The Cavendon Women (36 page)

DeLacy nodded. She felt relaxed with the artist, found him attractive, and he gave her a certain confidence. “It will be head and shoulders, will it?” she asked.

“I think so. Yes, yes,” he answered swiftly, studying her in the dim light of the nightclub. “You do have the loveliest neck, swanlike, and I can see part of your shoulders. They are perfect, smooth as white marble.” He paused, sipped his champagne. “If you have a gown that is off the shoulders, or a blouse with the same neckline, either would be ideal. I would like it to be white … very virginal. Ideal for such a beauty as you.”

“I have a number of suitable things,” DeLacy said, enjoying his flattery, his lovely manner with her.

“Are you free over the weekend? We could really make progress if you can sit for me then. Perhaps I could start on the canvas.”

At this precise moment DeLacy saw Clarissa walking into the club on the arm of a good-looking young man. Miles had told her that Clarissa had put on weight, and looked blowsy and unkempt. But not tonight. She was still a little plump but well groomed and elegant, her brown hair cut in a sleek bob, and she was wearing makeup and looked quite beautiful in a yellow chiffon gown. A bit of a transformation had obviously taken place. She couldn't wait to tell Miles.

Travers cleared his throat.

“Yes, I am available on Saturday, and on Sunday also,” DeLacy announced. “I know Lawrence wants to give the portrait to my mother for Christmas, and that's not so far off.”

“I will give him the portrait of you in time,” Travers Merton answered. But I won't give
you
to him, he thought. You are going to be mine. I shall save you from him. There was no way Travers could know that night that DeLacy would be his greatest love. Or that she would cost him his life.

 

Forty-three

Paul Drummond sat at his desk in Hugo's London office, going over a few notes he had made about the dinner in New York which he had recently planned. It was to be a celebration of his marriage to Diedre, in fact, for family and old friends. It would be small but elegant.

He leaned forward and looked at the calendar. It was Thursday, September 30, today. In exactly ten days, on Sunday, October 10, they would become husband and wife.

Diedre was thrilled that her father would be giving her away, relieved that Charles and Charlotte would be returning to London next week. The marriage would be in London, and the reception at the Grosvenor Square house.

He, too, was thrilled that his half brother Timothy was already in London. He had arrived several days ago, and was ensconced at the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly with his wife, Elizabeth, their fifteen-year-old daughter, Gwynneth, and twin sons, Lance and Cole, who were twelve. Tim was going to be his best man.

Dulcie, DeLacy, and his niece Gwynneth were going to be Diedre's bridesmaids, in frocks designed and made by Cecily, who had also created the wedding gown for the bride.

They had both wanted a small wedding, but Diedre had insisted on certain things, including four ushers. When he had asked who they were, just out of curiosity, she had said, with a twinkle in her bright blue eyes, “James Brentwood, Miles, Hugo, and Harry Swann. How do you like them apples?”

He laughed to himself now, remembering how she had picked up that phrase from him, as well as many others. He had told her he liked “them apples” a lot.

After the wedding, they would spend a few days in London, then sail to New York on the
Aquitania
.

Once they arrived in Manhattan, they would be living at his triplex apartment on Park Avenue. Two years ago his mother had moved out and given it to him. It was too big for her and the stairs were troublesome. Since then, she had occupied his small bachelor apartment on Fifth, which Elizabeth had revamped for her. It was much more comfortable for his mother, and it was on one floor.

He could not help thinking what a great idea that switch had been. He had a lovely home to take Diedre to, plus the family mansion in Connecticut, left to him by his father in his will.

The ringing phone brought Paul up with a start, and he reached for it. “Drummond here.”

“Hello, Paul,” his brother said.

“This is a nice surprise.” Glancing at the clock, seeing that it was just twelve noon, he asked, “Do you happen to be free for lunch, Tim?”

“Yes. But I'd like to come over to your office first. Ask Hugo to join us, will you?”

“I will, but he might not be free.”

“He'll have to make himself free. I have something important to tell you. It's urgent. I'm leaving the hotel now, so I should be there in about fifteen minutes. See you.”

Tim hung up. Pushing himself to his feet, suddenly hit by a rush of anxiety, Paul left his office, wondering what had happened. Something was wrong. And it had to be about business, not his mother's health.

He knocked on Hugo's door and walked in uninvited, so anxious was he.

Hugo was on the phone, and stared across at Paul. “Can you give me a minute or two?”

“Sorry, no. Something has happened, has to be business. Tim wants to see us. Right now. He's on his way over here.”

“I'll have to go, Daphne,” Hugo said. “I'll ring you later, darling.” He put the receiver down and said, “Didn't he tell you what it was?”

“No. But I know him intimately. He was tense, terse, and I've a horrible feeling it's to do with us.”

*   *   *

“I got a call late yesterday afternoon from Allan Carlton. As you know, Paul, he's my vice president at the bank,” Tim said, and looked over at Hugo. “Brilliant guy, well connected, has his ear close to the ground, knows a lot no one else knows in the banking world and Wall Street.”

Hugo nodded. “In other words, he's a reliable source.”

“More than reliable. He doesn't pass anything to me unless he's absolutely certain it's true.”

“How does he manage that?” Hugo asked, sounding doubtful.

Timothy said, “I don't know, I don't ask, and he's never been wrong.”

“What did he tell you yesterday?” Paul gave his brother a searching look, his worry escalating, his impatience starting to show.

“He said that from information he has just received he believes Transatlantic Air is in dire straits, desperately trying to raise money. He predicts they could go belly-up, and real soon.”

“Oh my God!” Hugo exclaimed, reeling with shock. His face was ashen.

Paul had also lost his color; his face was pale. His voice was shaky when he said, “When will this happen? Did Allan say?”

“No, he could only hazard a guess. He thinks it will be sometime soon, within this month. Al Birkin, the guy who runs the company, has a few tricks up his sleeve. And a possible buyer for Transatlantic, some German tycoon. But can he pull it off? That we don't know.”

“They won't buy us out now, will they?” Hugo muttered.

Timothy exclaimed, “They don't have anything to buy you out with! No cash.”

“We had twenty million invested,” Paul managed to say. “Which we're about to lose if the company does go belly-up.”

“
When
it goes belly-up, Paul, because it will. And they'll declare bankruptcy. So, yes, the investment is gone, kaput, out the window,” his brother said in a firm voice, shaking his head.

Hugo gaped at them both and slumped back in his chair, looking as if he was about to pass out.

Timothy went on, “You've both lost five million bucks each.
You
can eat that loss, Paul. It won't entirely ruin you. But what about you, Hugo? Can you afford to lose five million dollars?”

“Not really, but I do have some other investments I can cash in, to fill the gap, keep my family financially secure. But Cavendon had ten million dollars invested in Transatlantic. That's a loss they can't afford. The money we invested was for the future, death duties, annual taxes, renovations, and future generations—” Hugo did not finish his sentence.

The silence in the room lasted a long time. The atmosphere was filled with gloom, a palpable sense of worry and despair. Each man was hunched in his chair, struggling with this horrendous news.

Paul suddenly said, “I can't let Cavendon take this loss. It's my fault. I was the one who brought Transatlantic Air into the picture. I am going to sell some real estate. I must, and return the money to them. Wipe the slate clean.”

“What real estate are you referring to?” Timothy asked.

“My flat in London. When we come back we will live at Diedre's. There's the house in Connecticut. About eight hundred acres in Litchfield County, plus the mansion itself. That's large, as you know, and has all the amenities. Pool and tennis court, gardens. And I do have some buildings in the Meatpacking District, lofts and factories. They should bring something worthwhile.”

“Yes, I think they will,” Timothy agreed. “But real estate can take time to sell.”

Paul said, “I want Drummond-Manhattan Bank to lend me that ten million dollars, Tim, for that reason. The real estate will be my collateral. Once it's all sold, the bank gets their money back.”

“All right, I'll do it,” Timothy agreed at once without any pondering. “I do have a board to answer to, Paul, but I doubt they'll create a problem.”

Standing up, he walked over to Paul and stretched out his hand. “Signed, sealed, and delivered,” he said. “You've got a deal.”

Paul nodded. “Thank you, Tim. I'm immensely grateful. I want to do this as quickly as we can. Because no doubt the news about Transatlantic going belly-up will be in all the papers. And perhaps sooner than we think. I don't want Charles to be worried. Or Diedre. Let's not forget, I've got a wedding in ten days.”

“We'll clear it up before then,” Timothy said. “I promise.”

Hugo, almost at his wit's end with worry, managed to say, “Thank you, Paul. I'm very grateful, and Charles will be also.”

“Do we tell them anything about Transatlantic's problems this weekend?” Paul asked, glancing at Hugo.

“Perhaps we'd better not,” he said swiftly. “Why spoil all the excitement and happiness about your upcoming marriage?”

“I agree,” Paul replied. “Knowing Tim, he'll move quickly. Won't you?” He looked at his brother expectantly.

Timothy nodded. “I sure will. I'll call Allan later. He'll get things moving, and talk to our real estate people.”

*   *   *

Much later in the day, when he was finally alone in his own office, Hugo Stanton sat pondering. Paul had turned out to be as true blue as he had always thought he was. Hugo was thankful Timothy Drummond was in London and willing to help them.

On the other hand, Hugo knew what bank boards were like.
Difficult
. All boards were difficult. And that was what worried him. The board of directors of the Drummond-Manhattan Private Bank could turn the loan down. Then what would happen?

If the Ingham Trust didn't get their ten million dollars back, eventually Cavendon would go down. Not now. Not next year, because they still had funds. But not enough. The estate wouldn't survive very long, and the Inghams would eventually fall.

Hugo's heart was heavy as he went home, wondering how to keep this from Daphne. He had to. He would pray to God to save them.

 

Part Three

WOMEN WARRIORS

January–June 1927

Every lover is a warrior, and Cupid has his camp.

—Ovid

Sweet is revenge—especially to women.

—Lord Byron

 

Forty-four

Charles Ingham, Sixth Earl of Mowbray, sat at his Georgian desk in the library at Cavendon Hall. There was a broad smile on his face as he looked at the papers spread out in front of him. In particular, he was thrilled by the news in the telegram he had just received, and he was smiling because for the first time in the last six years, their finances were relatively stable. His relief was enormous. And it was all due to Hugo and Paul, who had pulled a prize rabbit out of a hat.

The ten million dollars, which had been retrieved from their disastrous Wall Street venture thanks to these two men, had gone back into the Ingham Trust. It would not remain there for very long. Some of it had to be carefully invested in a number of safe English companies, chosen by him and Hugo; because money had to be made to work, to earn more money. But they wanted to lower the risk, were taking no chances. Part of it had to be put aside for government taxes, as well as the weekly running of the house and the estate.

But at least they weren't on the brink of disaster. For the moment. Unfortunately, there were a lot of repairs to be done, mostly in the North Wing. That entire wing needed a new roof, and numerous windows had to be replaced, as did several floors in the main downstairs rooms; the dining room and the library needed the most work.

There was a knock on the door, and before he could say anything Hanson's face appeared around it.

“A word, my lord?” Hanson said. “Or am I interrupting?”

“Not at all, Hanson. Don't loiter there. Come in.” Yet again he couldn't help thinking how well the butler looked. When he and Charlotte had returned from Zurich in October they had both been surprised at Hanson's ruddy health. And pleased that he was in such good shape.

As he glanced at the butler, Charles detected a hint of worry, and asked swiftly, “What's wrong, Hanson? I can tell by your expression we have a problem.”

“Unfortunately. There's a bad leak in the West Wing—”

“Damnation! Most of our guests are staying in that wing. Where's the leak? In a bedroom or one of the suites?”

“The Wedgwood Suite, my lord.”

“Good God! I hope it's not the ceiling and the walls. That room is a masterpiece, and full of valuable antiques.”

“It's a plumbing problem, Lord Mowbray. Luckily, Mrs. Thwaites spotted it this morning when she was up there with one of the maids. The pipes in the bathroom have burst. I have Ted Swann in there already, fixing the leak. But it seems to be a job that will take a few days. We can't use that suite for a week at least, your lordship.”