and extraordinary man had even deigned to look at her never ceased to amaze her.
In this Nan did herself an injustice, and she knew it. But she still always thought of herself as thin and pale, and not at all enticing. In reality she was fragile and very pretty, with shining, golden-brown hair, huge soulful grey eyes that were flirtatious and beguiling to most men. Apart from an incomparable complexion, she had a perfect, white skin, shapely breasts and lovely long legs. But it was her femininity and fragility that appealed to the opposite sex. Instantly they wanted to protect her, as indeed did Neville Watkins. He not only considered her to be beautiful but had soon discovered she was a very sexual woman as well, a partner who desired him, craved him and showed it in ways no other woman ever had.
Nan knew this because he had confided in her; he had also told her how sexually exciting she was to him. She smiled to herself now, as she thought about their lovemaking earlier that morning. Having complained the night before that he had taken Saturday away from her, a day which belonged to them, he had awakened her very early with intimate kisses and a clamouring sexual desire for her. Their passion had been enormous, their longing slaked, and he had eventually whispered against her neck that perhaps they had made a child together this very day. And this she prayed for, prayed for a son, so that he would have an heir. A baby conceived now would do wonders for him, help to assuage the pain and grief he felt at the loss of his father, and his brother, Thomas.
Nan stared into the room absently, thinking of young Tom. How Neville had grieved in the last few weeks. But she had helped him as best she could, and so had his brother John…Johnny they all called him, such a kind and gentle young man.
She would never dare say a wrong word about Johnny to Neville, but she knew deep in her heart that it was Ned who held his loyalty and love. She also knew that Edward Deravenel knew this, and sometimes it disturbed her.
Instinct, she thought. I have instinctive feelings about such things, instincts I cannot and must not fault. I’m right more often than I am wrong, aren’t I?
It was the same with young Richard. There were times when Neville treated him like the son he had not yet had but hoped one day to have; Richard was the stand-in perhaps, yes, in a sense it was that. But Richard’s absolute and total loyalty was to his brother Edward first.
Then there was George, the middle Deravenel brother. He had no loyalty to anyone but himself, of that she was utterly certain. One day it will all explode, go up in smoke, Nan said to herself, and then wondered why she had had such an irrational and silly thought.
The two clans of Watkins and Deravenel were intertwined forever. An unbreakable bond. That was what they all said. She just hoped it was true…
The four men who were seated at the table in Neville’s handsomely-furnished dining room were quite different in style and personality, for the most part as disparate as any men could be.
Seated at the head of the table was the host. A patrician of undoubted aristocratic stock, slender, dark-haired, with those mesmerizing turquoise eyes in his lean, good-looking face, he was elegance personified.
Neville’s superbly-cut, dark-grey worsted suit was from the best tailor in London. It looked it. His white shirt, made of the finest blend of Egyptian cotton, was enhanced by a deep-purple silk cravat, elaborately tied in a fancy knot and finished with a discreet diamond pin. He wore a crested signet ring; heavy gold cufflinks fastened his French cuffs; his handmade shoes shone like glass. Neville had dressed with flair and style, and today he more than lived up to his reputation as a dandy, the Beau Brummell of his time.
At the other end of the table sat his cousin Edward Deravenel. Ned dominated the scene because of his height and physique, his handsome face, startling blue eyes and red-gold hair. Edward also wore a well-tailored Savile Row suit, although one not quite as expensive as that of his cousin. Dark blue in colour, it had the popular flared frock coat and narrowed trousers; his shirt was white, his jewellery simple—his father’s gold pocket watch and cufflinks. The pearl stick pin which he now treasured so much was fastened in his dark blue cravat.
Edward’s overwhelming presence, his aura of raw masculinity and sex appeal was balanced by his charm and amiability, his friendly smile and his genuine interest in other people. Although a man of exceptional personal appeal to women, he was, nonetheless, well liked by other men.
Facing each other across the long mahogany table were Alfredo Oliveri and Amos Finnister. They appeared to be comfortable and at ease with each other, as well as with the patrician cousins and their luxurious surroundings.
Despite having had an Italian father, Alfredo appeared very English in his plain, dark grey suit, with his carrot top red hair, pale skin and freckles. Of medium height, he was slight of build and looked much younger than his forty-one years. A product of the lower middle class, he was a clever man with a good brain who had been well educated, and he was a hard worker. His refined manner and pleasant demeanour attracted people to him, and gave them confidence in him.
Amos Finnister was in his mid-forties, tall and thin with a slight stoop. His jet black hair was touched with strands of grey, but his pencil-thin moustache was as black as his coal-dark eyes. He, too, was from the lower middle class. Intelligent, worldly wise, he was a man with strong instincts about people; it was this psychological insight into people which made him such an excellent private investigator.
Amos had started his professional life as a policeman on the beat, before turning to private investigating. His years with the police force had served him well, and he had continued to nurture most of his contacts long after he had left the force. Contacts who were as diverse as Scotland Yard detectives and coroners, thugs, thieves and underworld characters, with information to deal or information to sell.
Conservatively dressed in a black suit this afternoon, he was always unremarkable in his appearance; Amos could move through the diversely different worlds he travelled without causing a single ripple, or drawing attention to himself. He liked to boast that he was invisible, and this was true.
Despite their differences, the four men were, conversely, very similar. They all had integrity, a deeply ingrained sense of duty and of what was right and wrong. They also now shared the same motive, which was to put Edward Deravenel in the seat of power at Deravenels. They believed, indeed were convinced, that as Richard Deravenel’s son he was the true and rightful heir to the company, knew without a trace of doubt that they were righting a terrible wrong committed over sixty years ago.
Each of them had vowed to stop at nothing in order to achieve their goal, fulfil their purpose. And because they were so certain they were fighting a deadly enemy there were no holds barred.
For the last hour over lunch they had touched on many subjects which interested them, but had not mentioned the business at hand. Neville had made it clear, as they had walked across the hall to the dining room, that it would be wiser to wait until they were alone again before discussing their imminent plans.
Now, as they sipped their coffee and nursed their balloons of Calvados, Neville spoke about their current business.
He said quietly, ‘So, let us now review things.’ Turning to Amos, he went on, ‘You have given us the best ammunition so far, the knowledge that Grant is most probably insane. And you will get us the medical records as soon as you can?’
Amos nodded. ‘Consider it done. And my people will take any other records pertaining to Grant. We’ll make a good job of it, have no fear, sir.’
