The Ravenscar Dynasty

THIRTEEN

London

Neville Watkins was about to meet three men, each one of them very different. As he walked back and forth along the back portico of his Chelsea house he thought about them. He was well aware that each would bring something unique to the meeting; what they said, and what was ultimately agreed upon, would change many lives, some for the worse, others for the better.

As Neville turned and headed back along the paving stones a door suddenly flew open and a child stepped out. It was his small daughter Anne, and as soon as she saw him she ran towards him, her little feet flying down the walkway. She was waving and crying out, ‘Papa! Papa! Here I am!’

Laughing, he hurried forward, caught her in his arms and swung her up, held her close to his chest. ‘Hello, my little sweetheart,’ he said against her glossy light brown hair. ‘You should be wearing a coat, you know, my pet. You’ll catch a chill in this cold weather.’

‘But the sun is shining, Papa,’ she answered, staring into his eyes.

‘It’s still February, Anne.’

‘The flowers are coming out,’ she countered, pointing to the snowdrops and purple and yellow crocuses peeping up out of the dark earth of the borders set around the lawn. ‘Spring flowers Mama says.’

‘They are indeed. However, we must go inside, where it’s warmer. And you and I, well, we shall see each other later.’

‘Mama says Ned is coming. Will he bring Richard with him?’

‘I don’t think so, sweetheart, not this morning. We are having a business meeting.’

‘Today is Saturday, Papa,’ she said, sounding reproachful.

He grinned at her. ‘I know,’ he answered, and suddenly recognized the disappointment in her eyes. Her face had changed, become sad, he thought.

‘You like your cousin, don’t you?’

She nodded.

By this time Neville had reached the door, and putting her down he ushered her into the house, stepped inside after her. Before they had even moved across the central gallery he heard his wife’s footsteps on the polished wood floor. He always recognized them: only she in the household walked with such determination. Slap, slap, slap, her feet went, coming down hard on the wood, and a moment later she was entering the gallery. ‘Ah, there you are my little one,’ Anne Watkins exclaimed when she spotted her namesake. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’

‘She came out in search of me,’ Neville remarked, walking across the gallery to his wife, putting his hand on her shoulder affectionately. ‘She was really looking for young Dick, though, I do believe.’ He smiled at her, his eyes full of love. ‘You know how attached she is to him, Nan, she’s his shadow whenever he’s staying at Thorpe Manor with us.’

Anne Watkins, known as Nan all of her life, nodded and reached out, took hold of her daughter’s hand. ‘She’s been attached to him since she took her first steps, and stumbled into his arms…arms that were certainly on the ready to catch her.’

Neville was silent for a moment, looking intently at his wife, his face suddenly growing thoughtful, his eyes narrowing. ‘A good thing it is Richard she has adopted, taken into her heart and not the other one. I never quite know about him…the middle one, that is.’

‘What do you mean?’ Nan asked. She looked slightly puzzled, as if she were unsure of his question, its meaning.

‘The breeding is there, but not the stamina.’

‘You sound as if you’re talking about horseflesh.’

Neville threw back his head and laughed uproariously, highly amused by his wife’s comment. But then she frequently amused him with her remarks, brought laughter to his eyes. Shaking his head, he said at last, ‘Touché, my dear.’

Nan glanced at him sideways, smiling, flirting with him, and then, looking down at her youngest daughter, she murmured, ‘Come along, Anne, it’s back to the nursery for you. Miss Deidre is waiting to give you and Isabel a painting lesson.’

‘I am here,’ a small voice said, and another pretty child came dancing into the gallery, her fair hair gleaming in the sunlight filtering in through the many leaded windows. She moved towards her father, pirouetting, showing off her skills as a budding dancer. ‘Good morning, Papa,’ she said as she finally came to a standstill.

Bending down, Neville kissed her cheek, hugged her to him, then, holding her away, he gave her a warm smile and told her, ‘Aren’t you the graceful one, Isabel. I am very impressed with your talent.’

She smiled and bobbed her head prettily, and asked, ‘Is Georgie coming with Ned, Papa? Mama told me Ned would be here for lunch today.’

‘That’s true, darling, Ned is coming to have lunch with me. However, it is actually about business. And no, Georgie isn’t going to be here, and neither is Dick. You’ll have to see your little gentlemen friends another day.’

‘Oh.’ She pouted a little and shook her curls. ‘I thought we could play together…’ She let her voice trail off as she caught the warning look in her mother’s eye, saw the stern expression settling on Nan’s face.

Nan said, ‘I will talk to Aunt Cecily later, and perhaps we can arrange something. Perhaps—’

‘Cecily’s still in Yorkshire,’ Neville interrupted, shaking his head, pursing his lips. ‘She decided to stay at Ravenscar for a little longer before coming up to London.’ He gave a light shrug. ‘I do believe she’s trying to settle herself down, come to grips with…things.’

‘As is your mother also. I do understand, Neville, it’s only to be expected.’

‘Go along, my sweethearts,’ Neville told his girls. ‘Go up to the nursery for your painting lesson. I need to spend a few moments with your mother.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ they said dutifully and in unison, and ran out together, heading for the grand staircase at the end of the gallery.

Taking hold of her arm, Neville led his wife into the nearby library and closed the door behind them. Turning her to face him, he said in a low voice, his eyes full of concern, ‘I’m afraid Cecily and my mother aren’t doing too well at the moment. They are still in shock, I think. After all, the deaths were so unexpected and so sudden. There has to be a period of adjustment, and of grieving.’

Nan nodded her head vigorously, ‘Of course, of course, Neville. I don’t know why the girls are so focused on the two youngest Deravenels at the moment. I really have no clue at all.’

‘Well, Anne for one has always been like a little puppy trailing after Richard; as for Isabel, she’s seemed to gravitate to George. Although that doesn’t particularly please me. Still, there’s nothing strange, darling, they’ve known those boys all their lives, grown up together, and after the week we just spent in Yorkshire, and being with them so much at Ravenscar, I think they’re missing their little playmates. That’s quite understandable, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Standing on tiptoe she kissed his cheek, and led him out of the library. ‘I must go and spend a few minutes with them, my dear, show my interest in their painting lesson.’

‘I know, I know.’ He watched her walking off down the long gallery, thinking how beautiful she was in her rather refined and delicate way. She was the only woman he had ever loved; there had been others, but they had been merely sexual liaisons. His sweet Nan was the love of his life. They were extremely happy together, he and she, and the only thing that caused him the odd moment of regret at times was the lack of an heir. He longed for a son; Nan had had several miscarriages, and she had not yet conceived again. At least not so far. The sudden terrible yearning for a boy child surfaced for a split second, and then he pushed it away. He was a lucky man…he counted his blessings. And Nan and he were still young enough to have many more children…

Once Nan had disappeared up the staircase, Neville turned around and went outside again. He began to walk up and down along the portico, his thoughts now on business and the impending arrival of his three guests.

The first he expected was his cousin Edward Deravenel. He was very anxious to see him, to listen to what he had to say, and to report. Ned had been working at the Deravenel offices in the Strand for the past week. They had spoken briefly, and he had received several enigmatic notes from Edward, but nothing of real importance had been conveyed. This had been puzzling, and he was somewhat baffled. But he trusted Ned in all things, and especially trusted his judgement, and it was obvious to Neville that Edward was being discreet. Far better to talk in the privacy of his house than on the telephone, and he was well aware how easily notes could get lost, fall into the wrong hands, or be stolen.

Alfredo Oliveri would be the second to come to see him. Oliveri was in London, ostensibly on Deravenel business, but he had really come to see them…Ned and himself. Oliveri had made his loyalty and devotion to the Yorkshire Deravenels known when they were in Carrara, and to have him on their side was an immense bonus. He was well trusted in the company, and part of the old guard, having worked for them for over twenty years. Although he might not exactly be a member of the inner circle he certainly knew a lot, which could only be useful to them.

Neville had made a plan, and the secret to its success was information; he knew only too well that information was power. The more Oliveri was able to tell him about everyone and everything in the company the more he was likely to succeed.

His last guest for lunch was Amos Finnister. Amos. He turned the name over in his mind; he had known Amos for twelve years and employed him for ten. He was a private investigator and the best in that line of business, as far as Neville was concerned.

Amos Finnister ran his own firm, which had only one client—Neville Watkins. And it was Neville who actually owned the detective agency through several straw men. This arrangement worked well for both of them.

Now Neville smiled to himself as he continued to think about Amos. Taking the man under his wing all those years ago had been a brilliant piece of strategy on his part. Amos was diligent, logical and persistent, like a dog with a bone when it was necessary. Calm and cool, whatever the circumstances, or the pressure he was under, he was loyal, discreet, and on call night or day. He had a clever knack of picking men to work for him who had similar characteristics to himself.

One of the things Neville considered of unquestionable value were the contacts Amos had…in all walks of life. This was one of the main keys to being a successful private investigator.

Before he had left for Italy with Edward and Will Hasling, Neville had given Amos a list of names, for the most part people who worked at Deravenels and were known adherents of Henry Grant, and, therefore, more than likely to be enemies of Edward.

Now, since returning to London, he was more convinced than ever that his cousin needed genuine protection; he had been made truly aware of that by Alfredo Oliveri. But from whom exactly?

Who were the real wielders of power at Deravenels? Margot Grant, obviously, and John Summers. But Grant himself?

Maybe. Maybe not. He was a weak man, a trifle lazy, ready to pass on the burdens of business to his wife, who was keen to grab those so-called burdens as fast as she could. And naturally there were others who were against Edward, simply because he was the son of Richard Deravenel, the true heir to the company.

Amos would find out, if he hadn’t already; Neville could not wait to see him.

I have to triumph, Neville told himself, as he struck out towards the end of the garden. When he came to the ancient stone wall that fronted onto the River Thames he leaned against it, staring out into the distance. It was a slow moving river today, black as ink, and the sky above had suddenly changed. The pale blue had curdled, become a mix of grey and a strange bluish green.

It’s going to rain after all, he decided, lifting his eyes to the sky. And this thought had hardly surfaced when he felt the first drops of cold rain on his upturned face.

Swinging about, Neville hurried up through the garden and went into the house, crossed the central gallery, deposited his overcoat in the hall closet, all this accomplished in the space of a few minutes.

He made his way back to the library, a large and elegantly appointed room, his favourite in the lovely old house that dated back to the Regency period. He had always thought of the library as his haven, one which closed him off from the ugliness of the world outside.

A fire blazed in the hearth and the softly-shaded lamps had all been turned on during his absence in the garden, giving the room a welcoming, roseate glow. He realized he had grown slightly chilled outside, and he went and stood with his back to the fire, warming himself, thawing out.

His mind was alive with ideas and plans. He was going to put Ned in the seat of power, however long it took him. And he himself would be the one to wield the power.

FOURTEEN

Ravenscar

The North Sea glittered like highly-polished chain mail, rippling under the light breeze. Above, the sky was a cloudless arc of brilliant azure blue filled with golden sunlight. Sunlight without warmth on this cold wintry morning. Nonetheless, Cecily Deravenel had been lured outside by it, and wrapping herself warmly in heavy woollens and a fur-lined cape she had braved the cold.

At this moment she stood inside the old ruined stronghold on the promontory, somewhat protected by its high walls, staring out across the sea. Her thoughts were with Edward in London: a week ago he had presented himself at Deravenels, and his professional life had begun. She shivered, but not from the cold. How would they treat him? And how would he fare in the long run? She was well aware that Ned had dreaded going there. In the past week he had told her little, his two phone calls kept to the briefest of conversations. Yet Neville had reassured her, as best he could, that it would be all right. At least for the moment. No one would make any kind of move against Ned. Too soon, he had explained. Also, Alfredo Oliveri was there; ostensibly, he was on a business trip to the London headquarters from his base in Italy. But, more specifically, he was really there to keep an eye on Ned. Keep an eye on him. What a silly euphemism that was. Protection was what he would ultimately need. Her son was sitting in the middle of a nest of vipers.

Cecily shivered again and hunched into her warm clothes; her gloved hands fumbled with the ends of the scarf tied around her head. As she tightened it her mind raced.

Neville had been honest with her the other day; he had admitted that all of her sons were in danger. Still, he had also managed to convince her that her two youngest were quite safe here at Ravenscar. She trusted her nephew implicitly, knew how clever he was, highly intelligent and brilliant of mind. He was also loyal to family, just as Ned was, and as her father and brother had been…family was all to them. Rick, her only sibling, was gone forever, and Thomas, his youngest, was dead and buried with him. Now she must rely on Neville, and his brother John, both older than Ned. Dear Johnny. Her face softened at the thought of him. Less flamboyant, less ambitious than his brother, a loving young man, and wholly devoted to Ned.

We are a strong family unit, the Watkins and the Deravenel clans. We will stand together in this battle to come. We will prevail. These thoughts made her suddenly lift her head higher, and with great pride as she remembered who she was, her lineage, and whom she had married: Richard Deravenel, rightful heir to the Deravenel business empire. His widow now. She must do his memory justice. Unexpectedly her eyes blazed with a new determination.

She came to a sudden decision. She would not permit herself to be frightened by the likes of Henry Grant and his avaricious French wife, or by their subordinates. Never. She would stand up to them, stand tall, just as her father had taught her to do.

As for her overwhelming grief, caused by her devastating losses, she would bury it deep. Her grief was something private, not for public consumption. Nor for sharing with anyone, not even her children.

Her children. She must focus all of her attention on them now, protect them at all costs, ensure their safety. ‘Of course nobody’s going to come and murder them in their beds,’ Neville had reassured her with a laugh when he was in Yorkshire recently. ‘All I’m saying i s…well, just keep an eye on them.’ And that she would certainly do…she would protect them with her very life.

Turning around, chilled from the wind coming off the sea, Cecily went back to the house, climbing the steps intersecting the tiered gardens, entering the house through the French doors on the terrace.

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