Neville Watkins was a striking looking man. Tall, though not quite as tall as Ned, he was of slender build, without an ounce of extra fat on him, very strong and athletic. His face was sharply chiselled; he had an aquiline nose and a smooth, rather high brow. His wide-set eyes under curved black brows were a curious pale blue, almost turquoise in colour. Clear and transparent, they were alive with immense intelligence. His colouring was dark, he had black hair, like most of the Watkins clan, and on occasion he had a strong look of his aunt, Cecily Watkins Deravenel, his father’s sister.
This morning he sat at an antique writing table in the sitting room of his suite in the Hotel Bristol, making notes for himself, trying to put some of his thoughts on paper for the meeting with Fabrizio Dellarosa in a short while.
After a few moments he put his pencil down, satisfied he had covered the relevant points. He sat back in the chair, staring out into the room.
Neville’s motto, borrowed from his father, was this: Think with the head, not the heart. This he always did in business, and often in his private life, as well. Long ago his father had cautioned him to be ice cold at all times when he dealt in business. Without emotion, inscrutable, revealing nothing. ‘Never display weakness, never lose face. That is what your grandfather taught me,’ his father had explained when he had first entered the world of commerce. They were words he had never forgotten, and he had always lived by them to this very day.
I must train Ned to be like me, Neville now thought. Certainly his father taught him many things, but I’m not quite certain Richard knew how to teach Ned to be truly cold-hearted. After all, his uncle had been a warm and loving man who should have moved against his treacherous cousin Henry Grant years ago. Grumbling about inequities, and his rights, and what should have been his, and was, in fact, his, had accomplished nothing and made many enemies within Deravenels. Deadly enemies, if the truth be known.
Neville’s mind remained focused on Ned. His cousin had a superior intelligence, and he was not afraid of anything or anyone. He had enormous self-confidence and an unbelievable charisma, the likes of which Neville had rarely seen. And he could be utterly ruthless if he needed to be. Furthermore, Ned had always had a good head for business, most especially finance.
Convinced that Ned could very easily run the Deravenel Company with the right guidance, direction and help, Neville was ready, willing and able to do all of those things to ensure his success. Together they would rule that empire one day, there was no question in Neville’s mind about this. With his own training, knowledge and experience, and Ned’s natural abilities and charismatic presence, they could accomplish almost anything. With a little luck of course. Luck always had to be factored into the equation.
Folding the piece of paper on which he had made his notes, he slipped it in the pocket of his jacket and rose. Walking across the room in long strides, Neville stood in front of the window, gazing out at the leaden sky. The sun was beginning to filter through the oppressive greyness, and he decided it might turn out to be a better day after all. He loathed dismal weather, used to it though he was, and craved the sunlight, warmer climes. Just as Cousin Ned did, hence their sojourns in the south of France over the years.
Thoughts of Ned lingered…Neville held him dear, admired him. There was only one problem with Ned as far as he could see and that was his overwhelming addiction to women. Older women. And widows, at that. Blonde widows. As long as he remained single there was no problem about his penchant for romantic and sexual dalliances, but when Ned married, which he would one day, he would have to curb his lustful behaviour, or at least be much more discreet than he usually was. Although Ned was not aware of it, Neville knew all about his current alliance with Lily Overton, not that this mattered since they were both single. Still, there were some who thought it inappropriate.
Ah well, he’s just a man after all, like all of us, poor creatures that we are, Neville thought with a small wry smile.
The three Englishmen were dressed almost exactly alike. They each wore black suits with the three-quarter length jacket that was currently so fashionable. Their white shirts were impeccable, as were their black silk cravats. Basically they were dressed in mourning clothes, and they cut quite a swathe as they strode across the lobby of the Hotel Bristol, heading towards one of the lounges. Some of the other guests, walking through the lobby, eyed them with curiosity, and several of the women with open admiration. All three men were tall, good looking, obviously English and aristocrats, an appealing combination anywhere, at any time.
As they entered the lounge a waiter came forward, smiling and showing them to a large round table which Neville had reserved a short while before.
Once seated they ordered coffee and when the waiter departed, Neville turned to Edward and said, ‘As I did when we went to Deravenels, I am going to let you take the lead in this matter, Ned. After all, Dellarosa is an employee of the company, and at this moment answerable to you.’
‘Your father was killed in the fire as well,’ Edward murmured, frowning slightly. ‘You can say anything you want to him, ask him anything, as far as I’m concerned. We’re in this together.’
‘Yes, indeed we are,’ Neville shot back. ‘But do take the lead, Ned, please. It will give me a chance to weigh him up, get a handle on him, and you, Will, can give your attention to Alfredo Oliveri, if you would. I think we should attempt to assess these two men, decide whether they will be allies or adversaries in the future. After all, Deravenels have a lot of business interests in Italy, quite aside from the marble quarries.’
‘I understand,’ Will answered at once, nodding. ‘I have a feeling Oliveri will be a friend not a foe, from what Ned has said about him so far. Correct, Ned?’
‘Oh, yes, Father had enormous respect for him, there is no question about that, as I’ve already explained. But the strange thing is he wasn’t mentioned in Dellarosa’s letter to me, so I have an odd feeling he won’t be here this morning.’
‘Why do you make that assumption?’ Neville asked, his voice rising, eyeing his cousin in alarm.
‘I have a…gut instinct about it, to use a phrase of yours.’
At this moment the waiter returned with the tray of coffee cups and tall glasses of water, and served them. Again smiling and nodding, he backed away. Neville took a sip of the water. He approved of this Continental custom of always serving a glass of water with other beverages. It was most civilized, he thought.
‘Could this be Dellarosa?’ Ned muttered quietly a moment or two later, staring at the arched doorway of the lounge, where a well-dressed man stood glancing around. He was of medium height, slim, and blond like many Northern Italians. Ned hurried on, ‘He’s heading this way, so it is him, I’m certain.’
Edward rose, moved forward in the direction of the Italian, extending his hand. ‘Signor Dellarosa, I presume,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘I’m Edward Deravenel.’
‘Good morning, Signor Deravenel,’ Dellarosa responded. ‘Welcome to Firenze. I wish this occasion was not a sorrowing one. I am sorry for the loss of your family.’
‘It is sorrowful, yes,’ Edward replied. ‘But please, come and meet my cousin Neville Watkins, and our good friend Will Hasling.’
Neville and Will were already on their feet, and after shaking hands and exchanging greetings, the four men sat down together at the circular table.
Dellarosa turned to Neville and murmured, ‘I am so sorry, signor, for your loss also.’
‘Thank you.’ Neville inclined his head, his expression neutral, quite unreadable.