Closing her eyes, Elizabeth put her arms on the desk and rested her head on them, her mind still racing, plans evolving in her fertile brain.
TWO
Cecil Williams sat at the Georgian partners desk in the spacious study, a room which had been occupied by Deravenel and Turner men for many centuries.
Elizabeth had insisted he use it when he had come up to Ravenscar several weeks ago, since she herself preferred the smaller office which opened off the dining room. He knew she had always loved Ravenscar, the beautiful old Elizabethan house on the cliffs at the edge of the North Yorkshire moors, and over the years she had been able to make it her own. Her sister Mary had loathed the house for some reason and had never spent any time here, preferring to be in London.
More fool her, Cecil thought, glancing around the beautiful room, admiring the fine, mellow antiques, the Moroccan-leather-bound books, and portraits of Deravenel men from long ago, and Turner men of more recent years. There was even a portrait of Guy de Ravenel, founder of the dynasty, the Normandy knight from Falaise who had come to England with William the Conqueror. It was he who started the trading company which had eventually become Deravenels, now one of the most famous global conglomerates and on a grand scale.
Dropping his eyes to the desk, Cecil concentrated on his notes about the events of the day so far, also jotting down the names of everyone he had spoken to since six o’clock that morning.
Elizabeth occasionally teased him about his perpetual note-taking, but it was his way of ensuring he remembered absolutely everything pertaining to business. He made his notes religiously every day, and he had done so since his school days. He had continued this practice as a student at Cambridge, then again when he was studying law, and later, when he began to work at Deravenels, first for Edward Selmere, then for John Dunley.
He had found it hard to break the habit; long ago he had decided he shouldn’t even try. It was useful, and very frequently it had given him the advantage in business. He always had his notebook and could quickly refresh his memory. Not many other people could do it quite so easily.
At thirty-eight Cecil was fully aware that he was now at the crossroads of his life, and that Elizabeth Turner was at the same point. Her sister’s death at an early age meant that she was in control of this vast business enterprise; he also knew she considered him her trusted right hand and expected him to guide and advise her.
He had left Deravenels five years ago, understanding that he would never be able to work easily with Mary Turner. They were poles apart, thought differently about everything, and, when she came into her inheritance and took the power, he quietly departed, went to live in the country. But for a number of years he had helped manage some of Elizabeth’s personal business affairs, and had continued to do so, along with her accountant, Thomas Parrell.
The sky’s the limit, he decided, his spirits lifting. We can pull it off; we can revive Deravenels, bring it back to what it was when her father reigned supreme. After Harry’s death things had grown a little shaky; that was everyone’s opinion, not only his.
Elizabeth’s brother Edward had inherited Deravenels, but he was only a schoolboy, and obviously could not run it. So his maternal uncle, Edward Selmere, had become administrator, following Harry’s instructions laid out in his will.
But Selmere had eventually blotted his copy book and was given the sack by the board, and John Dunley had taken over. He was another old hand at Deravenels, as his father Edmund Dunley had been before him.
John Dunley had managed to hold the company steady for the boy Edward, and he had helped, working closely with John. But with Edward’s death at sixteen and the advent of Mary Turner, so much had gone terribly wrong. She had managed to damage the company, badly but not irretrievably. He hoped.
Cecil sat back, considered Elizabeth. He believed her to be one of the most brilliant people he had ever met. Apart from having had a superb education, and having shown her true mettle when working at Deravenels, she was fortunate in that she had inherited her father’s intelligence, his shrewdness and perception, especially about people. Furthermore, she also had Harry’s business acumen, and his ruthlessness. The latter was a trait she was certainly going to need when she was running Deravenels, starting next week.
Elizabeth was the Turner most like her father in character, personality and looks; neither her late brother Edward, nor the newly-deceased Mary had resembled him very much.
There was a light knock on the door, and it flew open to admit Elizabeth. She hovered in the entrance, flanked by the large portraits of her father and great-grandfather which hung on either side of the door.
‘Am I disturbing you?’
He shook his head, rendered mute for a split second.
The sun was streaming in through the windows, bathing her in shimmering light, and the vividness of her colouring was shown off to perfection – her glorious auburn hair shot through with gold, her perfect English complexion, so fair and milky white, and her finely-wrought features reminiscent of the Deravenels. She was the spitting image of both men; the only difference was her eyes. They were a curious grey-black, whilst Harry Turner’s and Edward Deravenel’s were the same sky blue.
‘What is it? You’re staring at me in the most peculiar way,’ said Elizabeth, and walked into the study, her expression one of puzzlement.
‘Three peas in a pod,’ Cecil answered with a faint laugh. ‘That’s what I was thinking as you stood there in the doorway. The sunlight was streaming in, and the marked resemblance between you and your father and great-grandfather was … uncanny.’
‘Oh.’ Elizabeth turned around, her eyes moving from the portrait of her father to the one of her great-grandfather, the famous Edward Deravenel, the father of Bess, her paternal grandmother. It was he she admired the most, he who had been the greatest managing director of all time, in her opinion … the man she hoped to emulate. He was her inspiration.
‘Well, yes, I guess we do look as if we’re related,’ she answered, her black eyes dancing mischievously. Taking a seat opposite Cecil, she went on, ‘Just let’s hope that I can accomplish what they did.’
‘You will.’
‘You mean we will.’
He inclined his head, murmured, ‘We’ll do our damnedest.’
Shifting slightly in the chair, Elizabeth focused her eyes on Cecil with some intensity, and said slowly, ‘What are we going to do about the funeral? It will have to be here, won’t it?’
‘No other place but here.’
‘Have you any ideas about who we ought to invite?’
‘Certainly members of the board. But under the circumstances, I thought it was a good idea to turn the whole thing over to John Norfell. He’s one of the senior executives, a long-time member of the board, and he was a friend of Mary’s. Who better than him to make all the arrangements? I spoke to him a short while ago.’
Elizabeth nodded, a look of relief on her face. ‘The family chapel holds about fifty, but that’s it. And I suppose we’ll have to feed them –’ She shook her head, sighing. ‘Don’t you think it should be held in the late morning, so that we can serve lunch afterwards and then get them out of here around three?’
Amused, Cecil began to chuckle. ‘I see you’ve already worked it out. And I couldn’t agree more. I hinted at something of the sort to Norfell, and he seemed to acquiesce. I doubt that anyone even really wants to come up here in the dead of winter.’
She laughed with him and pointed out, ‘It’s so cold. I put my nose outside earlier, and decided not to take a walk. God knows how my ancestors managed without central heating.’
‘Roaring fires,’ he suggested, and glanced at the one burning brightly in the study. ‘But to my way of thinking, fires wouldn’t have been enough … we’ve got the central heating at its highest right now, and it’s only comfortable.’
‘That’s one of the great improvements my father made, putting in the heating. And air conditioning.’ Rising, Elizabeth strolled over to the fi
replace, threw another log on the fire, and then turning around, she said quietly, ‘What about the widower? Do we invite Philip Alvarez or not?’
‘It’s really up to you … but perhaps we should invite him. Out of courtesy, don’t you think? And look here, he was always well disposed towards you,’ Cecil reminded her.
Don’t I know it, she thought, remembering the way her Spanish brother-in-law had eyed her somewhat lasciviously and pinched her bottom when Mary wasn’t looking. Pushing these irritating thoughts to one side, she nodded. ‘Yes, we’d better invite him. We don’t need any more enemies. He won’t come though.’
‘You’re right about that.’
‘Cecil, how bad is it really? At Deravenels? We’ve touched on some of the problems these last couple of weeks, but we haven’t plunged into them, talked about them in depth.’
‘And we can’t, not really, because I haven’t seen the books. I haven’t worked there for four and a half years, and you’ve been gone for one year. Until we’re both installed, I won’t know the truth,’ he explained, and added, ‘One thing I do know though is that she gave Philip a lot of money for his building schemes in Spain.’
‘What do you mean by a lot?’
‘Millions.’
‘Pounds sterling or euros?’
‘Euros.’
‘Five? Ten million? Or more?’
‘More. A great deal more, I’m afraid.’
Elizabeth came back to the desk and sat down in the chair, staring at Cecil Williams. ‘A great deal more?’ she repeated in a low voice. ‘Fifty million?’ she whispered anxiously.
Cecil shook his head. ‘Something like seventy-five million.’
‘I can’t believe it!’ she exclaimed, a stricken look crossing her face. ‘How could the board condone that investment?’
‘I have no idea. I was told, in private, that there was negligence. Personally, I’d call it criminal negligence.’
‘Can we prosecute someone?’
‘She’s dead.’
‘So it was Mary’s fault? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘That is what has been suggested to me, but we won’t have the real facts until we’re in there, and you’re managing director. Only then can we start digging.’
‘It won’t be soon enough for me,’ she muttered in a tight voice. Glancing at her watch, she went on, ‘I think I had better go and change. Nicholas Throckman will be arriving here before we know it.’
Elizabeth was in a fury, a fury so monumental she wanted to rush outside and scream it into the wind until she was empty. But she knew it would be unwise to do that. It was an icy morning and there was a bone-chilling wind. Dangerous weather.
And so instead she rushed upstairs to her bedroom, slammed the door behind her, fell down on her knees and pummelled the mattress with her fists, tears of anger glistening in those intense dark eyes. She beat and beat her hands on the bed until she felt the anger easing, dissipating, and then suddenly she began to weep, sobbing as if her heart was breaking. Eventually, finally drained of all emotion, she stood up and went into the adjoining bathroom where she washed her face. Returning to the bedroom she sat down at her dressing table and carefully began to apply her make-up.
How could she do it? How could she tip all the money into Philip’s greedy outstretched hands? Out of love and adoration and wanting to keep him by her side? The need to keep him with her in London? How stupid her sister had been. He was a womanizer, she knew that only too well. He chased women, he had even chased her, his wife’s little sister.
And the duped and besotted Mary had poured more money into his hands for his real estate schemes in Spain. And without a second thought, led by something other than her brain. That urgent itch between her legs … driving sexual desire … how it blinded a woman.
Well, she knew all about that, didn’t she? The image of that hunk of a man Tom Selmere was still there somewhere in her head even after ten years. Another man on the make, lusting after his new wife’s stepdaughter, and a fifteen-year-old at that. Married to Harry’s widow Catherine before Harry was barely cold in his grave. And wanting to get Harry’s daughter into his bed as well. Hadn’t the widow woman been enough to satisfy the randy Tom? She had often wondered about that over the years.
Philip Alvarez was cut from the same cloth.
What the hell had Philip done with all that money? Seventy-five million. Oh God, so much money lost … our money … Deravenels’ money. He had seemingly never really accounted for it. Would he ever? Could he?
We will make him do so. We have to do so. Surely there was documentation? Somewhere. Mary wouldn’t have been that stupid. Or would she?
My sister’s management of Deravenels has been abysmal. I have long known that from my close friends inside the company, and Cecil had his own network, his own spies. He knows a lot more than he’s telling me; trying to protect me, as always. I trust my Cecil, I trust him implicitly. He’s devoted, and an honourable man. True Blue. So quiet and unassuming, steady as a rock, and the most honest man I know. Together we’ll run Deravenels. And we’ll run it into the black.
Rising, Elizabeth left the dressing table, moved towards the door. As she did so her eyes fell on the photograph on the chest. It was a photograph of her and Mary on the terrace here at Ravenscar. She’d forgotten it was there. Picking it up, she gazed at it. Two decades fell away, and she was on that terrace again … five years old, so young, so innocent, so unsuspecting of her treacherous half-sister.
‘Go on, Elizabeth, go to him. Father’s been asking for you,’ Mary said, pushing her forward.
Elizabeth looked up at the twenty-two-year-old, and asked, ‘Are you sure he wants to see me?’
Mary looked down at the red-headed child who irritated her. ‘Yes, he does. Go on, go on.’
Elizabeth ran forward down the terrace, ‘Here I am, Father,’ she called as she drew nearer to the table where he was sitting reading the morning papers.
He lifted his head swiftly, and jumped up. ‘What are you doing here? Making all this noise? Disturbing me?’
Elizabeth stopped dead in her tracks, gaping at him. She began to tremble.
He took a step towards her, his anger apparent. He stared down at her, and his eyes turned to blue ice. ‘You shouldn’t be on this terrace, in fact you shouldn’t be here at all.’
‘But Mary told me to come,’ she whispered, her lower lip trembling.
‘To hell with Mary and what she said, and I’m not your father, do you hear? Since your mother is dead, you are … nobody’s child. You are nobody.’ He stepped closer, shooing her away with his big hands.
Elizabeth turned and ran, fleeing down the terrace.
Harry Turner strode on behind her, followed her into the Long Hall, shouting, ‘Nanny! Nanny! Where are you?’
Avis Paisley appeared as if from nowhere, her face turning white when she saw the bewildered and terrified child running towards her, tears streaming down her face. Hurrying forward, Avis grabbed her tightly, held her close to her body protectively.
‘Pack up and go to Kent, Nanny. Today,’ Harry Turner told her in a fierce voice, glaring at her.
‘To Waverley Court, Mr Turner?’
‘No, to Stonehurst Farm. I shall telephone my aunt, Mrs Grace Rose Morran, and tell her you are arriving tonight.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Without another word Avis led Elizabeth towards the staircase, cursing Harry Turner under her breath. What a monster he was. He punished the child because of the mother. She loathed him.
Elizabeth looked at the photograph again, and then threw it into the wastepaper basket. Good riddance to bad rubbish, she thought, as she left the bedroom.
THREE
Elizabeth ran down the wide staircase and crossed the Long Hall, then she paused, listening. She could hear male voices in the nearby library, and hurried there at once. She pushed open the door and went in, and immediately came to a stop, taken by surprise.
Having expected to see Nicholas Throckman, she wa
s startled by the sight of Robert Dunley. Her childhood friend, whom she had known since they were both eight years old, was standing with Cecil near the window. The two men were deep in conversation and oblivious to her arrival.
But as if he sensed her sudden presence, Robert unexpectedly swung around. Instantly his face lit up. ‘Good morning, Elizabeth!’ he said, as he strode towards her.
‘Robin! I didn’t expect to see you here!’
‘You know I always turn up like the proverbial bad penny.’ He grinned as he swept her into his arms and hugged her to him. He released her, kissed her cheek, and explained, ‘When I spoke to Cecil earlier, I asked him not to tell you I was coming. I wanted to surprise you.’
‘Well, you certainly did that,’ she exclaimed, laughing with him. Tucking her arm through his, the two of them joined Cecil.
Elizabeth was glad Robin was here; he had always been her devoted friend, and she still remembered the nice things he had done for her when she was in disfavour with her sister. She never forgot that kind of gesture. Dear Robin, so special to her.
Cecil, staring at her through those clear, light-grey eyes of his, said in a quiet voice, ‘Only a bit of minor deception on my part, Elizabeth.’
‘I know,’ she answered, smiling at him.
‘Would you like a glass of champagne? Or something else perhaps?’ Cecil asked, walking over to the drinks cart.
‘The champagne, please.’ Letting go of Robert’s arm, Elizabeth stationed herself in front of the window, gazing out at the panoramic view of the North Sea and the cream-coloured cliffs that stretched endlessly for miles, all the way to Robin Hood’s Bay and beyond.
What a breathtaking view it was, and most especially today. The sun was brilliant, the sky the perfect blue of a glorious summer’s day, and, in turn, the sea itself looked less threatening and grim, reflecting the sky the way it did. This view had always thrilled her.
Being Elizabeth Page 2