Heirs of Ravenscar (24 page)

Anthony Wyland was an exceptional man. He was honourable, loyal, totally devoted to Edward, and if needs be he would lay down his life for him. When the Wyland Merchant Bank had run into trouble some years ago, it was Edward who had come to Anthony's aid, offered to help in
any way he could. Anthony had been honest, had told Edward not to waste his money trying to bail out the troubled merchant bank. And then he had asked him for a job. Ned had given him one and never regretted it. Neither had Anthony.

He had worked for Edward for a number of years now, and because of his financial knowledge and skill with figures Ned had found him invaluable. Apart from his loyalty, devotion and honesty, Anthony was a cultured man who shared many of Edward's interests, especially books and art, and they had become firm personal friends as well as colleagues, and brothers-in-law.

Now, on this rainy March Thursday afternoon, Anthony sat with his sister in the library of Edward's family home in Berkeley Square. She had welcomed him with a degree of reserve, no doubt because she knew why he had asked himself to tea. However, she had said nothing so far, merely greeted him and asked about their mother.

Thankfully tea had been brought in by Mallet at an awkward moment when their sister Iris's name had come up. Anthony suspected it was Iris to whom Elizabeth had spoken … how stupid she was. Iris was the family chatterbox, the gossip, the carrier of tales out of school. An idiot, in his opinion.

Once Mallet had poured tea and departed, Anthony said slowly, ‘I hope you won't be doing any talking to Iris in the future, Lizzie. She's a bit of a risk, you know.'

‘No, she isn't, she's a sweet girl, and don't call me Lizzie. You know I hate it.'

Her tone made him cringe. He had come here with the best of intentions, and she was prickly and argumentative without any real provocation on his part. He didn't have much time for her these days, and he was sorry for Ned who had to cope with her on a daily basis. She must be a thorn
in his side; certainly she was in his. More like a chain of thorns, he thought. Poor Ned.

Sipping his tea, Anthony said, after a moment, ‘Don't take an attitude with me, Elizabeth. I'm one of the few friends you have, a
real friend
, I mean.'

‘I doubt that: you work for
him
. Where is he, by the way? He hasn't come home for days.'

‘I've no idea where Ned is – more than likely he's staying at his club if he's not here.'

She merely stared at him, and sipped her tea.

My God, she is beautiful though, Anthony thought, gazing at his sister for a moment. She was already thirty-eight going on thirty-nine, and looked like a girl of twenty-eight, perhaps even less. The hair was spun gold, piled high on top of her head like a crown; the complexion was milky white, flawless, unlined, without blemish, and the pale blue eyes clear, crystalline almost.

As for her figure, it was superb. She was not tall, but she had never put on weight over the years, and she was slender, her breasts high and taut, and she had lovely legs. No wonder Ned fell into her bed so often. There were few women as beautiful as she, anywhere in the world. But what a harridan she could be. More's the pity, her brother thought.

‘You're staring at me,' she snapped.

‘No, admiring you, that's all.' Anthony leaned forward, and said in a quiet, conciliatory voice, ‘Listen to me, my dear. Ned is a good husband, he lavishes you with everything you could possibly want … so give him some slack, leave him alone.'

‘I haven't done a thing to him! Why do you say that?'

‘You've lied about him and Fenella Fayne, you know you have.'

‘The original story was an utter fabrication, the one about the cart, and Finnister finding the girl, and all that
rubbish about a woman called Tabitha James. There was no such person. It was Fenella. Always her. He slept with her, has done so for years, and he got her pregnant, and he may well get her pregnant again, since he's still sleeping with her. She's a slut. Just like all the other women in his life.'

Anthony shrank away from her, shrank back into the chair, shrivelling inside. He was appalled at what he was hearing. Was
she crazy?
Was his sister actually
insane?
He didn't even want to think such a thing, but certainly she was ranting at him, and she obviously believed what she was saying.

Clearing his throat, he explained patiently, ‘I have seen the evidence, the original evidence Vicky found. I really have. I do think you should let this matter drop. You've caused immeasurable damage, Elizabeth, created a scandal. You and Iris together have actually.'

She stared at him blankly, as if she did not understand.

‘I'm ashamed of you both!' he exclaimed suddenly, speaking in an angrier tone. ‘The two of you have behaved in the most despicable manner possible. Spreading stories about your own husband.'

‘It's my husband who's despicable. Where in God's name is he? That's what I'd like to know.'

Anthony put his cup and saucer down, and stood up. ‘I wouldn't talk about your husband in that way or in that tone of voice, if I were you, at least not to anyone else other than me. You might find yourself without a husband, if you do. And here's another piece of advice, my dear. Keep your mouth shut when it comes to Edward Deravenel and the Deravenel family. Otherwise you might find yourself on the outside looking in at them. Good day, Elizabeth. And if you know what's good for you, heed my words.'

‘How dare you speak to me like that!' she cried.

But she spoke to an empty room. Her brother had walked out on her, slamming the door behind him.

As was his custom when he returned home late at night, Edward Deravenel always went into the library to settle himself down and have a cognac. Sometimes Mallet was there, sometimes not, and tonight the butler was absent. It was his day off. He always went to see his sister in Maida Vale.

Striding toward the library, Edward pushed open the door, walked in, and stopped in his tracks. His wife was sitting there in a chair, looking nervous and quite ill; her face was deathly pale and there were dark rings under her eyes.

Frowning, he asked, ‘Why are you waiting here? For me, I've no doubt, but why
here
and not upstairs?'

‘I need to speak to you,' she said in a low, subdued voice.

‘We don't really have much to say to each other at the moment, do we? I think you've actually done too much talking already. Wouldn't you agree?'

She nodded her head. ‘I'm sorry, Edward, really sorry. Please, please say you forgive me.'

‘I'm afraid that is going to take some time … forgiving you I mean. I'm still reeling from the backlash of your gossip.'

‘I'm so sorry, so very sorry,' she whispered, her voice wobbling.

‘Don't start weeping, it won't do you any good.' He went over to the chest, poured himself a small brandy and stood near the fireplace. ‘You've damaged our name and hurt a good woman, damaged her name too. Fenella has never done anything to hurt you. Why, she's always been your friend. I just can't understand your behaviour.

‘I don't understand it myself, Ned, I really don't,' Elizabeth
whispered, twisting her hands together in her lap. ‘I can only think that it was my terrible jealousy. I am jealous of you and other women, I might as well admit that now. I just can't help myself.'

‘Fenella has been a friend of the family since she was a young girl, and there has never been any romantic dalliance between us. And there are no other women for you to be jealous of, Elizabeth.'

She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it, suddenly knowing it would be better not to aggravate him. After all, she had waited for him to come home in order to apologize, not accuse.

He said slowly, ‘And don't bring up my mistress. She exists, yes. But then men like me do have mistresses. Thankfully, you are one of the luckier wives in these circumstances. My mistress doesn't create trouble in any way, for me or for you, or for this family. She likes the status quo. So do I. And so must you.'

‘I know this, I do accept it.' Rising, Elizabeth walked across to him, took hold of his arm. ‘Please, Ned, let's put this behind us.'

He stared at her for a long moment and then lifted her hand off his arm. He said in the softest of voices, ‘I will do my best, Elizabeth, for the sake of our children. Now please go up to bed, it's very late.'

‘Aren't you coming?'

‘I'm afraid not. I have quite a lot of work to do.'

I
t was Wednesday, the thirty-first of March, and it was her birthday. Her twentieth birthday. Grace Rose could hardly believe it, but it was true. And she suddenly, and wonderfully, felt quite grown up. Very grown up, in fact.

Last night her father had called her a lovely young lady, and she had beamed at him, hugged him, and told him she was so happy to have him and Vicky, have them as her parents. There was no one luckier than she was; Grace Rose believed that with all her heart.

It was last night, over dinner, that Vicky and Stephen had told her how proud they were of her and what she had become, and of her accomplishments, and she had experienced an enormous rush of love and gratitude towards them. Stephen had gone on to add that she had a wonderful life ahead of her and she believed him. He always told her the truth.

Her dream of going to Oxford had come true … her
mother had made it come true, and for the past year she had been living her childhood dream and attending lectures. She enjoyed every moment of living in that glorious ancient city of shining spires, gracious quadrangles and beautiful old architecture. It was an extraordinary experience to be in this place of such great learning, a treasured place in her heart, one which she would remember with love long after she had left.

Grace Rose was reading English and French history, her favourite subjects, and one day she hoped to be a historian, give lectures herself, and write books. She loved writing, and thought that perhaps this was her true
métier
.

When she was not attending lectures she was working and studying in her spacious and comfortable room at Millicent Hanson's lovely old house set in a quiet lane. Her mother's longtime friend had welcomed her warmly, and Grace Rose had felt instantly at home amongst the mellow antiques and many volumes of books. Mrs Hanson made her feel cared about without being possessive or intrusive, and left her to her own devices. They met for occasional meals and the arrangement worked well for both of them. Millicent was a writer herself, and was always working on a book in her upstairs study, and constantly told Grace Rose she had the freedom of the house. It was a quiet place, peaceful and pleasant, a real haven.

‘Grace Rose!' Vicky called from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Broadbent has come to fetch us. Please hurry, darling.'

‘I'll be right there, Mother,' Grace Rose called back, poking her head out of her bedroom door. Then she went and picked up her blue coat, evening purse and gloves, and cast a last look at herself in the mirror.

She loved her dress. It was new, specially designed and made for her by Madame Henriette, of delphinium-blue silk, well-cut, tailored, with a narrow skirt that was the new
calf-length. She smiled as her eyes took in her pearls, which were all birthday presents. The strand around her neck was from her parents, the bracelet a present from Amos, and the earrings were from Fenella and Mark. She glanced at her new watch, a gift from Uncle Ned. It was by Cartier, and it told her it was just seven o'clock. She left the room and ran downstairs, excited about her birthday dinner at the Ritz Hotel, which was being given by Uncle Ned. They would be eight: she and her parents, Fenella and Mark, Amos, Uncle Ned and Jane Shaw. It was going to be a lovely evening, she was sure.

After they had left their coats in the cloakroom, Vicky took hold of Grace Rose's arm, and explained, ‘We're to meet Uncle Ned upstairs, darling. Maisie and her husband are here from Ireland, and they've invited us to have a glass of champagne with them for your birthday.'

‘Oh, how nice,' Grace Rose exclaimed as Vicky led her towards the lift. She glanced back over her shoulder, and asked, ‘What's Father doing over there?'

‘I think he's asking the young man at the reception desk to announce us. Oh, here he comes now.'

A moment later the three of them were in the lift going up to the fifth floor. ‘It's just along this corridor,' Stephen announced, as they stepped out of the lift, leading the way. A second or two later he was knocking on the double doors of a suite.

It was instantly opened by Edward Deravenel, who smiled hugely, took hold of Grace Rose's hand and swiftly brought her into the room where the people gathered there cried in unison, ‘Happy Birthday, Grace Rose! Happy Birthday!'

Grace Rose was so taken by surprise, so flabbergasted,
she couldn't speak; her throat tightened with emotion and she truly thought she would burst into tears, so touched was she.

Her eyes swept around the room, taking in everyone who was present, the men so smartly dressed in dark suits, the women in lovely frocks … Fenella was standing with Mark and Jane Shaw, and both women looked superb in their gowns and jewellery, Grace Rose thought.

On the other side of the room, near the fireplace, she spotted Aunt Cecily, very grand in dark rose-coloured silk and ropes of pearls, with Bess leaning against the chair. And she saw that Bess was perfectly lovely in a crimson dress, an unusual colour for a redhead but rather striking nonetheless.

Alongside Bess was her dearest, sweetest Amos Finnister, and on his other side, smiling at her very brightly, was Charlie Morran with his new lady friend, Rowena Crawford. Next to Rowena, looking like the beautiful stage star she had once been, was Maisie, Charlie's sister, and her husband Liam, who were actually Lord and Lady Dunleith from Ireland. Maisie was in navy blue, bedecked in sapphires, and utterly glamorous.

Tears sprang into Grace Rose's eyes when she looked up at Uncle Ned, knowing that he had arranged this surprise party and invited everyone. She attempted to give him a smile but it was a rather quavery one, and then, unexpectedly, as he stood there looking down at her with a huge smile on his handsome face, she herself began to smile, and then they were laughing together and hugging each other.

‘That's my girl!' Ned exclaimed, and ushered her forward, turned to include Vicky and Stephen, brought the three of them into the room to mingle.

Grace Rose was surrounded.

Bess, eleven now, and very grown up in her appearance
these days, was the first to rush over to her. Her half-sister hugged her and announced, ‘I've got a lovely present for you, Grace Rose. Papa let me choose it and I'll give it to you later.'

‘Thank you so much,' Grace Rose replied, smiling, and then turned to Amos, who gave her a big hug and kissed her cheek. ‘Happy birthday, Grace Rose,' he murmured, his eyes full of pride and love. And she showed him her arm, smiling at him, and thanked him for the bracelet.

Fenella came over to her, and wished her many more birthdays and kissed her cheek affectionately, as did Mark, and she thanked them for the earrings; when Jane came to her side, she said, ‘Thank you so much for the leather writing case, it's beautiful, Jane.'

She received a loving smile in return from Jane Shaw, who had become her friend in the last two years, and then she swung around as she heard her name and smiled at Charlie, who smiled back and introduced Rowena to her.

Finally she was able to make her way across the room to the fireplace, where Aunt Cecily was sitting.

‘Come and let me look at you, my dear,' Aunt Cecily said, smiling at her lovingly. ‘My goodness, you are a beauty, aren't you Grace Rose?' And so like your f –' She cut herself off. But Grace Rose knew she had been about to say she looked like her father.

Leaning forward, Grace Rose kissed Cecily's cheek, and Cecily whispered against her ear, ‘You are a true Deravenel, Granddaughter, at least in your looks. Happy birthday!'

‘Thank you, Aunt Cecily,' Grace Rose answered and swallowed hard. She was overwhelmed by sudden emotion. It was the first time Cecily Deravenel had ever called her that… granddaughter. Now she added, ‘Thank you for the dressing-table set – the silver brushes and looking glass with my initials are lovely. I'll treasure them always.'

‘They come with much love.' Cecily smiled and her eyes were misty. Bess looked like Ned, very much so, but this one, his first-born child, was the spitting image of him.

Excusing herself, Grace Rose went over to Maisie, whom she had met twice before when Charlie's sister had come to visit him, but she had never met Liam, her husband. Maisie introduced them, and then said, ‘And it was such a lovely coincidence, Grace Rose, that we had decided to come here for Easter, and Charlie passed on your uncle's invitation to join you for dinner for your birthday.'

‘Yes, it is, and isn't Charlie looking wonderful?'

‘He is indeed, and I'm delighted he has finally met a nice young lady,' Maisie responded. ‘Well, he's met a lot, but this one he really likes.'

There was suddenly a lot of popping noises, and two waiters came in from the adjoining room carrying trays with glasses of champagne and white wine on them, and they moved amongst the guests, offering the drinks.

A moment later, Charlie came over to Grace Rose, and murmured, ‘I have a gift, I'll give it to you later.' He cleared his throat, confided, ‘Rowena helped me to pick it out.'

‘Thank you, Charlie. She looks very nice, your young lady. And very pretty.'

‘Thank you.' He grinned. ‘I'm glad she has your stamp of approval.'

Grace Rose laughed with him. She and Charlie had become good friends in the last two years, since his return from the front, and they shared a similar sense of humour. She then said, in her usual honest and forthright way, ‘Your face looks better than ever, Charlie, and the skin grafts are miraculous, hardly visible. My goodness, the surgeons have done wonders for your face, put it back together again.'

He burst out laughing, as always amused by her blunt manner. ‘It's a good thing everybody present here tonight
saw me when I was badly scarred, isn't it? Or they wouldn't understand.'

A blush spread across Grace Rose's neck and went up into her face; she was bright pink, and chagrined. ‘I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you,' she responded sotto voce. ‘But I meant what I said, you do look wonderful, and you'll soon be back on the stage. I just know it.'

‘I hope so.'

‘So do I and I'm really looking forward to seeing you act. I bet Rowena is, too. Are you going to marry her?'

Amused, Charlie lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug and smiled at Grace Rose. ‘I'm not sure.' Lowering his voice, he murmured, ‘I haven't asked her yet, but when I do you'll be the first to know.'

Grace Rose smiled, and excused herself and went to talk to Jane Shaw. The two of them instantly became engaged in a long and very animated conversation.

As the host, Edward was paying attention to everyone, making certain champagne and wine were poured quickly when glasses were empty; he moved around the sitting room of the large double suite he had taken, wanting his guests to feel comfortable. At one moment his mother caught his eye, and he strode across the room to her. Leaning over her chair, he asked, ‘Is everything all right, Mother? Do you need something? More caviare? Another glass of champagne?'

‘I'm perfectly fine, Ned,' Cecily replied, and then asked in a low voice, ‘I was just wondering where Will and Kathleen were. Are they coming?'

‘Yes, they are, but Will was away on business, Deravenel business, of course. They're just a bit late, that's all. I know they wouldn't miss this little party for Grace Rose, not for the world.'

Touching his arm lightly, Cecily said, ‘I remembered something this afternoon, do you know, Ned: it came back to me
quite unexpectedly, and I thought I ought to tell you. I simply don't know why I forgot all about it.'

Ned frowned. ‘You sound serious. What is it?'

‘I remembered something Neville said to me years ago, when you were only just married. He made a comment, said that it was a pity you had married secretly, because of his negotiations with Louis Charpentier … he was so keen to have you marry Louis's daughter Blanche, as you well know. Anyway, he grumbled to me a little bit, complained that you'd let him down–'

‘I know all this, Mama, what are you getting at?'

‘Just this … he told me that Henry Turner was related to Louis Charpentier, through his mother Margaret Beauchard, something I'd never known. He added that your marriage to Blanche, had it taken place, would have healed the breach between the Lancashire Deravenel Grants and the Deravenels.'

Ned burst out laughing. ‘He can't have been serious, Mother!
Surely not
. I am quite certain Margaret Beauchard and her son are my sworn enemies, our enemies, and were then. After all, Turner is the heir to Henry Grant. Some say it's dubious, but there really isn't anyone else, as you well know. And Turner did inherit Grant's shares in Deravenels. However, I must add, not enough shares to rock the boat in any way whatsoever. And we've always honoured those shares, by the way, ever since I took over. I've had their shares and their holdings in the company checked out very recently, in fact, and everything is proper and in order. And incidentally, Mother, the dividends go to Margaret Beauchard on a regular basis, held in a trust for her son.'