Heirs of Ravenscar (21 page)

‘I'm delighted. Congratulations. It's such a good cause, a centre for wounded soldiers. I promise you I'll get a few more donors for you, and I'll give you more myself later.'

‘Thank you. I'm so grateful, and Fenella will be, too.'

‘How is she doing? I went to see her last week. She said she wasn't sure she was going to have the marriage in June, because of her bout of pneumonia. But frankly I thought she looked so much better. Anyway, she was talking about a July wedding instead,' Edward finished.

‘She has decided to stay with June,' Vicky informed him. ‘But it will be later in the month rather than the beginning.'

‘I'm glad to hear it, since I was planning a trip abroad in July, providing we can travel to the continent by then.'

Jane glanced at Vicky, then at Edward, and said, ‘Darling, Vicky wants to speak to you – about a rather sensitive matter. If you've finished your tea, I'll ring for Wells and have everything removed.'

‘Yes, do that. I've finished.' He frowned, turned to Vicky. ‘Something sensitive?' He sounded puzzled.

She merely nodded.

Jane rang the bell and within seconds the butler and the housekeeper appeared, and gathered up the tea things.

Once they were alone, Jane went to sit in the chair next to Edward. ‘Vicky was somewhat reluctant to tell you, confide in you, but I persuaded her.'

He nodded. ‘Please tell me what this is about?' He had a peculiar feeling it had something to do with him. He trusted Vicky; she had shown her worth and her friendship to him many times in the past. Whatever was now on her mind had to be important.

Vicky cleared her throat, and said in a low, steady voice, ‘It has to do with Elizabeth. I was reluctant to speak to you at first, Ned, because I do loathe getting in the middle of a relation ship between two people. Especially a marriage. However, after a lot of reflection, and listening to Jane's advice, I decided it was better that you knew.'

‘Please tell me, Vicky. I would appreciate it. And I know you well enough to understand that you're not a meddler.'

‘Thank you. It's like this, Ned … Apparently Elizabeth said something about Fenella to one of her sisters, who repeated it to Maude Tillotson, and Maude told a friend, who told a friend, and the story spread like wildfire. You know perfectly well what London society is like. Some of these women have nothing better to do than gossip about others.'

Dismay settled in the pit of his stomach and he looked at Vicky keenly. ‘I assume the gossip about Fenella has something to do with me?'

‘Yes. Elizabeth told her sister that the entire story about Grace Rose being found in a cart in Whitechapel by Amos Finnister was a pack of lies, a fabrication. That in fact Grace Rose was Fenella's illegitimate daughter by you, and that the child had been brought up on Fenella's father's estate in
Yorkshire. She added Fenella had been your mistress for years. That she still is, and that the only reason she was marrying Mark Ledbetter was to throw her, that is Elizabeth, off the scent. In other words, Fenella is your mistress as well as Jane.'

Edward was stunned. He sat back, staring at Vicky in total astonishment. ‘How preposterous!' he finally exclaimed, as a rush of anger flooded him. ‘What on earth can she be thinking of, inventing a story like this? Who on earth would ever believe it, anyway? It's so far-fetched, it's not plausible.' Although he kept tight control of himself, he was shaking inside. And he was enraged.

Vicky said, ‘I doubt that anyone believes it, Ned darling. Nevertheless, it's not a very nice story to be out there, and in a way it adds another hint of scandal to the name Deravenel. Not to mention to Fenella's name. A woman so blameless and so philanthropic she's thought of as a … saint.'

‘Elizabeth has to be insane!' he exploded, no longer able to harness his anger.

Jane reached out, put a calming hand on his arm. ‘No one believes it, I'm certain, Ned. However, I encouraged Vicky to tell you. Because you
must
know these things, so you can deal with them. And you have to speak to Elizabeth.'

‘I certainly do.' He gave Vicky a sharp look. ‘Has the gossip reached Fenella's ears?'

‘It did, but only recently. She's risen above it, and so has Mark. They are being very wise by ignoring it completely.'

He nodded and stood, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, took out an envelope. ‘Here is the cheque, Vicky. For the recreation centre.' Turning to Jane he added, ‘I'm sorry, darling, I have to leave. I must go back to Berkeley Square and deal with this matter immediately.'

‘I
t was so nice of you to come to tea,' Anne Watkins Deravenel said, smiling at her sister Isabel. ‘We don't seem to see much of each other these days, and so I'm happy you suggested it.'

Isabel sighed. ‘Marriage and children take up a lot of time, don't you think?' She shrugged, made a face, added, ‘And as you know, George is very demanding of my time.'

‘How is he?' Anne asked politely, not really caring. He was not a favourite of hers. In fact, she detested him.

‘Rather burdened down by work at the moment. He's doing such a lot of extra things for Ned, and it keeps him very late at the office. Almost every evening.' As she spoke Isabel poured herself another cup of tea, filled her cup, dropped in a slice of lemon.

That is not true, Anne thought, knowing that Ned was still furious with George after the Scottish deal had fallen through because of him. Richard and Will had had to put it all back together; which they had done, and it had finally
closed the other day. George was lying. He was seeing other women. But she couldn't tell her sister this, and so she merely smiled, and changed the subject, saying, ‘Mother wants us all to go to Thorpe Manor for Easter, Isabel, and we've said yes. Are you going to accept her invitation?'

‘I don't really know. George is somewhat noncommittal about it. You see, he's hoping we might be able to go to the continent by then. He said he'd love to take me to Paris for Easter, and what did I think? And I said it would be lovely, just perfect, which it would, don't you know. Rather like a second honeymoon since we'd be going alone.'

‘You're right, it would be very special,' Anne agreed, wondering how her sister could tolerate George. He was good-looking, no question about that, but a bit of a bully, and a liar and cheat as well. Still, perhaps Isabel saw him differently. They had both chosen their Deravenel husband when they were little girls. There had never been anyone else for her but Richard; and everyone had known even then that Isabel had felt the same way about George. These days she was besotted by those good looks of his, and his sex appeal was also a big consideration.

Isabel, who was staring at Anne, felt a sudden rush of jealousy and anger. Her sister appeared to be in blooming health, and she was wearing a very smart outfit, an exceeding expensive outfit, and
pearls
. Furthermore, she was living in the house Isabel craved. As did her husband. ‘It's really ours,' he had said the other day. ‘You'd better tackle her about it, about moving out.' And that was why she was here today. So far she had not said a word, had not broached the subject, had lost her nerve. However, she knew that soon it would be time to leave, to go home, and she had to accomplish what she had been sent to do. George would punish her if she didn't.

Taking a deep breath, Isabel said, ‘I'd love to walk around the house, Anne, can I do that? After all, I grew up here.'

She stood up, started to move towards the door, filling with memories for a moment or two.

‘Of course you can,' Anne was quick to answer, also rising. ‘Come on, let's go to the library first, you know how much Papa loved that room. It was his
haven
, he always said that. Don't you remember?'

Isabel shook her head. ‘Actually, I don't. No.' She shrugged again and stared at Anne, filled with a sudden rush of jealousy once more, remembering that Anne had been her father's favourite. Only Anne had existed for Neville Watkins. And Nan, their mother.
She
hadn't mattered.

A delicate-looking young woman, with a peaches and cream complexion and light brown hair streaked with gold, Anne Watkins Deravenel had the most refined looks, and was endearingly pretty, coltish, with a lovely willowy figure and long legs. Her sister Isabel, older by a couple of years, was very similar in appearance, except that she always seemed to look discontented, or worried, and she was frequently gloomy. And she had never been quite as lovely as Anne, and knew it.

Anne thought her sister had appeared troubled since arriving at the Chelsea house a short while ago, and she wondered if her brother-in-law was correct. Ned was forever saying Isabel looked strange and troubled because she was dreadfully unhappy with George, and that he was probably a monster to live with. Anne was quite sure about that. She had stayed with them for a while, at one moment in her life, and he had been mean-spirited, even cruel, and
always
unkind. But to her, not to his wife. On the other hand, she had often heard raised voices from behind closed doors and Isabel sometimes looked as if she had been crying.

‘What are you thinking about, you look burdened down?' Isabel said, peering at Anne, then switching on a lamp on a table as they entered the library.

‘I'm perfectly all right,' Anne answered, and went around the room, turning on lamps as her sister was doing, thinking of the way George cheated on Isabel with other women. It was dreadful.

For her part, Isabel was drawing on her inner resources, endeavouring to find a way, and the right words, to open up the conversation on a very serious subject. After a moment of strolling around the library, looking at her late father's possessions, which had been left intact, Isabel swung around in the middle of the floor, and exclaimed, ‘You've really no right to be living here, Anne! I am the oldest of Father's heirs, you being the other one, and, as the eldest, this house is supposed to be mine, you know. Mother made a grave error when she gifted it to you and Richard as a wedding present. She had no right to do it. Didn't you know that?'

‘She had every right,' Anne answered swiftly, assuming a businesslike voice, suddenly realizing what was coming. Ned had warned her and Richard. He had said something like this might happen.

‘No, no,' Isabel contradicted, shaking her head. ‘Father merely gave her the right to live in it. She didn't own it.'

‘You are absolutely wrong.' Anne walked over to her sister, stood in front of her and stared at her pointedly. ‘Father bought this house for Mother, and then he gave it to her outright, gave her the deeds. She was the owner, not our father, and she had every right to do what she wanted with it. At any time.'

‘Oh, don't be so silly. You know she didn't! By rights this house is
mine
, since I'm older than you. The eldest.'

‘We are co-heiresses of our father's estate, after Mother dies, and don't ever forget that, Isabel.
AFTER SHE DIES
.'

‘You don't have to shout at me,' Isabel muttered in an irritable, complaining tone. ‘One of the things I came to talk to you about today was this house. We would like to move
in later this year. So you see, you must tell Richard that he has to start looking for a new home for you. A new house. This is
mine
… it is
ours
.'

‘I think you had better come and sit down over here,' Anne murmured, making her voice softer but keeping it firm. Seating herself on the sofa, she indicated the large wing chair nearby. ‘Come along, Isabel, I've something important to tell you.'

Isabel, as slender and elegant as Anne, glided across the carpet and took the chair Anne had suggested. ‘And what is it that is so important?'

‘The truth,' Anne replied. ‘The
painful truth
, perhaps I should say. You see, everything I told you about Mother owning this house is true. It
was
Father's gift to her, an outright gift. He didn't own it from the day he bought it because he bought it in her name and instantly gifted it to Mother. And she sold it before it was given to us.'

‘
Sold it!
' Isabel shrieked, her eyes widening. ‘She had no right to sell it. I don't believe you.
She had no right
.'

‘But she did have the right. I keep telling you, it was hers to do what she wanted with. She could have burned it to the ground if she so desired.'

Isabel gaped at her sister speechlessly.

Anne went on, ‘Mother sold the house to Ned, your brother-in-law and mine. He paid good money for it, a lot of money, which Mother Pocketed, because it was hers to pocket. Immediately, Edward drew up new deeds. New deeds in Richard's name. That is why the house is ours. Edward Deravenel bought it for us, and gave it to us, and the deeds are in Richard's name. So there is no way George can take this house, get it from us, or throw us out. And you can't either.'

Isabel was furious, her face extremely pale with fury. She stood up swiftly, and took a step closer to Anne, who was
also on her feet. ‘We'll see about that,' Isabel threatened in an icy tone, and before Anne could respond she had flounced out of the library.

Hurrying after her, Anne caught up with her in the large entrance hall. ‘I told you, Isabel, there is nothing you can do. The house belongs to us. It's all very legal.'

Isabel snorted and went to the closet, took out her coat. ‘You'll be hearing from George,' she snapped, going towards the front door. ‘Or rather, your husband will.'

Anne nodded. ‘I shall inform him,' she answered coldly, and felt a rush of relief the moment her sister had left. And all she could think about was how smart Ned had been to buy the house and give it to them. In Richard's name.

Broadbent was waiting for him in the Rolls-Royce when Edward came hurrying out of Jane's house, and within moments the car was pulling away from the curb, heading towards Mayfair and Berkeley Square.

Leaning back against the seat, Edward tried to still his rage. This time Elizabeth had gone too far, and she had to be stopped. Spreading malign gossip about him was one thing; to involve Fenella was outrageous. Elizabeth was telling a pack of lies about Fenella and himself, and anyone with any sense would know that. Nonetheless, she had to be told a few home truths, and curtailed.

Mallet greeted him in the entrance foyer of the Berkeley Square house. ‘Good evening, sir.'

‘Evening.' Struggling out of his overcoat and handing it to the butler, Edward went on, ‘Where is Mrs Deravenel?'

‘In the upstairs sitting room, I believe, sir.'

‘Thank you, Mallet.'

Edward took the stairs two at a time, strode across the wide upstairs landing and went down the corridor. He flung open the door of the upstairs sitting room with such force it flew back on its hinges and banged against the brocade-covered wall.

Elizabeth, seated near the fireplace reading a French fashion magazine, jumped in surprise, so startled was she. Instantly, she sat up straighter, staring across the room, and when she saw the rage on Edward's face she shrank back in the chair, her eyes widening with fright.

‘What is wrong with you?' he shouted, banging the door shut with his foot, and walking towards her. ‘You must be out of your mind, woman! Spreading ugly stories about me. About Fenella Fayne. A woman who has never done you or anyone else one iota of harm, a woman who has never been anything but kind and loving towards you, shown you the utmost respect. Impugning her name, dragging it through the gutter. And what about my name? The Deravenel name, which also happens to be
your
name. Have you no pride? No sense of integrity? Inventing lies like that is utterly contemptible, unconscionable. And I will not have it. Do you hear me, I will not have it.'

‘I don't know what –'

‘Shut up! And don't try to lie your way out of this like you always do when you've caused undue trouble. You know very well what I'm talking about.'

‘Edward, I –'

‘I told you to shut up!' he yelled, his face turning bright red as his fury mounted. ‘You are monumentally stupid!'

Standing a few yards away from her, he glanced around the room, his eyes sweeping over the priceless Post-Impressionist art, the fine antiques, the rich brocades, silks and velvets everywhere: the utter opulence was staggering. All his doing, he knew that, because she had no real taste.

But nonetheless she occupied a house that was renowned for its beauty, grace and elegance.

‘You live in total luxury! You wear couture clothes by some of the greatest couturiers in the world. You are bedecked in jewels. I give you anything you want, I deny you nothing. And you
gossip
about me!
You
. My wife,' he cried, almost choking on the words in his spiralling rage. ‘It beggars belief. And the gossip is all lies.'

She shrank farther back on the chair, not daring to say a word to defend herself, because she knew she couldn't.

He stepped closer, stood towering over her, looking down at her, an expression of total disgust on his face.

She swallowed, tried to keep calm. She did not fear him physically. He would not strike or hit a woman ever. He was too gentle to do that; too much of a gentleman, as well. Physical violence of any kind appalled him. But his words hurt, they always had. He became more articulate than ever when he was enraged, as he was now; his words pierced her soul. How stupid she was. Why did she say bad things? He was right. She
was
stupid.