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Seb didn’t reply as he picked up his briefcase and hurried out of the flat without saying goodbye. Once he was safely out on the street, he hailed a taxi. As it made its way along City Road he began to wonder how long it would be before, like Saul Kaufman, he had his own car and driver. But his mind kept returning to Sam and her words: “you’ll be just as bad as Adrian Sloane.”
He would book a table for two at the Mirabelle tonight, when they would talk about anything but banking. During his lunch break he would visit Mr. Gard in Hatton Garden and buy that marcasite brooch. Then surely Sam would begin to appreciate the advantages of being engaged to Sebastian Clifton.
* * *
“Your usual table, Mr. Kaufman?”
Seb wondered how long it would be before the head waiter would say to him, “Your usual table, Mr. Clifton?”
Over lunch in the Grill Room, he told the chairman he’d already spotted one or two other properties whose sellers seemed unaware of their true value.
After a lunch at which he’d drunk a little too much, he took a taxi to Hatton Garden. Mr. Gard opened the safe and pulled out the third tray from the top. Seb was delighted to see it was still there: a Victorian marcasite brooch surrounded by diamonds that he was sure Sam would find irresistible.
In the taxi on his way back to Islington, he felt confident that over dinner at the Mirabelle, he could bring her around to his way of thinking.
When he put the key in the lock, his first thought was, we won’t be living here much longer, but when he opened the door, he was puzzled to find that all the lights were out. Could Sam be attending an evening lecture? The moment he switched on the light, he sensed that something was wrong. Something was missing, but what? He sobered up instantly when he realized that several personal objects, including the photograph of the two of them in Central Park, one of Jessica’s drawings, and Sam’s print of The Night Watch, were nowhere to be seen.
He rushed through to their bedroom and flung open the cupboards on Sam’s side of the bed. Empty. He looked under the bed, to find her suitcases were no longer there.
“No, no,” he screamed as he ran out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where he saw the envelope. It was propped up against a small red leather box and addressed to Sebastian. He tore it open and pulled out a letter that was written in her strong, bold hand.
Dearest Seb,
This is the most difficult letter I’ve ever had to write in my life, because you were my life. But I fear the man who came to Agnew’s Gallery willing to spend every penny he possessed to buy one of his sister’s drawings is not the same man I had breakfast with this morning.
The man who was so proud to work alongside Cedric Hardcastle and despised everything Adrian Sloane stood for is not the same man who now feels he has no obligation to Mr. Swann, the one person who made it possible for him to receive such a handsome bonus. Have you forgotten Mr. Swann’s words, “If Harry Clifton is your father, that’s good enough for me?”
If only Cedric were alive today, none of this would have happened, because you know he would have made sure you kept your side of the bargain and if you hadn’t he would have kept it for you.
I have no doubt that your career will continue to go from strength to strength, and that you will be an outstanding success at everything you do. But that’s not the kind of success I want to be a part of.
I fell in love with the son of Harry and
Emma Clifton, the brother of Jessica Clifton, which is one of the many reasons I wanted to be the wife of Sebastian Clifton. But that man no longer exists. Despite everything, I will treasure our short time together for the rest of my life.
Samantha
Sebastian fell to his knees, the words of Sam’s father ringing in his ears. “Samantha sets standards, like your mother, that the rest of us normal mortals find hard to live with, unless, like your father, they’re guided by the same moral compass.”
LADY VIRGINIA FENWICK
1966
15
“I’LL SEE IF HER LADYSHIP is at home,” said the butler.
What a ridiculous remark, thought Lady Virginia. Morton knows only too well that I’m at home. What he actually means is, I’ll find out if her ladyship wants to talk to you.
“Who is it, Morton?” she asked as the butler entered the room.
“Mrs. Priscilla Bingham, my lady.”
“Of course I’m at home to Mrs. Bingham,” said Virginia, picking up the phone by her side. “Priscilla, darling.”
“Virginia, darling.”
“It’s been so long.”
