The Complete Ravenscar Trilogy: The Ravenscar Dynasty, Heirs of Ravenscar, Being Elizabeth

Looking across at Phyllida, he said with a throaty chuckle, ‘You’re a good little actress, Maisie. I trained you well.’

‘You did, and thanks for watching out for me today,’ she replied.

John Summers was so unsettled that evening he found it difficult to eat the excellent dinner his cook had so carefully prepared for him. Finally throwing the white linen napkin down on the table, he left the dining room, swiftly retreated to the library.

A moment later Fellowes, his butler, knocked on the door and came in. ‘Is everything all right, sir?’

‘Everything’s fine, thank you,’ John responded in a quiet tone.

‘Cook is worried, sir. Did everything suit?’

‘Yes, it did. My compliments to Cook, Fellowes, and please pour me a cognac, would you?’

When he was finally alone John Summers settled back in the leather wing chair in front of the blazing fire, nursing the balloon of brandy.

Uppermost in his thoughts were the events of the day. In many ways his eyes had been opened. He knew exactly where he stood with his executives, understood much more about them, knew their weaknesses. Finally. Certainly he had been startled by the knowledge that Margot Grant had a truly ruthless streak in her. He also now realized that she was something of a liability. On the other hand, Henry Grant relied on her, and he loved her…if love was an emotion felt by such a lost and demented man.

John sighed to himself and looked across at the small painting of Georgina which stood on the table next to the fireplace. If only his fiancée had not been killed in that accident several years ago his life would be very different now. He would have a wife and a family, and they would have eased his loneliness. As it was, his life was unbearable at times, because he missed Georgina so much, and because he had no confidante, no close friend whom he could trust. He was utterly alone. Except for his brothers, living in Somerset, and they were not all that close these days.

He took a long gulp of the brandy and then put the glass down on a nearby table, closed his eyes, filled with myriad thoughts. One thing was paramount in his mind…Thank God he had had the wisdom not to fall into the sexual trap that was Margot Grant. A narrow escape, he thought. And he pitied Jack Beaufield who was apparently her new victim.

John knew he had his work cut out for him in the next few months. The problems at the company would not go away. They had to be solved. He was damned if he was going to let the House of Deravenels fall. Somehow he would find clever solutions. With the help of a few good men, he would bring the company back up on top. He must.

TWENTY-THREE (#)

At times Cecily Deravenel wished she had been born a man. There were many things she could do better and faster than some of the men she knew; but as a child of Victoria’s reign and now a woman of the Edwardian era, so much had been, and still was, forbidden to her. Over the years she had suffered her frustration, annoyance and impatience in silence, as had so many other women she knew. Many men, in public and private, complained about Mrs Pankhurst and her fight for the rights of women, but Cecily could not help but admire her, and her efforts on behalf of the female sex.

At this precise moment, Cecily wished she had been standing in her late husband’s shoes over the last few years. She would have definitely challenged Henry Grant about his mismanagement of Deravenels, and his right to run it. Curiously, Richard had never really done so, perhaps out of sentiment, and a lingering affection for Harry whom he had known throughout his life, since Henry’s childhood, in fact.

It was all here, all the documents which would have brought the situation to a head, if Richard had so wished. Earlier that morning she had gone down to the vault in the basement of the Charles Street house and opened it with Swinton’s help. Once she was alone, Cecily had removed a large pile of documents, which Richard had secured in a white linen pillow case, and had taken them up to the dining room.

Now these were spread out in front of her, and she studied them carefully. All of the papers were actually copies of ancient documents which dated back hundreds of years, documents so fragile they were stored in the vaults at the Deravenel offices in the Strand.

Long ago, Richard had told her that every five years or so, before the copies themselves yellowed and aged, they were copied afresh. He had gone on to explain that those originals in the office vaults dated as far back as the founding father of the dynasty, Guy de Ravenel, and were very precious and also extremely valuable historically.

As she slowly read, turned the pages, and read on, Cecily quickly understood that everything Richard had written in his diary was correct. She was struck, most forcibly, by the fact that he himself could so easily have presented a case to the board, yet for some reason he had not put that plan into operation. He had only written about doing it.

Once more, she wondered why? Sentiment aside, he was not a fearful man; certainly he was capable of standing up to anyone. He had never been cowardly, just the opposite, in fact. Yet, in this instance, he had backed away from the fight, and had merely continued to grumble about the sixty-year-old usurpation and his inalienable rights and so on, and had angered people in the process. She could not comprehend why he had not acted, given the evidence, and now she would never know. He had taken that reason to the grave with him.

Two hours later, fully informed about the rules and regulations of Deravenels, understanding everything, she collected the papers and carried them up to her bedroom in the pillow case. Placing them on her bed for a moment, she opened a drawer in the chest which stood in the corner, and placed the documents inside.

Later she would show them to Edward, when he returned from lunch with Neville and Will. Even though her husband had never seen fit to take advantage of her many talents and insights when it came to business, she knew her son would. And this pleased her. Ned had always listened to her opinions, paid attention to what she had to say, knowing he would benefit from her wisdom and sage advice.

‘I can’t believe it’s you, Johnny!’ Edward exclaimed, rushing across the library of Neville’s Chelsea house. ‘No one told me you would be here today!’

Hurrying forward to greet his favourite cousin, Johnny Watkins explained, with a wide grin, ‘That’s because no one knew I would be arriving last night.’

Meeting in the middle of the floor, the two men wore appraising expressions as they eyed one another with great affection. They both laughed, remembering so much. They were not only first cousins but the best of friends, having bonded long ago when they were growing up in Yorkshire—Johnny at Witton Castle, Rick’s splendid home in the Dales, Edward at Ravenscar on the high cliffs at the edge of the North Sea. They were regular visitors to each other’s homes, and also often stayed with Neville and Nan at Thorpe Manor near Ripon.

Although Johnny was a few years older than Ned, they had always seen eye to eye, shared the same values…honour, integrity, loyalty to family, and devotion to friends. These were their sincere and genuine beliefs, and they had remained steadfast in their love for each other and in their friendship.

Standing away from Edward, Johnny’s dark-grey eyes swept over his cousin’s face, and he said, with a faint smile, ‘You don’t look like the wounded warrior to me.’

‘I’m not. Not anymore, Johnny. It’s two weeks since the incident, so the bruises are almost gone. I’m no longer black and blue, and the shoulder pains have also fled.’

Johnny touched Ned’s arm lightly, his expression serious. ‘Thank God you’re all right. You could’ve been killed, you know, Ned. And then where would I have been? Where would all of us have been? After losing my brother Thomas and your Edmund, and our fathers, well, I don’t think I could have survived the loss of you.’

There was a moment’s silence.

Ned’s brilliantly blue eyes turned dark with pain before he said slowly, ‘I know, it’s still a raw wound, for all of us. But we do have our families, and each other, Johnny.’

‘For life,’ Johnny answered.

Ned nodded, smiled at his friend and cousin. And at this moment he had no way of knowing that it would not always be so. Not in the end.

‘How is Isabella? And your boy?’ Ned asked.

‘Wonderful, and if my sojourn here becomes a more permanent situation, she will come with our son to London, live here with me. Neville is well satisfied that things are under control in Yorkshire. The woollen mills in Bradford are turning out the best cloth, a lot of it for export. Our heavy-machinery manufacturing plants in Leeds are booming. The coal mines are operating well, better than ever—in fact all of our industrial interests are at full throttle. My father had everything running smoothly when he was killed—’ Johnny broke off, looked away for a second before adding, ‘and Neville has always had his business interests on an even keel. That’s why he decided I should come here and keep you company, so to speak. Until we take over Deravenels.’

‘And that we will certainly be doing in the not-too-distant future!’ Neville Watkins announced self-confidently from the doorway, and came striding into the library accompanied by Alfredo Oliveri and Amos Finnister.

Once he had greeted Ned affectionately, he introduced the other two men to his brother John.

Although Neville and Johnny bore a marked family resemblance, they were quite different. Neville, the eldest, was always elegance personified, dressed in the best. Johnny was not at all flamboyant in his choice of attire, and he dressed rather simply in good clothes that were understated.

Johnny was as good looking as all of the Watkins’ clan, and like his older brother he bore a strong resemblance to his Aunt Cecily Watkins Deravenel.

As for his character, he was hardworking and disciplined but not quite the slave to business that his brother was. He very frequently teased Neville, told him he lived out of a suitcase as he travelled the length and breadth of England.

Johnny liked the quiet country life, was something of a homebody, unlike Neville and Ned, who thrived amidst luxury, glamour and splendour, and loved the gilded life of society.

Neville indicated the men should sit down near the fireplace. ‘Even though it’s the beginning of April, it’s still rather cold,’ he pointed out, and seated himself near the hearth.

A moment later Will Hasling came striding into the library, greeting everyone in his usual breezy and cheerful manner, and then he hurried over to Johnny; they shook hands. They were old friends, good friends, and trusted each other implicitly.

Neville said, ‘Oliveri has a few things to tell us, so I suggest he speaks first.’

Alfredo nodded, and sitting slightly forward in the chair, he said, ‘The first thing I want to report is the general attitude at Deravenels after Mr Edward was so brutally attacked two weeks ago. I noticed the tense atmosphere myself, but most of my information came from Robert Aspen and Christopher Green. They are on our side. Anyway, they told me, separately, by the way, that John Summers was really furious, that he hauled his ex-ecutives over the coals regarding the attack on Mr Edward, and demanded to know who was responsible.’

‘I’ll wager they all denied having anything to do with it,’ Ned exclaimed, glancing across at Neville.

Alfredo nodded vehemently. ‘Naturally they did. And then James Cliff did something quite treacherous. He said, rather pointedly, that Jack Beaufield ought to know who was behind it since he was “sequestered” with Margot Grant quite a lot these days.’

‘Really,’ Neville remarked, then laughed at the thought of this. ‘Well, we sort of knew that already, didn’t we, Finnister?’

The private investigator smiled but remained silent.

‘Jack Beaufield admitted that he was friendly with her,’ Alfredo explained, ‘but insisted he had refused to help her do harm to Ned. He suggested she hire thugs to do her dirty work.’