An Absolute Scandal

by Penny Vincenzi

  “Le Caprice. For lunch.”

  “Sounds very glamorous.”

  “Well, you know me,” he said with his broad grin. “My life is one long glamorous event after another.”

  “Well, it does seem that way a bit. Who are you lunching with?”

  “Oh, rather frightening lady. Who I quite fancy actually. She has a certain dominatrix charm.”

  “Crikey,” said Catherine.

  “Now tell me about the in-laws. How was that?”

  “Awful,” said Catherine, and then realised he would worry about her even more if he knew the truth, and managed somehow to make the story sound amusing.

  “So there I’ll be, up in the attic, like Mrs. Rochester…”

  “Sounds more like Jane Eyre to me. God. They seem to be terrible people.”

  “Oh, they’re OK. Hearts in the right place and all that.” She smiled at him determinedly. He smiled back.

  “Don’t you dare go off to Somerset,” he said. “I’ll miss you far too much. I must go.”

  On the doorstep he bent, gave her a kiss. “Look after yourself,” he said, “and don’t forget, you can always call me if things get really tough. Don’t know what I can do, but I’m quite a good listener.”

  “You certainly are.”

  “I’ll say one thing about this wretched business, it’s given me a whole lot of awfully nice new friends.”

  “It’s done that for all of us,” said Catherine, “and you’re the most awfully nice of all.”

  “Bless you,” he said, and kissed her again.

  Fiona Broadhurst rarely accepted lunch invitations. She felt the time was far better spent working. But Simon Beaumont had been rather pressing on the phone, said he needed to talk something over with her. She wore her red shoes in honour of the occasion and a new black suit from Armani with a rather shorter skirt than usual.

  “Here’s to the case then,” she said, raising her glass, looking round her. Le Caprice seemed to be filled with women in red suits. She felt rather pleased she was in black.

  “Indeed. And thank you for all your help so far. Now, I’ve got what I think is some pretty good news. Although not quite as good as I’d hoped…big disappointment yesterday.” He told her about the lunch with Flora and Edward Trafford Smythe, how he had admitted to nothing.

  “He wouldn’t. None of them would, not wittingly. Certainly not with a victim present. Have you not heard of closed ranks, Mr. Beaumont?”

  “Simon.”

  “Have you not heard of closed ranks, Simon? I’m afraid they don’t come much more closed than Lloyd’s. So was the lunch good at least?”

  “It was. But here comes the good news. Friend of mine, journalist on the News, he got something approaching a confession from one of the Lloyd’s pimps.”

  “Not an expression I’d advise you to use in court.”

  “I’ll try and remember. Anyway, it’s all on tape, apparently and—”

  “And how did he obtain this recording?”

  “Oh, he was staying at the same hotel, they got chatting—apparently innocently—by the pool one afternoon.”

  “So the Lloyd’s representative knew he was being recorded, did he?”

  “No,” said Simon. “No, of course not. He wouldn’t have talked if he had.” She looked at him carefully, then she said, “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be admissible in court.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because of the danger of tampering. Think about it.” He thought about it; she watched his buoyancy slowly collapse.

  “So not a lot of good then?”

  “Not really.”

  “Pity,” he said finally. “I really thought I’d found our smoking gun.”

  “I’m afraid,” said Fiona, “it’s got to be a lot bigger and smokier than that.”

  “Oh. I see.” He looked stricken now, white-faced, and infinitely sad. She felt very sorry for him.

  “But,” she said quickly, “it still might be of use. Even though it’s inadmissible, a judge could still be interested in hearing it. It might help sway his view of the case in our favour.”

  “I think you’re just trying to make me feel better,” he said.

  “Simon, I’m not in the business of making people feel better. Except by actually winning their cases for them.”

  The maître d’ approached the table. “Call for you, Miss Broadhurst. Behind the bar.”

  “Oh—yes. Sorry, Simon, I have been waiting for some important information about a case. Please excuse me a moment.”

  As she talked, she watched a woman stop by Simon’s table, stand there talking to him. She was very tall and blond, and she was wearing a cream-and-blue printed silk dress and jacket; she stood out in the roomful of power suits. As Fiona got near to the table, the woman bent down and kissed Simon quickly, then moved away. No introductions then: interesting.

  Simon smiled at her, half stood as she sat down. He had amazingly good manners, she thought: a bit old-fashioned, but very nice. “Great suit, that. And I love the shoes.”

  He poured her another drink; they sat there for quite a long time chatting. He was dangerously easy to talk to; despite it being one of her sacred tenets never to reveal any personal details about herself, by half past three when they left the restaurant, Simon Beaumont knew rather more about her than she would actually have chosen to tell him. The blonde was long gone, had smiled briefly as she passed them.

  “It’s been fun,” Simon said, “I’ve really enjoyed it. Loved talking to you. And I feel very sad for all those chaps out there.”

  “Which chaps?” she said, smiling, eased by two glasses of champagne and one of Sancerre—Simon Beaumont certainly wasn’t behaving like someone about to go bankrupt.

  “The ones who aren’t going to be your husband. Shame.”

  She flushed. “I’ve talked too much.”

  “Not at all. I’ve enjoyed it. Very much.”

  He kissed her on the cheek, smiled, and handed her into her taxi; she drove off feeling sleek and rather pleased with life. She wondered if he had that effect on all women. And felt rather sorry for his wife. Or possibly even jealous of her. She couldn’t decide which.

  “Daddy! Hi. You look a bit tired. Shall I fix you a drink?”

  “No, darling, I’ve had quite enough to drink for one day.”

  “Well—nice sparkly water then? With ice and lemon? I want to talk to you about something.”

  “All right. I’ll be in the garden.”

  “Mummy said to tell you she’d be back around ten. And to call her if you want.”

  “OK. I will…. Elizabeth? It’s me.”

  “Oh—hello, Simon. Good day?”

  “Yes, pretty good. Tell you about it later.”

  “Be quite a bit later, I’m afraid.”

  “Annabel said ten-ish.”

  “More like eleven-ish, worst luck. Did you get my message about the house?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well, those Americans came back with a better offer: two point two. Which would pay off Lloyd’s just about…”

  “For this year.”

  She sighed. And then he could hear her being positive and brave.

  “Well, anyway, it would pay them off for this year, and buy us quite a nice house somewhere like Fulham.”

  “Sure. Great. So—”

  “And then there are some Arabs.”

  “Ye-es?”

  “They are offering a bit less, but the agent said he knew he could push them up. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” He suddenly felt exhausted. “Let’s talk about it when you get home.”

  Annabel came out with a tray: ice, lemon, and a bottle of water. “There you go. Full kit. Anyway, I had a long chat with Jamie today. He wants to come and see you.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “He wants to ask you formally for my hand in marriage. Isn’t that sweet? I mean, a bit old-fashioned but—sweet.”

  “It’s not really old-f
ashioned,” said Simon. “I think it’s simply good manners.”

  “Yes, of course.” She smiled at him. “That’s what he says. Normally he wouldn’t have asked me without speaking to you, but, well, things got a bit out of our control. Anyway, he’s coming later in the month, just for a few days, so he can ask you, and maybe get a few things sorted out. I know you’ll both love him, he’s so adorable. And so nice.”

  “I’m sure we will.”

  “And…this is a bit difficult, a bit delicate even, but Daddy, do you think you will be selling this house?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well—well, Jamie said his mother had made a suggestion.”

  “Oh yes?” Already he disliked Frances Cartwright. Quite a lot. He felt he was about to dislike her more.

  “Now this is really up to you, I promise. Really, really. She—well, she suggests we might get married over there. You know? Not in Boston, but down at Cape Cod. The house is just so gorgeous, and right on the sea, I really, really loved it. And the garden is huge and would take a ginormus marquee and…well, I would’t have even considered it if we were staying here, but as we’ll be somewhere much smaller, I can’t see it working. And you know I’ve always wanted to be married at home, not in some horrible great hotel, and the weather is so reliably wonderful, whereas in England—”

  “But Annabel, this is your home, England is your home—” He stopped; he felt very upset. He had always loved the idea of bringing Annabel down the aisle in Chelsea Old Church, where all three children had been christened, and then of having the reception at home, in the Boltons, in the great green garden, with its tall ivy-covered walls, and where there was also plenty of room for a marquee. Where so many parties had been held, where the ghosts of long lovely days, of warm flower-scented evenings would always remain. That was what all weddings should be, family parties, held in the family home. Only—only he was being robbed of it, of his dream, for they wouldn’t be here, not by then; it would be home to strangers who would never have, or so he felt, any real right to it. The family house would be some rotten little place in Fulham. And his daughter, his beloved daughter, would be getting married in another country, in the home of people he didn’t even know.

  “Daddy, I promise I won’t do it if you don’t like the idea,” she said. “I promise! But, well, it is so lovely there, and I know you’d love it too, and—”

  She was flushed now, anxious at his reaction; he made a Herculean effort to smile at her, to dissemble.

  “I’m sure I would. And I’m very, very happy to consider it, if it’s what you want. But hey, who knows where we’ll be living then? In—what is it? Two years?”

  “About that. Maybe a bit sooner. We did—well, wonder. You and Mummy can talk to Jamie about it when he comes.”

  Don’t go, he wanted to say, please don’t go. Don’t go and live in Boston, don’t get married in Cape Cod; stay here with me, in England; stay in the place that made you, and where all your friends are, and everyone who loves you. But of course he didn’t say any of it. He smiled and said, “It sounds as if it could be huge fun. We’ll have to hire a jumbo jet to transport everyone over there…”

  Elizabeth was much later than she had said; it was almost midnight when she got in. He was half asleep by the time she slithered into bed beside him.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s all right.” Silence, then: “I love you, Elizabeth,” he said, “very much.”

  “I love you too.”

  And then he made love to her, very sweetly and tenderly, and afterwards he said again, “I love you,” and fell asleep, holding her in his arms.

  And in the morning he was gone.

  Chapter 37

  AUGUST 1990

  “Daddy’s gone sailing apparently,” said Elizabeth. “He went early, left me a note. I’m glad, it’ll do him good. He’s missed it terribly, and it’s been such an awful strain for him, all this.”

  “Where’s he gone?”

  “Oh, to the club in Chichester. David Green’s lending him his boat. He said they might even go over to France together, take a couple of days.”

  “Did he say anything about the wedding last night when you came in?” “The wedding? No,” said Elizabeth, smiling at the thought of the very short, sweet conversation she and Simon had had. “No, he didn’t. Why?”

  “Oh, tell you another time. Got to go. I was late yesterday, Tania was not pleased. You in tonight?”

  “Think so.”

  “Well, we can talk then. Bye, Mum.”

  “Elizabeth, I’m planning a dinner party.” Peter Hargreaves put his head round her door. “Early next month, hopefully the first Thursday. I’d like you and Simon to come. I’m inviting a couple of long-service clients and a handful of good, long-suffering friends.”

  “Which am I?”

  “You’re both. Which is why I’m keen to know about Simon. Could you let me know ASAP?”

  “Of course,” said Elizabeth. “He’s gone sailing, but he’s bound to check in towards the end of the day. I’m afraid it’s very unlikely that he won’t be able to come. I don’t mean that the way it sounds,” she added smiling. “I mean, I’m afraid he won’t have anything else on. His life’s taken a bit of a dive.”

  “Poor chap.” He hesitated, then said, “But you seem rather happy.”

  “I am happy, Peter. More than I’ve been for a long time. Whoever said money wasn’t everything was right.”

  Her phone rang.

  “Mummy? Mummy, it’s me! You must get a copy of the News. Joel’s piece is in. Daddy’s in it, and Mrs. Fielding, and that poor girl whose little boy went missing, and—well, just about everyone really.”

  “My secretary’s got a copy—I think she always buys it—yes, oh, my goodness! I wonder if Daddy’s seen it?”

  He had, of course seen the reference to him, to Simon Beaumont:

  …successful City banker, who has lost almost everything, including his job. “I was too trusting,” he says, “some would say naïve.” Beaumont is lucky, he still has his beautiful, high-earning wife and his happy family. Others have been less fortunate, their marriages broken by the strain of facing bankruptcy, of having to remove children from schools, leave much-loved family homes…I have heard of several cases indeed of suicide…one elderly lady, who had handed over her father’s entire fortune into Lloyd’s tender keeping found herself unable to pay her debts, and was discovered by a neighbour, lying dead by her own gas fire.

  “Flora, you’re in the papers!” Colin sounded quite excited on the phone. “Have you seen it, the Daily News?”

  “No, I have not,” said Flora crisply, more troubled by the thought that Colin expected her to be a Daily News reader rather than anything the article might say.

  “Well, I’ll read it to you.”

  Widowed Mrs. Flora Fielding is one of many who face considerable hardship and may be forced to sacrifice her beautiful eighteenth-century house in order to meet debts. “Lloyd’s appeared to be run by gentlemen,” she said, “and foolishly, I trusted them. As did many others, misled by the sense that we were fortunate to be joining a rather exclusive club…”

  “Goodness,” she said. “I must go out and buy a copy for myself.”

  Catherine, alerted to the story by Lucinda, went out to buy a copy of the News and promptly spilled her coffee all over it as she read about the beautiful young widow (could that be her?), who had had to take her vulnerable little boy out of his school where he was so happy and doing well and put him in another, where he was bullied so badly that he ran away from home. For some reason she wondered if Nigel had seen it.

  Nigel had; the article had been placed on his desk by the devoted Lydia, and while he was enjoying it very much, he did reflect with deep gratitude on the fact that he had not been asked to participate in any way. It just wasn’t—wasn’t very seemly somehow.

  Lucinda was very excited. Blue had called her at the office and told her to go and buy a copy
of the News, which of course she hadn’t had to, since the PR Department got all the papers every day. She rang him back.

  “Blue! So many of our friends, isn’t it wonderful? And did you see they described Catherine as beautiful? So nice for her—and of course she is.”

  Blue said there were two or three inaccuracies in the story as far as he could see, but that that was the most serious.

  “You are just so beastly,” said Lucinda.

  “No, I’m not. Just truthful.”

  Debbie was reading the article for roughly the fifth time when Richard phoned her.

  “There’s an article about Lloyd’s in the Daily News,” he said, “with my mother in it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. By someone called…let’s see, Joel Strickland. It’s rather good. You don’t know him, do you?”

  “Um, I’ve met him once or twice. Yes.”

  “Very well researched. So did you put him onto her?”

  “No, of course not. How could I?”

  “Must have been Beaumont then. Anyway, she seems quite chuffed about it.”

  “Good, I’m pleased to hear it. I must—I must have a look at it.”

  She did, for the sixth time and then the seventh; and then decided to ring him, and tell him how great she thought it was.

  “Thank you. Yes, I’m quite pleased. Just waiting to hear from our friend in the Bahamas.”

  “Oh, yes. Do you think you will?”

  “His lawyers, more likely.”

  “Will they be able to sue?”

  “No, they won’t. I’ve got him on tape. There’s not a word there that he didn’t actually utter.”

  “Oh, right. And what did Lloyd’s say?”

  “They had no comment to make, beyond that they’d always acted in good faith. Anyway, glad you liked it. I must go, it’s spawned rather a lot of work, I’m afraid. See you soon.”

  “Yes, hope so.” Shouldn’t have said that: might have sounded too keen. Pathetic? Clinging?

  “Very soon,” he added. “I’ll call you. Promise.”

  Not too keen then.

  She rang off, put the article in her bag, and tried to concentrate on her work.