Daughters of Castle Deverill Read Online Free Page B

that, Bridie. You’re too young to mourn a husband.’ He ran his eyes over her coat. ‘I’ve got to say that you look grand,’ he added
and as he grinned Bridie noticed that one of his teeth was missing. He looked older too. The lines were deeper around his eyes and mouth, his skin dark and weathered, his gaze deep and full of
shadows. Even though his smile remained undimmed, Bridie sensed that he had suffered. He was no longer the insouciant young man with the arrogant gaze, a hawk on his arm, a dog at his heel. There
was something touching about him now and she wanted to reach out and run her fingers across his brow.
    ‘Are you back for good?’ he asked.
    ‘I don’t know, Jack.’ She turned into the gale and placed her hand on top of her hat to stop it blowing away. Fighting her growing sense of alienation she added, ‘I
don’t know where I belong now. I came back expecting everything to be the same, but it is
I
who have changed and that makes everything different.’ Then aware of sounding
vulnerable, she turned back to him and her voice hardened. ‘I can hardly live the way I used to. I’m accustomed to finer things, you see.’ Jack arched an eyebrow and Bridie wished
she hadn’t put on airs in front of him. If there was a man who knew her for what she really was, it was Jack. ‘Did you marry?’ she asked.
    ‘No,’ he replied. A long silence followed. A silence that resonated with the name Kitty Deverill, as if it came in a whisper on the wind and lingered there between them. ‘Well,
I hope it all turns out well for you, Bridie. It’s good to see you home again,’ he said at last. Bridie was unable to return his smile. Her loathing for her old friend wound around her
heart in a twine of thorns. She watched him walk away with that familiar jaunty gait she knew so well and had loved so deeply. It was obvious that, after all these years, he still held out for
Kitty Deverill.

Chapter 2
    London
    ‘Good God!’ Sir Digby Deverill put down the receiver and shook his head. ‘Well I’ll be damned!’ he exclaimed, staring at the telephone as if he
wasn’t quite able to believe the news it had just delivered to him. He pushed himself up from his leather chair and went to the drinks tray to pour himself a whiskey from one of the crystal
decanters. Holding the glass in his manicured, bejewelled fingers, he gazed out of his study window. He could hear the rattling sound of a car motoring over the leaves on Kensington Palace Gardens,
that exclusive, gated street of sumptuous Italianate and Queen Anne mansions built by millionaires, like Digby, who had made their fortunes in the gold mines of Witwatersrand, hence their nickname:
Randlords. There he lived in Deverill House, in stately splendour, alongside a fellow Randlord, Sir Abe Bailey, and financier, Lionel Rothschild.
    He took a swig, grimacing as the liquid burned a trail down his throat. Instantly he felt fortified. He put down his glass and pulled his gold pocket watch out of his waistcoat by the chain.
Deftly, he flicked it open. The shiny face gleamed up at him, giving the time as a quarter to eleven. He strode into the hall where he was met by a butler in crimson-and-gold livery talking quietly
to a footman. When they saw him the footman made a discreet exit while the butler stood to attention awaiting Sir Digby’s command. Digby hesitated at the foot of the grand staircase.
    He could hear laughter coming from the drawing room upstairs. It sounded like his wife had company. That was not a surprise, she always had company. Beatrice Deverill, exuberant, big-hearted and
extravagant, was the most determined socialite in London. Well, it couldn’t be helped; he was unable to keep the news to himself a moment longer. He hurried up the stairs, two steps at a
time, his white spats revealed beneath his immaculately pressed grey checked trousers with every leap. He hoped to snatch a minute alone with his wife.
    When he reached the door he