Leaning back in the chair, closing his eyes, he asked himself why George hadn’t paid the clubs immediately. Was he short of money? Edward doubted that. He earned a good salary here at Deravenels, received quarterly director’s fees, and his wife Isabel had a huge allowance from her mother. Nan Watkins was a millionairess many times over, and had been extremely generous to Isabel and George. Actually, in his opinion, they had money to burn. On the other hand, thirty thousand pounds owed to one club and five thousand each owed to two other clubs were hefty sums. Forty thousand pounds.
Then there was the matter of the drinking. It had startled Edward to hear that George was considered an alcoholic. He hadn’t realized it had gone that far. As for the drugs, he wasn’t certain about that at all. But who knows, he now thought. Perhaps he is on something addictive, other than the drink.
Edward accepted that George would have to be dealt with very sternly when he returned from Scotland, and he also decided that George was going to pay back the forty thousand pounds he had just laid out. He had no intention of funding his brother’s bad gambling habits; quite suddenly he wondered if he could have George’s memberships to the clubs cancelled. Or perhaps he could have George banned. How he wasn’t sure, but it might be worth a try. And he would put the fear of God into George after Christmas. Yes, he was going to deal with a lot of things in the new year, he had made that decision days ago.
Now he must throw off this foul mood. Immediately. He had to push a smile onto his face and go across the street to Rules. He didn’t want to put a damper on the lunch he was giving for his special colleagues at Deravenels. It was almost Christmas, the first Christmas they would be able to celebrate properly, because finally they were at peace. There would be a few faces missing at the lunch: Rob Aspen and Christopher Green, who had died in France fighting for their country. They would be remembered fondly by everyone, himself most especially.
Rising, Edward went over to the cupboard where the safe was housed, and opened it. He stood there for a moment, and then he made a decision. He took out two large envelopes, locked the safe, went back to his desk and placed the envelopes in a drawer. This he locked. Pocketing the key, he went to get his overcoat and scarf. It was almost one o’clock. Time to go.
TWELVE
Vicky Forth was an optimist. She had been all her life; even as a child her attitude had been positive. Her glass was always half full, never half empty; tomorrow would be a much better day than today; the future was full of promise and success. Her nature induced her to forge ahead with her projects, undaunted and full of bravery. If any adversity occurred she looked it straight in the eye, and moved right through it, as if it didn’t exist.
Her husband Stephen, who loved, adored and encouraged her in her work, said she was a woman warrior out to conquer the world by doing good deeds. And this was true. Vicky had touched many lives. She loved helping others, most especially damaged women down on their luck, in need of care, counselling and encouragement. She wanted to help them have better lives.
Her optimism had served her well over the years, and she suddenly thought of this now as she looked at some of the dresses in her wardrobe, wondering which one to wear tonight.
How right she had been to encourage Grace Rose to be optimistic, to set her sights on Oxford University. Women were not yet admitted to membership of the University, but they could attend lectures and take courses.
Grace Rose would be able to do all of the above, and would be safe, well looked after by her old friend Millicent Hanson, now widowed, who had a lovely old house in Oxford. It had been an inspired idea to write to her.
In the letter Vicky had received today, Millicent had said she would be delighted to have Grace Rose living with her whilst she pursued her studies; Vicky was relieved, happy for her daughter, who was a wonderful student. She hoped to be a historian one day.
Finally, Vicky selected a stylish, dark-rose coloured silk dress with three-quarter length sleeves and a narrow skirt which fell to the ankles. It had a V-shaped insertion of beige lace at the front, and this made for a unique neckline. She had only worn it once before, and she decided it would be perfect for the dinner party tonight. It had style, but it was not overly dressy for a dinner at home, especially since the men were not wearing black tie.
After putting on the dress and stepping into matching rose-coloured silk pumps, Vicky went back to her dressing table, selected a pair of pearl-and-diamond earrings, and a matching brooch in the design of a flower. After adding the jewellery, she moved across the floor with her usual willowy grace, stood staring at herself in the cheval looking-glass in one corner of the bedroom. Nodding to herself, she decided she liked her appearance. Yes, she would do.
Now in her mid-forties, Vicky Forth looked like a much younger woman; her dark chestnut hair was glossy and thick, with only a hint of silver threads here and there. The few wrinkles she had around her eyes and mouth were hardly visible, and because she was full of joie de vivre there was an amazing sense of youthfulness about her. Her energy and enthusiasm added to her attractiveness. Both men and women were drawn to her, found her to be a warm, kind and compassionate woman. Edward Deravenel had always said hers was the best shoulder to cry on because she had so much sympathy to give.
Turning around, Vicky hurried towards the door, just as it flew open to admit her husband Stephen.
A smile struck his face when he saw her. ‘How beautiful you look, Vicky!’ he exclaimed, coming into the room, closing the door. He paused to kiss her, held her away from him, smiling broadly, nodding his approval.
‘Hello, darling,’ she said, smiling back at him.
‘You’re dressed rather early, aren’t you, my dear?’
Vicky shook her head. ‘Not really, I do have a few things to check with Cook, and Fuller. Also, a short while ago Ned telephoned. He asked to come a bit earlier, before everyone else. He wants to talk to us, so I said it would be all right.’
‘What does he want to talk to us about?’ Stephen asked curiously.
‘Grace Rose.’
‘What about her?’
‘Apparently some years ago, after he had taken over as head of Deravenels and was making money, he set up a trust for her. It will not be hers until she is twenty-one, but he wishes to bring the relevant documents tonight. He thinks we should now hold them for her until she comes of age.’
‘How odd. Why?’
‘He didn’t actually explain everything, Stephen darling, but he did mention that he was putting many of his affairs in order between now and the end of the year.’
‘I see. Well, then, I’d better get a move on, darling, change my shirt and suit, dandy myself up for your dinner party.’
‘Our dinner party, Stephen,’ she corrected. ‘Ned said it would only take fifteen minutes or so. He suggested Grace Rose could entertain Jane whilst we have our discussion in the library.’
‘I know Grace Rose will enjoy that, but will Jane?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Vicky frowned in puzzlement, staring at her husband questioningly.
‘Grace Rose has become amazingly forthright lately. Whilst she is not in any way rude, in fact she’s extremely polite and well-mannered, I do find she really does speak her mind these days. Or hadn’t you noticed?’
‘Yes, of course I have,’ Vicky responded. ‘On the other hand, she makes her somewhat startling comments so casually and with such panache, such good humour, I’m quite certain no one takes offence.’ Hurrying to the door, she added over her shoulder, ‘But I must go down. I have to make sure everything is in order. Don’t be too long, will you?’ She glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and pointed out, ‘It’s already ten past six, and Ned and Jane will be arriving at six-thirty. The other guests are due at seven.’
‘Who else is coming, by the way?’ he asked swiftly. ‘Just refresh my memory again. You never did give me a final list, as you normally do.’
‘Oh sorry, so sorry, Stephen. Yes, well, it’s only famil
y, really. There’s Ned and Jane, and us, that makes five, plus Fenella, Amos, and my brother.’
‘Isn’t Kathleen coming with Will?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. He telephoned me this morning. She’s fighting an awful cold apparently, and he said they both thought she ought to stay at home. She doesn’t want to spread germs. So I agreed. What else could I do? Anyway, a lovely flower arrangement and a note of apology arrived this afternoon from Kathleen. She’s a sweet woman, very thoughtful.’
‘Yes, she is. It’s all this blasted rain we’re having, if you want my opinion,’ Stephen grumbled. ‘It’s been raining cats and dogs for days. No wonder people are catching colds, becoming ill.’
Vicky burst out laughing. ‘Let’s not complain about the English weather, my sweet! The war is OVER. That’s quite something to be happy about, isn’t it? To hell with the weather, I say.’
He chuckled, and headed over to his dressing room. ‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll be down,’ he muttered as he disappeared through the doorway.
Smiling to herself, thinking how awful her life would have been without him, Vicky closed the bedroom door behind her and went downstairs. She wanted to check on Fuller, to make sure he had taken the champagne to the library; she had selected Krug, knowing it was Ned’s preferred brand these days.
Dear Ned. He had always been her favourite and one of her dearest friends. They had known each other for donkey’s years, and had become very close as time had passed. He was her brother Will’s best friend, and she fully understood why these two had bonded years before.
She had helped Ned to get through his grief and despair after his mistress Lily had been killed in that horrendous accident. Well, she added to herself, that was no accident, it was cold-blooded murder. Margot Grant, Edward’s bitter enemy, in his fight for control of Deravenels all those years ago. She had had Lily Overton murdered. And she had gone scot-free, had never been made to pay for it. No, she had been made to pay, actually. In the worst way. The Frenchwoman had lost everyone and everything. God’s will, no doubt.
A shiver ran through Vicky and goose flesh sprang up on her arms and the back of her neck. She had been in the landau with Lily that fateful day in Hyde Park, had been thrown out with her and could have easily been killed herself.
Lily … her best friend, so beautiful, and far too young to die. And the unborn baby killed, too, Ned’s child which she was carrying. Vicky knew she would never forget the sight of Lily laying there on the grass, the pale blue silk of her dress covered in bright red blood. That image was indelibly printed on her mind; it never faded.
Pausing on the staircase, Vicky took a deep breath and endeavoured to throw off these dire memories of that most miserable day, and then she went on down slowly, calming her thoughts before their guests began to arrive.
Almost at once she bumped into Fuller in the downstairs hall. ‘Good evening, Madam,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘I’m just about to put the grog in the library.’
‘Thank you,’ she answered, noting that he was holding a silver bucket full of ice. ‘Everything else is in hand, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘All the fires going?’
‘Oh yes, Madam, all shipshape. We’re ready to set sail.’
‘Thank you, Fuller,’ she murmured and walked along the corridor towards the kitchen, shaking her head. Before joining them last year Fuller had been head butler in the house of a former admiral in the Royal Navy, now deceased, and he tended to speak in somewhat nautical terms. She and Grace Rose found it amusing, but at times it irritated Stephen: only the other day he had complained that he felt as if he were living on a damned battleship!
Her answer had been to quickly point out that Fuller just happened to be an excellent butler, the best they had had in years.
Opening the kitchen door, Vicky put her head around it and asked, ‘Do you need me for anything, Mrs Johnson?’
The cook turned swiftly, holding a ladle in her hand and it hovered in mid-air for a moment. Putting it down, she said, ‘Evening, mum. No, there’re no problems. All’s well ’ere, we’re shipshape, and on time. Dinner will be ready at eight bells, as you requested.’ Cook compressed her mouth hard, swallowing her sudden laughter. She steadied herself and blurted out, ‘Seems I’m pickin’ up Fuller’s jargon, mum, sorry, ever so sorry, mum.’
Trying to keep a straight face herself, Vicky answered, ‘Just make sure the mulligatawny soup is very hot. You know Mr Forth likes the soup to be scalding.’
‘Yes, mum, and everything else! I knows he prefers his ’ot food ’ot, and so he should, mum.’
Laughing, Vicky made her way to the drawing room and went in. It was her favourite room in the house, and she glanced around, admiring it for a moment. The walls were covered in pale-yellow silk, and yellow-and-cream striped taffeta draperies hung at the windows, billowed out like ball-gowns, the way she liked them to be.
Against the pale-yellow backdrop there was a mélange of bright colours, mainly clear blues and reds in the upholstery fabrics on the various antique French chairs and large comfortable sofas. The fire was blazing, the porcelain lamps shaded in cream silk offered a welcoming glow, and there were bowls of fresh flowers everywhere. Perfect, she thought. The room looks just perfect.
The ringing of the doorbell made Vicky start, and as she hurried across the antique Aubusson carpet she heard Fuller’s footsteps echoing in the marble hall. She hoped he wouldn’t say welcome aboard, as he had been known to do sometimes. On the other hand, if he did, she knew that Edward would simply chuckle.
THIRTEEN
Grace Rose had been given the task of entertaining Mrs Shaw while her parents and Uncle Ned had some sort of business meeting in the library.
She was glad they had asked her to keep Jane Shaw company because she really liked her. There was something about her that was intriguing and special; also, Grace Rose knew that Jane Shaw liked her in return, and there was a certain ease between them.
That this woman was truly lovely to look at was obvious; that she was charming, kind and extremely intelligent a bonus, Grace Rose thought, impressed by her knowledge of art and sculpture, her willingness to answer questions whenever Grace Rose asked. Jane knew a great deal about certain artists and their work, most especially the French Impressionists and Post-Impressionists, and she was happy to share.
The two of them were seated in the yellow drawing room, chatting generalities. At one moment, Grace Rose couldn’t help thinking that Jane Shaw looked perfect in this perfect room tonight. She was wearing a most elegant and fashionable sapphire-blue velvet dress, and sapphire earrings which exactly echoed the particular blue in some of the fabrics her mother had chosen for the room. She ought to be painted in here, Grace Rose thought, and it should be called Portrait in Blue.
After another brief discussion about a recent art exhibition at a well-known gallery in Chelsea, with Jane doing most of the talking, they fell silent. But it was a compatible silence, not awkward at all; the two of them were comfortable with each other and had been since they had first met some years before.
Looking across at Grace Rose, Jane took the lead again, and murmured, ‘I hear you love your studies, and your uncle told me you are extremely dedicated and disciplined. He thinks that’s admirable, and so do I.’ Settling back in the French bergère, Jane took a sip of champagne and then smiled warmly at the younger woman.
Grace Rose nodded, her face full of eagerness. ‘I’ve always loved school, Mrs Shaw, and I’m really happy today because it will soon be possible for me to live at Oxford with a friend of Mother’s, and attend courses at the University.’
‘That’s wonderful! Congratulations! History is your subject, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. At this moment I’m particularly interested in France, and in French kings.’
‘What an extraordinary coincidence. I’ve always been partial to French history, and although the English are not supposed to like Napoleon Bonaparte, I must confess I’ve always had a sneaking admiration for him
. In many ways he was a genius.’
‘And probably the greatest general the world has ever known,’ Grace Rose remarked.
‘Except when he invaded Russia,’ Jane pointed out, eyeing her young companion acutely.
‘That’s true … but it was mostly the weather that scuttled him,’ Grace Rose replied. ‘I was thinking in terms of strategy when I said he was the greatest.’
‘I understand, and many agree with you. But tell me, which particular king intrigues you the most?’
‘To be honest, I’m more taken with the mistresses of kings. You see, that’s what I’m studying at the moment. Mistresses. I find them fascinating –’ Grace Rose broke off, remembering that Jane Shaw was Uncle Ned’s mistress. She chastised herself silently for having embarked on such a controversial subject. ‘Oh, dear, I’m so … s-s-sorry,’ she stammered, looking chagrined, and then flushed in embarrassment.
Jane couldn’t help laughing when she saw the woebegone expression on her face, and reaching out she patted her arm, said very softly, ‘Don’t apologize, my dear, I know you know that I am Uncle Ned’s mistress.’
‘Yes,’ Grace Rose replied, nodding. ‘The whole world knows –’ She broke off again, looking even more flustered than ever, and cleared her throat.
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Shaw, I keep saying the wrong thing. I don’t mean to give offence.’
‘And you haven’t, I promise. Tell me why you love mistresses so much that you want to study them?’
Suddenly feeling undeterred, realizing Jane was obviously interested to hear her opinion, she rushed on. ‘Those I’ve been reading about are all extraordinary women. They played such enormous roles in history. Most were influential in politics and government, whilst caring about their kings, and what they did says so much about the times they lived in. We learn from them. Their relationships were usually about power. In most instances, I think.’
‘Absolutely!’ Jane exclaimed. ‘And money. And position. As well as social ascendency, and, in another sense, social acceptance and supremacy.’