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Prudence couldn't even take pleasure in the old man's alleged affection. He still terrified her and she wasn't sure whether she hadn't preferred it when he simply failed to notice her. Besides, it wasn't really affection at all, Prudence realised; it was gratitude for the way she had behaved that day and for the days and months that had followed as they were hounded, more mercilessly than ever, by the press.

‘By God, she's a true Laverton woman, this one,' Lionel had boasted to the rest of the family. ‘You'd do well to take a leaf out of her book, I'll tell you.'

During the three-month sea voyage to England, Prudence Laverton had had no idea she was pregnant. She thought she was just seasick. So frightfully seasick that even her monthly cycle, which normally arrived with clocklike precision, had been disrupted. Things would return to normal, she told herself, once they were at the family estate in Hampshire. A holiday in the English countryside was exactly what she needed.

But then, to her horror, she had discovered that they
had not returned to England for a holiday at all.

‘You didn't even tell your wife!' Lord Lionel had roared. ‘Good God, man, what's the matter with you? It's times like these a man's wife must be seen standing beside him. Family support, that's what it's all about.' Lord Lionel had always despised his youngest son. Weak. No backbone. It was why he'd sent him off to Australia in the first place. Perhaps the outback would make a man of him. He'd obviously been wrong. ‘The trial's in two months for God's sake,' he snarled, ‘so you better start setting her straight on a few of the facts right now!'

‘What trial?' Prudence had asked after her father-in-law had stormed off. ‘You said we were coming home to see the family.' Then Richard, with the aid of half a decanter of brandy, had painstakingly narrated the whole sordid story.

He was to stand trial for misrepresenting the mine's yield. The monthly reports he'd been sending to the London board of directors had been false. ‘I've not only been selling off my own Midas shares at inflated prices,' he said, ‘I've had a go-between in London who's been raising investment on the false reports I've been sending him of new finds.'

He didn't attempt to hold anything back. ‘I got in so deep there didn't seem to be a way out,' he said calmly. It was a relief to tell her the truth at last. ‘It's been going on for over five years. They're calling it fraud on a massive scale. It'll mean prison, I'm afraid.'

As Prudence listened, everything started to fall into place. Richard had been drinking heavily for a long time now. And then there was that evening when she'd come home from the church committee meeting to find Gaston Picot there.

‘You're a fool, Richard,' she'd heard the Frenchman say.

Richard hadn't seemed in the least offended, he'd simply ignored the insult. ‘You'll sell them off gradually, won't you?' he'd said. Gaston had agreed and it was then that Prudence had made them aware of her presence. She hadn't wanted them to think she was eavesdropping.

‘Why did he call you a fool?' she'd asked when the Frenchman had taken his leave.

‘He's selling off his Midas shares to build this fancy restaurant of his and he thinks I'm a fool because I won't invest in the damn thing. I ask you! The man's selling rock-solid shares in a gold mine to set up a place where people may or may not choose to dine! Who's the fool?'

It was she who'd been the fool, Prudence decided, not to have realised that something was shockingly wrong. And, as the weeks passed and the trial grew closer, she wondered what on earth was expected of her. The women must stand strong beside their men, Lord Lionel had said. But the press had latched onto the story with such a vengeance that she was too terrified to face them. When Richard ventured out in public, she locked herself and young Lucy up in the bedroom. And, when she finally found out that she was four months pregnant, she'd used her pregnancy as an excuse to retire altogether, even from the family gatherings, which she found loathsome.

Prudence wasn't the only one shocked by the ferocity of Fleet Street's attack. Lord Lionel himself had been horrified. Not that he'd expected to get off scot-free-he'd known the family name would be bandied about. But he'd expected something along the lines of YOUNGEST SCION SHAMES HOUSE OF LAVERTON and had decided that they would blame the whole episode on Richard's youth. Well, not exactly his youth-he was nearly forty, after all. But the youngest member of a
family was often considered the weakest and it seemed as good a defence as any.

When the headlines screamed the question CORRUPTION IN THE PEERAGE? and the press hinted heavily that Lord Lionel had been in league with his son, the old man was apoplectic with rage. ‘Laverton the Younger is manager of the one of the wealthiest gold mines in Australia,' the newspaper reports stated. ‘Laverton the Elder is chairman of its London board of directors. Just who should be standing trial for the falsified gold yield reports?' It was a personal attack upon him, Lord Lionel decided-someone was out for his blood-and in the meantime, the house of Laverton was being dragged through the mud. It was intolerable. And all because of that young worm of a son of his, a son who didn't deserve to bear the family name.

It was barely a fortnight before the opening day of the trial when Lord Lionel made his decision, then wondered why he hadn't made it earlier. He called Richard into his study where they sat behind locked doors for a good hour or more. The following day, he informed his wife Charlotte, Prudence and little Lucy that they were going to London for the weekend. They would stay at their townhouse in Mayfair.

Surprisingly enough, at the last minute, Prudence refused to budge. ‘I'm going to stay with Richard,' she said as she stood on the front steps with Charlotte and Lucy watching the chauffeur pack the luggage in the boot of the car.

Richard had been awake half the night and twice he'd vomited, but he'd refused to admit that he was not well. ‘Something I've eaten is disagreeing with me, that's all,' he'd assured her. ‘Go back to sleep, Prudence.'

Her father-in-law was about to insist, Prudence knew it, but for once she would not give in. Something had happened in that study last night and she was going
to get to the bottom of it. ‘He's not well,' she said. ‘Lucy may go with you but I shall stay here. Take my portmanteau back inside, George,' she said as the chauffeur started to load her suitcase into the boot.

‘Do you know why he's not well?' Under the shaggy leonine brow her father-in-law's eyes were penetrating. ‘Did he tell you of our meeting last night?'

Prudence didn't know what gave her the strength but she returned his gaze and didn't answer.

‘Do you know what's going on?' he insisted.

She had her suspicions, but she didn't dare voice them until she had spoken to Richard. ‘I know enough,' she answered enigmatically, hoping it would make him leave her alone. It did.

Prudence hugged Lucy goodbye, kissed Charlotte on the cheek and waved to the car as it slowly drove down the tree-lined avenue to the main gates. Then she went inside.

She found Richard in his father's study sitting behind the huge mahogany desk staring out the bay windows.

‘The inner sanctum,' she smiled. ‘Whatever would your father say?' He didn't reply. She decided to get straight to the point. ‘What went on in here last night, Richard? Is your father going to disinherit you?' Still he didn't answer. ‘I'm your wife. I have a right to know.'

He shook his head wearily. ‘No, Prudence, he didn't talk of disinheriting me. You have nothing to fear.'

She relaxed. Thank God for that. ‘You look pale, dear. Come for a walk with me, it's a fine day.'

‘No, no. You go. I want to sit for a while.'

‘Please, Richard…'

‘Go for your walk, Prudence.' It was an order, not a request, and she was a little taken aback, unaccustomed to Richard issuing orders like his father. ‘I'm sorry, my dear, I didn't mean to snap,' he added. ‘Walk down to
the stream and I'll join you there shortly.' He returned his gaze to the bay windows as if she were no longer in the room.

‘Very well,' she answered, a trifle piqued.

She fetched her shawl from upstairs and went out onto the front steps. It was indeed a fine day. But she didn't want to walk to the stream on her own. She decided to wait for Richard, and strolled over to the vine-covered arbour, just fifty yards or so from the house, to wait for him. The climbing roses were beautiful this time of year, she thought as she picked one from the trellis and threaded it through the top buttonhole of her blouse.

She looked back at the house. It was the style of home she had always longed to call her own-twin-gabled, of Georgian design, and nestled in seventy acres of England's glorious green countryside. When all this ghastliness was over, she decided, she would be happy here, far, far away from the endless red earth and loathsome heat of Kalgoorlie.

A sound cracked the air and, for a moment, she wasn't sure what it was. Then she realised it was a gunshot. And, in that instant, she knew what had happened. She ran to the house, her shawl dropping from her shoulders.

The servants were gathered in the hall. A hysterical maid was being comforted by the housekeeper.

‘Don't come in, Ma'am, you don't need to see,' the butler assured her, but she ignored him and she walked straight into Lord Lionel's study.

He was still sitting in his father's chair, but he was no longer staring through the bay windows. He was sprawled face-down on the desk. He'd shot himself through the temple with his father's Webley .455 calibre revolver and his head rested in a messy pool of blood on the fastidiously polished mahogany tabletop.

Richard had left a note which said all the right things. He had taken the only course of action open to a man of honour, he declared, and went on to exonerate his father from any knowledge of his activities in Kalgoorlie and to beg forgiveness of the family whose name he had sullied. He'd even thought to include Prudence. He thanked his wife for her love and support during the years of their marriage.

The months which followed became a blank to Prudence. She heard herself say to the press, ‘My husband was a fine man who couldn't live with the shame he'd brought upon his family'. She heard her father-in-law say, ‘There's a Laverton woman to be proud of,' and realised that he thought she had known of Richard's intention. But of course she hadn't. She'd had no idea.

Prudence's stoic behaviour in the aftermath was due to the fact that she was in a state of shock.

The realisation that Lord Lionel had forced his son to suicide was horrifying, but his assumption of her complicity so sickened Prudence that her life became unbearable.

When she gave birth to her son and successfully overruled Lord Lionel's objections by christening the baby Richard, it was a hollow triumph. She should have taken the loathsome old man's grandson away from him, she told herself. She should leave the family fold and raise her children on her own. But she knew she never would. So she accepted Lord Lionel's favouritism and watched the unveiled dislike on the faces of her sisters-in-law as he embraced her and called her ‘a true Laverton'.

Gaston Picot had been right. It had taken just under three years to get Harry elected to the mayoral office. But there had been one slight change in plan.

‘
Deputy
Mayor, Harry,' he'd said during his brief visit for the gala opening of Restaurant Picot in the middle of 1905. ‘We will have you elected
Deputy
Mayor.' He continued before Harry could interrupt. ‘It is better we elect a mere puppet to the position of Mayor.' Harry was disappointed and wanted to argue the point but Gaston was adamant. ‘Believe me,
mon ami
, you will wield far more power if the full focus of attention is not upon you.' And Harry had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to the Frenchman's plan.

Yet again, Gaston had been proved right. There were no questions asked when the town planning committee agreed to the acquisition, by one Donald McAllister, of a further two properties in the brothel district of lower Hay Street. Neither were there questions asked when the purchaser's application for rezoning was speedily addressed. Town planning and property zoning were but two of the many offices comprising the busy portfolio of the newly appointed Deputy Mayor, Harry Brearley.

Harry had adjusted very quickly to the business conducted in Gaston Picot's Hay Street properties. Gaston
had known that he would; that Jeanne and Emily would have all the right answers to soothe Harry's moral indignation.

‘But they are merely real estate holdings,' Jeanne had answered as he had assisted her from the trap outside her Hannan Street house that day. And when Harry had continued to expostulate-she had insisted he come inside, have a glass of brandy and discuss the matter. ‘You must talk with Emily,' she said. ‘Emily has a wonderful understanding of business.'

Still in a state of shock, Harry had agreed. Emily! he thought in disbelief. Emily the mouse running a string of brothels!

‘They are real estate holdings, Harry,' Jeanne purred, ‘nothing more.' She poured a healthy measure into his brandy balloon. ‘Monsieur Picot is a landlord, that is all.' Her smile was so innocent, so serene, that Harry was momentarily lost for words. ‘You explain, Emily,' she said, ‘you do it so much better than I.'

‘Jeanne is quite right.' Although Emily's voice was brisk and businesslike, her arguments were as eminently seductive as Jeanne's. ‘Mr McAllister collects the rentals, we keep the records and deposit the cash sums, and the bank forwards to Mr Picot the statements of his accounts. It is all quite simple. The business conducted at the premises owned by Mr Picot is entirely incidental. And nothing at all to do with us.'

After an hour or so, lulled by several brandies and the propriety of the two women, Harry did feel that he had overreacted a little. By the time he was confronted, several weeks later, with cash figures and the proof of Gaston's full involvement in the lucrative brothels, Harry was further lulled by his own percentage of the takings. The women were indeed right, he told himself, it was nobody's business as to what was being conducted behind the closed doors of the buildings in lower Hay
Street. Besides, the only name recorded on paper was that of Donald McAllister. Harry himself was in no danger of being connected with the brothels.

Several months later, Gaston informed him by telegraph that the drapery adjoining the Sheaf Hotel had been acquired and that arrangements for the building of Restaurant Picot were well under way. Furthermore, steps were being taken to devise a solid council election campaign: ‘Harry Brearley, the people's choice'. By this time, Harry had decided that any moral doubts he may have had about brothels (which were, after all, legal on the goldfields) were utterly inconsequential. He was a partner in Gaston Picot's Kalgoorlie enterprises and he owed the Frenchman his loyalty and commitment.

Following a quick inspection—late at night with his hat on, his collar up and McAllister doing all the talking—Harry decided that the brothels were not working to capacity. They could be making a far greater profit if they employed more girls—at least three more at Red Ruby's alone. And if extra girls were employed then of course the rentals could be increased.

The percentage of the daily takings must also be increased, he announced—according to Emily there had been no increase for two years. Each of the three madams was to be notified of the new arrangements.

‘They won't like it,' McAllister grumbled as he swigged his mug of tea and slouched over Jeanne's kitchen table.

Jeanne and Emily never conducted business with McAllister anywhere else but in the kitchen. He entered by the rear door and left by the rear door, and always at night. It wasn't just to protect their reputations. Neither of them liked the humourless Scot with his rasping Glaswegian accent, his ill-fitting clothes and his big clumsy boots. ‘He'd quite ruin the finish on the drawing-room floors with those boots,' Emily confided
to Harry. But the women needed McAllister. He was big and strong and, although he liked to grumble, he did as he was told.

‘The madams won't like it at all,' he repeated. ‘Particularly Ada at Red Ruby's—she thinks she owns the place.'

‘Well, she doesn't. And the amounts will be small,' Harry said dismissively. ‘With the profits they'll be making from the additional girls, the madams will barely notice.' He rose from the table. ‘Then in a year we'll review the situation and, depending upon profit margins, we will once again increase both rentals and percentages.' Harry was enjoying himself. It was a pity there were not others to see him playing the businessman—it was a role which suited him.

McAllister shrugged and shuffled to his feet. It made no difference to him anyway. He was paid a healthy regular amount by Gaston Picot to act as front man, so who was he to argue?

When McAllister had gone, Harry gently chided Jeanne about her expenses and suggested they be cut back a little. Jeanne pouted prettily and said she wasn't sure how she would manage but she would do her best. Emily signalled her approval immediately.

‘Quite right,' she agreed. ‘You waste money ridiculously, Jeanne, and you know it.' It had been a constant bone of contention between the women. Emily worried continuously that Picot would find out he was being robbed and call a halt to their arrangement. Emily would be forty-five soon—not a good time in a woman's life to be left high and dry—and she did not intend to be deprived of her meal ticket if she could possibly help it.

Emily Laurie had been the madam at the brothel in Fremantle where Gaston Picot had first met Jeanne Renoir—although of course she had not been Jeanne Renoir then—and Emily had watched as, like many
before him, Gaston became besotted with the young prostitute. So much so that he refused to share her with anyone.

He had property in Kalgoorlie, he told her. He could set her up in a grand house and visit her there regularly. ‘But I would be bored,
mon cher
,' she said. ‘What would I do in
Kalgoorlie
?' She made it sound like a disease. Gaston offered to make her a receptionist at one of his hotels but she displayed no enthusiasm at all. ‘What do I know about hotels?' she had shrugged with disinterest.

It was then that Picot had decided to open a brothel in Kalgoorlie—a string of brothels, if that was what she wanted. She could be his manager, he told her. ‘Discreetly, of course,' he added. ‘From a distance.' No other man was to come near her; those were his rules.

She'd kissed him and said that she was very tempted, very tempted indeed … But she would be so lonely in a place like …
Kalgoorlie
without female company. And Emily was like a mother to her … Gaston had no alternative. Emily became part of the bargain.

It was an arrangement which proved eminently practical in the long run. Not only was Emily a talented businesswoman but, with her impeccable English manners and appearance, she was the perfect smokescreen of respectability. Furthermore, she was a clever and creative ally. The story of Jeanne's widowhood and the friendship which had existed between her deceased husband and Gaston was just one of Emily's many inventions.

Years later when, pressured by his wife, Gaston ended the affair with Jeanne, Emily assumed he would also terminate their comfortable arrangement. She was deeply thankful when he did not and watched, with horror, as Jeanne proceeded to unashamedly rob her benefactor.

‘Expenses,' Jeanne would gaily declare, extracting
half a dozen pound notes from one of the bundles delivered by Donald McAllister. She refused to listen to Emily's protestations and there was nothing Emily could do but invent a list of expenditures that might sound vaguely plausible.

The end was in sight, Emily was sure, and she worried. While Jeanne was Gaston's mistress her extravagances were quite permissible. Indeed, the man loved to pamper her. But he was no longer receiving payment in kind.

‘Why should he spend good money when he's getting nothing in return?' she argued time and time again. But Jeanne wouldn't listen.

There was nothing Emily could do but wait for the end. If she and Jeanne were to be thrown out of their grand house and deprived of their income, they would face the consequences together. Although she never spoke of it, Emily's love for Jeanne was far more than maternal.

And then came the arrival of the charming, arrogant and ambitious Harry Brearley. Surely this spelled the end, Emily thought. But it didn't. Harry had succumbed to Jeanne's allure, Emily realised, as all men did, but he didn't appear to want to sleep with her, and he obviously was not going to report her misdemeanours to Gaston. Emily swiftly revised her opinion of Harry Brearley and assisted him in every way she could. She became his ally and he trusted her implicitly.

Now, secure in his position as Deputy Mayor and co-owner of Restaurant Picot, Harry barely concerned himself with the brothels.

He was too busy basking in his glory. Restaurant Picot was flourishing as the social centre of Kalgoorlie's elite and, although he had appointed a manager, Harry was invariably to be found there of an evening. Not only
did he enjoy playing the host, he simply loved being in the place. It was magnificent.

Gaston's love for jarrah was reflected throughout the splendid building. The floors and the grand staircase and railings showed off to perfection the rich red hue of the timber. In the front of the restaurant were wooden booths with plush leather seats which looked onto the pageant of Hannan Street through large plate-glass windows. The booths were popular during the weekend luncheon hours when men brought their wives or their sweethearts to dine and be seen by the passing parade. The rest of the ground floor, dominated by the grand central staircase, constituted a spacious lounge and bar—table service only—while upstairs was the essential Restaurant Picot with French windows opening onto a balcony overlooking the street.

Restaurant Picot was a masterpiece, just as Gaston had envisaged, complete with huge gilt-edged menus, silver cutlery and fine linen napkins. The only missing element was the giant chandelier. In its stead, on each table, was a flickering candle in a delicate, silver candlestick.

‘Upstairs will be elite,' Gaston had declared. ‘
Haute cuisine
. Upstairs will be for the lovers of fine food and wine. Downstairs…' His shrug was patronising. ‘Downstairs will be fashionable, a place to mingle, a place to be seen. But the food will be more … general.' His tone implied ‘for the hoi polloi': Gaston did not yet trust the palates of Kalgoorlie. ‘Besides,' he added, ‘we will accommodate more tables that way.'

In the early dusk, Harry would stand on the upstairs balcony saluting the passers-by with his cigar and enjoying the soft background music which emanated from the brand-new Berliner gramophone in the corner. The gramophone was the most sophisticated of musical inventions, Gaston said, vastly superior to the Edison phonograph,
and he'd had it specially imported from Germany. The first of its kind in Kalgoorlie, it was Gaston's and Harry's pride and joy.

As the evening progressed, Harry would greet the diners on their arrival and pass briefly amongst the tables to enquire whether all was satisfactory. He enjoyed playing the host. Particularly when the guests included those who, not so long ago, wouldn't have given him the time of day. And this evening was no exception.

‘Perfectly delicious, Harry, thank you.' Beatrice Bromley, wife of Dr Garfield Bromley, prominent physician, hated calling the man Harry but she couldn't afford not to. Everyone who dined upstairs at Restaurant Picot called him Harry; she couldn't have people thinking she wasn't on a first-name basis. ‘The creme caramel was superb. As always.'

‘Thank you, Beatrice.' She winced. She did every time. ‘I'll tell Jean-Marc; he'll be delighted. Garfield?' Harry turned to Bromley who had pushed the dessert he'd barely touched to one side and was leaning back in his chair. ‘Is everything satisfactory?'

‘Yes. Excellent, old man, excellent,' Bromley answered in his plummy tone which denoted superiority, ‘just not very hungry that's all.' He fiddled with one end of his waxed antennae-like moustache and gave a vague wave of his hand. ‘I say, could you get that fellow to bring me your best French brandy?'

‘Shall we wait for the coffee, dear?' Beatrice asked tightly.

‘No, no. Now's fine, now's fine.'

‘Of course, we have an excellent cognac. I'll send the waiter over immediately.' As he left, Harry heard Beatrice hiss, ‘You should have waited for the coffee.' But Bromley was always more interested in the liquor than he was in the food. Harry could never understand why
the man was the most sought-after physician on the goldfields. People obviously didn't know he was a drunk.

As Harry caught the waiter's eye and gestured to the Bromleys' table, he heard a disturbance through the open French windows behind him, raucous men's voices from the street below.