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

      Shaking her hand, full of smiles, Aubrey said, ‘And my name is Aubrey Masters. So pleased to meet you, Miss Blue.’

      ‘Please call me Phyllida. Everyone does.’

      Walking up Curzon Street together, Aubrey told the young woman about the items he purchased from the shop, and extolled the virtues of vegetables and grains, spoke with knowledge about the importance of vegetarianism. Within a few minutes they were entering the cobbled yards which made up Shepherd’s Market, where in the centre of the shops, small restaurants and coffee houses stood the favourite shop of Aubrey Masters.

      ‘Here it is, Phyllida,’ he announced, opening the door for her and ushering her inside.

      ‘’Ello, Mr Masters,’ the man behind the counter said, ‘I was expectin’ you today.’ He eyed the young woman, and, just like Aubrey, he couldn’t help smiling at her. What a pretty one she was, with her golden curls, large blue eyes and pert mouth. A tasty bit if ever he’d seen one.

      Noticing the man’s reaction, Aubrey muttered somewhat possessively, ‘This is Miss Blue, Phineas. She is looking for certain items for her mother. But I shall show her around first.’

      ‘Please be my guest,’ Phineas answered, and as Aubrey turned his back he smiled at the young woman, and winked.

      She smiled in return and followed Aubrey, saying, as she did, ‘I was told to get dried mushrooms, lentils, sago, and various nuts and pods. And certain dried flowers, and roots as well.’

      ‘Yes, yes, I will help you, my dear,’ Aubrey responded, finding himself so attracted to the young woman he was amazed at himself. She looked as if she was in her early twenties, half his age, and she was so lovely she stirred something inside him which had long been dormant. He wondered how he could arrange to see her again. For see her again he must.

      ‘He’s hooked,’ Phyllida Blue said three hours later when she joined the fashionably dressed couple in the tap room of a pub in Maiden Lane up behind the Strand.

      ‘So tell us all about it,’ the man said, grinning at her.

      ‘Easy as eatin’ pie,’ Phyllida replied, and smiled at the man and his companion. ‘He fell for me hook, line and sinker. Took me for coffee afterwards, and he wants me to meet him next week. Same time, same place, Charlie.’

      ‘Good girl.’

      The woman eyed her fob watch. ‘We’d best be going. We’ve all got to be at the theatre soon.’

      ‘We’re all right for a minute or two, Sadie,’ Charlie answered. ‘We don’t have far to go.’

      Looking across at Phyllida, he said with a throaty chuckle, ‘You’re a good little actress, Maisie. I trained you well.’

      ‘You did, and thanks for watching out for me today,’ she replied.

      John Summers was so unsettled that evening he found it difficult to eat the excellent dinner his cook had so carefully prepared for him. Finally throwing the white linen napkin down on the table, he left the dining room, swiftly retreated to the library.

      A moment later Fellowes, his butler, knocked on the door and came in. ‘Is everything all right, sir?’

      ‘Everything’s fine, thank you,’ John responded in a quiet tone.

      ‘Cook is worried, sir. Did everything suit?’

      ‘Yes, it did. My compliments to Cook, Fellowes, and please pour me a cognac, would you?’

      When he was finally alone John Summers settled back in the leather wing chair in front of the blazing fire, nursing the balloon of brandy.

      Uppermost in his thoughts were the events of the day. In many ways his eyes had been opened. He knew exactly where he stood with his executives, understood much more about them, knew their weaknesses. Finally. Certainly he had been startled by the knowledge that Margot Grant had a truly ruthless streak in her. He also now realized that she was something of a liability. On the other hand, Henry Grant relied on her, and he loved her…if love was an emotion felt by such a lost and demented man.

      John sighed to himself and looked across at the small painting of Georgina which stood on the table next to the fireplace. If only his fiancée had not been killed in that accident several years ago his life would be very different now. He would have a wife and a family, and they would have eased his loneliness. As it was, his life was unbearable at times, because he missed Georgina so much, and because he had no confidante, no close friend whom he could trust. He was utterly alone. Except for his brothers, living in Somerset, and they were not all that close these days.

      He took a long gulp of the brandy and then put the glass down on a nearby table, closed his eyes, filled with myriad thoughts. One thing was paramount in his mind…Thank God he had had the wisdom not to fall into the sexual trap that was Margot Grant. A narrow escape, he thought. And he pitied Jack Beaufield who was apparently her new victim.

      John knew he had his work cut out for him in the next few months. The problems at the company would not go away. They had to be solved. He was damned if he was going to let the House of Deravenels fall. Somehow he would find clever solutions. With the help of a few good men, he would bring the company back up on top. He must.

       TWENTY-THREE

      At times Cecily Deravenel wished she had been born a man. There were many things she could do better and faster than some of the men she knew; but as a child of Victoria’s reign and now a woman of the Edwardian era, so much had been, and still was, forbidden to her. Over the years she had suffered her frustration, annoyance and impatience in silence, as had so many other women she knew. Many men, in public and private, complained about Mrs Pankhurst and her fight for the rights of women, but Cecily could not help but admire her, and her efforts on behalf of the female sex.

      At this precise moment, Cecily wished she had been standing in her late husband’s shoes over the last few years. She would have definitely challenged Henry Grant about his mismanagement of Deravenels, and his right to run it. Curiously, Richard had never really done so, perhaps out of sentiment, and a lingering affection for Harry whom he had known throughout his life, since Henry’s childhood, in fact.

      It was all here, all the documents which would have brought the situation to a head, if Richard had so wished. Earlier that morning she had gone down to the vault in the basement of the Charles Street house and opened it with Swinton’s help. Once she was alone, Cecily had removed a large pile of documents, which Richard had secured in a white linen pillow case, and had taken them up to the dining room.

      Now these were spread out in front of her, and she studied them carefully. All of the papers were actually copies of ancient documents which dated back hundreds of years, documents so fragile they were stored in the vaults at the Deravenel offices in the Strand.

      Long ago, Richard had told her that every five years or so, before the copies themselves yellowed and aged, they were copied afresh. He had gone on to explain that those originals in the office vaults dated as far back as the founding father of the dynasty, Guy de Ravenel, and were very precious and also extremely valuable historically.

      As she slowly read, turned the pages, and read on, Cecily quickly understood that everything Richard had written in his diary was correct. She was struck, most forcibly, by the fact that he himself could so easily have presented a case to the board, yet for some reason he had not put that plan into operation. He had only written about doing it.

      Once more, she wondered why? Sentiment aside, he was not a fearful man; certainly he was capable of standing up to anyone. He had never been cowardly, just the opposite, in fact. Yet, in this instance, he had backed away