EIGHT

      ‘I don’t think there is anything untoward about my coming with you to Deravenels this morning, Ned,’ Neville Watkins said, walking across to the fireplace as he spoke, standing with his back to it. ‘I consider it quite normal that I accompany you. After all, my father and brother were killed along with yours in Carrara.’

      ‘Oh, I totally agree with you,’ Edward was swift to answer, staring at his cousin, perplexed, and then continuing, ‘And it was you whom Aubrey Masters decided to telephone, once he had received the tragic news. However, why do you bring it up?’ Ned frowned. ‘Do you envision some sort of problem? By that I mean about us arriving together?’

      ‘Not at all. I was just running everything through my mind. Normally, some pernickety member of the staff might wonder out loud about a cousin who has nothing to do with the company arriving on their doorstep with you, that’s all. It was always my understanding that several of Henry Grant’s employees were a trifle touchy about your father’s relatives.’

      Edward chuckled. ‘Correct, they were, and most especially the French whore, as Father used to call her. She was the most vociferous.’

      Neville raised a brow, giving Edward a swift look. ‘The French whore,’ he repeated, and suddenly began to laugh. ‘I remember now, your father did occasionally mutter something or other about the true paternity of her son Edouard. I do believe he wondered aloud about the ability of Henry to perform—well, that was the way he put it.’

      ‘My father was convinced that Henry was impotent, and possibly sterile as well, and he made no bones about it at home. He was truly convinced that their son was fathered by one of Grant’s colleagues.’

      ‘Making Edouard a bastard, of course, and therefore not of his blood, and therefore not entitled to take over Deravenels one day.’

      Edward nodded. ‘Anyway, I have not been in touch with Aubrey Masters. Have you?’

      ‘No. I purposefully chose not to announce our arrival. I thought it would be more interesting to walk in unexpectedly, out of the blue, so to speak.’

      ‘Jolly good idea. And by the way, last night Will volunteered to come with us to Italy. He asked me to ask you if he could. He feels he can be helpful.’ Giving Neville a long, questioning glance, he now asked, ‘So, what do you say, Neville?’

      ‘It’s rather a good idea, actually, Ned. Who knows what we’re going to find, and another clever brain and pair of sharp eyes can be most useful. I have decided to have the Thomas Cook agency make all of the travel arrangements, they’re very good at that, and I shall merely add Will’s name.’

      At this moment there was a tap on the Morning Room door, and Swinton walked in, carrying a coffee pot and various accoutrements on a tray, followed by Gertrude, the parlour maid, also with a tray in her hands.

      ‘Coffee and toast as you requested, Mr Edward,’ Swinton said as he hurried over to the circular walnut table positioned near the windows. ‘And can I bring something for you, Mr Watkins?’ he asked, turning to look at Neville, who still stood in front of the fireplace.

      ‘I think not, Swinton, thank you. I’ve already had breakfast. But I would enjoy a cup of coffee, if that’s possible.’

      ‘Not a problem, sir.’ Swinton inclined his head and at once turned his attention to the table. After emptying their trays, the butler and the parlour maid then hurried out.

      Edward said, ‘Do you plan for us to go to Italy via Paris, as you suggested on the train yesterday?’

      ‘Yes, I do. We can take the boat train to Paris, via Le Havre, spend the night in Paris, and then go on to Carrara from there. Do you have any preferences regarding a hotel in Paris, Ned? I thought we should stay at the Ritz in the Place Vendôme if that’s all right with you.’

      Edward nodded his agreement, and walked over to the table; Neville came to join him, and a moment later Swinton was back with another cup and saucer.

      Once they were alone again, Edward took a piece of toast, and spread butter and marmalade on it. As he did, he said, ‘At what time should we arrive at Deravenels, do you think?’

      ‘Around eleven o’clock. Any later they’ll all be trotting off to their private clubs or fancy restaurants for lunch.’

      ‘Do you have any kind of strategy in mind?’ Edward asked, looking across the table at Neville, cocking his head to one side questioningly.

      ‘I’m not all that sure that strategy is really necessary at this stage of the game,’ Neville responded, taking a sip of coffee. ‘I do believe it would be right and proper for you to take the lead, since your father was on company business when he died. I can then step in with my own comments or questions about my father and Thomas. Basically we need to know how the fire started, how much damage was done, so that we understand what state our fathers’ and brothers’ bodies were in when they were discovered. Also, we need to know how Deravenels plans to send their bodies back to England for burial.’

      ‘Yes,’ Edward said laconically, and sat back in the chair. Sudden sorrow swept across his face, and he was finding it difficult to continue speaking.

      Neville remained quiet, sat sipping his coffee, his own face shadowed by pain, his eyes reflective, troubled.

      Little else was said between the two men. They took their coffee in total silence, burdened by the knowledge that their trip to Italy was bound to be difficult, fraught with anguish.