The Ravenscar Dynasty. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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Название: The Ravenscar Dynasty
Автор: Barbara Taylor Bradford
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Исторические любовные романы
isbn: 9780007279593
isbn:
Now Neville smiled to himself as he continued to think about Amos. Taking the man under his wing all those years ago had been a brilliant piece of strategy on his part. Amos was diligent, logical and persistent, like a dog with a bone when it was necessary. Calm and cool, whatever the circumstances, or the pressure he was under, he was loyal, discreet, and on call night or day. He had a clever knack of picking men to work for him who had similar characteristics to himself.
One of the things Neville considered of unquestionable value were the contacts Amos had…in all walks of life. This was one of the main keys to being a successful private investigator.
Before he had left for Italy with Edward and Will Hasling, Neville had given Amos a list of names, for the most part people who worked at Deravenels and were known adherents of Henry Grant, and, therefore, more than likely to be enemies of Edward.
Now, since returning to London, he was more convinced than ever that his cousin needed genuine protection; he had been made truly aware of that by Alfredo Oliveri. But from whom exactly?
Who were the real wielders of power at Deravenels? Margot Grant, obviously, and John Summers. But Grant himself?
Maybe. Maybe not. He was a weak man, a trifle lazy, ready to pass on the burdens of business to his wife, who was keen to grab those so-called burdens as fast as she could. And naturally there were others who were against Edward, simply because he was the son of Richard Deravenel, the true heir to the company.
Amos would find out, if he hadn’t already; Neville could not wait to see him.
I have to triumph, Neville told himself, as he struck out towards the end of the garden. When he came to the ancient stone wall that fronted onto the River Thames he leaned against it, staring out into the distance. It was a slow moving river today, black as ink, and the sky above had suddenly changed. The pale blue had curdled, become a mix of grey and a strange bluish green.
It’s going to rain after all, he decided, lifting his eyes to the sky. And this thought had hardly surfaced when he felt the first drops of cold rain on his upturned face.
Swinging about, Neville hurried up through the garden and went into the house, crossed the central gallery, deposited his overcoat in the hall closet, all this accomplished in the space of a few minutes.
He made his way back to the library, a large and elegantly appointed room, his favourite in the lovely old house that dated back to the Regency period. He had always thought of the library as his haven, one which closed him off from the ugliness of the world outside.
A fire blazed in the hearth and the softly-shaded lamps had all been turned on during his absence in the garden, giving the room a welcoming, roseate glow. He realized he had grown slightly chilled outside, and he went and stood with his back to the fire, warming himself, thawing out.
His mind was alive with ideas and plans. He was going to put Ned in the seat of power, however long it took him. And he himself would be the one to wield the power.
The North Sea glittered like highly-polished chain mail, rippling under the light breeze. Above, the sky was a cloudless arc of brilliant azure blue filled with golden sunlight. Sunlight without warmth on this cold wintry morning. Nonetheless, Cecily Deravenel had been lured outside by it, and wrapping herself warmly in heavy woollens and a fur-lined cape she had braved the cold.
At this moment she stood inside the old ruined stronghold on the promontory, somewhat protected by its high walls, staring out across the sea. Her thoughts were with Edward in London: a week ago he had presented himself at Deravenels, and his professional life had begun. She shivered, but not from the cold. How would they treat him? And how would he fare in the long run? She was well aware that Ned had dreaded going there. In the past week he had told her little, his two phone calls kept to the briefest of conversations. Yet Neville had reassured her, as best he could, that it would be all right. At least for the moment. No one would make any kind of move against Ned. Too soon, he had explained. Also, Alfredo Oliveri was there; ostensibly, he was on a business trip to the London headquarters from his base in Italy. But, more specifically, he was really there to keep an eye on Ned. Keep an eye on him. What a silly euphemism that was. Protection was what he would ultimately need. Her son was sitting in the middle of a nest of vipers.
Cecily shivered again and hunched into her warm clothes; her gloved hands fumbled with the ends of the scarf tied around her head. As she tightened it her mind raced.
Neville had been honest with her the other day; he had admitted that all of her sons were in danger. Still, he had also managed to convince her that her two youngest were quite safe here at Ravenscar. She trusted her nephew implicitly, knew how clever he was, highly intelligent and brilliant of mind. He was also loyal to family, just as Ned was, and as her father and brother had been…family was all to them. Rick, her only sibling, was gone forever, and Thomas, his youngest, was dead and buried with him. Now she must rely on Neville, and his brother John, both older than Ned. Dear Johnny. Her face softened at the thought of him. Less flamboyant, less ambitious than his brother, a loving young man, and wholly devoted to Ned.
We are a strong family unit, the Watkins and the Deravenel clans. We will stand together in this battle to come. We will prevail. These thoughts made her suddenly lift her head higher, and with great pride as she remembered who she was, her lineage, and whom she had married: Richard Deravenel, rightful heir to the Deravenel business empire. His widow now. She must do his memory justice. Unexpectedly her eyes blazed with a new determination.
She came to a sudden decision. She would not permit herself to be frightened by the likes of Henry Grant and his avaricious French wife, or by their subordinates. Never. She would stand up to them, stand tall, just as her father had taught her to do.
As for her overwhelming grief, caused by her devastating losses, she would bury it deep. Her grief was something private, not for public consumption. Nor for sharing with anyone, not even her children.
Her children. She must focus all of her attention on them now, protect them at all costs, ensure their safety. ‘Of course nobody’s going to come and murder them in their beds,’ Neville had reassured her with a laugh when he was in Yorkshire recently. ‘All I’m saying i s…well, just keep an eye on them.’ And that she would certainly do…she would protect them with her very life.
Turning around, chilled from the wind coming off the sea, Cecily went back to the house, climbing the steps intersecting the tiered gardens, entering the house through the French doors on the terrace.
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