Heirs of Ravenscar (28 page)

Edward nodded, but made no comment.

‘Think of all the bad things he's done to you over the years,' Will said. ‘He sided with Neville Watkins, got involved in the intrigue with Louis Charpentier. Then he ran off with Isabel Watkins without so much as a by your leave. He was hand in glove with Neville for years, conspiring, plotting, and only came crawling back to you when he saw Neville was about to sacrifice him, and move on. All in all, he's not shown much loyalty to you… his own brother and his employer. He
is
dangerous, Ned, you were absolutely right when you said that.'

‘I would rather deal with a clever enemy than an enemy who's a fool. That spells trouble,' Alfredo announced. ‘George is big trouble, and he'll never change. That is the nature of the beast.'

‘If we sent him away, exiled him, so to speak, where would we send him?' Will asked, his eyes on Edward. ‘And anyway, how do we know he'll go?'

‘Oh, he'll go all right, when I've finished with him!' Edward exclaimed. ‘As to where he'd go, I don't know. The three of us should analyse that.'

‘He would have to be sent out of the country,' Alfredo
answered in a firm voice. ‘You can't just send him to the provinces. He must be sent out of England.'

‘What do you have in mind?' Will asked.

‘In order to make sure he went in a peaceful way, he would have to be made to think he was getting a promotion,' Alfredo volunteered. ‘You know what I mean… “We need you to go and run the sugar mills in Cuba, George, nobody can bring that company back up to scratch except you.” That kind of thing. We need to give him a bag of toffees when we send him away, and lots of praise. Otherwise, he'll put up a fight, he just won't go.'

‘Do you
really
mean Cuba?' Edward asked, looking puzzled.

Alfredo grimaced. ‘Not especially. I'd like to see him closer to home and on hand, so we can make quick checks on him anytime we wish. He could go to the Paris office, couldn't he?' Alfredo instantly shook his head. ‘I can see by your face that that's not feasible.'

‘Nowhere's feasible really, because he's useless,' Edward replied. ‘I believe we should come up with a reason to send him …
somewhere
, though. Anywhere, actually, that's
my
thought. I just can't think of any other way to get rid of him.'

‘There's always murder,' Alfredo Oliveri said with a somewhat ghoulish smile.

Staring at Alfredo askance, Edward exclaimed, ‘I can't kill my brother!'

‘What if someone else did it for you?'

‘Do you have some clever idea?' Will asked, his eyes on Oliveri.

‘I haven't given it much thought,' was Alfredo's response. But, in fact, he had.

E
dward was finding it hard to sleep. He tossed and turned for hours, and then finally got up, put on his dressing gown and slippers and went downstairs.

The house was still; everyone was asleep. He turned on a small lamp in the library and looked at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It was two thirty already.

Opening the French doors, he stepped out onto the terrace, and stood for a moment staring up at the sky. It was a black velvet night, with a handful of stars thrown up onto the black velvet. They glittered like diamond chips. The moon was a silver sliver, a half moon that looked as if it had been carefully hung there by one of those Hollywood chaps, it was so perfectly in place.

The air was mild, warm even, and he caught a faint whiff of the sea; salt was coming up off the Romney Marsh. He knew if he walked down the long garden path he would come to the strip of land where the children loved to play; from that vantage point he would see the Dungeness light
house, its beams of light making giant silver shafts across the sea. He loved it on the marsh, but he was not in the mood to go there tonight; in fact he was not tempted at all.

He was troubled, burdened down, and his mind kept turning to Natasha Troubetzkoy and
her
terrible plight. Then, she had had no one. He had given her hope by making a gift of money to her, so that she could go and search for her relatives. But she might not find them. They might not even be alive.

In 1917 her life had changed because of the Revolution in her country. Her life had been turned upside down. Her home, all of her possessions, her clothes, her jewels, and her money, had disappeared, had vanished just like that in the blink of an eye. Because she had had to run away to save herself. She had fled, become a homeless refugee seeking shelter and a way to earn a living.

She had said to him one evening in Constantinople, ‘My world became topsy turvy. My life as I knew it was savagely taken away from me by the Bolsheviks. I can never get it back, nothing will ever be the same.'

And nothing will ever be the same for me, Edward thought, sitting down on the garden seat, still staring at the dark sky, thinking of the past … his past. And of Elinor Burton.

The beautiful, bewitching Ellie. Once his lover. Oh, God, what a stupid fool he had been all those years ago. Why had he made that committment to her? Now his life could so easily be ruined, just as Natasha's had been ruined by a different kind of catastrophe.

That was what it was …
catastrophe
. It was hanging over his head like a blade ready to drop. His marriage, his children, his business, all those things he held dear were in jeopardy.
It was his own fault. There was no one else to blame
but himself
. Well, there was George, babbling all over the place and being treacherous. His brother should have been
taken in hand years ago; that was his fault, too. He had been too lenient, too forgiving.

After George had run off with Isabel, both of them far too young to marry, his mother had begged him to be kind to George, to forgive him. She had also pleaded with him to give George a job at Deravenels when he had finally fallen foul of Neville's plottings.

And, fool that he was, he had done as she asked. He had made many mistakes with George. And with Ellie. He should not have fallen for that calm beauty of hers, that Madonna-like face, become entrapped in her web. But he had and now he would pay for that indulgence with his family and his career. He would lose everything.

The first thing he must do was deal with George. Swiftly, efficiently. Except that brother George was not in England. He was off to France, spending a week with their sister Meg. Richard had told him this yesterday afternoon. When Richard had telephoned Meg to ask if he and Anne could come and stay for a few days in September, she had mentioned that George was currently staying there. After agreeing to Richard's request, and in a warm friendly way, their sister had explained that George was presently at the château, and was ‘Having a rest, poor darling.' That was the way she apparently put it to Richard.

Edward had told Richard about George spreading gossip about their mother, his legitimacy and that of his children. His Little Fish had been outraged and had agreed that George should be sent away. But Richard's thought was to pack him off to America.

Was that the best place to exile him? Edward was not sure. Perhaps it was too far away; Oliveri wouldn't like the idea of the States, Edward was positive of that. Will and Alfredo wanted George closer, so that they could check up on him easily. Amos Finnister agreed with them.

Edward had consulted with Finnister later in the afternoon, and then the two of them had gone to White's for dinner. It was quiet in his club in the summer; so many members were on holiday with their families.

Amos had had the best idea, last night over supper. He had suggested that George might be eager to go to the vineyards in France, since he liked wine and was a connoisseur, prided himself on his knowledge of red and white wines and their vintages.

‘But he'd be drunk half the time,' Edward had swiftly pointed out.

‘Perhaps,' Amos had answered cautiously. ‘Then again, perhaps not, Mr Edward. It's a perfect fit, in my opinion. You wouldn't have to persuade him. He'd go of his own free will, and rather speedily I should've thought.'

Amos had sat back in his chair, his eyes trained on Edward very steadily.

Edward stared back. He was the first to blink and look away. And it was as if he had read Amos's mind. They understood each other very well.

Elizabeth knew there was something terribly wrong. Edward was behaving so strangely that she spent hours worrying about him, worrying about his health, his peace of mind, and what was troubling him.

He had gone up to London on Tuesday, using the Turkish marble quarry contracts as an excuse; part of her believed him. He was not a liar, she had learned that a long time ago, but sometimes he arranged things in order to accommodate his private life. However, in this instance, she was absolutely certain he was not going to town to see Jane Shaw or any other woman, for that matter. She was truly convinced he
was going to London because of the situation with George, who never learned his lesson; he was treacherous and bore Ned a great deal of ill will.

Sighing, she left her bedroom, went downstairs and crossed the main hall of the house. After taking a straw sun hat out of the hall cupboard, and putting it on, she walked rapidly down the garden path before any of the children saw her. She had the need to be alone. To think.

It was glorious August weather. The sky was a perfect cerulean blue filled with cotton-white clouds puffed up and hardly moving in the stillness of the balmy summer air. There was no breeze this morning yet the salt of the sea was pungent, seemed to hang over everything. She glanced about, pleased with her gardens; they were flower-filled and glorious, the brilliant hues of pinks and reds, yellows and oranges, and varying shades of blue and purple mingling together riotously. She loved it here in Kent; the weather was so much warmer than it was at Ravenscar, which was cold even in the summer months.

Elizabeth enjoyed being near the Romney Marsh. There was something about it that captivated
her … what that was she wasn't quite sure, could never put her finger on it. Nonetheless,
this ancient low-lying marshland held her under its spell.

Her favourite spot was a gazebo which Edward had had built several years ago, and now she hurried inside, sat down in one of the comfortable wicker chairs, and stared out towards the Dungeness lighthouse. At night they often sat here watching the great arcs of light play across the English Channel, sipping a glass of champagne or a lemonade depending on their mood. Now she gazed absently at the sea, her mind still focused on Edward.

Their marriage was better than it had been for a long time; she was trying so hard not to do or say the wrong
thing. Also, Ned seemed more at peace with himself, calm, tranquil, and they were at ease with each other in a way they hadn't been since the early days.

And now
this
… this situation with George. It had upset Ned much more than she had anticipated it would. He was restless, morose, moody, preoccupied and at times looked worried out of his mind. He would not tell her anything, and this troubled her. Usually he confided, got things off his chest, said what he had to say, used her as a sounding board, and then moved on. She couldn't imagine why he was being so uncommunicative, keeping things to himself.

She knew he was not sleeping well. In all of their homes they had separate bedrooms and those bedrooms always adjoined each other. Often he slept in her bed with her wherever they were; he certainly needed her to be close, wanted to walk in on her whenever he wished, and for whatever reason … to talk, to make love, usually the latter. And so because of their close proximity at night, she knew he got up in the early hours, went downstairs and outside, to sit on the terrace, or walk around. This concerned her; it was obvious he could not sleep. It was beginning to show. He had dark rings under his eyes, and he looked drawn; pre occupied all the time, he seemed remote. He had come back from Turkey in radiant health, full of vigour and enthusiasm. All of a sudden he appeared to be carrying mighty burdens on his shoulders.

Ned had returned from London yesterday afternoon, keeping his promise to be back by Friday no matter what. He had been loving with the children, had brought them small presents from Harrods, and he had appeared relaxed at dinner. Elizabeth was aware that he was a consummate actor, and especially when he had to hide his true feelings. And he had been giving a wonderful performance last evening – because his mother was present.

She knew he was still in bed sleeping. He would get up in time for lunch with her and the children, because he always did that; he enjoyed their company. She would say nothing to him about his problem, and this new nocturnal habit of wandering around the garden, or walking down towards the lighthouse and the marshland. Tonight his mother was going to dinner with Vicky, Stephen and Grace Rose at Stonehurst Farm. She and Ned would have a quiet supper alone, just the two of them, and she was determined to make him tell her what was driving him to distraction.

An Englishman's word was his bond. An Englishman's handshake sealed a deal. An Englishman did not lie, cheat, or double deal. Those were a gentleman's code of honour. They were also the rules of the City, the financial world, and the world of business. Everyone lived by those rules; the rules were instinctual: Englishmen had been born with those rules inherent in their genes. At least Edward Deravenel believed that to be so.

He was proud of his record in business. He had not put a foot wrong, never in the seventeen years he had been running Deravenels. He was a champion to his colleagues, those he worked with at Deravenels, and to other businessmen in the City. He was proud of his accomplishments and his fine reputation; it pleased him that other successful men held him in such high regard. His business was his life, his be and end all.

If he lost that world of finance and business, of wheeling and dealing, and the camaraderie of his colleagues, he would be heartbroken. And now there was a possibility that he might indeed lose it. He could lose everything, in fact. His inheritance and his family were in jeopardy. All because of George and his idiotic behaviour, his desire to destroy
him
.

Yesterday, he had driven down to Kent with Will Hasling, who had a country house near Waverley Court, his house, and Will had exploded at one moment in the Rolls, when they were in the middle of a discussion about George. Will had long ago lost patience with his brother, just as he had himself.

Now Edward stood at one end of the dining room at Waverley Court, near the sideboard. He poured himself a glass of white wine, and then walked outside, strolled down to the gazebo. It was a lovely evening, the sky tinged with the red and pink of a setting sun along the rim of the horizon. Red sky at night, shepherd's delight, red sky at morning, shepherd's warning, he muttered to himself. An old saying of his mother's. He backed away from thoughts of her. She was George's defender, protector, and tonight he did not wish to dwell on this fact. Not at all.