скачать книгу бесплатно
‘I am well, sir, thank you,’ John answered, and ignored the question about his late father.
Margot stood up and walked around the desk, came towards John Summers, a wide smile playing on her face. ‘Have you heard the news about Deravenel?’ she asked, and began to chortle, her merriment reflected in her eyes.
John chose not to respond. Instead he turned to Henry Grant and murmured, ‘Would you excuse me, sir? I need to take Margot back to my office. I wish to go over several business matters with her, rather urgently.’
A faint smile glanced across Henry Grant’s vacant face, and he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘Go along, my boy, go along.’
Opening the door and standing back, John looked at Margot and said in a low voice, ‘After you, please.’
He was silent as he walked with her down the corridor to his office, and it was only when they were inside and he had closed the door that he turned on her, his anger rising. ‘I know you are probably responsible for the attack on Deravenel, so please don’t deny it. I think you hired thugs to beat him up.’
She looked at him intently, her dark eyes holding his, and then leaning closer, she said softly, ‘Why are you so angry, my dear? Apparently he got a whipping. Someone taught him a lesson, and that makes me happy. And that’s the end of it. The end of Ned Deravenel. He will not be a problem anymore. Someone did us a favour.’ She was jubilant.
Grasping her arm tightly, leaning into her, his face filled with fury, John Summers said in a harsh but controlled voice, ‘You foolish, foolish woman. This is not the end of anything. It is the beginning of a war. You have just unleashed a terrible force.’
‘Oh John, do not be so silly…so melodramatic—’
‘There’s going to be a catastrophe,’ he hissed, glaring at her with sudden animosity. ‘They will retaliate. I have no doubt about that.’
Margot Grant looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I do not understand—’
‘No, you don’t,’ he snapped. ‘And there is another matter we must clarify. It is this. Please do not bring Henry to the office until he is in better health. And if that should happen, and you do choose to bring him, please make sure he is properly dressed, and not so dishevelled.’
‘John, please, let us not quarrel, not you and I. You know I do not wish to upset you. I am your friend, your ally—’ Remembering his manners he nodded, and said in a less angry tone, ‘I know you mean well, Margot. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.’
She stared at him, still nonplussed by his anger of a moment ago. And without another word she turned sharply on her heels and left.
Once he was alone John Summers gazed at the door, and snapped his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them he shook his head as he went to his desk.
Why in God’s name had he ever succumbed to that woman’s charms? But he had, and he had no one else to blame but himself. Thank God, he had never been intimate with her. Their relationship was still only a flirtation, which must now end.
Aubrey Masters left Deravenels early that day.
Once a week he went to see his supplier, and today seemed like a good day to stop by the small shop to purchase his roots and grains. It was a sunny afternoon, quite mild for March, and as he walked up the Strand at a brisk pace he endeavoured to shed his anxieties about business.
John Summers was in a fury about Margot Grant, that was obvious, and he couldn’t say he blamed him. She was always interfering in things, and this did not sit right with John or some of the other executives at Deravenels. He himself found her irritating; besides which, there was no room for women in the company. It was not their place to be involved in business. And so Mrs Grant should not be there. Being the wife of Henry Grant was no reason at all to permit her presence in a man’s world of commerce.
Aubrey’s thoughts veered away from Margot Grant and settled on Alfredo Oliveri. Now there was an enigma. He had never liked the man, had always found him ambitious, competitive and absorbed by his sense of entitlement. Oliveri had worked for the company all of his adult life and believed this made him special, gave him untold privileges.
Years ago Aubrey had wondered if Oliveri wanted his job, and this idea had lately surfaced yet again. Oliveri was hanging around London far too long at the moment, continuing to stretch out his time at the London office. Now Aubrey couldn’t help wondering why this was; Oliveri ought to be back in Italy, doing what he was supposed to be doing. Could it be that Oliveri was a traitor? This unexpected thought jolted Aubrey. Was Oliveri in cahoots with Edward Deravenel? Was he now in his camp? Had he changed sides? The more Aubrey thought about it the more he believed it to be true. Why else would Oliveri be hanging around headquarters? Also, he had just learned that Oliveri was helping Deravenel understand the many divisions in the company, from mining to wine-making apparently.
Once again, it struck Aubrey that Oliveri really did want his job, and that was undoubtedly why he had allied himself with Ned Deravenel. Perhaps they had become close in Carrara. I must find a way to discredit Alfredo Oliveri, he thought, get him out of the company, and the sooner the better. This is my priority.
So busy was Aubrey Masters with his planning and plotting, lost in his thoughts, he had not noticed that a well-dressed couple had fallen in behind him and were following him up the Strand, at a distance.
Continuing on his regular route he crossed Trafalgar Square, wending his way through the jostling crowds. Intent on his destination, once more he had no idea at all that another person was now following him as well as the couple. This was a young woman, nicely dressed, but not quite as fashionably as the man and woman. After a quick, brief word with them, the young woman fell in behind them, but again keeping her distance. However, she made certain they were always in her sights, as they had instructed her to do.
Although it was a fairly long walk from the Strand to Piccadilly, Aubrey was enjoying it this afternoon. Striding along the wide thoroughfare he glanced to his left at one moment and immediately noticed how verdant Green Park was looking, living up to its name. Spring was not too far away.
Turning down Half Moon Street, Aubrey was on Curzon Street within seconds. He thought of going into his favourite barbershop to purchase a bottle of his aftershave lotion, and then changed his mind. He was far too anxious to reach Shepherd’s Market.
It was at this moment that the young woman who had been following him turned the corner of Half Moon Street herself. And she hurried to catch up with Aubrey Masters. She was a little out of breath when she tapped him on his arm and said, ‘Sir, please excuse me.’
Startled, and also irritated, Aubrey swung around forcefully, sharp words springing to his tongue. But when he found himself staring at one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, the words remained unsaid. Her genuine loveliness startled him, and he found himself asking in a warm voice, ‘How can I be of assistance to you, young lady?’
‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ she apologized, smiling at him, showing lovely white teeth, ‘but I’m not from these parts, and I find myself lost. I’m looking for Shepherd’s Market, but I can’t find it.’
Struck by the sweetness of her smile and her soft voice, Aubrey beamed at her and exclaimed, ‘I will be happy to help you. It just so happens I am going to Shepherd’s Market myself. So come along, let us walk there together. It’s not far, just up the street.’
The girl smiled again. ‘What a relief. And how kind of you, sir, to take me there.’ Falling into step with Aubrey, she went on, ‘Is it a big place, Shepherd’s Market? Do they sell many different things?’
‘Oh yes indeed, but it’s quite a small area, compact, actually.’ Looking down at her, he was struck by her beauty again. She was delightful in his eyes. ‘And I suppose you are looking for some pretty things for yourself?’ he murmured in a voice that was wholly unfamiliar to him.
The young woman shook her head. ‘Oh no, sir, I am hoping to find the shop that sells grains and pods, and other vegetarian things. For my mother. She has been very ill. Her stomach’s been acting up, and a friend advised her to forgo such foods as meat and fowl, to eat much more lightly. She now wants to partake of vegetables and the like.’
‘How curious!’ Aubrey answered, his eyes sparkling. ‘I myself am a vegetarian, and it just so happens I am going to that very shop you’re looking for.’
‘How lucky I am,’ she said, and stopped walking. Thrusting out her hand she added, ‘May I introduce myself, sir. I am Phyllida Blue.’
Shaking her hand, full of smiles, Aubrey said, ‘And my name is Aubrey Masters. So pleased to meet you, Miss Blue.’
‘Please call me Phyllida. Everyone does.’
Walking up Curzon Street together, Aubrey told the young woman about the items he purchased from the shop, and extolled the virtues of vegetables and grains, spoke with knowledge about the importance of vegetarianism. Within a few minutes they were entering the cobbled yards which made up Shepherd’s Market, where in the centre of the shops, small restaurants and coffee houses stood the favourite shop of Aubrey Masters.
‘Here it is, Phyllida,’ he announced, opening the door for her and ushering her inside.
‘’Ello, Mr Masters,’ the man behind the counter said, ‘I was expectin’ you today.’ He eyed the young woman, and, just like Aubrey, he couldn’t help smiling at her. What a pretty one she was, with her golden curls, large blue eyes and pert mouth. A tasty bit if ever he’d seen one.
Noticing the man’s reaction, Aubrey muttered somewhat possessively, ‘This is Miss Blue, Phineas. She is looking for certain items for her mother. But I shall show her around first.’
‘Please be my guest,’ Phineas answered, and as Aubrey turned his back he smiled at the young woman, and winked.
She smiled in return and followed Aubrey, saying, as she did, ‘I was told to get dried mushrooms, lentils, sago, and various nuts and pods. And certain dried flowers, and roots as well.’
‘Yes, yes, I will help you, my dear,’ Aubrey responded, finding himself so attracted to the young woman he was amazed at himself. She looked as if she was in her early twenties, half his age, and she was so lovely she stirred something inside him which had long been dormant. He wondered how he could arrange to see her again. For see her again he must.
‘He’s hooked,’ Phyllida Blue said three hours later when she joined the fashionably dressed couple in the tap room of a pub in Maiden Lane up behind the Strand.
‘So tell us all about it,’ the man said, grinning at her.
‘Easy as eatin’ pie,’ Phyllida replied, and smiled at the man and his companion. ‘He fell for me hook, line and sinker. Took me for coffee afterwards, and he wants me to meet him next week. Same time, same place, Charlie.’
‘Good girl.’
The woman eyed her fob watch. ‘We’d best be going. We’ve all got to be at the theatre soon.’
‘We’re all right for a minute or two, Sadie,’ Charlie answered. ‘We don’t have far to go.’
Looking across at Phyllida, he said with a throaty chuckle, ‘You’re a good little actress, Maisie. I trained you well.’
‘You did, and thanks for watching out for me today,’ she replied.
John Summers was so unsettled that evening he found it difficult to eat the excellent dinner his cook had so carefully prepared for him. Finally throwing the white linen napkin down on the table, he left the dining room, swiftly retreated to the library.
A moment later Fellowes, his butler, knocked on the door and came in. ‘Is everything all right, sir?’
‘Everything’s fine, thank you,’ John responded in a quiet tone.
‘Cook is worried, sir. Did everything suit?’
‘Yes, it did. My compliments to Cook, Fellowes, and please pour me a cognac, would you?’
When he was finally alone John Summers settled back in the leather wing chair in front of the blazing fire, nursing the balloon of brandy.
Uppermost in his thoughts were the events of the day. In many ways his eyes had been opened. He knew exactly where he stood with his executives, understood much more about them, knew their weaknesses. Finally. Certainly he had been startled by the knowledge that Margot Grant had a truly ruthless streak in her. He also now realized that she was something of a liability. On the other hand, Henry Grant relied on her, and he loved her…if love was an emotion felt by such a lost and demented man.
John sighed to himself and looked across at the small painting of Georgina which stood on the table next to the fireplace. If only his fiancée had not been killed in that accident several years ago his life would be very different now. He would have a wife and a family, and they would have eased his loneliness. As it was, his life was unbearable at times, because he missed Georgina so much, and because he had no confidante, no close friend whom he could trust. He was utterly alone. Except for his brothers, living in Somerset, and they were not all that close these days.
He took a long gulp of the brandy and then put the glass down on a nearby table, closed his eyes, filled with myriad thoughts. One thing was paramount in his mind…Thank God he had had the wisdom not to fall into the sexual trap that was Margot Grant. A narrow escape, he thought. And he pitied Jack Beaufield who was apparently her new victim.
John knew he had his work cut out for him in the next few months. The problems at the company would not go away. They had to be solved. He was damned if he was going to let the House of Deravenels fall. Somehow he would find clever solutions. With the help of a few good men, he would bring the company back up on top. He must.
TWENTY-THREE (#)
At times Cecily Deravenel wished she had been born a man. There were many things she could do better and faster than some of the men she knew; but as a child of Victoria’s reign and now a woman of the Edwardian era, so much had been, and still was, forbidden to her. Over the years she had suffered her frustration, annoyance and impatience in silence, as had so many other women she knew. Many men, in public and private, complained about Mrs Pankhurst and her fight for the rights of women, but Cecily could not help but admire her, and her efforts on behalf of the female sex.
At this precise moment, Cecily wished she had been standing in her late husband’s shoes over the last few years. She would have definitely challenged Henry Grant about his mismanagement of Deravenels, and his right to run it. Curiously, Richard had never really done so, perhaps out of sentiment, and a lingering affection for Harry whom he had known throughout his life, since Henry’s childhood, in fact.
It was all here, all the documents which would have brought the situation to a head, if Richard had so wished. Earlier that morning she had gone down to the vault in the basement of the Charles Street house and opened it with Swinton’s help. Once she was alone, Cecily had removed a large pile of documents, which Richard had secured in a white linen pillow case, and had taken them up to the dining room.
Now these were spread out in front of her, and she studied them carefully. All of the papers were actually copies of ancient documents which dated back hundreds of years, documents so fragile they were stored in the vaults at the Deravenel offices in the Strand.
Long ago, Richard had told her that every five years or so, before the copies themselves yellowed and aged, they were copied afresh. He had gone on to explain that those originals in the office vaults dated as far back as the founding father of the dynasty, Guy de Ravenel, and were very precious and also extremely valuable historically.
As she slowly read, turned the pages, and read on, Cecily quickly understood that everything Richard had written in his diary was correct. She was struck, most forcibly, by the fact that he himself could so easily have presented a case to the board, yet for some reason he had not put that plan into operation. He had only written about doing it.
Once more, she wondered why? Sentiment aside, he was not a fearful man; certainly he was capable of standing up to anyone. He had never been cowardly, just the opposite, in fact. Yet, in this instance, he had backed away from the fight, and had merely continued to grumble about the sixty-year-old usurpation and his inalienable rights and so on, and had angered people in the process. She could not comprehend why he had not acted, given the evidence, and now she would never know. He had taken that reason to the grave with him.
Two hours later, fully informed about the rules and regulations of Deravenels, understanding everything, she collected the papers and carried them up to her bedroom in the pillow case. Placing them on her bed for a moment, she opened a drawer in the chest which stood in the corner, and placed the documents inside.
Later she would show them to Edward, when he returned from lunch with Neville and Will. Even though her husband had never seen fit to take advantage of her many talents and insights when it came to business, she knew her son would. And this pleased her. Ned had always listened to her opinions, paid attention to what she had to say, knowing he would benefit from her wisdom and sage advice.
‘I can’t believe it’s you, Johnny!’ Edward exclaimed, rushing across the library of Neville’s Chelsea house. ‘No one told me you would be here today!’
Hurrying forward to greet his favourite cousin, Johnny Watkins explained, with a wide grin, ‘That’s because no one knew I would be arriving last night.’
Meeting in the middle of the floor, the two men wore appraising expressions as they eyed one another with great affection. They both laughed, remembering so much. They were not only first cousins but the best of friends, having bonded long ago when they were growing up in Yorkshire—Johnny at Witton Castle, Rick’s splendid home in the Dales, Edward at Ravenscar on the high cliffs at the edge of the North Sea. They were regular visitors to each other’s homes, and also often stayed with Neville and Nan at Thorpe Manor near Ripon.
Although Johnny was a few years older than Ned, they had always seen eye to eye, shared the same values…honour, integrity, loyalty to family, and devotion to friends. These were their sincere and genuine beliefs, and they had remained steadfast in their love for each other and in their friendship.
Standing away from Edward, Johnny’s dark-grey eyes swept over his cousin’s face, and he said, with a faint smile, ‘You don’t look like the wounded warrior to me.’
‘I’m not. Not anymore, Johnny. It’s two weeks since the incident, so the bruises are almost gone. I’m no longer black and blue, and the shoulder pains have also fled.’
Johnny touched Ned’s arm lightly, his expression serious. ‘Thank God you’re all right. You could’ve been killed, you know, Ned. And then where would I have been? Where would all of us have been? After losing my brother Thomas and your Edmund, and our fathers, well, I don’t think I could have survived the loss of you.’
There was a moment’s silence.
Ned’s brilliantly blue eyes turned dark with pain before he said slowly, ‘I know, it’s still a raw wound, for all of us. But we do have our families, and each other, Johnny.’
‘For life,’ Johnny answered.
Ned nodded, smiled at his friend and cousin. And at this moment he had no way of knowing that it would not always be so. Not in the end.
‘How is Isabella? And your boy?’ Ned asked.
‘Wonderful, and if my sojourn here becomes a more permanent situation, she will come with our son to London, live here with me. Neville is well satisfied that things are under control in Yorkshire. The woollen mills in Bradford are turning out the best cloth, a lot of it for export. Our heavy-machinery manufacturing plants in Leeds are booming. The coal mines are operating well, better than ever—in fact all of our industrial interests are at full throttle. My father had everything running smoothly when he was killed—’ Johnny broke off, looked away for a second before adding, ‘and Neville has always had his business interests on an even keel. That’s why he decided I should come here and keep you company, so to speak. Until we take over Deravenels.’
‘And that we will certainly be doing in the not-too-distant future!’ Neville Watkins announced self-confidently from the doorway, and came striding into the library accompanied by Alfredo Oliveri and Amos Finnister.
Once he had greeted Ned affectionately, he introduced the other two men to his brother John.
Although Neville and Johnny bore a marked family resemblance, they were quite different. Neville, the eldest, was always elegance personified, dressed in the best. Johnny was not at all flamboyant in his choice of attire, and he dressed rather simply in good clothes that were understated.
Johnny was as good looking as all of the Watkins’ clan, and like his older brother he bore a strong resemblance to his Aunt Cecily Watkins Deravenel.
As for his character, he was hardworking and disciplined but not quite the slave to business that his brother was. He very frequently teased Neville, told him he lived out of a suitcase as he travelled the length and breadth of England.
Johnny liked the quiet country life, was something of a homebody, unlike Neville and Ned, who thrived amidst luxury, glamour and splendour, and loved the gilded life of society.
Neville indicated the men should sit down near the fireplace. ‘Even though it’s the beginning of April, it’s still rather cold,’ he pointed out, and seated himself near the hearth.
A moment later Will Hasling came striding into the library, greeting everyone in his usual breezy and cheerful manner, and then he hurried over to Johnny; they shook hands. They were old friends, good friends, and trusted each other implicitly.
Neville said, ‘Oliveri has a few things to tell us, so I suggest he speaks first.’
Alfredo nodded, and sitting slightly forward in the chair, he said, ‘The first thing I want to report is the general attitude at Deravenels after Mr Edward was so brutally attacked two weeks ago. I noticed the tense atmosphere myself, but most of my information came from Robert Aspen and Christopher Green. They are on our side. Anyway, they told me, separately, by the way, that John Summers was really furious, that he hauled his ex-ecutives over the coals regarding the attack on Mr Edward, and demanded to know who was responsible.’
‘I’ll wager they all denied having anything to do with it,’ Ned exclaimed, glancing across at Neville.
Alfredo nodded vehemently. ‘Naturally they did. And then James Cliff did something quite treacherous. He said, rather pointedly, that Jack Beaufield ought to know who was behind it since he was “sequestered” with Margot Grant quite a lot these days.’
‘Really,’ Neville remarked, then laughed at the thought of this. ‘Well, we sort of knew that already, didn’t we, Finnister?’
The private investigator smiled but remained silent.
‘Jack Beaufield admitted that he was friendly with her,’ Alfredo explained, ‘but insisted he had refused to help her do harm to Ned. He suggested she hire thugs to do her dirty work.’
