The Emma Harte 7-Book Collection: A Woman of Substance, Hold the Dream, To Be the Best, Emma’s Secret, Unexpected Blessings, Just Rewards, Breaking the Rules. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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some time, but he was hardly going to offend his most important client, who also happened to be one of the richest women in England, possibly in the world, since it was hard to truly estimate her real worth. He knew that she was astute enough to realize he would have a previous appointment, so he refrained from the tiny white lie and, clearing his throat, he said, ‘Yes, I do, but it is easy for me to cancel it, if you wish, my dear.’
‘Good. I appreciate it, Henry. I will see you at eleven-thirty then. Goodbye, Henry.’
‘Goodbye, Emma,’ he murmured, but she had already hung up.
Henry had known Emma Harte for almost forty years, long enough to fully understand that there was always an imperious demand beneath her soft-spoken requests, that they were really commands uttered in the most dulcet of tones and the most charming manner. That inbred charm had carried her a long way, as Henry was the first to acknowledge.
She had said nothing unusual and he had been unable to detect any undertones of disquiet or anger in her voice, and yet a peculiar sense of foreboding had descended upon him as they talked. Henry was not without perception, and, being the ultimate banker, he was always carefully attuned to his clients, fully conscious of their basic characteristics, the quirks and foibles of their personalities. He had to be, since he was handling their money and usually much of their business, and he had come to realize years ago that the very rich could also be very difficult, especially about their money.
It struck him suddenly that it was Emma’s unexpected invitation to lunch which puzzled him. It was unprecedented and therefore, to him, somewhat alarming. Emma, as he knew only too well, was a creature of habit. She rarely had luncheon dates and when she did they were carefully planned days before. This digression from her normal routine was decidedly odd and the more he pondered on this, the more Henry was convinced something was amiss. And yet he had spoken to her three times since her return from New York a week ago and she had been her usual self, brisk and businesslike and, on the surface, seemingly untroubled.
He took off his glasses, leaned back in his chair, and wondered if she was dissatisfied about the way the bank was handling her business. Henry had always been predisposed to worry, especially about the bank, and lately this had developed into a chronic condition. ‘There’s probably a simple explanation for the invitation. I’m just imagining something is wrong,’ he muttered aloud with a degree of irritation; none the less, he pressed the intercom and told his secretary to ask Osborne to come in and see him immediately.
Tony Osborne, and two other officers of the private bank, supervised Emma Harte’s business affairs in England, both corporate and personal. All of them were answerable to him and he reviewed Emma’s affairs twice and sometimes three times a week. Osborne often chided him for using so much physical manpower and was continually insisting they should use computers to deal with the Harte holdings. But Henry did not trust computers, being conservative, even old-fashioned, in his ways. Furthermore, he thought that the supervision of something in the region of three hundred million pounds, give or take a few million, was worth any amount of manpower it might cost the bank. Emma was demanding and she was shrewd, probably shrewder, in fact, than any banker he knew, including himself. Henry needed to be absolutely sure they could answer any questions at any time, which is why the accounts were under daily surveillance. Henry wanted all that salient information right at his fingertips, night as well as day, if necessary.
Osborne interrupted his thoughts as he knocked on the door and glided into the room. Conceited young pup, he’s too egotistical and ambitious by far, and too smooth, Henry thought, regarding the immaculately tailored young man before him. But what can you expect from a boy with a scholarship from Eton.
‘Good morning, Henry.’
‘Morning, Osborne.’
‘Quite a beautiful day, isn’t it? I think spring is going to be early this year, Henry. Don’t you agree?’
‘I’m not a weather vane,’ Henry murmured.
Osborne missed the snub or chose to ignore it. However, his manner became a little more businesslike and his voice was a shade cooler. ‘I want to talk to you about the Rowe account—’ Tony began.
Henry held up his hand and shook his head. ‘Not now, Osborne. I called you in because I have just spoken to Mrs Harte. She asked me to go over to the store later this morning. Is everything in order? No problems?’
‘Absolutely not!’ Osborne was emphatic in his surprise. ‘Everything is under control.’
‘I assume you have been keeping an eye on her foreign holdings. Did you go over them yesterday?’ Henry played with the pen on his desk, still somewhat beset by worry.
‘We always do on Monday. We checked her American and Australian interests, and all are steady. Sitex is doing well. There’s actually been a rise in the price since the new president went in there. Look here, Henry, is something wrong? What’s up?’ he asked.
Henry shook his head. ‘Nothing that I am aware of, Osborne. But I do like to be completely current and informed before I see her. I think I’ll take a look at her accounts with you. Let’s go to your office.’
After an hour and a half of concentrating on the most pertinent of the Harte accounts, Henry was totally satisfied that Osborne and his assistants had been both precise and diligent in their work. All of the English figures were current and the figures for the foreign Harte holdings were as up-to-date as they could be with the changing world markets, the different time zones, and the rise and fall of stock prices. At eleven sharp, for he was punctilious about time, Henry put on his black overcoat, picked up his bowler hat and umbrella, and left the office. He stood on the steps of the bank, sniffing the air for a moment. It was cold but crisp and sunny. Osborne was right, it was a beautiful day for January, spring-like in its clear freshness. He walked swiftly down the street, swinging his umbrella jauntily, a tall, handsome man in his early sixties, whose serious and dignified demeanour belied a sharp sense of humour and a flirtatious nature.
Henry Rossiter had a cool mind, which was also quite brilliant. A cultured man, he was an art connoisseur, a collector of rare first editions, a devotee of drama and music. He could also ride and shoot like the gentleman he was, and he was Master of the Hunt of the county where his ancestral home was located. The product of a rich and old Establishment family, landed gentry, in fact, he was today a curious amalgam of upper-class English conservative principles and international sophistication. He had been married twice and was currently divorced, which made him one of London’s most eligible bachelors, much in demand by chic hostesses, for he was entertaining, charming, and adept in all the social graces, and something of a bon vivant. In short, he was attractive and lethal, a success both in business and in society.
Henry hailed a cab at the corner and got in. Leaning forward, he said, ‘Harte’s, please,’ and sat back, relaxed and confident that Emma could have no complaints about the bank. Absolutely none whatsoever. He still could not fathom the reason for her sudden invitation, but he had shed his incipient worry. Women, he thought with fond exasperation, unpredictable creatures at the best of times! He truly believed all women were quite impossible, having been baffled, confused, and bewitched by them all of his life. But now he felt compelled to readjust his thinking, as far as Emma was concerned. He simply could not, in all honesty, label her unpredictable or even impossible. Headstrong, yes, and sometimes even stubborn to the point of rigidity. But mostly he knew Emma to be prudent and levelheaded, and circumspection was undoubtedly her most basic characteristic. No, ‘unpredictable’ was not a word he would ever associate with Emma.
As the cab pushed its way through the congested traffic towards Knightsbridge, Henry’s thoughts stayed with Emma Harte. They had been friends and business associates for many years and had enjoyed a compatible and mutually rewarding relationship. He had always found Emma easy to work with, for her mind was logical and direct. She did not think in that convoluted female way, nor was her mind cluttered up with the usual womanish nonsense. He smiled to himself. Once he had told her that she did not have a mind like a woman at all, that it was more like a man’s. ‘Oh, is there a difference!’ she had retorted with some asperity, but there had been an amused smile on her face. At the time he had been a trifle