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After Amos had ordered, he looked across at Charlie, his brows furrowing. ‘Maisie is leaving tomorrow as planned?’
‘She is, an’ as I told yer, I’m going wiv ’er. Ter Liverpool. On the evening train. Board the ship the next day, that we do. And off we goes, sailin’ away ter America where the streets are paved wiv gold.’
Amos nodded, and actually felt a surge of relief that Charlie was leaving London. It would be better in the long run. Too many people knew they were associated, and it was much smarter to terminate their business relationship in view of future events.
‘I shall miss you, my friend,’ Amos murmured, a sudden sadness creeping into his eyes. Charlie had always brought laughter, a few jokes and loyalty into his life, and he had always been reliable, devoted.
‘Same fing for me, Mr F. Yer’ve been a good ’un, ’elped me out when I’ve needed it. But now I’m gonna be a good bruvver to Maisie. She deserves it.’
‘She does. And by the way just make sure she never uses the name Phyllida Blue again. And tell her to dispose of the blonde wig.’
‘I got yer, Mr F. I understands.’
Reaching into his inside breast pocket, Amos removed a thick packet and handed it to Charlie. ‘Put that money safely away, my lad. Tomorrow there’ll be another one like that when I meet you at the railway station. And by the way, don’t forget to stay in touch with me when you arrive in New York.’
Charlie’s cheeky grin spread across his face once more, and he reached out and grasped Amos’s hand resting on top of the table. ‘Friends for life, Mr F.’
And, as it turned out, they were.
Margot Grant stared at herself in the Venetian mirror, viewing her image appraisingly. Satisfied that she was looking her very best tonight she walked away, went and sat down on the big, plump sofa in front of the fire. Leaning back against the many soft cushions, she willed herself to relax at last.
After a moment or two her eyes roamed around her small and intimate private sitting room in the grand house on Upper Grosvenor Street where she lived with Henry Grant—when he was not away on retreat.
The room this evening was just as perfect as she herself was. She had set out to create an enticing roseate glow in this most intimate place in the house, and she realized how well she had succeeded.
The walls were covered in a pale-pink watered silk, while a deeper rose-coloured ribbed silk upholstered this big sofa, several chairs, and a small loveseat set against the back wall. The tied-back draperies at two tall windows were the same rose colour as the sofa and chairs but were made of light, floating taffeta. Beautiful landscapes by French masters hung on the walls, and a number of priceless French objetsd’art were scattered around.
The lighting was soft. The pink silk shades on the pink alabaster lamps added to the rosy feeling, as did the blazing fire. Margot sighed. It was a room designed by her for seduction and she hoped it would work wonders tonight.
She smiled inwardly. Jack Beaufield, her latest flirtation, had called it the honey trap, and what a fitting name that was. He had added that it was feminine, sexual and with her at the centre even more exciting. But she had made it clear to him that she was unavailable.
There was a faint smell of roses in the air, and she wore the same Attar of Roses perfume. John Summers’ favourite. He was her favourite. She must win him back, she needed him by her side. How foolish she had been to antagonize him. He had always been her champion; she thought of him as her knight in shining armour, and of herself as his queen.
Despite his genuine adoration of her she had never claimed him in her bed, made him hers as she had his father years ago when she had been only a young girl. But she must do it. Tonight. She could not wait for him any longer. Her whole body raged for him. She lusted after him. Had to have him. It was imperative that she owned him sexually, not only to satisfy her rampant desires but to bind him to her forever.
Margot closed her eyes, thinking of him. He was a man she had wanted for a long time now, the perfect man for her, and she knew he would be a passionate lover, knew it in her bones. She needed a man she knew she could trust, who would meet her voracious sexual appetite with a raging yearning of his own. How shehad yearned for him. For so long.
In all of her life, she had never believed she would end up married to a man like Henry Grant. They were total opposites.
She prided herself on her vivid intelligence, her education, her many talents—she played the piano like a true artist, could paint and embroider, and had a knowledge of gourmet food and the great wines of France. Her grandmother had trained her in etiquette and manners; she had taught her how to run great houses and manage country estates. Her father and grandmother had made sure she was a great lady, as was befitting the daughter of a French industrialist such as her father was.
The marriage to Henry Grant had been arranged, was a marriage of convenience. Henry had bestowed on her a famous name, she had brought him a grand dowry. And her father’s business holdings and land in Anjou would be his one day, through her.
Proud, spirited and undeniably the most beautiful of women, she had come to England full of anticipation and expectations. She had come to marry Henry, the head of Deravenels, the most famous trading company in the world, and she was excited about the union arranged by her father.
At fifteen she had expected a dashing Englishman. He was twenty-four and she had imagined a vigorous and experienced lover, a man of charm and elegance. She discovered instead that she was marrying…a monk. More or less. Mon Dieu! And a monk who was daft in the head.
She had been married to him for fifteen years, and now, at thirty, she was in full bloom. Frustrated in every way. What she longed for at this moment was a man in her life and in her bed. But not just any man. A particular man, one who was already deep in her heart. And that man was John Summers. Her own female longings aside, he was the man who was actually running Deravenels, and she wanted to be by his side, learning from him for her son’s sake.
Looking at the antique ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, Margot suddenly rose and went to the window, stood looking out, hoping he would come soon. She did not have long to wait. Within a few minutes the carriage arrived; he alighted, and she turned, sped across the room and out into the black marble entrance foyer. Before he could lift the knocker she had opened the door.
He appeared startled to see her on the front steps.
‘Chéri,’ she murmured in her low breathy way. ‘Come in, come in.’
‘Good evening,’ he said in his cultured voice, and smiled at her.
Smiling in return, she took his overcoat and placed it on the wooden hall bench, then ushered him into the small private sitting room.
He glanced around, then turned to her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘It’s nice to see you, Margot,’ he murmured, his eyes sweeping over her, taking in the low décolletage of the pink silk gown. This was beautiful and fitted her tightly, showed off to advantage her perfect breasts, tiny waist and curvaceous hips. ‘Thank you for your unexpected invitation,’ he added, dragging his eyes away from her.
‘Sit down, please, here on the sofa in front of the fire. I shall bring you champagne. Yes?’
‘That’s a good idea,’ he said as he sat down, and leaned forward, reached his hands towards the fire. ‘It’s turned into a cool evening.’ He sat back and watched her intently as she floated over to a console table and poured champagne into two crystal flutes. A moment later she was handing one to him.
‘Ah, my favourite. Pink champagne.’
She laughed as she seated herself next to him. ‘It matches the room.’ She clinked her glass next to his. ‘Santé.’
‘Your health, my dear. And how is Henry?’
‘The same…always the same. Resting at this moment.’
‘Will he not join us then?’
‘Ah, non, non, c’est pas possible ce soir.’
‘I am sorry he can’t come down. So—it’s just the two of us then?’
She gave him a careful, guarded look. ‘Oui, les deux.’
He sat back, remained silent, keeping his thoughts to himself.
John Summers was nobody’s fool, and he had suspected earlier that she had invited him here to seduce him, that she was about to use all of her wiles on him. But suddenly, unexpectedly, it didn’t seem to matter one iota. He was tired and lonely, and frustrated in a variety of different ways; he carried the endless and heavy burdens of Deravenels on his shoulders and never had a moment’s joy. Not these days. So let her try, he thought. Let her try to inveigle me into her bed. And let us see what happens.
Mistaking his sudden total silence for lingering anger, after their recent quarrel at the offices, she said softly, ‘I am sorry I annoyed you, made you so angry. Please say you forgive me. I want so much to have your forgiveness, and your respect.’
‘You have both,’ he responded swiftly in a neutral voice.
‘Oh, thank you! You have made me so happy. Merci,Jean,’ she cried, pronouncing his name the French way.
Impulsively, she took hold of his hand. ‘I have been so worried you would no longer be my friend. And I am alone, and lonely.’
His mouth twitched with sudden, hidden laughter. He bit it back, and finally remarked, ‘But I’ve been so friendly towards you this past week, we even had lunch together. Didn’t you realize I was…back in the fold.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes.’
She leaned closer, revealing a portion of her beautiful breasts as she did so, and kissed him on the cheek. Then she looked at him pointedly, raising a brow.
He stared at her. Mesmerized. God, she was beautiful. A genuine true beauty. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He took in the perfect white skin, the flawless complexion, the arched black brows, the dark eyes full of hidden depths, the cloud of black hair, unbound tonight and worn hanging loose around her heart-shaped face. Her mouth was red, a brilliant red from the lip rouge, and it was luscious. She was luscious. Ripe for the picking. And such a temptress, tempting him. He felt a stirring between his legs as they held each other’s eyes.
He said, after a few seconds, ‘You have a questioning look on your face.’ His voice sounded hoarse to him. ‘What is it? Ask me, whatever it is.’
Margot put down the champagne glass, drew closer to him. He could smell the perfume of roses on her neck and breasts, intoxicating him, and he felt himself growing hot. At last, she whispered, ‘Will you be mine?’
Before he could stop himself he asked bluntly, ‘In the way my father was? Is that what you mean? All of me? Not just my loyalty to your cause? Is that what you want?’
He had startled her. ‘Yes,’ she answered finally.
‘I have a question,’ John announced after a moment’s consideration.
‘Ask me.’
‘What of Jack Beaufield?…what is there between the two of you?’
‘There is nothing between us. There was only a mild flirtation, of no consequence. There has never been anything between me and anyone else. That is, other than your father.’ She focused on him intently. ‘Truly. I promise. I am not a liar, whatever else I am.’
‘I believe you, don’t protest so.’
She smiled and then she began to giggle like a young girl.
‘What is it?’ He frowned, staring at her in bafflement.
‘Jack Beaufield said this room was like a honeypot.’
‘Did he now?’
There was a long moment of total silence between them, and then quite unexpectedly, all of a sudden, John took hold of her and pulled her almost roughly into his arms. He kissed her on the mouth; it was a deep and passionate kiss, and she returned it fully, sliding her tongue into his mouth, wanting to devour him.
John still held her tightly and kept on kissing her, then abruptly he moved his face and said against her ear, ‘But he was wrong. You are the honeypot.’
‘Your honeypot?’ she whispered.
‘Ah yes. Mine.’ After a moment, he said, ‘What of Henry? Is he sleeping?’
‘I gave him a sedative,’ she admitted.
‘The staff?’
‘It’s Sunday. They have the night off.’
‘So, we are alone. Nevertheless, I must lock the door, and draw the curtains.’
‘Yes, do,’ she murmured, leaning back against the cushions, fiddling with the buttons of the peignoir, opening it.
He was gone only a moment. When he came back to the fireplace he switched off two of the lamps, saying as he did, ‘It’s just a little too bright.’
When he turned around to face her he saw that she had opened the top buttons of the pink gown, then realized it was a robe not a gown at all. Even more of her beautiful breasts were revealed, most provocatively, and she was gazing up at him, a yearning expression on her face, her eyes locked on him.
He took her in his arms and held her close, whispering her name over and over, then began to kiss the voluptuous mouth. Within seconds they were both aflame.
Reaching for his hand, she placed it on her leg. He glanced down, saw that her legs were bare…soft, smooth and firm beneath his hand. Instantly he knew it was an invitation to explore. And he did so, running his hand along her inner thigh and across her stomach.
He heard her catch her breath and he looked down at her intently.
‘I am yours. Do what you want with me.’ As she spoke she tugged at the front of the peignoir and it came open fully.
Now she truly was revealed to him, and as he gazed at her slender white body he caught his breath. ‘Oh God, you’re beautiful, Margot!’ And he leaned over her, buried his face against her breasts.
‘Take me, take me,’ she moaned against his hair.
It took him a moment to get undressed, but when he was finally free of his jacket and trousers, he flung off his shirt and cravat, lay down with her on the huge sofa which enveloped them like a bed.
Their kissing and touching became more frantic than ever; her arms and legs went around him and he was poised over her, looking down into eyes the colour of jet.
‘Please, please,’ she begged, ‘take me to you.’
And very slowly and very carefully he did so, making himself part of her. They began a long ritual of rhythmic moving, and kissing, and he found himself drowning in her. And then in a moment of sudden and absolute clarity he wondered why he had ever fought her off, fled from her sexual desire for him. She was sheer bliss.
TWENTY-FIVE (#)
Every morning when he arrived at Deravenels, Edward spent several hours studying the books, brochures and pamphlets which Alfredo Oliveri had given him. As Oliveri had intended, Edward was gaining a greater understanding of all the divisions of Deravenels.
Almost immediately he had found himself gravitating to the mining division, discovered he was particularly interested in diamonds and precious stones. In only a few weeks he had become extremely knowledgeable, most especially about one stone—the diamond.
He had always had a prodigious memory, much better than most people’s, and when they were at Oxford together Will had announced that Edward had a photographic memory. It was true that after reading something twice he knew it by heart. ‘You would have made a good actor,’ Will had once told him, and Edward had laughed, and agreed, knowing that there was a lot of the actor in him.
This morning he was immersed in a book about Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, the merchant and traveller who had journeyed from Paris to India in the seventeenth century, usually heading for the famous Golconda mines, now extinct. Tavernier was the first person to bring diamonds back to Europe from the subcontinent of India. Louis XVI had bought diamonds from Tavernier, as had other members of his court who were able to afford them.
As he went on reading eagerly, Edward made notes on a pad. He had recently become intrigued by those very special diamonds which were both big and perfect, and because of this they were given a name. Thus each one became a famous diamond, much valued and coveted. Now he had just discovered that one of the first of these was called the Grand Mazarin, actually named after Cardinal Mazarin, who had owned it. On his death the Cardinal had bequeathed it to Louis XIV.
Unexpectedly, the door of Edward’s office burst open, and as he glanced up Alfredo came rushing in looking troubled.
Always pale skinned, Alfredo was as white as chalk, so much so his freckles seemed to stand out most prominently across the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones.
Edward knew at once that something was seriously wrong, and his stomach lurched. He couldn’t help wondering if Alfredo had finally been pushed out of the company, or at least instructed to return to Carrara.
Drawing to a standstill in front of the desk, Alfredo stood there staring at Edward, obviously perturbed. He seemed to have lost his voice.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Edward asked.
‘Aubrey Masters is dead.’
Dumbstruck, Edward simply gaped at the other man. He was shocked at this stark announcement, and felt a cold chill run through him.
Alfredo sat down heavily in the chair.
