Free The Ravenscar Dynasty by Barbara Taylor Bradford

But it truly should be ours.’
    â€˜Cousins fighting cousins,’ Will muttered.
    â€˜A family feud of long standing. But we do try to be civil with each other…at least my father did. I don’t know that I can be.’
    Will half smiled, then asked, ‘Well, what do you say, old chap? May I join you on this trip to Florence?’
    â€˜If you are inclined to do so, then why not? I am quite certain that Neville will appreciate your presence, as indeed I will.’

    After Will Hasling had gone home, Edward hurried up to his father’s study on the next floor. He went in, snapped on the electric light, and recoiled slightly. The room had a faint lingering odour of the cigars his father had enjoyed, mingled with the scent of the bay rum aftershave lotion he had always favoured.
    In his mind’s eye, Edward saw his father sitting behind the large Georgian desk at the far end of the room, smiling across at him, and a lump came into his throat as a sudden rush of intense emotion swamped him. He had loved his father, admired him, and he would miss him inordinately, as would his brothers and sisters.
    For a moment he thought of walking out, going up to his bedroom, and then changed his mind. He would have to become accustomed to these flashes of overwhelming feeling, the vivid memories, and face them squarely, not run from them. His father was dead, just as Edmund was, and nothing would bring them back. However, the remembered past and their lives existed inside him, were deep in his heart, and so there was really no death in his lexicon. These two men lived on in his heart, and for as long as he was alive then they would be alive, too, and part of him forever.
    He walked over to the desk, went around its bulkand sat down in the comfortable black leather chair. He knew at once that he would find nothing of any importance here because all of the drawers had keys in the locks.
    Nothing to hide, nothing to find, Edward thought, as he opened the top middle drawer. It contained only a few items, none of any importance, and as he went through each drawer, he discovered the same thing. Basically there was nothing of interest to him, and certainly nothing alluding to the Grants.
    Closing the last drawer, Edward sat back in the chair, sighing to himself. He wondered what he had been looking for…he had no idea really, but he had thought that perhaps somewhere there might be a piece of damning or revealing evidence about Henry Grant and his cohorts, the men who surrounded him, or his French wife.
    Glancing around the room, Ned suddenly saw it more objectively than ever before. He had always liked its warmth and handsome overtones; the deep red-flocked wallpaper, the large, comfortable sofa covered in a matching red velvet fabric, the worn black leather armchairs near the fireplace, the wall of leather-bound books. Despite the general prevalence in most homes of that tabletop clutter of the recent Victorian era, there was a paucity of it here. His father had never cared for lots of bric-a-brac, but then neither had his mother. As in his father’s private abode at Ravenscar, there were numerous silver-framed photographs of himself, his siblings, plus several of his mother. And that was the extent of it, except for a silver cigarette box and, over on the long side table, a humidor for his father’s favourite Cuban cigars.
    It was his room now. At least it was his if he wished to make use of it, courtesy of his mother. The townhouse belonged to her; it had never been his father’s property, but had come to his mother from her father, Philip Watkins, the industrialist. Until his grandfather’s death they had lived in a much, much smaller house in Chelsea, one which had been passed down from his other grandfather, Charles Deravenel, to his father. It was a nice house, and relatively comfortable, but extremely modest in comparison to this one. And, of course, it was his mother’s inheritance that