Noble House

  “Very.”

  “I suppose you read the afternoon Gazette?”

  Dunross nodded and Penelope said, “Enough to frighten everyone out of their wits.” All the afternoon papers had had huge headlines and dwelt at length on the mutilated ear and the Werewolves. There was a slight pause. She rushed to fill it. “Your children are well?”

  “Yes. Annagrey’s going to the University of California in September—Michael is here on his summer holiday. They’re all in very good shape I’m glad to say. And yours?”

  “They’re fine. I do wish Adryon would go to university though. Dear me, children are very difficult these days, aren’t they?”

  “I think they always were.” Gornt smiled thinly. “My father was always pointing out how difficult I was.” He looked at Dunross again.

  “Yes. How is your father?”

  “Hale and hearty I’m glad to say. The English climate suits him, he says. He’s coming out for Christmas.” Gornt accepted a proffered glass of champagne. The waiter quailed under his look, and fled. He raised his glass. “A happy life and many congratulations.”

  Dunross toasted him in return, still astonished that Gornt had arrived. It was only for politeness and for face that Gornt and other enemies had been sent formal invitations. A polite refusal was all that was expected—and Gornt had already refused.

  Why’s he here?

  He’s come to gloat, Dunross thought. Like his bloody father. That must be the reason. But why? What devilment has he done to us? Bartlett? Is it through Bartlett?

  “This’s a lovely room, beautiful proportions,” Gornt was saying. “And a lovely house. I’ve always envied you this house.”

  Yes, you bastard, I know, Dunross thought furiously, remembering the last time any of the Gornts had been in the Great House. Ten years ago, in 1953, when Ian’s father, Colin Dunross, was still the tai-pan. It was during Struan’s Christmas party, traditionally the biggest of the season, and Quillan Gornt had arrived with his father, William, then tai-pan of Rothwell-Gornt, again unexpectedly. After dinner there had been a bitter, public clash between the two tai-pans in the billiard room where a dozen or so of the men had gathered for a game. That was when Struan’s had just been blocked by the Gornts and their Shanghainese friends in their attempt to take over South Orient Airways, which, because of the Communist conquest of the Mainland, had just become available. This feeder airline monopolized all air traffic in and out of Shanghai from Hong Kong, Singapore, Taipei, Tokyo and Bangkok, and if merged with Air Struan, their fledgling airline, Struan’s would have virtual feeder monopoly in the Far East based out of Hong Kong. Both men had accused the other of underhand practices—both accusations were true.

  Yes, Ian Dunross told himself, both men went to the brink that time. William Gornt had tried every way to become established in Hong Kong after Rothwell-Gornt’s huge losses in Shanghai. And when Colin Dunross knew Struan’s could not prevail, he had snatched South Orient out of William Gornt’s grasp by throwing his weight to a safe Cantonese group.

  “And so you did, Colin Dunross, so you did. You fell into the trap and you’ll never stop us now,” William Gornt had gloated. “We’re here to stay. We’ll hound you out of Asia, you and your god-cursed Noble House. South Orient’s just the beginning. We’ve won!”

  “The hell you have! The Yan-Wong-Sun group’s associated with us. We have a contract.”

  “It’s hereby canceled.” William Gornt had motioned to Quillan, his eldest son and heir apparent, who took out the copy of an agreement. “This contract’s between the Yan-Wong-Sun group who’re nominees of the Tso-Wa-Feng group,” he said happily, “who’re nominees of Ta-Weng-Sap who sells control of South Orient to Rothwell-Gornt for one dollar more than the original cost!” Quillan Gornt had laid it on the billiard table with a flourish. “South Orient’s ours!”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “You can. Happy Christmas!” William Gornt had given a great, scorn-filled laugh, and walked out. Quillan had replaced his billiard cue, laughing too. Ian Dunross had been near the door.

  “One day I’ll own this house,” Quillan Gornt had hissed at him, then turned and called out to the others, “If any of you want jobs, come to us. Soon you’ll all be out of work. Your Noble House won’t be noble much longer.” Andrew Gavallan had been there, Jacques deVille, Alastair Struan, Lechie and David MacStruan, Phillip Chen, even John Chen.

  Dunross remembered how his father had raged that night, and blamed treachery and nominees and bad joss, knowing all the time that he himself had warned him, many times, and that his warnings had been shoved aside. Christ, how we lost face! All Hong Kong laughed at us that time—the Noble House peed on from a great height by the Gornts and their Shanghainese interlopers.

  Yes. But that night finalized Colin Dunross’s downfall. That was the night I decided that he had to go before the Noble House was lost forever. I used Alastair Struan. I helped him to shove my father aside. Alastair Struan had to become tai-pan. Until I was wise enough and strong enough to shove him aside.

  Am I wise enough now?

  I don’t know, Dunross thought, concentrating on Quillan Gornt now, listening to his pleasantries, hearing himself react with equal charm, while his mind said, I haven’t forgotten South Orient, or that we had to merge our airline with yours at a fire-sale price and lose control of the new line renamed All Asia Airways. Nothing’s forgotten. We lost that time but this time we’ll win. We’ll win everything, by God.

  Casey was watching both men with fascination. She had noticed Quillan Gornt from the first moment, recognizing him from the photographs of the dossier. She had sensed his strength and masculinity even from across the room and had been uneasily excited by him. As she watched, she could almost touch the tension between the two men squaring off—two bulls in challenge.

  Andrew Gavallan had told her at once who Gornt was. She had volunteered nothing, just asked Gavallan and Linbar Struan why they were so shocked at Gornt’s arrival. And then, as they were alone now, the four of them—Casey, Gavallan, deVille and Linbar Struan—they told her about the “Happy Christmas” and “One day I’ll own this house.”

  “What did the tai-pan … what did Ian do?” she asked.

  Gavallan said, “He just looked at Gornt. You knew if he had a gun or a knife or a cudgel he’d’ve used it, you just knew it, and as he hadn’t a weapon you knew any moment he was going to use his hands or teeth.… He just stood rock still and looked at Gornt and Gornt went back a pace, out of range—literally. But that bugger Gornt’s got cojones. He sort of gathered himself together and stared back at Ian for a moment. Then, without saying a word he went around him slowly, very cautiously, his eyes never leaving Ian, and he left.”

  “What’s that bastard doing here tonight?” Linbar muttered.

  Gavallan said, “It’s got to be important.”

  “Which one?” Linbar asked. “Which important?”

  Casey looked at him and at the edge of her peripheral vision she saw Jacques deVille shake his head warningly and at once the shades came down on Linbar and on Gavallan. Even so she asked, “What is Gornt doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” Gavallan told her, and she believed him.

  “Have they met since that Christmas?”

  “Oh yes, many times, all the time,” Gavallan told her. “Socially of course. Then, too, they’re on the boards of companies, committees, councils together.” Uneasily he added, “But … well I’m sure they’re both just waiting.”

  She saw their eyes wander back to the two enemies and her eyes followed. Her heart was beating strongly. They saw Penelope move away to talk to Claudia Chen. In a moment, Dunross glanced across at them. She knew he was signaling Gavallan in some way. Then his eyes were on her. Gornt followed his glance. Now both men were looking at her. She felt their magnetism. It intoxicated her. A devil in her pushed her feet toward them. She was glad now that she had dressed as she had, more provocatively than she had planned, but Linc had tol
d her this was a night to be less businesslike.

  As she walked she felt the brush of the silk, and her nipples hardened. She felt their eyes flow over her, undressing her, and this time, strangely, she did not mind. Her walk became imperceptibly more feline.

  “Hello, tai-pan,” she said with pretended innocence. “You wanted me to join you?”

  “Yes,” he replied at once. “I believe you two know each other.”

  She shook her head and smiled at both of them, not noticing the trap. “No. We’ve never met. But of course I know who Mr. Gornt is. Andrew told me.”

  “Ah, then let me introduce you formally. Mr. Quillan Gornt, tai-pan of Rothwell-Gornt. Miss Tcholok—Ciranoush Tcholok—from America.”

  She held out her hand, knowing the danger of getting between the two men, half her mind warmed by the danger, the other half shouting, Jesus, what’re you doing here.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Gornt,” she said, pleased that her voice was controlled, pleased by the touch of his hand—different from Dunross’s, rougher and not as strong. “I believe the rivalry of your firms goes back generations?”

  “Only three. It was my grandfather who first felt the not so tender mercies of the Struans,” Gornt said easily. “One day I’d enjoy telling you our side of the legends.”

  “Perhaps you two should smoke a pipe of peace,” she said. “Surely Asia’s wide enough for both of you.”

  “The whole world isn’t,” Dunross said affably.

  “No,” Gornt agreed, and if she had not heard the real story she would have presumed from their tone and manner they were just friendly rivals.

  “In the States we’ve many huge companies—and they live together peacefully. In competition.”

  “This isn’t America,” Gornt said calmly. “How long will you be here, Miss Tcholok?”

  “That depends on Linc—Linc Bartlett—I’m with Par-Con Industries.”

  “Yes, yes I know. Didn’t he tell you we’re having dinner on Tuesday?”

  The danger signals poured through her. “Tuesday?”

  “Yes. We arranged it this morning. At our meeting. Didn’t he mention it?”

  “No,” she said, momentarily in shock. Both men were watching her intently and she wished she could back off and come back in five minutes when she had thought this through. Jesus, she thought and fought to retain her poise as all the implications swamped her.

  “No,” she said again, “Linc didn’t mention any meeting. What did you arrange?”

  Gornt glanced at Dunross who still listened expressionlessly. “Just to have dinner next Tuesday. Mr. Bartlett and yourself—if you’re free.”

  “That would be nice—thank you.”

  “Where’s your Mr. Bartlett now?” he asked.

  “In—in the garden, I think.”

  Dunross said, “Last time I saw him he was on the terrace. Adryon was with him. Why?”

  Gornt took out a gold cigarette case and offered it to her.

  “No thank you,” she said. “I don’t smoke.”

  “Does it bother you if I do?”

  She shook her head.

  Gornt lit a cigarette and looked at Dunross. “I’d just like to say hello to him, before I leave,” he said pleasantly. “I hope you don’t mind me coming for just a few minutes—if you’ll excuse me I won’t stay for dinner. I have some pressing business to attend to … you understand.”

  “Of course.” Dunross added, “Sorry you can’t stay.”

  Neither man showed anything in his face. Except the eyes. It was in their eyes. Hatred. Fury. The depth shocked her. “Ask Ian Dunross to show you the Long Gallery,” Gornt was saying to her. “I hear there’re some fine portraits there. I’ve never been in the Long Gallery—only the billiard room.” A chill went down her spine as he looked again at Dunross who watched him back.

  “This meeting this morning,” Casey said, thinking clearly now, judging it wise to bring everything out in front of Dunross at once. “When was it arranged?”

  “About three weeks ago,” Gornt said. “I thought you were his chief executive, I’m surprised he didn’t mention it to you.”

  “Linc’s our tai-pan, Mr. Gornt. I work for him. He doesn’t have to tell me everything,” she said, calmer now. “Should he have told me, Mr. Gornt? I mean, was it important?”

  “It could be. Yes. I confirmed, formally, that we can better any offer Struan’s can make. Any offer.” Gornt glanced back at the tai-pan. His voice hardened a fraction. “Ian, I wanted to tell you, personally, that we’re in the same marketplace.”

  “Is that why you came?”

  “One reason.”

  “The other?”

  “Pleasure.”

  “How long have you known Mr. Bartlett?”

  “Six months or so. Why?”

  Dunross shrugged, then looked at Casey and she could read nothing from his voice or face or manner other than friendliness. “You didn’t know of any Rothwell-Gornt negotiations?”

  Truthfully she shook her head, awed by Bartlett’s skillful long-range planning. “No. Are negotiations in progress, Mr. Gornt?”

  “I would say yes.” Gornt smiled.

  “Then we shall see, won’t we,” Dunross said. “We shall see who makes the best deal. Thank you for telling me personally, though there was no need. I knew, of course, that you’d be interested too. There’s no need to belabor that.”

  “Actually there’s a very good reason,” Gornt said sharply. “Neither Mr. Bartlett nor this lady may realize how vital Par-Con is to you. I felt obliged to make the point personally to them. And to you. And of course to offer my congratulations.”

  “Why vital, Mr. Gornt?” Casey asked, committed now.

  “Without your Par-Con deal and the cash flow it will generate, Struan’s will go under, could easily go under in a few months.”

  Dunross laughed and those few who listened covertly shuddered and moved their own conversations up a decibel, aghast at the thought of Struan’s failing, at the same time thinking, What deal? Par-Con? Should we sell or buy? Struan’s or Rothwell-Gornt?

  “No chance of that,” Dunross said. “Not a chance in hell!”

  “I think there’s a very good chance.” Gornt’s tone changed. “In any event, as you say, we shall see.”

  “Yes, we will—meanwhile …” Dunross stopped as he saw Claudia approaching uneasily.

  “Excuse me, tai-pan,” she said, “your personal call to London’s on the line.”

  “Oh thank you.” Dunross turned and beckoned Penelope. She came over at once. “Penelope, would you entertain Quillan and Miss Tcholok for a moment. I’ve got a phone call—Quillan’s not staying for dinner—he has pressing business.” He waved cheerily and left them. Casey noticed the animal grace to his walk.

  “You’re not staying for dinner?” Penelope was saying, her relief evident though she tried to cover it.

  “No. I’m sorry to inconvenience you—arriving so abruptly, after declining your kind invitation. Unfortunately I can’t stay.”

  “Oh. Then … would you excuse me a moment, I’ll be back in a second.”

  “There’s no need to worry about us,” Gornt said gently. “We can look after ourselves. Again, sorry to be a nuisance—you’re looking marvelous, Penelope. You never change.” She thanked him and he willed her away. Gratefully she went over to Claudia Chen who was waiting nearby.

  “You’re a curious man,” Casey said. “One moment war, the next great charm.”

  “We have rules, we English, in peace and war. Just because you loathe someone, that’s no reason to curse him, spit in his eye or abuse his lady.” Gornt smiled down at her. “Shall we find your Mr. Bartlett? Then I really should go.”

  “Why did you do that? To the tai-pan? The battle challenge—the ‘vital’ bit. That was the formal gauntlet, wasn’t it? In public.”

  “Life’s a game,” he said. “All life’s a game and we English play it with different rules from you Americans. Yes. And lif
e’s to be enjoyed. Ciranoush—what a lovely name you have. May I use it?”

  “Yes,” she said after a pause. “But why the challenge now?”

  “Now was the time. I didn’t exaggerate about your importance to Struan’s. Shall we go and find your Mr. Bartlett?”

  That’s the third time he’s said your Mr. Bartlett, she thought. Is that to probe, or to needle? “Sure, why not?” She turned for the garden, conscious of the looks, overt and covert, of the other guests, feeling the danger pleasantly. “Do you always make dramatic entrances like this?”

  Gornt laughed. “No. Sorry if I was abrupt, Ciranoush—if I distressed you.”

  “You mean about your private meeting with Linc? You didn’t. It was very shrewd of Linc to approach the opposition without my knowledge. That gave me a freedom of action that otherwise I’d not have had this morning.”

  “Ah, then you’re not irritated that he didn’t trust you in this?”

  “It has nothing to do with trust. I often withhold information from Linc, until the time’s ripe, to protect him. He was obviously doing the same for me. Linc and I understand one another. At least I think I understand him.”

  “Then tell me how to finalize a deal.”

  “First I have to know what you want. Apart from Dunross’s head.”

  “I don’t want his head, or death or anything like that—just an early demise of their Noble House. Once Struan’s is obliterated we become the Noble House.” His face hardened. “Then all sorts of ghosts can sleep.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Now’s not the time, Ciranoush, oh no. Too many hostile ears. That’d be for your ears only.” They were out in the garden now, the gentle breeze grand, a fine night sky overhead, star filled. Linc Bartlett was not on this terrace so they went down the wide stone steps through other guests to the lower one, toward the paths that threaded the lawns. Then they were intercepted.

  “Hello, Quillan, this’s a pleasant surprise.”

  “Hello, Paul. Miss Tcholok, may I introduce you to Paul Havergill? Paul’s presently in charge of the Victoria Bank.”