Being Elizabeth (28 page)

‘I'm glad. I wanted you to have this particular brooch, because, you see, it was given to me by my father. One Christmas long ago. I know you have special feelings about Edward Deravenel, and I thought this most appropriate.'

‘It is. I just wish I'd known him. And I shall treasure this always.'

Grace Rose smiled, looked across at Robert, admiring him. As usual, she was startled by his extraordinary good looks. Every time she saw him she was taken aback by his presence, his charisma. He had turned out to be the most handsome man she had ever seen, with his height, dark hair, and chiselled features. Movie-star good looks, she thought to herself, as she studied him. Many underestimated him because of those looks, but Grace Rose knew his true colours. He was brilliant, shrewd and determined.

He was carefully taking off the ribbon and the paper, and putting them on one side. After reading the card, he opened the red leather box and he, too, was surprised.

Robert was staring at a pair of gold cufflinks set with diamonds and rubies. ‘Grace Rose, you spoil me! These are quite the most beautiful cufflinks I've ever set eyes on. Thank you.'

He rose, smiling at her with great affection, and went to kiss her as Elizabeth had just done.

She looked up at him and said softly, ‘You're very special to me, Robert, as is Elizabeth.' She turned to her great-niece. ‘I'm glad I was able to borrow the two of you when you were growing up. You gave me such a lot of pleasure.'

‘And you gave
us
magical times,' Elizabeth answered.

‘These cufflinks are absolutely superb,' Robert murmured, studying them. ‘And I see from the box they are by Cartier. You've given me something very special.'

‘They belonged to my husband, Charles. I gave them to him just after we were married, and he always wore them on his
first nights, at the party after the performance. Charles considered them lucky. And I hope you will, too.'

‘I will.' The mobile phone in his pocket shrilled, and he made a face, said, ‘Please excuse me.' Robert walked to the end of the drawing room, stood near the window as he answered the phone.

Leaning closer to Elizabeth, Grace Rose said, ‘There's one thing I meant to tell you earlier, and it is this. At the end of his life your father was not only exceedingly proud of you, Elizabeth, proud of your academic achievements and the way you handled yourself, but he did love you. He really did. I want you to remember that.'

Elizabeth took hold of her hand, held it tightly. ‘Thank you for telling me that. It means so much to me.'

It was Sunday the seventh of September, their mutual birthday, and they had opted for an evening at home in Elizabeth's flat in Eaton Square.

They had spent a lazy day together, opening their presents over a late breakfast, enjoying each other's company, doing nothing in particular. Something of a novelty for both of them. They were perpetually busy.

Robert had insisted on preparing supper, and Elizabeth had gone to change. He had made a quick, simple meal, one he knew she would enjoy, and now, as he came in from the kitchen, he went to the fireplace, put a light to the logs, opened the bottle of Krug champagne in the ice bucket, and dimmed the lights. Music, he thought suddenly, that's what's missing. Within seconds he had selected one of their favourite Frank Sinatra discs and put it on, adjusting the volume.

He was standing with his back to the fire when he heard the click of her heels in the foyer, and there she was in the doorway of the drawing room, beaming at him.

A look of genuine amazement crossed his face, and he just stood there not able to say a word for a moment.

‘Well, you did tell me to dress casually!' she exclaimed when she saw the look of amazement on his face. ‘So I
did
.'

He threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Casual. You look as if you're on your way to Annabel's in that get-up! You're priceless, Elizabeth.'

She began to laugh with him; she had known as she was dressing that he would appreciate the joke. And he had. She was wearing a pale-blue silk nightgown and peignoir and high-heeled silver Manolo Blahniks. It was the jewellery that took the outfit right over the top: her string of South Sea pearls and matching earrings, the pearl bracelet and ring he had given her that morning, and the Edwardian diamond bow pin from Grace Rose.

‘
Gorgeous
. You're gorgeous,' he said, crossing the room, taking her in his arms, kissing her. Then against her hair he whispered, ‘Can I have this dance, my love?' She nodded, but neither moved. They simply stood together, entwined, swaying to the music, knowing they needed nothing more than each other to be happy.

Finally Robert led her over to a chair near the fire, poured the champagne, sat down next to her, clinked his glass to hers. ‘Happy Birthday!' they said in unison.

After a moment, Robert murmured, ‘I know it's meant to be a joke, but the outfit is rather smashing, you know. Obviously it's the jewels that make it really work.'

Elizabeth nodded, her dark eyes mischievous. ‘I wanted to get all fancied up for you, Robin, all dressed up like we used to do when we were little.' She put out a leg, showing her ankle and wiggling her foot. ‘I even put my Manolos on for you. I aim to please.'

‘You do, you please me very much.' He shot his cuff so that she could see the Patek Philippe watch she had given him earlier, as well as his ruby cufflinks from Grace Rose. ‘I got dressed up for you, too.'

‘Well, great minds think alike! We're always on the same track.'

‘I hope I've been on the same track as far as supper's concerned.'

‘I'm sure you have, but I'm not all that hungry.'

He nodded, said no more. He constantly worried about her peculiar eating habits, often thought she looked far too thin. But he knew she was never on a diet: her thinness had nothing to do with vanity. It was because she seemed to have little interest in food, which was the reason he had prepared the kind of meal he had for their birthday dinner. Now he changed the subject. ‘Grace Rose was very generous, giving me cufflinks that belonged to her husband. I was very touched, and I know you love your brooch. I suspect that's partially because it was bought by Edward Deravenel.'

‘You're right. Although to be honest, it truly is unique, Robin, and I do admire those Victorian and Edwardian bow brooches.' Shifting in her chair, Elizabeth went on, ‘I'm happy Grace Rose has lived so long, has good health and perfect mental capacities. I like having her around, she's such a big part of the past, and
our
past. When I look back now, I realize how lovely she was to us when we were little, took an interest in us. Perhaps because she never had children of her own.' Elizabeth suddenly began to laugh. ‘And she certainly is a mountain of information about the Deravenels and the Turners! Why, Grace Rose is the family historian, don't you agree?'

Nodding, laughing with her, Robin said, ‘Scandals, sex and secrets, that could easily have been their family motto, the Deravenels, I mean. And the Turners, too, I think. My parents told me quite a lot about the juicy stuff, when I was old enough to know.'

‘Forget the juicy stuff, that's
nothing
! There's much more.' Elizabeth eyed him knowingly. ‘What about murder, and murder again, and kidnapping, and all kinds of foul play? You name it, it's there. Sometimes I wish I knew more than I do, but quite truthfully, I don't like to pump her.'

‘The next time we see her maybe I can wheedle a bit more out of her.
Secrets
, I mean.' Robert got up, brought the champagne over and filled their flutes, returned the bottle to the silver bucket.

Elizabeth said, ‘So go on, tell me what's for supper. I'm curious.'

‘It's a nursery tea.'

‘You're joking.'

‘No, I'm not.' Robert pulled her to her feet, guided her to the kitchen. ‘Here it is!' He waved his hand at the laden trolley, then whipped off the napkins covering numerous plates. ‘Your favourite meal, so you're continually telling me. A nursery tea
par excellence
, my darling.'

‘Oh, Robin, how wonderful!' She threw him a loving smile and went over to the trolley, looking at everything he had made. There was every kind of narrow finger sandwich, with the crusts cut off the way Kat made them. They were her favourites … egg salad, sliced cucumber on cream cheese, sliced tomatoes, smoked salmon, potted meat, mashed sardines, and even small sausage rolls.

‘After the sandwiches I'll be serving you warm scones with clotted Devonshire cream and strawberry jam, and finally your other favourite, jam roly-poly. That's your birthday cake.'

‘And
yours
. Oh, Robin, I do love you so.'

‘I love you more.'

They moved together at the same moment, were suddenly in each other's arms, kissing each other passionately. When they finally drew apart, Elizabeth stared at him intently. ‘We have time to make love, if you want to, that is,' she murmured.

‘I do,' he answered, without a moment's hesitation, took hold of her hand and led her to the bedroom.

F
rancis Walsington left the Plaza Athénée Hotel on the Avenue Montaigne at exactly nine o'clock on Monday morning. No longer able to stomach staying at the Ritz, after the débâcle of Princess Diana's tragic death, he had booked at the Plaza instead. It was a familiar place, an old favourite of his, where he felt comfortable and at home. He had stayed there off and on over the past few years and knew many of the staff.

His appointment at Dauphin, the French conglomerate, was not until ten, but he wanted to get a breath of fresh air and
think
, before going into the meeting. He walked down the street at a leisurely pace, heading for the Champs-Élysées.

It was a beautiful morning, the air balmy, the blue sky clear and dazzling as it could be only in Paris, at least to his way of thinking. Paris was the city he loved the most after London, and he enjoyed being in it whatever the weather. Rain or shine, it was unique and beautiful, but on a day like this he considered it to be truly spectacular. A visual treat as far as the eye could see.

He thought about Elizabeth as he walked along. She had
proved to have all the qualities he admired in a top executive – self-confidence, vision and courage. She was one of the most disciplined people he had ever worked with, and her dedication and determination were commendable. Cecil had recently commented to him that she had that special kind of brilliance that separated the merely clever from the truly inspired, and he agreed. He knew she was an honourable person: her word was her bond, just as her father's had been. Harry Turner's handshake had been considered the most meaningful in the City, and was still spoken about.

Francis was pleased that Elizabeth had Robert Dunley by her side. Not only as her business adviser and one of her chief executives, but as her lover and partner. He admired and respected Robert, trusted him implicitly, had enormous confidence in his abilities. He knew he was an honest man, and dependable.

In a certain way, Robert's good looks were a detriment to him, as was his elegance. Francis was aware that all too often he was dismissed as a preening peacock by some, when nothing could be further from the truth. Jealousy and envy, how they twist some people's minds, and lives, he thought as he reached the broad avenue which was the main thoroughfare in the City of Light.

Traffic on the Champs-Élysées was already heavy, marking the beginning of the first business day of the week. Francis turned right, sauntered on, his destination a large building located at the end of the avenue, close to the Rond-Point and not far from the Place de la Concorde.

He realized he had plenty of time before his meeting at Dauphin, decided to have a cup of coffee, and chose a pavement café not far from his destination. After ordering a
cafê au
lait
and a croissant, he sat back in the chair, watched the world go by. But after a short while his mind focused on the young couple he was soon to meet: François de Burgh and his wife, Marie Stewart de Burgh.

Some time ago he had made it his business to find out as
much as he could about them, but his operatives in Paris had not turned up anything special. On the surface there appeared to be nothing bad or sinister about them. However, as far as their characters were concerned, both of them seemed to be rather spoiled, and Marie, in particular, was wilful.

François was the pampered son of Henri and Catherine de Burgh, his late father French, his mother Italian. François had several siblings, but he was the eldest and heir to the vast business empire which was one of the rivals of LVMH. According to the information Francis had received, François de Burgh was a proud young man, considered shrewd by many but also viewed as lazy and a trifle too easy-going. It was well known he was not as clever as his wife. Now that his father was dead he was head of Dauphin.

Marie Stewart de Burgh, his wife and business partner, was the heiress to Scottish Heritage, a large business enterprise based in Edinburgh. She was the titular head, if in absentia, who left the management of the company to her mother, who appeared to be doing a fine job and was well respected. Marie's mother had controlled Scottish Heritage for years, and she had held the company steady. An aristocratic Frenchwoman of considerable background and breeding, she had three rich and powerful brothers who were extremely prominent in French society, business and politics.

As a child of five, Marie Stewart had been sent to live with her renowned uncles in Paris. She grew up with these shrewd and clever aristocrats, speaking only French. Later she was given an expensive education, sent to finishing school, and consistently brainwashed into believing she was destined for great things.

The information he had received told Francis Walsington that she was a beautiful young woman who was rather proud and snobbish, overly ambitious, and had been schooled by her uncles to set her sights high. There were no scandals attached to her, nor to her young husband François de Burgh, who was considered quite a catch.

As he sat sipping his coffee, Francis contemplated Elizabeth and smiled inwardly. He was convinced that Marie Stewart was no match for the woman he worked for. Elizabeth Deravenel Turner was a genius. She had already proved herself to be a brilliant businesswoman in the short time she had been at the helm of Deravenels, and highly educated though she was, she was a graduate of what Francis called ‘the school of hard knocks'. She was also the daughter of one of the greatest tycoons the world had ever known, and had learned at the knee of the master. She happened to be a consummate actress by natural inclination and was long practised in the art of dissimulation. Quick-witted and shrewd, Elizabeth could be exceedingly tough when it came to business matters; Francis knew she always thought with her head, never permitted emotions to cloud her judgement.

What he knew about Marie Stewart de Burgh told him she was no match for Elizabeth. She was the spoiled darling of her doting uncles and husband, and certainly well educated, but without any business experience. Socially prominent and wealthy, she had a degree of charm and looks. But that was it.

No contest, Francis decided, as he sipped his coffee. Besides which, she has no genuine claim to Deravenels, whatever she believes. Madame de Burgh likes the idea of being the heiress to Deravenels, revels in the thought that it's hers through her grandmother Margaret Turner Stewart, Harry's sister, but all of this is in her imagination. It's wishful thinking on her part, she's living a delusion.

Finishing his coffee, he reached into his pocket for money and motioned to the waiter that he wanted to pay.

Beautiful she was, but not quite as beautiful as some had made her out to be. So much for myths, Francis thought, as he walked
across the antique Aubusson rug to meet Marie Stewart de Burgh and her husband François.

There was something of Elizabeth in her. She had the same Turner build, was tall, willowy, slender. Her oval face with its regular features was very pale like Elizabeth's, her complexion perfect, and she had lovely amber-coloured eyes. But it was her hair that was indeed her crowning glory. Red gold, it shimmered around her face, was worn shoulder length. She and Elizabeth were cousins, and it was patently obviously that they shared a few genetic characteristics.

‘Good morning, Mr Walsington,' Marie Stewart said in accented English, as she took hold of his outstretched hand in a firm grip. ‘It is my great pleasure to welcome you to Dauphin. I would like to introduce you to my husband, François de Burgh, President of Dauphin.'

‘Good morning, Madame de Burgh,' Francis said, turned, and shook her husband's hand. ‘Monsieur de Burgh,
bonjour
.'

‘
Bonjour
, Monsieur Walsington,' François murmured, his voice also accented, low but pleasant. He gave Francis a friendly smile. Shorter than his wife, he was as dark as she was fair, with a somewhat plain face. They seemed an odd couple to Francis, most especially because of the disparity in their heights.

Marie Stewart led them to a small seating arrangement at the far end of the large office, and they all took their seats. She sat on the edge of her chair, seemed eager to begin, and leaning slightly forward she focused on Francis. ‘When I was informed you wished to come and speak with us, I knew at once that Elizabeth had sent you. That is true, is it not, monsieur?'

‘It was the board of directors as well as Elizabeth herself who wished me to come and see you, Madame de Burgh. And our lawyers. Indeed, we all thought it was a good idea that we meet, regarding the announcement you made.' He glanced at François, and added, ‘An announcement about staking a claim in the UK
and taking over a global company, so well spelled out in the interview you recently gave to the
New York Herald Tribune
.'

François was quick to answer. ‘Yes, that is indeed what we wish to do, Monsieur Walsington. Like everyone else these days, we wish to take Dauphin global.'

‘By attempting to take over Deravenels?'

‘I did not mention Deravenels, Monsieur Walsington,' the Frenchman said swiftly, sounding a little indignant.

‘That's perfectly true, but Deravenels is the largest and most successful
global
company in Britain, and we are well equipped to read between the lines; as are our lawyers.'

Fixing her amber-coloured eyes on Francis, Marie Stewart said in a somewhat colder tone than before, ‘That is the
second time
you have mentioned lawyers, monsieur. Are you making … a threat?'

‘No, not at all, Madame. But it is usual for us to consult our various solicitors when there's even the merest suggestion that another company might be eyeing us, considering us a possible target. And very frankly, the board thought it was vital that I talk to you, mainly to explain how complex Deravenels is as a company.'

She looked at him intently, and after a moment asked, ‘What do you mean by
complex
?'

‘Let me explain as concisely as I can, Madame. As I'm sure you know, Deravenels is a private company; the shares are not publicly traded and they are very rarely sold. In fact, they only occasionally change hands, usually when someone holding our shares dies and leaves them to a family member, as part of an inheritance. And –'

‘I have shares!' Marie Stewart exclaimed, cutting in, giving him a hard stare.

‘I know that, Madame. Shares which you inherited from your grandmother.'

‘And it is through her that I am the heir to Deravenels.'

Ignoring this, Francis went on in a cool, steady voice, ‘Quite apart from this particular and rather unusual situation with the shares of Deravenels, there are also other rules which make it virtually impossible for any kind of takeover. Certain rules were introduced within the last seventy odd years. However, most of those changes don't need discussion here. Except for one, which was made by Harry Turner. In his will he debarred Deravenels from passing to a foreigner … only an English person can inherit.'

‘I
am
English,' Marie Stewart announced in a rather harsh voice, her face livid.

‘Hardly, Madame, with all due respect. Your mother is French and your late father was Scottish, therefore you are not English by any stretch of the imagination. Also, you were brought to France at the age of five and have been raised as a Frenchwoman. The claim won't fly.'

‘But my grandmother was English!' Her voice rose, becoming shrill.

‘That's not enough. It does not comply with Harry Turner's will. Also, you must remember he inherited Deravenels from his father, and in Harry's will it is very clearly written that the company must be inherited first by his son Edward, then his daughter Mary, and finally Elizabeth, if his other issue are deceased, and have left no issue of their own. Harry Turner's will aside, there are numerous other rules that simply preclude a takeover, rules which block this absolutely. Anyone attempting to grab Deravenels cannot succeed. Furthermore, Elizabeth Turner, the current managing director, is the largest single shareholder, holding fifty-five per cent of the stock. She is inviolable.'

Marie Stewart sat back in the chair, regarding Walsington. Although she was inexperienced, she was by no means stupid. But she was naive and her right to Deravenels had been inculcated in her since she was a toddler. Her French uncles and her
mother had done their work well, had completely brainwashed her and she was not about to give in quite so easily.

‘I do have a claim, Monsieur Walsington,' she finally said in a clear, light voice, suddenly full of confidence. ‘Through my great-grandfather Henry Turner and his wife Bess Deravenel Turner, my great-grandmother. They had a daughter, Margaret, sister of Harry, and it is through her that I am the heir. But since Elizabeth,
my cousin
, is running the company, let me address myself to her situation. If she fell ill and died, or had an accident,
I would be the heir
. There is no one else.'