The Garden of Dreams
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

ENDPAGE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

‘ARE you going to marry him?’ said Jenny, straight to the point as usual.

‘I don’t know.’ Lissa Fairfax lifted the brooch from its satin bed in the worn velvet box, with a troubled frown. The late afternoon sun was pouring in through the big window of the living room of their small flat and catching the gleaming stones, as she turned the brooch in her hand, and the sparkling facets gleamed like living fire.

She sighed a little. ‘One thing is certain. This will have to go back.’

‘I don’t see why,’ argued Jenny. ‘Paul has given you masses of presents. You’ve never thought twice about accepting any of them before.’

‘But this is different.’ Lissa examined the brooch, her frown deepening. ‘This is valuable—I’m sure it is. Look at the colour of the gold, and the way the clasp is made. It looks very old.’

‘Perhaps he’s showering you with the family heirlooms,’ said Jenny. ‘Still, it makes a nice change from flowers and perfume, and those gorgeous chocolates that we didn’t dare eat because of that diet thing we were on. Oh—and that super lighter. I’d forgotten that.’

‘I hadn’t.’ Lissa put the brooch back in the case. ‘That was too expensive as well. It’s all too much, too soon, Jen. After all, I’ve only known him six weeks.’

‘Some people would say that was long enough.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t.’ Lissa’s tone was definite. ‘I want to know someone far better than that before spending the rest of my life with them. I don’t like being rushed into things.’

Jenny sighed elaborately. ‘The most attractive Frenchman I’ve ever seen, young and wealthy—yes, he is, Lissa—no one could have his sort of clothes or car unless they were loaded, and he wants to marry you. And instead of falling into his arms, you say …’

‘I’ll think it over.’ Lissa smiled at her flatmate affectionately. They had been together ever since she had come to London, sharing this upstairs flatlet of sitting room, tiny bedroom with enough space for two beds and a Victorian-style wardrobe, with a kitchenette and tiny bathroom. ‘I mean to think it over very seriously. After all, you knew Roger for ages before you even thought of settling down. I can’t just grab Paul and let everything go by the board. After all, what do I really know about him—about his family or his background?’

‘Hasn’t he ever mentioned anyone?’

‘He’s spoken of his mother a few times—and he’s made odd references to a brother. I got the impression there might be a spot of friction there. He didn’t say so, of course.’

‘Your womanly intuition told you so.’ Jenny turned back to the neglected ironing board and began to pay minute attention to the cuffs of a white silk blouse. ‘Honestly, love, he’s the catch of the year, and he’s just waiting to drop into your hands. And you get on so well together. You can’t deny that.’

‘Oh, yes, he’s wonderful to go out with—charming, attentive, amusing—everything anyone could wish, but——’ Lissa paused.

Jenny raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘The girl wants jam on it. Okay, but what?’

‘But I can’t see him married and settling down to a routine just yet. Take that job of his at the Embassy. He doesn’t care about it at all,’

‘Well, if he’s as wealthy as he seems to be, there’s no real need for him to worry.’

‘No, but if you have a job, you should do it, not just play at it.’ Lissa stared down at the brooch. ‘And now this. I wish I knew where he’d got it from.’

‘You surely don’t think he nicked it?’ Jenny was horrified.

Lissa laughed. ‘Of course not. But it’s so uncharacteristic of Paul. He’s such a present-day person, and this has definitely an air of days gone by.’

‘Show it to Maggie,’ Jenny suggested. ‘After all, what’s the good of being a secretary to a historical novelist if you can’t pick her brains occasionally?’

‘She might know, I suppose,’ Lissa said slowly. ‘I still think the best thing is to give it back to Paul when I see him tonight.’

‘Do you think tonight he’ll want a definite answer?’ Jenny asked.

‘I doubt it,’ said Lissa. ‘We’re going to a party, one of those formal things at the Embassy, I think. Still, it will give me a chance to wear my new chiffon.’

‘It would also give you a chance to wear the brooch,’ Jenny said, grinning.

Lissa shook her head decisively. ‘No. I’m just going to give it back to him and explain that I can’t accept expensive presents like this when I’ve only known him such a short time.’

‘Even though he wants to marry you?’ Jenny asked.

‘Particularly because of that. You know what they say about marrying in haste,’ said Lissa. ‘After all, think how many years you’ve known Roger, and you went out with him for at least a year before he even suggested an engagement.’

Jenny laughed. ‘But Roger, bless him, isn’t a glamorous young Frenchman who wanted to sweep me off my feet.’

‘I don’t think I want to be swept either,’ Lissa said reflectively, ‘and if I do, I’m not sure this is the way I would want it done. The fact is I don’t know what I do want. I’ve never felt so unsure.’

‘I’d say it was spring fever, only spring’s over now really,’ said Jenny. She picked up the brooch again, and examined it minutely. ‘I suppose the stones must be zircons. They’re certainly big ones.’

‘They couldn’t be diamonds could they?’ Lissa gasped, horrified. ‘I wonder if the French have some strange habit of giving brooches instead of engagement rings.’

They both bent, placing the brooch against the glittering three-diamond ring on Jenny’s engagement finger, and studying the two closely.

Jenny shook her head. ‘It must be zircons. I mean, there just aren’t diamonds that big any more, and the cutting looks different too. But it’s an antique, and no mistake.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Lissa said a little despondently. ‘The problem now is how to return it gracefully.’

‘Your main problem at the moment is getting ready for the big night out,’ said Jenny. ‘I don’t know what time Paul is calling for you, but the immersion heater’s been on for ages.’

‘Heavens!’ Lissa glanced at her watch. ‘I had no idea it was so late. I must fly!’

Some ten minutes later, her fair hair pinned into a topknot, Lissa lay luxuriating in hot scented water. She ignored the fact that time was pressing and closing her eyes against the steam, let the worries of the day, including this latest one, slowly submerge. Margaret Desmond, her employer, was one of the most charming people alive and by no means a slavedriver, but when the idea for a new book was paramount with her she demanded total concentration, and Lissa had to acknowledge that since Paul’s proposal two nights earlier, she had been unable to keep her mind wholly on the job in hand.

Although, as she reminded herself with slightly rueful amusement, the new book had been the means of her meeting Paul in the first place.

Maggie was currently engaged on researching background for a novel about the French Revolution and Lissa had been sent to the French Embassy to collect a promised list of reference books and biographies of the period from an eminent French historian, with whom Maggie had been in correspondence, and who was staying in London for a few days.

Her note of introduction had been handed in the first instance to Paul, whose job it had been to conduct her through a bewildering array of corridors to the suite being occupied by the historian. By some strange coincidence, and somewhat to Lissa’s relief, he was still waiting when she emerged, and not only conducted her back to the foyer, but insisted on driving her back to Maggie’s flat in his low-slung and very expensive sports car.

Maggie had received him amiably, offered him her special sherry, and allowed him to stay for lunch, presiding over the meal with the benign air of an inveterate matchmaker. That was one of the drawbacks of working for your own godmother, Lissa reflected. Maggie was too apt very often to take rather a personal interest in one’s off-duty moments, but Lissa knew that it was precisely this fact that gave her parents, hundreds of miles away in Devon, such a sense of reassurance.

Maggie was quick to see romance even in the most unlikely situations, which perhaps explained the extreme popularity of her books, and it was obvious that Paul had her approval as a suitor for Lissa.

‘I daren’t tell her that he’s proposed to me.’ Lissa thought, ‘or she’ll write off to Mother and Dad and the wedding will be planned before I know it.’

Madame de Gue. She said the name slowly, trying to relate it to herself, and giggled. It sounded alien and unreal.

And if she did marry Paul, where would they live? In France? Lissa’s French was fairly fluent, especially with some recent coaching from Paul, but it was still on a pretty schoolgirl level, as she was the first to admit. Paul himself spoke almost perfect English, but he would have relatives, no doubt, who might not be bi-lingual.

She got out of the bath and began to dry herself. ‘If I really loved him,’ she thought, ‘I wonder if I would be having all these doubts. I’d know that loving him was enough, and would get us across all the bridges as we came to them.’

Physically he stirred her as no other man she had ever met had done, but she was uncertain whether this was due to genuine feeling, or was merely the reaction of a fairly inexperienced girl to what she suspected was a very experienced young man. Lissa grimaced. Again, it all seemed like a game to Paul, she thought, and she wondered if she had given in to his desires, whether he would still want to marry her now.

It was not a particularly pleasant thought, and she pushed it away resolutely. Give Paul his due, he had always insisted that her instinctive recoil from his passion delighted him.

The permissive society, he had made it clear, while enjoyable, did not extend to the woman he wanted to make his wife. Although Lissa had no desire to become part of the permissive society, this typically masculine attitude had annoyed her.

‘That’s a mediaeval way of looking at it,’ she had protested to him once.

He laughed. ‘But it is true, chérie, and all men feel it in their hearts, even if it is no longer fashionable to say so aloud. The girls they marry must be for them alone. And I assure you that my attitude is positively enlightened compared with—let us say—my brother.’

Lissa stared at him. ‘So, if I had slept with another man, you wouldn’t want me?’

‘I did not say that, my beautiful Lissa, but I would naturally feel—differently.’

Lissa had always felt a spirit of rebellion rise within her at this attitude. She was no women’s libber.

‘But he must learn that he doesn’t own me,’ she told herself.

She fastened the belt of her housecoat and padded into the bedroom. Her skin was naturally pale, but flawless, and she applied only light make-up, using eyeshadow to flatter the slightly tip-tilted grey-green eyes that were her loveliest feature. She brushed her long, almost silver-blonde hair until it shone, before winding it deftly into a smooth elegant coil at the back of her head, with just two curling tendrils allowed to escape and frame her face. The chiffon dress, a floating cloud of misty blues, greens and violet hung from the wardrobe door. It was a dress she particularly liked and Jenny called it her ‘sea nymph’ look. Some nymph, Lissa thought, slipping her feet into high-heeled silver shoes. She hoped that Paul would approve. It was the first time she had ever worn it for him, but she had got the impression that the party tonight was an important one and she was determined to look her best. She was used by now to the photographers with their flash-lamps who attended these affairs, and had frequently been the subject of their attentions, although she had never seen any pictures of herself actually featured anywhere. She guessed they would mainly be of interest to French magazines.

When she was ready, she sprayed on some of her favourite scent, and stood back and looked at herself in the long mirror that she and Jenny had found in an old junk shop, and cleaned and polished up.

Her skin gleamed against the deep V of the neckline and the full skirts floated out like cobweb as she turned.

Jenny appeared in the doorway, holding the box with the brooch.

‘Gorgeous,’ she said appreciatively. ‘And this brooch would just be the finishing touch, you know.’ She held it against herself. ‘Look what it does for this old black jumper. And just think what it would do for the chiffon! Try it on at least, there’s no harm in that.’

‘I suppose not.’ Lissa took the brooch and pinned it at her neckline. Gleaming there, it seemed to reflect back every sensuous colour in the gown, and she stared at it longingly.

‘Oh, Lissa, you must wear it. It looks wonderful,’ Jenny pleaded.

Lissa nodded ruefully, but as her hands went up to unfasten it, the door bell rang.

‘That’ll be Paul.’ Lissa swirled across the tiny bedroom and across the living room to the door and flung it open. She dropped in a mock curtsy. ‘Bonsoir, monsieur.’

‘Bonsoir, mademoiselle.’

The right answer. The wrong voice. Lissa looked up for the first time and found herself confronting a complete stranger. He was tall and very dark. His hair was black and his thin face was tanned. The expression in his low-lidded eyes as he stood looking down at Lissa was unreadable, but a faint smile played without warmth about his firm mouth.

There was something vaguely objectionable in the way he was looking her over, and Lissa lifted her chin and stared back.

‘You must forgive me, monsieur. As must have been obvious, I was expecting someone else.’

‘That is why I am here.’ He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. It bore her name and she tore it open with a feeling of anxiety. Inside was a typewritten note from Paul.

‘Lissa, chérie, forgive me, but I cannot make it to the party tonight. Something totally unexpected has cropped up, and I am obliged to change my plans. I will see you tomorrow instead and make up for it, I swear. Your loving Paul.’

‘I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’ The stranger’s voice did not sound particularly regretful. ‘Paul was unable to come himself to explain, and of course you have no telephone, so I was happy to oblige him.’

‘Thank you, monsieur.’ In spite of her bitter disappointment Lissa did not forget her manners. ‘Won’t you come in for a moment? I am Lissa Fairfax as you have already guessed, and this is my flatmate Jenny Caldwell.’

He stepped into the living room, and stood looking at the small room with its clutter of easy-chairs, and the small sofa before the gas fire. His expression gave nothing away, but Lissa could guess that he was not impressed.

‘You have not told us your name, monsieur,’ she reminded him a little tartly, and he turned, giving her another of those sweeping looks from head to foot that she was beginning to find so disconcerting.

‘I am Raoul Denis, at your service, mademoiselle.’ His dark eyes considered her again. ‘Now that I have seen you I can understand why Paul should be so désolé at having to sacrifice his evening with you.’ He paused. ‘I have a proposition for you, mademoiselle. I too have suffered the same fate this evening. My partner has been suddenly overtaken by illness, and I have a cocktail party to attend, with the theatre afterwards. As we have both been left in the lurch, shall we take advantage of the situation and spend the evening together?’

Lissa stared at him. ‘But I don’t know you,’ she exclaimed. ‘Paul has never mentioned a Raoul Denis to me. Are you close friends?’

He shrugged. ‘Let us say we have been acquaintances for a very long time—and he did trust me to come here and deliver this note. And it would be a tragedy to waste that gown and all that radiance at home, when all the world is waiting. And you need have no fears. Paul would not be jealous of me.’

‘For your information, monsieur, Paul has no real right to be jealous of anyone,’ Lissa said a little coldly.

She looked at Raoul Denis in some perplexity. It was true. She was all dressed up, with nowhere to go, and his alternative suggestion was appealing.

At last she spoke. ‘Very well, monsieur. I shall be happy to be your companion. If you will just allow me to fetch my wrap.’

She walked back into the bedroom, and closed the door. Jenny was sitting on one of the beds, staring at her.

‘You have all the luck!’ she exclaimed. ‘If that had been Roger, I would have been condemned to an evening’s television.’

‘I don’t know.’ Lissa took her black velvet coat out of the wardrobe, and checked over the contents of her silver kid purse. ‘He seems polite enough, and if he knows Paul, I suppose that must make him respectable. But I can’t understand his invitation.’

‘Why not?’ Jenny was intrigued. ‘He’s an absolute dish.’

‘Yes,’ Lissa said slowly, ‘I suppose he is. But all the time he was talking to me, though he was civil enough, I felt there was something there. That he didn’t really like me. That there was something—just slightly wrong about the whole thing.’

‘I think you have too vivid an imagination,’ Jenny said decisively. ‘I think it’s a most sensible solution. You’re both on your own. Why not take advantage of each other’s company? If you don’t like him, you don’t have to talk to him all the time. You’re going to the theatre, remember.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’m just being a fool.’ Lissa put on her coat and gasped, ‘I’d forgotten—the heirloom! What am I going to do with it this evening? Where can I hide it?’ She gazed round the room, a little desperately. ‘There’s nowhere really safe.’

‘Well, it hardly seems worth building a strongroom just for my Indian necklace and your copper bracelet that Aunt Rosemary-sent to ward off rheumatism,’ said Jenny. ‘If you’re worried about it, leave it where it is. It looks good there. I think Monsieur Thing thinks so too. I noticed him giving it a keen glance as he came in.’

‘It seems wrong to wear it, when I meant to give it back tonight.’

‘Well, at least you’ll have the comfort of knowing exactly where it is,’ argued Jenny. ‘And Paul will never know.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Lissa agreed. ‘And to be honest, I like the way it looks.’ She fastened the silver clasps on her coat. ‘I’m not looking forward to this evening. He seems rather a chilly mortal.’

‘Unlike Monsieur Paul de Gue, for instance,’ Jenny said mischievously. ‘I’ve got a feeling that Paul will live to bless this evening. Seriously, doesn’t the Pirate King out there remind you of someone?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Lissa took a last look in the mirror. ‘Who were you thinking of?’

‘I don’t know. Just for a second—as you opened the door—he looked familiar.’

‘It can only have been for a second. I don’t think familiarity is his strong point. In fact I’m expecting to be turned into a pillar of ice as the evening wears on,’ Lissa said drily.

On her return to the living room, she found Monsieur Denis standing by the small sideboard looking at a glossy magazine. It was one of their landlady’s few personal indulgences that she liked reading magazines that showed ‘how the other half live’, as she put it, and she always passed these magazines on to the girls and seemed disappointed that they were not more interested in the gala evenings and hunt balls that were largely featured.

This particular magazine had been pushed under the door when the girls came home from work with a note attached: ‘Wait till you see this’. Neither of them had even scanned through it, however, because Paul’s parcel with the brooch had also been delivered.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Jenny had commented, picking the magazine up from the carpet. ‘Her favourite deb’s just got herself engaged to her favourite chinless wonder.’

As Lissa entered, Raoul Denis flung the magazine down and turned towards her. She was startled to encounter a sudden blaze of anger in his eyes, but before she could fully assimilate this, or begin to wonder at the reason, it had faded, and the mask of rather enigmatic aloofness had returned.

Lissa smiled rather more cheerfully than she actually felt. She wished now that she had turned down his invitation and spent the evening by the fire with a book. He hardly seemed likely to turn into a boon companion from what she had seen of him so far.

‘I’m quite ready, monsieur.’ She turned to Jenny, who was standing behind her. ‘ ’Bye, love, have a wonderful time at Roger’s. I suppose you’ll be spending the night there.’

‘Well, his mother is full of wedding talk and lists into the small hours, so I might as well take a nightie and a toothbrush,’ Jenny said, smiling.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow evening, then. Don’t forget, it’s my turn to do the shopping.’

‘Yes, but I’ll willingly do it, if you’re going out with Paul.’ Jenny began, but she was interrupted by the incisive voice of Monsieur Denis.

‘Time is running short, mademoiselle. I suggest you reserve these domestic details for another occasion.’

Lissa kept her temper in check. After all, he was a friend of Paul’s, but she could feel the colour burning in her cheek as she went to the door. ‘Beast!’ she raged inwardly. ‘Arrogant beast! How dare he speak to me like that? I wish I’d let him go to this wretched party on his own!’

If Monsieur Denis was aware of her unspoken resentment he gave no sign of it. They did not speak as they descended the stairs and went into the street, where a low-slung maroon saloon car was parked by the pavement.

‘If I’m going to be miserable tonight at least it will be in comfort,’ Lissa thought, unwillingly regaining her sense of humour, as Monsieur Denis opened the passenger door and helped her into one of the cream leather bucket seats.

The same rather strained silence persisted in the car for the first part of the journey. Lissa stole a look at her companion and was reluctantly forced to the conclusion that Jenny was right. ‘He is a dish,’ she thought. ‘Or he would be if he could bring himself to smile occasionally. But perhaps he was very fond of the girl he was going with tonight, and he’s just disappointed and I’m getting the backlash. But he didn’t have to ask me, if he didn’t want to. He was under no obligation at all. It can’t be that. Perhaps he just doesn’t like blondes. I’m sure there must be something about me personally that’s annoyed him. He can’t be like this with everyone, or he would have been murdered years ago. Well, someone’s got to say something, so here goes.’

Trying to keep her voice light, she said, ‘I believe we are going to a cocktail party, monsieur. May I know where?’

‘At Fontaine House.’

‘Fontaine Fabrics?’ Lissa gasped.

‘That is correct, mademoiselle. You know the company?’

‘I’ve heard of it, of course, monsieur. Who hasn’t? And of course the designs are often featured in our magazines. They’re gorgeous, but I’m afraid the price puts them out of my range. Working girls and Fontaine Fabrics don’t go together, I’m afraid.’

‘It is true we supply mainly to couture houses,’ he agreed. ‘After all, if our fabrics were to be put on to the mass market, they would no longer have that exclusive quality which is their main value. However, we are not indifferent to the demands of this market, and we have certain plans, although I would have thought in many ways it was plentifully supplied already.’

He reached down and touched a fold of chiffon peeping from her velvet coat. ‘This design is most charming, par exemple.’

‘You surprise me, monsieur. I didn’t think you had noticed.’ Now why did I say that? Lissa wondered miserably, and waited to be swept by another icy blast.

‘You are mistaken, mademoiselle. You will find that I miss very little.’ His voice was almost affable, but his expression was as grim as ever.

It was almost as if he was warning her about something. But what? They were complete strangers, and if there was any justice or mercy, they would never meet again after this evening, so what could be prompting his extraordinary attitude?

And Paul? She bit back a smile. What would he make of her sardonic companion? Just shrug, probably, and order some champagne.

The car drew smoothly and noiselessly to a halt and the door was opened by a commissionaire. Lissa was helped out and conducted through wide glass doors into an enormous tiled foyer, empty but for a huge white reception desk, holding several telephones and the latest in switchboard and intercom systems. The decor was bare to the point of austerity, the plain white walls relieved only by what Lissa at first took to be very good abstract paintings, but what she realised were actually framed prints of some of Fontaines’ most successful designs.

Monsieur Denis guided her past the lift, his hand firmly gripping her elbow. Lissa was acutely conscious of his touch for a reason she could not have explained even to herself.

‘The party is being held on the mezzanine,’ he explained. ‘You do not object to climbing a few stairs?’

‘Of course not.’

At the top of the short flight, a white quilted door faced them. Monsieur Denis held it open for her to pass through and they came into a gallery crowded with people. The party seemed to be in full swing, and laughter and chatter ebbed and flowed on all sides, with the chinking of glasses. Deft-footed waiters carried trays of glasses and canapés between the chattering groups of people.

‘May I take your coat, madam?’ A smiling woman in a black dress appeared at her elbow.

‘Thank you.’ Lissa undid the clasps, and was immediately aware of whose hands were slipping the coat from her shoulders. She found her pulses had quickened, and was furious with herself.

‘What would you like to drink?’ Monsieur Denis inquired.

‘A dry sherry, please.’ She forced herself into composure as a waiter hurried up in answer to his nod. He ordered her sherry and a whisky for himself, then turned back to her.

‘A cigarette?’ He offered her the slenderest of gold cases.

‘Thank you.’ Lissa opened her bag and produced her lighter. He took it from her and sent the little flame soaring with a practised flick of his thumb.

‘How clever.’ Lissa smiled at him, deliberately overcoming her nervousness. ‘I can never get it to work for me first time.’

‘The mechanism is a little stiff, I think.’ He examined the lighter, black brows raised. ‘A pretty toy, très élégant. I compliment you on your taste.’

‘I am afraid the credit is due elsewhere, monsieur. It was a present from a friend.’

‘Ah,’ he said, and there was a note in that monosyllable that sent hot, indignant colour flooding her face again. At that moment the waiter returned with their drinks, and she was obliged to take hers with a murmur of thanks.

More people were arriving all the time, through a door in the centre of the gallery which Lissa guessed led to the lifts they had bypassed. She was surprised when each of the newcomers was loudly announced by a master of ceremonies, stationed at the door.

‘No one announced us,’ she thought. ‘We came in through a side door. I hope to heaven he’s not a gatecrasher or something frightful like that, but he spoke of Fontaines as if he belonged to it. It must be all right.’

She turned to look for an ash tray and a tall man, rather bald, with glasses, came hurrying towards them.

‘Raoul, my dear fellow! So delighted you could make it. We don’t get together nearly often enough for my liking. Why didn’t you give us more warning? Helen would have laid on a dinner party. She’s just looking for an excuse.’

‘Hélas, I must return to Paris very soon.’ Monsieur Denis was actually smiling at last, a genuine smile that lit up his face and made him look younger and incredibly attractive. How old was he? Lissa wondered. Early thirties, surely. He was slim for his height, but he looked wiry and he moved with a kind of whiplash grace.

There was something about him, just as Jenny had said. Only a resemblance so fleeting that she couldn’t relate it at all. Probably some film star, she thought. Lissa herself rarely visited the cinema, but Jenny and Roger went regularly. In fact Jenny always declared it was Roger’s resemblance to Steve McQueen which had attracted her in the first place. Again, this was a resemblance visible only to Jenny, Lissa thought amusedly.

‘Mademoiselle Fairfax, may I present to you Max Prentiss, the managing director of Fontaine-London.’

As Lissa and Prentiss shook hands, Monsieur Denis continued, ‘This isn’t a full-scale visit, Max. I had one or two items of a personal nature to deal with. In the autumn I shall have time to spare, and to enjoy one of Hélène’s excellent dinners.’

‘All is forgiven, then,’ Prentiss said lightly. He smiled at Lissa. ‘What do you think of our latest design?’

‘I haven’t seen it,’ Lissa glanced around. ‘Is this what the party is all about?’

‘My dear child,’ Prentiss took her arm, ‘you’ve been sadly neglected. What are you thinking of, Raoul? You keep this lovely creature exclusively to yourself, and you don’t even show her the reason for the celebration. Shame on you! Come, my dear.’

He led Lissa along the gallery, chatting amiably and calling greetings to people as they went. A small dais had been set up halfway along the gallery; and he paused. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Our latest—Bacchante.’

Lissa breathed, ‘Oh!’ She was looking at a cascade of material like a shimmering waterfall of green and gold, spilling endlessly on to the white carpet of the dais. Vivid splashes of colour like flames glinted here and there.

She turned to Prentiss. ‘It’s—fabulous. There’s no other word. But surely you don’t just put out one new design a season?’

‘Oh, no, we are not as exclusive as that,’ Prentiss smiled. ‘We show the full range privately to certain invited buyers. But one is always selected to show the trend we are following in any particular range of designs.’

‘I would love to see the whole range.’ Lissa’s eyes shone.

‘I’m sure it could be arranged,’ said Prentiss. ‘I’ll have a word with Raoul …’

‘Oh, no, please.’ Lissa flushed. ‘I wouldn’t dream of imposing …’

‘Nothing of the sort,’ said Prentiss. ‘She wouldn’t be imposing on anyone, would she, Raoul?’

Lissa realised he had come silently to stand beside them. She glanced up at him quickly and saw that he was looking amused.

‘She may certainly visit the design rooms if she wishes,’ he said. ‘But I hope you are not suggesting Bacchante for her, though, Max. It would kill her colouring.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ agreed Prentiss. ‘I was thinking more in terms of Midsummer Night—those deep blues, with silver undertones—against that hair, eh, Raoul?’

‘Merveilleux.’ Raoul Denis drew deeply on his cigarette and Lissa was aware that he was watching her intently, and felt a blush creeping into her cheeks.

‘Oh, please,’ she said, laughing a little nervously. ‘It’s too tantalising.’

Prentiss patted her hand. ‘Well, we won’t tantalise you any more, but if you do come—and I hope you will—make sure you see Midsummer Night—and Venetian Glass. Just ask for me, and I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting in.’

Lissa looked at Raoul Denis inquiringly as Prentiss turned away. ‘Is security so strict?’

‘Of course.’ He glanced around. ‘There are security guards on duty now—to stop unofficial photographs mainly—but no one would guess. There have been times when our designs have been pirated. We take no chances now.’

Lissa stared at the material on the stand. ‘It’s quite beautiful,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s like the whole spirit of spring—golden and glowing and innocent.’

‘But with a touch of savagery underneath,’ her companion agreed a little mockingly. ‘Rather like a woman, wouldn’t you say, ma belle?’

The brilliant dark eyes flickered over her, lingering on her shoulders and the slender curves revealed by the deeply cut neckline. Lissa had an overpowering urge to pull the edges of her dress together over her breasts. In spite of herself her hand went up, and brushed against the hard unfamiliar shape of Paul’s brooch. It gave her an odd sense of reassurance, and she forced herself to stare back at this disconcerting stranger, who seemed so bent on tormenting her.

‘Mr Prentiss is charming,’ she commented, keeping her voice steady. ‘Do you know all the people here?’

‘No, why should I?’

Lissa felt baffled. ‘Well, haven’t you come here to meet anyone in particular?’

‘No, it was a coincidence the design party being on this particular evening when I happened to be in London. I know the London house is being run well, so I need concern myself very little.’

Lissa could not keep sarcasm out of her voice. ‘That must be a great comfort to them. What precisely do you do that makes you of such importance, monsieur?’

‘I do very little,’ he said indifferently. ‘I am managing director of the French house, but that is nothing. It was my grandfather who was the important one. Fontaine was his creation, which is why our family retains the controlling interest.’

Lissa said nothing for a long moment. Then she said quietly, ‘I must apologise, monsieur.’

‘Why? You could have had no way of knowing. Apologies are unnecessary.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I think we have done our duty here. It is time we were leaving for the theatre.’

Lissa would have liked another drink, several drinks in fact to nerve herself for the rest of the ordeal ahead, but instead she murmured, ‘Yes,’ submissively and allowed herself to be steered to the door, where her coat appeared as if by magic. She waited for a moment while Raoul Denis made his farewells, then they walked together towards the stairs.

‘I have arranged for us to take a taxi to the theatre,’ Raoul Denis said.

‘But why aren’t we going in your car?’

‘I prefer not to cope with your English parking problems. I’ve ordered it to meet me at your appartement later tonight,’ he said. ‘We will have dinner after the theatre.’

Lissa’s heart sank. She had intended to plead a headache after the theatre, and leave him to his own devices for the rest of the evening. But it looked as if she was going to be robbed of her early night, after all.

‘Courage, ma belle.’ Was she just imagining that note of malicious amusement in his voice? ‘The night is yet young.’

Eternal would be a better word, Lissa thought, as they walked through the glass doors into the coolness of the early summer evening.

CHAPTER TWO

TO Lissa’s amazement, Raoul Denis seemed to undergo a kind of sea-change as the taxi drew away from Fontaines. He did not plague her with any more barbed remarks as they sped through the West End, and when he mentioned the play he had selected for them to see, she was delighted.

‘That’s wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve been wanting to see that for ages.’

She had tried to persuade Paul to go with her on several occasions, but he claimed that straight theatre bored him, and he preferred the intimate cabarets in the night clubs to which he usually took her.

It was an excellent production and the play itself was stimulating and thought-provoking. During the interval, Lissa found herself in the bar and realised with a start that she and Raoul Denis had been arguing for fully ten minutes about the effectiveness of the confrontation between two of the major characters which had led to the first act curtain. She also realised that during this argument she had totally forgotten how much she disliked him. She faltered with what she was saying and looking up, found he was laughing, and wondered uneasily if he could read her thoughts.

‘Have another drink,’ he said. ‘Yes, we have time. The bell hasn’t gone yet. I think that little one who plays the daughter has a future, don’t you?’

Lissa, sipping her vodka and tonic, agreed.

‘Do you go to the theatre much in Paris, monsieur?’ she asked.

‘Very little, I regret,’ he replied. ‘Most of my spare time is spent in the country at my house there. My mother is to some extent an invalid, and I like to be with her as much as I can. Tell me,’ he added unexpectedly, ‘does your English reserve and conventionality insist on this formality, or could you not bring yourself to call me Raoul?’

Lissa nearly choked on a mouthful of her drink. It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that the formality of the evening to date had been imposed by him, but she overcame her resentment.

‘I’m not as prim and conventional as all that,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘I’ll call you Raoul.’

‘Splendid,’ he approved. ‘And I call you what? Lisse?’

‘It’s Lissa—short for Melissa, actually. My mother felt very poetic when I was born,’ she said, talking nonsense to cover her embarrassment as he gave her another of his searching looks.

‘And have you inspired no poetry since? I cannot believe Englishmen are so lacking in soul,’ he said.

Lissa, feeling herself blushing again, was thankful when the bell rang at that moment signalling them back to their seats.

During the second act, she knew he was watching her most of the time, and she concentrated all the more fiercely on the stage. It was this scrutiny and the general oddness of his behaviour during the evening that was making her so nervous and on edge, she told herself.

As they moved through the crowded foyer after the performance, Raoul Denis asked, ‘Have you any particular preference in restaurants, or are you prepared to leave the choice all to me?’

‘Quite prepared,’ Lissa smiled at him. ‘I warn you, I enjoyed that so much that I shall expect nothing but the best.’

‘Soit.’ He sent her a swift glance. ‘I trust you will find the remainder of the evening even more enjoyable.’

Again Lissa had a sense of vague unease, but as she looked inquiringly at him, he began once more to talk of the performance they had seen, and they were soon involved in a discussion which occupied the taxi ride to the quiet but very expensive restaurant he had chosen. The tables were set in alcoves round the walls, and the entire room was lit by candles, which lent an air of mystery and intimacy which immediately appealed to Lissa.

‘Though it makes me feel as if I should whisper all the time,’ she said, leaning back on the luxuriously upholstered bench seat.

‘Why?’ Raoul, sitting close beside her, sounded amused.

‘Well, you can’t really see who else is here,’ she explained. ‘It’s the sort of place where people have trysts and exchange secrets.’

Raoul bent towards her until his mouth brushed her ear. ‘If you have a secret to confide, ma belle, consider me your confident.’

Lissa, disturbed by his proximity, moved hastily, and her hand caught a glass, sending it clattering across the polished table on to the thickly carpeted floor. A waiter hurried to retrieve it—luckily unbroken—and brought her another glass, while she sat, flushed and angry at her lack of poise.

He did that deliberately, she thought, but why? And she wished with all her heart that the evening was over.

As the meal proceeded, Lissa realised that Raoul Denis’ knowledge of food and wines far outweighed even Paul’s, whom she was used to regarding as something of an expert. The meal was delicious, and the service was swift and unobtrusive. Lissa leaned back in her seat feeling warm and relaxed, as coffee and brandy were served.

‘A cigarette?’ Raoul asked.

‘No, thanks. It would spoil that wonderful food.’ She turned to smile at him and found to her surprise that he seemed to have withdrawn to a distance. But that was idiotic. He had not moved. She closed her eyes momentarily, and when she opened them again he was watching her.

‘I think the time has come for our departure,’ he said softly, and signalled to the waiter.

‘This is the perfect place to end an evening,’ Lissa said dreamily.

‘Or even to begin it,’ he said, helping her to rise and putting her coat round her shoulders.

As they crossed the pavement to a waiting taxi, Lissa stumbled slightly, and Raoul’s hand was instantly under her elbow.

‘Take care,’ he warned, and helped her into the cab.

Lissa collapsed on to the seat and again closed her eyes. The cab felt stuffy and the list of fares and regulations which faced her was oddly blurred.

‘Oh, God,’ she thought. ‘I’ve had too much to drink. This is terrible!’

‘Are you all right?’ he asked as she pulled herself together and sat up.

‘Fine,’ she lied, smiling carefully. As her mind raced back, she realised she had unwittingly drunk far more than her usual modest amount—sherry before dinner and a glass of wine with a meal. There had been drinks at the party, she recalled, and the vodka at the theatre, and wine in the food at the restaurant as well as with it, not to mention that last brandy.

Coffee, she thought. Black coffee and bed as soon as possible.

Maggie would certainly look a little askance if her secretary turned up for work the next day with an obvious hangover.

The taxi drew to a halt in front of the terraced house where the girls had their flat, and Lissa quailed at the thought of the two flights of stairs to her front door. Raoul paid off the driver and glanced up the street.

‘My car does not appear to have arrived,’ he remarked. ‘Is there perhaps a telephone in the house?’

‘Mrs Henderson doesn’t have one, but there’s a call box just round the corner.’ Lissa hoped that she was not slurring her words. She waited for him to say goodnight and go and look for the phone box, but he showed no signs of leaving. Eventually, she felt forced to ask, ‘Would you—er—like some coffee?’

‘Merci bien.’ He took the latchkey from her unresisting hand and fitted it into the lock. ‘En avant!’

Lissa was thankful to find herself at last alone in the peace and quiet of the kitchenette. Raoul had left her to make the coffee while he telephoned. She set out pottery mugs on a tray and plugged in the percolator. Her head was beginning to clear as she carried the coffee through and set it on the table in front of the gas fire.

‘I lit the fire. I hope you don’t mind.’ Raoul Denis was standing by the table. He was holding Mrs Henderson’s magazine, but as Lissa started pouring the coffee, he put it down and came to sit on the sofa.

‘No, it was a good idea. It always gets chilly up here late at night, even if it is officially supposed to be early summer.’ Lissa helped herself to sugar and passed the bowl to Raoul, who declined it with a slight gesture.

‘Did you arrange about your car?’ she asked.

‘Yes, a tiresome misunderstanding. It will be here presently.’

‘That’s good,’ she said, without thinking.

‘Je suis désolé. Do you wish the evening to end so soon?’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ Lissa began, leaning forward to put her mug back on the table. She was determined that he should not needle her again. Certainly he seemed very much at his ease, stretched out on the sofa.

‘More coffee?’ she asked.

‘I thank you, but no.’ He replaced his own cup. ‘It was delicious, however.’

‘So I’ve been told,’ she smiled, thinking of Paul, who invariably expressed his appreciation in extravagant terms.

It was as if that smile lit a fire in Raoul.

‘Mon Dieu!’ His voice sounded suddenly hoarse, but whether it was anger or some other emotion, she could not tell. Before she had a chance to protest, he had reached for her, drawing her roughly into his arms and silencing her with his mouth.

When at last he raised his head, his eyes burned down into hers, as she lay bruised and breathless in his arms.

‘Bon Dieu, Lissa, do you know what you are doing to me?’ he muttered. He bent to her again, but this time his mouth caressed a feverish path down her throat and searched the soft hollows between her neck and shoulders.

Lissa’s pulses were pounding violently. The room swam, and she felt every nerve ending in her body throbbing insistently. Slowly her hands, which at first had been braced against his chest, crept up to clasp his neck, and her fingers twined in his hair. Murmuring endearments in his own language against her parted lips, he began to slide the chiffon from her shoulders. Her body arched towards him instinctively, welcoming his touch. His grip tightened, and the soft chiffon tore beneath his hands.

Something hard and metallic tinkled to the floor and rolled a little way. The brooch—Paul’s brooch.

Lissa was suddenly, sickeningly aware of what was happening to her.

‘No!’ She tore herself out of his arms, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the fireplace, her hair falling round her bared shoulders, her dress torn almost to the waist.

‘Oh, you brute! You devil … how dare you!’

‘Dare?’ He stared up at her. His eyes glittered and he looked as dangerous as a black panther. Lissa was horribly aware of her complete isolation. The couple in the flat below were on holiday and Mrs Henderson was too far away to hear any cries for help. And he knows Jenny won’t be back tonight, she thought helplessly. He must have planned all this deliberately.

‘I was under the impression, ma belle, that we had come to an understanding. Surely you are not trying to pretend that I am the first to avail myself of your—services?’

‘Services?’ Lissa almost choked. ‘You don’t mean—you can’t imagine that I … that I would let you …’

‘Until a moment ago I had every reason to think so.’ His eyes went over her in insolent appraisal and she felt naked under his gaze. ‘As far as I am concerned, ma belle, by accepting my invitation tonight, you placed yourself at my disposal. I regret that you do not see fit to keep your part of the bargain. I am still more than ready to keep mine.’

‘Get out,’ Lissa said between her teeth. ‘Get out now before I call the police!’

‘How do you propose to do that?’ he asked. He laughed harshly. ‘I would not be so ill-advised as to call the police if I were you. The English police are not fools, and they would know what to make of a young woman who allows a man to wine and dine her for the evening and then calls “Rape” in her appartement. Besides, you are unharmed, except perhaps for your dress—and your pride.’

He picked up his light overcoat from a chair and walked to the door.

‘Bonne nuit,’ he said, with a slight bow, and was gone.

Lissa rushed to the door and locked it, then leaned her forehead against the cool white-painted panels, listening to his footsteps going downstairs. Her breath came in great shuddering sobs, and she shivered violently.

Eventually, as her self-control returned, she walked slowly to the bedroom and threw herself across her bed. She felt numbed, yet her throat ached fiercely and her eyes pricked with tears.

Bitterly she blamed herself for agreeing to go out with him in the first place. Yet Paul knew him and obviously trusted him.

The most shaming part was that she herself had allowed it. She had made no effort to resist—had not even wanted to resist, until the memory of Paul had been forced back into her mind, almost by accident.

Paul! If he knew! She shuddered and buried her face in the ivory-coloured quilt. Would the Denis man tell him? Somehow she doubted it. But he must never find out. He would be incredibly hurt, and rightly so, that she could behave like that with a man who was not only a stranger, but whose whole manner from the beginning had betrayed a strange kind of contempt for her.

The worst of it was that she was still conscious of him. It was as if the pressure of his lips and hands was a lesson that once learned, she could never forget. She sat up slowly, raking the silky mass of pale hair back from her face, her eyes brooding. She looked down at her torn dress with revulsion, then jerking at the fastenings, stripped it off and flung it to the floor. She would throw it away and make some excuse for its disappearance. It had been her favourite, but now the sight of it was unbearable.

It was chilly in the bedroom, and she put on her black and silver housecoat before wandering restlessly back into the warmth of the living room. She looked round, wishing with all her might that Jenny was not staying the night with Roger and his parents. Normally Lissa had no objection to being on her own, but now she desperately needed to hear a friendly voice, and not have to sit alone with her thoughts.

A hot drink of milk and a couple of aspirins. That was the answer—and some noise. She picked up the transistor radio, twisting the controls until she found some quiet, rather sentimental music, and carried it into the kitchen with her while she heated her milk.

She returned to the living room and set the milk down on the coffee table, still littered with the cups she had used for coffee with Raoul. Then she went over to the sideboard for the aspirin. Her eye was caught by a message on the pad there in Jenny’s writing. ‘Maggie popped in just after you went, full of beans, full of mystery too. Something wonderful has happened, but she’s going to tell you herself tomorrow. Be good. Love. J.’

Lissa frowned a little. This was getting to be a night for mysteries and she would welcome a little plain speaking from now on. She put the pad down and picked up Mrs Henderson’s magazine.

It might not be the most stimulating reading in the world, but that was all the better if it helped her put the evening’s events out of her mind and helped her get to sleep. As she sat down on the sofa with it, it fell open on her lap, and she saw a corner of one of the pages had been deliberately turned down. Not only that, but someone, presumably Mrs Henderson, had carefully outlined one of the pictures on the page in blue ballpoint pen.

‘What in the world …?’ Lissa looked down unbelievingly. The occasion that was being reported was a dance at the French Embassy some weeks ago when she had first started going out with Paul. And there they both were, standing together at the foot of a staircase, quite oblivious of the fact that they were being photographed. There was a paragraph about them too, referring to Paul as a ‘playboy diplomat’ and describing Lissa as ‘his latest girl about town’:

As if she was something rather nasty in the City, Lissa thought, her sense of humour reasserting itself. So this was what Mrs Henderson meant by her cryptic note! How awful, she thought, hoping that no one else she knew had seen it.

Her thoughts stopped there with a vivid memory of searing anger in a man’s eyes, and the magazine being thrown down contemptuously.

That must have been what made him so angry, Lissa realised, but it certainly did not explain why it affected him like that.

It was beyond her, she decided, as she drank the last of her milk. She could only be thankful that she would never have to see that Denis man again as long as she lived. And if Paul mentioned him, she would just have to change the subject.

But the thought brought her surprisingly little comfort, either then or in the long hours that followed before she finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Lissa did not feel particularly refreshed when the buzzing of the alarm brought her unwillingly back to wakefulness the next morning. As she sat up to switch it off, she sniffed experimentally. There was an unmistakable odour of coffee, and even as she threw the covers to go and investigate, the bedroom door opened and Jenny walked in smiling with two cups on a tray. It was then for the first time that Lissa realised that the other bed was crumpled.

‘So you didn’t stay at Roger’s after all?’ she exclaimed.

‘No, his mother wasn’t feeling too well—some virus thing, I think, so he brought me back here late. You were dead to the world. By the way, you owe me thanks for doing the washing up.’

‘Washing up?’ Lissa stared at her, puzzled, then remembered, crimsoning, last night’s debris still left in the living room.

‘And you’d left the gas fire on,’ Jenny said reprovingly. ‘Whatever was the matter? Surely the Pirate King didn’t have that much effect on you?’

Lissa sipped her coffee, trying to avoid Jenny’s gaze, but it was no use. Jenny came and sat on the edge of the bed, and gave her a long, even stare.

‘Come on, tell me all about it. Was it lucky or unlucky that I returned last night?’

Lissa put the cup down on the small chest of drawers that separated the twin beds, and her lips trembled.

‘Oh, Jen,’ she mumbled, ‘it was awful!’ And in brief, staccato phrases she outlined the events of the evening, leading up to his attempted seduction.

Jenny sat open-mouthed with astonishment. ‘But he was a friend of Paul’s! He brought that note. What kind of a man is he to behave like that to his friend’s girl?’

‘He didn’t actually say they were friends, but old acquaintances,’ Lissa said miserably. ‘Perhaps he dislikes Paul and was trying to do something to hurt him.’

‘Are you going to say anything to Paul?’

‘Oh, no!’ Lissa gave a quick shiver. ‘What could I say? That … creature was right—he could have had me. He nearly did, if it hadn’t been for that brooch. Oh, heavens, I’ve just remembered! It fell off, and I’ve probably lost it. He probably took it with him for spite. Oh, Jenny, what am I going to do?’

‘Drink the rest of that coffee before it gets cold,’ said Jenny calmly. ‘And stop worrying about the family heirloom. I found it on the rug. I just avoided stepping on it, and it’s safe and sound back in its little velvet box. I was right, you see, to persuade you to wear it. Otherwise think what I might have found when I walked in …’ She sighed and cast a pious look at the ceiling, and Lissa gave an unwilling chuckle.

‘Jenny,’ she said, after a slight pause, ‘how do you feel with Roger?’

Jenny put down her cup and gave her a straight look. ‘You mean when we’re kissing, and making love and all that?’

‘Yes.’ Lissa drank some more coffee. ‘It’s an awful cheek asking you, I know, but I can’t judge what I should feel with Paul. I thought everything was perfect—but last night …’ she paused and the colour came into her cheeks. ‘I didn’t know anyone could feel like that.’

‘Men like Raoul Denis should either be locked up securely, or be made more readily available to us all,’ Jenny said, grinning. She took Lissa’s hand. ‘I can’t tell you about Roger and me, because it wouldn’t mean anything. All I can say is that when you meet the right man, you’ll know. There won’t be any doubts. But don’t be deceived by some Continental Romeo who’s probably had more women than we’ve had hot dinners. That’s not love. Passion is a thing apart. Don’t mix the two until you’re sure of the first one.’

Lissa sighed. ‘I’m not sure of anything any more. Thank you for rescuing the brooch. I shall feel worse than ever about returning it now. What am I going to say to him?’

‘What you planned to say last night before the Pirate King took all the wind out of your sails. That it’s too expensive a gift at this stage in your relationship, and that you have to get to know him much better before you can even consider marriage.’ Jenny cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Would you like me to come along as prompter?’

Lissa laughed. ‘No, I think I’ll manage the words once the action starts. Now I’d better start getting dressed or I shall be late.’

She even managed a second cup of coffee and a slice of toast before, dressed in a light cream woollen dress with a matching coat, she set off for the underground. She felt more cheerful when she arrived at Maggie’s flat. Her godmother had been left a wealthy widow some years before, but even so she earned a more than adequate income from her very popular books. She was a tall woman with naturally waving grey hair, and still very attractive although well into her fifties. Lissa adored her, but often felt she could not have been the easiest person in the world to live with when her husband was alive.

Maggie, when she was engaged on a novel, had a habit of spending most of the night covering sheet upon sheet of paper in her small neat handwriting for Lissa to transcribe the following day. Trim in a bright red jersey suit, she swung round from her desk as Lissa entered. ‘My dear, thank goodness you’ve come at last!’

‘I’m not late, am I?’ Lissa asked, puzzled, and glanced at her watch.

‘No, of course not. Didn’t Jenny give you my message?’

‘Why, yes, she left it on the pad. What’s all the mystery?’

‘Firstly, is your passport in order?’

‘Yes.’ Lissa stared at her. ‘What on earth …?’

‘Not what, ducky, but where,’ said Maggie triumphantly. ‘How would you like to spend the next month or so staying in a French château that was actually looted at the time of the Revolution, and was only saved from being burned to the ground by a few loyal peasants?’ She got up smiling. ‘And that’s not all. Many of the papers relating to that time have been preserved very carefully, including a diary kept by the old Comte—until they marched him off to be guillotined. And we’ve been invited to make what use we like of all this material.’

‘Oh, Maggie!’ Lissa’s eyes sparkled. ‘It’s like a dream. What could be better? How did it happen?’

‘Aha!’ Maggie waved her finger. ‘The old Comte lost his head, but his son kept his and got away to England with most of the family jewels intact. He married a wealthy English heiress and when things returned to normal in France he went back and restored the Château, and had a son, who had another son …’

‘I suppose this family tree is leading somewhere,’ Lissa said, grinning.

‘Indeed it is, ducky. To one Monsieur Paul de Gue, whom we have to thank for this invitation. Darling boy! It was like a bolt from the blue.’

‘Paul owns a château?’ Lissa said incredulously.

‘Well, his elder brother, who is the present Comte de Gue, actually owns it, but of course it’s Paul’s home too. His mother lives there and Paul apparently wrote to her when he heard I was planning a book about the time of the Reign of Terror and suggested his great-great-grandpapa’s romantic adventures could make a marvellous book—and she agreed. I’ve had the most charming letter from her, endorsed by the Comte himself. Well, what is it, dear? I thought you’d be delighted.’

‘I am delighted—for you,’ Lissa said with a forced smile. ‘It’s just that … do I have to go as well?’

‘Of course. You’re my secretary. I couldn’t possibly manage without you. You’re used to my ways and you know how that beastly typewriter sticks or unravels its ribbon all over me every time I go near it. Besides, I thought that you and Paul—well, it seemed ideal.’

‘That’s the trouble.’ Lissa moved to the desk and began to straighten some of the papers that littered it. ‘It’s too ideal. I expect you’ll think I’m mad like Jenny does, but I haven’t made up my mind yet about Paul. I don’t know whether it will work. It rather seems as if this invitation is just more pressure on me to say yes.’

‘On the other hand, seeing him on his own ground and against the rest of the family might make up your mind for you. People are more themselves in their own homes. You might like him better with some of the foreign diplomat glamour knocked off him,’ Maggie said surprisingly.

‘I thought you liked him.’

‘I do. I think he’s a charming boy, but his biggest trouble is that he thinks so too.’

Lissa smiled a little wanly. ‘Perhaps you’re right, and after all, he won’t be there all the time. He has his work to do.’

‘I wouldn’t count on that keeping him away. He mentioned to me recently that he had some leave due. I think he intends to be guide, philosopher and friend on this visit.’ Maggie gave her a shrewd glance. ‘It’s getting you down, isn’t it? You have a peaky look. A few weeks abroad will do you the world of good, whether the handsome Paul is in attendance or not.’

‘Yes,’ Lissa sighed. ‘Oh, Maggie, why can’t life be simple and spelled out in black and white for us?’

‘Because it would be no fun if it were—and talking about spelling things out, why don’t you pop the coffee on while I try and sort some of last night’s stuff out for you?’

Maggie had spent a long and fruitful night, and Lissa typed steadily until noon. She had paused for a cigarette when the phone by her elbow rang. She picked up the receiver and gave the number.

‘Chérie!’

‘Oh, Paul, it’s good to hear from you!’

‘I am afraid you won’t be so pleased when I tell you what I have to say. I must postpone our date for this evening—something has come up. I am ringing to see if you are free for lunch instead. The little Italian place in—say, half an hour.’

‘That’ll be fine.’ Lissa tried to mask her disappointment.

‘Au revoir, then.’

Lissa replaced the receiver and finished typing the sheet she was engaged on. It was the second time Paul had broken a date with her, and she felt oddly disconcerted.

‘How funny,’ she thought wryly, ‘if all the time I’m wondering if I want to marry him, he’s wondering exactly the same about me.’

Paul was at the restaurant when she arrived.

‘I’ve ordered dry martinis. I hope that’s what you wanted,’ he said, helping her off with her coat.

‘Perfect,’ she assured him. A waiter arrived for their order and they spent a few minutes wrangling amicably over the respective merits of ravioli and lasagne.

‘Not that it really matters,’ Lissa said when the waiter finally disappeared with his order. ‘All the food here tastes marvellous.’

‘C’est vrai. This is one of the places I shall miss most when I leave.’

‘You’re leaving London?’ Lissa stared at him.

‘Within a week or so.’ He laid his hand on hers. ‘But you see how I arrange things. I must return home, so I pull strings and my Lissa comes with me.’

‘I wondered what lay behind this sudden passion for historical research of yours,’ Lissa said drily.

‘Do you blame me? Ah, I think you do a little. But think, chérie, I want you to see my home—the estate—and meet my family. I had hoped it would be as my fiancée, but I accept what you say, and will wait patiently for you. Maman knows nothing except that Madame Desmond, whose books she so greatly admires, is to stay with us and that her secretary will be with her. She is happy. Madame Desmond is happy, because she will have the Château to look over—and the papers. I am happy, so why should not you be a little happy too?’

Lissa laughed. ‘I’ll try and be a little happy, although actually I feel shattered,’ she confessed. ‘I had no idea you lived in a château. Has it got turrets and dungeons?’

‘A few,’ Paul said airily. ‘Much of the original building was destroyed at the time of the Revolution, you understand, and when Henri de Gue returned to France he decided he’d had enough of the style of the ancien régime, and so had the peasants, so he rebuilt the living quarters in a style he considered modern.’

‘A man of diplomacy,’ Lissa smiled. ‘Are you like him? Is this why you entered the Diplomatic Service?’

‘Non,’ Paul shrugged. ‘One has to do something, and the family business did not interest me.’

He broke off as the waiter arrived with the meal. When they were served and the wine was poured, he went on, ‘Anyway, that is all over now. It has been decided that I am to return to St Denis and learn how to manage the estate. Jacques Tarrand is growing old, and his only son was killed in Algeria during his military service.’

‘Will you like managing the estate?’ Lissa sipped her wine.

‘It will be better than being an office boy at the Embassy,’ he said, and Lissa felt a touch of compunction at the way she had criticised him to Jenny for his attitude to his work.

‘Perhaps this will steady him and give him a sense of purpose,’ she thought. ‘He really is very sweet, but so young for his age.’

As they ate, Paul told her a little about the Château, high on a wooded hill outside the village, which was situated on the banks of a small river.

Lissa wanted to ask about his family, but decided not to press the point when he did not volunteer any information. After all, she thought, she would be meeting them soon, and would be able to draw her own conclusions.

It was the thought of his family that brought the memory of the brooch to mind, and she hunted in her handbag for the flat velvet case.

‘Paul, please don’t be angry, but I can’t accept this from you. It’s a lovely present, but it’s too valuable to give me as things stand at present. If ever we come to—an agreement I’d be proud to wear it, but for the time being I think it would be best if you kept it.’

Paul’s fingers closed over hers as she handed him the case. ‘My lovely Lissa,’ he said. ‘You are the only girl I can think of who would have done that. You are very strong-minded, chérie. Many women would have kept the brooch, I think.’

Lissa’s eyes were stormy. ‘I am not many women,’ she retorted. ‘Are you in the habit of handing out expensive gifts like that to every girl you come across?’

‘Mais non,’ Paul smiled placatingly at her. ‘That was a very special gift, only for you, my Lissa. The brooch is very old. It is among the jewels that Comte Henri took with him when he fled the sans-culottes, and it is always given as a betrothal gift to the bride of the second son … what is it, chérie, are you ill?’

‘No,’ Lissa gulped down some wine, and the colour began to return to her cheeks. ‘Paul, that was unforgivable of you. You should have told me what the brooch was—its significance. You must have known I would never have taken it at all if I had the remotest idea …’

‘Précisément, and that’s why I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry, chérie.’ Paul looked like a scolded child for all his sophistication and self-assurance. ‘As soon as I made up my mind I wanted you for my wife I wrote to Maman and asked her to send me the brooch. It arrived after you had told me that you wanted more time to consider, and I could hardly send it back without some explanation.’

‘Oh, no,’ Lissa said bitterly. ‘That would have meant a loss of face. I quite understand.’

‘You are angry with me.’ He stroked her cheek caressingly. ‘Don’t be angry with me, ma petite. What fault have I committed but wanting you too much?’

Lissa gave him a level look. ‘I meant every word I said, Paul. And when I come to the Château, it will be as Maggie’s secretary, no more. I’ll have to trust you not to make life too difficult for me.’

‘Difficult?’ Paul grinned at her disarmingly. ‘When you come to the Château, my Lissa, the sun will shine for you and a million roses will thrill the air with their beauty. I tell you now—you will never want to leave.’

CHAPTER THREE

A WHIRLWIND three weeks later, Lissa and Maggie were clutching each other’s hands and laughing nervously as the plane circled above Le Bourget where Paul was to meet them.

‘Flying would be heaven, if it wasn’t for the going up and down,’ Maggie remarked as the aircraft taxied to a halt.

‘Amen to that,’ Lissa said devoutly. ‘Look, I can see Paul. He’s waving to us.’

Paul was suntanned and smiling when, the customs and passport formalities at an end, he greeted them and helped to stow their luggage into a cream Citroën estate car.

‘New?’ Lissa ran her hand appreciatively over the immaculate bodywork.

‘Oui.’ Paul gave a petulant shrug. ‘I preferred my other car, but this is supposed to be more useful for my job.’

Lissa glanced at him a little anxiously. This was part of Paul’s spoiled child act, and not the most pleasing side of his character, although it was rarely seen. Usually his behaviour in front of Maggie was perfect, but on the whole Lissa decided it might not be a bad idea if her godmother got a more balanced view of his nature.

As the journey progressed, however, Paul became more cheerful, and by the time they stopped for lunch at a small auberge where the tables were set outside under a striped awning in the warm sunlight, the atmosphere was as light-hearted as Lissa could have wished for her first visit to France.

She was aware too of admiring glances from some of the men already seated at adjoining tables. One of them was quietly strumming on an accordion, and Paul and Maggie roared with laughter at Lissa’s embarrassment when he suddenly struck up ‘Auprès de ma blonde’ with everyone joining in the chorus.

They ate some excellent home-made paté, followed by a fricassée of chicken and mushrooms and toasted the success of the new book in vin ordinaire.

‘Bless you both,’ Maggie smiled at them. ‘I think we really ought to drink a toast to your brother, Paul—to Monsieur le Comte de Gue, who has kindly given us the freedom of his home.’

They drank, but Lissa was disturbed to see Paul’s geniality give way to a sudden scowl, while he only perfunctorily raised his glass to his lips. Was it his brother, she wondered, who had made him get rid of the low-slung Italian sports car which had been his pride and joy, and replace it with the ‘more useful’ estate?

‘There’s obviously been trouble of some kind,’ she decided ruefully to herself. ‘I just hope it’s all blown over by the time we get there.’

Maggie was easygoing herself and needed a congenial atmosphere to work in. It would be disastrous as well as embarrassing if their stay at the Château was to be punctuated by family rows.

They drove on steadily towards St Denis, through rolling wooded country, the car windows down, revelling in the mellow warmth of the day.

‘We will be there before tea,’ Paul told them. ‘Oh, yes, we keep up the English custom, although Madame Grand’mère no longer lives with us. She prefers the climate at Antibes.’

‘Your grandmother is English?’ Lissa asked.

‘Absolument.’ He threw her a quick smile. ‘It is a family tradition for de Gues to marry English wives. A tradition I hope to follow,’ he added in a much lower voice.

So much, Lissa thought, for all his promises to treat her simply as Maggie’s secretary, nothing more nor less, for the duration of her stay. She was aware that Maggie was smiling indulgently and tried to present a façade of indifference.

Maggie dozed for a while as the car sped on and Lissa felt herself getting drowsy after the excellent meal, but she fought her sleepiness away when Paul told her that St Denis was only two kilometres away.

‘We go down now into the valley,’ he explained. ‘One can hardly see the Château from the village because of the trees, but I will stop at the bridge where there is a view.’

St Denis was a delightful village, with narrow streets, and tall houses, their stonework washed in pastel colours. There was a small market in the town square, which was ringed by plane trees, and Paul’s car was instantly recognised and became the focus for good-natured attention. Paul drove slowly, keeping a careful eye on the throng of people, children and animals, and giving smiling waves to the many greetings that came his way.

‘Now I know how royalty feels,’ Lissa said as the car threaded its way out of the square and through another narrow street. They turned a corner and the river was before them—a placid rather shallow affair spanned by a sturdy stone bridge. Paul parked a little way from it, and helped Lissa from the car.

‘Allons-y,’ he commanded, and led her on to the bridge. Before her the road curved upwards into a dark mass of trees. Lissa followed his pointing finger and caught a glimpse of grey towers rearing above the massed trunks. She was filled with a strange breathless excitement. It was like all the fairy tales she had ever known—with the castle crouching almost unseen among the clustering trees—a place where one might find the Sleeping Beauty, or even Bluebeard, who had been the Frenchman Gilles de Rais, Lissa recalled with some amusement.

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