Richard took his leave after greeting Will and hurried out, and Will sat down, murmured in a low voice, ‘Well, I suppose you already know about the scene in the lobby. Apparently a rather loud scene at that.’
Edward sighed deeply, thinking of George, who worried him no end. ‘Richard just came to tell us. I do think George is daft in the head … at least some of the time.’
‘Most of the time, if you ask me,’ Will raised his hand, beckoned the waiter. ‘Let’s have a glass of claret, shall we, chaps? It’s a cold day, and I for one need a drink.’
The other two men agreed with him, and Will glanced at the wine list, ordered, and then sat back and regarded Edward and Alfredo. Both were sitting opposite him on the banquette. Will’s face was serious, and when he spoke his voice was sombre, somehow seemed to hold a warning.
‘You are part of a dangerous triangle,’ Will said, directing his gaze at Edward. ‘Extremely dangerous indeed, and I’m not talking about women and your private life, Ned. I’m referring to your brothers and yourself.’
Taken aback by this unexpected comment, Edward simply stared at Will. After a moment, he said, ‘Continue, please.’
Lifting a finger, Will drew the shape of a triangle in the air. ‘You, Ned, are at the top of the triangle, at the very tip. Your two brothers are at each side, at the bottom. Let’s consider George first. He is envious, petulant, ambitious and treacherous by nature. You know that, we all do. He envies you, wants to be you, and he would stab you in the back to get what he wants. You know how easily Neville Watkins led him into his intrigues and acts of treachery against you. Let’s put you to one side, for the moment, and consider Richard. He and George were close when they were children, but Richard is your favourite, and therefore George is angry with you, and with Richard. And he envies him. He is also hostile towards him because Richard did, finally, marry Anne Watkins, the other Watkins co-heiress, along with George’s wife Isabel. George truly does begrudge Anne’s share of Neville Watkins’s fortune, and that’s the real reason he endeavoured to stop Richard’s marriage to her but you surely do know all this. Finally, Richard, for his part, is utterly devoted to you, loyal to you beyond reason, and he’s a hard worker, intelligent, clever, even formidable in certain ways, and all of these attributes anger George, too.’
‘In other words, I can’t win … George is dead set against me for many reasons, not the least of which is for … just being me?’
‘In that you are correct,’ Will agreed. ‘Good, here is the waiter with our glasses of claret.’
After toasting each other, it was Oliveri who looked at Edward and said quietly, ‘He’s tried your patience for years, and sometimes he goes too far. Mistakenly, I recently said we should send him travelling, but that is not a good idea. We need him where we can keep an eye on him.’
‘I agree,’ Will exclaimed. ‘No more trips for Master George.’
‘That’s right.’ Edward took a long swallow of the red wine, and went on, ‘I’ve little or no confidence in him now, not after his behaviour in Scotland. Thank God Ian MacDonald really wants to make this deal. If he didn’t, we’d be out, that’s a certainty.’ He gave his closest friend a long stare and asked, ‘So tell me, Will, what do I do? Should I say aloud those famous lines? “Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?” Is that it?’
Oliveri chuckled. ‘Better not.’
Will shook his head. ‘There is nothing you can do about George, Ned, honestly there isn’t. But I do suggest you watch your back, and I’ll watch it also and so will Oliveri and Amos.’
Edward smiled.
Will said a trifle vehemently, ‘No, don’t smile. Please don’t, Ned. I am very, very serious. George is a born intriguer and exceedingly treacherous. I’ve never trusted him. There’s many a murder that gets passed off as an accident, always remember that. Now, shall we order lunch?’
‘Do you honestly think George would commit fratricide?’ Edward asked, frowning, looking momentarily concerned, his eyes troubled. ‘Surely not, Will. I am, after all, his brother.’
‘That’s true,’ Will responded noncommittally. ‘I think I shall have the grilled plaice. What about the two of you?’
‘The same,’ Edward said.
‘I might as well have the fish too.’ Oliveri sat back, sipped his wine, and wondered how to murder George without getting caught.
Julian Stark, owner of Starks, the gambling club, looked startled when his secretary put her head around the door and said, ‘Mr George Deravenel is here, Mr Stark. He says he doesn’t have an appointment, but will you see him for a minute, or two?’
‘Send him in, Gladys,’ Stark answered at once, wondering what this was all about.
A moment or two later he found out. After greeting George Deravenel in a neutral voice, he asked, ‘And what can I do for you?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all, Stark. But I might be able to do you a favour.’
‘Oh, really. What kind of favour?’ Stark asked.
‘I’ll get straight to the point. I have a good tip, a good business tip. Not for you, actually, but for your brother, Alexander. I know he’s a financier in the City, that he has some big clients. I’d like to pass on some information about a deal that’s not yet actually on the market yet, so to speak. But it will be and very quickly.’
Puzzled, yet intrigued, Stark nodded. ‘What is the deal, Deravenel?’
‘The MacDonald Distillery Company is up for grabs.’ Reaching into his jacket pocket, George took out an envelope and handed it to Julian Stark, leaning across the latter’s desk to do so. ‘Everything is here – all the details.’
Staring at the envelope, Stark put it down on the desk and asked, ‘Why are you bringing this to me? After all, I banned you from my gambling club.’
‘Old school tie and all that … and you were always decent to me when I was a member, held my notes for the longest time.’
Leaning back in the chair, Julian Stark, a shrewd judge of character, instantly understood what this was all about. But he decided to play George along for the moment. ‘And what do you want in return for this so-called important information?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ George answered, and stood up. ‘The information came into my hands, and I thought I would pass it on to you. Do what you like with it.’ George walked across to the door, and turned around, his hand on the knob. ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.’
He left the office without another word.
Julian Stark stared at the door, shaking his head. What a treacherous bastard George Deravenel was. He was convinced this was a deal George’s brother Edward was working on, and now the disgruntled little brother was trying to scuttle it for some reason. Sighing, Stark opened the envelope, read the two sheets of paper, and then reached for the phone; he found the number he wanted in his address book, dialled it, and asked, ‘Is that you, Howard?’
‘Yes, it is, Julian. How can I help you?’ his old friend asked.
Stark told him about his encounter with George Deravenel, and added, ‘Do what you want with this information, but personally, in all good conscience, I think you ought to inform Will. Edward Deravenel should know about his brother’s treachery. I consider him to be a blackguard.’
‘It’s done,’ Howard Hasling answered, and hung up.
TWENTY-SIX
Jane Shaw stood at the French windows of the blue room in her house, looking out at the garden. It was vivid with spring flowers on this sunny March afternoon … purple, yellow and white crocuses, narcissi, pale and delicate, and a parade of bright yellow daffodils, rows of them, glorious, she thought. ‘Dancing and fluttering in the breeze,’ she said aloud as she turned away, smiling to herself. She had always loved that famous Wordsworth poem which had suddenly jumped into her mind.
Crossing the room, she went to the fire, lifted the poker and stirred the logs, then bent down, threw on several more. Although the bad winter weather had suddenly disappeared and spring was here, it was still quite co
ld outside today despite the sun, and there was a wind.
Glancing at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, she saw that it was almost three forty-five, later than she thought. Leaving the blue-and-yellow room, she crossed the hall and went looking for the housekeeper, and found Mrs Longden in the butler’s pantry going over some lists.
‘I hadn’t realized how late it was, Mrs Longden,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Mrs Forth and Mr Deravenel will be here shortly. I’m assuming everything is prepared.’
‘Oh yes, Madam, it is, of course. And do you wish Wells to serve tea immediately? Or should we wait a short while?’
‘We can wait for a few minutes, I think, let everyone settle –’ Jane broke off as the doorbell pealed, and Mrs Longden exclaimed, ‘I think we have an early arrival, Madam, I’d better go and answer the door.’ As she spoke she hurried off, and Jane followed more slowly, knowing that it was more than likely Vicky who was arriving, not Edward. He had told her on the phone earlier that he might be late this afternoon and not to wait for him to have their afternoon tea, and he would get there as soon as he could.
As the door opened Vicky Forth stepped inside, looking beautiful, the personification of elegance, as she usually did, smart in her dark purple wool coat trimmed with astrakhan and a purple felt cloche hat with a satin band trimmed with a small bunch of artificial violets at one side.
Jane glided across the floor and the two women greeted each other, embraced, and Vicky said, ‘The weather’s frightfully treacherous today, my dear. Quite cold, and the wind is biting.’
‘I could tell how windy it is outside from the trees blowing in the garden,’ Jane answered, as Vicky slipped out of her coat and gave it to the housekeeper to hang up. ‘But at least the snow has gone.’
The two women walked into the blue room, and Vicky murmured, ‘I came early, so we can have a few more minutes together. To discuss that party. The famously fantastic party we’re planning.’
Jane nodded, looked suddenly gloomy, as she led her friend over to the fireplace. ‘I think the whole thing might be rather a problem, to be honest. Sit here, darling, near the fire, it’s lovely and warm.’
‘I know what you’re going to say, Jane, it will be a problem because Elizabeth will more than likely find out.’
‘There’s no question in my mind about that. She will, because there’s so much awful gossip in this town. And she’ll make a fuss.’ Jane sat down opposite her friend, and continued, ‘You went to see Fenella today, didn’t you? How is she?’
‘She’s been very ill, but she’s much better, and yes, I popped in this morning. She sends you her love. She’s happy to be out of the hospital and back at home at the Curzon Street house, it’s much more comfortable, obviously. She’s going to be fine. Double pneumonia is perfectly dreadful, but she has the best doctors, and she’s a very strong woman basically.’
‘I know …’ Jane left her sentence unfinished, and sighed. ‘I suppose she knew about the things Elizabeth was saying about her before she became ill and went into hospital.’
‘Yes, she did, but you know what Fenella is like – she rises above that sort of nonsense, and just gets on with it, does her job, leads her life without paying too much attention to the rest of the world. By that, I mean people she isn’t close to, and quite rightly so.’
‘I understand, and yes she is rather clever to do that.’ Sitting back against the cushions, Jane added, ‘All right … so, what to do about the birthday celebration for Ned?’
‘I’d really love to have a party for him,’ Vicky exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘He’s going to be thirty-four, such a lovely age for a man – well, for anyone, actually – and you know he so enjoys being spoiled by his friends. What day of the week is the twenty-eighth of April, Jane? I’m afraid I forgot.’
‘It’s a Monday, and I’ve always thought that it would be difficult for him to attend our party on that date, because of his family, particularly the children, who do so adore him. If we do go ahead and give it, then it will have to be on another evening. Either before or after the twenty-eighth.’
‘Knowing Ned, he won’t care if the party is before or after his birthday,’ Vicky murmured, thinking out loud. ‘So for the moment the date doesn’t matter. The thing is what kind of party are we going to give? Where shall we have it? And who are we going to invite?’
‘Let’s think about the guests first, Vicky,’ Jane responded, trying to shake off her gloomy mood. She pushed on, said, ‘We’ll all be there, obviously. His lot, as he calls us, but who else? What other friends do we invite?’
Vicky pursed her lips. ‘You know that better than I do, surely, my dear.’
‘There are a few people he likes, whom we see sometimes but, to be honest, I’m not sure he would want to have the kind of large and fancy party we were originally planning. Nor would he want to have it in a public place, like the ballroom of the Ritz or the Savoy –’ Jane stopped, shook her head. ‘I think I have it. Ned loves his lot. Us. You and Stephen, Will and Kathleen, Amos, Grace Rose. What he would appreciate the most would be a small dinner at your house, or we can have it here. What do you think, Vicky?’
‘I believe you’re right. Also, it’s safer in the long run … why give her titbits to gossip about. She’s done enough damage –’
‘But you said Fenella didn’t care –’ Jane cried, cutting in peremptorily, ‘and only a moment ago, I might add.’
‘She doesn’t. However, I think Elizabeth’s tittle-tattle, silly as it is, just besmirches Edward’s name yet again. Why can’t she keep her mouth shut about him, he’s her husband –’ Vicky stopped abruptly, staring at Jane, looking apologetic.
‘I’m so sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to blurt that out.’
Jane laughed. ‘I know you didn’t mean any harm, and let’s face it, he is her husband.’
‘Don’t you ever get jealous, Jane?’ Vicky asked, suddenly curious, gazing across at her best friend. ‘You certainly never show it. You’re the perfect lady.’
‘There are moments when I do have a stab of it, naturally, but I know exactly what he genuinely feels for me. I’m aware I give him comfort, warmth, much love, and support, and he needs that from me. He doesn’t get that at home. And besides, I prefer things to remain the way they are.’
‘But why?’ Vicky couldn’t help asking, her eyes wide, questioning.
Leaning forward, pinning her eyes on Vicky, Jane explained, ‘If I wanted to, I could probably entice him into my arms permanently, induce him to leave her, even get a divorce. But he’s a family man at heart, loves his children, enjoys being with them, and inevitably he would begin to miss them, and he’d start to feel remorseful, guilty and that would upset me. Because he’d want to be running to see them, and there would be havoc, chaos everywhere, tears and recriminations, and quarrels. It would be far too complex to handle. This way, being his mistress, he comes to me willingly, needing me, desiring me, and he knows very well he can have me and his children. In a sense he does have the best of both worlds, and that’s all right with me. And before you say it, I know he sleeps with her, because the children keep arriving. He’s that kind of man, you know. He’d always have women whomever he was married to … anyway I do know he is faithful to me.’
Vicky smiled. ‘You remind me so much of Lily Overton, Jane. You are very much like her in many ways. Oh, let’s change the subject, here’s your butler with the tea.’
Vicky sat quietly on the sofa, listening to Jane and Edward chatting about a painting; they then moved on to more mundane subjects, spoke about his busy day at the office, her day, what they had each done. And planned to do later in the week.
She smiled to herself. They sounded like an old married couple, rather than mistress and lover. Their conversation echoed the kind of chit-chat she had with Stephen every night, when he came home from the bank.
It suddenly occurred to her that they were exactly that … except for a piece of paper declaring the legality of their union. Ned’s peace
, contentment and relaxation took place here in Jane’s house, where he lived a rather domesticated life with her. It certainly did not take place in Berkeley Square with Elizabeth.
She shuddered at the thought of his wife, a vile woman, a shallow woman, concerned only with her looks, her clothes, her jewellery and the vast amount of money required to buy her expensive baubles and fripperies. She wasn’t a particularly good mother, had neglected Bess and the other girls since they were born, was quite obviously only interested in the two boys, most especially Young Edward: because he was the heir to Deravenels and all that belonged to Ned.
Vicky dreaded to think what would happen when she told him the things Elizabeth had been saying about Fenella. Jane and she had agreed, before Ned had arrived, that she would be the one to tell him, since she had heard most of the gossip.
Dropping her eyes, Vicky stared at his shoes, polished to a gleaming finish. They looked like glass. Handmade. No doubt he had his own last at Lobb’s, the renowned shoe-maker. Her eyes took in the navy-blue suit. Impeccable cut. Savile Rowe perfect. The latest style. Shirt a crisp white Egyptian cotton. From Turnbull and Asser, more than likely. A bright blue silk cravat, tied in a fashionable knot, and the colour of his eyes.
A perfect specimen of elegant and handsome masculinity, she thought, and remembered how impressed she had been all those years ago, when her brother Will had introduced her to Ned. It wasn’t his gorgeous looks that had captivated her so much as his charm, good-natured affability, and, more than anything else, his absolute self-assurance. It was a self-assurance that was truly his, he had been born with it, had not acquired it like so many other people did. It was the self-assurance some mistook for arrogance. But he wasn’t an arrogant man, far from it.
Will had told her over the years that Edward had run Deravenels with a very sure hand from the beginning, even though he was only nineteen and not experienced in business. He had charmed those executives in the company who were inclined towards the Yorkshire Deravenels, and cleverly enlisted their help to learn about the business. They had followed Oliveri’s example, and taught him as much as they knew about their divisions. By the time he was twenty-one he knew everything there was to know about the company started by his ancestor, Guy de Ravenel, hundreds of years before. The executives who had clustered around him had force-fed him information like a goose being force-fed for foie gras.
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