THIRTY-NINE
Lily Overton had died on Monday. On Friday afternoon of the same week she was buried.
There were six pallbearers: Edward Deravenel, his cousins Neville and Johnny Watkins, his best friend Will Hasling, Stephen Forth, Vicky’s husband, and Amos Finnister.
Only a small number of Lily’s friends had been formally invited to attend the funeral service and burial in Hampstead, and Vicky and Fenella had been quite unprepared for the number of people who did attend in the end. The church was full: all of her friends and the people she had known had shown up to pay their respects.
There were a few gasps and whispers when the coffin was carried into the church and down the central nave by the six pallbearers, all of them men who were either unusually good looking or distinguished in appearance.
Because Vicky was on crutches she gave the eulogy in front of the three small steps which led up to the altar below the huge stained glass window, positioned immediately behind the coffin. Fenella also spoke, as did Will Hasling, from the pulpit.
All of them touched on Lily’s generosity of spirit, her loving nature, the charities she had so generously supported, most especially Haddon House.
At Edward’s request it was Johnny who read the twenty-third psalm, his voice only wavering slightly when he first began with the words, ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.’ It grew stronger with each line, and because he had a mellifluous voice, everyone listened attentively.
Edward sat staring at Lily’s coffin at the bottom of the altar steps, covered in the white lilies he had sent. He was lost in despair, the deepest despair he had ever known, and he wondered how he was going to pull himself out of it. How he would go on.
As the service proceeded, and the vicar gave a brief sermon, and hymns were sung, prayers said, he asked himself why she had died so tragically. Lily had been cut down at the prime of her life…And then he thought of their unborn baby, and his heart tightened, shrivelled within him. He was a man alone now that his darling Lily was gone.
Later it was Will who took his arm and led him back to the coffin. As he hoisted it up on his shoulder with the other five men and carried it out of the church, he thought of John Summers and the Grants. Edward was convinced he could place her death on their doorstep. He knew it deep in his bones, and his bones never lied to him. How would he revenge her death?
Neville Watkins took Amos Finnister to one side, and asked ‘Did you get information out of Mark Ledbetter? Has he discovered anything?’
Amos drew closer to Neville and whispered, ‘It’s more than likely the rider was French. I got that from Paul Coleman, Mark’s police sergeant who works with him.’
The two men were standing in a corner of Vicky Forth’s drawing room in her Kensington house. All of those who had been invited to attend the funeral had come for refreshments after the burial, guests of Vicky and her husband.
Amos glanced around, and said in the same low voice, ‘I think we need to be in private, Mr Watkins. Let me ask Mrs Forth if we can use another room.’
Neville nodded, and watched Amos pick his way through the small group of people who were sipping tea, nibbling on sandwiches, and reminiscing about Lily Overton.
A few seconds later Amos returned. ‘Mrs Forth says we can go into the library.’ As he spoke he ushered Neville out of the drawing room and across the hall.
Once they were inside the library overlooking the large garden, Amos closed the door and strode over to join Neville, who was standing near the French doors.
‘To continue,’ Amos murmured. ‘Sergeant Coleman didn’t have much more information to offer, at least that’s what he said. However, I went down to Whitechapel last night, made inquiries of my own. I picked up a few things. One of my contacts told me that a Corsican, who had once been in a circus troop on the Continent, had been seeking a job, mostly asking around about working with horses. My contact said the man had a deeply indented scar on one cheek, was dark-haired and had black eyes.’
‘From the sound of it, that has to be the rider of the stallion,’ Neville ventured.
‘The description certainly fits,’ Amos answered, and continued, ‘Apparently the man’s nickname was Nappo, short for Napoleon because he came from Corsica, too. No one knew his real name, it seems. My chappie sent him up West, to Mayfair and environs, and he said that later he’d heard that Nappo had secured a job driving a carriage for some fancy French family, or rather, a fancy French lady. My contact added, “a real beauty she is, so I’m told.”’
Neville smiled a small smile, staring at Amos; he finally nodded his head. ‘A French lady, eh? Well, well, I can certainly think of one French lady who is a real beauty, and so can you.’
‘Yes, sir, I can. Margot Grant be the name.’
‘That does give us food for thought, doesn’t it? Perhaps you can attempt to confirm that this Nappo worked for the Grants?’
‘I’m already on it, Mr Watkins.’
‘Very good. Was the incident in Hyde Park retaliation for Aubrey Masters’s death, I wonder? What do you think?’
‘More than likely.’
‘You told me a few weeks go that I was being followed, so why wouldn’t Mrs Overton have been followed as well? We’re both closely connected to Edward, at least she was. I still am. And the Grant faction have a lot of money…they can afford to employ an army of private investigators, if the truth be known.’
At this moment the door of the library opened a crack and a small burnished head of red-gold curls peeped around it. ‘Amos! Amos!’ the child cried when she saw her beloved friend and rushed into the room.
As she flew across the floor to him, Amos bent down and she came straight into his arms, hugged him tightly. He hugged her back, and glanced up at Neville, and was surprised to see the most startled expression crossing the other man’s face.
Releasing the child, straightening, Amos explained, ‘This is the little girl I found in Whitechapel, Mr Watkins. Her name is Grace Rose and she now lives here with the Forths.’
Neville said in a kindly way, ‘Hello, Grace Rose.’
The child dipped, gave a slightly wobbly curtsy. ‘’Ello,’ she answered solemnly, her face serious.
Suddenly, the door flew open and Edward marched in, saying as he did, ‘Vicky told me I would find you in here—’ He broke off when he noticed the child standing near the French doors. She turned her head, and when she saw Edward, broke into smiles.
Cornflower blue eyes gazed into cornflower blue eyes, and locked. It was Edward who finally blinked and looked away. A faint memory touched his mind, but fleetingly so. He tried to grasp it but it was elusive, was gone in a fraction of a second.
At last Edward took a step further into the room, and said gently, ‘Hello.’ The little girl simply smiled at him again but said nothing.
Amos said, ‘This is the child I found, Mr Edward, her name’s Grace Rose.’
‘My goodness, here you are, Grace!’ Vicky exclaimed as she came rushing into the library on the heels of Edward. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Forth,’ Amos murmured. ‘She’s not really disturbing us.’
‘You’re so kind, Amos,’ Vicky replied graciously, taking hold of Grace’s hand, leading her across the floor. ‘And I’m so sorry she intruded,’ she added, glancing from Neville to Edward, smiling faintly, apologetically.
As the door closed behind them, Edward said, ‘I think we must make our moves against the Grants, Neville. I don’t want to wait any longer. Surely we are now fully prepared to go to battle with them?’
‘Indeed we are, Cousin.’ Neville smiled broadly. ‘And it shall be done. Now.’
Margot Grant stood staring down at the boy sleeping in the narrow bed. Dark lashes lay against his creamy skin, a small hand was resting under his cheek. Her beloved Edouard. Her son. Seven years old now, and the most important person in the world to her. He was her joy and her pride, an intelligent boy, with a vivid imaginat
ion and such determination. He was so quick and smart and eager to win.
There was no one like him, as far as she was concerned, especially in his personality and character. Henry twiddled his thumbs and said constant pious prayers, did nothing; Edouard reached out eagerly to the world, wanting everything, knowing he could take it all, and he would, one day.
He was the heir to Deravenels. She was going to make sure he inherited the mantle now worn by his father.
‘Margot.’
The whisper of her name made her turn around.
John Summers stood in the doorway; he was staring at her longingly, and when she beckoned he came into the bedroom immediately.
He put his arm around her waist and drew her closer, stared into her eyes. Against her hair he whispered, ‘I have to go back to London soon.’
Margot nodded, then swung her gaze to the child sleeping so soundly. ‘Isn’t he the most beautiful thing?’
‘After you, yes,’ he answered softly. It was on the tip of his tongue again, the tantalizing question which always remained unasked. Was this boy his half-brother? His father’s son? He dare not ask her. And even if he did, she would never answer him. Certainly she would never tell him the truth. The boy must always be seen as Henry Grant’s only child, and the heir apparent to Deravenels. He understood that necessity. He was the future of the Grant dynasty, young Edouard.
Leaning down, Margot touched the boy’s cheek lightly, and then turned away, and together she and John left the bedroom on tiptoe.
Once outside in the corridor, he asked, ‘Where is Henry? I should say goodbye before I leave for London.’
‘He’s dozing in his bedroom, as usual,’ Margot answered, and took hold of John’s arm, grasped it tightly. ‘Come with me for a moment, chéri. Let us take our leave of each other in the best way possible.’ A moment later she opened the door to a small sitting room and led him inside. Locking the door behind her, she stepped into his waiting arms, kissed him deeply, and let her hand slide down his leg. She felt her senses swimming, her legs were suddenly weak, her heart pounded.
John Summers pressed her hand against his crotch. ‘See what you do to me?’ he whispered, and then he lifted her up in his arms and carried her over to the sofa.
She lay back against the pillows, smiled up at him; he joined her on the huge couch, lifted the skirts of her loose summer dress, and slid his hand up a bare leg. There were no underclothes to hamper him, and after touching her intimately for a few minutes, making her gasp, he stood up, threw off his jacket and trousers. Lowering himself on top of her, he took her to him passionately. And she responded with her usual ardour, her desire for this man flaming through her; when they came to a climax together, she had to cover her mouth with her hand in order not to scream out with pleasure.
A short while later she went downstairs with him, and they shared a glass of wine on the terrace overlooking the lawns.
‘I adore you, Margot,’ he said in a low voice, touching his crystal goblet to hers. ‘And I’m sorry I must leave you here in the country. As always, business calls, matters at Deravenels must be attended to.’
‘I know. I know, chéri, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for holding the company for my son.’
He put his glass down on the wooden garden table, and turned to face her. ‘Margot, there has been a new development. I haven’t mentioned it for the last few days, because I wanted us both to enjoy our brief time together. However, I must inform you now that the mistress of Edward Deravenel died in a terrible accident earlier this week.’
‘Oh,’ was her only response.
John explained, ‘There’s gossip floating…gossip that this wasn’t an accident at all…that it was a staged accident.’
‘How strange,’ she murmured, and leaned back on the garden seat, seemed almost uninterested as she gazed into the distance.
John waited for a moment or two, expecting her to make some sort of comment, but she did not. He took a deep breath, and jumped in with both feet. ‘Please tell me we didn’t have anything to do with this, Margot, that you did not take matters into your hands.’
‘Oh no, chéri, I did not. Why would I?’
‘You were behind the attack on Edward Deravenel.’
‘This woman Lily Overton…what did she mean to me? Rien…nothing. I think the suggestion that it was something created is ridiculous. Who can make a horse become crazed? Now I ask you to explain that to me. C’est pas possible.’
John gaped at her, rendered speechless for a moment. He had not said a word about a horse going berserk, in fact he had not given any details at all. Leaning forward, he picked up his glass, gulped down the last of the wine.
It took him a moment or two, but eventually he calmed himself, stilled the violent machinations revolving in his mind. He must not even think that they were somehow involved.
Rising, he forced a smile onto his face, offered her his hand.
She took it.
He gently pulled her to her feet.
Margot said, ‘I will walk with you to the stables, to your carriage. I’m so glad you came.’ She tucked her arm through his, and went on, ‘I am so bored here in Ascot…and I miss you.’
He made no response, merely nodded. He was too perturbed to say even a single word to her.
FORTY
Ravenscar
‘Do you think you can remember everything?’ Neville Watkins asked quietly, looking across the small bridge table at Edward.
‘Oh yes, Neville. Please be assured of that. However, to make sure, I will commit some important bits to memory.’ Edward leaned forward, patted the pile of papers on the table between them. ‘I’ve already memorized certain salient points from my father’s diary, if one can call it that. It’s really a lot of notes, jottings, his odd thoughts about Deravenels, but useful nonetheless.’
‘And the company rules?’
Edward smiled faintly. ‘I have them down pat, thanks to my mother.’
Leaning back in the leather wing chair, Neville now asked, ‘Do you mind if I smoke a cigar, Ned?’
‘Please do,’ was his laconic response.
Neville went through the process of clipping the end of the cigar, lighting it, striking several matches to do so, and puffing hard. Finally, it ignited, and he relaxed, settled into the chair.
Although he had not shown it in any way, Neville was beginning to worry about his cousin. Since Lily’s death, two weeks ago now, he had seemed depressed, withdrawn even, which was not like him at all. There was an aura of sadness around Ned, and it showed in his sorrowful eyes, his gloomy expression. What struck Neville most forcibly was the quietness, almost a resignation, in the younger man.
As he glanced at him surreptitiously, Neville noticed the dark smudges under his eyes, which were lacklustre, and he appeared thinner in the face. He’s not sleeping well, Neville decided, and he’s grieving. But then why wouldn’t he be? He had, after all, loved Lily; Neville had come to understand that. Time. He needs time to heal. But he’s young, he’ll spring back.
These thoughts brought a certain comfort to Neville, and he turned his mind to the board meeting which would be held in London in a few days. Ned would present his case against Henry Grant, and Neville was praying that he would win. He had to win.
For his part, Edward was focused on another meeting, one which had taken place last week. In the offices of Lily’s solicitors, to be exact.
He had been meaning to tell Neville about this, yet he had not found the right time to do so. Deciding it was now, at this very moment, Edward announced, ‘Lily left me everything, Neville.’
Taken by surprise, Neville sat up straighter and stared at Edward through startled eyes. ‘Everything,’ he repeated, sounding incredulous.
‘Yes.’
‘You mean she made you her heir?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘What of her family? Are they not put out?’ Neville’s light blue eyes narrowed. ‘Surely there will be some sort
of reaction, trouble about this? Or is the will watertight?’
‘It’s watertight all right, but there is no problem, Neville. Lily was an only child, well…actually her brother died when he was a little boy, of meningitis. So she ended up being the only child of wealthy parents. There are no other relatives. Lily was alone, except for me. And Vicky, her best friend.’
‘I see.’ Neville puffed on his cigar for a moment, and then murmured, ‘It’s always been my understanding that her late husbands left her very well taken care of indeed. Isn’t that so?’
‘It is, and she had a very shrewd head on her. Lily made some excellent investments.’
‘It’s a large estate?’
‘Oh yes. Lily left me her house in Belsize Park Gardens, the house she recently bought in Kent, and another house she purchased about a month ago in South Audley Street. And—’
‘Good Lord!’ Neville exclaimed, cutting across Edward. ‘She has made you a wealthy man, Ned, hasn’t she?’
He sighed, and pursed his lips. ‘She has. However, I’d much prefer to have her living and breathing and here in this room with us, rather than dead and buried in the ground.’
‘Of course you would, I fully understand your feelings.’
‘She left most of her jewellery to Vicky,’ Ned went on, ‘except for a few things she bequeathed to Fenella, and some of her antiques to Vicky, other pieces to me. The rest of her furniture will go to Haddon House. Actually, Lily was rather generous to them, Neville. And to several of her other favourite charities as well, as a matter of fact. The residue of her estate comes to me.’
Neville sat back, his eyes focused on Edward. After a moment’s reflection, he said slowly, ‘I imagine the residue is quite large.’
The Ravenscar Dynasty Page 37