The Ravenscar Dynasty (42 page)

‘Do you promise me that, Ned?'

‘I
do
promise you that, Richard.'

‘I want you to know that I am here, if you need me,' Richard now announced, looking up at his brother adoringly. ‘I will always be here, as long as we both shall live. I want you to know that I will stand by you no matter what, especially when you have the fight with the man from Deravenels.' Richard frowned. ‘Who is the man you have to fight?'

‘I have to fight Henry Grant and the men who are on his side within Deravenels. His associates. But we are not going to…well, it's not a physical fight, with our hands up, going at each other, like in a boxing match. It's not that kind of fight at all.'

‘What is it then?' Richard asked.

Edward told him slowly, and carefully, explaining everything, and once Richard had nodded his understanding, Edward slid his brother off his knee and stood up. ‘Now, let's go down to the kitchen and raid Cook's larder. We'll have a midnight snack and then you can share my bed if you wish, Little Fish.'

His answer was the radiant smile of Richard's face.

Nan Watkins turned on her side sleepily, reaching out for Neville. He was not there; instantly she opened her eyes, saw the bedclothes thrown back, and her gaze flitted across to the windows in their bedroom.

Neville was standing at one of them, gazing out. Tall, erect, and very very still, his stance suggested he was deep in thought.

There was a full moon tonight and it filled the room with clear, bright light, made everything perfectly visible. His face, in profile, was vividly illuminated, and as she usually did she thought how handsome he was. Her heart fluttered inside her. He was her whole life; without him she would be nothing, would barely exist. She genuinely loved her daughters; but her husband came first: he always had.

There had been other women before her, but none since their marriage. He had told her this countless times, but she would have known it even if he had not said a word. Neville adored her, was always sexually potent, and he spent most of his free time with her. There was also something else…his character.

Neville had never played the field. He had always been attached to one, and only one. Yes, he had moved on frequently, yet he had remained faithful when in a relationship. In fact, he was the total opposite of his cousin Ned in that respect, who seemed able to handle several women at once. Such a talent was missing in
her
husband.

Nan compressed her lips, remembering her conversation with Neville the other day. She now must correct herself on the long-held assumption that Ned was the proverbial swordsman. According to Neville, Ned had been faithful to Lily Overton. Poor woman, Nan thought, dying like that, so tragically. And she had been young, in her thirties.

Long ago she had seen another accident with a landau, but fortunately no one had been killed. Her father had always warned her that they could be dangerous carriages if driven at high speed, and her father had rarely been wrong.

Stretching her long legs, moving up in the bed, she settled against the headboard. It rattled slightly, and Neville swung around at once on hearing the noise.

When he saw her sitting up, leaning against the mound of white pillows, he said softly, ‘Oh darling, I awakened you.'

‘No you didn't,' she responded, and stared at him, realizing she desired him, needed him. She stretched out her arms, and he came to her, sat down on the bed, leaned to her. Putting her arms around his neck, she whispered against his hair, ‘I have such a hunger for you…I long for you, and need you. Make love to me, Neville…Perhaps tonight is the night to make that son and heir you crave.'

‘It is
you
I crave, my dearest heart.'

Within seconds they lay naked in each other's arms.

He kissed her face, her eyelids, her neck, and swiftly moved his head down to her breasts, kissing them, smoothing his hand over them. Sliding down the bed, he now ran his hand over her flat stomach, down her thigh, until it came to rest between her legs. When he touched her most intimate part she moaned softly, and whispered, ‘Please, darling, please.' And so he brought his tongue to her, kissing her womanhood until she shivered in ecstasy.

He took her to him swiftly, entering her with urgency and his own overwhelming need, plunging deep inside her until she cried out. ‘Now, Neville, now, oh please, now,' and when she began to cleave to him and shudder excessively he threw off all his constraints and came with her when she came.

Together they lay joined for a long time. He did not want to leave her, and she wanted him to stay where he was. He rested his head against her face, and they drifted in a gentle haze, saying nothing, simply enjoying the aftermath of their lovemaking.

Eventually Nan spoke. ‘You once said I am the only one now. Is that true?'

He smiled against her cheek. ‘Don't you trust me?'

‘I do!' she cried, and tried to sit up.

Neville held her down on the pillow, kept her body under his. ‘I know you do, and you can be certain there is no other woman for me, my Nan. Why should I want anyone else when I have you? These perfect breasts, your long shapely legs, your slender, elegant body. And you do have such a lovely face. Not to mention
this
miraculous part of you.' He slipped out of her and slid his fingers inside her, and within minutes brought her to ecstasy again.

‘I think you might have made me pregnant tonight, darling,' Nan said a short while later, staring at him.

Neville had rolled off her, and was propped up next to her sharing her pillow. ‘I hope so,' he answered, ‘but it doesn't really matter in the long run, Nan. I can well manage without an heir.'

‘You're thinking of Richard, aren't you? He's becoming your surrogate son, isn't he? He's spending so much time here with you.'

‘Not really…No, Nan, he isn't becoming my son. I just like the boy.'

‘And George? What of him?'

‘George is rather strange, I must admit. An enigma to me. I sometimes think he might not be very trustworthy, do you know that?'

‘But he's always so charming…' Her voice trailed off.

‘Let us not mistake personality for character, my darling.'

‘You're worried about something, Neville, something important. I know you are. I saw it in your eyes over dinner. And then when I saw you standing at the bedroom window, staring out, I was fairly sure you had burdens…things on your mind.'

Pushing himself up on his elbow, looking down at her, Neville shook his dark head. ‘I cannot hide a thing from you, can I?'

‘No, I don't suppose you can. I know you so well.' She looked into his light turquoise eyes, saw his love
for her shining there, but almost instantly those eyes darkened, were suddenly shadowed over. ‘There is something wrong.'

Neville sighed, continued to look into her face. He rarely burdened her down with business, but somehow she always instinctively knew when to question him, like tonight. Sighing once again, he said in a low, concerned voice, ‘I'm worried about Edward and the board meeting at Deravenels in a few days. It might not go quite as well as we expected after all.'

‘Why is that?' Nan cried, astonished, her eyes full of alarm.

‘The telephone call I took tonight was from Amos Finnister.'

She nodded.

‘He had hoped that two of his men would be able to persuade three board members from the Grant faction to resign, and—'

‘Why would they do that?'

‘Because Amos Finnister had information about them that would be ruinous to them on all levels if made public. Unfortunately, they haven't quite responded in the way he wanted.'

‘And if they don't resign?'

‘They will vote against Ned at the meeting, and he could lose his chance to bring his case against Grant to the board.'

‘What are you going to do?'

‘I shall have to find some sort of weapon which will bring them around to our way of thinking…otherwise it will be a disaster.'

Vicky finished pinning her hair on top of her head, arranged the curls at the front and added the two tortoise-shell combs on either side at the back to hold everything in place. She stared at herself in her dressing-table mirror for a moment, decided she was looking so much better, for the first time in several weeks. Since the incident in the park, in fact.

A brunette with hazel eyes and a creamy complexion, Vicky Forth had a lovely face which drew much of its quiet loveliness from the calm and tranquillity which dwelt there.

Smoothing her hand over the high guipure lace collar of her cream blouse with its leg o'mutton sleeves, she clipped on pearl earrings, then, holding onto the dressing table, she levered herself up. Her leg was still in plaster, somewhat cumbersome, but she had learned to manoeuvre herself around the house, including mounting the stairs, and descending them. She was rather proud of herself and her new-found agility and skill despite the cast.

Glancing at the clock on the white marble mantelpiece, she realized she had an hour to waste before
Nanny and Amos brought Grace back from Harrods, where they had gone to have lunch and to do some special shopping. It was supposedly a secret from her, and she was amused that Grace and Nanny had managed to talk Amos into the expedition. She guessed the outing was to buy her a small gift for her upcoming birthday.

Vicky left her bedroom and went out into the corridor, heading for the staircase. Holding onto the polished mahogany bannister, she went up the stairs carefully, clutching her long cream-coloured gabardine skirt, lifting it so she wouldn't trip.

When she entered Grace's bedroom she smiled to herself. The child had a penchant for neatness. Everything was in its place, exactly where it should be, and, of course, there was her mother's photograph, propped up on the small bedside table. Vicky remembered how pleased she had been when Grace had placed it against the lamp, understanding the child finally felt safe here, truly knew no one would steal her mother's photograph.

Picking it up, Vicky carried it back into the playroom which adjoined the bedroom and seated herself at the circular table. The photograph needed a frame and yesterday Stephen had gone to the silver shop they patronized and found one which was the right size and not overly ornate. Vicky took it out of the box, removed its wooden back covered in dark blue velvet, and attempted to fit the photograph in, then realized it was rather bulky. The velvet-covered back would not sit correctly and she was unable to fasten it down with the side clips.

Vicky took her spectacles out of her skirt pocket, opened the case, and put them on, examined the
photograph. She realized for the first time that it was made of quite thick paper, heavier stock, and had a mount around it which framed the actual picture. The discoloured mount was spotted here and there and Vicky decided the spots had been made by water. No doubt the mount had been damaged when Grace had dragged the cloth bag around. Suddenly she noticed the faint lines on the mount, lines which had been made by a frame, no question about that.

She stared at Mam's face, as she always thought of her, and nodded to herself. She had been a very pretty woman indeed. Turning the photograph over, Vicky noticed that the brown paper backing was coming away from the picture at the edges, peeling on several corners. She decided it needed new backing, and began to pull on one corner of the brown paper. It loosened but was not quite as easy to remove as she thought. Suddenly she was afraid of damaging the photograph; Grace would be hysterical if anything happened to this one genuine memento of her mother, and to Vicky that was quite understandable.

Rising, leaving the playroom, Vicky manoeuvred herself down the stairs to her bedroom, found a nailfile and a pair of nail scissors in her manicure case, went carefully back upstairs to the playroom.

Sitting down at the table, she very gently inserted the nailfile and began to lift off the brown paper backing. It was a slow job, but within ten minutes she had loosened one side, and began to work on the edge across the bottom.

The moment she pulled the backing off completely, Vicky saw the large piece of folded paper laying on the
photograph; she knew instantly and without question that the brown paper backing had been put there by Grace's mother, not the photographer, as she had originally believed.

For a moment she did not touch the piece of folded paper, simply stared at it worriedly, wondering what it was. In a sense she was almost afraid to reach for it, afraid of what might be written on it, what she would discover.

Coward
, she told herself, and finally picked up the large piece of paper and unfolded it.

Vicky had thought it would most probably be a letter, but it wasn't. It was a birth certificate. However, inside the folds of the birth certificate there was another piece of paper. She placed this on the table, anxious to read the birth certificate.

A woman's name was written on it, a name Vicky did not recognize, and the square where the father's name should have been written was totally blank. She's illegitimate, Vicky thought. Grace is illegitimate. Her eyes went to the top of the birth certificate, and she now read:
County of Yorkshire
, and underneath:
WHITBY
, the name of the town. At least she now knew two more things about Grace: her mother's name and her place of birth. Anxious now to know even more, she reached for the smaller piece of paper and opened it. A lock of red hair fell out; Vicky put this on the birth certificate, almost absently, and looked down at the paper in her hand, reading swiftly.

‘Oh my God!' Vicky exclaimed out loud. ‘Oh my God!' she cried again, and her eyes, unexpectedly, filled with tears. She blinked them away and read the short
note once again, took the lock of hair, put it back inside the note and folded it. To her surprise, Vicky discovered her hands were shaking as she replaced the note inside the birth certificate. Swiftly, she put both in her skirt pocket, and sat back in the chair, too stunned to think straight for a moment, utterly astounded.

It was the carriage clock on the mantlepiece chiming the half hour which brought Vicky Forth out of her reverie. She blinked, sat up straighter in the chair, glancing at the clock. It occurred to her that she had only half an hour to put a new backing on the photograph and get it inside the silver frame before Amos, Nanny and Grace returned.

Standing up, she went to the bell at the side of the mantelpiece and pressed it. Within seconds Elsie, the parlour maid, was hurrying into the room. ‘Is there something you need, Mrs Forth?'

‘Elsie, please do me a favour. Bring me a roll of the brown wrapping paper, a pot of glue and a pair of scissors. I want to tidy up this photograph before putting it in the new frame.'

Elsie nodded. ‘Right away, mum.' She dashed out.

Vicky sat gazing at the picture of Grace's mother, wondering whether to keep the discoloured cream mount surrounding it. She made a decision and lifted it off. Printed in a type of scrolled handwriting was the name of the photographer, and underneath the town:
Whitby
. Without the discoloured mount, the photographer's name was revealed. For the moment Vicky did not want anyone else to know a single thing about Grace's background, and so she put the mount back in place even though it was a bit grubby.

Once Elsie returned with the items she requested, Vicky cut out a piece of the brown paper, glued it on the back of the photograph, and put the picture in the frame.

‘Now it fits,' she muttered under her breath as she replaced the wooden back covered in blue velvet. Turning it around, standing it up on the table, she nodded to herself, pleased with her handiwork, thinking how happy Grace would be when she saw her mother's photographic portrait in the handsome silver frame.