Being Elizabeth. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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Turning, walking over to her desk, she explained, ‘He thinks it might have been taken from Mary’s personal account.’
‘Damnation!’ Robert exclaimed. ‘If that’s the case, Philip Alvarez will say it was a wedding gift, or some such thing, and it will be harder for us to get it back. I hope it’s company money.’
‘Actually, it’s my money,’ Elizabeth pointed out in the same businesslike tone she had used with Cecil Williams. ‘And I promise you I’m going to get it back from that terrible man, no matter what.’
Robert stood in the middle of the office staring at her. The set of her mouth, the tough glint in her grey-black eyes telegraphed to him her determination to get her own way, and he remembered how, over the years, he had detected a hint of ruthlessness in her. But perhaps there was more than a hint.
She asked, ‘Why are you staring at me like that, Robin? Do you think I’m sounding too tough? Is that it?’
‘No, not at all,’ he replied, truthfully. ‘I believe you should be tough, and, if necessary, ruthless, in this particular situation. I’ve been thinking about Philip Alvarez, and I’m going to find out exactly what’s happening with that real estate company of his. I want to know how the development in Marbella has proceeded. I must find out everything I can about it.’
‘That’s a good idea, yes. And if necessary, you must go to Spain and be my “two eyes”, Robin.’
‘Let me do the research first.’
‘What exactly was his company building in Marbella?’ Elizabeth gave him a sharp look.
‘Villas, a golf club, polo grounds. It was to be a gated community, like those in America,’ he explained. ‘Philip wanted me and Ambrose to go, to look over the polo grounds, the plans for the stables, and all of the things pertaining to horses, in fact.’
‘I see. If he won’t give the money back we’ll just have to go after the development. Perhaps we could make it a viable entity, especially if we added a spa. They are big moneymakers these days, and they are growing in popularity.’
‘It could be up and running, and doing very well,’ Robert said, ‘but I think not. I remember reading something about it quite recently … I got the impression Alvarez had stopped building. And rather abruptly. Perhaps there is trouble.’
‘I wasn’t a bit surprised when he didn’t come to the funeral,’ Elizabeth remarked. ‘But it’s possible he stayed away because he didn’t want to answer awkward questions. About the Marbella project,’ Elizabeth shook her head. ‘That makes sense, don’t you think, Robin?’
‘It does. And I aim to find out.’ He strode to the door and turned around. ‘I’ll see you at the meeting in an hour.’
Elizabeth nodded and went back to studying the papers on her desk. But only for a moment. Her thoughts turned to Robert. She was extremely conscious of him, of his looks, his warmth, and, if she were honest, of his sexual potency. She bent her head, sniffed her jacket: his cologne clung to it, tantalizingly. A small shiver ran through her. Why was she suddenly having such strange thoughts about Robert Dunley, her childhood friend? Dropping her eyes, she stared at the page she had been reading. She smiled to herself then, knowing full well why.
SEVEN
The three young men sitting in his office with him were the nucleus of his management team. They had each been in Cecil Williams’s line of vision for years, as well as in Elizabeth’s. This was because they were talented, shrewd, trustworthy and diligent, not to mention absolutely loyal to Elizabeth. And to himself.
They were sitting together at the other end of the room, chatting amongst themselves, and as Cecil studied them for a moment or two longer he smiled. Those were not the only characteristics the men had in common. All three were tall, handsome and well dressed, and they could charm, with the greatest of ease, anyone they chose to target, be it man, woman or child.
Robert Dunley was the youngest at twenty-five, also the tallest and best looking. Slightly more inclined to be a clothes horse than the other two, with his impeccably tailored Savile Row and Armani suits, and flair for dressing, he had many important qualifications. He was an old hand at Deravenels and devoted to the company, his own genuine loyalty bound up with the years of service his father and grandfather had given to the Turners, and before them the Deravenels.
He was Elizabeth’s only childhood friend and without question her favourite. Robin, as she called him, was the one person who could persuade her to change her mind, make a proper decision, and he could always manage to point her in a better direction. Obviously, this was because he knew her better than anyone else, including Cecil.
They had clung together as children, especially through her terrible adversities with her father and then Mary. Robert understood her, could cope easily with her many foibles, occasional temper tantrums and bouts of chronic illness. Cecil had known him for years, and his father before him, and a lasting friendship had built up between them.
Sitting next to Robert was Francis Walsington, a year older at twenty-six. Having studied at Cambridge and Gray’s Inn, Francis and he were on the same wavelength and had long been business allies. Cecil was gratified to have Francis around; he was a shrewd operator with tremendous psychological insight into people, and able to handle any situation with great aplomb and skill. He was an expert on security, intelligence, spying techniques and terrorism, and had numerous strange but useful contacts which Cecil didn’t want to acknowledge but was grateful to know that he had.
During Mary’s power days at Deravenels Francis had travelled throughout Europe, stayed away from London most of the time. Apart from her peculiar management style, Francis found her religious fervour somewhat sickening. Inherited from her mother, Mary’s devout Roman Catholicism seemed overly zealous to him. Certainly it did not sit well with Francis’s laid-back Protestant outlook on life. He had arrived in London with great alacrity a few weeks ago, fully aware that Elizabeth would soon be running the company, and Cecil had brightened considerably at the sight of him.
On the other side of Robert was Nicholas Throckman. He was the eldest of the three men. He was forty-three, and he had been a long-time employee at the old trading company. Nicholas had fled at one difficult moment during Mary’s tenure, no longer able to put up with her erratic management of the company and strange behaviour in general. He was well versed in all things pertaining to Deravenels, having worked for Edward Selmere during the latter’s Administration on behalf of Harry’s young son. He had known Elizabeth since her teens and was, in fact, a relative of Catherine Parker, Harry’s sixth wife and widow, who had been Elizabeth’s stepmother and dear friend.
Of the three men, it was Nicholas who was the most gifted diplomat, in Cecil’s opinion, more than likely because he had had more experience. This morning Elizabeth had said to Cecil, ‘All we need are a few good men.’ She was right. And fortunately, Cecil thought, three of them are sitting here now.
Rising from behind his desk, Cecil went to join his protégés, saying, as he sat down in a chair, ‘Are you happy? Are you pleased with your appointments, the things Elizabeth proposed to you last Friday?’
‘Absolutely!’ Robert exclaimed. ‘Who wouldn’t be?’
‘The same here,’ Francis agreed.
‘I’m extremely happy, Cecil,’ Nicholas murmured. ‘Very happy indeed.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. The reason I asked is because Elizabeth’s going to speak about your new positions at the meeting, and I don’t want any unforeseen problems from any of you. I want this transfer of power to be as smooth as silk.’
‘How have things gone so far?’ Francis asked, leaning forward slightly, his attention on Cecil.
‘Very well, I’m pleased to report. I saw John Norfell last Friday morning, and later in the day I met Charles Broakes. Charlie seemed profoundly relieved we’d moved in so quickly, and was extremely cooperative.’
‘What about Norfell?’