The Ravenscar Dynasty (53 page)

Paris was Edward Deravenel's favourite city after London. The City of Light, as it was known, had always fascinated and captivated him, and beckoned him to return time and again.

He loved its wide and spacious boulevards, its tree-lined streets, and its glorious ancient monuments. He had become, over the years, something of a Francophile, and a devotee of most things French.

On this current trip to Paris with Elizabeth, her first visit, he had taken her to his preferred haute couture designers; to the House of Lanvin, the House of Paquin, and also to view clothes by Jacques Doucet and Poiret. He had bought her a collection of the most fashionable gowns and suits from these designers, and purchased other jewels as well as the famous diamond necklace which had once graced the neck of Empress Eugénie. Elizabeth was the most beautiful of women, and he wanted her to be decked out in great finery, the best that money could buy. When she was on his arm she had to outshine every other woman, and, of course, she did so with her perfect face, her unique silver-gilt hair and slender, shapely figure.

He thought of his wife this morning as he left the Ritz Hotel and crossed the Place Vendôme, as usual taking a morning walk through his favourite parts of the city. Although it was after ten o'clock, Elizabeth was still sleeping. She always slept late, never took breakfast with him, and, as was his habit in Paris, he usually went out to a sidewalk café to have his
café au
lait
and croissants.

He preferred to do this rather than linger in the hotel suite. He liked to be alone, to think about his business, his plans for Deravenels, and other weighty matters, problems to be solved. These were things which did not interest Elizabeth at all. But then he wasn't sure what did interest her, other than clothes, jewels, gossip, and the betterment of her family.

She had more relatives than he had realized when he had first met her: seven sisters and five brothers, and a very avaricious mother. He liked her father and her brother Anthony, but had little time for the rest of this good-looking bunch. For good-looking they were, no question about that.

The Wylands got their looks from their father. He and his siblings got their quickness, alertness, beauty of face and spirit from their lovely, truly graceful mother, Cecily Watkins Deravenel. She still outshone everyone in their family, even Nan Watkins, who was unusually lovely. However, for beauty of face and figure his mother had met her match in Elizabeth Wyland.

After these considerations, his mother won hands down. She was charming, gracious, thoughtful, a woman who ran her homes with great skill, was charitable and caring of the staff and the villagers at Ravenscar. In other
words, she was a great lady with impeccable manners, not to mention an understanding heart.

Elizabeth did not have these inbred qualities actually. She couldn't run their house in Berkeley Square because she had never been trained to run an important home. God knows what she would do when it came to running Ravenscar one day. She would be lost. This aside, she never asked a question about his work and business, unless it was to beg a position for another relative.

Then there was the matter of conception. They had had an active sex life ever since their wedding night, and she was not with child yet.

He corrected himself. At the beginning of the week, the night he had presented her with the necklace, they had spent many passionate hours together. Perhaps she
was
with child now, after their unusually hectic, busy evening. He hoped so.

Edward wanted a family, wanted children, and a proper household. Only then would this marriage work. It
had
been a little ill-conceived, he knew that now; however, he accepted it, and comforted himself with the thought that she was a gorgeous-looking woman, and she wasn't frigid in bed as some women were.

Edward smiled to himself, thinking of her innocence—and that was the only word for it—when he had bedded her the night of their secret marriage. God knows what she had done with her husband when they had been in bed. He had discovered to his amazement that she was a novice, knew nothing, and he had had to teach her what to do, how to satisfy a man. She was a widow, had borne two sons, and was five
years older than him. And yet so unskilled sexually. He had promptly dealt with that, teaching her most assiduously.

Striding out rapidly, turning a corner, lost in thought, Edward collided with a woman. He was in such a hurry he would have knocked her down to the pavement had he not grabbed hold of her at once, clasping her arms.

‘
Excusez-
moi
!' he exclaimed, holding her up, then stepping away, staring at her, hoping she was all right.

‘Mr Deravenel, good morning,' the woman said, smiling up at him.

He stared back, frowning slightly, and then he suddenly recognized her.

Before he could say anything, she began to laugh. ‘It's Jane Shaw, Mr Deravenel. Don't you remember me? My husband and I bought your lovely house in South Audley Street last year.'

‘Mrs Shaw, good morning! I do hope you're not hurt, I was such a clumsy oaf, rushing around the corner like that.'

‘I'm perfectly all right, thank you very much. How is Mrs Deravenel?'

‘Very well, thanks. At the hotel at this moment. And Mr Shaw? How is he?'

‘Also very well. He is actually in Provence for a few days, visiting the vineyards he buys from. As you probably know, he is a wine-importer.'

‘Yes, I did know that. And how are you enjoying my house? Oh, do forgive me,
your
house I mean.'

‘I've never been happier in a house…there is something really rather special about it. A friendliness, a warmth, it welcomes one, don't you think?'

‘Why, yes, you're correct. It
is
a welcoming house. I, too, was happy living there…' He paused and a sudden feeling of loneliness came over him, and before he could stop himself, he found himself saying, ‘It was a gift. Someone I loved very much left it to me. She was a most lovely and special person.' He couldn't help wondering why he had said this to a woman who was, essentially, a total stranger. A woman he had met once.

‘Yes…' Jane Shaw replied, hesitated, then said, ‘I knew her, you know. You
are
speaking about Mrs Overton, aren't you?'

He nodded, his blue eyes lighting up. ‘You knew Lily?'

‘Why yes, I did. She and I worked for several charitable causes, and we became quite friendly.' Jane Shaw paused, looked up at him through soft, caring eyes, and said quietly, in her melodious voice, ‘I am so sorry for your loss, Mr Deravenel. She was indeed very special, perhaps the most unique woman
I've
ever known.'

‘I thought so, too,' he exclaimed, and then impulsively, he said, ‘I wonder if you would care to join me for breakfast, Mrs Shaw? I was just on my way to a café near here. But of course, you're probably rather busy: women usually are in Paris, so many lovely things to buy, and all that sort of thing.'

‘I'm not busy at all, Mr Deravenel, and I can think of nothing more enjoyable than taking breakfast with you. Actually, I'm quite hungry.'

He beamed at her. ‘Well, come along then, Mrs Shaw. Let us go, the café isn't far away.'

‘Oh, that doesn't matter,' she replied, falling into step beside him. ‘I love walking, and especially in Paris.' She
glanced up. ‘What a beautiful day it is, isn't it? Look at the sky, it's as blue as speedwells. I just adore Paris, it's my favourite city.'

‘Where have you been?' Elizabeth demanded when Edward walked into their hotel suite hours later. ‘You just disappear without so much as a by-your-leave, and stay out for hours! I've been waiting to go to lunch with you since noon. It's now one thirty!'

Edward stood in the middle of the floor in the sitting room, looking startled, staring at her, noting her cold blue eyes, the rigid set of her face. That she was angry was apparent.

‘I've been walking,' he said mildly. ‘You know how much I like to walk in Paris. And then I had breakfast, as I usually do, at a café.'

She rushed across the floor, came and stood in front of him, looking up at him. Then she sniffed, wrinkled her nose, and cried, ‘You've been with another woman! I can smell her on you! What's wrong with you? Can't you keep your hands off other women? Even during the day?'

Edward glanced at her and stepped away, disgusted with her behaviour. She had accused him of being unfaithful since the first day they were married, and it was beginning to get on his nerves. For a whole year he had lived with her accusations. He
had
strayed occasionally, although not of late. But even so, the women he slept with meant nothing, were casual and short-lived encounters, of no consequence.

He knew he did not smell of Jane Shaw's perfume, because he had not been close to her other than when he had prevented her from falling. This idea of perfume was in Elizabeth's imagination.

‘Your jealousy is totally unfounded,' he said finally, in an even tone. ‘And I'm not going to stand here listening to your ridiculous rantings, Elizabeth. In any case, I usually come back around this time, and I have every day since we've been in Paris, so there's nothing different.'

‘There's perfume on you,' she shrieked.

He gazed at her, frowning, incredulity crossing his face. And as his eyes rested on her he realized, all of a sudden, that she looked rather ugly in her fury. That such a beautiful woman should change like that in an instant took him by surprise. Her face was distorted.

‘You see, you're not even denying it now,' she went on, her voice rising on a shriller note.

‘Oh, don't be so damned ridiculous, you silly woman.' His voice was suddenly cold, hard. Without another word he swung around, left the suite.

He went down in the lift and was crossing the lobby when one of the concierges hurried towards him. ‘
Bonjour, Monsieur Deravenel
.'

The concierge offered him a silver tray. ‘
Pour vous,
Monsieur
.'

Smiling, nodding, Edward took the telegram on the tray, and went to one side of the foyer, opened it, read: ‘Just heard we struck oil May 26 at 1180 feet at Masjid-I-Sulaiman. Whoopee. Will Hasling.'

His bad temper, his irritation with Elizabeth, instantly fled, and a wide smile broke across his face. As he
stuffed the telegram in his jacket pocket he began to stroll towards the lift, then paused, changed his mind.

Why go up to the suite to face more of her wrongful accusations, her wrath? Instead Edward walked over to the concierge desk, and spoke quickly to Jacques. Within minutes he was sitting in a small telephone booth, speaking to Will in his office at Deravenels. ‘What great news!' Will was shouting down the line. ‘Come home soon, so we can celebrate.'

‘Tomorrow. I'll be back in London tomorrow night. I'll be in the office the day after. Can't wait, Will. This is the best news I've had in a long time.'

Edward left the Ritz and walked across the Place Vendôme, heading…nowhere in particular, he decided. He wanted desperately to celebrate, to tell someone of his extraordinary news.
Deravenels had struck oil
. His dream for the future was coming true.

And there was no one to celebrate with. Certainly not his wife, ranting and raving and making ridiculous accusations, upstairs in the suite, in the hotel towering behind him.

He bent his head, sniffed his jacket lapels, wondering if he
did
smell of Jane Shaw's perfume. After all, he had grabbed her to stop her falling; perhaps she had brushed against his clothing when this happened. But he couldn't smell anything. It
was
all in Elizabeth's head.

Jane Shaw. His mind focused on her for a moment. She had been charming, rather nice to talk to, particularly about art, artists in Paris and the school called
Post-Impressionism; and such Impressionist painters as Van Gogh and Gauguin. A very lovely woman, a friend of his darling Lily. And actually, now that he thought about it, rather like Lily in so many ways. He had enjoyed having breakfast with her.