He had visited this château and its vineyards many times, and the others they owned as well. Edward had put him in charge of the entire wine division when he had first started working at Deravenels, and he was proud to be running the division.
Because he was diligent and dedicated, Will had made it a point to learn as much as he could … about the growing of the grapes, the vinification of the wine, the bottling and storing. He had wanted to understand the entire process. It was Vincent, of course, who had taught him everything he knew, and over the years they had become good friends as well as colleagues. He came to France six times a year to visit all of the Deravenel-owned vineyards, and it was a country he had come to love.
Will now realized as he walked along that he must have a private talk with Vincent later. He had to explain that George must not be permitted to interfere with the running and management of the vineyards under any circumstance. He must tell Vincent, and also Marcel Arnaud, that George was merely a figurehead, that he should be given respect but no duties whatsoever.
An hour later the three men were sitting in the charming drawing room of the château, toasting each other with a fine Pouilly Fuissé for which this vineyard was renowned, a prelude to lunch.
The room had a certain style about it, a style which Will found charming. A faded floral fabric, a gentle blur of parchment-beige, red, pink, and a hint of blue was used on the walls, as draperies, and on some of the sofas and chairs. Against this soft background there was the mellow gleam of lovely old furniture, the wood polished to a burnished gleam. There was a welcoming warmth in evidence. The old white marble fireplace, high ceiling, tall windows looking out onto the gardens all added to the grace of the overall design.
Will suddenly hoped George wouldn’t be critical about the old-world charm of the château, and deep in his heart he begrudged George this fine house which dated back to the seventeenth century.
On the other hand, George had to be removed from England, to make Ned totally safe, and this place was the best spot to put him. If only he knew it, he’s a lucky sod, Will thought, and then looked across at the door as it burst open.
Standing in the entrance was George Deravenel himself. He was well dressed and well groomed, and, of course, as handsome as usual.
Will jumped up at once, hurried across the room to greet him. ‘There you are, George!’ he exclaimed. ‘We were just wondering where you’d got to.’
‘I had a terrible journey,’ George began, the petulant look instantly in place. ‘And I thought –’
‘Come and meet Vincent Martell,’ Will said in a firm voice, cutting him off. ‘He’s lived here all his life, and he’ll certainly be able to teach you a lot about wine if you decide to move here.’
George nodded. ‘I wouldn’t mind a glass of that stuff you’re all drinking. I need it after my foul trip.’
‘It’s a fine Pouilly Fuissé, made in this very vineyard, Mr Deravenel,’ Vincent announced, coming forward to greet the new arrival. And he couldn’t help thinking what a wonderful looking young man George Deravenel was; he bore a strong resemblance to his brother Edward. No doubt some of the local ladies would find this recent widower quite a catch, not to mention an attractive one.
After Will and Oliveri had left the vineyard to go back to London, George decided to take off himself. He told Vincent he had to go to the Riviera on business for forty-eight hours, and took the train to Monte Carlo.
From the moment he checked into the Hôtel de Paris near the casino he felt his spirits lifting. Monte Carlo was his favourite spot on the Côte d’Azur. Even though he knew all of the other towns and their casinos … Cannes, Nice, and Beaulieu-sur-Mer, and had enjoyed them over the years, he always gravitated to Monte.
The evening he arrived, he dressed carefully in his Savile Row dinner jacket, well cut and elegant, a crisp white shirt and black bowtie. After glancing at himself in the mirror in the hall of his suite, he went downstairs to the lobby of this most magnificent hotel. He walked over to the cashier’s desk, glancing around. He was well known at the hotel, as was the entire Deravenel family, and by chance he happened to be acquainted with the cashier on duty. Greeting the man cordially in perfect French, he cashed a cheque for two thousand pounds, pocketed the money, left the hotel and strolled across the square to the renowned casino.
He savoured the moment when he walked into the Grand Salon: it was always a magic moment for him. He stood perfectly still, taking in his surroundings … the great crystal chandeliers dropping from ceiling, the plush red carpet, the magnificent cream-coloured panelling on the walls highlighted with gold-leaf, and those wonderful gambling tables. Here he could play roulette, chemin de fer, and baccarat: he knew he would enjoy himself.
George had always loved the fragrant, mingled perfumes of the women, the masculine haze of cigar and cigarette smoke, and the spicy hint of the aftershave lotions of the men in their impeccably-cut evening jackets. The sounds were also magical to him – the ball whizzing around the roulette wheel and clattering into a slot after the croupier had spun it, the sharp slap of chips against each other on the tables, the shuffle of the cards from the shoe. He was in his element here.
Throwing back his shoulders, George sauntered through the Grand Salon, heading in the direction of the cashier. Here he used the money he had brought with him from London, plus the two thousand he had just cashed at the hotel, and purchased four thousand pounds worth of gambling chips.
A passing waiter stopped at his side as he turned away from the Caisse; George smiled, nodded, and took a crystal goblet of champagne. He cut quite a swathe as he sauntered on, this tall, handsome young man with striking features and blond hair, and many of the beautiful women turned to stare at him.
He noticed this, but pretended not to, and smiled inwardly. After his fun gambling, and drinking more of this delicious champagne, he would attempt to find two women who were alone at the casino tonight, and invite one of them, or both, into his bed.
After three quick glasses of champagne George felt absolutely wonderful. Excited yet controlled and full of confidence. Immediately, he made for one of the roulette tables, arrived just as the croupier was shouting, ‘Rien ne va plus,’ … no more bets. And so he had to wait for the ball to fly around the wheel, come to a rest, and to be spun again. Only then could he participate.
At the next throw George was in, and he placed some of his chips on the numbers nine, eleven and thirteen. To his great delight, he won. He won again and again, and tripled his money.
And that was how it was for several hours. Eventually, he moved on to play baccarat, and slowly lost. Next, he went over to the chemin de fer table, where he lost once more. But he wasn’t going to give up, or give in. He started all over, using his last thousand pounds, and, to his enormous chagrin, he lost everything. Four thousand gone, just like that!
Never mind, he thought, as he headed back to the Caisse window. I’ll change my luck, I know I will. He produced his passport again and signed a marker for five thousand pounds. The name Deravenel was well known here at the casino, just as it was at the Hôtel de Paris, and he was a welcome guest, one to whom every courtesy was given.
It ended up being an unlucky night for George Deravenel in the end. At two in the morning, a little bit worse for wear, George headed back to the Hôtel de Paris. And he was alone. He felt a stab of dismay as he crossed the square … He had lost all of the cash he had come to the casino with and had signed markers for another five thousand pounds … He now owed money to the casino. Not only that, he had not managed to find a woman, and he had not eaten dinner. But those things didn’t matter. What mattered were his gambling debts. His brother Edward would be furious with him, and he certainly wouldn’t help him. Neither would Richard; he wasn’t even sure he could go to his mother yet again. His heart sank.
Then a brainwave hit him. His sister lived in Dijon. He would phone Meg tomorrow and she would come and rescue him. He hoped and prayed she would, but he wasn’t even sure o
f her at the moment. As he entered the hotel, he felt sudden depression envelop him, and deep down within himself he knew he was doomed. He always had been doomed, hadn’t he?
THIRTY-SEVEN
Kent
‘What a huge bonfire you’ve made, Amos,’ Grace Rose said, walking around it, followed by Bess. They were both eyeing the enormous pile of wood, branches and sticks piled high in the centre of the cobblestone yard at the back of Waverley Court. ‘There’ll be a terrific blaze when we light it later.’
Amos laughed, explained, ‘I can’t take credit for it, I’m afraid, my dear. It was Joby, and his under-gardener Stew, plus the boot-boy, who built it up into this veritable pyre. I just stood and watched them working.’
‘This is going to be the best bonfire night we’ve ever had,’ Bess said, adjusting her woollen scarf. ‘Nanny says everyone can come, except for Baby George, because he’s only one year old, and too young. Oh, did you remember to bring the fireworks, Amos?’
‘I did indeed, Bess. Catherine Wheels, starbursts and lots of sparklers, which I know are your favourites.’
‘Thank you. We’ve been helping Cook,’ Bess now confided. ‘We’ve made parkin, gingerbread boys, and Cook has baked potatoes. She says we can warm them up at the edge of the fire later, and there’ll be roast chestnuts as well.’
‘My goodness, we’re going to have quite a feast!’
On hearing Edward’s voice, Bess swung around and raced across the courtyard to her father. He hugged her tightly, put his arm around her shoulders, walked with her to the bonfire.
‘Afternoon, Mr Deravenel,’ Amos said, thrusting out his hand.
‘Hello, Amos, old chap,’ Edward responded, shaking his hand. ‘I’m glad you’re here. When did you arrive?’
‘About an hour ago, sir. I drove down with Broadbent.’
‘I hope you’ve been looked after, had some sort of refreshment.’
‘Oh yes, sir, I have. Cook saw to that. Most obliging she was, and kind. She made me a brawn sandwich and a very nice cup of tea.’
Edward nodded, and turned to Grace Rose, offering her a warm and loving smile. She came to his side at once, and he gave her a hug and then said, ‘I hope your parents are coming over later. They did say they would.’
‘Oh yes, Uncle Ned, they’re looking forward to it, they wouldn’t miss it for anything.’
It was early evening on Saturday, November the fifth, Guy Fawkes Night, which was mostly known as Bonfire Night throughout England. Bonfires were lit all over the land, and effigies of Guy Fawkes burned. After the fireworks display everyone ate the baked potatoes, roast chestnuts, and gingerbread boys and the parkin. The origin of Bonfire Night went back to the year 1605 when a conspiracy to blow up the Houses of Parliament was concocted by Guy Fawkes and his followers.
Edward said, ‘I can’t imagine how Guy Fawkes thought he would succeed. From what I remember from my history books, he didn’t have enough gunpowder, did he?’
Amos shook his head. ‘I don’t think he did. It was hidden in the cellars of Parliament, and if I remember correctly some of it got damp. At least that’s what I recall from my history lessons.’
‘He wanted to blow up King James as well,’ Bess interjected. ‘He was hoping to incite the Catholics to riot because they were upset by the new severe laws against their religion.’
‘Well done, Bess,’ her father exclaimed, and smiled with a degree of pride.
‘I like history, Father,’ she told him, and went on, ‘I’m following in Grace Rose’s footsteps.’
He laughed, and so did Amos and Grace Rose, and then he continued, ‘I shall go inside for a short while. I have to talk to Amos about a few things.’ He glanced up at the sky, saw that the sun had set, that twilight was beginning to descend. ‘It’s going to be dark in about half an hour, and then we shall come out and enjoy the bonfire.’
Edward led Amos through the back of the house, to the library on the other side. He closed the library door behind them, and went over to the fireplace as usual. ‘Take a seat here, near the fireside,’ he said to Amos. ‘You know I like to stand and to prowl about a room.’
Amos nodded. ‘I do indeed, Mr Edward.’
Bending down, Edward threw a couple of logs onto the fire, and then said in a low voice, ‘When did you get back from Mâcon?’
‘This morning. I travelled overnight to Paris and took the morning boat train. I didn’t get in touch because I knew I’d be seeing you tonight.
‘That’s all right, Amos, no problem. How did you find things at the vineyards?’ he asked, giving Finnister a keen look.
‘Everything seems to be very calm, sir. Mr George was quite cordial, and when Oliveri and I arrived with the children and the nanny he was delighted, happy to see them. And later in the day your sister came down from Dijon, and she was equally pleased to see them all, especially her namesake, little Margaret. Solange made a proper English afternoon tea and it was very jolly, we enjoyed it.’
‘I’m glad Meg is there for a few days,’ Edward murmured, and looked off into the distance for a split second and then turning to Finnister again, asked, ‘Is he drinking?’
‘I’m afraid so, Mr Edward. He’s dropped off the wagon … he doesn’t seem to be overdoing it though.’
‘I suppose he would be careful with you and Oliveri present. What did Vincent Martell have to say about the vineyards? Anything special?’
‘Not a lot, and everything seems to be on an even keel. Mr George hasn’t been causing trouble.’
‘So far,’ Edward interrupted with a wry smile. ‘But you never know with George, he can erupt unexpectedly. What about Marcel Arnaud? Does he get on with my brother?’
‘I’m not sure about that, sir. Mr Arnaud appears to be a quiet man, introspective, so I thought. Oliveri said I should tell you that he is quite certain your brother doesn’t like him. We were there for only three days, of course – nonetheless, we picked up quite a lot in the time. According to Solange, Mr George has become a bit of a Casanova in the area: there seem to be quite a few women hovering around him. He’s also made several trips to Nice. That worried Oliveri, because of the casinos. He said I should alert you to this. He’s concerned that Mr George might have started gambling again.’
Edward nodded. ‘Did Vincent have anything to say about my brother’s work habits? Has he been learning about the vineyards, do you know?’
‘In the first few weeks he was apparently very diligent, but according to Vincent Martell he’s slacked off quite a lot lately.’
‘So he’s doing nothing much … as usual. Well, what can you expect? He’s lazy, Amos, and he always has been.’
Edward walked across to the windows, looked out, thinking of George. He was a wastrel, no two ways about it.
Turning around, he looked across at Amos, and said, ‘So what it boils down to is that he’s womanizing, drinking again, and he’s more than likely making trips to the Riviera to gamble in the casinos of Nice. And also in Cannes and Monte Carlo, I’ve no doubt.’ Edward paused, his eyes narrowing as he asked, ‘But has he done any talking? Is he spreading bad stories about me and mine?’
Amos stared at Edward, remained absolutely silent for a moment or two. He had not wanted to say anything about George Deravenel’s nasty talk about his brother, at least not until tomorrow. This was a night for the children to enjoy, and he had not wished to upset Edward. But his great loyalty and devotion to him made it impossible for Amos to lie, and so he said quietly, ‘He’s up to his old tricks, yes, sir.’
‘Who’s he been talking to, Amos?’
‘Vincent Martell, certainly. But I doubt that he has said anything to anyone else. It wouldn’t mean a thing to Solange, and I don’t believe Mr Arnaud would understand, or care. He’s a bit of a loner, that chap, and not one to fraternize. Keeps himself to himself, seemingly. I realized that Vincent was very annoyed, put out that your brother would speak ill of you, and in such a terrible way. He was flabbergasted, and disgusted, and menti
oned it to us, because he thought we ought to know. He’s very loyal to you, sir.’
‘I know he is.’
‘In our opinion, mine and Oliveri’s – well, we think Mr George has done himself a disservice, done himself in with Vincent Martell. Before Oliveri left for Turkey he asked me to make a point of informing you about Mr George and his tittle-tattling. He says your brother is besmirching you, and it worries him quite a lot I think.’
‘I’m certain Oliveri is correct about Vincent. We’ve enjoyed an excellent relationship for years. He was very happy when I rescued the vineyard, all those years ago, when Madame de Poret was widowed and didn’t know how to cope alone. He was truly grateful, actually.’ Edward shrugged, added, ‘We’ll talk again tomorrow, Amos, but now we’d better turn to happier things, go and join the children.’
At this moment there was a tap on the door, and Edward called, ‘Come in.’
The door opened, and Faxton, the butler, put his head around it and said, ‘Sorry to disturb, sir, but Mr and Mrs Forth have arrived with Lady Fenella and Mr Ledbetter, and Mrs Deravenel just came down.’
‘Thank you, Faxton, we’ll be right out.’
Edward squeezed Elizabeth’s arm, then went over to greet Vicky, Fenella, Stephen and Mark. Once he had welcomed his closest friends, he glanced around, spotted Joby, the gardener, the under-gardener Stew, and Elias, the bootboy. They were all amply armed with large boxes of Swan Vesta matches and were waiting for his order to light the bonfire.
His eyes scanned the rest of the group, which included Cook, some of the other domestic staff, and Faxton, who had just hurried out of the house to join the others. Then they settled on the row of youngsters standing near him.
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