Just Rewards (Harte Family Saga)

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “That’s nice of you and Emily, passing down family heirlooms. A rather charming tradition, actually. Anyway, I also came up to ask you what the drill is for this afternoon now that everything’s going to take place here.”

  “Nothing has changed, Lorne. At three o’clock, instead of arriving in the Peach Drawing Room from church, Evan and Gideon will arrive from … upstairs.” She laughed as she said this; her sense of humor never failed her.

  Lorne laughed with Paula and nodded. “Then there will be the champagne reception in the Peach and Gray Drawing Rooms, and after that the late lunch at four-thirty in the Stone Hall. Once lunch is over there’ll be dancing, and revels.”

  “That’s correct, darling, and actually, now that they’re married, I feel much more relaxed. I’m going to enjoy myself. I feel as if a heavy load has been lifted off my shoulders, Lorne.”

  “I’m glad, Mother. You worry too much, and all the time. Now I’m going to go off and cadge a sandwich from Margaret, eat it in the kitchen, and then skedaddle, have a rest, and get into my dark blue suit. I’ll be downstairs early in case I’m needed.”

  “You’ll be the handsomest man there, my darling.”

  “Except for Dad,” Lorne said, pushing himself to his feet and walking across to the door. Before leaving, he glanced back at his mother. “Is there anything you need help with?”

  “Not really, Lorne, but thanks for asking.”

  “All you have to do is yell if you need me.”

  “Oh, there is one thing. Will you make sure Desmond’s well turned out, please? He always used to look so smart, but lately he’s seemed … a bit disheveled.”

  “All the kids are these days, but I’ll go and give him the once-over later,” Lorne promised and closed the door softly behind him.

  Paula continued to sit on the sofa for a moment, thinking of Lorne and how lucky she was. Her son had never given her a moment of worry. Ever. He was almost too good to everyone, and she frequently worried that he might be taken advantage of, especially by women. Sighing, she stood up and went to the desk, put the brooch in the fruitwood casket, and closed the lid. Later she would find the little velvet box for it and take these gifts to Evan’s room, with a note telling her their history in the Harte family.

  “You know you can wheedle anything out of me, luvey,” Margaret said, smiling up at her favorite, who lolled against the big window in the kitchen, looking impossibly handsome. “We’re very busy in here, as you can see, but I’ll make you a chicken sandwich. Mind you, my lad, you’ll have to eat it somewhere else, this ’ere kitchen’s teeming with the caterer’s staff. Still, I’m glad your mother is having the lunch catered. It would’ve been too much for me.”

  “Yes, it would, Margaret, my darling,” Lorne answered, leaning forward, kissing her on the forehead. “You’ve got to take care of yourself. Sometimes I think you work far too hard.”

  Margaret grinned at him. “That’s the curse of this family, Lorne. Your great-grandmother set the standards around ’ere, you knows, and because she was a work addict, or whatever you call it, she expected everyone else to be just like her. She was a bit of a slave driver, Emma was.”

  Lorne burst out laughing and then swung around when he heard his name. He found himself staring into the face of the caterer, whom he had known all his life. “Hello, Prissy!” he exclaimed, smiling hugely at Priscilla Marney, who often did the catering for his mother’s big parties and receptions. “How’re you? And how’s Samantha?”

  “She’s great, and so am I. And you look wonderful, Lorne.” Shifting slightly on her feet, she continued, “I can’t wait to see your next film.”

  “It’ll be out in a few months, and in March I start rehearsals for a play in the West End.”

  “When it opens, we’ll come and see it. Sam and I are your biggest fans,” Priscilla said.

  Lorne smiled at her, noticing in a glance that her appearance was much toned down. Usually Prissy wore flamboyant clothes in brilliant purples and red. There was a theatricality about her that he appreciated, being an actor; with her gypsy coloring and height, he thought she was a striking-looking woman. However, she was low-key today. Her wild black hair was pulled back into a neat chignon, and she wore a businesslike black trouser suit and white shirt.

  Lorne said, “If you get in touch with me when the play opens, I’ll make sure you have house seats, Priscilla.”

  “Thanks, Lorne, that’s very nice of you.” She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. “Isn’t it getting late? Shouldn’t you be changing? You’re due at the church soon, you know.”

  “I’d better go,” Lorne replied, edging away, not wanting to be drawn into a discussion. He was certain the caterer knew nothing about the secret ceremony this morning. He himself hadn’t been aware of it until he had joined his parents and the others for breakfast.

  Margaret, bustling over, put a plate in his hands. “Get on with you, my lad,” she said, “and enjoy your chicken sandwich. See you later.” She almost pushed him out of the kitchen.

  Lorne went striding down the corridor in the direction of the breakfast room. His mother believed Margaret knew nothing about the secret wedding ceremony, but he was not so sure. He thought his mother often underestimated the housekeeper. The way Margaret had moved him on when Priscilla started talking about the time told him a lot. Not that it mattered if Priscilla Marney knew; she would know at three o’clock anyway. And she’d been working for the family for years. Everyone liked Prissy, and she was the best caterer in Yorkshire.

  The breakfast room had one occupant, Lorne’s half brother, Desmond, who was sitting at the table eating a bowl of fruit salad.

  “Hey, Des, where’ve you been all morning? I haven’t seen you around,” Lorne said, walking in and sitting down next to him.

  Desmond groaned. “Doing my homework. Dad’s been on my back about it.”

  “Need any help?”

  “No, but thanks anyway for offering. I suppose we’ve got to get all dressed up for the wedding. What a bore.”

  Lorne began to laugh, and after a moment he said, “What does it matter, Des, really? Wearing a suit and tie for a couple of hours is no great hardship. Anyway, it’s only an ordinary suit today, not a morning suit, thank goodness. I hate having to get into a top hat and tails, which most weddings require.”

  “Oh, God, so do I!” he exclaimed. “Mums wants me to wear my new navy blue suit. What’re you wearing, Lorne?”

  “A navy blue suit; that’s what our mother wants us both to wear. And Dad and Grandpops, too.”

  Desmond made a face. “I wish I didn’t have to go. I hate weddings!”

  “I know what you mean. Lots of family and all that stuff, and usually lots of quarrels and fights as well. It is a bore, in a sense, you’re right. But think about this. You got home from boarding school for the weekend because of it.”

  “True,” Desmond said and had the good grace to smile at his brother, whom he adored. He went on, “Haven’t you got a new girl yet, Lorne?” As he spoke a dark brow lifted quizzically, and then Desmond, Black Irish to the core, began to grin cheekily. “I bet Mum is forever on your back about settling down.”

  “You’re right, she is. On the other hand, Desmond, I can’t settle down when I don’t have a woman in my life.”

  His brother nodded, then, leaning forward, he asked, “Can I stick with you at the wedding, Lorne? I always get eaten alive by the aunts and female cousins if I’m not careful.”

  Lorne began to laugh again, and he was still laughing as the two of them finished lunch. That had been his fate when he’d been Desmond’s age; he understood exactly how his brother felt.

  The man parked on top of the hill, close to a clump of trees. He knew that from the village the car would be hidden by the trees; it was also a good vantage point. He was able to see the main street without being seen himself. Climbing out of the car, he found a pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, stuck one in his mouth, and cupped his hand around it as
he flicked his lighter.

  Leaning against the hood, he inhaled, enjoying his smoke and the early afternoon sunshine. As he stared down into Pennistone Royal village, he was struck by the absence of cars. There were always lots of cars at a posh wedding. Glancing at his watch, pursing his lips, he wondered if the wedding party was running late or if all the cars had been parked in the yard next to the pub. The problem was he couldn’t see the pub yard from here. The Duck and Drake was out of his line of vision.

  He nodded. The wedding was no doubt in progress; everyone was inside, listening to the vicar do his stuff. He grinned, maliciously. Any moment they would all have a rude awakening. He grinned again.

  This thought had hardly entered his brain, the grin hardly touched his mouth, when the bomb he had planted during the night blew up. Exactly on time. The explosion was so loud he thought his eardrums would burst; smoke filled the air, along with slabs of stone and bricks and other debris.

  The man swung around, not waiting to see any more. He slid into his car, turned on the ignition, and drove over the hill and down the other side, racing toward Ripon. Mission accomplished, he muttered and laughed out loud.

  Jack Figg opened the door of the Peach Drawing Room at Pennistone Royal and stood for a moment regarding the room. It was his favorite spot in this great and ancient house, and now, as he glanced around, he marveled that it had not changed much in over fifty years.

  At this moment it was empty, since the family were all upstairs getting dressed and no guests had arrived for the reception. Jack glanced at his watch and saw that it was just ten minutes to two. Over an hour to go before the reception began, far too soon for anyone to come yet.

  Slowly, he walked across the floor to the white marble fireplace. The peach silk walls held a golden glow as shafts of winter sunlight filtered through the many tall windows, filling the room with a soft, hazy light. He had always thought this was the loveliest of all the rooms, with its peach-and-cream color scheme, elegant Regency furniture, and exquisite Impressionist paintings.

  Standing in front of the fireplace, he looked up at the Sisley landscape which Emma had hung there over fifty years ago, then moved on, his eyes taking in the other two Sisleys and the two Monets which graced the walls. These five paintings would always hang there. Emma had decreed that in her will.

  Jack noticed that Paula had changed nothing; she simply refurbished things as they became worn or shabby and therefore remained true to Emma’s original decor.

  There were flowers everywhere. Several tall crystal vases were filled with lilies, imported lilac, and branches of mimosa; porcelain bowls held carnations and tulips, and Paula’s signature orchids were displayed in wonderful china tubs. But no roses. That was Emma’s old rule, and Paula abided by it.

  His thoughts centered on Paula as he moved over to one of the windows and stood staring out at the terrace and snow-covered gardens beyond. She had looked exhausted lately, but earlier today, when he had walked around the Stone Hall with her, helping her put the place cards on the tables, she had seemed better. For one thing, she appeared more relaxed and lighter in spirit. It was because of the secret ceremony at eight-fifteen this morning, he was positive.

  She worried herself to death about Jonathan Ainsley. Jack was well aware of this, and he wished there was something he could do to alleviate her worries. But he was helpless. Unless, of course, he went out and killed Ainsley. Then she would be at peace. But naturally that was impossible. Jack decided he had to find a way to stop the man in his tracks; there had to be something he could do.

  Jack had been part of this family for years; he thought of it as his own in so many ways, and certainly they thought of him as one of theirs. Because of his love and affection for them, he wanted to ease their burdens whenever he could, especially Paula’s, since he had been close to her for years.

  A sigh escaped his lips. He had to do something to help her immediately. More security would be a good idea; he was going to talk to Lorne about hiring a driver who was an ex-policeman. That way Lorne would have proper protection. He was a famous actor, a Harte even though his name was Fairley, young and good-looking. And therefore a perfect target. Jack had said that to Lorne already. But he must make his own moves and provide protection, because Jack knew that Lorne wouldn’t.

  As he turned and walked back toward the double doors, Linnet suddenly appeared and waved to him. “I’ve come for my stuff,” she said as she hurried toward him.

  Jack nodded, put his hand in his pocket, and brought out a large envelope.

  Drawing to a standstill, she took the envelope from him. “It’s the mike and the earpiece?”

  “Yes. Make sure the mike doesn’t get muffled by the flower you plan to wear on your lapel,” he said. “And you must hook the mike pad onto your waistband, then put the wire of the mike into it.” As he spoke he turned around, lifted up his jacket, and showed her how the pad was attached to his waistband at the back of his trousers. “Okay?”

  “Yes, I understand everything. I understand about the earpiece, too.”

  “What will you be wearing, Linnet?” he asked.

  “A long skirt with a top, and a full-length silk coat. I chose that outfit because of all this stuff,” she explained, indicating the envelope.

  “Good girl. There’s nobody like you, Linnet.”

  “I hope not,” she shot back. Eyeing him appraisingly, she added, “You look very smart, Jack, very smart indeed.”

  “Thanks for the compliment. Where’s Julian?”

  “Upstairs in our bedroom, getting changed, and I’d better go up myself, get into my clothes. I promised Evan I’d help her.” Linnet looked at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and said, “Goodness, it’s well past two already! I’d better hurry.”

  “Right, Beauty—” Jack broke off as his mobile rang. Pulling it out of his pocket, he said, “Hello?”

  “Jack, it’s Pete.”

  His operative sounded tense, upset. Jack exclaimed, “What’s wrong?”

  “The west wall of Pennistone Royal church just blew out.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  Jack kept his voice low, but Linnet had heard his exclamation and seen his stricken face. She remained perfectly still as he stayed on the phone, listening intently.

  Pete went on, “Somebody put explosives there, or a small bomb. People would’ve been killed, Jack, if they’d been in the church.”

  “I realize that. Have you informed the village police?”

  “The vicar did.”

  “Are you all right, Pete? I know you’re parked across from the church.”

  “I’m fine. So is Chuck, who’s down the street.”

  “Where’s Al?”

  “On the riverbank … looking for yobbos. But there are none in sight.”

  “Where’s the vicar, do you know?”

  “He’s standing a few feet away from me, examining the damage. He’s with the sexton. Do you want to speak to him?”

  “Yes, put him on.”

  “Right away.”

  A moment later the Reverend Henry Thorpe said, “What’s going on, Mr. Figg? Do you know?”

  “No, I don’t, Reverend Thorpe, but I suspect it might be the work of somebody who’s disgruntled with the family. And fortunately no one was hurt.”

  “Fortunately. And what do you want me to do?”

  “I understand the police are there. Once they’ve done a thorough search of the church to make sure there’s … nothing else amiss, the mess should be cleaned up and he hole covered with planks or boards, and tarpaulins. To keep the animals out.”

  “I’ll see it’s done.”

  “Could you put somebody else in charge, Vicar?” Jack now asked. “I do think it will look strange if you’re not up here at three o’clock to attend the wedding reception.”

  “Of course I’ll be there. I understand I must be present.”

  “Vicar?”

  “Yes, Mr. Figg?”

  “I think it might be mo
re discreet, and certainly wiser, if this incident wasn’t mentioned at the reception. It would be very disturbing to Mrs. O’Neill. Not to mention upsetting to the bride and groom if they thought they’d been targets.”

  “I understand, and I won’t say a thing. However, the explosion was quite loud, and there are a few villagers hanging around, as we speak. What shall I tell them?”

  “Nothing. Say you don’t know what happened. Be vague. Act baffled. The less said the better.”

  “I’d better deal with Sergeant Lyons. He’s in charge. I don’t think I’ll mention anything about disgruntlement, if you know what I mean.”

  “I certainly do, Vicar. And I think that’s smart. I’ll see you shortly. In the meantime, there are a number of my security men in the village. If you put Pete back on, I’ll tell him to help you in any way he can. And remember, not a word about this when you get here.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Figg,” the vicar said firmly. “I’m giving the phone to Pete.”

  A moment later Pete said, “I’m on, Jack. I think it might have been a bomb. One which was probably planted during the night and triggered about ten past two.”

  “Sounds right to me, Pete. The church would have been full of Hartes at that time if we hadn’t made the other plan. Stick close to the police, let them know you’re there to help if they need you. I’m sure they won’t. Just stay in touch.”

  “I will.”

  Jack closed down his mobile and looked at Linnet, who had remained glued to his side. He said softly, “The west wall of Pennistone Royal church blew out. Nobody’s been hurt, but you will have gathered that, I’m sure. Pete, one of my operatives who’s down there, thinks the bomb was planted during the night and triggered when the wedding was supposed to be starting. Around ten minutes past two.”

  Linnet had turned very pale, and she whispered vehemently, “It had to be Ainsley. There’s no other explanation.”

  “But we can never prove it. And the police are not going to find any real evidence, only the remnants of the bomb. Trust me on that.”