The Ravenscar Dynasty (45 page)

‘Oh how stupid they were!' she cried and went and sat down on the sofa in front of the fireplace in her Upper Grosvenor Street house.

John moved across the room, draped himself against the fireplace, and stared at her.

She stared back, raising a curved black brow.

He said, ‘We might have lost this battle, but it is only a
battle
. We haven't lost the war.'

‘It sounds as if we have to me,' she snapped, sitting up straighter. ‘What are we going to do?'

‘At this moment, I don't know actually. I think we should go to Paris, you and I, and have a break from all this business, have an intimate weekend together.
Chez toi
.'

Her face lit up.

‘I can see the thought of being alone with me in your flat in Paris makes you happy,' John said, a pleased expression in his eyes. ‘And the thought of it sends
my
head spinning. However, we must get back to business for a moment, Margot. Deravenel will soon be sitting in my chair, the managing director's chair, and there's nothing that I can do about it. On the other hand, the Grants do own a huge amount of shares in the company, and I think there has to be a Grant on the board, or there as a spokesman. I'm going to have to go back to the company rules, look a few things up.'

‘We can't let Edward Deravenel win, and—'

‘He has, Margot, if only for the moment, of course.'

She nodded. ‘You have to find a way to…unseat him.'

‘Indeed I will,' John answered, and went and sat down next to her on the sofa. ‘And what are we going to do with Henry whilst
we
are in Paris? He can't be left alone, you know.'

‘I understand that. He is perfectly happy at Ascot, and the butler there knows how to take care of him. He will do so, following my instructions.'

‘That makes me feel easier.' He stood. ‘I must go, I want to arm myself with enough facts, so that I know what I'm talking about when the time comes.'

The spring supper dance was already underway at Lady Tillotson's splendid house in Berkeley Square. The strains of the orchestra playing music for the popular dance The Cakewalk came floating in from the magnificent ballroom, and there was a sense of festivity and gaiety in the air. It was a gaiety which seemed to prevail everywhere in London these days, with King Edward VII leading the way in this extraordinarily prosperous year of his reign, his sixth on the throne of England. London was the greatest capital in existence; the Empire ruled the world, and all was well under English skies.

In the charming and beautiful drawing room which adjoined the ballroom, guests stood around or were sitting on gold-framed chairs, small sofas and banquettes, sipping champagne and chatting to each other.

Tall, airy palms in heavy cream-coloured porcelain tubs were stationed in corners, and there were flowers everywhere…banks of lilies, peonies, roses, rhododendrons and hydrangeas introduced rafts of pinks, cream and white, lilac, purple and different reds, bringing vibrant colour to the backdrop of the cream,
silk-covered walls and cream-and-gold painted woodwork. The air itself was filled with the delicate fragrance of the mingled flowers and the more heady scents favoured by the glamorous women who were present tonight, arrayed in all their finery.

Two glittering crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling at each end of the drawing room, and were balanced by matching crystal wall sconces. The brilliant light from the Waterford crystal pieces brought additional sparkle to the room, and enabled all of the women to view each other's gowns with ease. And every woman was elegantly dressed in the latest Paris and London styles, bought from the most famous fashion houses in both cities and worn with magnificent jewels which highlighted their elegance.

Like the women, the men were equally elegant in their impeccably-tailored black tails, starched white shirts, white bow ties and matching white waistcoats.

Glancing around, the woman in black realized she was the only one wearing a dark colour. Every other woman had chosen a pastel shade for her gown, so appropriate for spring. She did not care; she liked her choice, and it
was
appropriate for
her
.

She glanced to her left and saw her cousin Arthur Forrester heading in her direction, carrying a glass of champagne for her. ‘Thank you, Arthur,' she said as he handed it to her and offered her a warm smile.

‘Do you mind if I leave you alone for a few seconds?' he asked, as always scrupulously polite. ‘I'd like to smoke a cigar on the terrace with Woodstock and Hopkins, two old friends of mine from my Eton days. Haven't seen those blighters for months.'

‘No, not at all,' she murmured. ‘I'm sure Mama will descend on me at any moment.'

He laughed with her and hurried off in the direction of the terrace, obviously looking forward to catching up with his old friends, she could see that. There was an eagerness in his eyes and a spring to his step.

Leaning back against the deep cream plush-velvet banquette, she glanced around, admiring some of the gowns, thinking that others were overdone, as was, indeed, much of the jewellery. Yet again, current fashion prevailed, and every woman wanted to ape Queen Alexandra with her ornate chokers and collars of pearls and precious stones, the matching long strings of pearls and diamonds, all worn together. However, not all women had a long swan-like neck, as the Queen did. She smiled to herself, suddenly feeling pleased that she had kept her toilette simple tonight. It made her stand out, she thought, set her apart from every other woman present.

She saw him the moment he arrived.

He caused quite a flurry of excitement as he hesitated in the entrance to the drawing room, glancing around. People rushed to him, surrounded him, obviously wanted to welcome him, fête him. She wondered who he was.

He was very tall and broad chested, and in the brilliant light of the room his luxuriant hair looked silver. He was so handsome she was genuinely startled, taken aback by his exceptional good looks. She had never set eyes on a man quite like him.

With immense confidence he entered the room boldly, yet he moved lightly on his feet as he rushed, quite suddenly, towards a woman he obviously knew. She was a pretty brunette seated on the banquette opposite her. Catching her breath, now that she had an even better view of him, Elizabeth realized he was indeed a big man. Yet there was no excess fat on him; he appeared athletic, very fit.

She was actually close enough to notice that everything about him was scrupulously clean, shining almost, and the silver hair was not silver at all, she could see that now: it was a burnished red-gold; he was very fair in colouring, his skin pink and white, and so
clean
looking. Like a freshly scrubbed schoolboy, was her unexpected thought.

He had seated himself next to the woman opposite; one arm stretched along the back of the banquette, rested between himself and the woman, and his right hand lay there, curled open slightly. He had beautiful hands with long fingers.

To her absolute amazement she suddenly knew she wanted those hands on her. Wanted him. Wanted every conceivable part of him. So intense and real was this feeling she felt her face becoming hot. How amazing…she was blushing. She hadn't blushed in years.

He must have dressed hastily. She noticed, suddenly, that the right cuff of his white dress shirt was open, loosely hanging out of the sleeve of his superbly-cut black evening suit. He leaned to the woman and kissed her on the cheek, almost as an afterthought, it seemed to her. He was talking to the woman earnestly, seemingly unaware of anyone else, even the others standing nearby, obviously wanting his attention.

‘Elizabeth, what on earth's got into you?' her brother Anthony asked a trifle sharply, startling her, staring into her face as he bent towards her. ‘Gaping at that fellow like a common street girl!
Really
, darling.'

Elizabeth stared back at her brother, who had so suddenly appeared at her side, and asked curiously, ‘Who
is
he? I don't know him.'

Anthony was surprised to hear this, and he frowned. ‘You must be the only woman in London, if not indeed in the whole of England, who doesn't recognize
him
. That's Edward Deravenel, and please don't tell me you've never heard of him, because I certainly won't believe you. Others might, but not I. Everyone knows who Deravenel is, and especially members of
your
sex.'

‘
That's
Edward Deravenel! Good heavens, Anthony, I thought Deravenel was a much older man! Certainly a man in his thirties, even early forties.' She glanced across the room, and went on, ‘Why,
he
looks to be in his twenties.'

‘Indeed he is, about twenty-three, something like that, not exactly sure. But young.'

‘I've read about him in the newspapers. He gives very fancy parties, goes to all the best occasions given by others, and is quite the social animal, isn't he?' Not waiting for a response, she rushed on, ‘They say he's a genius in business. Is that true?'

‘Don't really know, Lizzie darling.'

‘Anthony, please don't address me as Lizzie. You know I don't like it, and Mother
certainly
doesn't.'

He ignored her comments. ‘Whether Deravenel is a genius or not doesn't really matter. He has very clever men working for him at Deravenels, and he is supremely
lucky in that he has his cousin Neville Watkins by his side, guiding him. Watkins is this country's greatest tycoon today. Some people says it's actually Watkins who runs Deravenels, and holds the power, not our young friend over there.'

‘
Is
he a friend of yours?' Elizabeth asked swiftly, staring hard at her brother.

‘Unfortunately not—he's an acquaintance, and merely a nodding acquaintance, at that. We did do business some years ago with Deravenels, with the other branch of the family, the Grants, when they managed the company. Not since then, though, more's the pity.' Turning his head, Anthony exclaimed, ‘Oh darling, here's Agatha. I do believe I promised her this dance. Please excuse me, Lizzie.' He winked at her mischievously, knowing how much she loathed any abbreviation of her name, this one most particularly.

‘Of course, do run along with you, Anthony,' she murmured in a slightly dismissive voice, and sat back on the plush-velvet banquette. Now that she was alone again she stole another look at Edward Deravenel.

At this precise moment he himself moved, drew away from the lovely brunette. He looked around, then glanced across the room.

His eyes met hers.

Her breath caught in her throat.

His blue eyes were the bluest eyes she had ever seen, startlingly so.

To her mortification, she felt herself blushing again, not only because he had caught her watching him surreptitiously, but because his eyes were suddenly and unwaveringly focused on her. And with intensity.

Very slowly, a lazy, almost amused smile spread across his face.

For a moment Elizabeth couldn't look away, and then through the corner of her eye she saw her mother approaching, and she stood up, rapidly moved in the opposite direction, found herself heading towards the terrace. Within seconds she was opening the French doors and stepping outside. She looked about, saw that it was empty. Obviously, her cousin and his old schoolfriends had gone for a walk in the garden below.

Although it was a pleasant April evening, it was, nonetheless, growing cooler, and she realized her error. But she wouldn't mind standing here for a moment. She was warm, and her face felt flushed when she touched it; moving closer to the balustrade, she placed her hands on the marble, liking the coolness.

She heard steps on the gravel footpath in the garden; voices drifted up to her, and she recognized Arthur's voice as he said, ‘He might have gone to Harrow, but why do we care? I think Churchill's a bloody good chap. He's done an excellent job as Under-Secretary of State at the Colonial Office, and obviously Campbell-Bannerman has a lot of faith in him.'

‘I've heard that Campbell-Bannerman's not well,' Hopkins said.

‘Good Lord, Hopkins, where did you hear
that
?' Arthur demanded.

‘
I
told him,' Woodstock answered. ‘My father's close to the Prime Minister—he told him he'll probably step down next year.'

‘Good God!' Arthur exclaimed. There was a fractional pause before he went on, ‘If he does step down
as Prime Minister, it'll be Asquith who succeeds him. There's nobody else.'

‘There'll be no election,' Hopkins announced in a firm tone. ‘The Liberals swept to power last year and they aim to stay. Churchill was lucky. When he crossed the floor of the House to join them he knew what he was doing—'

‘Hey, wait a minute! He crossed the floor because he was not happy with Tory policies,' Arthur interjected, sounding annoyed as he hit back.

‘There are some who say he's a traitor to the Tory Party and to his class,' Hopkins muttered.

‘I beg to differ,' Arthur replied, lightening his voice. He laughed. ‘Come on, chaps, let's go back in and have a bit of the old bubbly, flirt with the ladies.'

‘I want to finish my cigar,' Woodstock mumbled. ‘There's a bench over there, let's go and sit for a while.'

Their voices drifted away, and Elizabeth leaned forward, looked out into the garden. Men and their politics, she thought impatiently, they drive me to distraction. But then again politics were very much part of daily social life within the upper classes.

She sighed to herself. Hopkins was something of an argumentative chap; she rather agreed with Arthur. He was right, Churchill was a very promising politician. Her father had a lot of time for him, had always said he would go far.