A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford

with the Harte holdings. But Henry did not trust computers, being conservative, even old-fashioned, in his ways. Furthermore, he thought that the supervision of something in the region of three hundred million pounds, give or take a few million, was worth any amount of manpower it might cost the bank. Emma was demanding and she was shrewd, probably shrewder, in fact, than any banker he knew, including himself. Henry needed to be absolutely sure they could answer any questions at any time, which is why the accounts were under daily surveillance. Henry wanted all that salient information right at his fingertips, night as well as day, if necessary.
    Osborne interrupted his thoughts as he knocked on the door and glided into the room. Conceited young pup, he’s too egotistical and ambitious by far, and too smooth, Henry thought, regarding the immaculately tailored young man before him. But what can you expect from scholarship Eton.
    ‘Good morning, Henry.’
    ‘Morning, Osborne.’
    ‘Quite a beautiful day, isn’t it? I think spring is going to be early this year, Henry. Don’t you agree?’
    ‘I’m not a weather vane,’ Henry murmured.
    Osborne missed the snub or chose to ignore it. However, his manner became a little more businesslike and his voice was a shade cooler. ‘I want to talk to you about the Rowe account—’ Tony began.
    Henry held up his hand and shook his head. ‘Not now, Osborne. I called you in because I have just spoken to Mrs Harte. She asked me to go over to the store later this morning. Is everything in order? No problems?’
    ‘Absolutely not!’ Osborne was emphatic in his surprise.‘Everything is under control.’
    ‘I assume you have been keeping an eye on her foreign holdings. Did you go over them yesterday?’ Henry played with the pen on his desk, still somewhat beset by worry.
    ‘We always do on Monday. We checked her American and Australian interests, and all are steady. Sitex is doing well. There’s actually been a rise in the price since the new president went in there. Look here, Henry, is something wrong? What’s up?’ he asked.
    Henry shook his head. ‘Nothing that I am aware of, Osborne. But I do like to be completely current and informed before I see her. I think I’ll take a look at her accounts with you. Let’s go to your office.’
    After an hour and a half of concentrating on the most pertinent of the Harte accounts, Henry was totally satisfied that Osborne and his assistants had been both precise and diligent in their work. All of the English figures were current and the figures for the foreign Harte holdings were as up-to-date as they could be with the changing world markets, the different time zones, and the rise and fall of stock prices. At eleven sharp, for he was punctilious about time, Henry put on his black overcoat, picked up his bowler hat and umbrella, and left the office. He stood on the steps of the bank, sniffing the air for a moment. It was cold but crisp and sunny. Osborne was right, it was a beautiful day for January, spring-like in its clear freshness. He walked swiftly down the street, swinging his umbrella jauntily, a tall, handsome man in his early sixties, whose serious and dignified demeanour belied a sharp sense of humour and a flirtatious nature.
    Henry Rossiter had a cool mind, which was also quite brilliant. A cultured man, he was an art connoisseur, a collector of rare first editions, a devotee of drama and music. He could also ride and shoot like the gentleman he was, and he was Master of the Hunt of the county where his ancestral home was located. The product of a rich and old Establishment family, landed gentry, in fact, he was today a curious amalgam of upper-class English conservative principles and international sophistication. He had been married twice and was currently divorced, which made him one of London’s mosteligible bachelors, much in demand by chic hostesses, for he was entertaining, charming, and adept in all the social