Noble House

"Yes. If he's the right pan," the old woman said and they chuckled. "You find my John Chen, young Brian Kwok!"
"Yes. Yes we'll find him."
"Good. Now, what do you think of Golden Lady's chances on Saturday?"
"Good, if the going's dry. At three to one she's worth a bundle. Watch Noble Star—she's got a chance too."
"Good. After dinner come and find me. I want to talk to you."
"Yes, Great Lady." He smiled and watched her go off and knew that all she wanted was to try to act the marriage broker for some great-niece. Ayeeyah, I'll have to do something about that soon, he thought.
His eyes strayed back to Casey. He was delighted by the disapproving looks from all the women—and the cautious covert admiration from all their escorts. Then Casey glanced up and saw him watching her across the room and she stared back at him briefly with equal frank appraisal.
Dew neh loh moh, he thought uneasily, feeling somehow undressed. I'd like to possess that one. Then he noticed Roger Crosse with Armstrong beside him. He put his mind together and headed for them.
"Evening, sir."
"Evening, Brian. You're looking very distinguished."
"Thank you, sir." He knew better than to volunteer anything pleasant in return. "I'm seeing the tai-pan after dinner."
"Good. As soon as you've seen him, find me."
"Yes sir."
"So you think the American girl stunning?"
"Yes sir." Brian sighed inwardly. He had forgotten that Crosse could lip-read English, French and some Arabic—he spoke no Chinese dialects—and that his eyesight was exceptional.
"Actually she's rather obvious," Crosse said.
"Yes sir." He saw Crosse concentrating on her lips and knew that he was overhearing her conversation from across the room and he was furious with himself that he had not developed the talent.
"She seems to have a passion for computers." Crosse turned his eyes back on them. "Curious, what?"
"Yes sir."
"What did Wine Waiter Feng say?"
Brian told him.
"Good. I'll see Feng gets a bonus. I didn't expect to see Langan and Rosemont here."
"It could be a coincidence, sir," Brian Kwok volunteered.
"They're both keen punters. They've both been to the tai-pan's box."
"I don't trust coincidences," Crosse said. "As far as Langan's concerned, of course you know nothing, either of you."
"Yes sir."
"Good. Perhaps you'd both better be about our business."
"Yes sir." Thankfully the two men turned to leave but stopped as there was a sudden hush. All eyes went to the doorway. Quillan Gornt stood there, black-browed, black-bearded, conscious that he had been noticed. The other guests hastily picked up their conversations and kept their eyes averted but their ears concentrated.
Crosse whistled softly. "Now.why is he here?"
"Fifty to one says he's up to no good," Brian Kwok said, equally astounded.
They watched Gornt come into the ballroom and put out his hand to Dunross and Penelope beside him. Claudia Chen who was nearby was in shock, wondering how she could reorganize Dunross's table at such short notice because of course Gornt would have to be seated there.
"I hope you don't mind my changing my mind at the last moment." Gornt was saying, his mouth smiling.
"Not at all," Dunross replied, his mouth smiling.
"Good evening, Penelope. I felt I had to give you my congratulations personally."
"Oh, thank you," she said. Her smile was intact but her heart was beating very fast now. "I, I was sorry to hear about your wife."
"Thank you." Emelda Gornt had been arthritic and confined to a wheelchair for some years. Early in the year she had caught pneumonia and had died. "She was very unlucky," Gornt said. He looked at Dunross. "Bad joss about John Chen too."
"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 lan'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.