Foxden Hotel (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 5) by Madalyn Morgan (ebook reader ink txt) 📕

to the smoking lounge, Bess took all three into the office. Frank had come down ten minutes earlier and was waiting with a breakfast tray.

Bess sat in the cottage armchair by the fire with the newspapers on her lap, while Frank poured two cups of tea. He left his cup on his desk and took Bess’s tea and toast to her on the tray, setting it down on a small occasional table at the side of the fireplace. ‘I’ll open the post,’ he said, going back to his desk.

‘There’s a lovely photograph of the hotel in the Advertiser.’ Bess took a bite of her toast. ‘There aren’t any cars about and the lawns are blanketed in snow.’ She lifted the paper so she could see the picture more clearly. ‘He must have taken this when he was leaving. I’ll ask him for a copy, and see if I can get it enlarged,’ she said, taking another bite of toast. ‘I’ll get it framed. It would look lovely in the marble hall.’ Bess took a sip of her tea. ‘Mmmm, thank you, darling,’

Frank looked up from the letter he was reading. ‘Don’t thank me, thank Maeve. She brought it in five minutes after I came down.’

‘I don’t know what we’ve done to deserve that woman. Oh, it’s a good headline too,’ Bess said, putting her cup down to give the newspaper her full attention. ‘“The opening of the Foxden Hotel on New Year’s Eve went with a bang!”’ She sighed, worried that “went with a bang” was a journalistic teaser before a graphic description of the fracas between Sutherland and Hawksley. Or worse still, between Sutherland and Frank. She glanced at her husband. He was reading a letter, his eyebrows knitted together in a frown of concentration.

Bess finished the slice of toast, washed it down with the last of her tea and sat back in the chair to read the review. She read the piece through, and then read it again. ‘Not a single mention of Sutherland, Sir Gerald Hawksley, or his daughter,’ she said, bemused. ‘Ah! Cont. Page 3.’

Bess turned to page three. There was no mention of Sir Gerald Hawksley or Sutherland on that page either. ‘Something isn’t right here, Frank. You’d think a Nazi and a Knight almost coming to blows over a young girl in a public place would be newsworthy, but there isn’t a single word about it in the Advertiser?’

‘You sound disappointed,’ Frank said, laughing.

‘I’m not. I’m pleased the trouble that monster caused hasn’t been reported. Being associated with a Blackshirt, however remotely, could have been the death knell for the hotel. It’s odd, though, that there’s no mention of Sir Gerald, or his daughter. His name and title might have been an endorsement,’ Bess said, as much to herself as to her husband. ‘There’s some really good photographs. One of a group of people with their glasses raised in a toast. A smasher of our Margot posing by the Christmas tree, and one of a middle-aged couple in mid flow on the dance floor in the ballroom.’ Bess skimmed the rest of the paper. There was no other news.

‘I’ll take a copy up to the library and the smoking lounge, and leave this one here for you.’ Bess folded the newspaper and dropped it on Frank’s desk. ‘Anything in the post?’

‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

‘That’s good. I’ll take the tray back to the kitchen as well, if you’ve finished?’ Frank drained his cup and put it on the tray next to Bess’s cup and plate. Papers in one hand and tray in the other, Bess bent down, kissed Frank on the cheek, and left.

Frank waited until Bess had closed the door before taking the envelope he hadn’t wanted her to see from beneath his leather ink blotter. It was addressed to him but there was no title. The writing was familiar, but there was something different about it; there was no postage stamp. Apart from that, the envelope looked the same as any other envelope. Frank took out the letter and read it again. There was no salutation, just the initial, D. One last payment. £50. Today. Usual place. 12 o’clock. And you won’t hear from me again. Tell the police or don’t pay up, and I shall tell the local newspaper about your sordid affair in London. DS.

‘Where the hell does the bloody man think I’m going to get £50 by twelve o’clock today?’ Frank got up and paced the floor. He had no money left of his own, Sutherland had blackmailed him out of every penny; only the hotel’s bank account was in funds - and that was for emergencies. Frank ran his fingers through his hair. This was an emergency.

Barclays bank in Lowarth opened at ten. There was time to get there and back by midday. But even if he went to the bank, the bank manager would no more let him take money out of the hotel’s account without Bess’s signature, than he would Bess, without his signature.

As he saw it, Frank had two options. He could say he was going into Lowarth for… He’d think of something… and although it was earlier in the week than planned, he would offer to deposit the takings from New Year at Barclays while he was there. If he did that, he could take £50 out for Sutherland and bank what was left. He shook his head. That would mean lying to Bess and stealing from the business. He couldn’t do it.

The other option was to tell Bess the truth. Tell her that Sutherland had been blackmailing him and if he paid him one last payment, the man would be out of their lives forever. Frank exhaled loudly. It would break her heart and he was not going to do that, he loved her too much. Besides if this payment was the last, he may never have to