The Complete Ravenscar Trilogy: The Ravenscar Dynasty, Heirs of Ravenscar, Being Elizabeth. Barbara Taylor Bradford

to think she was in charge, but this was a figment of her imagination. She was not shy in coming forward with advice and ideas, many of them ridiculous; John allowed her to rant on, but he paid very little attention to her ravings and edicts, yet was clever enough not to let her know this.

      Margot Grant. Beautiful, even beguiling to most men, and dangerous. He sat up straighter in the chair. Could she be behind the attack on Edward Deravenel? Was she? He sincerely hoped not.

      John did not like Deravenel. He was too fleshily handsome, far too glamorous, oozing charisma and friendly bonhomie. But he was not stupid or soft. Summers knew instinctively that Deravenel had steel in his bones, unlike most other people at Deravenels who thought of him as lazy and a playboy. Not Ned, oh no. He liked women, the good life. But he was driven, ambitious, and strong, a man who was determined to win, no matter what.

      That was why Summers was afraid of him. And even more afraid of Deravenel’s cousin. Neville Watkins. A great magnate, a man of wealth. Cold, hard and ruthless when it came to business. They made a matchless team, in John’s opinion, and he loathed the idea that they were ranged against him. Warriors, the two of them, and hellbent on winning. He had to stop them in their tracks, and very soon.

      Restlessly, John rose and went out of his office, wandered along the corridor, heading for the reception room at the far end. When he went in a few seconds later, he switched on the crystal chandeliers and glanced around. Hanging on the walls were a collection of portraits of the men who had steered this company over the centuries. Mostly they were Deravenels from Yorkshire; only two Grants hung there—Henry’s father and grandfather. Until sixty years ago the Deravenels of Ravenscar had dominated this company. And that was what Edward Deravenel wanted again. As did Neville Watkins.

      Leaving the reception room, John flung open the door of the elegant dining room, his eyes scanning the handsome antiques and priceless paintings which hung on the red brocade-covered walls. So many magnificent luncheons and dinners had been given here for important clients, politicians and foreign guests over the years. But not lately…it was not possible to put Henry Grant on parade because of his mental instability. And, ostensibly at least, it was Henry who was head of the company…to the outside world.

      Retracing his steps down the long corridor, John now considered going to the first floor where many of the heads of the various divisions had their offices. Perhaps Aubrey Masters was already here; he could question Masters, find out what he knew, if anything. A reliable ally.

      Instantly John changed his mind. Taking out his pocket watch he glanced at it, nodded to himself. In a short while his secretary would arrive, along with the women telephonists and typists, the clerks and other members of the general staff. And certainly by ten o’clock the key executives would be behind their desks.

      Although he had managed to calm himself, John felt a sudden flare of apprehension. He did not need problems like the Edward Deravenel matter…there were already too many problems in the company to deal with as it was. Trouble loomed. And yet he had to investigate the attack on Deravenel, get to the bottom of it. He must put a stop to this sudden…violence.

      ‘What in God’s name is wrong with you?’ John Summers demanded, looking from James Cliff to Jack Beaufield, and then more pointedly at Andrew Trotter. ‘You’re all laughing about the attack on Edward Deravenel, enjoying this…catastrophe! For that is indeed what it is! When what you should be doing is steeling yourself for a powerful retaliation. Are you such fools that you don’t understand what’s going to happen?’

      ‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Andrew Trotter answered, a grin still lingering on his long, saturnine face. ‘That arrogant young pup got a whipping and so what! Hopefully it will teach the little bugger a lesson. Teach him a few manners.’

      At this moment there was a knock on the door, and Aubrey Masters hurried in, looking both harried and apologetic at the same time. ‘So sorry I’m late, the Strand is jammed with traffic this morning, worse than ever.’

      ‘That’s perfectly all right, Masters, do come in and sit down.’

      Aubrey Masters took a seat, and then glanced around at his colleagues. Instantly he detected the tension in the room. ‘What’s wrong, gentlemen?’ he asked, frowning.

      Summers told him about the Deravenel incident, and then finished, ‘I want to know who amongst you is behind the attack. And I will find out, whatever it takes.’ Now John’s eyes settled on James Cliff. ‘You’re not saying anything at all this morning. So unlike you. Please tell me what you know?’

      ‘Oddly enough, I don’t know a damned thing,’ Cliff answered in a mild voice. ‘I truly don’t.’

      ‘Really,’ John answered swiftly, giving him a cold look. ‘Usually you’re not squeamish…about anything, just so long as it serves your purpose.’

      ‘For this company, not my own purpose,’ Cliff shot back, and smiled a trifle smugly. ‘You know very well I am absolutely devoted to Deravenels, and work for its success. And there’s no reason to drip acid on me today, I’m not involved in this bit of…violence.’ Swinging his head, Cliff looked at Jack Beaufield. ‘Come on, do confess. You and the lady have been rather cosy lately, wouldn’t you say?’

      Jack Beaufield’s face tightened at this act of treachery, and a small vein started throbbing on the side of his temple. He said, in an icy voice, ‘I had nothing to do with the attack on Ned Deravenel. In fact, no one in this room did. However, Cliff is right in that I have been…sequestered, shall we say, with the lady of the house, this house, and more than usual. She is behind it, Summers. She asked me to hire someone to teach Deravenel a lesson. But I refused. It is my belief she managed it all on her own. It is not so difficult to hire thugs.’

      John Summers sat back in his chair and let his eyes roam over the men sitting across the desk from him. Finally his glance settled on Aubrey. He said slowly, ‘Now, Masters, you know everything that goes on here, because everyone confides in you. Can you throw any light on the matter?’

      ‘Actually, no, I can’t. But I do believe Margot Grant has it in for Deravenel. They had some sort of… run-in, I suppose one could call it. I think she was determined to clip his ears. Well, that was the expression I heard around the office.’

      ‘Since several fingers have been pointed in that particular direction I shall have to have a word with the lady when she comes in today, if she does come in, that is.’

      ‘She’s already here,’ Aubrey announced. ‘I just saw her, going into her office. Well, into Henry’s office.’

      John Summers jumped up. ‘Let us adjourn, gentlemen. Please excuse me.’ Without waiting to hear another thing, Summers hurried out of his office and strode down the corridor.

      When he came to the chairman’s office he went in without knocking, and immediately stopped short. Margot Grant was sitting behind the giant-sized Georgian partner’s desk, whilst her husband Henry lay stretched out on a sofa near the window.

      Taken by surprise at the sight of Henry Grant looking somewhat dishevelled, and certainly unwell, John nonetheless recovered himself at once. Always the gentleman, he said pleasantly, ‘Good morning, Margot.’ And then hurrying over to the sofa, he went on, ‘And good morning to you, sir. How’re you feeling?’

      ‘Not too badly off, John,’ Henry answered in a somewhat feeble voice. ‘How’re you? And how is your father?’

      ‘I am well, sir, thank you,’ John answered, and ignored the question about his late father.

      Margot stood up and walked around the desk, came towards John Summers, a wide smile playing on her face. ‘Have you heard the news about Deravenel?’ she asked, and began to chortle, her merriment reflected in her eyes.

      John chose not to respond. Instead he turned to Henry Grant and murmured, ‘Would you excuse me, sir?