Master of Comus
Charlotte Lamb
Copyright © 1978 by Charlotte Lamb
For the sake of her family's fortunes Leonie had agreed to an arranged marriage with her cousin Paul. Paul was handsome, rich and charming, and Leonie had always hero-worshipped him - so on the face of it she wasn't making such a sacrifice, and there seemed a reasonable chance that in time the two of them might make a success of the marriage. But Paul had never been a one-woman man, to put it mildly, and nothing about his behaviour suggested that marriage had changed him. Particularly where the beautiful but malicious Diane Irvine was concerned.
CHAPTER ONE
THEY travelled on the same flight to Athens. Leonie could see his smooth blond head from time to time when he turned to look out of the window. His hair and a tantalising portion of his profile; the long, classical nose, one insolent blue eye and the pale curve of his brow. She considered these thoughtfully, weighing them against what she knew of her cousin, Paul Caprel. Her knowledge of him was chiefly culled from newspaper gossip. His activities, both financial and amorous, were frequently plastered all over the popular papers. From an early age she had followed his adventures out of a secret admiration, regarding him rather in the light of a Byronic hero. He had been her chief claim to fame during her years at a monastic English girls' public school. After lights out, by the light of a romantic torch, she had read aloud his latest escapades to ecstatic murmurs of delight from her friends. She had kept a scrapbook of these clippings for years. Discreetly covered with brown paper and labelled 'My Family', it had escaped detection by the eagle-eyed schoolmistress who was in charge of her house. Leonie read it in the privacy of a steamy bathroom, perched on the side of the bath while she gazed at Paul's wild, handsome, disreputable features, and sighed out her undying love.
After leaving school she had refused the chance Of a university education, in preference choosing a London art school, where she met a large body of wild, disreputable young men and rapidly abandoned the remote dream for the reality. Her college years had been fun. She had felt as if she was breaking out of prison after the nun-like years at her school. Her guardian, a busy middle-aged aunt who lived in Bath and bred poodles, thoroughly disapproved of Leonie's decision to take up art as a career, but accepted it since the girl was by then eighteen and legally of age.
Leonie's father had been a quiet country solicitor until the day when he met her mother, the slim, dark, exquisite granddaughter of a Greek millionaire. She had whirled him away into a strangely different world from any he had ever known. Her parents were separated and indifferent, and only her grandfather had registered a protest at her marriage to a thirty-year-old solicitor with a small practice and no fortune. Elektra Caprel had shrugged her slender shoulders, laughed and married her sensible Englishman. A year later Leonie had been born. When she was three her parents were killed in an air crash and her father's sister became her guardian. Elektra's grandfather, Argon Caprel, had sent emissaries to demand her custody, but they had come up against the rock of Aunt Mary's tenacity. Aunt Mary had not liked Elektra Caprel, nor had she approved of her brother's marriage. It had been too far out of their sphere of life, but her strong sense of family duty had impelled her to bring Leonie up properly. She could not permit her brother's child to be whisked away to Greece. Argon Caprel had threatened from his remote eyrie on a Greek island —either Leonie was given up to him or he would cut her out of his will. Aunt Mary had been indifferent, indeed, she suspected and distrusted the idea of such a large fortune. Leonie would be better off without it.
So, brought up on notions of duty and common sense, nourished on bread and butter pudding and lamb chops, Leonie had grown up with just the appearance and manners her aunt desired of her. Cool, courteous, very English, she played tennis in summer and hockey in winter, wore well-tailored clothes and understated make-up, liked the theatre and the opera but disliked ballet, and had a circle of friends very much like herself. Her three years at art school had broadened her view of life considerably. For a while she had worn jeans and kaftans, let her dark hair hang in wild curls, stayed up all night for parties. But Aunt Mary had done her work too well. After this initial outburst of freedom, Leonie had settled down into a compromise between her staid background and her artistic surroundings.
She had made a large number of friends at college. When she left after three years she got a job with an advertising agency on a bright young team working for a range of popular products. The work was highly paid, stimulating and challenging. She had a flat in Chelsea a few minutes' walk away from the river, a small white car and a busy social life.
One night at a party she met a man whose face was instantly recognisable—a racing driver with a sallow skin, curly black hair and an engaging grin. Leo Ashenden dated her within a week of their first meeting, and went on seeing her whenever he was in England for the next three months. When he proposed marriage she was both enchanted and astonished—so astonished that she did not speak for several moments, and Leo, peering down at her face, said with his grin, 'Does silence mean yes or no?' It had meant yes.
It had never occurred to her to tell him of her connection with the Caprel family. Her great-grand- father had made no attempt to get in touch with her since his rebuff eighteen years earlier. When Leo casually asked her if she had told Argon Caprel of their engagement, she had been surprised. 'No, why should I?' Innocently, she had explained that her great-grandfather had cut her out of his will and took no interest in her, and that she, for her part, was indifferent to him. Leo had listened with an odd expression. Only weeks later did Leonie comprehend. Realisation came with a curt letter from him informing her of his engagement to the daughter of a South African copper baron. He had expressed cool regret, adding that he had decided that they were not compatible. Leonie's heart had winced, but her head had rapidly come to the conclusion that Leo had only been interested in her as her great-grand- father's heiress. At what point he had discovered the family connection she would never know, but she suspected it to have been early on in their relationship.
By a strange coincidence, a week later she received a letter from her great-grandfather himself, inviting her to visit him on his Greek island.
It would be a family party, he told her. He was now seventy and in poor health. He did not expect to live long, and he wanted to see her before he died.
Leonie had consulted Aunt Mary. Reading the letter with a wry expression, her aunt advised her to go. 'It's your duty. He is your great-grandfather, after all. But it must be your own decision. You're an adult now.'
So Leonie had written to accept. The following day a London branch of the Caprel organisation rang her to say that her ticket to Athens had been booked, that she would be met at Athens and flown by private plane to the island of Comus. She had said nothing to the woman who spoke to her, but her spirit of independence had prickled angrily, and she had written to her great-grandfather to protest at his high-handed behaviour.
'I can certainly afford to pay my own fare and will refund you the cost of my ticket,' she had written. Argon Caprel had replied via his secretary with a cold letter telling her that since he had requested her presence he would be responsible for her travel arrangements. Leonie had written back curtly saying that no one but herself could be responsible for her and enclosing the cheque for a first-class fare to Athens. Argon wrote to her himself a few days later. The letter was brief and consisted of three words: Damn your impudence. Clipped to the letter was a receipt for her cheque. She had studied the heavy black scrawl with interest and amusement. For the first time she felt curiosity about Argon.
Now, on the flight, she saw her cousin Paul seated a few rows ahead of her, and wondered if he, too, were bound for Comus. He was he
r great-grand- father's heir—everyone knew that. He was a jet- setter, flying constantly between London, Paris, New York and Athens. Thirty years old, in charge of his own fast-growing property company, he was a notorious international playboy with a penchant for svelte young women and fast cars. He had never married, but engagements had been hinted at from time to time, and his extra-marital gaiety had kept the gossip columnists happy for years.
As he walked back along the deck their eyes met once, and Leonie saw by his blank expression that he did not know her. There was no reason why he should. She was the alienated member of the family. She had the advantage of him since she knew a great deal about him, while Paul knew nothing about her.
When they left the plane at Athens the heat struck her like a blowtorch, setting up a pounding in her temples and blinding her eyes. She made her way to the reception area and gave her name to the desk clerk, as she had been instructed. A few moments later a small, dark Greek materialised courteously, took charge of her luggage and escorted her back across the tarmac to a smaller plane waiting in the full blaze of the sun.
When she climbed aboard she found herself faced with Paul once more. He was lounging back in a well-upholstered chair, a glass in his hand. Through elegant sun-glasses he scrutinised her curiously. Her guide bowed to him. 'Miss Leonie,' he said in softly accented English.
Above the. sunglasses Paul's pale brows rose to a perfect arch. 'Good lord! The dark horse!'
Leonie felt herself flushing angrily at the mockery in his tone. She nodded to him and sat down in the seat beside him, occupying herself with her seat belt and a handful of magazines. A few moments later the plane took off into the bright Greek sky.
Paul turned his head to study her coolly. 'So you're making an appearance at last!'
She saw no point in replying to that beyond a small, polite nod. Accepting a glass of orange flavoured with gin, she leaned back and pretended to study the horizon. When the plane dipped down she caught a strange, slanting glimpse of the Aegean sea below them, dark blue and sun-dappled. Here and there the blue was interrupted by an island, jutting up out of the waves, grey and shadowed, a rocky explosion from the surrounding sea.
'You live in England, I gather,' Paul drawled, his insolent gaze still fixed on her.
She started. He had been silent so long she had forgotten his presence in her fascination with the view below them. She turned, eyes widening. 'Yes.'
He took off his sunglasses and the blue eyes flashed into view, taking her breath away by their brightness and beauty. He really was an incredibly handsome young man. 'So you speak!' The tone
was lightly mocking. 'I was beginning to suspect you were dumb.'
She shrugged. 'I have no gift for small talk with strangers.'
His mouth curved in a hard smile. 'You mean you share Argon's arrogant disregard of the conventions. And you're proud of it.'
The comparison did not please her. She frowned. 'Not at all. I meant precisely what I said. When I have nothing to say I say nothing. It saves a great deal of wasted time.'
He threw back his head and laughed. His skin had a go/den tan which intensified the blond of his smooth hair and gave to his blue eyes an almost dazzling brilliance.
'My God, but you're a Caprel all right! A pity you weren't a boy—Argon would have been delighted with you.'
She finished her drink and leaned back again, lowering her lids against the brightness of the sun flooding through the window. They were flying lower now. Were they coming in to land? she wondered.
Paul spoke again, close beside her ear. 'Do you know what to expect when we reach Comus? You know about the villa?'
She shook her head. 'I know nothing about my mother's family except what I read in the newspapers.' On the last words she gave him a cool, measuring glance.
He met it thoughtfully. 'Ah, the newspapers! That's a shot at me, I take it? You've heard about my scandalous goings-on and you disapprove, in that cold English fashion?' He leaned closer, lowering his voice intimately. 'Does the prospect of spending a few weeks at Comus with such a wild young man terrify you?'
'Don't be ludicrous,' she said calmly. Her golden- brown eyes gazed at him with unflattering contempt. 'I'm not a child to be frightened of bogeymen. Your private life is your own affair. It doesn't interest me.' She felt a slight qualm of conscience, remembering her long-forgotten schooldays and her nights of romantic contemplation of Paul's photographs in the newspaper. When she was fourteen the twenty-one- year-old playboy had seemed a man of the world. Seven years later the gap between them had considerably diminished, although she had to admit that she had spent her first twenty-one years in a far more circumspect fashion.
Their eyes clashed. Unknowingly, her brown eyes offered him a defiant challenge. His blue ones narrowed, reading the expression, and a curious look came into his handsome face.
At thirty Paul Caprel was hopelessly spoilt; born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a flotilla of adoring young women to pursue him ceaselessly. Pleasure had occupied his leisure time and spilt over into his working hours. He had a good mind, quick and clever, but had never acquired the habit of concentration which accompanies money-making. The constant company of beautiful and available young women had left him a low opinion of the opposite sex. From them he expected nothing but amusement.
The thought of marriage had never entered his head; there was no need to bother.
At times, in the intervals of a life devoted to restless pleasure, he had felt vaguely discontented with his world. Surely there ought to be something more than this? he had sometimes asked himself. But these moments of melancholy reflection had never lasted long. Another lovely girl would swim over the horizon and he would settle down to the pursuit, only to find his rapid victory dull once achieved. His looks, his charm, his glamour and above all his money ensured swift conquest, but Paul always found the affair boring after a time.
For some time now he had felt restlessly discontented, but he did not know what it was he wanted, only that nothing his money could buy him could satisfy his hunger for permanence, for stability, for happiness.
The plane was definitely circling an island now. Leonie gazed down eagerly at rough-hewn hills covered with a green haze of bushes and scrub, beaches of silver and curling white-topped waves of a blue which reminded her of Paul's eyes.
'Fasten your seat belt,' Paul reminded her.
She glanced at him, her eyes dazed, and he sighed and leaned over to fasten the belt for her. At that moment she moved, too, and their hands touched. Leonie felt a queer shiver run down her spine and her breathing tightened. Paul clipped the belt with a metallic snap, withdrew his hands and leaned back.
The plane came into land. Leonie watched the blue waters skim past. They were landing on the beach, she realised. There was a slight bump and they were stationary. Paul stood up with leisurely grace, bending his head to avoid banging it on the rack above. Leonie stood up, too, dropping her magazines, and Paul knelt to pick them up. She took them from him nervously, feeling oddly awkward and ungainly.
Something had happened when his hands touched hers, though she was not sure what. She only knew that something had flashed between them, in silent semaphore; an emotion, a challenge, a change in their attitudes. She felt a heightened awareness of him as she left the plane. He went first and helped her down the steps. As she stood beside him, her head reached his shoulder, although she had always thought of herself as quite a tall girl. He must be just over six foot, she decided. His lean build was deceptive. In photographs he looked shorter.
A silvery limousine waited to drive them to the villa. Argon owned the whole island, Paul explained. He had built himself a palace of a house in a remote fastness in the hills. All the other houses on the island were occupied either by people who worked for him at the villa, or by farmers and shepherds who worked on the land. Argon never left Comus now. He was not happy away from his home. His companies were run by employees who reported to him daily on the telephone and by le
tter. He still kept a finger in every pie, but he did it from his remote island kingdom.
'He's very frail,' Paul added gently.
Leonie glanced at his golden profile. 'You're fond of him,' she stated.
He looked at her with faint hauteur. 'Of course.'
She saw that he disliked such private emotions being discussed. So something, at least, was sacred to him!
'Who else will be there?' she asked. 'Tell me about the family.'
He frowned. 'The family? There's no one else, just Argon. And myself, of course.' The blue eyes slid over her. 'And now you, my dear cousin.'
She was taken aback. 'I had imagined there would be several of my aunts ...'
He lifted a careless shoulder in an elegant shrug. 'Aunt Alexa never leaves her village on Capri and Aunt Athene died last year. Neither of them had children, as you probably know. We're not a very productive lot, we Caprels.'
The limousine swept up a smooth tarmac road. Behind a group of trees the house flashed into sight: a long, white villa with green shutters and a flowery creeper spilling along the lower walls. Silk-smooth emerald lawns surrounded it, and beds of gay flowers and shrubs gave it a colourful setting. To the left behind it Leonie caught a glimpse of a swimming pool with a brightly tiled surround. Striped umbrellas gave some shade to the white tables and chairs which stood around the pool.
'It looks like a holiday camp,' she said involuntarily.
Paul laughed shortly. 'For God's sake don't tell Argon your opinion. He wouldn't be amused.'
Neither, she realised, was he, despite his laughter. The blue eyes were hard beneath their pale brows. Paul was, in fact, feeling a rising irritation. He had an affection for Comus which he did not feel for any other place on earth, and this girl's refusal to be impressed annoyed him.
The car pulled up in front of a shady verandah. Grapes grew along the slatted roof, hanging down in green clusters almost in reach of her hand. An old woman in a black dress hobbled out, leaning on a stick, and gave a cry of welcome in Greek. Paul moved quickly towards her and was embraced, kissed on both cheeks, held away so that the tired old blue eyes could study him.
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