The Ravenscar Dynasty

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ‘I don’t know.’ Neville shook his head. ‘You and Oliveri here have to keep your eyes and ears open. You mustn’t miss…a trick.’

  ‘I understand,’ Edward replied, and then laughed. ‘I had quite a run-in with Margot Grant this morning.’

  ‘He was superb, really told her off,’ Alfredo said proudly.

  ‘Did you?’ Neville raised a brow, his pale blue eyes twinkling.

  ‘I told her she had better go and read the company rules. That she would soon discover she wasn’t even allowed at Deravenels. Well, that’s an exaggeration. But she was somewhat perturbed. She left without another word.’

  ‘But I’m afraid we haven’t heard the last from her,’ Neville muttered. ‘Not by a long shot.’

  At the end of the afternoon Edward went to see Lily Overton. He had missed her, and he knew he must quickly make amends for neglecting her the previous week.

  It was Mrs Dane, the housekeeper, who opened the door to Edward, and her face lit up. ‘Why Mr Deravenel, good afternoon, sir. How nice to see you.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Dane,’ he answered politely, and smiled at her warmly.

  Her immediate response to his undeniable charm was to open the door wider for him. ‘Please come in, Mr Deravenel. I’ll tell Mrs Overton you’re here.’ Closing the door, Mrs Dane continued, ‘She hasn’t been too well today. Please, do come into the drawing room.’

  ‘Is she ill?’ Edward asked, sounding concerned as he followed the housekeeper, entered the drawing room which faced the frosty-looking garden. ‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’

  ‘Oh no, sir, I think she’s just a bit under the weather.’ Mrs Dane offered him a small smile, as she hurried away, adding, ‘Please excuse me for a moment, sir.’

  Edward wandered around the room, feeling slightly on edge, nervous, wondering what could possibly be wrong with his darling Lily. As he thought of her, of her femininity, her blonde beauty, her loveliness and warmth, her kindness to him over the year, he realized something vital about her. Lily’s beauty was soft, genuine, angelic; Margot Grant’s beauty was dramatic but cold, hard. She was a hard-boiled woman, a woman filled with ambition, a woman on the make…

  ‘Mrs Overton would like you to join her in the upstairs parlour,’ Mrs Dane was saying from the doorway, interrupting his train of thoughts.

  ‘Thank you,’ he answered and hurried out. At the bottom of the staircase he turned to the housekeeper. ‘I’ll find my own way up, thank you so much, Mrs Dane.’

  She nodded and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Realizing that he still wore his overcoat, that the flustered housekeeper had forgotten to take it from him, he slipped it off and laid it on a nearby chair.

  He was halfway up the staircase when a vision in floating white chiffon and lace appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Edward. Darling!’ Lily exclaimed. ‘It’s lovely to see you here.’

  At the top of the stairs he took her in his arms, and brought her close, kissed her cheek, her neck, her hair. ‘I’ve missed you so much, my darling,’ he said softly, then held her away and looked deeply into her face. ‘What’s wrong? Mrs Dane said you’re not feeling well.’

  Lily touched his cheek lovingly. ‘It’s nothing. I felt tired today, Ned, a little weary.’ She laughed lightly. ‘I suppose I’m getting old.’

  ‘Old. You? Never.’ Putting his arm around her, he walked her into the parlour. It was as cosy as ever, with a fire burning in the grate; the gas lamps had been lighted, created a roseate glow in the comfortable room, and vases of fresh flowers gave it a feeling of spring.

  ‘I must apologize, Lily,’ Edward said, sitting down on the sofa as he usually did. ‘I ought to have been in touch last week, but I was swimming in deep waters, so to speak.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Lily murmured. ‘I wondered what had happened to you, and then this weekend Vicky told me how busy you had been with your work.’ She gave him a pretty, dimpled smile, and finished, ‘So you’re forgiven.’

  ‘I hope to God I am. Because I couldn’t do without you, Lil, I really couldn’t. You certainly make me feel happier, at ease and more relaxed when I’m with you.’ He paused and looked her up and down. ‘Amongst the many other things you make me feel, you temptress,’ he added suggestively, his brilliant sapphire eyes growing most seductive.

  Lily was silent for a moment. She pulled her lacey white peignoir around her body, and smoothed a hand over her hair. ‘I’m sorry I’m not properly dressed. You see, I was in bed when you arrived.’

  ‘Why don’t we go back there, my love? What better place for us to be.’ As he spoke he rose, strode across the room, bent over her. Tilting her face to his, he kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘Come back to bed, Lily. This time with me. Let me love you, sweetheart, let me pleasure you. We won’t do anything too…hectic since you’re not feeling well. Actually, you don’t have to do anything at all. I will make love to you.’

  ‘Oh Ned, oh Ned, there’s no one like you,’ she breathed softly, smiling up at him, all of her anxiety about him instantly blown away.

  ‘I hope not…at least, not in your heart. Come on, my pet.’ He pulled her gently to her feet and led her out of the room, across the landing and into her bedroom. Within moments he had her resting on the bed, and he was kissing her gently. He stopped abruptly, went back to the door and locked it, then he took off his coat and waistcoat, threw them on a chair, unknotted his tie, walked back to the bed. He began to unbutton his shirt as he stood looking down at her, smiling. Once it was unbuttoned, he reached for Lily, brought her to her feet, held her close. ‘You’ll never know how much I missed you last week,’ he murmured, and untied the white silk ribbon at her throat. Slipping the peignoir off to reveal her smooth, creamy shoulders, he went on, ‘And I know that you missed me, didn’t you?’

  Their eyes met. Deep green impaled brilliant blue and locked. Neither looked away. At last he bent into her, kissed her, let his tongue slide into her mouth…so warm, so soft. The taste of her thrilled him. He moved the nightgown, gave it a slight pull, and it fell to her feet; he took off his shirt and brought her to him, closed his arms around her. ‘Remember what I said, nothing hectic,’ he whispered against her tumbling gold hair.

  ‘But I want it to be wonderfully hectic,’ she whispered back, and began to unbutton his trousers, fumbling as she did so.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he muttered, and she went back to the bed and lay down on her side, watching him finish undressing. As he walked towards her she was momentarily startled. How had he become so aroused, so quickly? She shivered slightly. He seemed so potent, so virile, more than ever at this moment.

  One of the things Lily loved about Ned was that he did not rush at her, handle her roughly, or press his cause. He was always gentle, tender, loving, giving her pleasure before he took his own. And this afternoon was no different; he stroked her, touched her, kissed her breasts, brought her nipples to tender points. His hands trailed over her with tenderness, touched her neck, her hair, her stomach, slid between her thighs, encountered her most feminine part, brought her sighing to pleasure until she was calling his name. Entering her, he pressed his hands under her back and lifted her towards him, and their movements together were rhythmic: as always they were in tune with each other, as one. And they soared together, carried upward by their joy in each other, and their ecstasy. And later when he was spent, when he rested against her, sighing and stroking her face, he said quietly, in a low, very serious voice, ‘Only you, Lily, only you.’

  It was late when Amos Finnister arrived in Whitechapel, almost nine o’clock. As he stepped out of the hansom cab he said to the driver, ‘Wait for me here. I’ll be about an hour, no longer.’

  The driver touched his cap. ‘I’ll be right ’ere, guv.’

  Amos walked away from the hansom, thinking what a lovely night it was. Sky like black velvet, splattered with an array of silver stars. Dazzling. Not too cold. No wind. Yes, a nice night. He stood for a moment looking out towards the Thames.
He had always loved this long, flowing river; when he had been a small boy his father had brought him down here to the East End, brought him to the docks, told him wonderful, magical stories…stories of the tall ships which sailed in from all over the world, carrying chests of tea from Ceylon, gold from Africa, diamonds from India, sapphires from Burma, spices from the West Indies, silk from China…exotic goods transported and traded…how adventurous it had sounded to him then. It still did, if the truth be known.

  Whitechapel. A mixture of humanity—folk from all over the world. He knew this place so very well, not only from those childhood visits to see the big ships and eat whelks and winkles out of a bag with his father. But from his days on the beat when he had patrolled this place every night. Friend and foe alike down here near the docks. Still, it was colourful, and cheerful, despite the poverty that prevailed, the degradation and the vice, the crime. He had many friends down here…some of them were the costermongers, and their pearly kings and queens who ruled the roost, talked rhyming slang and boasted of being born within the sound of Bow bells. Good people.

  Not a bad place, Whitechapel. Worse places in this heathen world.

  He sniffed. What a fragrant smell that was, floating to him on the night air. He sniffed again, transported to his past for a split second. Thoughts of his father intruding again. His Da, such a good man. Killed too soon, and too young, in the line of duty. A copper like he had been, and perhaps that was why he had become a bobby. For his father, to honour his father’s memory.

  Amos stopped. Sniffed again. And decided to buy a meat pie. His mouth was watering so much he simply couldn’t resist.

  Within seconds he spotted the man with the cart and increased his pace. As he drew to a standstill the vendor touched his cap respectfully. ‘Evenin’, guv. Want a cornish or a meaty?’

  ‘A meat pie. With plenty of gravy, please.’

  ‘Best in Whitechapel me wife is, best cook is wot I means a’course.’ The vendor took a pair of tongs, clamped them on a pie and showed it to Amos. ‘See its crusty top? Bootiful brown, guv.’ As he spoke the man placed the pie in a small white paper bag, picked up a ladle of gravy and dribbled it over the pie.

  ‘How much is it?’ Amos asked, anxious to take a bite.

  ‘Tuppence, guv.’

  Amos paid, took the bag with the pie, bid the man goodnight and walked off; he was smelling the pie with pleasure, waiting for it to cool. A moment or two later Amos went and sat on a wall under a street gas lamp, and slowly munched on the meat pie, savouring every bite, enjoying himself more than he had in a long time.

  The pie was his supper, and such a treat. Much tastier than the slice of bread and cheese Lydia perpetually offered him, or her other mainstay, cold lamb on a bread bun. He sighed to himself, hating his sudden critical thoughts of his wife. She wasn’t well, really. Poor Lydia. It was her migraines which bothered her the most. And sometimes rheumatism. Poor Lydia. Full of aches and pains. Always miserable. Never a happy thought these days. Poor Lydia. Indeed.

  Amos had demolished the pie in short order, and now as he wended his way down towards Limehouse, he decided he needed a drink. Perhaps a pint to wash down the pie, he decided. Why not?

  The Black Swan was hereabouts…the Mucky Duck the locals called it. As it hove into sight Amos hurried his steps, was swinging in through the double doors within seconds.

  At the bar he asked for a pint of bitter, and swigged some of it down immediately it was in front of him, frothy, delicious. Good beer. He might even have another one.

  The bartender came back, peered at him in the murky gaslight. ‘Used ter be a copper round ’ere, din’t yer?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Amos smiled at him. ‘Retired now. Finnister’s the name.’

  The bartender chuckled. ‘I remembers now. Sinister Finnister we used ter call yer.’

  Amos laughed with the man, drank up his beer, put his money on the counter, said goodnight and promptly left. He set out again for Chinatown in Limehouse, an area filled with small shops where all manner of goods were sold, from silks, clothes and jewellery to medicines and herbs; Chinese laundries, Chinese shops, restaurants and even opium dens also dotted the streets. Amos loved the food the Chinese made, and had forgotten about it until this moment. He had fallen hard for the fragrant wafts of the pies of his youth, and had succumbed. Too late now to partake of the Chinese food. Another night.

  It was not long before Amos reached his destination. Mr Fu Yung Yen had a small shop set back from the street; the light was burning in the window as Amos hurried towards the door. After rapping several times, and proclaiming, ‘It’s Amos Finnister,’ the door was finally opened.

  Fu Yung Yen was dressed in a long black cotton gown with a small standup collar; he had long pigtails and a round porkpie hat was perched on top of his greying hair.

  He smiled when he saw Amos, and said in his whispery voice, ‘Come inside. Cold night.’

  The shop was dimly lit and there was a strong smell of spices, herbs and roots in the air. Mixed in was the whiff of camphor and perfumed oils. It was not an unpleasant smell, and Amos never minded coming to the shop.

  ‘How is wife?’ the Chinaman asked, smiling.

  ‘Bad migraines again, Mr Yung Yen. I need her usual headache powders, please.’

  The Chinese herbalist nodded and went behind the counter, began taking portions of white powders out of various pots. Finally, after pounding them together, he poured the mixture into a small paper packet, sealed it and handed it to Amos.

  ‘I need the ointment for her aches and pains…pains in the limbs.’

  ‘Ah yes. Understand. My balm.’ This too was quickly produced, already in its own small glass pot.

  Leaning over the counter, looking at Mr Yung Yen intently, Amos handed him a small piece of paper. ‘Do you happen to have this in stock?’

  The herbalist read it, and nodded. ‘How much you need?’

  ‘Whatever you think.’

  ‘For one good long sleep, yes?’

  Amos nodded.

  ‘Wait minute.’ The Chinaman disappeared through a door and it was a while before he finally returned. He put a small package wrapped in purple paper on the counter.

  ‘Thank you,’ Amos said. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  Smiling, Fu Yung Yen made out a bill.

  Amos read it, read it again, took out his money and paid without protest.

  After putting the various packets away in his overcoat pockets Amos nodded. ‘Good night, Mr Yung Yen. And thank you.’

  ‘Come back.’

  ‘I will,’ Amos answered, but as he left the shop he wondered if he ever would.

  TWENTY

  It was late when Edward Deravenel left Lily’s house, much later than he had intended. And now as he crossed Belsize Park Gardens and headed towards the main road he realized hansom cabs were scarce in this area. There was not one in sight.

  Glancing around again, noting that the road was almost devoid of traffic, he set out to walk, telling himself he would come across a hansom in no time at all.

  Striding out at a rapid pace, heading for Primrose Hill leading towards the centre of London, his mind automatically went to the numbers in the notebook and the conclusion he and Alfredo had finally come to earlier, that there was some kind of trouble with the mines producing gold and precious gems. The number for Burma had not been written in the notebook and so they both presumed the production of sapphires was continuing without problems as it had for some years.

  The man who approached him had sprung from up from nowhere, or so it seemed to Edward.

  ‘Egscuse me, guv,’ the man said in a guttural Cockney voice. ‘Can yer tells me ’ow to get ter ’ampstead? I be lost.’

  Edward shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m afraid I can’t,’ he replied, as polite as always. ‘However, if you keep heading north I think you’ll be going in the right direction.’

  The blow came from behind, the heavy truncheon striking him on the should
er and then on the back. The brute force of the blows brought him to his knees, and he cried out, clutching at the air as he fell, almost as if he were reaching out for the stranger who had just spoken to him. The man was not there, Edward realized, he had disappeared.

  Another blow came down, this time on the crown of his head. Edward fell forward instantly, his face hitting the ground. He was knocked out, unconscious.

  There were three men altogether, the pedestrian who had distracted the target and the two giant bruisers who were armed with truncheons. The three men conferred for several seconds, then one of the assailants bent over Edward, peered at him, then straightened.

  ‘Don’t t’ink e’s breeving, mebbe e’s dead,’ the assailant whispered, and straightened. ‘Best we get goin’ afore the bleedin’ coppers get ’ere.’

  The men ran off down the road. It was so deserted the sound of their boots was like thunder, echoing loudly. Drizzling rain and the wind were keeping everyone at home tonight.

  Edward lay on the pavement where he had fallen. The road remained empty, without pedestrians or carriages. No one came for a long time.

  Neville sat with Amos Finnister in the waiting room of Guy’s Hospital, filled with apprehension, silently praying that Ned would be all right, that he would regain consciousness soon. He had been badly beaten, but it was the blows to the head which were causing the problems.

  The two men remained silent. Neville, ashen-faced, his expression bleak, was so troubled and worried he did not want to talk; Amos did not dare. He was afraid to intrude on his distracted employer, who was lost in thought.

  The door to the waiting room opened and Neville’s wife Nan stood there with Cecily Deravenel. The two women hurried in, and Neville instantly rose, went to greet them. Placing his arm around his aunt, he led her over to a chair, and introduced her to Amos.

  Nan had already met him, since he was a frequent visitor to the house. It was she who now turned to Amos and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Finnister, for everything you’ve done for Mr Deravenel. If it hadn’t been for you, then I don’t know what would have happened to him.’