Master of His Fate

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  The butler hurried forward. “What will be your pleasure, your lordship?”

  “A Napoleon, please, Bloom.”

  Looking at Sebastian, the butler said, “Will you have the same, sir?”

  “Not tonight, thank you, Bloom. I rather fancy a Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

  Bloom inclined his head and went over to the drinks table to pour the cognac and the liqueur into the correct glasses. Sebastian walked over to the fireplace and Reginald followed him, a thoughtful expression lurking in his eyes.

  “It’s turned bloody cold,” Sebastian announced, standing with his back to the fire. “I can’t believe it will be August Bank Holiday this coming Monday. August the first.”

  “Tempus fugit,” Reginald responded.

  “Indeed. Time flies. And time is … endless.” A sigh escaped him as Sebastian continued, “I was somewhat taken aback a while ago, when you were speaking to Claudia. I hadn’t realized that women have been hurt, physically injured, for years by all that tight corseting.”

  “I was partially aware of it. However, I only just realized how bad it is lately, because of the problems we’re having with Jasmine. I am delighted Claudia has agreed to come to visit us on Monday afternoon. I think my daughter will listen to her, rather than to her mother. You know what young women are like.”

  “As a father I do, yes.”

  The butler brought the two glasses to them on a silver tray. Reginald took the balloon of French cognac and Sebastian the small wineglass filled with Drambuie, a liqueur of Scottish heritage, supposedly a favorite of Bonnie Prince Charlie when he lived in Scotland as a fugitive. Hence its nickname.

  The two friends touched glasses and sat down in the wing chairs facing the fireplace. The library had a mellow feeling to it on this Saturday evening. The logs burned brightly and the gas lamps added to the soft glow which pervaded the room.

  It was filled with mahogany bookshelves and comfortable, rather masculine sofas and chairs. These were upholstered in varying shades of red, which repeated the reds in the Persian carpet. It was very much a room planned and designed for a man. In fact, Sebastian spent most of his spare time here, often working at the large Georgian partner’s desk near the window, or reading in front of the fire.

  Both men were at ease with the long silences which often settled between them; they had been close since their early schooldays at Eton. They sipped their drinks, now caught up in their own thoughts for a while. But eventually Reginald swung his dark head and looked at Sebastian, cleared his throat, yet still remained silent.

  “So go on, old chum, tell me that you agree with me … that I have no brains.” Reginald did not reply, and Sebastian looked over at him, added, “I’m bloody well daft in the head! I met a woman earlier today, was with her for only a few moments—”

  “And you can’t get her out of your head, can’t stop thinking about her, want to see her again as soon as possible. Now. Immediately. At once.”

  Staring at his most trusted friend, Sebastian could only nod his head for the moment. He took a swig of the Drambuie, and finally said, “That’s exactly how I feel.” He frowned. “How did you guess?”

  Even as the words came out of his mouth, Sebastian remembered an incident which had happened to Reginald about ten years ago, and said in a low voice, “The Frenchwoman. That’s how you felt about her, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Fortunately for me, and my marriage, her husband suddenly arrived from Paris and took her off to Scotland to shoot grouse. And that was the end of that. The affair that never happened.”

  Reginald shook his head wonderingly. “But when I really do think about meeting her, recall that incident precisely, those emotions come rushing back. But you’re not married and neither is Alexis, so you don’t have the problem I did.”

  “That’s correct. But I’ve been given to understand that she is not interested in men, and—”

  “That’s only hearsay. I’ve heard she’s not interested in marriage. But that doesn’t mean she might not want to have a dalliance … shall we call it.”

  “I doubt that very much from what Claudia has said. Or do you know more about her than you’re saying?” Sebastian raised a brow.

  Reginald shook his head, grimaced. “I don’t know any more than you do, and I wasn’t suggesting a sexual dalliance. I meant just going to dinners and events with a man, or to the theater, having male companionship. I wasn’t impugning the woman’s character.”

  “I know that, Reggie.” Sebastian stared into the fire, thinking of the last ten years … the loneliness, the solitary life he had led …

  Reginald leaned forward toward him and said in a low voice, “What you’ve been feeling tonight is not unusual, nor is it daft at all. You’re a perfectly normal, forty-year-old heterosexual man. You saw a woman you were instantly taken with, wanted, desired. All normal feelings. And I know better than anyone else how lost and lonely you’ve been these many years.”

  “So what shall I do?”

  “You’ve done it already.”

  Sebastian frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re giving a supper on Thursday of this coming week. You’ve invited her. You invited me to come with Jane.”

  “I know that,” Sebastian answered. “I mean how do I get through the next few days without seeing her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Reginald sat thinking for a moment or two, and then exclaimed, “Why don’t you tell Claudia to ask her for tea tomorrow? Tell Claudia you want to give Alexis a donation to her charity. I bet it would work. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as our schoolmaster used to tell us.”

  Sebastian couldn’t help laughing at his reference to their teacher, and then he said, “Very clever of you to think of that, Reggie. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me.”

  “I do,” Reginald responded swiftly, grinned at him. “You’ve been very busy pondering other things.”

  “You’re right, I’m afraid. My mind has been elsewhere. I shall write a check for her charity, and I’m happy to do so, actually. It’s a good cause.”

  “Make sure it’s a large one,” Reginald said, and lifted the brandy balloon to his mouth. Then he grimaced and looked across at Sebastian. “Listen, will Claudia go along with this … plan?”

  “There’s no question in my mind about that. She has longed for me to become involved with someone, has actually encouraged me to think about getting married again. But I’m not sure about my other two girls. Claudia is very close, thinks like me and is wise beyond her years. Simply put, she wants me to be happy.”

  “And so do I, my very dearest friend. Count me in. I’ll become your other collaborator, do anything I can to help you snare this particular lady.”

  * * *

  Sleep eluded him.

  He spent endless hours twisting and turning, and finally, in frustration, he got out of bed. Pulling on a dressing gown and putting his feet in his slippers, Sebastian left his bedroom.

  It was dark as he walked along the corridor, but once he came to the landing, brilliant moonlight shone through the huge glass window at the top of the double staircase, lighting his way. And what a moon it was. A perfect silver orb. A night for lovers, he mused as he went downstairs, across the hall, and into the library where the fire still flickered in the grate.

  Lovers. What a thought! He hadn’t had a lover for years. Lowering himself into a wing chair, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Margot had been his love and his lover. How he had grieved for her, missed her, his lovely wife.

  There had been one entanglement, of a sexual nature, and it had lasted two years. Yet it had been on and off, in a sense, since the lady in question was married and not always in his immediate vicinity.

  Had they been lovers? Not really, not in the truest sense. “Sexual partners” might be a better way of describing their secret relationship. He had ended it because he had come to realize that his emotions were not involved, only a certain part of his body.

&nbs
p; There was no cure for grief. You simply lived with it … until the years blurred the many images and remembered occasions. Memories lasted.

  And the loneliness became a part of life, to be dealt with courageously, by filling one’s days with work, events, children’s needs, birthdays and Christmas, and summer holidays at the house in Kent.

  He sat up straighter and opened his eyes, a smile flickering on his mouth. He would take her to Kent. She would love the house the way he did. He just knew it in his bones. Instinctively. She. Her. Alexis. A young woman he had only just met, and briefly at that, but whom he could not erase from his mind. And her image was there with him wherever he was in this house, like a ghost haunting him, tantalizing him.

  Why? What was it about her? His daughter had said he had appeared to be mesmerized by Alexis. And that was true. Or perhaps blinded by the light and beauty that shone out of her was a better way of describing it. And thrilled, excited, and suddenly full of life, wanting to take her hand, run with her, be with her alone. Intimately.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, he knew what it was that she did to him. She made him feel alive for the first time in years … those years which he had sleepwalked through, alone.

  This knowledge sent a shiver down his spine and he knew the truth and what to do. He must follow his instincts and make her his. Permanently. This was a woman who could give him what he needed to be a whole person again. And he would give himself to her completely, in a way he never had before. He and Margot had been closely woven together, but to be honest he had always held part of himself back … kept it hidden.

  He believed and with great certainty that with Alexis Malvern he could open his heart and mind, could let her become a part of him. He smiled to himself. How wonderful it felt to be … alive.

  Thirteen

  The attack was sudden and so unexpected neither James nor Denny had time to think. On silent feet three men had sprung as if from nowhere on Chalk Farm Road and had surrounded them. Two grabbed hold of them in vise-like grips.

  James struggled hard in an attempt to free himself, shouting to Denny, “Get away. Run. Run.”

  But Denny was smaller and weaker than James, and his captor was a heavyset man with strong arms. There was no way he could escape. He was truly trapped, a goner, in his mind. He was afraid. He thought he was about to die.

  It was James who finally struggled free, managing to punch the man who had grabbed him on the jaw. He leapt over to the bruiser still clutching Denny and attempted to wrest his friend away, but it was to no avail.

  Nonetheless, James didn’t give up, pulling at the man’s shoulders, punching him on the arms, shouting, “Let him go. He’s only a boy. Whatever this is about, take me instead. Stop hurting him. Let him go, for God’s sake!”

  James did not see the man with the cricket bat creeping up behind him. But he felt the heavy blow when the bat struck his shoulders. As he went down and hit his face on the ground, James knew he and Denny had not had a chance. That was his last thought before he lost consciousness.

  The bruiser still holding Denny shouted, “Bring that there bloody bat over ’ere, let’s do ’im in too. Come on, ’urry up. The coppers on the beat will be ’ere soon.”

  Denny was so terrified and also surprised when the heavyset man let go of him that he froze on the spot. Before he could take one single step, he was hit across the back with the cricket bat, went down heavily. Twisting slightly, he hit the back of his head on the road and passed out.

  “Let’s scarper,” one of the attackers cried. “That bleeding moon is like a bloody great lamp. We’ll be seen and caught.”

  “We won’t! Let’s mek sure. Do the job right. Let’s give ’em a kicking job. Our boots are strong enough to kill a bloody bull.”

  The two other men followed instructions, and the gang of three set to work, their hobnail boots hitting James’s ribs, legs, and thighs. Denny’s body got the same brutal treatment. The men only stopped when they felt tired themselves.

  The moon was high in the night sky and bright, flooding the road with light. The thugs took off, running down a side street, making their way to Marylebone, where they had started to follow their targets.

  Once they were hidden in a dark alley, the man with the cricket bat said, “We can tek it easy. These two buggers are out cold, mebbe even dead.”

  “Use yer loaf, Fred. We gorra get away from ’ere. Let’s flit ter the docks. Saturday night the coppers go two at a time on rounds,” the bruiser muttered.

  “Yer bloody right! Let’s scarper afore we’re caught.” The three of them began to run, putting distance between themselves and their victims.

  * * *

  It was well over an hour before James and Denny were discovered. It was Constable Tony Roy and Sergeant Mick Owen who spotted the two bodies on Chalk Farm Road as they did their rounds.

  They usually partnered up on Saturday nights in the summer months. There were plenty of drunks around, often intent on disturbing the peace. Violence was common, pickpocketing the norm. There were frequent robberies, and some thieves even targeted shops and houses, breaking in to steal valuables.

  “If it hadn’t been for the full moon, we might have easily missed these two,” Constable Roy said. “Chalk Farm Road is usually as safe as houses. During the week I often give it a miss.”

  “I know, and it’s a good thing you happened to glance down here tonight,” Sergeant Owen shot back.

  Both policemen knelt down and turned over James’s body, and then Denny’s, and Constable Roy said, “Let’s look in their pockets. I hope to God that they have identification on them.”

  They didn’t. But both young men had money on them, and each had a key in a trouser pocket.

  “Not a robbery gone wrong then,” the sergeant said, frowning. “They’ve been badly beaten. There’s a lot of blood.”

  “A helluva lot of it, I’d say.” Constable Roy glanced at his partner. “Malice aforethought? At least that’s my opinion.”

  “I agree with you. This was a most purposeful crime. The attack was obviously planned, and cleverly. These two nice-looking lads were targeted and followed from wherever they’d been. But why? What’s this criminal attack all about?”

  The constable stood up. “I don’t know, but it was brute force. I’ll go for an ambulance, Owen. You stay with the lads. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Make it fast. The smaller one has a bad head wound; blood’s still oozing.” Sergeant Owen was now standing, and he looked at the constable with keenness and added, “We’ve got to make sure they’re taken care of properly. And we’ve got to catch the bastards that did this. Put them away.”

  “We will do exactly that,” Constable Roy answered, and was gone, running down the road.

  Miraculously, Constable Roy returned within the hour, riding in the horse-drawn ambulance along with two ambulance men.

  When he jumped down from the ambulance and ran over to Sergeant Owen, he noticed at once how white he was, and there was anxiety in his eyes.

  “Thank God you’re here,” Owen said. “These boys need help. As soon as possible.”

  The two ambulance men who followed Roy carried a litter. They put it down, lifted Denny onto it, and took him into the ambulance. A moment later they returned, and James was laid on the litter and taken away. The two policemen followed behind and rode along with them all in the ambulance.

  “Which hospital?” Sergeant Owen asked, once they were settled in the ambulance.

  “King’s. It’s the best for head wounds, which they both have.” The constable shook his head and peered at Owen. “As we agreed earlier, this was a deliberate attack. And it was murderous. Whoever did it was out to kill. And I can’t help wondering why. They look like ordinary, everyday young men, nicely dressed. I just can’t figure out a reason for such an attack.”

  “Neither can I. But somebody was out to do harm.” Owen rubbed his chin and glanced at his partner. “I don’t recognize either of them, from around here
, I mean. Do you?”

  “No, I don’t. And of course it was a deliberate beating. I just hope it’s not too late, and that the doctors can save them.”

  * * *

  Senior Nurse Peg Nolan had worked at King’s Hospital all of her adult life. When she was a young girl, she had been inspired by Florence Nightingale, known as the Lady with the Lamp, who organized a unit of field nurses during the Crimean War. They saved the lives of many British soldiers at Balaklava in 1854, after the doomed charge of the British Light Brigade against heavy Russian fire. Tennyson’s poem “The Charge of the Light Brigade” had always been one of Peg’s favorites.

  Peg loved nursing and making people well, and she was beloved by all of the staff at the hospital after her long service there. She was the top night nurse and preferred the late shift because it gave her enough time to enjoy her married life and her daughter. She went off duty at six in the morning, was home in bed by seven, and up and around her house at two o’clock, with the whole afternoon and half the evening ahead of her.

  Tonight had been much busier than usual, and it was always hectic at weekends. She was well aware why this was, and told beginners to look out for Saturdays, when people went out on the town, so to speak, and somehow managed to get themselves injured.

  Now, at three in the morning, she was taking bandages out of a cupboard when a young nurse came rushing down the corridor. “Nurse Nolan, I need your help!” the girl exclaimed as she came to a standstill, out of breath.

  “Aren’t you Nurse Jean Riley?”

  The girl nodded.

  “You are assigned to Senior Nurse Clapton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then perhaps you ought to be asking her for help. I wouldn’t want her to think I’m trespassing on her territory.”

  “I know that, Nurse Nolan, but Nurse Clapton is in surgery with Mr. Perdue, who is at this moment extracting a bullet from a man’s head. A self-inflicted wound. She’s not available.”