bound books. Despite the general prevalence in most homes of that tabletop clutter of the recent Victorian era, there was a paucity of it here. His father had never cared for lots of bric-a-brac, but then neither had his mother. As in his father’s private abode at Ravenscar, there were numerous silver-framed photographs of himself, his siblings, plus several of his mother. And that was the extent of it, except for a silver cigarette box and, over on the long side table, a humidor for his father’s favourite Cuban cigars.

It was his room now. At least it was his if he wished to make use of it, courtesy of his mother. The townhouse belonged to her; it had never been his father’s property, but had come to his mother from her father, Philip Watkins, the industrialist. Until his grandfather’s death they had lived in a much, much smaller house in Chelsea, one which had been passed down from his other grandfather, Charles Deravenel, to his father. It was a nice house, and relatively comfortable, but extremely modest in comparison to this one. And, of course, it was his mother’s inheritance that paid for its upkeep and for the maintenance of Ravenscar as well. He wasn’t sure why his father had always been short of money, always endeavouring to make ends meet, and obviously embarrassed by the impecunious situation he found himself in. But no doubt he would find out soon enough, now that he was going to be working at the Deravenel Company.

On the train to London, Neville had suggested they both go there tomorrow to question Aubrey Masters, and to have a look around in general. ‘It won’t do any harm,’ Neville had said to him. ‘And it’s only natural that we would want to go over there together, since our fathers and brothers died together.’

Ned had immediately seen the sense in this, and Neville had offered to pick him up at ten o’clock the next day. The Deravenel Company had large offices in the Strand, ‘Which,’ Neville had pointed out, ‘is the place you’ll have to occupy for the rest of your life. But at the top of the heap, if I have anything to do with it.’

Edward knew that Neville was a brilliant strategist, an incomparable businessman, one with money to burn, if needs be. Whatever else happened, he was secure in the knowledge that Neville Watkins, cousin, friend and mentor, would get to the bottom of the tragedy which had taken place in Italy. But he had no idea how Neville proposed to put him at the top of the heap in the Deravenel Company. That would take a miracle, wouldn’t it?

Once again, sleep eluded Edward. At eleven o’clock he got out of bed, went into the adjoining bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He stood for a moment, staring at himself in the looking glass. He appeared tired, with faint dark shadows under his eyes, but other than that there were no real signs of the pain and grief he had suffered since learning of the family tragedy. In fact, he looked like himself…a strapping young man in the bloom of youth, broad-chested with wide shoulders, a slender waist and narrow hips. And he was tall, taller than most men he knew. Moving away from the looking glass, he returned to his bedroom, dressed in fresh linen, took a dark suit from his wardrobe, put it on, then filled his pockets with small change, keys, his money wallet, and the gold watch his grandfather Watkins had left him in his will.

Ten minutes later, bundled up in a dark overcoat and scarf, he went to the butler’s pantry, where he found Swinton. ‘I’m afraid I must go out on an errand,’ Edward said to the butler, adding, ‘And please don’t wait up for me, Swinton, there is no need for that.’

‘Whatever you wish, sir,’ Swinton replied, his face unreadable.

Edward inclined his head politely and returned to the front hall. Within seconds he was outside on the pavement hailing a hansom cab that was rumbling down Charles Street. He climbed in as the driver was saying, ‘Evenin’, Guv, where can I be taking you?’

Edward gave an address in Belsize Park, told the driver he was required to wait, then sat back against the carriage seat. The cab began to move forward and Edward asked himself why he was going to see Lily Overton, tonight of all nights? He had only just learned of his father’s death, his brother’s death, and that of close relatives. Four of the family gone, and here he was going to see a woman, a woman he knew would give him a certain kind of solace. But it was not her sexual solace he sought or required tonight. It was solace of another kind he craved. He needed to be comforted and soothed; hopefully she would be able to help him out, ease his heartache. One thing he knew for certain was that she would be alone; Lily was not a prostitute. She was yet another widow he knew, older than Alice at Ravenscar, and also well provided for, having been married to a solicitor who had been successful.

He had acquired a liking for older women ever since he had been seduced at the age of thirteen by the wife of the choirmaster at a Scarborough church: a woman who had instructed him in the pleasurable art of sex in a cave on the beach at Ravenscar, just below the ruined stronghold built by his ancestor, Guy de Ravenel. She had been twenty-five and a beautiful blonde with silver-grey eyes. Lily Overton was thirty-two and just as beautiful as Tabitha had been, another blonde-haired temptress who had truly captivated him and held him in her sexual thrall. He closed his eyes and thought of both women; they intermingled in his mind and he suddenly felt the thrill of unexpected sexual arousal.

A short time later, the hansom cab jolting to a sudden stop made Edward sit up with a start; glancing out of the window he saw that they had arrived at the small house where Lily Overton lived.

Opening the door, he jumped out, and looking up at the driver, he said, ‘Wait a moment, please.’

‘I understands, Guv,’ the cabbie said.

The house was in darkness, but Edward noticed the glimmer of a candle flame in an upstairs window. Lifting the brass knocker, he banged hard on the door.

Lily did not appear. Once more he lifted the knocker, but before he used it again her voice said, from behind the door, ‘Who’s there?’ She sounded alarmed and he knew he must reassure her at once, using a code they had devised together.

‘Lily? It’s me, Ned. Your brother-in-law. I’ve come to see my brother. Is he at home?’

‘Come to the window,’ she replied in a low voice, ‘so that I can see you, be certain it is my brother-in-law outside at this hour.’

Stepping over to the window, Edward waited for her to peep through the lace curtains. Once she had done so, he moved back to the front door and waited; within a second Lily was unlocking it. Before he stepped into the house, he called over his shoulder to the driver of the hansom cab, ‘Please wait for me. I won’t be too long.’

‘Righto, Guv’nor,’ came the reply, followed by a quiet chuckle.

Once he was inside the house, Lily locked the front door and then turned to Edward, looking up at him, her light green eyes questioning, her expression puzzled.

In the past he had always sent notes to her by messenger, asking if he could visit her, and she had responded by return using the same messenger, either declining or acquiescing to his request to see her. It was usually the latter. His arrival tonight was unannounced, and unexpected, and she was quite obviously surprised, he realized that. He said quickly, ‘Excuse me, Lily, for coming to see you without prior warning, and at this very late hour. I hope I have not inconvenienced you.’

‘No, not at all. Perhaps I misunderstood the letter you posted from Yorkshire…I was expecting you on Friday…before you went back to Oxford the next day.’

‘I did plan that. But I returned to London earlier than I expected—this evening, in fact, and I had such a need to see you, to be in your company, if only for a short while, I just had to come here.’

He had spoken softly, in a low tone, and there was a seriousness about him tonight which was unusual. She suddenly wondered what was wrong, for surely something was amiss. Lily Overton was not a stupid woman by anybody’s standards, and she detected a strange and unfamiliar sadness in Edward; it seemed to her that sorrow shadowed his brilliant blue eyes, dulling them, and his demeanour was quiet, reflective almost, which was unlike him.

Since their first meeting last year she had found him irresistible, and readily succumbed to his charms whenever he wanted to be with her, whatever the circumstances. Even though he was so young, far too young for her, she cared about him deeply and he was the only man who had ever satisfied her sexually.

Reaching out, instinctively understanding he needed comforting for some reason, she put a hand on his arm and said gently, ‘Hang up your coat and scarf and let us go to the sitting room upstairs where we can talk for a while. I was reading there when you arrived on my doorstep, and there’s a lovely fire. It’s cosy.’

Edward nodded, put his coat in the closet and followed her up the staircase into her private haven. He liked this small but charming room with its dark-rose coloured walls, rose-damask covered sofa and chairs and moss-green carpet. Rose-coloured velvet draperies covered the window, banished the foggy winter’s night from sight, and the room was warm and inviting as he remembered.

‘May I turn down the gas lights?’ Edward asked. ‘It’s rather bright in here.’

‘Of course,’ Lily answered, added, ‘And could you please throw another log on the fire while I pour you a glass of brandy.’

He smiled at her, added logs to the grate and, reaching up, he lowered the gas lights on either side of the mirror above the mantelpiece; instantly the sitting room was shadowy and more restful, intimate.

Walking over to the sofa Edward sat down. He leaned back against the needlepoint pillows hoping he could relax here with Lily; his nerves were taut and he had developed a raging headache. But she was always calm, warm and affectionate with him, and she had never failed to have a soothing effect on him.

Within the space of a few minutes she was handing him the balloon of brandy, and seating herself next to him on the sofa.

Looking at him intently, studying him through narrowed green eyes, Lily said finally, ‘I know there’s something wrong. You are troubled, I can tell that.’ When he was silent, she asked, ‘Would you care to talk to me about it, Edward?’

For a moment he did not answer, and then he said in a subdued voice, ‘There has been a terrible tragedy in my family. We are all devastated, Lily, grief stricken—’ He broke off, shook his head, as if he still disbelieved the veracity of what he was about to say. And then slowly, still speaking in that same low monotone, he told her about his father and brother, uncle and cousin, and their sudden and unexpected deaths in the fire at Carrara.

Lily was so aghast she was stunned into total silence. She found it hard to take it in, to comprehend what he was telling her…to lose four close family members in one stroke was something quite unimaginable. She sat staring at him through tearful eyes, and it took her a moment or two to recover her composure, to find the right words. But at last she said, ‘Oh, Ned, Ned darling, I’m so very sorry. It is heartbreaking for you and your family, I understand that…a great tragedy, catastrophic. Words are such cold comfort at a time like this, words are just…hopeless.’ She blinked back her tears, and went on in a quavering voice, ‘What can I do? How can I help you? Is there anything I can do to comfort you?’

Ned sighed, shook his head. ‘Not really…just being here with you is enough. You have always been so kind and loving—’ His voice trailed off, and he took a swallow of the brandy, put the glass back on the side table. When he turned his face to hers, he looked at her carefully. ‘Thank you for being…well, for being here. So understanding, so compassionate.’

Lily took his hand in hers, brought it to her lips and pressed it against her mouth, moved closer to him. Placing his hand in her lap, she stroked it. After a few minutes of mutual silence, she murmured, ‘Do you want to be with me? To stay here tonight?’

‘I really can’t,’ he answered swiftly, frowning. ‘I am meeting my cousin very early tomorrow morning, so I must leave here soon. I haven’t slept at all since we received the news.’

‘I understand…’ She paused, hesitated, then remarked quietly, leaning into him, ‘You are so tense, overwrought really, Ned. At least let me give you a massage before you go, you know how much my massages help you to relax, to feel better.’

Now it was his turn to hesitate before speaking. After a moment of thought, he said, ‘I’ll stay for an hour, Lily, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Whatever you want, my darling.’

SEVEN

At thirty-two Lily Overton was a wise woman, and over the years she had acquired a degree of sophistication and worldliness. She had been married and widowed twice. Her first husband had been a surgeon and her second a solicitor who was head of his own law firm, and both men had left her their considerable wealth. She was a widow well placed.

During her marriage to Oscar Overton, the solicitor, she had met all manner of people from all walks of life, and she had benefitted enormously from this. It was because of her wisdom, insight and bright intelligence that she had rapidly come to understand Edward Deravenel, from the first moment they had met.

Their initial encounter had been a year ago, and she found herself thinking about that evening now, reliving it, as she waited for him to return to the upstairs sitting room after going down to talk to the hansom cab driver.

Last January she had been invited to a small dinner party at the Kensington home of her dear friend Vicky Forth, the newly-married sister of Will Hasling. Will had arrived with his best friend Edward Deravenel, and it had been patently obvious to Lily that Edward was instantly drawn to her the moment he set eyes on her. He had gravitated to her at once, making a beeline across the long stretch of drawing room, and had remained glued to her side until they had gone in for dinner, not saying much but focused on her to the exclusion of all else.

Much to her surprise, she had been filled with genuine disappointment when she had found herself seated between Will and a middle-aged banker with a walrus moustache and a slight lisp in his speech; a moment later, she had smiled with delight as Edward was shown to the chair opposite her.

His brilliant blue eyes had barely left her face throughout dinner; they had greedily devoured her as he had left his food untouched. His interest in his female dinner partners on either side had been vague, brief, only just meeting the usual standards of courtesy. His concentration had again been focused entirely on her, and she had understood exactly what he wanted from her. It was reflected in the expression in those mesmerizing eyes which left little to the imagination.

After dinner the women had retired to the drawing room whilst the men had remained alone to enjoy their port and cigars. She had been restless, impatient, and on a knife’s edge until he had appeared in the doorway of the drawing room half an hour later. Relief had flooded through her as he walked towards her, holding her with his eyes, not caring what anyone thought. Neither had she, much to her amazement. Lily had been somewhat surprised that she had remained taut inside, excited and anxious to have him closer to her.

Once he had come to a stop, he had said, ‘I need to speak to you alone, Mrs Overton.’

She had simply nodded and he had put his hand under her arm and carefully ushered her to a distant corner near a potted palm.

‘I must see you again, and as soon as possible,’ he had muttered in a low voice once they were by themselves, his eyes on hers. ‘And I do believe you would like that, too.’ As he had spoken he had inched closer and increased the pressure of his hand on her arm, and there was such naked desire written across his face she had found her mouth suddenly turning dry.

For a moment she had not been able to speak, had simply gazed up at him, totally entranced, under his spell.

‘Please,’ he begged.

Bright colour had flooded her face and she had felt extremely hot, flushed.

‘Tomorrow,’ he murmured hoarsely. ‘Better still, tonight. Later tonight. Oh, please say yes.’

Finally finding her voice, she had whispered, ‘Tomorrow. In the afternoon. At four.’

‘Shall I come to your home? Or do you want to—’

‘My home,’ she had cut in, dreading the thought of a meeting at a hotel. A public rendezvous would be improper, disastrous, and she had quickly told him where she lived.

The following day, Lily had wondered about herself and her behaviour, asking herself why she had become so quickly entranced by this young man, one who was obviously so much younger than she. And she had known the answer immediately. Instant attraction. Overwhelming sexual desire. On both their parts. And so she had told her housekeeper to leave early that day, had seen her off at two o’clock; fifteen minutes later she had sent the maid home as well.

Alone, she had bathed and perfumed herself, brushed and dressed her golden hair in a loose, girlish style, put on pretty white undergarments and selected a pale-green chiffon-and-lace afternoon tea gown. The style was simple, loose and floating, tied around the waist with a broad, pale-green ribbon belt. Even though it was a cold day she had wanted something young and pretty to wear which also gave him easy access to her. She had already known instinctively what to expect when he arrived; she knew he would make a move on her very swiftly, attempt to seduce within the first half hour. His lust for her had been only too obvious and too urgent the night before.

She had been ready for an hour before he was due, and had paced the floor, prowled around the house, checking on everything, and as she did this she discovered she was hardly able to contain herself. She was trembling, excited inside, acting like a young girl without experience. These feelings had truly taken her by surprise, since she was experienced.

Edward had arrived at five minutes to four, for afternoon tea. She had served him herself, and his gaze had never left her. Lily had been fully aware that the absence of staff and her flushed face signalled to him that her aim and intentions were indeed the same as his. But then he had already known that before he had come here today.

He had taken a sip of tea, and so had she; he had talked to her for a short while about Oxford, his close friendship with Will, and how much he liked Vicky Forth, her friend.

Lily had listened attentively, loving the timbre of his voice, as she had the night before, a voice which was deeply masculine, mellifluous and cultivated.

And then, unexpectedly, Edward had stopped abruptly, risen and walked over to her chair. Bending over her, he had said in the softest of voices, ‘Won’t you come and sit with me on the sofa? You seem so far away.’

Before she could even answer he had taken her hand, brought her to her feet and led her to the sofa positioned near the fireplace.

‘You’re trembling, Mrs Overton,’ he had said, sounding surprised, as he had pressed her down onto the sofa, seated himself next to her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Perfectly,’ had been all she could manage to say.

‘I’m afraid I’m not,’ he had murmured and immediately drew closer. ‘I’ve been extremely agitated since last night. You see, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.’ When she did not respond he asked, ‘Dare I hope that you’ve given a little thought to me?’

She nodded.

He leaned into her then, put his arm around her shoulders and brought his mouth to her cheek. She had not flinched, had remained quite still as he had kissed her cheek again and found her mouth with his. She had kissed him back. Why pretend, she had thought, why pretend to be overly virtuous when he knows how much I want him. Within the space of a few seconds his hand had been on her breast; he had pulled her closer to him, holding her tightly in his arms and with one dexterous hand he had unbuttoned the front of the gown and slipped his hand inside, lightly touching her nipple. When she had not shown any resistance to these advances, he had grown infinitely bolder, had slid his hand down her leg, lifted the loose flowing skirt of her dress, slipping his fingers along her inner thigh and between her legs. It was at this moment that she had stopped him, exclaiming softly, ‘Please, we must stop. This is most unseemly.’

He had pulled away from her gently, staring into her face, an amused look on his, and he had laughed. ‘Oh, Mrs Overton, really.’ He had laughed again, and so had she, and then he had shaken his head and asked, ‘Could we perhaps go upstairs, Mrs Overton? I do believe it has become quite pressing for us to find a bed.’

‘Only if you stop calling me Mrs Overton and call me Lily instead, Edward,’ she had answered with a light laugh.

‘And you must call me Ned.’

Together they had climbed the stairs and she had not been at all self-conscious; she had led him into her bedroom, then had suddenly turned her head and given him a most cryptic look.

His response had been to immediately take her in his arms, press her close to his body, his hand sliding down onto her buttocks. She had felt so small, feminine and defenceless because he was so tall, broad and masculine, the most masculine man she had ever met.

When he had pressed her even closer, moulding her to him, she had felt his erection against her body, and she had begun to tremble.

As if he understood her instant trepidation he had not made another move, had simply stood perfectly still, looking down at her, his expression suddenly loving. Very slowly, he had begun to remove her clothes, untying the ribbon belt around her waist, letting it drop to the floor, unfastening the rest of the buttons on the front of her dress. Slipping it over her shoulders, it had fallen to the floor, a pool of pale green lace at her feet. A moment after he had started to loosen her undergarments, he stopped and led her over to the bed. Without a word, he had taken off everything else until she was completely naked.

It was only then that he had spoken, saying in an awed voice, ‘Oh, Lily, Lily, you are very, very beautiful.’

She had remained silent, simply staring up at him through eyes filled with longing for him, desire written all over her face.

Everything had gone very swiftly after that. He had risen, shed his own clothes quickly, stretched out next to her on the bed. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he had leaned over her, kissed her deeply, passionately, his tongue sliding into her mouth for a moment of true intimacy. All of his movements were slow, gentle, tender, and soon one hand roamed over her, stroking and caressing every part of her until she cried out in pleasure.

Soon after this he had taken her hand and placed it on his groin, and she had been startled by the size of him. But when he entered her he had done so with immense gentleness, and she had found herself opening up to him, thrilled by his virility, knowledge and experience. Their coupling had been rapturous, ecstatic, as they had both known it would be from their first moment of meeting.

Edward had stayed with her for the rest of the day and into the early evening. She had made supper for him, and he had stayed on and on, in the end not taking his leave of her until the early hours of the morning. He had been insatiable and so had she, and she had realized that night that he was the best lover she had known.

And so had begun the most extraordinary relationship Lily had had with any man, one that over the months had given her unusual happiness.

Ned saw her whenever he came up to London, and occasionally, giving in to his pleading, she visited him in Oxford. With the passing of time she had grown to love him, whilst understanding that the gap in their ages was far too enormous to bridge. Nonetheless, she resolved to remain his mistress for as long as he wanted and needed her.

There was very little she did not know about him, and she understood him completely. He was a highly-sexed, sensual and extremely romantic man; she found him mature for his age and extremely intelligent; he had a brilliant, analytical mind that would sometimes stun her. These attributes aside, his looks were heart-stopping, and yet there was no personal vanity in him about his appearance, and he was kind, compassionate. Perhaps the most unique thing about Ned was his charisma. He possessed a special kind of natural charm that was so captivating it ensnared everyone. This characteristic, plus his amiability and friendliness, immediately put people at ease. All gravitated to him, wanted to be part of his circle.

Yet Lily was very much aware that behind that charming, polished façade there was a wholly different kind of man, one of dogged determination, who harboured great ambition, was full of resourcefulness and had a will of iron that was formidable. Very quickly in their relationship she had come to accept that he could also be absolutely ruthless when he deemed it necessary.

Few people recognized any of these characteristics, because they took him at face value, and also because he did not permit them to know him intimately. Inevitably they underestimated him, much to her amusement and frequent irritation. They tended to characterize him as lazy, indolent and a pretty boy, and therefore dismissed him as a man of no consequence. How wrong they were.

Lily rose from the chair when she heard the front door bang, and her ponderings about Ned and their first meeting were pushed to one side. He was on the staircase, coming back to her, and her look was questioning as he entered the small sitting room. ‘Was the cabbie willing to wait?’

‘For as long as I wish,’ he answered, giving her a faint smile. Striding over to the fireplace he seated himself on the sofa and stretched out his long legs.

‘Do you want me to give you a shoulder massage?’ she began, and instantly stopped as she saw him shaking his head.

‘I just wish to sit here with you, Lily, for a while, and relax, if I can. I’m so filled with grief I feel that anything I did which gave me an ounce of pleasure tonight would be completely wrong.’

Looking across at him, Lily merely inclined her head. A silence fell between them, but it was a compatible silence, and for a while the only sounds were the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the crackling of the logs on the fire.

Eventually, Lily ventured, ‘I felt the same way as you do now when my first husband died…that I shouldn’t enjoy anything, that it was somehow disrespectful. But that’s not the case, you know. And having a woman love you, and loving a woman in return, is actually a wonderful affirmation of life.’ When he made no response, Lily pushed herself to her feet and went to sit next to him on the sofa.

Resting one hand on his leg, she said with great care, ‘Do you think that making love to me when you are in mourning would be unseemly? Or something like that, Ned?’

‘I suppose so…’ He left his sentence unfinished, leaned back against the sofa and stared at her, his expression both worried and perplexed.

‘I fully understand, and as I said, I have been where you are at this moment in time, so full of sorrow,’ Lily murmured. ‘It’s sorrow mixed with anger, and a sense of helplessness. It’s only natural to feel like that, and perhaps worse for you, because you have lost your closest and dearest family.’

He took her hand in his, held it tightly. ‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘you’re correct.’

‘I learned long ago that it is important to put death to one side, and get on with everyday things. Life is for the living, Ned, and understanding that does help to ease the sadness.’

He ran his hand through his red-gold hair and sighed heavily. ‘You’re wise, Lily, and I agree with you on an intellectual level, but it’s very difficult to accept that emotionally.’ He sighed again and offered her a rueful smile. ‘Anyway, I don’t think I would be able to make love tonight, I really don’t.’

But he was. And he did. With Lily’s loving help. Life was for the living. And tomorrow was for revenge.

EIGHT

‘I don’t think there is anything untoward about my coming with you to Deravenels this morning, Ned,’ Neville Watkins said, walking across to the fireplace as he spoke, standing with his back to it. ‘I consider it quite normal that I accompany you. After all, my father and brother were killed along with yours in Carrara.’

‘Oh, I totally agree with you,’ Edward was swift to answer, staring at his cousin, perplexed, and then continuing, ‘And it was you whom Aubrey Masters decided to telephone, once he had received the tragic news. However, why do you bring it up?’ Ned frowned. ‘Do you envision some sort of problem? By that I mean about us arriving together?’

‘Not at all. I was just running everything through my mind. Normally, some pernickety member of the staff might wonder out loud about a cousin who has nothing to do with the company arriving on their doorstep with you, that’s all. It was always my understanding that several of Henry Grant’s employees were a trifle touchy about your father’s relatives.’

Edward chuckled. ‘Correct, they were, and most especially the French whore, as Father used to call her. She was the most vociferous.’

Neville raised a brow, giving Edward a swift look. ‘The French whore,’ he repeated, and suddenly began to laugh. ‘I remember now, your father did occasionally mutter something or other about the true paternity of her son Edouard. I do believe he wondered aloud about the ability of Henry to perform—well, that was the way he put it.’

‘My father was convinced that Henry was impotent, and possibly sterile as well, and he made no bones about it at home. He was truly convinced that their son was fathered by one of Grant’s colleagues.’

‘Making Edouard a bastard, of course, and therefore not of his blood, and therefore not entitled to take over Deravenels one day.’

Edward nodded. ‘Anyway, I have not been in touch with Aubrey Masters. Have you?’

‘No. I purposefully chose not to announce our arrival. I thought it would be more interesting to walk in unexpectedly, out of the blue, so to speak.’

‘Jolly good idea. And by the way, last night Will volunteered to come with us to Italy. He asked me to ask you if he could. He feels he can be helpful.’ Giving Neville a long, questioning glance, he now asked, ‘So, what do you say, Neville?’

‘It’s rather a good idea, actually, Ned. Who knows what we’re going to find, and another clever brain and pair of sharp eyes can be most useful. I have decided to have the Thomas Cook agency make all of the travel arrangements, they’re very good at that, and I shall merely add Will’s name.’

At this moment there was a tap on the Morning Room door, and Swinton walked in, carrying a coffee pot and various accoutrements on a tray, followed by Gertrude, the parlour maid, also with a tray in her hands.

‘Coffee and toast as you requested, Mr Edward,’ Swinton said as he hurried over to the circular walnut table positioned near the windows. ‘And can I bring something for you, Mr Watkins?’ he asked, turning to look at Neville, who still stood in front of the fireplace.

‘I think not, Swinton, thank you. I’ve already had breakfast. But I would enjoy a cup of coffee, if that’s possible.’

‘Not a problem, sir.’ Swinton inclined his head and at once turned his attention to the table. After emptying their trays, the butler and the parlour maid then hurried out.

Edward said, ‘Do you plan for us to go to Italy via Paris, as you suggested on the train yesterday?’

‘Yes, I do. We can take the boat train to Paris, via Le Havre, spend the night in Paris, and then go on to Carrara from there. Do you have any preferences regarding a hotel in Paris, Ned? I thought we should stay at the Ritz in the Place Vendôme if that’s all right with you.’

Edward nodded his agreement, and walked over to the table; Neville came to join him, and a moment later Swinton was back with another cup and saucer.

Once they were alone again, Edward took a piece of toast, and spread butter and marmalade on it. As he did, he said, ‘At what time should we arrive at Deravenels, do you think?’

‘Around eleven o’clock. Any later they’ll all be trotting off to their private clubs or fancy restaurants for lunch.’

‘Do you have any kind of strategy in mind?’ Edward asked, looking across the table at Neville, cocking his head to one side questioningly.

‘I’m not all that sure that strategy is really necessary at this stage of the game,’ Neville responded, taking a sip of coffee. ‘I do believe it would be right and proper for you to take the lead, since your father was on company business when he died. I can then step in with my own comments or questions about my father and Thomas. Basically we need to know how the fire started, how much damage was done, so that we understand what state our fathers’ and brothers’ bodies were in when they were discovered. Also, we need to know how Deravenels plans to send their bodies back to England for burial.’

‘Yes,’ Edward said laconically, and sat back in the chair. Sudden sorrow swept across his face, and he was finding it difficult to continue speaking.

Neville remained quiet, sat sipping his coffee, his own face shadowed by pain, his eyes reflective, troubled.

Little else was said between the two men. They took their coffee in total silence, burdened by the knowledge that their trip to Italy was bound to be difficult, fraught with anguish.

Neville Watkins’s elegant carriage took the two men around Berkeley Square, into Piccadilly, and through Trafalgar Square, continuing in the direction of the Strand where the head offices of the Deravenel Company were located.

The splendid horse-drawn carriage finally came to a standstill outside the imposing office building of the great global trading company in the Strand.

Eyes turned as the two men alighted. Both were elegantly dressed in dark suits and black overcoats, the fabric, cut, style and impeccable tailoring proclaiming the garments to be of the finest quality and therefore undoubtedly from Savile Row.

Passers-by, hurrying about their business on this cold January morning, paused to gape at the tall distinguished men as they strode confidently towards the front doors of the Deravenel Company. Gentlemen with a bit of a dash and dazzle, toffs from the upper class, that is how they were perceived, and mostly without any resentment whatsoever. England in 1904 was a world of class distinction, and everyone knew it and accepted it.

The two men went through the ancient portals and stood for a moment in the marble-clad lobby, the ceiling of which soared upward like a great cathedral. The veined marble was in tones of black and a deep terracotta colour, and it covered the walls, the many high-flung circular pillars and the vast floor. Imposing and grand, it reeked of money and success.

A uniformed doorman, who was positioned inside at a small desk in the winter weather, hurried over to them. Immediately he recognized Edward Deravenel. Who could ever forget this tall, good-looking young man with burnished red-gold hair and brilliant blue eyes. The son of the late Richard Deravenel, and wasn’t he one of the finest gentlemen in the world, the doorman thought, and then said politely, ‘Good morning, Mr Edward, Mr Watkins. Please go right up to the first floor.’

‘Thank you, Johnson,’ Edward answered, giving the commissionnaire a warm smile. ‘And how is your son doing? The last time we spoke he was joining the Indian Army.’

Flattered that Edward had recalled their last conversation, he nodded, smiling with real pleasure. ‘Very well, sir, thank you. Good of you to remember my Jack, sir.’

Edward inclined his head slightly and he and Neville headed towards the wide, double staircase of carved mahogany that floated upward to a wide landing at the top.

The two men climbed the stairs to the first floor where the executive offices were located, aligned along a wide corridor which ended at the giant double doors leading into the company’s board room. Edward thought of that room now…As a small boy he had often wished he would one day dominate that room when he grew up. He felt a sudden, peculiar sinking feeling inside as he saw his father’s office in his mind’s eye. He was not quite certain that he could face going in there today, although perhaps he should. Putting it off was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Nonetheless, he baulked at the idea. It smacked of memories and more pain.

Halfway up the red-carpeted stairs, Neville paused, his hand resting on the mahogany banister. ‘Once the greetings are over I think it would be wise to move right in with your questions, Ned. Let us avoid procrastination. You know how Aubrey Masters can be.’

‘Long-winded, to put it mildly,’ Edward answered. ‘And you don’t have cause for concern. I’m as impatient as you are to get to the bottom of this situation. Let us hope he can supply some of the more important details, give us satisfactory answers. After all, he is the one dealing with Italy.’

Neville nodded and the two continued on up the stairs. They were both anxious, filled with apprehension; they dreaded what they would soon learn about the deaths of their loved ones, and the terrible way they had died in the fire. Although they had not discussed it with each other, both men realized it must have been a brutal and terrifying way to die.

The two staircases came to a stop at the wide landing, more like a room in size and shape. Placed in the centre of this space was a large desk and behind it sat an attractive young woman in a black, long-skirted suit and white blouse.

She glanced up as Edward and Neville approached the desk; her eyes automatically shifted, swung to Edward, whom she recognized at once.

‘Oh, Mr Edward, good morning,’ she murmured, offering him a small, half smile. She wanted to say something about his father’s death but knew it would be improper to make any kind of personal remark to him. It was not her place.

‘Good morning, Matilda. This is Mr Watkins. We’re here to see Mr Masters.’

She inclined her head in Neville’s direction, acknowledging him, and then stood up. ‘I’ll let Mr Masters know you’re here, sir.’ She hurried off down the corridor.

Edward and Neville took off their overcoats and hung them in the coat cupboard, and a moment later Matilda was back.

‘Mr Masters will see you immediately,’ she said, and led them down the corridor, ushered them into an office and closed the door behind them.

Aubrey Masters came around the desk to greet Edward and Neville. He was a fussy, small, somewhat rotund man in his late forties, dark haired with a florid complexion and brown eyes set close together.

Hurrying forward, grasping Edward’s hand, he exclaimed, ‘Mr Edward, come in, come in, and sit down!’ Turning to Neville, he shook his hand also, and indicated the other chair in front of the desk. ‘Welcome to Deravenels, Mr Watkins. It’s some time since you’ve been here. Over a year, if I recall correctly.’

‘That’s true,’ Neville responded and lowered himself into the chair. His gaze remained on Aubrey Masters, who had gone to sit down behind the desk.

‘Please accept my condolences, Mr Edward, for this awful loss you have suffered, and you too, Mr Watkins. My deepest condolences to you both,’ Masters began. ‘This tragedy has been a blight on the company for the last few days, since we received the dreadful news. Everyone has been plunged into sorrow and gloom—’

‘Thank you,’ Edward said peremptorily, cutting Masters off sharply. ‘My cousin and I are most appreciative of your kind thoughts and sympathy, and we certainly thank you for sparing our mothers undue and additional heartache. To have received the news by telephone would have been perfectly ghastly for them both, unbearable actually.’

‘Yes, it would. It seemed to me at the time that contacting Mr Watkins was the right and proper way to handle the matter,’ Aubrey Masters answered, leaning forward over the desk, his hands clasped together.

‘Most sensitive indeed,’ Neville interjected, his eyes appraising as he studied Masters, weighing him up.

‘Mr Watkins and I are very anxious to know exactly what happened to our fathers and brothers in Carrara, Masters. We have been given only the slightest information about their deaths, and we hope you will now supply more of the details.’

Clearing his throat several times, Aubrey nodded. ‘I’m sorry to say I do not have a great deal of information, Mr Edward. All I know is that a fire started in the hotel last Sunday night. I was informed on Monday, by telegram from Carrara.’

‘And who sent the telegram?’ Edward asked, keeping a tight rein on his emotions. He was re-discovering his inherent antipathy towards Masters, who had never been a particular favourite of his father’s either. There was something shifty about him, and Edward was convinced that his loyalty was for sale, and always had been. Edward now wondered about the man’s integrity. Certainly it was not a characteristic he associated with the head of the Mining Division.

Aubrey Masters, staring at Edward in return, said in the most matter-of-fact voice he could summon, ‘I was informed of the tragedy by Alfredo Oliveri.’

‘Isn’t he the manager of our business affairs in Carrara?’

‘Yes, he is. He works with the superintendent of the mines.’

‘I see. And there’s another manager in Florence, isn’t there?’ Edward remarked. ‘Fabrizio Dellarosa.’

Masters nodded. ‘Dellarosa runs our overall business in Italy, and he was the one who worked most closely with Mr Richard—er, your father.’

‘Has he been in touch with you?’

‘Yes, he has.’ Aubrey sat up a little straighter, more intent on his visitors, looking from Deravenel to Watkins, suddenly detecting hostility. He wondered why. A rush of panic hit him. Had he forgotten something? Did they know more than he did? If there was more to know. Clearing his throat, he announced in a clear, firm voice, ‘Look, I have told you everything I know, Mr Edward.’

‘Were they badly burned in the fire?’ Neville asked, swallowing, not permitting his heartache to surface.

‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know. Oliveri told me by telegram that they were found in the hotel and that their bodies had been taken to the hospital in Florence. That they were being held there until the arrival of the family members. That is yourselves, of course.’

‘And that’s all you know?’ Edward said, incredulity echoing in his voice.

Masters appeared to be mystified by this question. ‘There’s not much else to know,’ he murmured, looking confused and worried.

‘Were they all together? Were they in a lounge or the foyer? Or in their bedrooms? How long did the fire burn? Why were they not rescued before it was too late? What did the police report say?’ Edward stared hard at Aubrey Masters, his eyes narrowed. ‘There’s a great deal more I want to know about this matter, and so does my cousin.’

‘Oh, dear, maybe I’ve made an error.’

‘What do you mean?’ Edward asked quickly, fixing his bright blue gaze on Masters.

‘Perhaps I should have gone to Italy at once, to look into the situation instead of leaving it to the Italian managers.’

‘Perhaps you should,’ Edward shot back coldly, glaring at him.

The silence in the room was deafening.

Edward sat perfectly still in the chair, filled with frustration. Was Aubrey Masters really a nincompoop or was he a clever dissembler? He wasn’t sure, and suddenly he made up his mind to leave this office at once. There was nothing he and Neville could learn here, that was patently obvious. Once they arrived in Italy in the next few days they would gather the facts themselves.

After leaving the Deravenel offices Edward and Neville went out into the street, where Neville spoke to the driver of his carriage. The two men then walked across the Strand and entered the Savoy Court, the forecourt to both the Savoy Hotel and the adjoining Savoy Theatre.

Neville broke his stride as they approached the theatre, and turning to Edward, he said, ‘It’s thanks to those Gilbert and Sullivan operettas that Richard D’Oyly Carte was able to build this theatre and the hotel a few years ago, you know. All those profits from them, he made a veritable fortune.’

Edward nodded. ‘So my father told me. He loved the operettas, especially The Mikado and H.M.S. Pinafore.’

‘Not to my taste. I much prefer Mozart.’

Once they were seated at their table, Neville ordered a bottle of dry white wine and sat back in the chair, regarding his cousin intently. ‘You don’t like Aubrey Masters, do you, Ned?’ he said at last.

‘It’s not a question of liking or disliking him…I’m not sure that I trust him. He never was a favourite of Father’s, and when we were at the offices I began to wonder if he was stupid or a clever dissembler.’

‘If he’s given to dissimulation then he’s a mighty fine actor. Personally, I think he’s a trifle dimwitted. Which brings me to a leading question. Why is he in that position? Who made him head of the Mining Division?’

‘Henry Grant, of course. Aubrey Masters is a relative, a cousin twice removed, I do believe.’

‘Nepotism again, eh?’ Neville shook his head. ‘Weren’t you surprised, not hearing from Henry Grant, not receiving condolences?’

‘Not really. You see, before Father left for Italy he told me that Henry was out of sorts, not feeling his best, and that he had gone into a religious retreat in Cumbria for two months. So presumably he’s still there, and perhaps no one’s bothered to inform him of our tragedy.’

‘If that is so then I find it quite preposterous he’s been kept in the dark.’

‘So do I. Never mind that. We have better fish to fry, you and I, Neville. It is imperative that we set off for Italy as soon as possible. Will and I are both prepared to leave immediately. You just have to say the word.’

‘We depart on Saturday, Ned. All the arrangements are being made by the Thomas Cook agency, as I mentioned earlier. I merely have to confirm the hotel to them later today.’

‘The Ritz is fine, as I told you.’

Neville nodded and picked up a menu. ‘I’ve hardly eaten for days, and I know it’s been the same for you. However, I do think we should order a decent meal, if only to keep our strength up.’

‘You’re right. The problem is I haven’t been at all hungry. Lost my appetite.’

Following suit and opening the menu, Edward studied it for a moment, then put it down, and remarked, ‘You know, the pious Henry Grant might be purging his soul and revelling in his religion, but his wife is here in London. Condolence letters could easily have been sent to us and our families, don’t you think?’

‘Look to the source, Edward. That she-wolf doesn’t know any better. Now, let’s order something to eat and relax. This afternoon we must go over our plans. We have to find a way to get to the bottom of this situation. We really do have to know whether there was foul play or not, and then act accordingly.’

‘I’m hoping the two managers in Italy will have more information for us, especially Alfredo Oliveri, since he lives in Carrara. My father always liked him, and often spoke about him. And with some affection, I might add.’

‘Then he’s our man, and no doubt he’ll have the police report. Or at least access to it. That will be a start.’

‘I thought Aubrey Masters was most cavalier in his attitude, and it infuriated me,’ Edward confided.

‘I know it did. I can read your eyes, even when you keep a poker face, Ned. Anyway, I do feel there is a way to get the better of the Lancashire Deravenels,’ Neville said, and went on, ‘I predict I will have you sitting in Henry Grant’s chair in less than six months.’

Edward was silent for a moment, and then he protested. ‘I’m so young, Neville. Let’s not forget I am not yet nineteen.’

‘Let’s not forget that William Pitt the Younger was only twenty-four when he became Prime Minister of England.’

‘But—’

‘No buts, Ned. You will run Deravenels.’

‘But only if you are by my side,’ Edward exclaimed.

‘And I will be, have no fear of that, Cousin,’ Neville Watkins promised.

NINE

Florence

They had come here to take the bodies back home to England. But they were also in Florence to find out what had happened to their kin in death. And suddenly, now that they were finally here in Italy, the one thing that Edward dreaded the most was actually viewing the bodies.

He was only too well aware that to gaze upon the waxen, lifeless faces of his father, brother, uncle and cousin would have a devastating effect on him. Conversely, he did need to see them, in order to be truly convinced they were really dead. In his mind he could not quite accept that this catastrophe had happened.

Edward Deravenel was standing in the window of his hotel room, staring out at the River Arno and the hills of Florence beyond. There was no sun on this cold January morning, and the sky was bloated, bulbous with grey clouds. A mist floated over the surface of the river, obscuring the dark waters, a mist that reminded him of London’s winter fogs.

He had arrived here last night from Paris, accompanied by Neville and Will, and they had checked into the Hotel Bristol. This was a well-known hotel, built in the second half of the nineteenth century, much frequented by the English aristocracy, and it had come highly recommended.

Like most of the grand hotels here, it was located on the banks of the Arno, and their rooms faced the river and the scattered hills which stood on the outskirts of the city. He and Will occupied rooms next to each other, while Neville was in a large suite just a few doors down the corridor.

Turning away from the window, Edward strode over to the mirror and began to tie his cravat made of a fine black silk. Once this was arranged to his satisfaction, he added a beautiful pearl pin in the centre of the carefully draped and folded knot. The pearl tiepin was a gift from his father, given to him last year for his eighteenth birthday, and he treasured it more than ever now.

Walking over to the wardrobe, he took out his waistcoat and slipped it on, returned to the cheval mirror, stared at himself, thinking how pale he looked, even haggard. With a small sigh he headed back to the wardrobe to retrieve his jacket.

And it seemed to Edward, as he walked back and forth, that the awful sense of dread he had just experienced trailed along with him, surrounding him like a thin veil, as if it were the mist off the river. He shivered involuntarily, paused next to a chair, rested his hand on it. He closed his eyes and his gaze turned inward.

I must be absolutely in control of myself today, and I must reveal nothing. My face must be unreadable at all times. I share Neville’s opinion that there has been foul play, that the fire was no accident. How we will find out the truth I do not know, but we must try. Will is of the same mind. I’m glad he came along. He gets on well with Neville, and we have both enjoyed his company.

Somehow I must get through the ordeal of viewing the bodies later this morning. And then we will go to Carrara, no matter what. I am set on that course. I must see the hotel where they met their untimely end. That is imperative. Then, hopefully, this Italian nightmare will come to an end. Later this week we will take their bodies home, to Yorkshire, where we will bury them in that benign earth, and they will rest in peace…

Insistent knocking on the door interrupted Edward’s thoughts, and he strode to open it. Will Hasling was standing there, appropriately dressed in a black suit and carrying a black overcoat on his arm.

‘I’m not too early, am I?’ Will asked, a brow lifting.

Edward shook his head. ‘Come in, Will.’ He opened the door wider and moved into the room, his friend following closely behind.

‘Have you had breakfast?’ Edward asked as he took his overcoat out of the wardrobe.

‘Yes, thanks, and so have you, I see,’ Will responded, glancing over at the tray which stood on a small side table. He frowned. ‘Coffee and a roll. Is that all you’ve eaten?’

‘I’m not very hungry.’ Edward glanced at the clock on the wall, and continued, ‘It’s only ten past nine, we’re early, I think. Fabrizio Dellarosa is not due here until ten-thirty.’

‘I know, but I was certain you would be up, and I thought we could go for a walk, take a breath of fresh air before his arrival. By the way, is Alfredo Oliveri also joining us?’

‘Dellarosa didn’t mention him in the letter I received last night. But I’m presuming he is. After all, he’s the one who lives in Carrara, and will therefore have the most information. At least, in my opinion he will.’

Will nodded in agreement, sat down on a chair and folded his overcoat across his knees. ‘Have you ever met him? Or is he a stranger, too?’

‘He’s a stranger, just as Dellarosa is, but my father always spoke so highly of Oliveri. He obviously liked the man and I think the feeling was mutual.’ Edward buttoned his three-quarter length jacket, put on his overcoat and said, ‘Shall we go, Will?’

‘Perhaps we ought to let Neville know we’re going out,’ Will ventured as they left the room.

‘It’s not necessary. The arrangement was for us to meet in the main lounge at the given hour. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’ Edward’s voice was clipped, almost curt.

‘That presents no problem to me,’ Will answered, stealing a glance at Edward. He knew he was suffering inside, filled with apprehension about what lay ahead in the next few hours. As big and strapping as he was, Will knew, nevertheless, that Ned was a sensitive and compassionate man inside. Just contemplating the manner of their deaths must be an agony for him; this aside, Ned was devoted to his family. They came first with him, and he had been particularly close to his brother Edmund, and his father and he had been closely bonded.

The two men were silent as they went down the wide staircase which led to the grand entrance foyer, and several opulent lounges. Marble abounded, and there were ceramic tubs holding potted palms placed here and there; on the walls hung a number of lovely paintings of Florence displayed in heavy gilded frames, and pieces of sculpture on plinths were placed along each side of the foyer.

Within a few seconds they found themselves standing outside the Bristol on the Via de’ Pescioni, near the Santa Maria Novella and directly opposite the Palazzo Strozzi. This was one of the most elegant districts in the city, where other important hotels were located as well as fine shops, art galleries and museums.

‘Here we are, in the greatest Renaissance city in the world, Ned,’ Will said, taking hold of his arm. ‘Let’s stroll along, go this way, and enjoy the sights for a short while.’

Edward nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Will, I know I’m being gloomy…’ He did not finish, merely shook his head, his expression suddenly sorrowful. His enthusiasm for life seemed to have fled.

‘Think about this,’ Will remarked, ignoring Ned’s comment about gloom of a moment ago. ‘Here we are in the city of Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio. Just think, Boccaccio wrote the Decameron here, and that book became the model for prose the world over, a model that’s been popular for hundreds and hundreds of years. And still is.’

Ned glanced at his friend. ‘Niccolo Machiavelli lived here and wrote The Prince in Florence, let us not forget about him. We can all learn quite a lot from Machiavelli, you know.’

Will laughed, catching the mischievous gleam in Ned’s eyes. ‘I know what you mean, still it is a wonder to be here in this city, you know.’ He looked at Ned and then all around him, and up at the sky, and said in a voice full of awe, ‘We are walking along streets where Leonardo Da Vinci walked and Michelangelo and Botticelli, some of the world’s greatest artists…it’s unbelievable really, Ned…how incredible that this city bred such talent, such genius.’

‘Poets, princes and politicians,’ Ned murmured. ‘And the Medicis. Their dynasty lasted for several centuries, something of a record, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Indeed I would.’

A silence fell between them, and as they walked Will wondered how to bring a little cheer to Ned, to make him feel better. Instantly he realized nothing could make him feel better at this moment. First he had to deal with the dead, bury his dead, and only then would he be able to move forward, see his way to the future. He needs to close this ghastly affair, Will thought, pick up the pieces and create a life of his own making. A new life.

TEN

Neville Watkins was a striking looking man. Tall, though not quite as tall as Ned, he was of slender build, without an ounce of extra fat on him, very strong and athletic. His face was sharply chiselled; he had an aquiline nose and a smooth, rather high brow. His wide-set eyes under curved black brows were a curious pale blue, almost turquoise in colour. Clear and transparent, they were alive with immense intelligence. His colouring was dark, he had black hair, like most of the Watkins clan, and on occasion he had a strong look of his aunt, Cecily Watkins Deravenel, his father’s sister.

This morning he sat at an antique writing table in the sitting room of his suite in the Hotel Bristol, making notes for himself, trying to put some of his thoughts on paper for the meeting with Fabrizio Dellarosa in a short while.

After a few moments he put his pencil down, satisfied he had covered the relevant points. He sat back in the chair, staring out into the room.

Neville’s motto, borrowed from his father, was this: Think with the head, not the heart. This he always did in business, and often in his private life, as well. Long ago his father had cautioned him to be ice cold at all times when he dealt in business. Without emotion, inscrutable, revealing nothing. ‘Never display weakness, never lose face. That is what your grandfather taught me,’ his father had explained when he had first entered the world of commerce. They were words he had never forgotten, and he had always lived by them to this very day.

I must train Ned to be like me, Neville now thought. Certainly his father taught him many things, but I’m not quite certain Richard knew how to teach Ned to be truly cold-hearted. After all, his uncle had been a warm and loving man who should have moved against his treacherous cousin Henry Grant years ago. Grumbling about inequities, and his rights, and what should have been his, and was, in fact, his, had accomplished nothing and made many enemies within Deravenels. Deadly enemies, if the truth be known.

Neville’s mind remained focused on Ned. His cousin had a superior intelligence, and he was not afraid of anything or anyone. He had enormous self-confidence and an unbelievable charisma, the likes of which Neville had rarely seen. And he could be utterly ruthless if he needed to be. Furthermore, Ned had always had a good head for business, most especially finance.

Convinced that Ned could very easily run the Deravenel Company with the right guidance, direction and help, Neville was ready, willing and able to do all of those things to ensure his success. Together they would rule that empire one day, there was no question in Neville’s mind about this. With his own training, knowledge and experience, and Ned’s natural abilities and charismatic presence, they could accomplish almost anything. With a little luck of course. Luck always had to be factored into the equation.

Folding the piece of paper on which he had made his notes, he slipped it in the pocket of his jacket and rose. Walking across the room in long strides, Neville stood in front of the window, gazing out at the leaden sky. The sun was beginning to filter through the oppressive greyness, and he decided it might turn out to be a better day after all. He loathed dismal weather, used to it though he was, and craved the sunlight, warmer climes. Just as Cousin Ned did, hence their sojourns in the south of France over the years.

Thoughts of Ned lingered…Neville held him dear, admired him. There was only one problem with Ned as far as he could see and that was his overwhelming addiction to women. Older women. And widows, at that. Blonde widows. As long as he remained single there was no problem about his penchant for romantic and sexual dalliances, but when Ned married, which he would one day, he would have to curb his lustful behaviour, or at least be much more discreet than he usually was. Although Ned was not aware of it, Neville knew all about his current alliance with Lily Overton, not that this mattered since they were both single. Still, there were some who thought it inappropriate.

Ah well, he’s just a man after all, like all of us, poor creatures that we are, Neville thought with a small wry smile.

The three Englishmen were dressed almost exactly alike. They each wore black suits with the three-quarter length jacket that was currently so fashionable. Their white shirts were impeccable, as were their black silk cravats. Basically they were dressed in mourning clothes, and they cut quite a swathe as they strode across the lobby of the Hotel Bristol, heading towards one of the lounges. Some of the other guests, walking through the lobby, eyed them with curiosity, and several of the women with open admiration. All three men were tall, good looking, obviously English and aristocrats, an appealing combination anywhere, at any time.

As they entered the lounge a waiter came forward, smiling and showing them to a large round table which Neville had reserved a short while before.

Once seated they ordered coffee and when the waiter departed, Neville turned to Edward and said, ‘As I did when we went to Deravenels, I am going to let you take the lead in this matter, Ned. After all, Dellarosa is an employee of the company, and at this moment answerable to you.’

‘Your father was killed in the fire as well,’ Edward murmured, frowning slightly. ‘You can say anything you want to him, ask him anything, as far as I’m concerned. We’re in this together.’

‘Yes, indeed we are,’ Neville shot back. ‘But do take the lead, Ned, please. It will give me a chance to weigh him up, get a handle on him, and you, Will, can give your attention to Alfredo Oliveri, if you would. I think we should attempt to assess these two men, decide whether they will be allies or adversaries in the future. After all, Deravenels have a lot of business interests in Italy, quite aside from the marble quarries.’

‘I understand,’ Will answered at once, nodding. ‘I have a feeling Oliveri will be a friend not a foe, from what Ned has said about him so far. Correct, Ned?’

‘Oh, yes, Father had enormous respect for him, there is no question about that, as I’ve already explained. But the strange thing is he wasn’t mentioned in Dellarosa’s letter to me, so I have an odd feeling he won’t be here this morning.’

‘Why do you make that assumption?’ Neville asked, his voice rising, eyeing his cousin in alarm.

‘I have a…gut instinct about it, to use a phrase of yours.’

At this moment the waiter returned with the tray of coffee cups and tall glasses of water, and served them. Again smiling and nodding, he backed away. Neville took a sip of the water. He approved of this Continental custom of always serving a glass of water with other beverages. It was most civilized, he thought.

‘Could this be Dellarosa?’ Ned muttered quietly a moment or two later, staring at the arched doorway of the lounge, where a well-dressed man stood glancing around. He was of medium height, slim, and blond like many Northern Italians. Ned hurried on, ‘He’s heading this way, so it is him, I’m certain.’

Edward rose, moved forward in the direction of the Italian, extending his hand. ‘Signor Dellarosa, I presume,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘I’m Edward Deravenel.’

‘Good morning, Signor Deravenel,’ Dellarosa responded. ‘Welcome to Firenze. I wish this occasion was not a sorrowing one. I am sorry for the loss of your family.’

‘It is sorrowful, yes,’ Edward replied. ‘But please, come and meet my cousin Neville Watkins, and our good friend Will Hasling.’

Neville and Will were already on their feet, and after shaking hands and exchanging greetings, the four men sat down together at the circular table.

Dellarosa turned to Neville and murmured, ‘I am so sorry, signor, for your loss also.’

‘Thank you.’ Neville inclined his head, his expression neutral, quite unreadable.

‘Would you care for some kind of refreshment? Coffee, tea?’ Edward asked.

‘Si, grazie, Signor Edward. I will partake of the coffee.’

Edward motioned to the hovering waiter, ordered the coffee and then focused all of his attention on Fabrizio Dellarosa. ‘What time are we going to view the bodies of our family members?’ he asked in a quiet, sombre tone.

Clearing his throat, Dellarosa said, ‘In about half an hour. They are at a hospital. Santa Maria Novella. It is nearby. We can walk.’

‘I understand. My cousin and I have been wondering why the bodies were brought to Florence?’

Again, Dellarosa cleared his throat. ‘Because it was necessary to have them embalmed.’

‘I see, and what you are saying is that there are no facilities to do this procedure in Carrara?’

‘Yes, Signor Edward, that is so.’

‘What did they die of?’ Ned asked, startling the Italian.

‘Excuse me?’ Dellarosa’s brow furrowed and he gave Edward a long stare, as if he were uncomprehending.

‘Our fathers and brothers were in a fire in the hotel.’ Edward’s look was intent, focused on Dellarosa. ‘So were they badly burned? Did they die of their burns? Or was it smoke inhalation that killed them? We have been told nothing about their deaths.’

‘Smoke inhalation, I believe, was the cause of death.’

‘And they were not burned at all?’ Edward asked, sounding puzzled, shaking his head.

‘No. There are no burns on their faces.’

‘But perhaps on their bodies? Is that what you’re implying?’

‘I’m not implying,’ Dellarosa shot back swiftly, raising a blond brow. ‘I was told they died of smoke inhalation.’

‘What information do you have about the fire, how did it start?’

‘I do not know, Signor Edward. I was not there.’

‘Does anyone else know? Perhaps Alfredo Oliveri?’ Ned probed.

‘He does not have the information…he knows no more than I do.’

‘I see. Tell me, Signor Dellarosa…’ Edward paused, leaned forward. ‘Why is Oliveri not here in Florence today? I thought he had been informed we were coming. By the London office. By Aubrey Masters.’

The Italian nodded, looking suddenly worried, and his voice faltered slightly when he replied, ‘I told Alfredo Oliveri it wasn’t necessary for him to come. I am here, and I run the Deravenel business interests in Italy. He knows nothing. Nothing more than I do.’

‘So what you are saying is that the cause of the fire is a genuine mystery. And also that our family members were not even burned in this fire. Very interesting. Very interesting indeed, Dellarosa.’

Fabrizio was silent, staring back at Edward, and asking himself why he suddenly felt both nervous and threatened by this young man, a veritable giant blessed with an extraordinary physique and overwhelming good looks, who had the coldest blue eyes he had ever seen. Steel, Dellarosa thought. This Deravenel is made of cold steel. And he was unexpectedly afraid. Edward Deravenel was not like his father, and he would be trouble, of that Fabrizio Dellarosa was convinced. He could not wait to escape, to return to his office and communicate with London.

Edward announced, ‘Well, it seems you have nothing more to say, Signor Dellarosa. So let us go. Please take us to the hospital, so that we can finally view the bodies. Oh, and incidentally, what arrangements have you made for the bodies to be taken back to England?’

Dellarosa coughed behind his hand, and then said quickly, in a hurried manner, ‘They will go by ship. I have booked passages for you, and Signor Watkins.’ He paused, glanced at Will and added, ‘I will book passage for you, Mr Hasling. If you wish to accompany your friends.’

‘I do,’ Will answered at once.

Neville exclaimed, ‘I don’t think so, Signor Dellarosa! What I mean is, I don’t think we shall be travelling by ship. Nor will the bodies of our fathers and brothers.’

Dellarosa gaped at him. ‘I am not understanding—’

‘Then let me explain,’ Neville cut in. ‘It is January. The weather is bad. A journey by sea could prove quite dangerous at this time of year. There are far too many storms, rough seas.’ He shook his head and gave Dellarosa an odd look. ‘I shall make the travel arrangements myself. We will take the bodies back to England by train. So much safer in the long run, wouldn’t you say?’

It was the registrar of the hospital, Roberto Del Renzio, who greeted them at the reception desk and led them down a long corridor to the morgue.

A tall, heavy-set man, he was dressed in a starched white shirt with a stiff wing collar, black tie, black jacket and pin-striped trousers. He had a sombre voice but his expression was bland, and it seemed to Edward that the man was lighthearted in spirit, the kind of person who was ready to laugh if the joke was a good one. But he did not laugh or joke or even say very much as he accompanied them to the far end of the hospital, which he explained, was the north wing.

The registrar paused when he came to a waiting room, and turning to Dellarosa, he said, in stilted English, ‘Perhaps you would please to be waiting in here.’ He swung his eyes to Edward, and asked, ‘Just the two of you will enter the morgue?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Edward answered and looked over at Will. ‘Would you like to come in with us?’

‘If that’s all right with you, yes, I would, Ned. I wish to pay my last respects to them all. Do you mind, Neville?’

‘So be it,’ Neville murmured, and followed the silent Ned and the registrar, with Will Hasling following immediately behind him.

Much to Edward’s surprise, the four dead men had already been brought into the morgue in their closed coffins. He had fully expected them to be in the long metal drawers which were banked around the room.

A moment later, a white-coated doctor joined them, and after being introduced, he proceeded to open the coffins.

Together Edward and Neville viewed the bodies of their fathers and brothers, staring down at their waxen faces. It was true, they had not been burnt. There wasn’t a mark on them. At least, not on their faces.

Although they did not know it, both men were thinking the same thing…that these were no longer their loved ones, not now that their souls had left them. All that remained were these frozen carcasses.

Edward touched his father’s shoulder and closed his eyes. Goodbye, he thought, goodbye. Then he moved on to look at his dearest brother, his lovely Edmund. But the Edmund he had known and loved was not here either. He touched his shoulder, said goodbye to the boy inside his head, and moved on sadly.

Neville followed suit, silently saying his farewells whilst knowing that what had made these four men so special, so unique, were their spirits…They were merely empty shells how, dead flesh. And Will, slowly moving behind them, felt cold inside and utterly bereft. For he, too, understood death now, and its total finality.

Within minutes it was all over.

They collected the relevant papers from the registrar, and took their leave of Dellarosa. They immediately left the hospital, huddled together, hurrying away with speed, heading across the piazza Santa Maria Novella to the hotel.

And Edward wondered why he had so dreaded this viewing of the bodies all day. He had felt nothing.

The letter arrived in the late afternoon. It was pushed under the door of Edward’s room. But when he went and opened the door there was no one there. He looked up and down the corridor only to discover it was empty.

Opening the envelope, he took the letter out. It was short, a note.

As he scanned the brief words he felt his stomach lurch, his mind racing. There was no salutation. Only a few lines, brief and to the point:

‘Nothing is the way it seems. Come to the place your father visited last. Tomorrow. Go to the building with a familiar name. I will be waiting.’

Edward knew immediately that the note was from Alfredo Oliveri. The place his father visited last was Carrara. And the building with the familiar name was Deravenels. Of course.

Folding the letter in half he put it in his pocket and left the room, walked down the corridor to Neville’s suite. And he knew deep within himself that tomorrow they would find out the truth at last.

ELEVEN

Carrara

From the moment Edward had arrived in Carrara with Neville and Will earlier that morning, he had wanted to turn around and leave. There was something about this town in Tuscany which truly depressed him.

He knew that, in part, this feeling sprang from the fact that his father and brother, uncle and cousin had died here only last week, and in tragic circumstances. And yet he genuinely disliked certain aspects of the place, found it cold, unwelcoming, and reeking of danger, and there was yet another element that troubled him. He felt oppressed by the range of mountains that encircled Carrara on three sides, and seemed to close it in like a prison.

Marble dominated here. Great slabs of it gleamed whitely high on the mountain sides of the Apuan Alps; its grey-white dust floated on the very air, settled on the buildings and the ground; on the people as well; it penetrated their clothing and hair. There was the constant sound of marble being chipped at, in studios, workshops and apartments along the streets, where artists and artisans were working on sculptures, frescoes, urns and other different kinds of artifacts. Carrara was busy in the town as well as up on the mountain ranges.

Edward fully understood that he must get himself through the meeting with Alfredo Oliveri and then hurry away as fast as he could. In his mind, Carrara would be forever associated with death and grief, and he never wanted to return here as long as he lived.

At this moment he was sitting in a chair in the offices of the Deravenel Company, studying Alfredo Oliveri, who was speaking to Neville, suggesting they should stay the night in Carrara, and adding that he would be happy to have them as guests in his home. ‘Far better than a hotel,’ he was murmuring.

They had arrived at the offices about twenty minutes ago, having travelled for some hours by hired carriage from Florence, an arrangement made by the head concierge of the Hotel Bristol. It had proved to be a comfortable ride.

Edward already knew that he trusted this man whom he was meeting for the very first time. He now realized why his father had liked him so much, had had such confidence in Oliveri. There was something about him, the expression on his face, his manner, his way of expressing himself that spoke to Edward of integrity, honesty and loyalty.

Alfredo Oliveri was not at all what he had expected. To begin with, he had the brightest of auburn hair, that intense red colour which was usually referred to as ‘carrot top’ in England. And secondly, he was very English. After they had introduced themselves, and entered Alfredo Oliveri’s private office, Neville had commented on Alfredo’s perfect command of English. It was then that the other man had explained that he was born of an English mother and an Italian father, that he had spent every summer in London with his maternal grandparents during his childhood. His mother had taken him there with her; later he had attended an English boarding school for four years, returning to Italy for the summers.

‘No wonder you sound like an Englishman,’ Neville remarked when Oliveri had finished explaining his heritage. ‘In fact, you are one, of course,’ he added, hoping he hadn’t sounded patronizing when he had meant to compliment.

‘Half and half,’ Alfredo had murmured and smiled faintly, obviously gratified, understanding it was a compliment. ‘My Englishness usually takes visitors from the London office by surprise. Although it never surprised Mr Richard.’ He looked pointedly at Edward when he added, ‘Such a good man, your father was. Too good, if the truth be known.’

‘You’re the one who knows everything about things here, Mr Oliveri,’ Edward ventured. ‘And the fact that we came at once after I received your note yesterday must tell you something—’

‘That you are suspicious,’ Alfredo cut in swiftly, his eyes on Edward.

‘Yes, we are. What did you mean when you wrote nothing is the way it seems?’

‘Exactly that.’ He gave Edward a keen look. ‘So many things appear to be quite straightforward. But when you look beneath the surface, well, that’s a different matter altogether. There’s very often something else at play. At least, that’s the way I’ve frequently found it.’

‘So we are right to be suspicious about their deaths?’ Neville asked quietly.

‘Indeed,’ Alfredo answered. ‘I would like to tell you about the night of the fire, tell you everything I personally know and what I subsequently found out later.’ He raised a brow quizzically.

‘Yes, please do,’ Edward encouraged, leaning forward, every part of him alert, expectant, and also somewhat afraid, wondering what awful things Alfredo was about to reveal to them.

‘It was Sunday night, just over a week ago. I had dined with your father and uncle, and the two young men, Mr Edmund and Mr Thomas. I left them at the small hotel, the pensione, at about eleven o’clock, and went home. As I learned later, the fire apparently broke out in the early hours of Monday morning, around one o’clock. It seemingly started in the right wing, spread to the foyer, and then to the left wing, where your family were staying. It was a sudden fire, and because of the wind that night it kept spreading and, in fact, it became a real conflagration at one point. And—’

‘But they weren’t burned,’ Neville interrupted peremptorily. ‘We’ve seen the bodies, and their faces were not scarred. If it was an inferno, as you suggest, how can that be?’

‘The wind suddenly dropped, and it also began to rain. Very heavily. And, anyway, almost immediately the alarm was raised and many of the townsfolk came out with buckets of water, helping to douse the fire.’

‘So what you’re saying is that the fire was put out quickly, but that our family members died of smoke inhalation at the beginning, when the fire was at its height?’ Edward asked.

‘That’s exactly what the death certificates say,’ Neville pointed out to Alfredo. ‘Death from smoke inhalation.’

‘There was no smoke inhalation,’ Alfredo began, and nervously cleared his throat several times. ‘They did not die as a result of the fire. They died from their injuries of earlier.’

‘Injuries?’ Edward sat up straighter, once again fixing his vivid blue eyes on Alfredo.

Neville and Will were also on the edge of their chairs, staring intently at the manager of Deravenels in Carrara, aghast at what they were hearing from him.

Alfredo steadied himself, and said in a low tone, ‘Your father, uncle and cousin sustained head injuries, Mr Edward,’ and then he looked across at Neville, and continued, ‘All three men died instantly. Dr Buttafiglio told me—’

‘Someone attacked them? Killed them? Are we understanding you correctly?’ Edward cut in, his voice rising.

‘You are…I’m so sorry to give you this dreadful news, and you, too, Mr Watkins. Very, very sorry.’

‘And so the fire was started to conceal the crime? Is that what you’re suggesting?’ Neville asked, his expression grim, his voice hard.

‘Yes, I am. That is the doctor’s theory, and I concur with him. The men of your family were killed, and the fire was set in order to burn their bodies to a crisp, so that nobody would know that murder had been committed. But whoever did this had not bargained for the rain. It was a deluge. It stopped the fire.’

‘You mentioned my father, uncle and cousin, but not my brother,’ Edward exclaimed, staring at Alfredo. ‘What of Edmund?’

Alfredo Oliveri had been dreading this question and for a split second he could not speak. He lost his courage; but he knew that he would have to tell Mr Edward later, if not now, and so he took a deep, steadying breath and said, ‘It appears that after I left Mr Richard and the others at the hotel, Mr Edmund went out again. No one knows where he went, and by that I mean the police, who made inquiries later, to no avail. They found out nothing. Anyway, as he was returning to the hotel, probably just before the fire was started, Mr Edmund was waylaid in one of the side streets and attacked. He—’

‘By whom? Who would attack my young brother?’ Edward demanded in a loud voice, his face growing flushed and angry.

‘I don’t know. No one knows, no one here understands it at all. Everyone is baffled, believe me they are.’

‘And no one saw it happening?’ Neville asked sceptically, in that same sharp voice, a voice like a whiplash.

‘Not the actual attack, no. But Benito Magnanni, the owner of the Colisseum Restaurant, was on his way home after closing up, and he saw two men bending over a body. It just so happens there was a street light on in the alley where they were standing, and he began to run down the alley, shouting at them. They immediately fled. They were English, though.’

‘How do you know that?’ Will asked quickly, staring hard at Alfredo. He was aware Edward and Neville were too distressed to speak at this moment, and so took charge.

‘Because Benito told the police they looked English, and that he heard one of the men say something about London, and the man made a remark like let’s ski diddle. This phrase didn’t make sense to either Benito or the police. But it did to me. I believe that what the man was saying actually was let’s skedaddle back to London, something like that.’

‘How did they kill him?’ Edward asked in a voice so inaudible they could barely hear him.

Alfredo hesitated, wondering if he should lie in order to save Edward Deravenel’s feelings. But he knew he could not; he must speak the truth. He owed it to Edward and to his father. ‘He died very quickly,’ Alfredo replied at last. ‘Doctor Buttafiglio told me it must have been an instant death.’

‘But how?’ Edward pressed.

‘They cut his throat,’ Alfredo answered in a shaky voice, one as quiet as Edward’s had been.

There was a moment of utter stillness in the room.

Stunned shock filled the air, was a palpable thing almost.

Rigid in the chair, his face draining of all colour, Edward cried out, ‘No! Not my lovely Edmund. To die like that. Such a brutal way. Oh, no. No, it can’t be. Who would commit such a foul crime? He was only seventeen, for God’s sake, an innocent boy—’

Edward broke off, his face crumpling, tears glistening in those bright blue eyes. He brought his hands to his face, and he grieved a second time for his beloved brother.

At once Neville was on his feet, going to Edward. He bent over him, encircled him with his arms. After a moment, Edward struggled to his feet, turned to Neville and clung to him as though his life depended on it. For a while the cousins stood together in tight embrace. They were united more than ever in their mutual grief, shocked and horrified that Edmund had been killed in this heartless, brutish manner. And they shared their sorrow for their other kin who had been so cruelly slain.

Eventually the two men broke their embrace, and went back to their chairs. It was Neville who spoke first. Looking across at Alfredo, he said, ‘Let me ask you something…do you personally believe that Mr Edmund was killed because he was a Deravenel? That it was not just an odd coincidence that he was attacked that night?’

‘I don’t think the attack on Mr Edmund was a coincidence. Not at all. He was killed because he was a Deravenel and Mr Richard’s son. They did not find him at the hotel when they killed the others, so they went looking for him, in my opinion.’ Alfredo shook his head vehemently. ‘Nothing will convince me otherwise. They went out searching for him.’

‘Do you think Mr Edward is in danger?’

‘Yes, I do. Perhaps not here in Carrara, not now. The murderers have fled back to London. But I do think he’s in danger. Because he’s Mr Richard’s son. In my opinion, Mr Watkins, your Uncle Richard was killed because he was the true heir to Deravenels. Everyone knows it in the company…Deravenels was stolen sixty years ago by the Lancashire Deravenels. Some of the directors are happy with the status quo, but not everyone. There are those who have always believed Mr Richard should have been sitting in the chairman’s seat. Quite a few of us, actually. Henry Grant is ineffectual, always has been in my opinion. He’s been riding on the coat-tails of the two other Grants who went before him. His grandfather, who stole the company, and his father, who made it greater. But it’s slipping. Things are not good, take my word for it. He’s an absentee landlord, just as Mr Richard always said he was. He has no head for business or finance, and he’s dominated by his French wife and her followers. Margot Grant has quite a few supporters, you know, who do her bidding.’

‘I did know. My uncle confided in my father.’ A deep sigh rippled through Neville, and he shook his head, sorrow shadowing his light blue eyes. ‘My father and brother died because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time…’ His saddened voice filtered away, and he pursed his lips. ‘God rest their souls in Heaven.’

‘And so Deravenels, the company started by my ancestor, Guy de Ravenel, is actually being run by a young woman who is not even a Deravenel by birth. That has to make you shudder, Neville,’ Edward remarked in a voice dripping ice.

‘Actually it makes me laugh, if a little hollowly,’ Neville retorted. ‘That woman is a joke, she doesn’t know what she’s doing. But of course she’s being used by James Cliff and John Summers. It is they who have the power there. Still, I do think she is dangerous, she has no conscience whatsoever, and it’s more than likely she’s behind the murders. Don’t you fret, Ned. We will have our revenge, as I said we would at Ravenscar. I will not permit a young and incompetent woman to get the better of you, be assured of that.’

TWELVE

Kent

‘Why aren’t you pursuing the matter with the police?’ Lily Overton cried, her face growing flushed, her eyes filling with sudden indignation. ‘I don’t understand, I really don’t, Ned.’

‘You should. I’ve already explained it several times!’ Edward shot back, striving to keep his temper in check. ‘But I’ll try to do so once again. This is not a matter for Scotland Yard. The crime was not committed here, under their jurisdiction. It occurred in Italy, in Carrara, to be precise, and the—’

‘I know that, Ned,’ she interrupted. ‘I was referring to the police in Carrara. Why aren’t they continuing their investigation? That is what I meant.’

Clenching his fists, taking a deep breath, Edward answered in as controlled a voice as he could manage, ‘Neville and I, and Will, spent hours and hours with the local police chief, attempting to get to the bottom of things. He was very cooperative. Certainly he had done a very detailed investigation before we got there, and came up with nothing. All the police had, in fact, was the information given to them by a local restaurant owner, who told them he had seen two men attacking someone in an alley late at night. He immediately ran to the rescue, shouting at the attackers, who instantly fled. He was too late, of course. The young man, my brother, was dead when he got to him. Benito Magnanni, the restaurant owner, also reported hearing the two men, the attackers, shouting at each other in English. And that is it…there is nothing more.’

Lily did not respond. She merely sat back on the sofa, staring across at him, shaking her head as if baffled, a nonplussed expression crossing her face.

Staring back at her, Edward realized she looked as if she were about to burst into tears. He unclenched his hands, relaxed his body, adopted a more casual stance in front of the fire roaring up the chimney. He knew she was not a stupid woman, quite the contrary, but she could be maddeningly dense about certain things at times, and this drove him to distraction.

Taking a deep breath, he adopted a lighter, softer tone when he murmured, ‘Alberto Oliveri truly went out of his way to probe every aspect of the murders with the police, and, of course, the cause of the fire, its point of origin, everything to do with it, in fact. But there’s not very much anyone can do when there are no murderers loitering on street corners, no arsonists hanging around, for that matter. The whole affair is clouded in mystery…’ He paused, sighed, added, ‘Without credible evidence the Carrara police are totally stalled.’ He shifted on his feet and another small sigh escaped him as he finished, ‘This is not the first case which will go unsolved, Lily, I can assure you of that.’

‘And so do I,’ Will Hasling said from the doorway, walking into the study of his sister’s house in Kent, where the three of them were spending the weekend with Vicky. He went on, ‘It’s also extremely frustrating, since we more or less know who is at the root of this ghastly crime, yet there’s nothing we can do—’

‘Why not?’ Lily cut in swiftly, sitting up straighter on the sofa, looking from Will to Ned, who remained standing in front of the fire.

‘Because we cannot retaliate in kind,’ Edward snapped after a moment, his annoyance with her rising to the surface. ‘We can’t go around killing people off, just because we think they are behind the deaths of my father and brother, Neville’s father and brother. Certainly Scotland Yard would be involved then …they’d be on our backs.’

Lily reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, blew her nose, patted her eyes. ‘It’s such an…agony,’ she muttered, crumpling her handkerchief between her long, supple fingers, playing with it nervously. ‘I don’t know how you can stand it, Ned.’

The room became absolutely still.

Suddenly, the fire spurted, crackled; fabric rustled like a faint whisper as Lily moved on the sofa; light rain began to patter against the window panes. Otherwise there was total silence. Neither man spoke. Lily herself swallowed the sentence on the tip of her tongue, afraid to utter a word, accepting she had just said the wrong thing.

Slowly, almost cautiously, Will walked across the room to the fireplace where his best friend stood rigid and unmoving. Will put a hand on his arm as if to steady Ned, then took a position next to him.

For his part, Edward Deravenel looked perturbed; a veil dropped over his face, obscuring his true feelings. He took a tight rein on himself, breathing deeply.

At last, after a long moment or two, Edward focused his entire attention on Lily Overton. He said, finally, in a cold clipped voice, ‘How can I stand it, you ask? If the truth be known, I can’t. But I have to. I have no choice. Now, let us bring this discussion to a close, shall we? There is no real point to it. We are helpless, as far as prosecuting those whom we believe are responsible. Neville and I have buried our loved ones…they are at peace now. There is nothing to say—’ He broke off, leaned forward, staring at her intently, his face resembling a mask of stone. ‘The matter is now at an end.’

No, it’s not, it’s just starting, Will Hasling thought. It won’t end until Ned and Neville Watkins have destroyed the Grants. Each and every one of them. That is irrevocable.

And as these thoughts swirled in his head, Will felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck and a cold chill swept over him.

Vicky Forth’s second husband Stephen, a well-known banker of some standing, had gone to New York on a business trip, and she had talked her brother into spending a weekend in the country with her.

Will, in turn, had coaxed Ned into joining him. Because Vicky and Lily were close friends, she had been invited to come along as well.

Edward had been delighted to accompany Will, whom he always enjoyed being with, and the fact that Lily was so obviously welcome was an added bonus.

Stonehurst Farm, located not far from Aldington in Kent, was close to Romney Marsh, and long ago it had ceased to be a working farm. Centuries old, dating back to the 1600s, it had undergone a bold transformation in recent years. Now it resembled a manor house, was, in fact, a gentleman’s farm, a country residence. Nothing was grown anymore, except for the vegetables in Vicky’s kitchen garden, and there were no livestock, although Vicky did keep a stable of fine horses for riding and hunting.

Although Stonehurst was large and rambling, with several new additions, it boasted a great deal of cosy welcoming warmth. This was due in no small measure to Vicky’s perfect taste, and her talent and skill as a decorator.

Comfort abounded everywhere, was evident in the blazing fires, large overstuffed sofas and chairs, thick rugs on the wooden and stone floors, and the velvet draperies at the many windows which kept out the winter chill in the evenings.

Edward had stayed here before, and he had always been given the same room, one which he particularly liked because it looked out towards Romney Marsh and the sea beyond.

Conveniently, and obviously intentionally, Lily’s room was located immediately opposite his, just two or three steps across the corridor. They had, so far, enjoyed two nights of passionate lovemaking and had both revelled in the fact that they could share the same bed all night, waking to savour each other in the early morning.

Lily had always managed to soothe him, to lift him out of himself, to chase away the demons that frequently dogged him. But this weekend had been somewhat different, much to his surprise and dismay. Somehow she had done exactly the opposite, upset him on several occasions with her unfortunate desire to bring up the terrible crime which had so afflicted him and his family. He found this hard to comprehend, and she was beginning to get on his nerves, to irritate him. It had never happened before in the relationship.

Now as he sat in front of the fire in his bedroom he asked himself why this rather clever and usually understanding woman was being so insensible to his feelings. What prompted her to constantly mention certain aspects of this tragedy? It was like gouging at a wound on his body, a very deep wound. Why wouldn’t she let it heal? He had been shocked a short while before, and had come up here in order to calm down, to settle himself. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back of the chair, let himself slide down into his innermost thoughts.

I must remain cool and controlled, in charge of myself. I cannot let Lily agitate me, or distract me away from my purpose. Neville has warned me several times now about allowing women to interfere too much in my life. He told me I must use them, enjoy them, but keep them at arm’s length emotionally. Easier said than done, I told him last week, and he agreed with me. But he also reminded me that he and I are about to set out on a very important mission. A campaign to bring down the House of Grant, bring it to its knees. We must win, Neville informed me, and of course we will. I have more to gain than Neville, because once the Grants are gone Deravenels will be mine, and I will have avenged my father. Not only avenged his murder but the usurpation of Deravenels sixty years ago, which left him to inherit an inferior position within the company. Yes, we will do it, and we will do it fast. I promised my mother that, after the funerals at Ravenscar and at Ripon. In fact, I made a vow to her, and I know this pleased her. I am the head of the Deravenel family now, and I have to protect and look after my mother and my siblings, see to their welfare and their comfort, and to the future. It will be done. I can do it, Neville assured me of that. Of course my mother is safe, because she has her inheritance which Neville will now manage, but I must take from the company all that which is my due. I must find out why my father was always so impoverished, and rectify that situation as soon as I can. And I must find myself a house, a proper place to live. My mother owns the house in Charles Street, and although she offered it to me I cannot take it from her. That would be most unfair since it is actually hers by inheritance from her father.

My mother is self-contained, but then that is her nature, and knowing her as well as I do, I understand that her grief for my father and Edmund is very raw. It will take a long time to heal, if it ever does. But she is stoic and she will go on doggedly, and unbowed, taking care of Richard and George, and my sister Meg, raising them as my father would want them to be raised.

Before I left Ravenscar I informed my mother about the black notebook, which Alfredo Oliveri had mentioned to me in Carrara. A notebook constantly used by my father, who made daily jottings in it. She and I searched for it, but had no success whatsoever. She will continue to look for it, as I did in his rooms at Charles Street before coming down here to Kent. No luck so far.

Oliveri will be most useful to us, and he has promised to help in any way he can. He is an undoubted ally. I am lucky to have him on my side. He says we can win. I believe him.

Will had been coming to Stonehurst ever since his sister had bought the place twelve years ago. She had purchased the property not long after the death of her first husband Miles Tomlinson, wishing to leave the hustle and bustle of London for the tranquillity of the Kentish countryside. She had also turned the restoration of the old farmhouse and its decoration into a project to help keep grief at bay.

To some extent she had succeeded in this effort, and Will had been her willing helper over the years. He had grown to care for Stonehurst as much as she did, in winter as well as summer. The old farmhouse was surrounded by a hundred and fifty acres of wonderful land—there were fields and pastures, as well as a pond and a bluebell wood, and beyond the vast flower gardens was the Romney Marsh.

To Will, the Marsh was mysterious, a magical kind of place with its wild, blowing grasses and winding paths, its perpetual mists which rose at dusk and floated over the landscape, obscuring everything. And at this particular twilight hour the salty smell of the sea was carried in on the light breeze, reminding everyone how close the English Channel was.

In olden days the locals had latched their windows at this time of day, believing that the mists caused the ague; others had fastened their shutters tight because they were certain ghosts were at large on the Marsh.

Vicky generally laughed at these old wives’ tales which were still told to whomever would listen, and when it came to the mention of ghosts she usually muttered under her breath to Will, ‘More like the local smugglers winding their way inland from the sea, hauling their tobacco, their wines and brandy from France.’ He agreed with her, fully believed the smugglers still plied their dubious trade here.

This afternoon, as he strode along the flagged path which led from the back terrace to the gardens, he could not help thinking how beautiful the landscape was even on this cold February Saturday. It was growing late, was almost dusk already, and the grey sky of early afternoon had changed, darkened, and was filled with rafts of fiery red and purple along the horizon. Or was that the sea? Some of the low-lying Marsh beyond the gardens was well below sea level, and frequently it seemed to him that the sea in the distance was high in the sky. A most curious illusion.

‘Will, Will! Wait for me!’

He swung around at the sound of Ned’s voice, and stood waiting as his friend hurried down the path at a fast pace.

‘Why didn’t you ask me to come for a walk with you?’ Ned demanded, peering at Will. ‘Or did you feel like being alone? Am I intruding?’

Linking his arm through Ned’s, Will shook his head, drew closer to his friend as they walked on together. ‘I thought I’d better leave you to your own devices after lunch. You seemed so upset this morning, and were rather silent at lunchtime.’

‘I was, and with good reason, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, I do. Anyway, I knew you were up in your room alone, since Lily and Vicky took the horse and trap into the village after you disappeared. I just saw them coming back and so I ducked out here.’

‘For a man who doesn’t like rural life, who protests so much about country living, and who prefers the gaiety, bright lights and razzle dazzle of London, you certainly seem rather attached to Stonehurst,’ Ned remarked, sneaking a surreptitious glance at Will as they headed down the path together.

‘I have grown attached to it, actually, perhaps because I helped Vicky bludgeon it into shape, and because we shared something rather special, a unique relationship during that time, just after Miles died. I was fourteen or fifteen, thereabouts, and we worked well together and we bonded. She has always reminded me that I helped her to combat her grief. But to be honest, Ned, I wouldn’t want to live in the country permanently. I like to visit Vicky because we’re so close. I’m also fascinated by the Marsh. There’s something curious about that land out there that spells mystery to me.’

Ned laughed. ‘Ah yes, I do understand. It appeals to the young adventurous lad that still exists inside you…stories of smugglers, and baccy and brandy-running, and God knows what else. But I understand what you mean, and I also appreciate that the Romney Marsh has a genuine history to it.’ Peering ahead as they came to the edge of the lawns, Ned added, ‘And there’s romance there, too…a fair wind for France tonight, and all that, eh?’

Will had the good grace to smile, knowing full well that Ned was teasing him. ‘Well, perhaps you’re right, perhaps that’s so, the romance of it,’ he agreed. Then he changed the subject. In a concerned voice he said, ‘You are all right now, Ned, aren’t you?’

‘I suppose I am. However, I must admit I thought Lily was being as thick as a plank earlier today. And like you, Will, I have always considered her to be, well, rather smart, a clever woman.’

‘I agree, I mean about her being somewhat dense this morning. On the other hand, I believe she’s intelligent, bright. She’s also thirty-two and an experienced woman of the world, wouldn’t you say? But you know, I remember now that Vicky once told me Lily thinks she’s an expert on the law, knows a lot about legalities, legal proceedings and such, because she was married to a solicitor for a number of years. Obviously she believes she’s got one up on all of us, that she is the expert.’

Ned said, in a soft but emphatic voice, ‘I’ve really tried to place my grief in its own place, deep within myself. It is there, and it always will be, but it’s buried now, deep in my heart. I have had to do this in order to go on, Will. I must concentrate on the present and the future. My past and those tragic deaths will always be with me. However, I cannot allow feelings of grief to dominate me. I must move forward, and I know you understand this, Will.’

‘I do, and yes, I think that Lily did probe too much. But she wasn’t trying to hurt you intentionally, she was just being…assertive and she probably thought she was showing concern.’ He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘After all, she’s a woman, and who on earth can understand those adorable but tantalizing creatures, understand what they do and say? Not I, for one.’

Edward was silent. The two men walked on, content to be in each other’s company. They were, in a sense, like brothers, and their bond of friendship was true and strong. It would last a lifetime, though neither of them knew that.

When they had left the lawns behind and were standing close to the seafront, Will suddenly murmured, ‘Fair wind for France indeed, Ned. Just look over there, the lights of the French coastline are shining very brightly, are so visible. What a marvellously clear bright night it is.’

‘With no mist off the Marsh,’ Ned responded. ‘And soon there’ll be a full moon, mark my words. Not a good night for our smugglers.’

‘You’re right. But listen, did you know that the Romney Marsh is as famous for its smugglers as the Cornish coast?’

‘I did.’ Now turning slightly to the right, Ned continued, ‘Let’s go and sit on that wall for a moment or two. I need to talk to you about something.’

Will nodded his assent. Bundling their scarves and coats around themselves, the two men sat down, staring out towards the encroaching sea. All of a sudden it had grown truly dark; the stars glittered, and far off, in the distance, the Dungeness lighthouse flashed, its wide beams bouncing off the water onto the land and back onto the water.

Knowing that Edward Deravenel would speak in his own time, and only when he was ready, Will waited, wondering what this was about.

At last Ned said, ‘What of Oxford, Will? You haven’t gone back there to continue your studies. You’re long overdue.’

‘Oh, but I’m not going back.’

‘Not ever?’ Ned’s surprise was evident in his tone of voice.

‘That’s correct. I went up to Oxford, saw everyone, bade my farewells, after I had explained my reasons for not finishing my education.’

‘And your father? Isn’t he angry?’ Ned probed curiously.

‘He was, but only momentarily. You know, the old man gave up on me a long time ago, and I suppose he knew it was futile to argue with me because my mind was made up.’

‘Did you go to Leicestershire to see him?’

Will shook his head. ‘It just so happened my father was in town on business last week, and we dined at his club. He was annoyed at first, and it was a bit of a sticky wicket for me, but in the end he came around to my way of thinking. He agreed I could lead my life as I wanted, and he actually wished me well. He was a brick really, Ned, since he hasn’t withdrawn my monthly allowance.’

‘That was generous of him,’ Ned murmured. Frowning, he then asked, ‘But, Will, what are your plans? Do you still wish to join a firm in the City?’

‘No, I don’t…’ Will’s voice trailed off, and he sat quietly for a moment or two, then continued, ‘I would like to work alongside you, Ned, if that would be at all possible.’

Startled, Edward turned to stare at his friend. ‘At Deravenels? Is that what you mean?’

Will nodded.

‘I don’t have a job myself, not yet at any rate. So I can’t very well give you one, old chap.’

‘The day will come when you can. I’m prepared to wait,’ Will responded. ‘If I know you and Neville Watkins as well as I think I do, I won’t have to wait very long.’

‘You sound positive about our success,’ Ned muttered.

‘I don’t doubt it for one moment.’

Ned now said, ‘I have to present myself there next week, and, frankly, I quite dread it. I know the top brass will simply greet me, give me an office and let me rot, doing nothing, twiddling my thumbs. That’s their modus operandi. But I have other ideas, and, for one thing, I’m certainly going to demand my father’s office. I’m not going to let them stick me in a poky little room in the back.’

‘That’s the spirit!’ Will exclaimed. ‘You must have your father’s old office. Start the way you mean to go on, that’s my advice.’

‘I most certainly will do that.’

‘Is it agreed then?’ Will asked. ‘About me working with you?’

‘If you wish to work at Deravenels it would certainly please me, but I can’t tell you exactly when that would be.’

‘As I said, I’ll wait.’

‘Why?’ Ned asked a short while later, as they started walking up the path, going back to the farmhouse. ‘Why are you so keen on Deravenels?’

‘Because I believe I can be of use to you, and because I want to be with you, Ned, working with you. Now, to change the subject, what are you going to do about Lily?’

‘Why nothing,’ Ned answered swiftly, pausing, turning to Will, staring at him in the moonlight. ‘I’m going to walk back into the farmhouse and be as cordial and nice as I possibly can be. After all, there’s no point in flogging a dead horse, is there? Anyway, knowing Vicky, she probably put Lily straight, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I would indeed,’ Will answered, pleased that Ned had decided to be his old charming self. His charm had somehow disappeared of late. Perhaps things would become normal again. He felt a ripple of worry then, wondering why he would think things were going to be normal. They weren’t. Not at all. Their world was about to go mad.

THIRTEEN

London

Neville Watkins was about to meet three men, each one of them very different. As he walked back and forth along the back portico of his Chelsea house he thought about them. He was well aware that each would bring something unique to the meeting; what they said, and what was ultimately agreed upon, would change many lives, some for the worse, others for the better.

As Neville turned and headed back along the paving stones a door suddenly flew open and a child stepped out. It was his small daughter Anne, and as soon as she saw him she ran towards him, her little feet flying down the walkway. She was waving and crying out, ‘Papa! Papa! Here I am!’

Laughing, he hurried forward, caught her in his arms and swung her up, held her close to his chest. ‘Hello, my little sweetheart,’ he said against her glossy light brown hair. ‘You should be wearing a coat, you know, my pet. You’ll catch a chill in this cold weather.’

‘But the sun is shining, Papa,’ she answered, staring into his eyes.

‘It’s still February, Anne.’

‘The flowers are coming out,’ she countered, pointing to the snowdrops and purple and yellow crocuses peeping up out of the dark earth of the borders set around the lawn. ‘Spring flowers Mama says.’

‘They are indeed. However, we must go inside, where it’s warmer. And you and I, well, we shall see each other later.’

‘Mama says Ned is coming. Will he bring Richard with him?’

‘I don’t think so, sweetheart, not this morning. We are having a business meeting.’

‘Today is Saturday, Papa,’ she said, sounding reproachful.

He grinned at her. ‘I know,’ he answered, and suddenly recognized the disappointment in her eyes. Her face had changed, become sad, he thought.

‘You like your cousin, don’t you?’

She nodded.

By this time Neville had reached the door, and putting her down he ushered her into the house, stepped inside after her. Before they had even moved across the central gallery he heard his wife’s footsteps on the polished wood floor. He always recognized them: only she in the household walked with such determination. Slap, slap, slap, her feet went, coming down hard on the wood, and a moment later she was entering the gallery. ‘Ah, there you are my little one,’ Anne Watkins exclaimed when she spotted her namesake. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’

‘She came out in search of me,’ Neville remarked, walking across the gallery to his wife, putting his hand on her shoulder affectionately. ‘She was really looking for young Dick, though, I do believe.’ He smiled at her, his eyes full of love. ‘You know how attached she is to him, Nan, she’s his shadow whenever he’s staying at Thorpe Manor with us.’

Anne Watkins, known as Nan all of her life, nodded and reached out, took hold of her daughter’s hand. ‘She’s been attached to him since she took her first steps, and stumbled into his arms…arms that were certainly on the ready to catch her.’

Neville was silent for a moment, looking intently at his wife, his face suddenly growing thoughtful, his eyes narrowing. ‘A good thing it is Richard she has adopted, taken into her heart and not the other one. I never quite know about him…the middle one, that is.’

‘What do you mean?’ Nan asked. She looked slightly puzzled, as if she were unsure of his question, its meaning.

‘The breeding is there, but not the stamina.’

‘You sound as if you’re talking about horseflesh.’

Neville threw back his head and laughed uproariously, highly amused by his wife’s comment. But then she frequently amused him with her remarks, brought laughter to his eyes. Shaking his head, he said at last, ‘Touché, my dear.’

Nan glanced at him sideways, smiling, flirting with him, and then, looking down at her youngest daughter, she murmured, ‘Come along, Anne, it’s back to the nursery for you. Miss Deidre is waiting to give you and Isabel a painting lesson.’

‘I am here,’ a small voice said, and another pretty child came dancing into the gallery, her fair hair gleaming in the sunlight filtering in through the many leaded windows. She moved towards her father, pirouetting, showing off her skills as a budding dancer. ‘Good morning, Papa,’ she said as she finally came to a standstill.

Bending down, Neville kissed her cheek, hugged her to him, then, holding her away, he gave her a warm smile and told her, ‘Aren’t you the graceful one, Isabel. I am very impressed with your talent.’

She smiled and bobbed her head prettily, and asked, ‘Is Georgie coming with Ned, Papa? Mama told me Ned would be here for lunch today.’

‘That’s true, darling, Ned is coming to have lunch with me. However, it is actually about business. And no, Georgie isn’t going to be here, and neither is Dick. You’ll have to see your little gentlemen friends another day.’

‘Oh.’ She pouted a little and shook her curls. ‘I thought we could play together…’ She let her voice trail off as she caught the warning look in her mother’s eye, saw the stern expression settling on Nan’s face.

Nan said, ‘I will talk to Aunt Cecily later, and perhaps we can arrange something. Perhaps—’

‘Cecily’s still in Yorkshire,’ Neville interrupted, shaking his head, pursing his lips. ‘She decided to stay at Ravenscar for a little longer before coming up to London.’ He gave a light shrug. ‘I do believe she’s trying to settle herself down, come to grips with…things.’

‘As is your mother also. I do understand, Neville, it’s only to be expected.’

‘Go along, my sweethearts,’ Neville told his girls. ‘Go up to the nursery for your painting lesson. I need to spend a few moments with your mother.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ they said dutifully and in unison, and ran out together, heading for the grand staircase at the end of the gallery.

Taking hold of her arm, Neville led his wife into the nearby library and closed the door behind them. Turning her to face him, he said in a low voice, his eyes full of concern, ‘I’m afraid Cecily and my mother aren’t doing too well at the moment. They are still in shock, I think. After all, the deaths were so unexpected and so sudden. There has to be a period of adjustment, and of grieving.’

Nan nodded her head vigorously, ‘Of course, of course, Neville. I don’t know why the girls are so focused on the two youngest Deravenels at the moment. I really have no clue at all.’

‘Well, Anne for one has always been like a little puppy trailing after Richard; as for Isabel, she’s seemed to gravitate to George. Although that doesn’t particularly please me. Still, there’s nothing strange, darling, they’ve known those boys all their lives, grown up together, and after the week we just spent in Yorkshire, and being with them so much at Ravenscar, I think they’re missing their little playmates. That’s quite understandable, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Standing on tiptoe she kissed his cheek, and led him out of the library. ‘I must go and spend a few minutes with them, my dear, show my interest in their painting lesson.’

‘I know, I know.’ He watched her walking off down the long gallery, thinking how beautiful she was in her rather refined and delicate way. She was the only woman he had ever loved; there had been others, but they had been merely sexual liaisons. His sweet Nan was the love of his life. They were extremely happy together, he and she, and the only thing that caused him the odd moment of regret at times was the lack of an heir. He longed for a son; Nan had had several miscarriages, and she had not yet conceived again. At least not so far. The sudden terrible yearning for a boy child surfaced for a split second, and then he pushed it away. He was a lucky man…he counted his blessings. And Nan and he were still young enough to have many more children…

Once Nan had disappeared up the staircase, Neville turned around and went outside again. He began to walk up and down along the portico, his thoughts now on business and the impending arrival of his three guests.

The first he expected was his cousin Edward Deravenel. He was very anxious to see him, to listen to what he had to say, and to report. Ned had been working at the Deravenel offices in the Strand for the past week. They had spoken briefly, and he had received several enigmatic notes from Edward, but nothing of real importance had been conveyed. This had been puzzling, and he was somewhat baffled. But he trusted Ned in all things, and especially trusted his judgement, and it was obvious to Neville that Edward was being discreet. Far better to talk in the privacy of his house than on the telephone, and he was well aware how easily notes could get lost, fall into the wrong hands, or be stolen.

Alfredo Oliveri would be the second to come to see him. Oliveri was in London, ostensibly on Deravenel business, but he had really come to see them…Ned and himself. Oliveri had made his loyalty and devotion to the Yorkshire Deravenels known when they were in Carrara, and to have him on their side was an immense bonus. He was well trusted in the company, and part of the old guard, having worked for them for over twenty years. Although he might not exactly be a member of the inner circle he certainly knew a lot, which could only be useful to them.

Neville had made a plan, and the secret to its success was information; he knew only too well that information was power. The more Oliveri was able to tell him about everyone and everything in the company the more he was likely to succeed.

His last guest for lunch was Amos Finnister. Amos. He turned the name over in his mind; he had known Amos for twelve years and employed him for ten. He was a private investigator and the best in that line of business, as far as Neville was concerned.

Amos Finnister ran his own firm, which had only one client—Neville Watkins. And it was Neville who actually owned the detective agency through several straw men. This arrangement worked well for both of them.

Now Neville smiled to himself as he continued to think about Amos. Taking the man under his wing all those years ago had been a brilliant piece of strategy on his part. Amos was diligent, logical and persistent, like a dog with a bone when it was necessary. Calm and cool, whatever the circumstances, or the pressure he was under, he was loyal, discreet, and on call night or day. He had a clever knack of picking men to work for him who had similar characteristics to himself.

One of the things Neville considered of unquestionable value were the contacts Amos had…in all walks of life. This was one of the main keys to being a successful private investigator.

Before he had left for Italy with Edward and Will Hasling, Neville had given Amos a list of names, for the most part people who worked at Deravenels and were known adherents of Henry Grant, and, therefore, more than likely to be enemies of Edward.

Now, since returning to London, he was more convinced than ever that his cousin needed genuine protection; he had been made truly aware of that by Alfredo Oliveri. But from whom exactly?

Who were the real wielders of power at Deravenels? Margot Grant, obviously, and John Summers. But Grant himself?

Maybe. Maybe not. He was a weak man, a trifle lazy, ready to pass on the burdens of business to his wife, who was keen to grab those so-called burdens as fast as she could. And naturally there were others who were against Edward, simply because he was the son of Richard Deravenel, the true heir to the company.

Amos would find out, if he hadn’t already; Neville could not wait to see him.

I have to triumph, Neville told himself, as he struck out towards the end of the garden. When he came to the ancient stone wall that fronted onto the River Thames he leaned against it, staring out into the distance. It was a slow moving river today, black as ink, and the sky above had suddenly changed. The pale blue had curdled, become a mix of grey and a strange bluish green.

It’s going to rain after all, he decided, lifting his eyes to the sky. And this thought had hardly surfaced when he felt the first drops of cold rain on his upturned face.

Swinging about, Neville hurried up through the garden and went into the house, crossed the central gallery, deposited his overcoat in the hall closet, all this accomplished in the space of a few minutes.

He made his way back to the library, a large and elegantly appointed room, his favourite in the lovely old house that dated back to the Regency period. He had always thought of the library as his haven, one which closed him off from the ugliness of the world outside.

A fire blazed in the hearth and the softly-shaded lamps had all been turned on during his absence in the garden, giving the room a welcoming, roseate glow. He realized he had grown slightly chilled outside, and he went and stood with his back to the fire, warming himself, thawing out.

His mind was alive with ideas and plans. He was going to put Ned in the seat of power, however long it took him. And he himself would be the one to wield the power.

FOURTEEN

Ravenscar

The North Sea glittered like highly-polished chain mail, rippling under the light breeze. Above, the sky was a cloudless arc of brilliant azure blue filled with golden sunlight. Sunlight without warmth on this cold wintry morning. Nonetheless, Cecily Deravenel had been lured outside by it, and wrapping herself warmly in heavy woollens and a fur-lined cape she had braved the cold.

At this moment she stood inside the old ruined stronghold on the promontory, somewhat protected by its high walls, staring out across the sea. Her thoughts were with Edward in London: a week ago he had presented himself at Deravenels, and his professional life had begun. She shivered, but not from the cold. How would they treat him? And how would he fare in the long run? She was well aware that Ned had dreaded going there. In the past week he had told her little, his two phone calls kept to the briefest of conversations. Yet Neville had reassured her, as best he could, that it would be all right. At least for the moment. No one would make any kind of move against Ned. Too soon, he had explained. Also, Alfredo Oliveri was there; ostensibly, he was on a business trip to the London headquarters from his base in Italy. But, more specifically, he was really there to keep an eye on Ned. Keep an eye on him. What a silly euphemism that was. Protection was what he would ultimately need. Her son was sitting in the middle of a nest of vipers.

Cecily shivered again and hunched into her warm clothes; her gloved hands fumbled with the ends of the scarf tied around her head. As she tightened it her mind raced.

Neville had been honest with her the other day; he had admitted that all of her sons were in danger. Still, he had also managed to convince her that her two youngest were quite safe here at Ravenscar. She trusted her nephew implicitly, knew how clever he was, highly intelligent and brilliant of mind. He was also loyal to family, just as Ned was, and as her father and brother had been…family was all to them. Rick, her only sibling, was gone forever, and Thomas, his youngest, was dead and buried with him. Now she must rely on Neville, and his brother John, both older than Ned. Dear Johnny. Her face softened at the thought of him. Less flamboyant, less ambitious than his brother, a loving young man, and wholly devoted to Ned.

We are a strong family unit, the Watkins and the Deravenel clans. We will stand together in this battle to come. We will prevail. These thoughts made her suddenly lift her head higher, and with great pride as she remembered who she was, her lineage, and whom she had married: Richard Deravenel, rightful heir to the Deravenel business empire. His widow now. She must do his memory justice. Unexpectedly her eyes blazed with a new determination.

She came to a sudden decision. She would not permit herself to be frightened by the likes of Henry Grant and his avaricious French wife, or by their subordinates. Never. She would stand up to them, stand tall, just as her father had taught her to do.

As for her overwhelming grief, caused by her devastating losses, she would bury it deep. Her grief was something private, not for public consumption. Nor for sharing with anyone, not even her children.

Her children. She must focus all of her attention on them now, protect them at all costs, ensure their safety. ‘Of course nobody’s going to come and murder them in their beds,’ Neville had reassured her with a laugh when he was in Yorkshire recently. ‘All I’m saying i s…well, just keep an eye on them.’ And that she would certainly do…she would protect them with her very life.

Turning around, chilled from the wind coming off the sea, Cecily went back to the house, climbing the steps intersecting the tiered gardens, entering the house through the French doors on the terrace.

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