Heirs of Ravenscar. Barbara Taylor Bradford

convince Nan. As I reminded her, my knowledge of George is far greater than anyone else’s in this entire world. I also explained that I would buy the house for you and Anne, so that George could never get his hands on it, and that she could still give it to you, as if it were her present to you both.’

      ‘That was a nice gesture, Ned, and obviously she accepted. But I wonder why? Why didn’t she tell us the truth at the time? That would have been more honest, wouldn’t it?’

      ‘I’m afraid I’m guilty again. I convinced her to say she was giving you the house, and to hand you the deeds Neville had presented to her years ago, so that everything would appear quite normal to you. And, of course, to George. In order to completely forestall George, in case he tried to make any trouble for you and Anne later, I had Nan’s solicitors and mine draw up additional documents – a bill of sale, new deeds in my name, and a third legal document which gifts the house to you outright.’

      ‘Do you mean you have given it to us, Anne and me, or actually to me?’

      ‘Only to you, Richard. I couldn’t take any chances. I didn’t want Anne’s name on any legal documents. In other words, I bought the house from Nan Watkins, and then, as the new legal owner, I gave it to a third party. All very legal. Essentially, what it did do was cut Anne and Isabel out, because I had bought it from their mother, who had every right to sell, because it was hers, not part of Neville’s estate.’

      For a moment Richard sat there in silence, looking slightly stunned.

      Smiling, Edward took the thin folder he had removed from the safe, and handed it to Richard. ‘Here are the deeds to your house. They would have always been secure with me, but I decided you ought to have them. After all, the house is yours.’

      ‘You didn’t give them to me before because you were protecting Nan, weren’t you?’

      ‘I suppose so … I didn’t want to take the credit away from her. In a sense, she was only the innocent bystander, and she had wanted to give you the house anyway.’

      Richard had taken the folder and he held it tightly for a moment, looking at it. But he did not open it. He put it on the floor next to his chair and then sat gazing at his brother, at a loss for words. Finally, he said softly, ‘Thank you, Ned. You’re the best brother any man could have.’

      ‘And so are you, Little Fish: well trusted and well loved.’

SIX

      Jane Shaw sat at her dressing table in the bedroom of her charming house in Hyde Park Gardens.

      Leaning forward, she peered at herself in the antique Victorian mirror, brought a hand to her face, touching the fine wrinkles around her eyes with one finger. Crow’s feet they were called. What an ugly name, she thought and sighed. There were also tiny lines above her top lip, hardly visible, but they were there, much to her dismay. And the lip rouge ran into those lines sometimes, she had begun to notice. Her jaw was not as taut as it had once been either, and she knew her neck had begun to sag, only slightly, but, nonetheless, this was visible.

      Sitting back in the chair, trying to relax, Jane looked at herself again in a more objective way, and at once she was reassured that she was still a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman who was, very simply, growing older.

      Ten years.

      Not many years … not really. In 1907 ten years had not seemed much at all. Even in 1910 they were still a mere nothing in her mind. But today, in December of 1918, those ten years had assumed enormous proportions all of a sudden.

      She was now forty-three.

      Edward Deravenel was thirty-three.

      She was ten years older than he was, and whilst this had not seemed too big an age difference between them before, it did now … because it was beginning to show.

      It seemed to Jane, now that she focused on their ages, that Edward had not changed at all. He looked exactly the same, as handsome as ever. His hair was still that wonderful red-gold colour, burnished and full of light even on the dullest of sunless wintry days. His eyes, of an unusual cornflower blue, were still sparkling and full of life, and at six foot four he was an imposing man who appeared much younger than his years. He had kept his lean figure, had not put on weight: in fact, there was not an ounce of extra fat on him.

      Rising, Jane walked over to the cheval mirror that stood in a corner, and removed her peignoir, stood naked in front of the looking glass, examining her body appraisingly.

      Her breasts were still high, taut, a young woman’s breasts, and her hips were slim, her stomach flat. She was pleased that her figure had not altered very much; because she was of medium height, she had always watched her diet carefully. As a consequence of this, her body was slender, and there was a youthfulness about her appearance. Nonetheless, the age difference between them was unexpectedly troubling her today.

      Shaking her head, she turned away from the mirror, endeavouring to laugh at her own silliness. As she slipped into the white chiffon peignoir again, Jane reminded herself that no man could be more giving, loving and attentive than Edward.

      The odd bits of gossip she heard about him from time to time actually pleased her, because the gossip was about them and their long friendship, and not about him and other women. The crux of the gossip was that, most miraculously, he was faithful to her.

      Sitting down in the chair, she began to apply her usual evening cosmetics. A dusting of light face powder, a hint of pink rouge on her high cheekbones, and red lip rouge on her sensual mouth. She touched her blonde eyelashes with dark mascara, added the merest hint of brown pencil to her blonde eyebrows, and then picked up the comb, ran it through her wavy blonde hair. It was shorter than it had been for years, layers of waves that swept over her head and around her ears. This shorter cut was the latest style, and it suited her, added to her youthfulness.

      After putting on silk stockings and underwear, Jane went to the wardrobe and took out a tailored, dark-blue silk dress. It had a V neckline and loose floating sleeves. As finishing touches she added several long ropes of pearls, pearl earrings, a sapphire ring and matching bracelet.

      Now stepping into a pair of dark-blue suede court shoes, she hurried out of the bedroom and went down the stairs to the parlour.

      A perfectionist at heart, Jane wanted to be certain that everything was in order before Ned arrived to spend the evening with her. She was worried about him because of Young Edward’s illness. Ned was concerned about his little son, who was his heir, and he tended to fuss about him rather a lot. But she fully understood why this was so. Jane knew what a genuinely good father Edward was, devoted to all of his children, who did seem to keep coming along on a regular basis.

      Pushing open the mahogany door into the parlour, she smiled to herself. Several of her women friends were extremely curious, incurably nosey about their relationship. They had no compunction about asking her outrageous personal questions, especially about Edward’s wife. They said Elizabeth was mean and selfish, but Jane did not care.

      She simply laughed in their faces and told them nothing. What did she care if he slept with Elizabeth from time to time? She was fully aware that most married men who had mistresses also had continuing sexual relationships with their wives. Usually because they had no option.

      Being pragmatic by nature, Jane tried not to worry too much about things she could not change. It was a waste of her valuable time. And certainly she had no control over Edward Deravenel, or what he did when he was not with her. She knew he loved her, and he saw her several times a week, frequently even more when he was in London, and she knew how much he enjoyed her companionship. He took pleasure in her quick mind, her wit, and, of course, her knowledge of art.

      It was to her that Ned owed his extraordinary collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings. She had spent years searching out the best for him, including Renoirs, Manets, Monets, Gauguins, and Van Goghs.

      Her