The Ravenscar Dynasty (40 page)

Lily Overton had died on Monday. On Friday afternoon of the same week she was buried.

There were six pallbearers: Edward Deravenel, his cousins Neville and Johnny Watkins, his best friend Will Hasling, Stephen Forth, Vicky's husband, and Amos Finnister.

Only a small number of Lily's friends had been formally invited to attend the funeral service and burial in Hampstead, and Vicky and Fenella had been quite unprepared for the number of people who did attend in the end. The church was full: all of her friends and the people she had known had shown up to pay their respects.

There were a few gasps and whispers when the coffin was carried into the church and down the central nave by the six pallbearers, all of them men who were either unusually good looking or distinguished in appearance.

Because Vicky was on crutches she gave the eulogy in front of the three small steps which led up to the altar below the huge stained glass window, positioned immediately behind the coffin. Fenella also spoke, as did Will Hasling, from the pulpit.

All of them touched on Lily's generosity of spirit, her loving nature, the charities she had so generously supported, most especially Haddon House.

At Edward's request it was Johnny who read the twenty-third psalm, his voice only wavering slightly when he first began with the words, ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.' It grew stronger with each line, and because he had a mellifluous voice, everyone listened attentively.

Edward sat staring at Lily's coffin at the bottom of the altar steps, covered in the white lilies he had sent. He was lost in despair, the deepest despair he had ever known, and he wondered how he was going to pull himself out of it. How he would go on.

As the service proceeded, and the vicar gave a brief sermon, and hymns were sung, prayers said, he asked himself why she had died so tragically. Lily had been cut down at the prime of her life…And then he thought of their unborn baby, and his heart tightened, shrivelled within him. He was a man alone now that his darling Lily was gone.

Later it was Will who took his arm and led him back to the coffin. As he hoisted it up on his shoulder with the other five men and carried it out of the church, he thought of John Summers and the Grants. Edward was convinced he could place her death on their doorstep. He knew it deep in his bones, and his bones never lied to him. How would he revenge her death?

Neville Watkins took Amos Finnister to one side, and asked ‘Did you get information out of Mark Ledbetter? Has he discovered anything?'

Amos drew closer to Neville and whispered, ‘It's more than likely the rider was French. I got that from Paul Coleman, Mark's police sergeant who works with him.'

The two men were standing in a corner of Vicky Forth's drawing room in her Kensington house. All of those who had been invited to attend the funeral had come for refreshments after the burial, guests of Vicky and her husband.

Amos glanced around, and said in the same low voice, ‘I think we need to be in private, Mr Watkins. Let me ask Mrs Forth if we can use another room.'

Neville nodded, and watched Amos pick his way through the small group of people who were sipping tea, nibbling on sandwiches, and reminiscing about Lily Overton.

A few seconds later Amos returned. ‘Mrs Forth says we can go into the library.' As he spoke he ushered Neville out of the drawing room and across the hall.

Once they were inside the library overlooking the large garden, Amos closed the door and strode over to join Neville, who was standing near the French doors.

‘To continue,' Amos murmured. ‘Sergeant Coleman didn't have much more information to offer, at least that's what he said. However, I went down to Whitechapel last night, made inquiries of my own. I picked up a few things. One of my contacts told me that a Corsican, who had once been in a circus troop on the Continent, had been seeking a job, mostly asking around about working with horses. My contact said the man had a deeply indented scar on one cheek, was dark-haired and had black eyes.'

‘From the sound of it, that has to be the rider of the stallion,' Neville ventured.

‘The description certainly fits,' Amos answered, and continued, ‘Apparently the man's nickname was Nappo, short for Napoleon because he came from Corsica, too. No one knew his real name, it seems. My chappie sent him up West, to Mayfair and environs, and he said that later he'd heard that Nappo had secured a job driving a carriage for some fancy French family, or rather, a fancy French lady. My contact added, “a real beauty she is, so I'm told.”'

Neville smiled a small smile, staring at Amos; he finally nodded his head. ‘A French lady, eh? Well, well, I can certainly think of one French lady who is a real beauty, and so can you.'

‘Yes, sir, I can. Margot Grant be the name.'

‘That does give us food for thought, doesn't it? Perhaps you can attempt to confirm that this Nappo worked for the Grants?'

‘I'm already on it, Mr Watkins.'

‘Very good. Was the incident in Hyde Park retaliation for Aubrey Masters's death, I wonder? What do
you
think?'

‘More than likely.'

‘You told me a few weeks go that I was being followed, so why wouldn't Mrs Overton have been followed as well? We're both closely connected to Edward, at least she
was
. I still am. And the Grant faction have a lot of money…they can afford to employ an army of private investigators, if the truth be known.'

At this moment the door of the library opened a crack and a small burnished head of red-gold curls peeped around it. ‘Amos! Amos!' the child cried when she saw her beloved friend and rushed into the room.

As she flew across the floor to him, Amos bent down and she came straight into his arms, hugged him tightly. He hugged her back, and glanced up at Neville, and was surprised to see the most startled expression crossing the other man's face.

Releasing the child, straightening, Amos explained, ‘This is the little girl I found in Whitechapel, Mr Watkins. Her name is Grace Rose and she now lives here with the Forths.'

Neville said in a kindly way, ‘Hello, Grace Rose.'

The child dipped, gave a slightly wobbly curtsy. ‘'Ello,' she answered solemnly, her face serious.

Suddenly, the door flew open and Edward marched in, saying as he did, ‘Vicky told me I would find you in here—' He broke off when he noticed the child standing near the French doors. She turned her head, and when she saw Edward, broke into smiles.

Cornflower blue eyes gazed into cornflower blue eyes, and locked. It was Edward who finally blinked and looked away. A faint memory touched his mind, but fleetingly so. He tried to grasp it but it was elusive, was gone in a fraction of a second.

At last Edward took a step further into the room, and said gently, ‘Hello.' The little girl simply smiled at him again but said nothing.

Amos said, ‘This is the child I found, Mr Edward, her name's Grace Rose.'

‘My goodness, here you are, Grace!' Vicky exclaimed as she came rushing into the library on the heels of Edward. ‘I've been looking all over for you.'

‘It's all right, Mrs Forth,' Amos murmured. ‘She's not really disturbing us.'

‘You're so kind, Amos,' Vicky replied graciously, taking hold of Grace's hand, leading her across the floor. ‘And I'm so sorry she intruded,' she added, glancing from Neville to Edward, smiling faintly, apologetically.

As the door closed behind them, Edward said, ‘I think we must make our moves against the Grants, Neville. I don't want to wait any longer. Surely we are now fully prepared to go to battle with them?'

‘Indeed we are, Cousin.' Neville smiled broadly. ‘And it shall be done.
Now
.'

Margot Grant stood staring down at the boy sleeping in the narrow bed. Dark lashes lay against his creamy skin, a small hand was resting under his cheek.
Her
beloved Edouard
. Her son. Seven years old now, and the most important person in the world to her. He was her joy and her pride, an intelligent boy, with a vivid imagination and such determination. He was so quick and smart and eager to win.

There was no one like him, as far as she was concerned, especially in his personality and character. Henry twiddled his thumbs and said constant pious prayers, did nothing; Edouard reached out eagerly to the world, wanting everything, knowing he could take it all, and he would, one day.

He was the heir to Deravenels. She was going to make sure he inherited the mantle now worn by his father.

‘
Margot
.'

The whisper of her name made her turn around.

John Summers stood in the doorway; he was staring at her longingly, and when she beckoned he came into the bedroom immediately.

He put his arm around her waist and drew her closer, stared into her eyes. Against her hair he whispered, ‘I have to go back to London soon.'

Margot nodded, then swung her gaze to the child sleeping so soundly. ‘Isn't he the most beautiful thing?'

‘After you, yes,' he answered softly. It was on the tip of his tongue again, the tantalizing question which always remained unasked. Was this boy his half-brother? His father's son? He dare not ask her. And even if he did, she would never answer him. Certainly she would never tell him the truth. The boy must always be seen as Henry Grant's only child, and the heir apparent to Deravenels. He understood that necessity. He was the future of the Grant dynasty, young Edouard.

Leaning down, Margot touched the boy's cheek lightly, and then turned away, and together she and John left the bedroom on tiptoe.

Once outside in the corridor, he asked, ‘Where is Henry? I should say goodbye before I leave for London.'

‘He's dozing in his bedroom, as usual,' Margot answered, and took hold of John's arm, grasped it tightly. ‘Come with me for a moment,
chéri
. Let us take our leave of each other in the best way possible.' A moment later she opened the door to a small sitting room and led him inside. Locking the door behind her, she stepped into his waiting arms, kissed him deeply, and let her hand slide down his leg. She felt her senses swimming, her legs were suddenly weak, her heart pounded.

John Summers pressed her hand against his crotch.
‘See what you do to me?' he whispered, and then he lifted her up in his arms and carried her over to the sofa.

She lay back against the pillows, smiled up at him; he joined her on the huge couch, lifted the skirts of her loose summer dress, and slid his hand up a bare leg. There were no underclothes to hamper him, and after touching her intimately for a few minutes, making her gasp, he stood up, threw off his jacket and trousers. Lowering himself on top of her, he took her to him passionately. And she responded with her usual ardour, her desire for this man flaming through her; when they came to a climax together, she had to cover her mouth with her hand in order not to scream out with pleasure.

A short while later she went downstairs with him, and they shared a glass of wine on the terrace overlooking the lawns.

‘I adore you, Margot,' he said in a low voice, touching his crystal goblet to hers. ‘And I'm sorry I must leave you here in the country. As always, business calls, matters at Deravenels must be attended to.'

‘I know. I know,
chéri
, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for holding the company for my son.'

He put his glass down on the wooden garden table, and turned to face her. ‘Margot, there has been a new development. I haven't mentioned it for the last few days, because I wanted us both to enjoy our brief time together. However, I must inform you now that the mistress of Edward Deravenel died in a terrible accident earlier this week.'

‘Oh,' was her only response.

John explained, ‘There's gossip floating…gossip that this wasn't an accident at all…that it was a staged accident.'

‘How strange,' she murmured, and leaned back on the garden seat, seemed almost uninterested as she gazed into the distance.